Elegy for a Lost Star (42 page)

She exhaled deeply, then glanced over to the wall of silver behind which the dragon had disappeared.

“For ages you have had Grunthor's loyalty, loyalty without limits, unto death and beyond. And yet there have been times over the course of your association that he has had to refuse you, has he not?”

“There is a considerable difference between Grunthor and you,” Achmed said, the hint of a sneer in his voice. “I trust his judgment. He is
wiser than me in many ways. So when he questions me, I listen, because he and I have the same basic goals in mind, and he never does it just to be cantankerous. You, on the other hand, are like a spinning top. Your ethics, while consistent, are frequently foolish, your loyalties ill placed. Ofttimes you defy me or what I mean to do for reasons that make no sense to anyone ruled by his head rather than by whatever body part rules your decisions.”

He waited for the hurt reaction he knew would result from the cutting words, but saw none. The arrows of his words bounced off her unnoticed; her facial expression did not change.

“And does Grunthor support your decision to rebuild the Lightcatcher?”

The Bolg king's eyes narrowed. “Whatever doubts he has had have been assuaged both by his knowledge of the instrumentality's history, and of what is at stake.”

“Liar,” Rhapsody said contemptuously.

The air between them crackled with sudden dryness.

“Grunthor has done whatever he has to support you in the feverish intensity of your plan, which has consumed you,” she continued. “He has expressed his worry to you, I am certain of it. And this is what frightens me more than anything, Achmed. It does not surprise or distress me that you would disregard my concerns, for we both know you do not hold them in any regard. You have defied the pleadings of the Sea Mage, because you despise him and blame him for losses in the past. The king of the Nain, the people who built the very mountain realm that you now rule, and the Lightcatcher itself, sent you an emissary to warn you against building it again, did they not? That was the reason he came to you, though you did not confess that when you told me of his visit during the carnival.” Achmed did not answer. “All these people who are your friends, or at least your allies, have begged you not to do this, and their pleas fall on your deaf ears. I am not surprised.

“But then, your own chief Archon, your supreme military commander, your best friend who has followed you with the unquestioning loyalty of a born soldier throughout more than a millennium of time, not to mention through the very bowels of the Earth itself, tells you he doubts the wisdom of what you are doing, and you
still
do not heed? You should ask yourself whose judgment is really impaired here, whose soul is possessed of irrational ethics and goals.” She put a hand to her belly and took a deep breath.

“Here is what you truly need to know about this translation, Achmed. I have told you from the beginning that this is ancient lore, the very code of power by which magic is manipulated. The roadmaps to the beginning of time, the musical score of the elements and how their vibrations make up the very fabric of the world itself. Is it even possible for you to understand
the import? You have the keys to the world in that manuscript. Any man with even the slightest humility would tremble at the thought of touching it, let alone wielding it, without years of study in how to use it. But your arrogance knows no bounds, and so you are blind to how ferociously dangerous this information could be, even in the hands of someone well-intentioned.” Her eyes gleamed bright in the darkness of the cave.

“So since you will not accept my wisdom in this matter, or that of the Sea Mage, or the Nain king, or even your best friend, perhaps I can put it in terms you might actually fathom. Power does not come from nowhere, Achmed. It is an elemental vibration drawn from something else, a transfer of life essence. Whether it be for healing or hiding, scrying or destruction, the instrumentality you have built, and want to rebuild, needs a source to power it. And since you are using the pure energy of the light spectrum, the colors which, like music, are attuned to the vibrations of the elements, know what it is that you are drawing from.

“These are primordial magics, left over from the birth of the world. Those magics that are purely fire-based pull power from the core of the earth, the very elemental inferno through which you, Grunthor, and I walked to come here. Those that are based in water draw from the Well of the Living Seas, the place where that element was born. Air-based magics come from the Castle of the Knotted Winds, ether from the star Seren and the pieces of others that have fallen to earth and yet remain alive still. But most of the magic of the Lightcatcher, or the Lightforge, as the Nain called it, is drawn from the earth, since it is in earth, being the last element born, that traces of all the elements are contained.”

Rhapsody's breathing evened out, as she saw her words beginning to register with the Bolg king. Lest the moment be lost, she leaned closer, and whispered her final words like a killing blow.

“The machine you built, and want to rebuild, draws from the earth itself, Achmed, and more—it saps the oldest piece of it, that which has lain within it, dormant, since the world began, its power tainted with fire lore because it has been polluted by the F'dor. This machine, which you see as a bastion of protection for the Earthchild, pulls power from the very wyrm that lies, sleeping now, within the body of the earth—it is
part
of that body, a large part. You have seen that wyrm with your own eyes.

“And each time you use the Lightcatcher, you are risking waking it.”

F
or a long time the only sound in the cave was the trickling of the water that streamed from the underground lagoon into the quiet lake beyond the confines of the cave. The two ancient friends stared at each other, neither speaking, their breaths measured in unison. Finally Achmed broke the silence.

“Give me the translation.”

Rhapsody's eyes narrowed. “Have you heard nothing I have said?”

“Every word. Give it to me anyway.”

The Lady Cymrian rested her hand angrily on her swollen belly.

“I want you to leave now, Achmed,” she said.

“With pleasure, as soon as you give me the translation. I have been learning to be patient with reptiles, but don't push too far.”

Rhapsody turned away angrily. “Or what? You'll kill me? If that will keep you from finishing and using that device, go ahead. I have already told you that the price would be worth it.”

The Bolg king exhaled. “Who's being the fool now? First, let me tell you this again: The Lightcatcher
will
be built, it
will
be used, translation or no. You cannot stop that. I'm looking for something in the text to avoid having to learn how to use it by trial and error. In that you could have been useful, but instead you remain blind—perhaps it is the shrinkage in your eyes from carrying your husband's brat.

“Next, when was the last time you knew me to kill someone when it wasn't in self-defense, or, more likely, in
your
defense, my dear? I leave my kingdom and travel over the width of a continent to haul your arse out of the sea and the grip of a depraved maniac, and you accuse me of being willing to kill you? Ridiculous, on top of insulting. Just because I know how to kill well or easily doesn't mean I do it recklessly or without reason. There are plenty of individuals I would like to see dead who still walk the earth—many of them related to you.

“And don't treat me like a child. Primordial magic? Of course it is primordial magic. We are dealing with forces of evil left over from the First Age. No source of power that has its genesis any later than that will work against those forces.”

Rhapsody turned back; she was pale now. “But you have no business using it,” she said haltingly. “This is not a matter of reading a recipe or building from a design. The great Namers studied for centuries before they were given access to these lores; even I, who have studied these things, am woefully unprepared to understand what is written here fully. I am largely self-taught, Achmed—do not forget that much of my study was done in the
absence of my mentor. Despite all the time I have practiced the science of Naming, even I would not dream of manipulating primordial magic.”

Achmed pointed at her belly. “What do you think you have been doing in spawning dragonlings?” he said, unable to disguise his disgust. “If that's not manipulating primordial magic, I don't know what is. You don't even have a pretense of an idea what will happen as a result of this pregnancy. You, a vessel of elemental fire and ether, the wielder of a sword that has no doubt shaped your soul with its own powers, Lirin and human and
Cymrian
, gods help you, frozen forever in time, ageless—blending your blood with the tainted mishmash that is Ashe's? Whatever is born could be the end of the world all by itself. And don't pretend this was entirely your idea. I know enough about wyrms to know that your beloved husband is toying with your life, whether he pretends otherwise or not. All this pretense of concern about the risks of the Lightcatcher—you should be far more worried about the risks of bringing this child into the world, not only to your own life, but to the future.” He saw Rhapsody wince, and felt a twin rush of satisfaction and guilt.

“So now,” he said quickly, “stop lecturing me about the risks of playing with magics one does not understand and give me the translation. I assure you I will be far more responsible with mine than you have been with yours.”

“I—I can't—”

“Of course you can. Ask yourself this: Knowing that there is an entire library, Gwylliam's library, at my disposal, in Ylorc, and any number of Bolg to work on it, is it better for you to give me specific directions, or allow me to experiment? Or, of course, you could abandon all this”—he waved contemptuously at the cave filled with sea treasures and lichen—“and come back to Ylorc with me; you can oversee the project, and then at least you will know how the lore is being used.”

“No.”

In fury he reached out and seized her wrist; instinctively she pulled away, but stopped, feeling the strength of his grip.

“You are sacrificing your status as a Namer, you realize this?” Achmed said softly, staring directly into the now-vertical pupils of her eyes. “You promised me in Yarim, when I did a rather major favor for you and the useless duke there, that you would help me with this. If you refuse now, that will be a lie. You will be going back on your word. You will be breaking your oath of truth—your status as a Namer will be forfeit.”

Rhapsody's face hardened, and she struggled to pull free of his grip again.

“So be it,” she gasped, her attempt to break his lock on her wrist futile. “If I was willing to die to keep you from disturbing the lore, what's the sacrifice of a profession?”

Achmed released her arm with a violent toss.

“I repeat, you are keeping me from
nothing
,” he said harshly. “You are only missing the chance to keep the process from being haphazard. Let that be on your head.” He turned and started up the passage to the air again.

Rhapsody's eyes opened wide with shock, the emerald green irises lightening to the color of spring grass. Achmed caught the change out of the corner of his eye. He recognized that look; it was the expression that came into Rhapsody's eyes when she was afraid.

He stopped in the tunnel and opened his mouth to ask her what she feared more, his actions, or her inaction.

Then shut it abruptly at the sight of the bloody water gushing forth from her and pooling ominously on the floor of the cave at her feet.

W
ithin a heart's beat, the whole world seemed to change.

Rhapsody's hand went to her belly, and her face contorted as she doubled over. She let loose a gasp of pain and shakily put out her hand to brace herself against the wall of the cave.

Achmed felt a sudden chill, an iciness as the heat in the tunnel dropped suddenly and dissipated. His anger melted away, leaving him dizzy; he seized Rhapsody's arm and discovered that her body was cold, as if the core of elemental fire burning within her had been snuffed.

The air in the tunnel crackled statically; the dragon appeared, sliding over the pile of silver like liquid lightning. Her multitoned voice resonated in the water and walls of the cave.

“Pretty?”

Rhapsody struggled to remain standing, but her legs buckled beneath her, and she slid to the floor. She opened her mouth to form words, but then her face contorted in pain and she gasped again.

“Your husband comes,” the dragon said, her voice solid and resolute as the ages, but Achmed could see consternation glittering in the beast's prismatic eyes. “I sense him at the stream's edge, less than a league away.”

Rhapsody's eyes met the Bolg king's. “Krinsel,” she whispered. “Please.”

Achmed fought back the acid in his throat. He slid his hand down the length of Rhapsody's arm into her own and squeezed it; he released it and bent to the floor, dipping the edge of his robe in her blood. Then he ran back up the tunnel.

He found the midwife at the cave's mouth. The command to run and aid Rhapsody he gave in Bolgish, as it was a terse and guttural tongue that required little effort to speak. As the woman hurried into the glowing darkness, Achmed exhaled sharply, then stepped out of the cave and held the edge of his cloak aloft in the wind.

He waited impatiently, long enough for the scent of the blood to catch
the wind, then turned and hurried back into the dark belly of the dragon's lair.

T
wo miles away at the edge of the tributary of the Tar'afel, Ashe paused from drawing water and rose. He cast the droplets in his hand to the snowy ground, where they refroze into crystals of ice, and ran the back of his sleeve across his face to clear his nose and eyes.