Chapter 437: Bruni of the Bridge

Aurelia confirmed it before breakfast.

She did not need to be sent for. She was simply there, sitting in the chair by the window of our bedroom when I woke, with the morning light behind her and her hands folded in her lap.

Evelyn was still asleep.

So was Adriana.

Aurelia looked at me across the room.

“Wenhild,” she said quietly.

I sat up.

“She told you?”

“She told the kitchen fire,” Aurelia said. “The kitchen fire told the hearth in my rooms. Hearths gossip. They always have.” A faint smile. “I came as soon as it was decent. I've been sitting here for an hour trying to decide whether it was decent yet.”

Evelyn stirred.

She opened her eyes. Saw Aurelia. Went very still.

“Oh,” she said.

“Good morning,” Aurelia said gently. “May I?”

She did not take long.

She sat on the edge of the bed with her hand resting lightly on Evelyn's stomach, and her eyes closed, and the faint healing light rose around her fingers the way it had when she first examined Adriana.

Adriana had woken. She lay very still on Evelyn's other side, holding her hand.

Nobody spoke.

After a while, Aurelia opened her eyes.

She was smiling.

“One,” she said. “Very small. Very new. Perfectly well.”

Evelyn let out a breath she seemed to have been holding since the night before.

“You're certain?”

“I'm certain.”

“Not two?”

Aurelia laughed softly.

“Not two. Just one this time.” She paused, her hand still resting on Evelyn's stomach. “But—”

She stopped.

Her face changed. Not alarmed. Curious.

“What?” Evelyn asked.

Aurelia did not answer at once. She closed her eyes again, and the light around her fingers brightened, and she was quiet for a long time.

When she opened her eyes, they were wet.

“Your twins came with fire and frost,” she said slowly. “Sparks. I felt them both the first time I examined you. Strong. Bright. Reaching for each other.”

“And this one?”

Aurelia looked at her.

“This one is warm,” she said. “Not hot. Warm. The way a room is warm when someone's been sitting up in it all night, waiting.” She shook her head slightly. “I've never felt anything like it in a child so young.”

Evelyn stared at her.

Then she turned to look at me.

“Like a lamp,” she said quietly. “I told you.”

We did not tell the children that day.

Evelyn wanted to wait. Not long. A week, perhaps. Until she was a little more certain of herself, and until the other things happening in Greykeep had settled enough that a new baby would not be lost among them.

“They'll be furious,” Adriana said.

“They'll be furious if we tell them and they're furious if we don't,” Evelyn said. “At least this way I get a week of peace first.”

Adriana considered this.

“Garrick will want to know why nobody asked his permission.”

“Garrick,” Evelyn said, “can take it up with Roderic.”

Ysolde left for the north two days later.

She did not look back at the gate.

Tobin had worked through two nights without sleeping. He had found every shelter on the coast road that the old maps showed. Thirty-four of them, strung along three hundred miles of cliffs and fishing villages that had mostly been abandoned when the storms came forty years ago.

Mary had given him a room in the archive and a lamp and told him that he was not to come out until he was finished.

He had come out twice. Once to ask Adeline about a column in the green ledger. Once to ask Ysolde a question about counting that nobody else was permitted to hear.

When he came out the third time, he had a map.

Thirty-four shelters, marked in red. Each one with a name beside it. The name of the village that had kept it, and, where the old records showed it, the name of the person who had kept the lamp.

Ysolde looked at the map for a long time.

“You found the names,” she said.

“Some of them,” Tobin said. “Not all.”

“Why?”

Tobin looked down at his hands.

“Because when you light them,” he said, “you should know who used to.”

Ysolde put her hand on his shoulder.

She did not say anything.

But she took the map, and folded it, and put it inside her coat against her heart.

Halemar and Vaust left three days after that.

Perrin had built Vaust a new stick.

It was not a stick. It was a staff, nearly as tall as Vaust himself, carved from a single piece of ash with a handle shaped to fit his bandaged grip. At the top, Perrin had set a small iron ring, and from the ring hung a tiny bell.

Vaust looked at it.

“What is this?”

“A bell,” Perrin said.

“I can see that.”

“For knocking,” Perrin said. “You always knock. Even when there's no door. I thought you should have something to knock with.” He paused. “Lethan's bell gave me the idea.”

Vaust stared at him.

Then he took the staff, and held it, and shook it very slightly.

The bell rang.

A small clear sound in the cold morning air.

Vaust did not say anything for a long time.

Then he said, gruffly, “The handle's too thick.”

Perrin looked at him.

“It's exactly the right thickness.”

“It's too thick.”

“It is not.”

“Then the bell's crooked.”

Perrin turned red.

Aldren, standing behind him, began to laugh.

Vaust looked at both of them with great dignity.

“Thank you,” he said.

Then he turned and walked out through the gate with Halemar beside him, and the bell rang softly with every step.

Bruni went to the ford that night.

Thor and I went with him as far as Lexander's camp.

It sat on a low rise above the river, a cluster of tents and cookfires and horse lines, with the ford spread out below in the moonlight. The water was wide there, and shallow, and fast. On the far bank, I could see the fires of Surtr's army.

Hundreds of them.

Scattered along the slopes of the burned forest like coals in a hearth.

Lexander met us at the edge of the camp.

He looked at Bruni.

Then at Thor.

Then at me.

“Alone,” he said.

“Alone,” Bruni agreed.

“Into the river.”

“Into the river.”

Lexander rubbed his face.

“My wife,” he said, “is going to be very angry with me if a giant drowns on my watch.”

“I won't drown,” Bruni said. “The ford's only waist-deep.”

“On you.”

“On me,” Bruni agreed.

We watched from the rise.

Thor, me, Lexander, and a handful of his officers. Below us, Bruni walked down to the river's edge and stood there for a long moment, looking across at the fires on the far bank.

Then he stepped into the water.

It came to his knees. Then his thighs. Then his waist.

He stopped in the middle of the ford.

He stood there, in the moonlight, with the river running fast around him and his metal fingers hanging empty at his sides.

He did not raise a weapon. He did not shout a challenge.

He began to sing.

I had never heard Bruni sing.

I did not know he could.

It was not a song I knew. It was not in any language I knew. It was low and deep and slow, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere far below his chest, the way a mountain might sound if mountains could sing.

It carried across the water.

On the far bank, the fires flickered.

Shapes moved among them.

Large shapes.

Giants.

They came down to the water's edge on the far side of the ford. Five of them. Then ten. Then more. They stood on the bank in the moonlight and looked out at the giant standing alone in the middle of the river, singing.

Thor's hand had gone to Mjölnir.

“Don't,” I said quietly.

She did not draw it.

But she did not take her hand away.

Bruni stopped singing.

The silence that followed was very long.

Then, from the far bank, a voice called out.

Deep. Rough. In the same language Bruni had sung in.

Bruni answered.

The voice called again.

Bruni answered again.

This went on for a long time. Neither of them moving. Bruni standing in the middle of the ford, the giants standing on the far bank, their voices carrying back and forth across the water.

Lexander leaned toward me.

“Do you know what they're saying?”

“No.”

Thor's hand had not left Mjölnir.

“I know a little,” she said quietly. “Not much. Enough.”

“And?”

Thor was silent for a moment.

“They asked who he was,” she said. “He told them. Bruni. Of the bridge.” She paused. “They asked why he came alone. He said because he came to talk.”

“And now?”

Thor listened.

“Now they're arguing,” she said. “Among themselves. About whether to listen.”

One of the giants on the far bank stepped into the river.

He was larger than Bruni. Much larger. Gray-skinned and heavy-shouldered, with a club slung across his back and a scar running from his left eye down to his jaw.

He waded out into the ford.

Slowly. The water came to his knees. His thighs. His waist.

He stopped three paces from Bruni.

The two giants looked at each other in the moonlight.

Thor had gone very still beside me.

“That's him,” she said quietly. “The one from Carrow Tor. The one who lowered his club.”

They talked for a long time.

Not shouting now. Quietly. Standing in the middle of the river with the water running around them, the two giants talked, and we could not hear what they said.

The moon moved across the sky.

The fires on the far bank burned low.

Once, the larger giant raised his voice, and his hand went to the club on his back, and Thor took a step forward.

Bruni did not move.

He only stood there, with his metal fingers hanging empty, looking up at the larger giant.

After a long moment, the larger giant's hand fell away from the club.

They went on talking.

It was nearly dawn when Bruni came back.

He waded out of the ford slowly. The water streamed off him. His face, in the gray light, was very tired.

He climbed the rise to where we stood.

He did not say anything at first. He sat down heavily on a fallen log at the edge of Lexander's camp and looked down at his metal hands.

Thor sat beside him.

“Well?” she said.

Bruni was quiet for a long time.

“His name is Skarn,” he said finally.

“The one from Carrow Tor.”

“The one from Carrow Tor.” Bruni turned his metal fingers over. “He's been with Surtr for six years. Since Surtr burned his village. His whole family.” He paused. “He said he followed Surtr because there was nobody bigger.”

“And now?”

Bruni looked at Thor.

“Now he's seen you,” he said. “And me. And he's not sure anymore.”

“The house,” I said.

Bruni nodded slowly.

“He knows it,” he said. “Everyone on that side knows it. The house where the autumn lady is kept.”

My heart had begun to pound.

“Where?”

“Deep in the burned forest. A day's walk from the river. Surtr keeps giants there. To guard it.” Bruni paused. “Skarn's been on that guard. Twice.”

“Is she—”

“Alive,” Bruni said. “Skarn says she's alive. She doesn't speak to the guards. She doesn't eat much.” He hesitated. “But every day, she does something strange.”

“What?”

Bruni looked down at his hands.

“She gives them a leaf,” he said.

Nobody spoke.

“Every morning,” Bruni said. “When they bring her food. She gives one of the guards a leaf. Red. Or gold. Or orange. Autumn colors.” He shook his head. “In the middle of winter. In a burned forest where nothing has grown for six years.”

“Where does she get them?” Thor asked.

“Skarn doesn't know. Nobody knows. She just has them. Every morning. One leaf.” Bruni paused. “And she asks the guard to let it go. Outside. In the wind.”

“And they do?”

Bruni was quiet for a long moment.

“Skarn said the first time, he threw it away,” he said. “He thought it was a trick. A spell. He crushed it and threw it in the fire.” Bruni turned his metal fingers over. “The next morning, she gave him another one. And asked again.”

“And the time after that?”

“He let it go,” Bruni said. “He doesn't know why. He said she looked at him the way his mother used to look at him. When he was small. When he'd done something foolish and she was waiting for him to understand why.”

He looked up at me.

“He's been letting them go ever since,” he said. “Every time he's on guard. One leaf, every morning. Into the wind.” His voice dropped. “And the other guards started doing it too. Not all of them. But some.”

Thor had gone very still.

So had I.

I was thinking about the Keeper, kneeling in the garden beside the fountain, saying: There's nothing left for me to stand on. Not one stone. It's reaching him anyway.

“The message,” I said slowly. “Brannoc's name. Every night.”

Bruni nodded.

“She says it to the leaves,” he said. “Skarn heard her once. Before she gave one to him. She held it up to her mouth and said a name and then handed it over.” He paused. “He didn't know whose name it was. He never asked.”

“And the giants carry them,” Thor said quietly. “Into the wind.”

“Into the wind,” Bruni agreed.

“There's no road,” I said. “No shelter. No stone for the Keeper to stand on.”

“No,” Bruni said.

He looked across the river. At the burned forest, gray in the dawn light. At the fires of Surtr's army, guttering out one by one as the sun came up.

“But there are giants,” he said. “Letting leaves go in the wind. Every morning.” He looked back at me. “Maybe that's the road.”

Thor stood up.

She walked to the edge of the rise and stood there, looking down at the ford.

At the place where Bruni had stood alone in the river, singing.

“What else did he say?” she asked without turning.

Bruni was quiet for a moment.

“He asked if I had a name,” he said. “For the autumn lady. He said the guards just call her that. They don't know who she is.”

“Did you tell him?”

“I told him Corra,” Bruni said. “And I told him whose name she says into the leaves.” He paused. “I told him Brannoc is in Greykeep. That he's been looking for her since the bridge. That he hasn't slept properly in weeks.”

“And?”

Bruni looked down at his hands.

“Skarn was quiet for a long time,” he said. “Then he said that the next time he was on guard, he'd tell her. Before he let the leaf go.” Bruni's voice was very quiet. “He said he'd tell her that someone heard.”

We rode back to Greykeep at midday.

Bruni slept in the saddle most of the way. Thor rode beside him, close enough that she could catch him if he started to fall.

He did not fall.

I rode ahead.

I found Brannoc in the garden.

He was sitting on the bench beneath the pear tree, under Harlon's lamp, exactly where he had been the night of the supper. He had not moved, Kaedra told me. Not to sleep. Not to eat. He had been sitting there since Bruni left for the ford.

He looked up when I came into the garden.

He saw my face.

He stood.

“She's alive,” I said.

Brannoc did not move.

“A day's walk from the river,” I said. “Deep in the burned forest. Surtr keeps giants there to guard her.” I paused. “Every morning, she gives one of the guards a leaf. Autumn colors. And says your name into it. And asks them to let it go in the wind.”

Brannoc's face had gone very still.

“And they do?” he said.

“Some of them,” I said. “One of them, especially. A giant named Skarn. He's been letting them go for weeks.”

Brannoc stared at me.

“Leaves,” he said.

“Leaves.”

“In the wind.”

“In the wind.”

Brannoc looked up.

At the pear tree above him. Bare. Winter-dark. With Harlon's lamp hanging from the highest branch.

“She used to do that,” he said slowly. “At Carrow Tor. In the autumn. She'd pick the reddest leaf she could find and give it to whoever was going out on a raid.” His voice broke. “She said it was for luck. She said autumn was about things being gathered in. Brought home.”

He looked at me.

“She's been sending them,” he said. “Every morning. Leaves. To bring me home.”

He sat down very suddenly on the bench.

He put his face in his scarred hands.

His shoulders shook.

Kaedra sat down beside him. So did Mireth. Nyxa stood behind the bench, one hand resting on Brannoc's shoulder.

I stood at the edge of the garden.

I did not say anything.

After a long time, Brannoc lowered his hands.

His face was wet.

“Skarn,” he said.

“He said he'd tell her,” I said. “The next time he's on guard. Before he lets the leaf go. He'll tell her that someone heard.”

Brannoc closed his eyes.

“When?” he asked.

“I don't know. Bruni didn't know either.” I paused. “Soon, I think.”

Brannoc was quiet for a long moment.

Then he opened his eyes and looked up at me.

“Then I'll wait,” he said. “Here. Under the lamp.” He looked up at Harlon's lamp in the pear tree. “And when he tells her, I'll know.”

“How?”

Brannoc almost smiled.

“Because she'll send a different leaf,” he said.

He was right.

It came three days later.

I did not see it arrive. Nobody did. Mireth found it in the morning, when she came out into the garden to bring Brannoc his breakfast.

He was asleep on the bench beneath the pear tree. He had fallen asleep sitting up, sometime in the night, with his head tipped back against the trunk.

And in his lap, resting on his folded hands, was a leaf.

It was not red. Not gold. Not orange.

It was green.

Bright, new, spring green. The green of the first leaves after a long winter. The green of things beginning instead of ending.

In the middle of winter.

In a garden where nothing had grown in months.

Mireth stood looking at it for a long time.

Then she woke Brannoc very gently, and he opened his eyes, and he saw it.

He did not say anything.

He picked it up, carefully, between two scarred fingers, and held it up to the light.

There was writing on it.

Not ink. Not carved. Something else. Lines in the leaf itself, the veins arranged in a pattern that could only have been deliberate.

Two words.

Brannoc read them.

Then he folded the leaf very carefully in his palm and pressed his fist against his chest, and bowed his head, and wept.

Mireth knelt beside him.

“What does it say?” she whispered.

Brannoc did not lift his head.

“It says,” he said, “'I know.'”