Read Requiem for the Sun Online
Authors: Elizabeth Haydon
Requiem for the Sun (35 page)
“Thank you, m'lord,” he mumbled quickly as he dashed into the passageway.
As soon as the crossbowman had entered the flames, the seneschal gestured again, and the passageway disappeared.
Caius, swallowed in flame, screamed noiselessly, drowned in the sound of the inferno and the cracking of the burning trees.
He turned and bolted from the fire into the area where the others stood, still clear from flame but about to be engulfed. Two of the swordsmen seized him and rolled him in the loam of the forest floor, snuffing him amid the spreading sparks.
“The next time you question my decision, Caius, I will wait until you are deeper in to close the passage,” the seneschal said smugly. “Then you and your heart twin can be forever mixed in the same ashes.”
He mounted the horse behind Rhapsody's supine body and pulled her up so that her back was lying against his chest. Her eyes were glassy, her breathing shallow, but her heartbeat was strong, he noted, as he pulled her shirt the rest of the way from the waistband of her torn, bloody trousers and slid his hands up under her camisole, allowing himself to revel in the soft skin of the breasts he had dreamed about across endless time.
Rhapsody merely slumped forward, too spent to keep her head up and her back erect.
I have to protect my abdomen, bide my time, and wait for the right moment.
She battled to keep a tenuous hold on consciousness as the marauders rode off, westward, toward the sea.
And lost that battle.
29
A
nborn came slowly to consciousness on the forest floor, where already the fire had charred the trees, reducing much of the wild bushes and scrub to hot ash, and had moved on.
nborn came slowly to consciousness on the forest floor, where already the fire had charred the trees, reducing much of the wild bushes and scrub to hot ash, and had moved on.
All around him, before and behind, the world was burning.
The General groaned as he raised his head up to look around him, then laid it down again, too heavy to sustain. The heat on his back was searing, so hot that he could not imagine that he was not already burning alive.
For the smallest of moments, he thought of closing his eyes again, laying his head down to rest, and letting the fire sweep over him, through him, take him into its maw and swallow him, chew him into ashes and spit him out into the wind, where he could float across the sea, all around the wide world, ebbing and flowing in an endless current of air, like the Kinsman he had been.
The thought shook him from his dying reverie as the memory of Rhapsody's last words came back to him.
Live, live for me, Anborn. Get word to Ashe about what happened here; tell him, the children, and my Bolg friends that I love them. Remember that I love you as well.
Whether those words were the inescapable magic of a potent Namer, the command of his sovereign to whom he was sworn, the call of a fellow Kinsman, or the last request of the one woman in the world whose love and friendship he valued, they held power, a power great enough to make him lift his head and shake off the warm and peacefully endless sleep that glowed just beyond the edge of his awareness.
As his eyes cleared, he saw the destruction around him was far more widespread than he had even imagined. Every tree in the forest for as far as he could see was aflame, the fire growing in intensity as it spread north to the Tara'fel River.
He had to get out of the forest and back to where he could summon help.
Anborn braced his hands against the ground and lifted his upper body to look.
It was there still, smoldering quietly beneath him, drawing the destructive power of the flames into itself, sparing his hide from immolation.
Daystar Clarion.
For a moment the General lay and stared at the blade. Gone were the rippling waves of fire that rolled from hilt to tip in Rhapsody's hand, a sign of the bond between element and Iliachenva'ar. A bright glow of starlight was
still imbued in it, but the fire was stilled, taken away by the man that had borne the sword of air. Though he had never seen it, he had heard tales of the weapon, a blade wielded in the old world during the Seren War that preceded the Cymrian exodus.
still imbued in it, but the fire was stilled, taken away by the man that had borne the sword of air. Though he had never seen it, he had heard tales of the weapon, a blade wielded in the old world during the Seren War that preceded the Cymrian exodus.
Tysterisk.
Its power was unmistakable. He could feel it, sense the command that the figure at the end of the road held over the element.
Kinsmen were brothers of the wind; this man could command the wind itself.
Anborn's mind raced, trapped in his unresponsive body. He thought of Rhapsody, how terrified he knew she must be, though she had put on a brave face for him. The thought of what might be happening to her, or that she might in fact already be dead, caused a surge of relentless rage to build in his heart until it overflowed in a seething flood of anger.
He rolled with great effort onto his side, then reached with hands that trembled with the strain for the elemental sword. He sheathed it with some effort across his back, then extended his arm as far as he could, feeling around on the ground for a root, a living bush, anything with which to gain purchase.
The blackened husk of what had once been a bramble of some kind was just beyond his reach; Anborn pushed forward, his hands in the burning loam, stretching the muscles of his upper body until he seized the husk and, finding it holding firm in the ground, dragged himself a few paces forward, knowing that the fire moved far more quickly than he could.
All conscious thought submerged; he had but one single-minded task, to crawl in any way he could, out of the burning forest and back to the Filidic Circle at the Great White Tree where they had been a few days before. Surely there would be help to send after her.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the General stretched and reached, dragging himself by vegetation when he could grasp any, by the strength of his fingers and elbows when he could not, hauling himself with almost imperceptible success through the smoking leaf matter and other burning detritus of the forest floor.
T
ime passed with a cruel sluggishness. The inferno around him grew hotter, brighter, at the outskirts of his vision, but Anborn paid it no heed, focusing instead on the few handsbreadths of ground before him, pulling himself arduously along, to find himself doing it all over again, and again, moment by brutally painful moment.
ime passed with a cruel sluggishness. The inferno around him grew hotter, brighter, at the outskirts of his vision, but Anborn paid it no heed, focusing instead on the few handsbreadths of ground before him, pulling himself arduously along, to find himself doing it all over again, and again, moment by brutally painful moment.
After what seemed like forever, he came across the body of the archer who had shot Shrike, a crossbowman with his stonebow still beside him. He took
the opportunity to rest and catch his breath for a moment; he rolled onto his side, wincing at the crushing pain in his ribs, and tore off a rag from his shirt to stanch the bleeding in his hands, wrapping them in the makeshift bandage, then looked around again.
the opportunity to rest and catch his breath for a moment; he rolled onto his side, wincing at the crushing pain in his ribs, and tore off a rag from his shirt to stanch the bleeding in his hands, wrapping them in the makeshift bandage, then looked around again.
Within arm's reach the burning skeleton of a horse lay, its high-backed saddle melting in the heat. A battered cutlass lay next to it, reflecting the fire. Anborn reached for it with a hand that shook violently, not feeling the pain in his back.
The bodies of all the other attackers must have already been consumed by the fire through which he was crawling; he had been breathing their ashes, inhaling their remains and their souls, on his crawl along the burning forest floor.
Even Shrike's.
For the first time since entering battle he thought of his friend and mentor, a humble sailor who had served on the crew of the
Serelinda,
the last ship to leave the Island before it sank beneath the waves, transformed by the journey across the Prime Meridian into a surly, immortal soldier. He had been a loyal if sometimes reluctant follower of Gwylliam, Anborn's father, then of Anborn himself, for almost fifteen centuries between them, and had always given a perspective that could only have come with the wisdom of someone who had lived through the death of two worlds.
Serelinda,
the last ship to leave the Island before it sank beneath the waves, transformed by the journey across the Prime Meridian into a surly, immortal soldier. He had been a loyal if sometimes reluctant follower of Gwylliam, Anborn's father, then of Anborn himself, for almost fifteen centuries between them, and had always given a perspective that could only have come with the wisdom of someone who had lived through the death of two worlds.
As he lay on his side, Anborn felt grief creeping in, a grief the likes of which he had not known for centuries. He closed his mind to it, held it at bay; it would only serve to divert him from his overwhelming task.
Once rested, he crawled to the body of the archer and, after spitting in its lifeless face, he seized it by the jaw and dragged it along with him, knowing he would need it for his purposes.
Above his head, the massive limb of a towering tree crashed through the canopy, roaring with flame, then collapsed to the ground nearby. Anborn shielded his nose and mouth from the ash and burning leaves that rose in its wake.
His lungs, already stinging with the caustic cinders he was inhaling, began to burn.
W
hen finally he began to choke, gagging blood from the creosote and fire residue that had thickened the air to the point of being black, Anborn had to acknowledge that if he was alone in his effort, he was not going to succeed.
hen finally he began to choke, gagging blood from the creosote and fire residue that had thickened the air to the point of being black, Anborn had to acknowledge that if he was alone in his effort, he was not going to succeed.
It was time to give in to the one last lifeline he had.
For a moment the world around him hummed with a destructive static, too loud and full of noise to hear anything. Impatiently he rubbed his ears, cursing
his useless legs, and tried to block out all noise, all clamor save for the gentle song of the wind.
his useless legs, and tried to block out all noise, all clamor save for the gentle song of the wind.
It took him a long time to hear it, but finally a tiny breeze picked up, perhaps generated by the fire itself. Anborn listened for the fluctuations in it, the subtle whine as it changed directions, whistling with power.
The General summoned all his strength, lifted his head, inclining it to the west, and spoke the call that he had answered but never put onto the wind himself until this moment.
Leuk, the west wind, the wind of justice, hear me
, he rasped in the Ancient Lirin tongue, the only words in the language he knew, his voice thick with smoke and pain.
By the star, I will wait, I will watch, I will call and will be heard.
, he rasped in the Ancient Lirin tongue, the only words in the language he knew, his voice thick with smoke and pain.
By the star, I will wait, I will watch, I will call and will be heard.
As he spoke the call of the ancient brotherhood of soldiers, he thought back to the last time he had answered it, a clear, soft cry on the wind of a snowy forest in the black of a storm. He had followed the source to discover a woman, shivering in the cold, leading a freezing horse over which an unconscious gladiator was stretched.
A woman who had become the Lirin Queen, the Lady Cymrian.
A gladiator who she had taken into the realm beyond life and death and left there. He had returned to be chosen by the Scales as the Patriarch.
He winced at the irony of it all now.
He had thought then he was rescuing her, rescuing them both, though at the time he had wanted to put the brute to death. When he felt the pull, the intrinsic magic, wrap around him and transport him on the back of the wind to where he was needed, he believed he was going off to save a fellow Kinsman. He knew now that in doing so he had actually rescued himself, been absolved for his crimes in the Cymrian War that had haunted his dreams and his waking moments.
He had finally been able to sleep after that.
And now she was gone. He had failed her, had broken his oath to his nephew to protect her, to keep her, and their child, safe. The agony was too great to be borne.
From deep within his viscera another cry came forth. He called to north wind, the strongest of the four, in hopes that it would carry his cry farther, for Kinsmen, as he had noted to Gwydion Navarne, were few and far between.
“By the star!” he shouted, inhaling more of the smoke, “I will wait, I will watch, I will call and will be heard!” He coughed from the depths of his lungs.
The towering walls of fire roared in response.
No other sound could be heard.
Anborn struggled to fend off the despair that hovered near the edge of his consciousness, whispering to his doubts. Not all Kinsman calls were answered,
he knew; he himself had thought he heard two only a few weeks before, had listened, stood ready to go, but the doorway in the wind never opened to him. He had not been able to find the one who was calling for help.
he knew; he himself had thought he heard two only a few weeks before, had listened, stood ready to go, but the doorway in the wind never opened to him. He had not been able to find the one who was calling for help.
Just as now, perhaps, there was no one to answer him.
Jahne, the south wind, most enduring
, he rasped, his voice beginning to give out from the smoke.
By the star, I will wait, I will watch.
He swallowed, trying to force the sound from his throat.
I will call and will be heard.
, he rasped, his voice beginning to give out from the smoke.
By the star, I will wait, I will watch.
He swallowed, trying to force the sound from his throat.
I will call and will be heard.
Time seemed to expand around him, twisting on the heat of the fire like glass in a blower's hands.
The smoke was sinking now even to the forest floor, the ground on which Anborn's head now lay. The General buried his face in the crook of his arm, trying to breathe, but it had become laborious to do so.
No one was coming.
The General rolled onto his back and stared up at the blazing orange sky above him, punctuated by bands of smoke, black and gray, sparked with flashes of intensely bright light that fizzled and died.
There is no one left to answer the call,
he mused, watching absently as the great trees of Gwynwood broke under the weight of the flame and fell, the forest, the ancestral lands of his grandmother, the dragon Elynsynos, reducing to ash before his eyes.
he mused, watching absently as the great trees of Gwynwood broke under the weight of the flame and fell, the forest, the ancestral lands of his grandmother, the dragon Elynsynos, reducing to ash before his eyes.
Anborn could feel the skin on his face, once healed by Rhapsody's power of Naming, start to crack with heat again. He took one last breath, turned as much to the east as he could, and whispered the name of the last wind.
Thas,
he said softly. The wind of morning. He swallowed, remembering its other appellation. The wind of death.
Hear me.
he said softly. The wind of morning. He swallowed, remembering its other appellation. The wind of death.
Hear me.
His voice, clogged with smoke, had lost all of its tone, leaving only the sandy fricatives of his dry tongue and rattling teeth.
By the star, I will wait,
he whispered.
I
â
will watch
. He swallowed, once more trying to force the sound from his throat.
I â will â call.
he whispered.
I
â
will watch
. He swallowed, once more trying to force the sound from his throat.
I â will â call.
His lips no longer moved.
A
t the edge of the sea, a man the color of driftwood looked up from the patterns he was drawing in the sand, as if hearing distant voices on the wind. He stared into the gray-blue-green of the ever-changing horizon, listened again, but heard only the cry of the gulls.
t the edge of the sea, a man the color of driftwood looked up from the patterns he was drawing in the sand, as if hearing distant voices on the wind. He stared into the gray-blue-green of the ever-changing horizon, listened again, but heard only the cry of the gulls.
He shook his head, and went back to his pictures in the sand.
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