talk about. Good night.” The door fell shut behind him. Miriamele immediately leaped from her bed and drove home the bolt, then crawled back under her blanket, overcome by a fit of shivering.
3
East of the World
“I’m a knight now, aren’t I?” Simon ran his hand through the thick fur of Qantaqa’s neck. The wolf eyed him impassively.
Binabik looked up from his sheaf of parchment and nodded. “By an oath to your god and your prince.” The troll turned back to Morgenes’ book once more. “That is seeming to me to fit the knightly particulars.”
Simon stared across the tiled expanse of the Fire Garden, trying to think of how to put his thought into words. “But . . . but I don’t feel any different. I’m a knight—a man! So why do I feel like the same person?”
Caught up in something he was reading, Binabik took a moment to respond. “I am sorry, Simon,” he said at last. “I am not being a good friend for listening. Please say what you were saying once more.”
Simon bent and picked up a piece of loose stone, then flung it skittering across the tiles and into the surrounding undergrowth. Qantaqa bounded after it. “If I’m a knight and a grown man, why do I feel like the same stupid scullion?”
Binabik smiled. “It is not only you who has ever had such feelings, friend Simon. Because a new season has passed, or because a recognition has been given, still it is not changing a person very much on the inside. You were made Josua’s knight because of bravery you showed on Urmsheim. If you were changing, it was not at the ceremony yesterday, but on the mountain that it was happening.” He patted Simon’s booted foot. “Did you not say that you had learned something there, and also from the spilling of the dragon’s blood?”
“Yes.” Simon squinted at Qantaqa’s tail, which waved above the heather like a puff of smoke.
“People, both trolls and lowlanders, are growing in their own time,” said the little man, “—not when someone says that it is so. Be content. You will always be extremely Simon-like, but still I have been seeing much change in the months we have been friends.”
“Really?” Simon paused in mid-toss.
“Truth. You are becoming a man, Simon. Let it happen at the swiftness that it needs, and do not be worrying yourself.” He rattled the papers. “Listen, I want to read something to you.” He ran a stubby finger along the lines of Morgenes’ spidery handwriting. “I am grateful beyond telling to Strangyeard, that he brought this book out of the ruin of Naglimund. It is our last tie to that great man, your teacher.” His finger paused. “Ah. Here. Morgenes writes of King Prester John:
“ . . . If he was touched by divinity, it was most evident
in his comings and goings, in his finding
the correct place to be at the most suitable time,
and profiting thereby . . .”
“I read that part,” Simon said with mild interest.
“Then you will have noticed its significantness for our efforts,” the troll replied.
“For John Presbyter knew that in both war and
diplomacy — as also with love and commerce, two
other not dissimilar occupations — the rewards
usually do not fall to the strong or to even the
just, but rather to the lucky. John also knew that
he who moves swiftly and without undue caution
makes his own luck.”
Simon frowned at Binabik’s pleased expression. “So?” “Ah.” The troll was imperturbable. “Listen further.”
“Thus, in the war that brought Nabban under his
imperial hand, John took his far-outnumbered
troop through the Onestrine Pass and directly
into the spear-points of Ardrivis’ legions, when
all knew that only a fool would do so. It was this
very foolhardiness, this seeming madness, that
gave John’s smaller force a great advantage of
surprise — and even, to the startled Nabbanai
army, an aura of God-touched irresistibility.”
Simon found the note of triumph in the little man’s voice faintly disquieting. Binabik
3
East of the World
“I’m a knight now, aren’t I?” Simon ran his hand through the thick fur of Qantaqa’s neck. The wolf eyed him impassively.
Binabik looked up from his sheaf of parchment and nodded. “By an oath to your god and your prince.” The troll turned back to Morgenes’ book once more. “That is seeming to me to fit the knightly particulars.”
Simon stared across the tiled expanse of the Fire Garden, trying to think of how to put his thought into words. “But . . . but I don’t feel any different. I’m a knight—a man! So why do I feel like the same person?”
Caught up in something he was reading, Binabik took a moment to respond. “I am sorry, Simon,” he said at last. “I am not being a good friend for listening. Please say what you were saying once more.”
Simon bent and picked up a piece of loose stone, then flung it skittering across the tiles and into the surrounding undergrowth. Qantaqa bounded after it. “If I’m a knight and a grown man, why do I feel like the same stupid scullion?”
Binabik smiled. “It is not only you who has ever had such feelings, friend Simon. Because a new season has passed, or because a recognition has been given, still it is not changing a person very much on the inside. You were made Josua’s knight because of bravery you showed on Urmsheim. If you were changing, it was not at the ceremony yesterday, but on the mountain that it was happening.” He patted Simon’s booted foot. “Did you not say that you had learned something there, and also from the spilling of the dragon’s blood?”
“Yes.” Simon squinted at Qantaqa’s tail, which waved above the heather like a puff of smoke.
“People, both trolls and lowlanders, are growing in their own time,” said the little man, “—not when someone says that it is so. Be content. You will always be extremely Simon-like, but still I have been seeing much change in the months we have been friends.”
“Really?” Simon paused in mid-toss.
“Truth. You are becoming a man, Simon. Let it happen at the swiftness that it needs, and do not be worrying yourself.” He rattled the papers. “Listen, I want to read something to you.” He ran a stubby finger along the lines of Morgenes’ spidery handwriting. “I am grateful beyond telling to Strangyeard, that he brought this book out of the ruin of Naglimund. It is our last tie to that great man, your teacher.” His finger paused. “Ah. Here. Morgenes writes of King Prester John:
“ . . . If he was touched by divinity, it was most evident
in his comings and goings, in his finding
the correct place to be at the most suitable time,
and profiting thereby . . .”
“I read that part,” Simon said with mild interest.
“Then you will have noticed its significantness for our efforts,” the troll replied.
“For John Presbyter knew that in both war and
diplomacy — as also with love and commerce, two
other not dissimilar occupations — the rewards
usually do not fall to the strong or to even the
just, but rather to the lucky. John also knew that
he who moves swiftly and without undue caution
makes his own luck.”
Simon frowned at Binabik’s pleased expression. “So?” “Ah.” The troll was imperturbable. “Listen further.”
“Thus, in the war that brought Nabban under his
imperial hand, John took his far-outnumbered
troop through the Onestrine Pass and directly
into the spear-points of Ardrivis’ legions, when
all knew that only a fool would do so. It was this
very foolhardiness, this seeming madness, that
gave John’s smaller force a great advantage of
surprise — and even, to the startled Nabbanai
army, an aura of God-touched irresistibility.”
Simon found the note of triumph in the little man’s voice faintly disquieting. Binabik
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