Requiem for the Sun (47 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Haydon

BOOK: Requiem for the Sun
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“Rhapsody?” Ashe demanded, his voice rising involuntarily; Achmed stepped on his foot to bring him into a low modulation again. “You have seen her?”
The old man shook his head. “Not since the Council, m'lord.” His eyes widened as realization set in. “She — she is not the woman for whom they are searching?”
The travelers' eyes met; after a moment Achmed nodded.
“Yes,” Ashe said, trying to keep his voice from betraying him.
Alarm flooded the old man's features. “No, gods, no. Not again, gods, not again. What happened?”
“Again?” Achmed demanded. “Tell us how you know her.”
Old Barney looked over his shoulder for a moment and, noting that the tavern had returned to its normal business, tuned back and spoke.
“I knew her in the old world,” he said sadly. “She was a favorite patron of my wife, Dee, and mine. She used to study her music in my tavern, taking a back table, writing away on sheets of parchment, never causing a problem. We both loved her. I would not be here speaking with you now if it hadn't been for her.”
“Why?” asked Ashe.
The barkeep's eyes blinked in the dark tavern.
“An accident, I'm sure, m'lord. On the last day I saw her in the old world, she handed me a bit o' music she had graphed, telling me it was my name, and that if I should ever come upon a troubadour, I should get him to play it for me. She was in a hurry at the time, on the run from a dangerous man, so I slipped the paper into my apron pocket and forgot about it. I never saw her in that world again.
“A fortnight or so later, a traveling minstrel did come into the old Hat and Feathers — I kept the establishment name when I built the new one — and, in barter for a pint, I asked him to play the tune Rhapsody had graphed for me. It was a catchy melody, one that fit my mind well, as it should, bein' my name and all. I had no understanding of Lirin Namers and their powers — she was just a sweet girl in a bad situation, and the tune was pleasing to my ear, so I whistled it every day; got to be an unconscious thing. Drove poor Dee to distraction, may she be restin' peacefully in the Afterlife.
“The Seren War came and went; my beloved Dee grew old and passed from this world to the next, life went on, day into day, year into year, century into century, and yet I didn't seem to age past the point I had been on the day she gave the scrap of music to me.
“I didn't figure that out 'til much later, though. I just thought perhaps I had a Lirin ancestor, or some other long-lived type. Until the day I met up with a Lirin Namer aboard the ship I was leaving Serendair on; he was a pleasant fellow, and addressed me by my name, though I was certain he had never seen me before, and could not have known my profession. ‘How do you come to know my name?' I asked. He laughed and said, ‘You told me yourself, good man. It is the tune you are whistling.'
“I came to know him on the voyage — we both had refugeed with the First Fleet, and traveled in Merithyn's convoy of ships — and it was in the course of that time I learned what had accounted for my longevity. In the whistling of my name, over and over, each day, I was in a sense
remaking
myself, returning myself to the ‘vibrational state,' whatever that be, I had been the day before.”
His eyes gleamed brighter in the smoky air of the tavern. “Then, arriving here, we all had it, that immortality; some cherished it, others grew to hate it, but they, unlike me, had not already had the stroke of luck to live well past my time before I even left the Island. Had it not been for that last gift of your wife, Lord Gwydion, I would never have come to this place. And while I have seen a great many terrible things, and lived through times when I wished I were in the Afterlife with my Dee, I have to say that on the whole, it has been a gift unparalleled.”
Ashe put his hand over the old man's; it was trembling, the distended knuckles of the arthritic fingers shaking violently.
“The man who was pursuing my wife that day,” he said quietly, trying to contain the emotion in his own voice, “did you know him?”
Old Barney's eyes opened even wider, their pale blue irises and white scleras standing out in stark contrast to the dim light of the tavern.
“Michael, the Wind of Death,” he whispered, as if afraid to say the name aloud. “Yes, I knew of him, saw him once or twice in fact. Why?”
“It is he that may have her now, or is at least pursuing her,” Achmed said bluntly. “Most likely he is also the one who is laying waste to the seacoast. He is no longer the Wind of Death, but the Wind of Fire, being the whore of a F'dor spirit.”
“Gods,” Old Barney choked, making a countersign upon his forehead. “No.”
Ashe's grip tightened on his hand.
“Help us,” he said tersely. “I believe you can. Rhapsody and I saw the Prophetess of Yarim, the Seer of the Future, at the beginning of summer; she uttered a prophecy that may have partially been about you.”
The old man trembled more violently. “Manwyn? Manwyn — named me in a prophecy?”
“I don't know for certain, but it seems so,” said Ashe. “She told her to beware the Past, that it sought to have her, to harm her, and to aid her. And then she said: ‘Long ago a promise made, long ago a name conveyed, long ago a voice was stayed — three debts to be paid.'”
“I — I don't know that I have ever been spoken of in a prophecy before,” the elderly barkeep said nervously. “Your — great-aunt frightens me; I witnessed her madness at the Councils long ago. To know that she may have seen me through her sextant is a terrifying thought, m'lord. I am only a simple barkeep, and a very old man.”
“But do you seek to aid my wife?” Ashe asked desperately. “I believe that you might be the ‘past' that seeks to do so.”
“Yes, of course,” Barney whispered. “For though she is mad, the Seer's words are true; a name was conveyed, my name, as I have told you, and I am alive as a result. It is a very great debt I owe her, and I am eager to repay it. I just do not know —”
His voice trailed off suddenly as a thought occurred. His face became serious, the fear dissipating in his eyes.
“Perhaps I do at that,” he said softly.
“Tell us,” Achmed demanded.
“Please, Grandfather,” Ashe added, trying to quell the dragon that was rising, impatient, in his blood.
“You said that it was Michael, the Wind of Death, that pursues her now?”
“Yes.”
Old Barney nodded.
“I know a secret, one that I have shared with no one, not in this life or in the Afterlife,” he said quietly. “I have guarded it all these years. But perhaps in telling you now, I can repay the debt I owe Rhapsody, and aid her as once she aided me. It may be a secret of power in these times.”
“What is it?” Achmed asked, clutching the table board, he had not touched his ale, and was focused on the man as if he wished to feel rather than simply hear his answer.
The old man drew closer as the noise of the dim tavern grew louder in the distance. His words were spoken so softly that both the sovereigns had to strain to hear him.
“MacQuieth lives,” he said.
45
S
ilence reigned for a moment in the back of the tavern.
When Achmed and Ashe had recovered their voices, they spoke at the same time, their words tumbling over one another.
“Where? How do you know? MacQuieth Monodiere Nagall? Impossible — he has been dead for fourteen centuries. What —”
“Shhh!” Old Barney hissed, his eyes darting furtively around the tavern; satisfied after a moment that they had not been overheard, he turned back to the two sovereigns.
“King Achmed, Lord Gwydion, you must listen to what I tell you without argument, for I am telling you the truth,” he said clearly. “Though history records his death, history is sometimes wrong.”
“He was a Cymrian and a Kinsman,” Ashe said softly, taking care with his words. “If he was alive, he would have felt the call of the Council horn, if not for this last Council, then certainly for all those that were held before it. Every Cymrian, no matter where he or she was, felt the compulsion; it only grew more difficult to ignore when resisted, leading to death if held at bay long enough. He never came; he can't be alive, Barney.”
The old barkeep sighed in annoyance.
“I can tell you why that is not true, m'lord,” he said evenly. “The reason for your misconception is because you don't understand
why
the horn worked as it did. I was there, however, so what I bear witness to is what I have seen with my own eyes, and heard with my own ears.” His face took on the same faraway expression it had held when talking the moment before about the old world.
“As each man, woman, and child of Serendair boarded the ships that would sail to this new land, they were presented with two things: a dipper of water from the Well of the Before-Time, and the silver horn of the king. Gwylliam had decreed that each refugee would drink from the Well, believing that it would guard their lives and health in the course of the passage, and for the
most part he was correct. It is still not known decidedly what gave the Cymrians their agelessness, the ability to cheat Time, though many theories abound. Personally, I would guess that the living water from this ancient well might have been largely, if not solely, responsible.
“As for the horn,” the old man continued, “Gwylliam, your grandfather, had decreed that any Seren citizen wishing to sail to the new continent must pledge his or her fealty on the horn, and swear that they would come, in times of need or council, in answer to the horn's cry. Because of the import of the moment, and the presence of such primordial elemental power, it was a promise that could not be broken.”
“Yes,” Ashe agreed. “And we know that MacQuieth sailed with the Second Fleet —”
Old Barney's voice crackled with controlled anger. “Lord Gwydion, if you would listen, you would cease to sound so much like your grandfather. If you are to seek MacQuieth's help, you will want to separate yourself as much as you can from that lineage.” Ashe lapsed into silence.
“MacQuieth did not pledge fealty to Gwylliam on the horn. It is a long story as to why, a tale you have no time for now, but suffice to say that MacQuieth hated your grandfather, his king. He was old at the time of the Island's peril, and volunteered to stay and watch over the last hours of Serendair, but the king wanted to assure the Second Fleet, and commanded that he lead it. MacQuieth blamed your grandfather for the death of his son, Hector, who, in his place, stayed behind when the fleets sailed to protect the Island in its last days. When the Sleeping Child erupted, and the Island was lost, Hector was lost with it.
“And all who were part of the story knew that was how it would end — Hector, MacQuieth, and Gwylliam. So while MacQuieth accepted what was to come to pass, his loathing of Gwylliam never abated. When he was presented with the horn, on which he was to place his hand and swear fealty to your grandfather, MacQuieth instead spat into the sea. ‘I'll not pledge,' he said to the soldiers lining the gangplank. ‘I have given all I have to give. If you require more of me, I will stay behind with my son.' Faced with this choice, the soldiers looked at one another and, knowing MacQuieth was the commander of the entire Second Fleet and captain of the ship they were boarding, they let him pass. So he made no promise, as the rest of us did. And when the horn of the Council sounded, while we were all impelled to come in response, he heard no summons, felt no compulsion. He remained hidden away, out of the sight of Time.”
“He walked into the sea,” Ashe murmured, thinking back to the endless history lessons his father had imparted to him. “He stood on the shores of
Manosse, where the Second Fleet ultimately landed, knee-deep in the surf, and stood vigil for the Island. The only person he would tolerate the company of was his daughter-in-law, Talthea, the Favored One; I remember witnessing her death when I was a small child. When he felt the Island's death in the waves, he walked into the sea and disappeared. Everyone assumed he drowned, for he was never seen again.”
Old Barney smiled. “Ah, yes, Everyone. He is surely the wisest of men, since he always knows so much; as a barkeep I've heard his false assumptions and half-truths for a millennium. How do you think that Gaematria, the Island of the Sea Mages, has remained unmolested all these centuries there, alone, in the middle of the Wide Central Sea? MacQuieth guards it from the depths. There is a whole world beneath the waves of the ocean, Majesties, a world of high mountains and deep chasms, of unimaginable wonders, of beings that rarely, if ever, are seen on the drylands. Do not assume because something is not within your senses that it is dead; there are many places in the world for a man to hide if he does not wish to be found.”
“Will he aid us in our search for Michael?” Ashe asked, suddenly invigorated. “My mother was descended of Talthea; I am of his line, and carry Kirsdarke, the sword of which he was in his time the bearer.”
“Aye,” Barney said seriously, “but you are also descended of Gwylliam, whom he may never forgive.”
“Perhaps, then, he will do it for Rhapsody?” Ashe persisted, desperation creeping into his voice. “She met him once in the old world — she was looking for me.”
Barney shook his head. “If MacQuieth does anything, it will be because of Michael,” he said. “He needs no reason other than that. There are ties there that are far older and far stronger even than the fact that you are of his blood. But I cannot speak for him — bartenders never make promises for ancient heroes. It's bad form.”
Achmed and Ashe looked at each other, then chuckled.
“Thank you, Barney. We will guard his secret as well,” Ashe promised.
“Where is he?” Achmed asked.
The elderly Cymrian barkeep stood and pushed his chair in.
“Come, and I will show you.”
ATOP GURGUS, YLORC
O
n the cool of the evening, the glassworkers, exhausted from twelve days of work without cease, sleeping in five-hour shifts, stumbled out into the fresher air of the corridors that led out into the mountain passes, finished except for one giant panel.
The woman known to the glassworkers as Theophila was standing at the top of the grade, directing the finishing touches on the sealing of the circular dome of glass. After three major and two minor adjustments she still was not satisfied, and so was perched on the top rigging of the dome itself, dangling over the massive drop below it, soldering the edges of the tracery that bordered the green and yellow sections.
A number of the Bolg stonemasons who had participated in the building of the tracery supports, the framing of the glass, stood silently and somewhat helplessly to the side, watching the woman, who was harnessed to a nearby support. The thin air at the mountain's summit was causing her to struggle for breath; the Bolg were waiting to see if she would finish, expire from lack of air, or plunge to her death first.
When she finally was satisfied, she signaled to Shaene, ever-present, hovering obsequiously.
“All right, Shaene, have them pull me in.”
The Bolg masons grasped the ropes that ran through three pulleys, maneuvering her away from the glass dome below and back to the rocky ledges. She unhooked herself from the support wires, pulled off her heavy goatskin gloves and threw them to the ground, then began walking down the mountain pass back to the Cauldron, then stopped.
“Put the cover on,” she called back over her shoulder.
A great circular dome of wood was hoisted into place and laid gently over the newly positioned glass. Satisfied, the woman turned and started off again.
“You are a brave woman, Theophila,” Shaene puffed, struggling himself to catch his breath in the mountain air and keep up with her. “Let's go back inside now, so you might rest.”
The woman eyed him scornfully. “Rest? I have a last panel to fire, Shaene, and the color formula isn't right yet. I've tried everything I know — different types of ash in the melt, stirring with iron posts to shade the purple, baking it longer. It's still not true. I may have to send you or Sandy off to Yarim for some different metal ores to experiment with.”
Shaene laughed in a sudden bark of amusement.
“You had best send me, then, Theophila. Sandy won't have no part of going to Yarim, but you should tell him you're sendin' him anyway; it will be fun to watch.”
The woman showed no particular interest, trying to avoid being trapped in conversation with the Canderian artisan. “Sandy will go where I direct him.”
“Yes, lady,” Shaene said hastily. “But he'll turn white when you tell him he has to go. I'd like to watch, if I may,” he added lamely.
The woman stopped and leveled her gaze at him for the first time. “Why would he turn white?”
Shaene leaned forward conspiratorially. “He came from there a few years back,” he imparted importantly. “He's terrified of what he left behind.”
“And what was that?” Her tone became suddenly warm, sweet and thick, like malt.
Shaene looked into her endlessly deep eyes, saw the corners of her mouth turn up in a sensuous smile, and blinked rapidly, trying to quell the swelling that was coming in response.
She is so beautiful,
he thought,
beautiful and alone. If it has been as long for her as it has for me —
“A witch,” he said, his voice rumbling with a huskiness it had not had a moment before. “A hideous woman, or so he says, the mistress of his old guild. Evil incarnate, he said. But then, what can you expect from so young a lad? He knows nothing of the world.” He forced a laugh, trying to sound debonair. “And how truly evil women can be.”
The woman's forehead furrowed, her brows drawing together darkly.
“Sandy?” she said aloud, half to herself.
“Oh, well, his name is actually Omet,” Shaene said, wiping the sweat of exertion off his brow with a stained handkerchief. “I call him Sandy because of the desert he comes from.”
“Yarim isn't sandy,” the woman said distantly, as if her mouth were still engaged in a conversation her mind had long abandoned. “It's clay. Red clay.”
Shaene shrugged, then gestured to the guards at the entrance to the Cauldron as they approached.
“Just a nickname,” he said. “So shall I meet you back at the kilns, or in the tower workroom?”
The woman turned to him and smiled broadly, then drew close to him in agonizingly slow steps.
“Neither,” she said sweetly. “You have been working far too hard, Shaene; I don't want to compromise you.” She chuckled, giving him a meaningful look. “Not that way, at least.”
“Pll — urgh,” Shaene fumbled. “What — what do you want me to do, then?”
“Wait for me in your quarters. I have some cleanup to attend to, and then I will join you for supper.”
Shaene nodded dumbly as the Panjeri woman winked at him, then turned and walked into the tunnel that led back into the Bolg seat of power.
Something in his head did not add up.
But he was much too far past the point of the clarity of reason to do the figuring.

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