Dodir shook his head. “Such things would have been crushed flat. However, we’ve not entirely cleared the place, and it may yet turn up.”
“Where would we find Himaggery?” I asked. If telling Himaggery what had happened was part of what was eating at Peter, better have it over with.
Dodir pointed the way, through the city and up the slope at the other side toward what had been a grassy hill. “There’s a stream there, lady, and Himaggery’s made camp, but he may be off to the east somewhere, overseeing that power system of his. He says the area around Lake Yost is yet untouched by the world’s malady. I hope he is right.”
We started to ride away, and he called after us, “And if these things of yours do indeed eat shadows, we will need them tonight.”
“You have shadow down in the city here?”
“From dusk to dawn. As though scouting for someone. Shadow, and strange shapes upon the hills, like nothing I have seen before. Things with painted faces and ribbons.”
I’m sure he could read in our faces that this was evil news. Somehow we had hoped, senselessly perhaps, that the Oracle and all its followers were back in the Maze, kept busy by Ganver and its kin, and that we would not have to confront them. Now it seemed that hope was false, and it was with a sense of fatalistic despair that I nodded at Dodir and took the reins from Peter’s hands.
“I’ll send someone to show you where the shadows come,” he called behind us. I waved but did not answer.
As for Peter, he was slumped beside me as though he did not hear or see, looking into his folded hands as though he held everything there, everything that mattered. Or perhaps he looked on an emptiness in which nothing mattered. We went on through the ruined city, the other wagons following behind, Mertyn standing tall on the wagon seat to see that all of them were there. Behind us we heard Dodir call out, “All right. Enough of this lying about. Let’s have the first crew over here!” Then a crash of rock, an aching screech, as heavy stones shifted into place.
The farther we went, the more obvious the progress. They had started at the south side of the city. They had not even begun on the Tower, however. I looked down the avenue where it should have stood to see only piles of crumbled stone. Peter was right; it had fallen from a great height.
We came up to Himaggery’s camp. Someone had called him. He came rushing out, full of wide smiles, grasping me by the hand, Peter by the hand, rushing on to meet Mertyn, not stopping to look, to see. I saw Peter’s fingers, wet with tears again.
Enough of it. I had had enough of it. Chimmerdong had taught me that one cannot lie about in these moods, not even in grief. One must go on. I went to Himaggery and demanded he come with me into his tent, telling him I must speak to him privately. Mertyn shook his head at me warningly, but I ignored him, tugging Himaggery back as he had come, he half-irritated, half jocular. When I had him inside, I said baldly, without any attempt at tact, “Mavin saved Peter’s life, Himaggery. She died. I’m sorry. . . .” And all the old gods knew I was.
He was angry. He accused me of making a bad joke. He accused me of pretending for some Wizardly purpose of my own. When he had said all the unforgettably forgivable things people do say in these circumstances, when he had said them several times over, he apologized to me, came down to his own feelings, and cried out her name very loudly two or three times as though his heart were broken.
I told him while he wept. “Huldra had the spell ready, Himaggery. She had to utter only one word. She turned on Peter. I doubt that Mavin even knew what was about to happen. She had gained bulk from somewhere—there were some stores in the room, back behind the pillars—and then climbed across the ceiling of the room to get above the Witch. Huldra had taken time to mock us. She had taken too long at it, enjoying it. Mavin simply dropped over Huldra like some great basket. Mavin had been doing that a lot lately, basketing Bryan, basketing the Oracles outside the Bright Demesne. She caught the spell as it was uttered. It turned her to stone. The stone crushed Huldra. Then, when Riddle came, the stony form fell away and she lay there in her own shape, still as ice. . . .”
Sometime during this tale, Peter came in. They hugged each other awkwardly, the way men do who have not been accustomed to showing affection. Then they went out to see her, leaving me there. Murzy came in with a glass of something very warming, which half untied the cold knots of my heart. “What is it?” I asked, pointing at the cup.
“Bitter Tears Falling,” she said. “We cannot cure grief, but we can postpone it and must. There is too much to do.”
When I had drunk the wize-art brew, I let her lead me away to the place our own tents were being pitched.
“They’ll not be thinking of anything tonight, child, and someone must. I’ve been asking about, and the shadows are coming through here and there, picking off a Gamesman or two every night. It’s not contributing to morale.”
I sighed from weariness. “Dodir said he’d send
