A Plague of Giants Read online

  “That actually sounds like a better job. Is it?”

  “We’ll see. I start tomorrow.”

  Tamöd and Pyrella regaled me with tales of the tidal mariner and the oyster while Elynea and I tiptoed around each other, anxious not to invade the other’s privacy. She pretended she hadn’t been crying, and I pretended I didn’t notice.

  “Perhaps, if you will be here in the morning, I could look for a job,” she ventured over dinner.

  “While I look after the kids? Sure, I can do that.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and then said practically nothing else the entire evening as if she felt she had trespassed enough.

  Elynea made an effort to look confident and capable in the morning, and I think she pulled it off. Her curled cloud of hair was pulled back from her forehead with a white headband, and she wore a deep orange tunic with a white belt and brown pants tucked into boots.

  “That’s new,” I noticed.

  “Donated to me by the kind woman across the street.”

  I wished her luck and assured her that the kids would be fine, and she left in what I supposed passed for good spirits.

  She returned at noon, defeated, her voice grating like a millstone. “There’s no work to be had. At least no work for me. So many desperate people looking. Some of them can still smile, though.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how they do it.”

  I was silent for a few moments, thinking about how I managed it. When I thought of Sarena, watching her die slowly and helpless to prevent it, I found it impossible to smile, too.

  “I think … maybe …?” Elynea turned to me, waiting for me to finish. “They have figured out a way to forget temporarily.” Her eyebrows climbed, and she shook her head at the impossibility of this. “No, I know you can’t ever forget such a huge part of yourself,” I assured her. “It’s always there, an enormous thing—like the palace. But sometimes, you can go into a tiny room, lock the door behind you, and that vast, overwhelming sadness is on the other side. It’ll always be there, and you can’t stay in that locked room forever. But maybe, while you can’t see it, you can forget about it a tiny while and discover something to smile about before you have to emerge and face the enormity again. And then, who knows? Maybe you’ll find more and more rooms to smile in, and over time the character of the palace changes until it’s the sadness that’s locked in those tiny rooms and not the happiness. Maybe that’s what healing is like.”

  Elynea stared at me, a plateau of sorts that I hoped might end well, but she dissolved into a loud sob and ran into my bedroom, slamming the door.

  “Or maybe my skill with extended metaphors leaves much to be desired,” I said.

  “Why did you make my mom cry?” Tamöd shouted.

  “You’re so mean! I hate you!” Pyrella added, and the two of them ran to the other bedroom and followed the example of their mother by slamming the door as forcefully as they could. Sadness and anger behind the doors.

  “Shit,” I said. This was why I preferred history. All the shouting was in the past, and none of them had been shouting at me.

  This is not to say that Elynea and her children were not welcome to my home; with my wife lost the winter before the invasion, I had more space than I needed, and sharing it was the least I could do in a time of crisis. Sharing any more than that, though, was impossible. Perhaps she saw the yawning empty place in my chest that Sarena used to fill and speculated about moving in there, and maybe she wondered if I could occupy the space in her heart where her husband used to live. It was a terrible idea: neither one of us would be anything more than a squatter. I counted on my new work to distract me from such matters and give me an excuse to stay out of her way. We would all be better off if we respected one another’s emptiness.

  But as I began to make myself a solitary lunch before heading to the wall for the bard’s first performance, I resolved to write this story as you see it set down now. The bard would have his story, and we would have ours. There is heroism to be found in great battles, it is true: warriors with stable knees who fight and know that they will die for an idea or for the safety of loved ones back home. But there are also people who spend their entire adulthood at a soulless job they despise to make sure their children have something to eat that night so that one day those kids may lead better, more fulfilling lives than their parents. The warrior and the worker both make sacrifices. Who, then, is more heroic? Can any of us judge? I don’t think I’m qualified. I’ll let history decide. But I do not think we should leave it all up to warriors and rulers to speak to the future. We all have our stories to tell, and since I’ve been granted permission by Pelenaut Röllend himself, I will add a few of my own to the bard’s.

  The space on either side of Pelemyn’s western wall looked quite different when we returned for the bard’s second performance. By midafternoon, the closest lots on the exterior of the wall had been cleared—the pelenaut sent longshoremen to help the dislocated families move—and wood benches had been hammered together and arranged in rows to provide dense seating. The longshoremen also helped food and drink vendors set up an alley of stalls behind the benches, including one from the Siren’s Call, while hygienists worked with a visiting Raelech stonecutter to construct a row of public privies and tie them into the sewers.

  It wasn’t the plodding drudgery of day-to-day living; people worked with a purpose, with small tight grins on their faces, anticipating the fruit of their labors. I knew because after I met Fintan for our first lunch and faithfully wrote down everything he had said the day before, there was an hour or so to spend before he spoke again, and I decided to help however I could. I wound up helping a family from Göfyrd relocate to another plot so that the privies could be built underneath their original campsite. It was something of a chore for the family and me, but they felt, as I did, that the bard’s story would turn out to be worth it.

  The structures inside the city were not so easily moved, but building owners with a view of the wall put out chairs on roofs or rigged scaffolds in some cases so that they could see, and even though their view would consist primarily of the bard’s backside, there were people willing to pay for such seats.

  Once I returned to the wall, I saw that someone had constructed a sturdier stage for the bard as well. Instead of a hastily assembled stack of crates, he had several square layered platforms, like a cake, that allowed him to be seen above the battlements. He climbed atop it, threw his arms wide, and let his voice ring out through the city and beyond it. “Hello, friends! Are we ready for day two?”

  An answering roar assured him that the city was. Or almost. It was already clear from my vantage point on the wall that the benches would not come close to providing enough seating for everyone in Survivor Field who wished to see the bard. Many more clogged the area in front of the stalls, and a seething mass of heads could be seen beyond that point, people streaming in to get closer once the bard spoke. They didn’t absolutely need to—his voice clearly carried to wherever they were—but they wanted to lay eyes on the people he seemed to be, however distantly. It would be a challenge for the pelenaut’s men and women to solve.

  “Before I continue the tale I began last night, I wish to give you time to settle in, as it were, for a fine afternoon’s entertainment. I see people streaming in from far off in Survivor Field, and I am sure some of you are currently occupied in some kind of work or another and cannot simply drop it. And so I will sing you one of the old Drowning Songs that my master taught me when I was an apprentice.” An appreciative noise swelled from the crowd.

  “I do not know if you knew this,” Fintan continued, “but the Brynt Drowning Songs are popular in Rael. They speak of dangers and poor decisions and teach your children well how to survive the sea. They also have the benefit of being short, which makes them easy to remember.” He had brought a small handheld harp with him, and he plucked a major chord, its notes singing across the city.

  “I was reminded of this one by Master Yöndyr’s Mistmaiden A
le. Haven’t sung it in many years, but perhaps you will recognize it. This is ‘Mistmaiden’s Kiss,’ though of course the Mistmen are equally dangerous and you can switch the gender to suit you.” He struck a different chord, a haunting minor one, letting the notes fade in the air before he launched into the lyrics:

  In the chill gray of a Barebranch morn

  She came to me like curving coils of vapor;

  Out of the air’s moisture was she born

  With skin like onion paper.

  Pale, hungry, lithe, and beckoning,

  With a breathy sigh she begged a kiss,

  But on her lips lay a reckoning

  And a trip to the abyss.

  I fought my lust and tried to run,

  But it was all for naught in the end;

  I kissed her and it’s done,

  So into darkness I descend.

  His rendition gave me chills, and I shuddered, thinking of the wraiths that haunted the Mistmaiden Isles and how terrible it would be to join them. Fintan caught my expression and grinned. “Good that we heard that one on a bright sunny day, yes?” Laughter from the city as he carefully put his harp aside.

  “Right! I have three tales for you today. Just as we bards rarely leave the borders of Rael, Fornish greensleeves are rarely seen by anyone outside their country. They don’t like to leave their forest as it gives them that fish-out-of-water feeling, and even when they do, they avoid outsiders. I imagine it’s because people stare at them. And if you aren’t sure why that would be the case, well, I’ll show you. Meet Nel Kit ben Sah,” he said, producing a black sphere from his pouch and tossing it at his feet.

  A ripple of awe spread through the crowd when they saw the pale figure revealed on the stage, diminutive and blond, sheltered from the sun all her life from living under the vast canopy of Forn. Her clothing was brown yet mottled in a pattern that would allow it to blend into the bark of most trees. Over her shirt she wore a hunter green waistcoat, also broken up into a pattern that would deflect eyes and keep her camouflaged in the canopy. She carried a bow and had a quiver of arrows strapped to her back—none of which was the awe-inspiring part. We had a few Fornish immigrants living in Pelemyn and their traders often visited our port, so it wasn’t her size or pale skin that amazed everyone. It was the living bark on her arms and legs that drew gasps from the crowd. No other kenning wrought such a transformation on the blessed. The moss growing on the bark of her arms gave her the green sleeves of her kenning’s namesake, and mushrooms like miniature white shelves grew on her shins. (I wondered if she ever ate them, and as soon as I thought of it, I knew it was the sort of question you would never, ever ask her if you wanted to live.)

  My cousin Pen Yas Min has abruptly been granted permission to seek her kenning! I am filled with the excitement of planting season tripled, when you have a handful of seeds and can envision the bounty that will spring forth months later, but there’s also the worries about weather or blights that could ruin the harvest. It is a period pregnant with potential, and I love such moments for their mystery.

  Her parents were originally against it, but someone must have changed their minds—perhaps my great-uncle, Mat Som ben Sah, our clan’s only other greensleeve. He may have reminded them of the prestige that comes with having a blessing, and with that prestige came economic opportunity. And Pen did not fail to remind her parents that seeking a kenning was not only her dearest wish but that younger Seekers typically enjoyed more success than older ones.

  So they held the farewell ceremony, bidding goodbye to their child and she to them in case she was taken by the roots, and I think by that time her mother was genuinely excited for her and at peace with the decision. Her father had more difficulty performing his part of the leave-taking with open petals. He doubtless hoped Pen would grow closer to the family trunk, and I think he would have trimmed her ambitions if he could, kept her like treasured topiary, beautiful and safe but ultimately the reflection of the gardener’s will rather than the will of the Canopy. Should Pen be taken by the roots, I feared he would blame his wife for it; so many people thought it appropriate to prune the branching of others and could not bear to watch others grow as their natures suggested.

  Pen and I traveled together on the Leaf Road to the First Tree in Selt, and I was pleased with her sure-footed progress and unaided stamina. Should she be blessed, both her agility and her stamina would improve.

  The road widened the closer we got to our capital, and we saw the increased traffic that justified it. Merchants and craftsmen and harvesters and herbalists, scions with their students following branches of thought to their ends, and the occasional benman like myself who nodded to me as I passed.

  Pen tapped my shoulder after one such encounter, her eyes large with wonder, and asked me, “Was that a thornhand?” I was surprised at first that she had never seen one before and then realized she would have had no occasion to before now. They were almost all stationed on the southwestern coast closest to Hathrir, defending against timber pirates, whereas our clan was in the northwest foothills of the Godsteeth. “Yes, it was.”

  “How do they sleep?” she asked, worried about the thorns growing at the base of their skulls and spreading out down the spine and over the shoulder blades.

  “On their stomachs, usually. Some of them manage to sleep on their sides. Depends on how they arrange their arms,” I explained, for the tops of their forearms were thorny as well from near the elbow all the way to the backs of the hand.

  “Have you ever seen a thornhand fight?”

  “No. We’ve been blessed with peace, so there’s been no call for them to transform. I might see it someday, but that’s no cause for joy.”

  She was silent for a while, considering. It was possible that she might become a thornhand herself and have that difficulty sleeping. Possible that she might be called upon to fight the Hathrim and leave the Canopy to do it. And also possible that she might spend her life prepared for a fight that never came. When people sought the Fifth Kenning, they often hoped to be a grassglider or a greensleeve or even one of the specialized culturists while willfully ignoring the chances of becoming a thornhand. That was why she would see more of them when we arrived at the First Tree: every Seeker should know the fullness of her odds before being presented.

  The Leaf Road turned from a mixture of hardwoods to exclusively silverbark branches, and I knew we were close. Our progress slowed because we had so many more people to weave through, but I don’t think Pen minded at all. She was enjoying the strangeness and wonder of Selt, seeing the vines and ladders trailing or dangling all around the Leaf Road that led to merchant and craft huts, clan halls, or private homes. Such things existed in the White Gossamer Grove in the north, but not on this scale.

  We reached the ring of sentinel trees that guarded the First Tree, and two members of the Gray Squirrel Clan stood there, blocking the Leaf Road that led to the trunk. Only greensleeves could go any farther, and only those who had business to conduct in the sway and spoke for their clans. We halted in front of them and bowed.

  “Bright sun to you both. I come with a Seeker. Where shall I take her?”

  The one on our left nodded, an older woman. “Northeast side today, shortly after noon. You should have time to make it.”

  That was a good piece of luck. Had we missed it, we might have had to wait up to a week before the First Tree was ready to accept Seekers again. We thanked them and circled around to the north, pausing at the Silver Leaf Public House to take in some greens and juices. There was a gathering of Black Jaguars in one corner whom I recognized because Pak Sey ben Kor was with them, along with one other I’d seen before at the Second Tree in Pont. I wondered what brought them to the First Tree. But then I saw that all their attention was pointed at a young man about Pen’s age. A clan send-off for their own Seeker, then. One with some fairly close ties to Pak or else he would not have made the trip. Well, good for the young man: I hoped he would serve the Canopy well.

  I was
fortunate not to be spotted by the Black Jaguars during our repast, but once Pen and I departed and made our way to the Seeking ground, we could not avoid Pak Sey ben Kor’s notice. Especially since he was the personal escort for his clan’s Seeker and joined us underneath the First Tree’s canopy. There were sixteen Seekers all told, each from a different clan and escorted by a greensleeve. To the Gray Squirrel record keeper I introduced Pen as my cousin and offered her as a Seeker to the First Tree on behalf of the White Gossamers, and it was thanks to a similar introduction that I learned that the Black Jaguar Seeker was Pak Sey ben Kor’s nephew. He looked confident about his Seeking, though whether he truly was or was merely pretending to be I could not tell. Most of the others, including Pen, had a very sensible sequence of expressions cycling on their faces, from excitement to uncertainty to dread and back again.

  Rich and loamy soil squished pleasantly between our toes. The Seekers all disrobed and stood waiting in a cluster an arm’s length away from one another on all sides. When the Gray Squirrel attendant nodded to us, we greensleeves each extended our shoots into the earth and spoke to the roots of the First Tree, introducing our Seekers again and sharing our love and pride and hope.

  The earth rumbled and croaked beneath us as the roots of the First Tree stirred. Pen looked down at her feet, where the soil churned, and then up at me, tears shining in her eyes and a curious half smile on her face. I remembered that feeling. Being taken by the tree is a wondrous admixture of the sun and all the horrors of night, for you are struck by the immense power it represents and how very small you are in comparison, feeling all the hope for a blessed life along with the terror of dying in darkness.

  Brown roots spiraled out of the soil and twined around the Seekers as they stood still. And then, when they were all wrapped up and began to descend into the earth, drawn down to be blessed or devoured, there were some last looks at their clansmen and then up at the Canopy and what little sunlight filtered through the leaves. For approximately half of them, it would be their final chance to see the sun.