Read Requiem for the Sun Online
Authors: Elizabeth Haydon
Requiem for the Sun (4 page)
But more of notice was the material that comprised the weight. It was cool to the touch, even in the heat of the desert night, its rockflesh striated in colors of green and purple, brown and vermilion.
It hummed with life.
Carefully the man set the throne weight into the western tray. He then walked deliberately around the massive machine and stood in front of the eastern tray. He opened his right hand.
The fleeting moonlight had vanished; at first, darkness cloaked the item in his hand. After a moment, as though curious, it returned, shining on the irregular oval, violet in color, though when the light touched the surface it seemed to shimmer radiantly like the flames of a thousand tiny candles. In its smooth-weathered surface a rune was carved in the tongue of an island long settled beneath the rolling waves of the sea.
It was a scale of a different kind.
With consummate care he placed it in the empty tray, marveling at the waves of violet light that rolled to its edges like ripples of a pebble thrown in smooth water.
The man's dagger, worn a moment before at his side, glinted in the dark.
He rolled up the sleeve of his
belaque
and drew a quick, thin line, black in the darkness, across the back of his wrist, then bent down and held his bleeding hand above the tray.
belaque
and drew a quick, thin line, black in the darkness, across the back of his wrist, then bent down and held his bleeding hand above the tray.
Seven drops of blood dripped onto the scale, each one meticulously counted.
Then the man stood up, ignoring the oozing of the blood into the sleeve of his garment, watching the Scales intently.
Slowly the enormous plates shifted, skittering across the stones of the square slightly.
Then the plate bearing the bloody scale was raised aloft, the light of the moon flashing off the golden tray as it moved.
The Scales balanced.
The piece of Living Stone carved in the shape of the throne of Sorbold ignited and burned to ash in a puff of crackling smoke.
The man at the foot of the Scales stood stock-still for a moment, then threw back his head and raised his arms in triumph to the moon overhead.
He did not cast a shadow.
I
n the opulent darkness of his bedchamber, the Crown Prince was thrashing about in the clutches of disturbing dreams.
n the opulent darkness of his bedchamber, the Crown Prince was thrashing about in the clutches of disturbing dreams.
He began to sweat, struggling to breathe.
YLORC/SORBOLD BORDER AT KRIIS DAR
S
ergeant-Major Grunthor had been somber all night.
ergeant-Major Grunthor had been somber all night.
The entire ride home to the Cauldron he did not speak a word, did not allow his eyes to move from the ground in front of him. He just spurred his horse to as consistent a canter as he could maintain, rushing to get back to the Firbolg seat of power.
He had actually been quite cheerful earlier when riding the enfilade line, shouting playful obscenities in the Bolgish tongue at the guards on the Sorbold side of the border, grinning widely and waving to the stern-faced sentries, trying to crack their resolve while appearing as nonthreatening as seven and a half feet of green-skinned, tusked musculature can appear. It was his favorite way to end a border check.
“Hie! Sweet'eart! My 'orse 'ere wants a word with you! She thinks ya might be the jackass who fathered the mule she popped t'other night!” The light from the border fires illuminated his broad face, causing his impeccably kept teeth and tusks to mirror the waxing moon overhead.
The Sorbolds, strictly trained not to respond unless attacked, continued to stare due east into the lands of Ylorc, steadfastly holding their watch.
The giant Sergeant-Major tugged at the reins, guiding the heavy war horse to retrace its steps, then stood in the stirrups, balancing perfectly against the skill of his mount.
“Speakin' o' fathers, did ya know Oi coulda been your dad, but the dog beat me up the stairs?”
Not so much as one Sorbold eyelash fluttered. The Bolg line of guard under his command snickered intermittently.
A wicked gleam appeared in the Sergeant's eye as a new taunt occurred to him. He reined Rockslide, his war mare, to a stop and began to dismount, still shouting taunts at the border guards.
“Why are you all so sore-balled, anyway? What, 'ave you been knobbing the sagebrush or â”
As his foot touched the earth Grunthor stopped.
His skin, generally the color of old bruises, went pale enough to be noticed by his men, even in the dim light of the fires.
He bent quickly and placed his hands on the ground, struggling to maintain consciousness over the din in his ears; the internal noise rocked him, made him weak, threatening to bowl him over in pain and despair.
The earth beneath his hands and knees was wailing in terror.
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.
1
HAGUEFORT
T
he members of Lord Gwydion's advisory council had reconvened in Haguefort's richly appointed library and were grouped in pairs and triads in various parts of the voluminous room, examining papers or talking quietly among themselves. To a one they rose from their seats and fell into a pleasant, welcoming silence as the lord and lady entered.
he members of Lord Gwydion's advisory council had reconvened in Haguefort's richly appointed library and were grouped in pairs and triads in various parts of the voluminous room, examining papers or talking quietly among themselves. To a one they rose from their seats and fell into a pleasant, welcoming silence as the lord and lady entered.
First to greet the returning lady was Tristan Steward, the Prince of Bethany, the most powerful of the provinces of Roland. He had been hovering near the doorway by himself, away from the other councilors, and stepped quickly into Rhapsody's path, bowing politely over the ring on her left hand.
“Welcome home, m'lady,” he said in a thick voice, oiled with the fine brandy of Haguefort's cellars. The light from the library's lanterns pooled in his auburn curls, making them gleam darkly in red-gold hues similar to those in Ashe's hair, though not with the same odd, metallic sheen that the Lord Cymrian's dragon heritage bequeathed him.
Rhapsody kissed the prince on cheek as he stood erect again. “Hello, Tristan,” she said pleasantly, extricating her hand from his grasp. “I trust Lady Madeleine and young Malcolm are well?”
Tristan Steward's eyes, green-blue in the tradition of the Cymrian royal line, blinked as they looked down at her.
“Yes, quite well, thank you, m'lady,” he said solemnly after a moment. “Madeleine will be honored to know you asked after her.”
“Young master Malcolm must be getting ready to take his first steps,” Rhapsody said as she continued into the library, her hand resting on Ashe's forearm.
“Any day now. How kind of m'lady to remember.”
“I remember every child at whose naming ceremony I have sung. Good evening, Martin,” Rhapsody greeted Ivenstrand, the Duke of Avonderre, who smiled and bowed deferentially; she nodded to each of the other councilors and slipped hurriedly into an empty seat at the long table of polished wood where Ashe and his advisors had been meeting. The dukes of Roland and the ambassadors from Manosse and Gaematria, the Isle of the Sea Mages, all member nations of the Cymrian Alliance, took their seats as well, following the lead of the Lord Cymrian.
“I can see you've been keeping these good councilors far too long and far too late into the night in my absence,” Rhapsody said to her husband as she
gingerly moved aside a half-eaten turkey leg that lay on a plate amid crumpled sheets of parchment and empty cordial glasses on the table before her, eyeing the refuse that was clumped in piles around the rest of the table and other parts of the library.
gingerly moved aside a half-eaten turkey leg that lay on a plate amid crumpled sheets of parchment and empty cordial glasses on the table before her, eyeing the refuse that was clumped in piles around the rest of the table and other parts of the library.
Ashe rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. “Revisions to the Orlandan tariff structure,” he said with mock angst.
“Ah. Well, that explains it.” She turned to young Gwydion Navarne, seated to her left. “Where were you in your discussions when I interrupted, Gwydion?”
“The impasse seems to have occurred in the discussion of the exemption that the province of Yarim has requested on foodstuffs, owing to the drought conditions of the last two growing seasons,” the young man said.
“Indeed,” Ashe agreed. “Canderre, Avonderre, and Bethany oppose the waiver of such tariffs, while Bethe Corbair agrees.”
“Bethe Corbair shares a border with Yarim, and does not have the cost of transportation of goods that Avonderre has,” protested Martin Ivenstrand, whose coastal province was the most distant from Yarim.
“Nor do I remember Yarim agreeing to reduce tariffs on their opals or their salt in the past when restrictions on sea trade threatened
our
revenues,” said Cedric Canderre, the older man who was the duke of the province that bore his name, known for its production of luxury goods, fine wines, and rich delicacies. “I am unclear as to why this drought is any different than the obstacles Canderre or the other provinces of Roland have faced.”
our
revenues,” said Cedric Canderre, the older man who was the duke of the province that bore his name, known for its production of luxury goods, fine wines, and rich delicacies. “I am unclear as to why this drought is any different than the obstacles Canderre or the other provinces of Roland have faced.”
“Because this drought is
beggaring
my province, you imbecile,” growled Ihrman Karsrick, the Duke of Yarim. “Those so-called obstacles did not make even a nail's worth of a dent in your fat treasury, and you know it. Yarim, on the other hand, is facing mass starvation.”
beggaring
my province, you imbecile,” growled Ihrman Karsrick, the Duke of Yarim. “Those so-called obstacles did not make even a nail's worth of a dent in your fat treasury, and you know it. Yarim, on the other hand, is facing mass starvation.”
Rhapsody leaned back in her chair and looked to Tristan Steward. “And what is Bethany's position, Tristan?”
“We are certainly sympathetic to Yarim's plight,” said the prince smoothly. “As such, we are more than willing to extend them generous extensions on their tariff payments.”
Amusement sparkled in Rhapsody's green eyes, but her face and voice remained passive. “How kind of you.”
The mild look on Tristan Steward's face hardened a little. “More than that, m'lady, Bethany is concerned that this matter was brought up for discussion at the level of the Cymrian Alliance at all,” he said, a terse note entering his otherwise warm voice. “Hithertofore each province of Roland has always had the right to set its own tariff rates, as it deemed fit, without interference from any â er, higher authority.” His eyes met Ashe's. “At the Council that named
you Cymrian lord and lady, we had been assured that the sovereignty of the realms within the Alliance would be respected.”
you Cymrian lord and lady, we had been assured that the sovereignty of the realms within the Alliance would be respected.”
“Yes, that assurance was given, and it has not changed,” said Rhapsody quickly, noting the darkening of her husband's expression. She turned again to the young man who would soon take a place at this table as the Duke of Navarne. “What is your opinion of this, Gwydion?”
Gwydion Navarne shifted in his chair, then sat forward.
“I believe that, while the sovereignty of provincial tariff rights is important to observe, there are some things that transcend tariff,” he said simply, his young voice husky with change, “emergency foodstuffs being one of those things. Why should those of us blessed with more fertile lands and plentiful food profit excessively from the suffering of a fellow Orlandan province, rather than going to its aid in a time of need?”
The Lord Cymrian smiled slightly. “Your father would have proffered the same solution,” he said to Gwydion Navarne, while keeping his eyes locked with Tristan's. “You are a compassionate man, as he was.”
“Well, I am sorry to intrude at what is clearly a sensitive stage of the talks, but if you will allow me, I believe I may be able to proffer an alternative solution to the tariff quandary,” Rhapsody said, squeezing Ashe's hand.
“By all means, do tell, m'lady,” said Quentin Baldasarre, the Duke of Bethe Corbair.
“Yarim needs water.” Rhapsody folded her hands.
The councilors looked to one another blankly, then stared in turn at the table, amid the occasional clearing of throats. Ihrman Karsrick's brow furrowed, barely containing his annoyance.
“Does m'lady have a way of beseeching the clouds for rain, skysinger that she is? Or are you merely stating the obvious for amusement at my expense?”
“I would never taunt you on so grave a matter for amusement, m'lord, that would be cruel,” Rhapsody said hastily, pushing down on Ashe's arm to guide him back into his seat as he began to rise. “But Yarim has a great source of water in its midst, a source which you do not currently make use of, and which would doubtless spare you from some of the effects of the drought.”
Karsrick's expression resolved from anger into confusion. “M'lady does understand that the Erim Rus has run dry, and that even when it was still flowing in spring, it was contaminated with the Blood Fever?”
“Yes.”
“And that the Shanouin well-diggers are finding surface veins of water less and less often?”
“Yes,” Rhapsody said again. “I was referring to Entudenin.”
Silence fell over the dark library, the lanternlight dimming as the oil reserves
began to run dry, the firelight on the hearth burning strong and steady, casting bright shadows on the faces of the bewildered councilors.
began to run dry, the firelight on the hearth burning strong and steady, casting bright shadows on the faces of the bewildered councilors.
Entudenin in its time had been a towering geyser, a miracle of shining water spraying forth from a multicolored obelisk of mineral deposits sprouting from the red clay of Yarim, in cycles roughly akin to the phases of the moon. For twenty days out of every moon cycle it showered the dry earth with sweet water, water that made the dusty realm bloom like a flower in the desert. In its time it had gifted the province with liquid life, allowing the capital city of Yarim Paar to be built, a jewel in a vast wasteland at the northern foothills of the Teeth, and had nourished the outlying mining camps and farming settlements as well.
But its time had come to an end several centuries before, when one day, without explanation or warning, the marvelous artery of life-giving water dried to a shriveled shell, never to give forth water again. Centuries had passed; the obelisk withered in the heat, dissipating into a shrunken formation of monocolored rock, unnoticed every day by hundreds of oblivious passersby in the town square of Yarim Paar.
“Entudenin has been dead for centuries, m'lady,” said Ihrman Karsrick as pleasantly as he was able.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps it is merely sleeping.” Rhapsody leaned forward, the fireshadows gleaming in her eyes, which sparkled with interest.
“And does m'lady have a song of some sort with which to awaken Entudenin from its sleep of three hundred years?” Karsrick was struggling to maintain his patience.
“Perhaps. It's the song of the drill.” Rhapsody folded her hands. “And I am not the singer to make use of this song, but within the Cymrian Alliance there are such singers.”
“Please elaborate,” Ashe said, noting the looks of bewilderment on the faces of the councilors.
Rhapsody sat back in her chair. “Entudenin was the embodiment of a miracle; fresh water in the middle of the dry clay of Yarim, heralded as a gift from the All-God, and the gods that the indigenous population worshipped before the Cymrians came. As such, when Entudenin went silent, it was assumed to be some kind of divine punishment. What if, in fact, it is not?”
The silence that answered her was broken only by the crackle of the hearth-fire.
“Please go on,” Tristan Steward said.
“It is possible the water that flowed from Entudenin in its lifetime came from the sea,” Rhapsody said. “That would explain its lunar cycle â the phases , of the moon have similar effects on ocean currents and tides. I have just recently
been to the lava cliffs along the southern coastline of the lands of the sea Lirin, similar to the ones that line the coasts near Avonderre. There are thousands of crannies and caves in those cliffs, some of which are quite shallow, others of which go on for miles.
been to the lava cliffs along the southern coastline of the lands of the sea Lirin, similar to the ones that line the coasts near Avonderre. There are thousands of crannies and caves in those cliffs, some of which are quite shallow, others of which go on for miles.
“It made me wonder about the source of the water for Entudenin. It is possible that an inlet there or even more northward fed water through an underground riverbed or tunnel of some sort all the way to Yarim. The complexities of the strata that make up the earth are immeasurable.” Rhapsody inhaled deeply, having traveled through such strata long ago. “It is possible that the right combination of underground hills and valleys, riverbeds, inlets, and filtering sand led to this sweet-water geyser a thousand miles from the sea, swelling and ebbing with the cycle of the moon and the tides. If all this is possible, it is also possible that this pathway became clogged, closed somehow. If it could be opened again, the water might return.”
“M'lady, how would anyone know?” Quentin Baldasarre asked incredulously. “If, as you suggest, a blockage occurred somewhere along a thousand miles of subterranean tunnel, how could one ever find it?”
Rhapsody sat forward. “One would ask those who know the subterranean maps of the Earth, who walk such corridors in daily life, and have the tools to mine them.”
Realization began to spread through the features of the councilors, leaving unpleasant expressions on the faces of the dukes of Roland.
“Please tell me that you are referring to the Nain,” Martin Ivenstrand said.
“I am referring to the
Bolg,
of course,” Rhapsody replied testily. “And I do not appreciate your tone or your implication. The Nain want as little contact with the Cymrian Alliance as is necessary to maintain good standing. The
Bolg
are full participants in its trade and support.” She turned to Ihrman Karsrick, whose face had gone an unhealthy shade of purple. “You seem suddenly unwell, Ihrman. I would think that this opportunity would bring you great joy and anticipation, not indigestion.” She glanced at the turkey leg again. “Though I am not surprised if you are suffering from that, too.”
Bolg,
of course,” Rhapsody replied testily. “And I do not appreciate your tone or your implication. The Nain want as little contact with the Cymrian Alliance as is necessary to maintain good standing. The
Bolg
are full participants in its trade and support.” She turned to Ihrman Karsrick, whose face had gone an unhealthy shade of purple. “You seem suddenly unwell, Ihrman. I would think that this opportunity would bring you great joy and anticipation, not indigestion.” She glanced at the turkey leg again. “Though I am not surprised if you are suffering from that, too.”
The Duke of Yarim coughed dryly. “Surely m'lady does not believe me so daft as to want to enter into dealings of some sort with the Bolg?”
The expression on the Lady Cymrian's face resolved into one of sharp observation.
“Why ever not, Ihrman? There has been a trade agreement between Roland and Ylorc for four years now. You sell them salt, you buy their weapons, they are members of the Cymrian Alliance â why would you not seek their expertise in solving your greatest problem?”
“Because I have no desire to be beholden to the Firbolg king, that's why,”
snapped Karsrick. “We share a common border. I do not wish to have him feel he can cross that border and take remuneration from Yarim at any time he wishes.”
snapped Karsrick. “We share a common border. I do not wish to have him feel he can cross that border and take remuneration from Yarim at any time he wishes.”
Other books
Express Male by Elizabeth Bevarly
How To Host a Seduction by Jeanie London
Dawson's Stand (Welcome to Covendale Book 4) by Morgan Blaze
Cast Iron Conviction (The Cast Iron Cooking Mysteries Book 2) by Jessica Beck
The Treasure by Iris Johansen
Legacy of Silence by Belva Plain
A Scandalous Deception by Ava Stone
A Father's Love by David Goldman
No Ordinary Day by Deborah Ellis
Eve's Evolution (Erotic Secrets No. 1) by Charbonneau, Olympia