Requiem for the Sun (28 page)
Read Requiem for the Sun Online
Authors: Elizabeth Haydon
“Everything,” Achmed said brashly, feeling as if he were betting on a hand of cards and hating the feeling. He reached down into his boot and pulled forth a half-weight
svarda,
balancing one of the three blades on his gloved fingertip, then straightened his arm to demonstrate the perfect equilibrium.
svarda,
balancing one of the three blades on his gloved fingertip, then straightened his arm to demonstrate the perfect equilibrium.
The Panjeri in the wagon stared, their eyes riveted on the circular blade poised in the air above the Bolg king's index finger. Only Theophila seemed unimpressed.
“We have no need of throwing knives,” she said contemptuously, but Achmed noted a waver in her voice.
She was betting on the cards in her hand as well.
“My craftsmen can make anything that is a tool or a weapon, and make it from a material that will last through your lifetime, and the lifetimes of your grandchildren. It will remain sharp and true, within a hairsbreadth of the width it was when planed in the forge.”
“Oh? Better than diamond-edged steel?”
“Better. Yes.”
She tossed her head, running her hand through her short tresses, spattering the sweat. “I don't believe you.”
Achmed pulled forth a cwellan disk. “Examine it yourself. But take careâif you are fumble-fingered, you will be maimed. This has no handle; it is a weapon, not a tool.” He chuckled to see the angry reaction in her eyes to the insult, though her face remained stoic.
Delicately she took the disk, and turned it over carefully in her hand, holding it up to the last rays of the low-hanging sun. After a moment she knelt and struck the disk against a rock, then scraped it along the surface with a flicking motion. She stood again and returned the disk to Achmed.
“We are leaving Sorbold soon after we are paid,” she said, walking away as she spoke.
“How soon?” he asked as she vaulted into the wagon and sat down next to one of the other women. The man who shook the scaffold, driving the team, clicked to the horses, and the wagon began to roll.
She shouted back over the noise of the cart as it disappeared over the first rocky rise.
“As soon as the wind changes.”
W
hen the Bolg king was no longer in sight, one of the women spoke in their dying language.
hen the Bolg king was no longer in sight, one of the women spoke in their dying language.
“Theophila, what did that strange man want?”
The woman stared back over the sideboard of the wagon, up into the rocky face of the hill. In the distance she could see a long, thin shadow, backlit by the setting sun, skittering down the cliff face like a spider, stopping from time to time, then hurrying down again as the cart moved farther out of view.
“I'm not certain entirely,” she said. “He says wants to hire me for my expertise in glass.”
The Panjeri looked from one to another.
“And will you go with him?”
“Perhaps. We shall see. If he has returned before we leave on the morn, I may. I doubt he will. But I must consult with the leader.”
“It would be your choice,” said one of the men beside her.
She covered her eyes with her hand, endeavoring to catch sight of the moving shadow, and failing. She put her hand down again and stared out over the ruddy desert below.
“I know.”
A
chmed watched until the wagon had descended the mountain to the flatlands, following it down along the ridge. He watched it pull into a campsite amid three other wagons and a handful of tents where the other Panjeri had already laid a celebratory bonfire.
chmed watched until the wagon had descended the mountain to the flatlands, following it down along the ridge. He watched it pull into a campsite amid three other wagons and a handful of tents where the other Panjeri had already laid a celebratory bonfire.
He made careful note of the position of the camp, then hurried down the cliff face and back to the castle of Jierna Tal as night fell thickly, coating the dome of the sky above Sorbold with inky blackness through which no stars could be seen.
23
N
ielash Mousa was growing weary of Fists and Scales, sand and Weighings.
ielash Mousa was growing weary of Fists and Scales, sand and Weighings.
Once the burial rites in the deep temple of Terreanfor and the internal peak of the stained-glass crypt were concluded, he had hoped to move on to the more important and difficult business at hand, the sorting out of Sorbold's future. Insuring Leitha's place in eternity, complete with pomp and ceremony, and the laying of her scrawny bones to rest in the brilliant light of the stained-glass chapel might have been what the dowager had believed would be the first order of things, but Mousa knew that the dead could wait, while the living might not.
Already there were rumblings in the army.
The empress's control of the military had been legendary. In a harsh land composed largely of shifting desert sand and impenetrable mountains, the concept of landownership among any but the monarch was more ephemeral than it would have been in other parts of the world, where the terrain was more stable. In Roland, a man could stake out a piece of the Krevensfield Plain or a river valley, build on it, farm it, hand it down to his children, in short, imbue his soul, and the souls of his descendants, into the very soil. Leaders might come and go, taxes might be owed and grudgingly paid to the Crown, but the lore of the land belonged to the one whose blood had shaped it, and continued to steward it.
It was the same with the great Orlandan cities. Every palace, every basilica, represented the dreams, aspirations, and sweat of far more people than the duke who lived in it, the benison who performed rites there. It was the vision of the architect, the toil of the carpenter, the labor of the stonemason, magnified a thousand times over, and a hundred thousand times, every shop, guild, and business reflecting the concept of
ownership,
individual power in the shadow of a loose, overarching leader.
ownership,
individual power in the shadow of a loose, overarching leader.
The instability of the terrain of Sorbold, where the places to build cities were few and far between, led to the opposite: the desert disdained the puny attempts of man to conquer it, to mold it; it had much in common with the sea in that regard. The mountains had a similar attitude. As a result, the only real power that the land itself supported was the primacy of whatever ruler held the favor of the Dark Earth, the pure element of Living Stone.
For five generations, that power had been indisputably locked in the iron grasp of the Sorbold royal family. Each generation had produced but one heir;
Leitha had been the single offspring of her father's loins, as he had been to his father before him, and as Vyshla had been to her. This concentration made the family all the more obviously powerful.
Leitha had been the single offspring of her father's loins, as he had been to his father before him, and as Vyshla had been to her. This concentration made the family all the more obviously powerful.
And the army respected obvious power.
But now, in a cruel twist, the sole heir had predeceased the monarch, and had died without producing a direct heir himself. This left no one with clear Right of Kings. The field of candidates with far-flung ties to the royal family was a dubious one; already there had been noise that the commander of the Western Face might not be willing to be directed by anyone whose claim to Leitha's throne was barely more defensible than his own would be.
Those rumblings notwithstanding, they had come, every pretender to the Sun Throne with a drop of blood in his or her veins that could be puffed into a pedigree. It was not the desire for the emperor's mantle that drove them to sue for the throneâindeed, the responsibility that came with the crown was far more grievous a burden than could be balanced against the pleasures of its power â but in an attempt to retain their own royalty and privilege. Without a family member, no matter how far removed, on the throne, those who had been by birth accustomed to the luxurious trappings and easy life of distant royal relations could be divested of those titles, and the privilege that went with them.
Mousa had stood in the heat of the Place of Weight for the better part of the afternoon, as candidate upon candidate mounted the steps that led to the Scales to weigh himself and his presumed right to rule, balanced against the Ring of State in the other plate.
One by one they stepped nervously onto the empty golden plate, eyeing the small oval of hematite and rubies on the other.
One by one, the Scales weighed, then discharged them, some more violently than others, as if the great instrumentality was not only declining their suit, but actively vomiting them off balance.
What remained of the crowd from the funeral that morning had brought rough blankets and food, camping out in the square to watch the spectacle. Their persistence was rewarded; some of the candidates had been dumped so comically on their heads or hindquarters that the onlookers felt as if they had been treated to a performance by a circus of clowns.
Now there was only one left, a distant cousin several times removed. He came to the top of the last step hesitantly, his long, loose shirt stained down the back and under the arms with nervous sweat. Nielash Mousa forced a benevolent smile.
“Speak your name.”
“Karis of Ylwendar.”
The benison nodded, then turned to the assemblage and repeated the name.
“Is it your wish to address the Scales, in suit for the Sun Throne of the Dark Earth, for stewardship of Terreanfor, and all the realm of Sorbold, from its dark depths to the endless sun above it?”
“It is,” the man replied anxiously, his eyes darting around the square.
“Very well, Karis of Ylwendar. Step into the eastern plate and cast your lot to Leuk, the wind of justice.”
The man stood frozen.
The benison exhaled tensely. “Do you wish to sue for the throne or not?”
Karis looked over his shoulder, then looked back at Mousa, shaking like a leaf in the desert wind.
“I do.”
“Then set about it, man,” the benison said as pleasantly as he could, mustering what little protocol was left in him. He did not want to be remembered as the cleric who insulted the next emperor just as the Scales confirmed him, though from what he could guess, there was little chance of that.
Nervously, Karis stepped onto the plate.
Just as his second foot came to rest, the wind blasted through from the west in a great hot gust; it spun the plate crazily, then tilted it with an enormous recoil and swung it like a giant sling shot.
Karis of Ylwendar sailed over the heads of the delighted crowd and into a fishseller's cart, sending dried herring and salted mackerel flying in every direction. A chorus of cheers and hooting saluted him as he landed.
Mousa struggled to maintain a solemn mien. “Is there anyone else claiming royal birth who commands a Weighing?”
Silence answered him.
The Blesser of Sorbold cleared his throat and spoke, the heaviness in his heart mixing with the inevitability of the outcome.
“Very well. Having performed ritual Weighing for each person of royal blood who requested one, and found none suitable in the eyes of the Scales to assume the Sun throne, I declare the Dynasty of the Dark Earth to have ended. A colloquium will commence immediately to determine the interim leadership; any candidates who emerge in the course of that, or any other discussion, will be summoned to the Scales by the tolling of the bells of Jierna Tal. Until such a time as that occurs, I command the bells to be silent.”
He signaled to his guard retinue and descended the steps, the weight that he carried on his shoulders suddenly much heavier.
S
ilence reigned in Jierna'sid.
ilence reigned in Jierna'sid.
It held sway in the Place of Weight, where the mammoth scales now stood,
still for the moment, glowing as the shadows of evening grew longer. The townspeople had been shooed from the square, replaced by an expressionless wall of swarthy, heavy-faced soldiers, all garbed in the livery of the now-defunct Dynasty of the Dark Earth. There was a pervasive nervousness about them that had made the crowds uneasy anyway; the townspeople had quickly gathered their blankets and the remains of their picnics and had fled the square, the carnival atmosphere now replaced with an ominous stillness.
still for the moment, glowing as the shadows of evening grew longer. The townspeople had been shooed from the square, replaced by an expressionless wall of swarthy, heavy-faced soldiers, all garbed in the livery of the now-defunct Dynasty of the Dark Earth. There was a pervasive nervousness about them that had made the crowds uneasy anyway; the townspeople had quickly gathered their blankets and the remains of their picnics and had fled the square, the carnival atmosphere now replaced with an ominous stillness.
Night fell heavily as the preparations for the colloquium were finished. The town square in front of Jierna Tal, from the castle entrance to the outside edge of the Place of Weight, was lined with blazing lamps, tall torch stands holding cylinders of burning oil to light, and perhaps enlighten, the discussion.
Two wide rings of tables, the smaller inside the other, had been set at the base of the Scales, along with chairs for the assembled guests. The evening was still warm in the grip of summer's heat, but the breeze, while hot, was more refreshing than the dank, stale air of the palace, which still reeked of death and incense left over from the burial preparations.
Watching each other with trepidation across the inner circle were representatives from each of the major factions of Sorbold; Fhremus, the empress's trusted supreme commander of the empire's army; Ihvarr and Talquist, the Heirarchs of the eastern and western Mercantile, the tradesman's guilds and shipping compacts that between them controlled nearly all of Sorbold's trade and industry; and the twenty-seven counts who were the magistrates of the empire's twenty-seven city-states. This combination of military, economy, and nobility was combustible, which might have been why the benison had put them into the center, so that if tempers flared, the outer ring of foreign dignitaries could be relied upon to act as a buffer, or at least throw a cloak over whoever ignited and roll him in the sand.
The invited guests from outside of Sorbold were fewer and farther between, seated in the outer circle with the members of the clergy. Ashe was there as head of the Alliance, with whom Sorbold had peace and trade accords, as well as the various sovereigns or their representatives who had their own realms within the Alliance, Achmed for the Bolglands, Tristan Steward for Roland, and Rial for Tyrian. Additionally, those sovereigns of the realms that lay beyond the Inner Continent â the Diviner of the Hintervold, Miraz of Winter; Beliac, the king of the far eastern region of Golgarn; and Viedekam, chieftain of Penzus, the largest of the southern Nonaligned States â were eyeing each other, and the leaders of the nations their lands surrounded, with a mix of stoicism and suspicion.
Ashe struggled to maintain a calm, cheerful mien, though internally he was roiling. The air in the Place of Weight was charged with unsaid words, fraught
with hidden agendas. He could feel it at the fringes of his dragon awareness, but did not doubt that even if he had no wyrm blood, it would have been clear to him anyway.
with hidden agendas. He could feel it at the fringes of his dragon awareness, but did not doubt that even if he had no wyrm blood, it would have been clear to him anyway.
Nielash Mousa was standing near the palace entranceway with Lasarys, the chief priest whom Ashe had seen marking the scrolls with the death weights of the empress and the Crown Prince. Lasarys was the sexton of Terreanfor, the cleric responsible for the maintenance and protection of the basilica of the Earth, as significant a position in the Patrician religion of Sepulvarta as the Tanist, or official successor, was to the Invoker of Gwynwood, the religion of the Filids, the office Ashe's father had once held. Lasarys, a quiet, bookish man who spent his days in the dark depths of the earth, lovingly tending to the secret cathedral, seemed unnerved to be out in the open air of the Place of Weight, in the midst of so much unspoken venom. Ashe felt a pang for him; he, too, wished that he could unturn the Earth, move Time back to a place where what was about to happen could be avoided.
He crossed the dark square through the archways of flickering light and stopped before the benison, bowing politely.
“Your Grace. How are you holding up?”
The Blesser of Sorbold smiled. “I will be happy when the night is over.”
Ashe nodded. “Will the Patriarch be attending? I do not see a place for him.”
Mousa shook his head. “He intends to bless the proceedings, but will be departing immediately thereafter. He must return to Sepulvarta in order to be back in time for the midsummer consecration rites.”
“Indeed.”
The deep voice of the Patriarch sounded behind them; Lasarys jumped, bowing respectfully, then withdrew quickly to the circle of chairs. The silence in the square became suddenly more profound as the other participants in the colloquium noticed the holy man's presence.
“I was hoping to have a chance to ask how you were faring before the colloquium began,” Ashe said to Constantin, making the appropriate countersign in acceptance of the blessing that the Patriarch bestowed on him. “How are you, Your Grace? My wife will want to know.”
The tall man smiled, his blue eyes gleaming. “Please convey to Rhapsody that I am well, and that she is long absolved from any need to worry about me.”
“Can you not delay for another day?” the Lord Cymrian asked, watching the shifting of chairs and glances in the center of the square. “Wisdom of any kind is sorely needed here now, either from the Ring, or from your experience. You would be a welcome addition to the discussion. I'm sure you have some
opinions about what should happen next.” He smiled; he knew from whence the Patriarch had come, though, other than Rhapsody, no living soul did besides the man himself.
opinions about what should happen next.” He smiled; he knew from whence the Patriarch had come, though, other than Rhapsody, no living soul did besides the man himself.
The Patriarch chuckled and shook his head. “I have opinions on everything, my son, but part of the burden of wearing the Ring of Wisdom is knowing without doubt when to keep those opinions to myself. And in this matter, it is not the place of the Church to be a party to the decisions of how Sorbold will continue, but to support those decisions prayerfully and respectfully.” He looked sharply at the assemblage in the inner ring, then leaned forward slightly so that none beside Ashe caught his words.
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