Requiem for the Sun (31 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Haydon

BOOK: Requiem for the Sun
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The benison raised his hand for the attention of the assemblage. “We shall weigh the symbol of the Mercantile again, so that there can be no doubt,” he said. “Ihvarr, place the coin in the plate again.”
The eastern Hierarch did as the benison instructed. Again the Scales lifted the coin high to the darkening sky, as if exalting it, then slowly settled down into an exact balance against the Ring of State.
“It is Weighed, and found to be in balance!” said the benison loudly, his excitement echoing in the stunned silence.
For a long moment no one spoke. Then a smattering of applause was heard, followed by a more rolling round of it. The eastern Hierarch looked out to his compatriot, who shrugged.
“Who will stand to be Weighed as a candidate for emperor?” Mousa inquired.
“Ihvaar!” Talquist shouted merrily. “If his illegitimate birth does not disqualify him, that is.”
“Blackguard!” Ihvarr shouted back. “If it does, we will surely be in difficulty, because you are a bastard, too, Talquist; a bigger one than I, by all accounts.”
“Step into the plate,” said Nielash Mousa impatiently. “Allow your amazement to render you speechless, rather than foolish, in the sight of the Scales.”
Abashed, the Hierarch stepped onto the plate.
Immediately he was upended. With a rush of air and a swing of the wooden arm, Ihvarr was violently thrown to base of the reviewing stand; he landed with a sickening
crack
of his neck, then thudded heavily to the ground.
Talquist shot to his feet, rushing to Ihvarr's side, panic written all over his features.
“Help him!” he cried, shoving aside chairs to get to his comrade. “For the sake of the All-God–”
“Leave him,” commanded Nielash Mousa sternly. “The Scales have spoken. Mount the stairs.”
Talquist stopped in midstep. “What?” he asked incredulously.
“Present yourself for Weighing. It is the will of the Scales.”
“Don't be a coward, Talquist,” sneered one of the lesser counts. “The Mercantile is to lead us, to take the throne from the hands of the nobility, where is had rested for centuries, and place it for safekeeping in the dirt-stained paws of a merchant. It might as well be you! Throw yourself into the plate. Perhaps you will only break a leg instead of your neck.”
Talquist, who had bent to close the glassy eyes of Ihvarr, stood again, his heavy features hardening into a frowning mask.
“Nobility, are you, now, Sitkar?” he said, staring into the ranks of the heads of the smaller city-states. “You only know one meaning of the word, apparently. There is far more nobility in the hand of a man who earns his bread, rather than stealing it from the mouths of those who do by a distant scrap of Right of Kings. Perhaps the Mercantile represent something that none in your faction ever could: an understanding that the Earth rewards the man who works it, honors it, respects it — not just feeds off it.”
Without another word he walked to the stairs and ascended the platform.
And stepped into the Scale plate.
And was lifted high above the red bricks of the square, over the heads of the other contenders for the throne, aloft, as if a precious offering the Scales were making to the moon above.
Then balanced perfectly against the Ring.
Silence so profound that a man could hear nothing but the beating of his own heart filled the square.
Then the benison knelt reverently, followed by Lasarys, Fhremus, and the other citizens of Sorbold, some reluctantly, others in awe.
Finally the Blesser of Sorbold stood. He bowed to the Hierarch, then turned to the assemblage.
“Whosoever doubts the wisdom of the Scales, it is as if he is calling into question the integrity of the Earth itself,” he proclaimed, his wrinkled features relaxed into a contented expression. “Let none be so blasphemous as to do so.”
He turned to Talquist and offered him his hand to help him down from the plate.
“What are your directions now, m'lord?”
Talquist contemplated the question for a moment, then came to the edge
of the platform and stood staring down at the assemblage before him. Finally he spoke.
“The first order of business will be to tend to the burial of Ihvarr, who was an honorable man, a loyal Sorbold, a defender of the nation, an advocate for the common man, and a good friend,” he said simply. “After that we can set about sorting out the business of state.
“I am as shocked as anyone else, probably more so, at this turn of events. I would propose that, rather than move to a coronation, I be invested as regent for the period of a year, an office with which I am much more comfortable at this moment. The army will continue as it has, in its steadfast defense of the realm, the Mercantile will continue to ply their trades, the nobility may keep their offices — for the time being. If, after a year has passed, the Scales still say I am to reign as emperor, I will bow to their will and accept the Sun Scepter as well as the Ring of State, which I will wear beginning now. But until then, I wish only to hold the empire together, and get back to work.”
The benison bowed deeply. “As you command, m'lord.”
Talquist exhaled deeply. “Come, then,” he said to assemblage. “Summon the chamberlain to tell the cooks to return and prepare all of us a well-deserved repast. We can sit together, at this table without hierarchy, as friends and allies, and drink to Ihvarr and the future of Sorbold. For this night holds great promise.
“For Sorbold, it is a new beginning.”
Something in the words rang false against Ashe's ear. He turned to look more carefully at Talquist, but the new regent was obscured from view by Nielash Mousa, who hovered near him.
The benison turned to Lasarys.
“Command the bells to peal!”
T
wo days after the colloquium had concluded, Ashe was finally able to break away from the requests for his attention and depart for Haguefort. He bade the Blesser of Sorbold goodbye, wishing him well.
“Try and find an excuse to rest,” he said, clapping Nielash Mousa on the shoulder. “This has been a difficult few weeks for you, but there is still much work to be done. Sorbold needs you well.”
The weary benison smiled wanly and nodded his thanks. “We can but petition the All-God that the difficult times are behind us, not ahead,” he said softly.
“Ryle hira,” Ashe replied, using the ancient Liringlas expression.
Life is what it is.
“Whatever comes to pass, we will make the best of it.”
The morning of their leavetaking was hot. The sun had risen rapidly, energized
as if with the renewed stamina of a new era, and burst forth into the heavens, eager to light the land. Ashe's men, sweating already at breakfast time, cursed mutely and wished for less solar enthusiasm, but nonetheless packed the caravan quickly and efficiently, departing the Sorbold capital speedily and without looking back.
As the Lord Cymrian's retinue descended the northern face of the Teeth, through the Rymshin Pass heading north to Sepulvarta, a cry went up from a single voice, which was picked up a moment later by the rest of the regiment.
“M'lord! M'lord!”
Ashe followed the fingers of the soldiers pointing west into the sun. Even before his eyes tracked, his stomach clenched in terror; his dragon sense discerned the approaching bird, noted the feathers it had shed, the strain in its wings, the rapid movement of its eyes as it searched from above for its perch on its trainer's glove.
“Sweet All-God,” he whispered, reining his horse to a halt. “No.”
It was a falcon.
26
HAGUEFORT, NAVARNE
R
hapsody coiled the last of the sections of curly hair into a chignon and pinned it, more by feel than sight.
“Blue ribbons, or white, Melly?” she asked.
“Blue, I think,” the girl replied, examining her young face seriously in the looking glass. “And can you entwine the crystals with them at the base as you did at the spring ball?”
“Of course.” Rhapsody put out her hand for the ribbons, swallowing quickly as another dizzy spell signaled its approach. She blinked rapidly, trying to quell the unsteadiness, and improvised by running her hands along the sides of Melisande's hair to smooth it.
“There,” she said when the unsteadiness had passed. “How is that?”
“Wonderful!” Melisande replied, turning to hug her. “Thank you. I wish the Lirin hairmistresses would teach me to plait pretty patterns as they taught you.”
“I was a poor student, I fear,” Rhapsody said, brushing a kiss on the side of the girl's head. “You should see some of the configurations they are able to weave. Once I attended a meeting with the sea-Lirin ambassador with an accurate depiction of the coastline of Tyrian embroidered in my hair.” The young
girl giggled. “Next time you come with me to the Lirin lands I will ask them to teach you, too. Now, come. Help me find your brother.”
Melisande put out her hand, and slipped an arm around Rhapsody's waist to steady her. Together they strolled up the front entranceway of Haguefort, past the walls of rosy brown stone blooming with fragrant floral ivy, taking their time on the stairs.
The sounds in the distance told Rhapsody the carriage and its escort were close to being ready to leave; she could hear the drivers, little more than moving shapes in the distance, calling to each other, making final preparations; a squeak of doors indicated that the carriage was being stocked.
“Is Gwydion here?” she asked a little nervously, scanning the swimming green horizon for her adopted grandson.
“Behind you,” came a voice that was deeper than it ought to be, with a slight crack in its tone. Rhapsody turned and smiled fondly at the blurry shape now in front of her.
“I was afraid you would be caught up in your archery, and not remember to come and bid me goodbye.”
“Never,” said Gwydion Navarne solemnly. She opened her arms, and awkwardly he came into them, embracing her carefully, as if she might break.
“I'm not made of glass, you know, Gwydion,” she said as Melisande ran off to inspect the inside of the carriage. “Please don't worry so.”
“I'm not.”
“Balderdash. You're lying; I can hear it in the frequency of your tone.” She reached up and laid a hand on his check, the smooth, boyish skin rough with an emerging beard. “Tell me what is troubling you.”
Gwydion looked away. “Nothing. I never really like it when you leave. Particularly in a carriage, and even more so when you refuse to allow me to go along.”
Rhapsody inhaled and held her breath, cursing herself for being thoughtless. Gwydion's mother had been mercilessly slaughtered after kissing her seven-year-old son goodbye and heading off to Navarne City with her sister to purchase a sturdy pair of shoes for one-year-old Melly. She had forgotten the circumstances until now, though she had noticed his reticence to say goodbye each time she left for Tyrian or some other place.
“I will be back to see you shoot those new arrows,” she promised, running her hand up and down his arm as if to warm it. “Do you like them?”
The lad shrugged. “I've used but one, and it was true. I am saving them so that you and Ashe can both see me use them in an archery tournament.”
“Wonderful!” she said brightly, her tone belying the nausea that was rising again. “Now, will you escort me down to the carriage? You know how much
Anborn hates to be kept waiting. He'll be bellowing any moment.”
“Let him wait,” Gwydion said, his humor returning. “He's going to bellow anyway. You may as well give him something real to bellow about.”
“They've put in a silver bucket with
ice
in it!” Melisande called up from the roadway in amazement. “And it's shaped like a knight's helm! And there are cherry and lemon tarts!”
Gwydion Navarne brushed some stray pebbles from her path with his toe. “Will you commend me to the dragon?”
“I will. I'm sure that will please her. She's really quite kind and has an interesting sense of humor.”
“I have no doubt,” Gwydion said, offering her his arm. “If she didn't, the population of western Roland would be hanging upside down, drying into bacon in the world's biggest smokehouse somewhere north of Gwynwood.”
Rhapsody put her hand over her mouth. “Ooh,” she mumbled, rushing to the side of the keep's wall.
The young duke-to-be turned away and scratched his head awkwardly.
“I can't wait to be able to talk to you the way that I used to,” he said remorsefully. “I am so sorry.”
“I can't wait either,” she said after a moment, reaching for his arm. “Perhaps Elynsynos will know a way to bring me back to my old self again.”
“Well, I know a way for you not to have to suffer like this too long.”
“Oh? How?”
The boy's eye glinted merrily.
“Stay far away from Ashe the next time.”
T
he road to Gwynwood wandered for a while through a mixture of sparse forests and open fields before it passed into the thicker white wood for which it was named.
The summer sun was high in the sky, but the forest was cool, the light flickering in through the carriage window in lacy patterns. Rhapsody drowsed against the cushions, enjoying the feel of the gentle breeze on her face.
The debilitating illness had lessened in the three days she had passed at Haguefort. Though she was sometimes sick, and often unsteady, more often than not the symptoms of her condition were confined to blurry vision and a sudden lack of balance that overwhelmed her, even when sitting or lying down.
Another few days, and I will be with Elynsynos, deep within the quiet of her lair, at the edge of her underground lagoon.
The thought made her smile.
The rumble of the carriage wheels, the muted clip-clop of the horses' hooves, the occasional twitter of birdsong that made it past the curtain at her
window, the sounds of a journey happily undertaken blended in a soothing harmony. It was a peaceable feeling.
She heard her name being called from out the left window; it was Anborn's voice, and he sounded almost merry. For all that he protested an unwillingness to be tied to a single place, or kept in a task not of his own choosing, the General seemed quite pleased to be out with a small guard regiment, traveling some of the most verdant and beautiful forest on the continent.
“Hello in there,” he bellowed. “You alive, m'lady?”
She moved to the window and stuck her head out.
“Define ‘alive.'”
“Aha! She lives!” the General said cheerily to his troops, the eight soldiers and two drivers who had accompanied them. “You must make an effort to let us know you are still among the living from time to time, lady.”
“Sorry,” Rhapsody said pleasantly. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the feel of the strong breeze, cooled by the green leaves of the forest canopy, as it billowed over her face and buffeted her hair. It was a feeling similar to being at sea, the constant motion, the stiff wind. A sensation she enjoyed.
Anborn rode close to the carriage. “Do you wish to stop for noonmeal?”
Rhapsody opened her eyes and smiled involuntarily. Aside from the high-backed saddle that had been crafted to support him, there was no visible sign that this was a man without the use of his legs. His lameness was even less noticeable because, to a one, all the saddles of the guards riding with him had been similarly outfitted, so that the General could ride any mount he chose. He looked as hale and imposing on horseback as he had the first time she had ever beheld him, when he almost ran her down on this very forest road.
“If the troops would like a break, we can stop,” she said. “I'm not hungry.”
Anborn snorted. “They had breakfast,” he said haughtily. “We'll go on; we're making good time.”
“I'd like to stop at the Tree when we pass near the Circle,” Rhapsody said, gripping the window to steady herself as a new wave of unease rolled over her. “How much longer until we are there?”
Anborn looked around at the forest and the position of the sun. “Tomorrow afternoon.”
“All right.” She pulled the carriage blanket up to her shoulders. “Then, by all means, let us stop and take noonmeal. Knowing you, Anborn, you won't give them the chance to eat again until tomorrow.”
The General smiled slightly. “As m'lady commands.”
Shrike, as ever riding at Anborn's rear flank, his dual stonebows in his lap, spoke up.
“Thank the gods. I was planning to rip the bark from the next tree we passed and swallow it.”
T
he deeper they traveled into the greenwood, the easier the journey became.
Anborn called the carriage to halt every few hours when he determined Rhapsody to be awake, giving her a chance to stretch and feel solid ground beneath her feet for a while. After a few moments, when she deemed herself ready, she was packed carefully back into the coach, and the guard regiment set off again.
As the afternoon sun fell below the tree line, flooding the forest with shafts of dusty golden light, the General called the carriage to halt for the night.
“I think you've had entirely enough jolting and jouncing for one day,” he said as the coach doors were opened. “Time to rest. We'll build a fire and sleep for the night.”
“Don't refrain from traveling on my account,” Rhapsody said, taking the arm of the guard who stood at attendance to help her down the carriage steps. “I'm just sleeping in here. I've done no work at all today.”
“Welcome to the privileged life,” Anborn laughed.
As the soldiers set about laying camp, Shrike assisted the general off his mount and onto a bedroll near the pile of sticks and branches in the clearing that would be the campfire. Rhapsody settled down next to him, and was handed a mug of cider and a plate of biscuits.
She unbuckled Daystar Clarion from her belt and pulled the sword gently from its sheath; it came forth with a quiet hum, the same pitch as the clarion call that it could wind when drawn in anger or need, but almost inaudible, resonating quietly in the still air of the darkening forest.
The bond to elemental fire deep within her sang a harmonic in response; the music hummed in Rhapsody, quieting her stomach and her mind.
The soldiers watched, fascinated, as she extended the sword of billowing flames and touched the kit of sticks and branches; it ignited immediately, the fire leaping in the wind, showering the twilight with bright sparks that crackled and winked like fireflies.
She rested the sword across her knees, her elbows holding it in place, impervious to the flames, and listened to the gossip and banter of the four soldiers who were not standing watch as they relaxed around the fire and ate their simple meals.
There was something refreshing, invigorating, about being in the forest at night in summer, she thought, breathing deeply to take in the cool, moist air that stood in such contrast to the dry heat of Yarim. Perhaps being in this
natural setting, with the full green of the season, the warm, rich scent of the earth, the sheltering canopy of tree branches above her, was improving her condition. She felt better, though she was still off balance and unclear in her sight.
Many leagues away in the distance she could hear the song of the Great White Tree, a deep, primeval melody that stretched throughout the forest, humming in all the things that grew there. She closed her eyes and listened, entranced, letting the music fill her mind and clear it.
Softly she began singing a song of home that her seafaring grandfather had sung to her when she was a child.
I was born beneath this willow,
Where my sire the earth did farm
Had the green grass as my pillow
The east wind as a blanket warm
But
away! away!
called the wind from the west
And in answer I did run
Seeking glory and adventure
Promised by the rising sun
I found love beneath this willow,
As true a love as life could hold,
Pledged my heart and swore my fealty
Sealed with a kiss and a band of gold
But
to arms! to arms!
called the wind from the west
In faithful answer I did run
Marching forth for king and country
In battles 'neath the midday sun.
Oft I dreamt of that fair willow
As the seven seas I plied
And the girl who I left waiting
Longing to be at her side
But
about! about!
called the wind from the west
As once again my ship did run
Down the coast, about the wide world
Flying sails in the setting sun
Now I lie beneath the willow
Now at last no more to roam,
My bride and earth so tightly hold me
In their arms I'm finally home.
While
away! away!
calls the wind from the west
Beyond the grave my spirit, free
Will chase the sun into the morning
Beyond the sky, beyond the sea

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