Requiem for the Sun (7 page)
Read Requiem for the Sun Online
Authors: Elizabeth Haydon
“I have been singularly disappointed in your lack of response to the one question about which I did seek your help.”
An arthritic claw went to the soothsaver's throat. “I â I have â have been scrying diligently, Guildmistress, peering through the â the red sands of Time to try and discover â” Her words choked off and she sank into silence when Esten raised her hand.
“Spare me your prestidigitation and claptrap; I am not one of the imbeciles who seek it from you. You have had more than three years to bring me an answer to a simple question, Mother â who destroyed my tunnel, stole my slaves, killed my journeymen? Who snatched the sleeping water of Entudenin out of my hands, leaving Yarim to wither in thirst and depriving me of the wealth and power it would have brought? This should be an easy thing to find at least one clue to, and yet, yet you have brought me nothing, nothing at all.”
“I swear to you, Guildmistress, I have searched diligently, night into day following night, but there is no trace!” the crone stammered, her voice quavering. “No one in all of Yarim knows anything. Outside the Market, not one soul even knew of the tunnel. The destruction must have been the work of evil gods â how else except through the hand of a demon could all that slip be fired into hardened clay, when all your ovens together could not have done it?”
A blur of movement, and Esten's eyes were locked on the crone's from a breath away, a gleaming blade at her throat, pressed so lightly and yet so close that tiny droplets of blood were spattering the air with each of the old woman's nervous tremors.
“You old fool,” Esten growled in a low voice. “Gods? Is that the best that you have for me after all this time?” She lashed out violently, contemptuously, and shoved Mother Julia into the table behind her, causing the old woman to stagger and crumple against the table board with a moan of pain. “There are
no gods, Mother Julia, no demons. Certainly a charlatan of your caliber, who finagles idiots out of their precious coin in return for bursts of colored smoke and disembodied voices, must be aware of that, or you'd already be burning in the Vault of the Underworld.”
no gods, Mother Julia, no demons. Certainly a charlatan of your caliber, who finagles idiots out of their precious coin in return for bursts of colored smoke and disembodied voices, must be aware of that, or you'd already be burning in the Vault of the Underworld.”
“No, no,” the woman moaned, struggling to stand but only managing to clutch the table before falling to the dirt floor. “I give homage to the All-God, the Creator who made me.” She made a countersign on her heart and ears, her arms trembling.
Esten exhaled, then strode to where the woman was cowering on the floor, seized her arm, and pushed her into the chair.
“The gods do not make us, Mother Julia; we make the gods. If you understood this, you would be a much more powerful and respected woman, instead of just a pathetic impostor who swindles the naïve and vies with Manwyn for the idiot trade.”
At the sound of the Oracle of the Future's name, the old woman made her countersign again, her eyes wide in terror. “Don't invoke her,” she whispered. “Please, Guildmistress.”
Esten snorted contemptuously. “Too late to fear that now. Manwyn. only sees the Future. She knew what you were going to hear a moment ago before I said it; she can no longer remember it now.” She crouched before the frightened soothsayer, moving slowly, deliberately, like a spider stalking a victim. “All she knows is what lies ahead for you.” She cocked her head to the side, dark eyes gleaming. “Do you think she is afraid on your behalf?”
“Please â”
“Please? You are asking me for favors now?” Esten leaned closer, her limbs moving in a deadly dance. “Did you think your time was infinite, my patience endless? You are an even bigger fool than those pathetic vermin who seek you out for answers to their insignificant questions.” She stopped within a hairsbreadth of the trembling crone, and the glint in her eyes grew harder, like greenware firing in the kiln into bisque.
“I employ you because your network, your leprotic clan, has so many eyes,” she said steadily, her voice low and deadly. “Those hundreds of eyes must all be blind, then, to have been unable to find even one clue in three years, wouldn't you say, Mother?” A terrifying smile spread slowly over her delicate face. “Perhaps they no longer need the use of those eyes.” She turned to the guild scion. “Dranth, issue an order to the Raven's Guild: from here forth, any member of this simpleton's family that they come across is to have its eyes put out immediately, including her wretched grandchildren who prowl the
street, spreading filth and breathing the air reserved for others who have some actual worth.”
street, spreading filth and breathing the air reserved for others who have some actual worth.”
“Mercy,” the old woman whispered, her arthritic hands clasped in front of her. “Please, Guildmistress, I implore you â”
Esten settled back on her haunches and regarded Mother Julia, whose face was gray and covered in beads of sweat.
“Mercy? Well, I suppose I can consider your entreaty, can offer you one last chance to redeem your sorry family. But if I do, and you fail me again, all the world will regard your clan as monsters, because that which is useless on their heads â eyes, ears, and tongue â will be removed from them and cast into the alleys to feed my dogs. Do you understand me, Mother?”
The crone could only bring herself to nod feebly.
“Good.”
From within her garments Esten pulled forth the bundle of rags Slith had given her. With great care she moved the layers aside and revealed the blue-black steel of the whisper-thin disk; it gleamed in the inconstant light of the lantern.
“Do you know what this is?”
Mother Julia shook her head.
Esten exhaled. “Study it well, Mother Julia â use your eyes for what may be the last time. Within one cycle of the moon I want the word spread within your clan alone as far as your miserable influence extends; I want to know what this is. And more importantly, I want to know to whom it belongs. Bring me that information, and I will keep you within my protection. Fail me, and â”
“I will not fail,” the crone said softly. “Thank you, Guildmistress.”
Esten patted the woman's wrinkled cheek gently. “Good. I know you will not, Mother.” She reached into the folds of cloth that formed the trousers of her garments and pulled forth a gold coin minted with the head of the Lord Cymrian on one side, the crest of the Alliance on the other. “Take this gold crown for your newborn grandson â what was he named?”
“Ignacio.”
“Ignacio â what a lovely name. Give this to Ignacio's mother for him, please, and extend my warmest wishes to her upon his birth.”
The old woman nodded shakily as two of Esten's men took her arms and raised her to her feet.
“See to it Mother Julia gets home safely, please,” Esten instructed as they led her to the door. “I would not want anything untoward to befall this dear lady.”
She waited until the door had closed soundly, then sat down before the lantern, watching the watery patterns of light ripple across the smooth surface of the disk and off the razor edges, like bright waves rushing headlong over a shining cliff to a dark sea.
Soon
, she thought.
I will find you soon.
, she thought.
I will find you soon.
Green
Grass Hider, Glade Scryer
Kurh-fa
4
THE CAULDRON, YLORC
E
ven if he did not have the kingly sense that allowed him to perceive the movements and changes within his mountains, Achmed would still have known that Grunthor had returned to the Cauldron.
ven if he did not have the kingly sense that allowed him to perceive the movements and changes within his mountains, Achmed would still have known that Grunthor had returned to the Cauldron.
Centuries before, in the old life, Achmed had traversed a fjord near the Fiery Rim, a desolate inlet of churning sea currents between towering black basalt cliffs. In the thick woods atop those cliffs, teeming with wildlife but uninhabited by humans, dwelt Firewyrms â giant, chameleon-skinned beasts akin to dragons, which legends claimed were formed from living lava with teeth of brimstone. Dormant much of the time, the serpents, when hunting, prowled through the undergrowth below the forest canopy in relative silence, and yet it was always obvious to him when they were approaching, because the fauna would disappear utterly; the incessant birdsong that rattled over his ultrasensitive skin would suddenly cease, as if the forest was holding its breath, hoping the predators would pass.
It was much the same in Ylorc whenever Grunthor returned.
Achmed had never been able to divine exactly what it was about the Sergeant-Major's training that enabled him to strike such abject fear into the hearts of the Firbolg soldiers in his command, but whatever it was, it had needed to be applied only once.
From the moment he was sighted, still three or more leagues away, the corridors and mountain passes of Ylorc scrambled to attention, clearing away any tomfoolery in favor of regulation dress and behavior. The Firbolg could sense his approach from great distances, like the birds and creatures of the fjord hiding from the Firewyrms, and, like them, took great pains not to draw his notice.
Despite their obvious fear of their commander, a fear he cultivated continually, the Firbolg army was devoted to Grunthor in a way that Bolg had never been. It was a source of amusement to Achmed how in little more than four years' time the primitive nomads they had discovered when he, Grunthor, and Rhapsody had first come to this place had learned to hold watch as well as any soldier in Roland, Sorbold, or Tyrian, and were better trained in tactics and weapons use. Such skills were only partially imparted by training. Most of them came from pure loyalty.
Grunthor's impending arrival this day, however, seemed to be generating
more than its usual consternation. Rather than snapping to attention, as the Firbolg soldiers generally did when word came down that the Sergeant was within range, the Bolg were scattering before the scouts that heralded his arrival.
more than its usual consternation. Rather than snapping to attention, as the Firbolg soldiers generally did when word came down that the Sergeant was within range, the Bolg were scattering before the scouts that heralded his arrival.
This did not bode well as to whatever Grunthor had found on his border check.
A few moments later Achmed's foreboding was borne out. Over the rim of the steppes that led up to the foothills of the Manteids, as the Teeth were officially called by cartographers, rode a party of eight horses, one enormous, heavy war horse in the lead. Achmed's extraordinary vision could make out the Sergeant-Major, the many hilts of his weapons collection jutting from behind his back, urgently spurring Rockslide, cresting the battlements and riding through the gates in the recently erected walls of baked brick and bitumen.
The Bolg king jogged over to the quartermaster, who was standing ready to take the Sergeant's mount, and waited.
The ground beneath his feet rumbled ominously with the party's approach, the dust of the steps and rocky terrain rising like smoke from bursts of fire around them. There was a look in Grunthor's eves that Achmed could see even from a great distance and didn't like; those amber eyes had seen more than their share of death and devastation, had faced foes of human and demonic nature, and always maintained a steady gaze. What he saw now was confusion, something Grunthor rarely exhibited.
“What's happened?” he shouted into the mountain wind as the Sergeant brought his mare to a halt and tossed the reins to the quartermaster.
The giant Bolg stared down at the king, then shook his head. “Oi was about to ask you the same question, sir,” he said as he dismounted. “Oi 'alf expected to find the place in flames.” He dismounted with an earthshaking thud.
Achmed watched until the quartermaster led the war-mare away. “What has you so worried?”
Grunthor bent down and laid his hand reverently on the ground. The earth, the entity to which he was tied on an elemental level, no longer wailed in fear, but was quiet.
“Somethin' was wrong at the pass, somethin' terrible,” he muttered, running his thick fingers through the dust and pebbles on the ground.
The Bolg king watched silently as the Sergeant stood and turned around several times, then shrugged.
“'Twas like there was a rip, a gouge of some sort,” he said, more to himself than aloud. “Can't explain it past that. Like the Earth was bleeding to death.”
“Is it still there?”
The giant shook his head. “Naw. Everything's quiet now.”
Achmed nodded. “Any guesses as to what it was?”
Grunthor inhaled and let his breath out slowly, feeling the heartbeat of the Earth pounding in his own blood. His union with the element had come to him during the trek he, Achmed, and Rhapsody had once made, refugees from their doomed homeland, crawling through the depths of the world along the roots of Sagia, the World Tree. In the course of that seemingly endless journey across time, he had absorbed its ancient rhythms, breathed in the secrets that lay dormant in its depths, had come to know it intimately, innately, though he could never give voice to what he had learned.
Grunthor, strong and reliable as the Earth itself,
Rhapsody had Named him in the moments after walking through the purifying fire at the Earth's heart. The name had come to embody his bond to the element. Being above ground now made him feel somehow bereft, away from the comforting warmth of the Earth.
Rhapsody had Named him in the moments after walking through the purifying fire at the Earth's heart. The name had come to embody his bond to the element. Being above ground now made him feel somehow bereft, away from the comforting warmth of the Earth.
So the wound the Earth had sustained, whatever had caused it to scream in fear, had reverberated in his soul, leaving him frightened, a feeling he had rarely experienced in his life.
He shook his head again. “Naw.”
Achmed glanced through the gate over the battlements to the steppes below. Dawn was coming, wrapping the world in cold light; the wind whipped across the desolate plain, making the grass bow low in supplication, unbroken waves of vegetation that covered the bulwark of hidden battlements, ditches, and tunnels that formed the Firbolg first line of defense. There was something ominous in its passage.
When he looked back his eyes met Grunthor's, and an unspoken thought was passed between them.
Together they hurried into the Cauldron.
A
chmed carefully checked the corridor outside his bedchamber before locking and bolting its door. He nodded to Grunthor, who carefully removed the intricate traps and opened the many locks on the heavy chest at the foot of the Bolg king's bed, finally lifting the top to reveal a dark portal. He climbed inside, followed a moment later by Achmed, closing the lid of the chest behind him.
chmed carefully checked the corridor outside his bedchamber before locking and bolting its door. He nodded to Grunthor, who carefully removed the intricate traps and opened the many locks on the heavy chest at the foot of the Bolg king's bed, finally lifting the top to reveal a dark portal. He climbed inside, followed a moment later by Achmed, closing the lid of the chest behind him.
They traveled the dim corridor in silence, the rough-hewn walls of basalt swallowing all sound of their passage. The air of the upworld, clear with the relative freshness of morning, quickly flattened and became stolid, dank, as they traveled deeper into the mountain.
The farther in they went, the harder it became to breathe. The heavy odor of destruction, smoke-stained air that hung heavy with grit, still remained,
three years later; the fire that had raged deep in the belly of the mountain had long since burned out, leaving behind acrid soot and bitter dust that stung the eyes and the lungs.
three years later; the fire that had raged deep in the belly of the mountain had long since burned out, leaving behind acrid soot and bitter dust that stung the eyes and the lungs.
Neither Bolg spoke as they traversed the tunnel Grunthor had built to the Loritorium. There were ghosts in these passages; specters of people and dreams, both of which had died horribly. They concentrated instead on avoiding the traps Grunthor had set, which would seal the tunnel in the event it was broached by anyone other than the two of them or Rhapsody, who came once a year to tend to the Child.
Deep within the mountain, at the bottom of the tunnel, a hill of rubble rose, ominous, in the dark, a moraine of stones and broken basalt that served as a bulwark, a last barrier before the Loritorium. Achmed paused for a moment and hung back, waiting for Grunthor to open a passage in the mound of stony wreckage.
While he was waiting, he looked up at the ceiling above him, stretching into the darkness of the Loritorium's dome. Seeing this place never ceased to cause him to reflect sadly on the overwhelming loss of it all, the ruin of what had once been a masterpiece, a deeply hidden city of scholarship, once a shining example of the genius of Gwylliam, the Cymrian king who had fashioned Canrif and the lands around it many centuries before. Now it was but a metaphor to the destruction that comes when vision gives way to ambition, and ambition to the avaricious hunger for power.
Bugger it,
he thought, anger burning in the back of his throat.
I can only rebuild so much of what that idiot destroyed.
he thought, anger burning in the back of his throat.
I can only rebuild so much of what that idiot destroyed.
Even as the thought formed, it dissipated. There was no end to what he could, and would, build and rebuild in these mountains, because ultimately it was not the outcome of the construction that was his purpose, but the process. The renovation of Canrif, and the additional projects he was fomenting, were all undertaken with one motive in mind: the building up of the Bolg, his unknown father's race, from scattered tribes of primitive, demi-human, nomadic cave dwellers into a real society â a warlike, austere society to be certain, but nonetheless a culture with value, a contribution to be added to history.
And he had an immortal lifetime to spend on that undertaking. How else was he to spend forever?
But not this place, he thought. Never this place. This remains as it is, undisturbed.
He took stock of the hidden measures he had set in place to insure the sacrosanctity of the place in the event something happened to either of them, musing idly for a moment about the devices attuned to their heartbeats, their own innate vibrations, set to seal the tunnel in the presence of any intruder.
If Grunthor were to die, I would have to bring in a score of work crews to open and clear the tunnel and then kill them afterward,
he thought.
Such an unfortunate loss of manpower.
If Grunthor were to die, I would have to bring in a score of work crews to open and clear the tunnel and then kill them afterward,
he thought.
Such an unfortunate loss of manpower.
An orange-red glimmer caught his eye; he turned to see the wall of shale and dust gleam like molten lava around Grunthor's hands, which were outstretched, forming an entryway in the mound, leaving a tunnel with walls as slick as glass. Achmed blinked away his musings and followed the giant Bolg through the opening.
On the other side of the mound was what remained of the Loritorium, silent now. A haze of old smoke snaked heavily through the space beneath the overarching dome, disturbed perhaps by the vibrations of their movements and the introduction of the air from the world above.
In the center of what remained of the courtyard the altar of Living Stone appeared undisturbed; the Sleeping Child, formed of the same elemental earth, lying supine upon it.
Achmed and Grunthor approached the altar quietly, careful not to disturb the Earthchild. The chamber in which she had once rested before its destruction had borne a warning inscribed in towering letters:
LET THAT WHICH SLEEPS WITHIN THE EARTH REST UNDISTURBED; ITS AWAKENING HERALDS ETERNAL NIGHT
The two Bolg had long paid heed to that warning, having seen the threat to which it referred, a far more deadly Sleeping Child, with their own eyes during their travels through the center of the Earth.
The child still rested as she had when they had first found her, her eyes closed in eternal slumber. Like the altar on which she slept, her skin was a polished gray surface, translucent, beneath which veins of colored strands of clay in hues of purple and green, dark red, brown and vermilion could be seen. Her body, tall as that of an adult human, seemed at odds with the sweet young face atop it, a face with features that were at the same time coarse and smooth, roughly hewn but smoothly glossed; she was like a living statue of a human child sculpted by a being that had never really seen one in close proximity, without any sense of perspective.
The hair of the child was long and coarse, green as spring grass, matching the lashes of her eyelids. Those eyelids twitched intermittently but remained closed, as did her heavy lips.
Mutually the Bolg sighed, unspoken relief evident in the relaxation of their stances. They drew closer to the altar.
“Does she look â smaller to you, sir?” Grunthor asked after a long moment.
Achmed squinted, examining the outline of her form on the altar. There was no shadow, no visible indication that her body had lost any of its size; still, there was something different, a frailer air to her that he couldn't place, and didn't like.
Finally he shrugged. Grunthor crossed his arms, staring down at the Earthchild intently. Finally he shrugged also.
“Oi think she's lost some of 'er, but it must be a very small amount,” he said, his heavy forehead wrinkling in worry. He tucked the eiderdown blanket beneath which she slept around her tightly, then gently caressed her hand.
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