Read Requiem for the Sun Online
Authors: Elizabeth Haydon
Requiem for the Sun (8 page)
“Don't ya worry, darlin',” he said softly. “We got yer back.”
“She doesn't seem ill, or hurt?”
“Naw.”
Achmed exhaled. Grunthor's description of the wound he had felt in the Earth had unnerved him, had made him fear that the Earthchild might have been compromised or injured, or worse. It was an unending worry anyway; she was, to his knowledge, the last living Child of Earth, a being formed long ago from the pure element and sparked into life by an unknown dragon.
The rib of her body was a Living Stone key that could open the Vault of the Underworld, where in the Before-Time the demons of elemental fire, the F'dor, had been imprisoned. It was the blood oath of the Dhracians, his mother's race, to guard that vault, to keep the F'dor locked away for all time, to hunt down and destroy any that might have escaped. Likewise, it was the endless quest of upworld F'dor to find a way to free their brethren from the Vault, unleashing the chaos and destruction of the world that they, children of fire, craved incessantly. The Earthchild, therefore, was the fuse, the catalyst that could light a sequence of events that could not be undone. The fate of the Earth was dependent on her safety, and he, as a result, was sworn to an eternity of guardianship to see that she remained unharmed, hidden here, away, in the dark vault that once was to have been a shining city of scholarship and lore.
It was a small enough price to pay, though not an easy one.
“Sleep in peace,” he said quietly to the Earthchild, then nodded toward the passageway.
As they passed through the tunnel Grunthor had made in the moraine, Achmed looked up one last time at the firmament of the dome that towered into the blackness above the Loritorium and, finding that it appeared sound, glanced back at the altar of Living Stone.
The Earthchild slumbered on, oblivious, it seemed, of the world around her, and of whatever might have threatened it.
The Firbolg king watched her for a moment, then turned and walked back through the tunnel ahead of Grunthor, who closed the hole in the moraine behind them, his black robes whispering around him.
“What do ya think did that, then, caused the Earth to scream that way?” the Bolg Sergeant asked, glancing one last time over his shoulder before turning to follow the king up the corridor.
“I have no idea,” Achmed replied, his voice echoing strangely off the irregular walls of the ascending tunnel. “And there's little more we can do, other than prepare, because sooner or later whatever it is will no doubt find me. Let's make our way from one ruined landmark to another.” Grunthor nodded and caught up with him, traversing the rest of the corridor to the upworld in companionable silence.
They were on the other side of the moraine, halfway home, and so were unable to see the single muddy tear slip down the Earthchild's face in the darkness of her sepulcher.
G
runthor stepped gingerly over the scattered shards of colored glass and looked up into the thin, towering dome hollowed into the mountain peak Gurgus, the Bolgish word for
talon.
The levels of scaffolding that ringed the interior of the structure were silent now, the artisans gone, leaving only the king and himself.
runthor stepped gingerly over the scattered shards of colored glass and looked up into the thin, towering dome hollowed into the mountain peak Gurgus, the Bolgish word for
talon.
The levels of scaffolding that ringed the interior of the structure were silent now, the artisans gone, leaving only the king and himself.
And an increasingly large pile of broken glass.
“Not going particularly well, Oi take it?” he said humorously, kicking aside the debris. He reached down and picked up a crumpled piece of parchment lying beneath the detritus that bore the markings of an architectural plan.
“Don't open it,” Achmed advised sourly. “It's full of spit. I encouraged everyone to take a turn at it after a particularly trying day early last week. You might want to stay away from any other wads, too; as the week wore on, the bodily fluids we applied to the plans reflected our progress, or lack thereof. You can imagine where we ended up.”
Grunthor grinned, his neatly polished tusks gleaming in the half-light, and tossed the wad of parchment back into the pile.
“Why ya driving yerself mad with this, sir?” he asked, his tone at once light and serious. “If you really feel the need to be irritated to the point o' going insane, why don't we just send for the Duchess? She generally 'as that same effect on you, and she costs less than rebuilding the dome of a mountain, at least if you pay by the hour.”
Achmed chuckled. “Now, now, let's not reference our beloved Lady Cymrian's sordid past. We'll be seeing her soon enough. I heard from her last night
by avian messenger; she wants us to meet her four weeks hence in Yarim.”
by avian messenger; she wants us to meet her four weeks hence in Yarim.”
“Oh, goody,” the giant replied, staring up into the tower again. “What now?”
“She wants our assistance â your assistance, actually â in bringing Entudenin, that dead geyser obelisk, back to life.”
Grunthor nodded, arranging the piles of colored glass with the toe of his boot.
“Oi told 'er a long time ago âtwas probably a blockage o' some sort in the strata. She got 'em to agree to let us drill?”
“Apparently.”
“And you're willing to drop everything and leave at 'er request?”
Achmed shrugged, then went back to the pile of colored rubble.
The giant raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, returning his attention to the tower.
When Gwylliam founded Canrif he seemed to have a penchant for hollowing out mountain peaks. The Teeth were full of them, jagged summits that stretched into the clouds, multicolored, threatening, dark with beauty and secrets. They must have posed a challenge to the arrogant Cymrian king, because he spent a good deal of his time reinforcing them while chipping away at the mountain strata inside them, filling them with needless rooms and grand domes. Grunthor, tied to the earth as he was, found the practice repulsive to the point of feeling violated.
When he, Achmed, and Rhapsody had come to Ylorc, they had found and restored a ruined guard-tower post in the western peak of Grivven, attached to a fortress and barracks that housed more than two thousand Bolg soldiers, and a towering observatory above the Great Hall, from which thirty miles of the Krevensfield Plain could be seen in all directions save east.
He, as a military man, understood the need for these renovations. He could even grudgingly abide the rebuilding of the inner mountain cities and the restoration of the art and statuary, things he had little use for. But none of the reconstruction projects had taken on the import, or produced the aggravation, that the Bolg king's current undertaking had, and for the life of him, he had no idea why.
The Sergeant squinted as he looked up into the pinnacle of the broken tower, trying to discern what it was about this Cymrian artifact, this particular hollowed-out mountain peak, that so captivated Achmed's attention. Each time he returned from maneuvers the king's mood was blacker; now it had taken on approximately the same hue as pitch.
There were endless opportunities for renovation in the Bolglands. The place had once been almost a country, a multiracial settlement nestled in the protective
arms of the mountains, inside the earth and in the open-air realm beyond the canyon, housing the greatest minds of the times, undisturbed for three hundred years, allowing great advances in every aspect of science and art to germinate and grow, unfettered. Even the seven hundred years of war that followed had not destroyed those engineering feats and architectural marvels completely. Besides, Grunthor reasoned, Achmed had all the time in the world to build them back up again.
arms of the mountains, inside the earth and in the open-air realm beyond the canyon, housing the greatest minds of the times, undisturbed for three hundred years, allowing great advances in every aspect of science and art to germinate and grow, unfettered. Even the seven hundred years of war that followed had not destroyed those engineering feats and architectural marvels completely. Besides, Grunthor reasoned, Achmed had all the time in the world to build them back up again.
All the time in the world.
“What is it about this thing that has ya so bollixed up?” he asked finally, gesturing at the tower. “Oi think it might be a good idea to 'ead off ta Yarim just ta get you away from this place. It's enslaved your mind. Ya look downright awful.”
“I'm Dhracian. I always look downright awful.”
“More awful than usual, sir.”
“You can tell that even behind the veils?”
“Yup. Yer eyes're all yella and red. Thought for a moment ya might 'ave gone F'dor on me while Oi was away.”
“Now that would be interesting; a Dhracian F'dor. I wonder what would happen if a demon tried to possess me. My guess is that I would explode or dissolve, so diametrically opposed are the two races, which might be worth it; at least I would take one of them with me. But no, I'm not possessed; we have merely been meeting with failure at each turn here. The domed ceiling is defying me, and I hate being defied by glass.” Achmed sighed and crouched down, running his gloved hands through the colored sand and shards. “Omet says we need to find a glass artisan of a much higher level of expertise, a sealed master.”
“Well, 'e would know.”
“Yes, and he has even acknowledged that the place to find one is Yarim.”
Grunthor whistled. “'E must really be growing desperate.”
“Or he knows that I am.” The two friends exchanged a smile; Omet's terror of Yarim and his sensitivity even to the mention of the place had made for many entertaining moments over the last three years. It was a source of great amusement among the Bolg to see the calm young man who lived casually among them and was rarely at a loss for a wry comeback become instantly flummoxed at any reference to the province, going white and trembling violently. The guildmistress he had served there, whose name he had only mentioned once, must have been formidable; Omet had whispered to him, back when he was still a bald teenager they had rescued from the ceramics works, that evil in a purer form did not exist.
But of course, Omet had seen nothing of the world. Achmed knew that no
matter how terrifying the guildmistress was, evil had a whole array of purer forms it could assume.
matter how terrifying the guildmistress was, evil had a whole array of purer forms it could assume.
He had met a number of them personally.
“So Oi suppose that means we're going,” Grunthor said.
“Yes, unless you can't spare the time away.”
“Naw,” the giant said, stepping over the debris and going to stand directly under the tower. “Hagraith and the others can 'andle it while Oi'm gone for a bit. An' it'll be wonderful ta see the Duchess again; been too long.”
“Indeed,” Achmed agreed.
“Is that really why you're going, sir?” Grunthor said, avoiding the king's gaze. “It's been fair on to impossible to break you away from this secret glasstower project.”
Achmed exhaled shallowly, then went to the draftsman's table and drew forth a sheaf of vellum pages, weathered with age, from a box beneath it.
“These are the plans I could find for this place,” he said, his voice soft, as if speaking more to himself than to the Sergeant. “They are incomplete, unintelligible in places, written in code or ancient languages in others. I can follow the basic diagram, but there is so much missing that I can't find in Gwylliam's library or the vault underneath it. I know that the dome is supposed to be formed from colored glass â it says thus in Gwylliam's notes, and there were seven glass test blocks buried in the vault, one of each color, to use as a gauge â but which colors are arrayed where is not clearly spelled out. There is one manuscript â this one” â he separated out a ragged page â “that seems to make reference to the tower, but I can't decode it. Perhaps Rhapsody can. Besides reading Serenne, as a Namer she is knowledgeable about the science of the vibrational scale. Some of the notations in the manuscript look like musical script of a sort.”
“Ah,” Grunthor nodded. “Oi knew there âad to be a connection between this and Yarim for you to be willin' ta go, even more than the chance to see 'Er Ladyship again.” He sighed as Achmed held the ratty diagrams close to his eyes. “Perhaps could you finally break down and tell me what is so all-fired important about rebuildin' this tower, sir?”
Achmed blinked. “What?”
“You're obsessed, if ya forgive me for sayin' so. An' Oi can't fathom why.” The Sergeant crossed his arms. “Ain't never seen ya like this except when you're huntin'. The troops are fully trained, the borders secure; the Alliance seems ta be goin' well, from what an 'umble soldier like me can tell. We got plenty o' battlements, outposts, lookouts. So why does this one 'ave you in its grip?”
The Bolg king's olive complexion darkened as he contemplated the question.
Grunthor waited patiently until he was able to sort out his thoughts enough to give voice to them.
Grunthor waited patiently until he was able to sort out his thoughts enough to give voice to them.
“When Gwylliam and Anwyn battled during the Cymrian War, it took her five hundred years to make it from the western coast to the Teeth,” he said finally. “Their sons had been divided against their wills, pressed into service by each parent, so as a result, Anwyn couldn't even approach the Teeth to assault them for most of the war. Anborn held back his mother's armies for his father with tremendous success. All across the continent there was zerosum warfare; Llauron would take a town or a province for Anwyn, Anborn would take it back for Gwylliam. As long as the brothers were the generals, it was hardly a real conflict; you can tell they were not prosecuting the war too enthusiastically by the length of time over which nothing of any note was accomplished. That is not surprising, given that neither of them really wanted to be participating in it the first place.”
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