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It took time for Innocence to recognize that some of the servants were not in fact free people. As the eaters dispersed to their tasks, talking and laughing, some were followed and supervised with harsher words and occasional slaps. The thralls were generally indistinguishable from the free Kantenings, but the speech of some hinted of southern lands, like his mother’s.

Rolf and Kollr had already departed for their tasks in the stable and kitchen. Numi said, “Does something trouble you?”

“Are those Swanislanders?” Innocence said, gesturing toward the slaves.

“I suppose so,” Numi said. An uncomfortable silence passed. “They are hard workers. I have always liked Swanislanders. Simple, honest people, close to the Earthe. With a gift for music—”

“I should find Huginn. Good-day to you.”

“Wait . . . did I offend? I do not much understand you, Innocence. But I’m grateful for how you handled Rolf and Kollr.”

“It was your words that did it.”

“And yours. If you want employment in the church, I will vouch for you.”

Despite the compliment to his speech, Innocence was full of anger that he couldn’t find words for. “Thank you. I will think about that.”

Numi hurried off as though he’d said something much sterner. Innocence stalked off to find Huginn, his mind grim as the volcano far off on Oxiland’s main island. He found his patron laughing and jesting with two other chieftains, whom Innocence soon learned were Ylur Ymirson and Styr Surturson. “Ah!” said Huginn. “Here is my scribe, Innocence.”

“How well named!” Ylur said. He was old but still fierce, with a full white beard. “For if our words are to be recorded, we’d best leave off our talk of the fine women gathered here!”

“Where is your paper and pen, boy?” Huginn said.

“I, ah . . .” Innocence said.

“It seems we have a reprieve!” said Styr, a huge red-bearded fellow with a bull-deep voice. The other men laughed, and Innocence was sent to Torfa with an affectionate slap across the shoulders from Huginn. At least, Innocence supposed, it was affectionate. He ran. He did not understand Oxilanders, or Kantenings. They seemed civilized one moment, animals the next. The Sage Emperor once said,
One cannot discourse with birds and beasts, as if they were human. Humans may be imperfect, but it is with them I must associate
. But had the Sage Emperor ever encountered men like these?

Torfa, pen and paper, Huginn, all proved to be elusive quarry, but at last he succeeded and caught up with the professional liar at a collection of boulders where Huginn regaled a group of five chieftains, now including Loftsson and a twentyish blond chieftain named Gissur Mimurson who had recently arrived. They quieted a bit when Innocence ran up, panting in the cold air, but only a bit. He sat down and arranged pen, paper, and ink. If only Walking Stick could see him now.

Innocence could not record everything, but Huginn would sometimes nod to him and say, “Please make a note of that” and “That is worth a mention,” until Innocence soon was acquainted with a certain bushy-eyebrowed look that said the pen needed dipping. The discussion swirled around such matters as wine and women, funny anecdotes of the winter, and the health of family. But it also stepped upon the hard rock of border disputes between farmers, inheritance arguments, the building of new churches, the introduction of new crops. Nothing was settled, but much was weighed.

At one point Gissur Mimurson said, “Be careful, Jokull. This feast has the feel of a Spring Assembly, held before spring’s even had a chance to rise and rub her hands.”

“Or even an Althing,” Styr Surturson agreed. “We’ve spoken of matters far beyond our little sphere. Others might object we’re getting ahead of ourselves.”

“I confess,” Jokull said, “I didn’t expect Huginn to bring a scribe.” Here Innocence felt the regard of the Kantenings, and he did his best to imitate the great stone he wrote upon.

It had occurred to Innocence that Huginn had done him a great favor. He might have been set to work tending pigs or worse. Instead he’d been treated as an honored, educated visitor and given a post that displayed to these important folk that Innocence was worthy of employment. He didn’t like thinking about this truth, for it made him feel vulnerable—he who’d once burst with the power of the Heavenwalls, who’d overflown the West on a magic carpet. But the carpet was gone, and the energies he’d once commanded were bottled within him. He must stopper his pride as well.

For now.

“But,” Jokull was saying, “I did tell him in advance I wanted to plan ahead. I foresee troubled times.”

Ylur Ymirson laughed at that. “You always foresee troubled times, Jokull! And yet you always swell in wealth and status.”

Huginn chuckled. “There is something to be said for caution, friends. In truth, I wanted a scribe because I want a record for the assembly and the Althing. There’ll be those who call us a cabal.”

“We’re not?” Styr said.

“No.”

“No?” said Gissur.

“No,” repeated Huginn. “We’re looking ahead, not hatching schemes. There is much to consider this year. We haven’t touched on the crazy things yet, eh, Jokull?”

Jokull said, “No.” He counted on his fingers. “Orb Dragons. Earthquakes. Troll sightings. The peasant uprisings in Svardmark. The Nine Wolves. A hand’s worth of worry.”

Discussions of strange matters continued through the morning. Innocence heard of peculiar flying blobs, ominous shakings and eruptions, stony marauders, angry commoners, and murderous highwaymen until the shadows grew long again. Innocence was fascinated. He wracked his brains wondering what the Orb Dragons might be, whether the mountain in the distance would spout fire, whether trolls really froze in the sunlight, whom the great organizer of the rebellious peasants might be, and what made nine cruel men waylay travelers on the roads.

At last Jokull excused himself. “I must head to the church in advance of the service. Ylur, as ever I welcome you to the church, but you are welcome to the feast regardless.”

Ylur nodded and clapped his hand over the axe-charm of Torden around his neck. “As ever you warm my heart, friend. I’ll see you at the feast.”

Jokull made a similar gesture and was off. The chieftains talked of more trifling things and began wandering off.

Huginn looked at Innocence’s penmanship. “You did well . . . what is that?” He pointed at a signature Innocence had made in the upper left.

“It is a rendition of the sounds of my name,” Innocence said, “in the official language of Qiangguo.”

“It seems just a squiggle to me, but no matter.”

“Master Huginn, I had a thought.”

“Yes?”

“On the continent I have seen a flying craft that might, if one did not understand it for a human work, be taken for a strange creature.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. It is a sort of bladder filled with heated air, rising with enough determination to carry a large basket beneath.”

“There are indeed many wonders in the world.”

“I thought perhaps this might be the origin of the Orb Dragon stories.”

“For that to be true, would that not imply visitors from the East?”

“I suppose it would.”

“And you . . . you say you were raised in the East.”

There was now nobody else around the boulders, though a group of travelers was descending the stone road. Innocence said, “I have no knowledge of these visitations, except what I saw long ago.”

“I believe you. But it seems too great a coincidence that you arrive now.”

“That is as it may be, but I have nothing to do with Orb Dragons.”

Huginn stroked his beard. “We are done for now,” he said, his voice deeper and more ominous than at any time before. “Go to the service and the feast, Innocence, and speak of this to no one. Be prepared to record what is said and done. I have my own thoughts on this matter.”

Innocence burned to know these thoughts, but it seemed unwise to stay. He traveled to the male servants’ barn, looking toward the newly arrived company. Among them was the family of Tor, Jaska’s father. He could not discern Jaska herself, however.

He stretched out the walk, imagining himself battling the Nine Wolves for Jaska’s safety. His desperate energy would defeat them, and she would plight her troth with him, as they said here, accepting an offer of marriage. He imagined Joy at the wedding, and confusion shredded the daydream like morning mist.

His forehead itched. He reached up and rubbed at it. He felt as though a storm was coming, although the day was clear. He walked in a daze toward the coast and stood upon a rugged, grass-covered promontory resembling the broken fingers and knuckles of a giant who’d lost a battle with Old Torden. He watched the waves rushing against the beach of black sand.

Far away there were other waves washing up on a jagged limestone coast; and beyond the trees and bushes that whispered in the warm wind from the eastern sea rose the walls and sweeping roofs of Riverclaw, where the two Heavenwalls met. Above the bustle of the capital, the Purple Forbidden City rose serene upon foundations resembling dragons’ heads, and the tenders of the Windwater Garden, with its metaphorical map of the realm, looked up at a sudden breeze from the West.

Innocence took two steps backward. The vision cleared, and he saw again the cold coast. “You are still with me,” he said to the East. “The power is not gone.”

He reached out with hand and will and tried to shape the wind. Nothing happened.

Frustration made him kick the rock. “Why am I here, trapped in this barbaric place? Why can I not access the power? Where is Deadfall? Why is life like this?”

“Innocence?”

Innocence spun and saw that the novitiate Numi had descended from the church and was now a stone’s throw away. Innocence sighed and walked toward him.
The superior man
, Walking Stick had said,
is calm and steady like the polestar, while the mean man swirls about in endless distress
. Walking Stick had despaired of making Innocence a superior man.

“Are you all right?” Numi said. “From the bell tower I saw you walking down here, and you seemed upset. What was that you were speaking? It sounded strange.”

The superior man is honest and open; the mean man is furtive and afraid
.

“It’s the chief language of a country called Qiangguo. It’s the tongue I was brought up with. I think in that language, most of the time. I didn’t even realize I was speaking it.”

“How many languages do you know?”

“Three. If you can count Kantentongue. I’m still working on that. Don’t you have work to do? Don’t let me hold you up. I’m coming back.”

“I’m fast on my feet. I’m supposed to ring the bell soon. That’s actually the other reason I sought you out. Turns out I’m not strong enough to squelch the ringing.”

“Um, I thought you were supposed to ring it.”

“I’ll explain as we go.” They walked. Innocence indeed had trouble keeping up with Numi. Numi said, “It’s a heavier bell than I thought. I’m used to our monastery bell. I know I’ll be strong enough to ring this one. But I can tell I’m not going to be able to snag the rope properly to prevent the clapper from whacking the bell again and again. The abbot likes a nice, clean sound. He likes a nice, clean everything. I don’t want a drubbing. Maybe you can help me.”

“You know, I grew up in a monastery. But we didn’t have a bell.”

“Well, all you have to do is let me ring it and then help me stop the clapper.”

“Guess I haven’t had anything to battle in a while. Lead on.”

They entered the church, with its stained-glass windows in the outline of a rising swan on the west and a descending swan on the east. As they strode through its shadows, passing pews and acolytes, Innocence asked, “Which way is up, I wonder?”

“The stairs are over there, past the votives and the chapel.”

“No, I mean which orientation of the Swan is considered the better one? Rising or falling?”

“They both represent different aspects of grace. The Swan ascending can show her on her way to quench the overbearing sun or rising from the dead after her downfall. The Swan descending may indicate the moment of her sacrifice, or her heavenly form bestowing blessings on us below. Every image of the church can be multiply determined. Such symbols are like keyholes through which stream many kinds of light, or like skeleton keys to open many kinds of doors. There is more than one kind of light, and more than one sort of door, because there is more than one kind of human, and more than one sort of worshipper.”

That this boy could suddenly sound like a theologian left Innocence speechless as they climbed the belfry stairs. At the top they encountered a windy nook, a precipitous view, a large iron bell, and a scowling abbot.

“You are supposed to be here, novice,” said Abbot Vatnar. The man looked to be forty, with black hair beginning to gray around the edges. His clothes were like another continent to the gray island of Numi’s simple robe, a regal swirl of red and gold, with white gloves to match the silver necklace of the Swan ascending. Stern eyes narrowed beneath a gold-threaded cap. “And who is this?”

“This is Huginn Sharpspear’s scribe, Father Abbot,” Numi said. “I needed someone to help me with the rope.” Numi gulped. “The bell is perhaps beyond my strength.”

“And you sought out secular help when there are so many acolytes below.”

“Beg pardon, Father Abbot, but everyone below is busy, and the scribe is not. I saw a way to resolve the problem without interrupting work.”

Abbot Vatnar shut his eyes, opened them. “Commendable. In the future do not risk a delay. But I can’t fault you in this case. You may proceed. Three clear rings.”

They managed to get Vatnar’s three rings with only a hint of a fourth, though the clapper yanked back on the rope like a wild horse. Innocence saw the crowd outside pause at their doings—their talk, their setting of tents, their preparations of food and drink, their arrangement of tables for games and horses for racing, and big rocks for the sport of stone-lifting—and turn toward the church. Innocence looked out toward the sea and beheld sea-stacks of dark, fang-like rock, and beyond them the ocean and a gray hint of other islands.