Elegy for a Lost Star (7 page)

“Let us go share the good news, shall we?” Ashe added, crossing to the door of the small room and opening it. “We have a festival and an investiture to plan.”

O
n his way down the aisle of the Great Hall behind the Lord and Lady Cymrian, Gwydion Navarne paused long enough at Anborn's seat to lean in and utter one word.

“Apprenticeship?”

The Lord Marshal broke into an evil grin.

“I
told
you it wasn't so,” he whispered back as the duke-to-be walked past.

Through Ashe's announcement, Gwydion kept his eyes fixed on the Lord Marshal's face. It remained frozen in the same formal aspect, a court face, Ashe would have called it, immutable and showing no emotion, giving no indication of his thoughts one way or the other. But in the Cymrian hero's azure eyes Gwydion thought he saw more—sympathy, perhaps; he and Anborn had forged a strong bond, and he knew that Anborn disdained titles and court responsibilities, valuing instead his freedom from duty. Given the sacrifices he had made as a young man in the court of his father and mother, Gwylliam and Anwyn, and the war his father forced him to lead against his mother, Gwydion well understood Anborn's distaste for titles and the responsibilities they carried. The Lord Marshal had long counseled Gwydion to stay away from them until he could avoid them no more; now that day had come.

When finally the announcement was over, and the congratulations had all been passed around, Ashe announced that a state dinner in Gwydion's honor would commence immediately following. The invited guests swirled politely around him, proffering their congratulations again, and talking among themselves.

Just as the group prepared to depart the Great Hall for the dining room, the ambassador from Gaematria, the Island of the Sea Mages, Jal'asee, bent his head slightly and spoke in a tone inaudible to all but Ashe. The Lord Cymrian nodded.

“Uncle,” he called to Anborn, who was preparing to be carried out of the Hall, “indulge us for a moment?”

The Lord Marshal's brow furrowed, but he signaled to his bearers to wait.

“Go along to the dinner, Melly,” Gwydion Navarne said to his sister. “I will be right there.”

“I'll see if I can save a seat for you,” Melisande said, amusement in her black eyes. “It would be unfortunate if you had to stand in the back at your own celebration.” She turned and followed the heads of state out of the Great Hall, her golden curls bouncing merrily.

The dukes of the provinces of Roland and Tristan Steward, the Overlord Regent, remained as well, watching with interest as Jal'asee walked slowly down the carpeted aisle and came to a stop in front of the Lord Marshal. He nodded to two members of his retinue, who opened the doors of one of the side rooms and disappeared inside, returning a moment later with an enormous pallet on which a huge wooden crate was carried. With great effort they set it down in front of Anborn, then respectfully and quickly withdrew.

“What's all this?” the Lord Marshal demanded, eyeing the wooden crate suspiciously.

The elderly Seren cleared his throat, his golden eyes gleaming.

“A gift from your brother, Edwyn Griffyth, High Sea Mage of Gaematria,” he said. His voice, soft, deep, and crackling with an alien energy, sent shivers down Gwydion's spine. The duke-to-be glanced over at Rhapsody, and saw that she was similarly affected; she was listening intently, as if to music she had never heard before.

Anborn snorted. “I want nothing from him,” he said disdainfully, “least of all something that has to be carried in on a litter. It's an insult. Take it away.”

Jal'asee's placid expression did not change in the face of the harsh reply. He merely reached into the folds of his robe and pulled forth a small sheaf of cards, and held them up silently, indicating they were instructions from Edwyn. Ashe nodded.

“With respect,” the tall man said in his pleasantly gravelly voice. He consulted the first card, cleared his throat again, and read it aloud.

“ ‘Don't be a childish ass. Open your gift.' ”

A low chuckle rippled through the hall among the dukes. Anborn glared at them, then at the Seren ambassador. Jal'asee smiled benignly. The Lord Marshal inhaled deeply, then exhaled loudly and signaled to the attendants to open the crate.

The members of Jal'asee's retinue hurried to unlatch the crate, then stepped back as the wooden walls fell neatly away.

Inside was a gleaming machine, fashioned in metal. It stood upright, with steel foot pads supported by articulated joints, which seemed to be controlled by two geared wheels with handholds. The assemblage took in its breath collectively; otherwise, silence reigned in the Great Hall.

“What in the name of my brother's shrunken, undersized balls is
that
?” Anborn asked scornfully.

Jal'asee coughed politely, flipped the top card to the back of the sheaf, and peered at the next one.

“ ‘It's a walking machine, you dolt. It has been designed precisely to your height, weight, and girth, and should serve to allow you to walk upright, assisted, once again. And you would do well not to comment on the size of my genitalia—it may give rise to embarrassing questions about your own manhood.' ”

Anborn raised himself up angrily on his fists. “I don't want it!” he roared. “Take that infernal contraption back to my brother and tell him to bugger himself with it.”

Patiently Jal'asee flipped the top card back again, and read the next one.

“ ‘There is no need to be foul. And I am not paying to transport it back. It's staying. You may as well make the best of it.' ”

Anborn eyed the metal walker with a blackening brow, then suddenly turned in the direction of the Gaematrian ambassador once again.

“Tell my brother I said ‘thank you,' ” he said with exaggerated politeness.

Jal'asee blinked, then quickly riffled through the remaining cards, finally looking up with a pained expression on his ancient face.

“I—er—do not appear to have a response to that,” he said in amused embarrassment. “I don't believe your brother anticipated that as a possible reply.”

“HA! Got him!” Anborn crowed. He signaled to his bearers. “Get me out of here; I'm missing dinner.” His attendants picked him up and carried him from the Hall, leaving the dukes, the ambassadors, and the lord and lady staring after him in a mixture of humor and bewilderment. The dukes, talking among themselves, followed behind him.

Ashe went over to the walking machine and examined it carefully. “Edwyn's abilities as an inventor and a smith never cease to amaze me,” he said, a tone of wonder in his voice. “It is marvelous to see the genius he inherited from his father put to good and helpful uses, rather than the destructive ones that Gwylliam employed.”

“Gwylliam wasn't always destructive,” Rhapsody said, watching as Ashe turned the hand crank slowly, making the right foot pad rise and step forward, then reversing it. “He is responsible for many useful and pleasant inventions—the halls of Ylorc are lighted with sconces he designed; the mountain is warmed and cooled through ventilation systems of his making; there are even privies within the depths of the mountain. When Ylorc was still Canrif, his masterwork, it boasted some of the most sophisticated and clever inventions in the world. You should take pride in your grandfather's accomplishments as well as ruing his follies.”

She felt a light touch on her elbow, and turned to see Jal'asee standing behind her. She looked up into his face and returned his smile.

“M'lady, if I might, I would like to speak with you alone for a moment,” Jal'asee said pleasantly.

Rhapsody looked over at Ashe, who was watching her questioningly, and nodded.

“Go ahead with the dukes, Sam,” she said quietly, addressing him by the name she called him privately. “I will be along in a moment.” She waited until her husband and Gwydion had left the room; once alone, she looked back up at Jal'asee.

“Yes?”

The Ancient Seren ambassador's pleasant expression faded into one that was more serious.

“M'lady, is the Bolg king to be invited to young Gwydion's investiture at the winter carnival?”

“Of course,” Rhapsody said. “Why?”

“Is he likely to attend?”

She exhaled, then shrugged. “I really couldn't say. He has been away from his kingdom for an extended period.” Her face flushed; it was her rescue that had required him to be away thus. “Why do you ask, Your Excellency?”

The tall man looked down at her seriously. “I am hoping that you will do me the honor of introducing me to him, and arranging a brief moment of consultation.” The gravelly voice was light, but Rhapsody could hear in it the unmistakable seriousness of the words.

“I can certainly introduce you if he is there, but I cannot promise he will be willing to speak at length with you,” she said. “Achmed is—well, he can be—unpredictable.”

“I understand,” Jal'asee said. “And I am grateful for whatever intervention you can provide. I plan to stay until the solstice and attend the investiture; it would be impossible to travel home and back in the two months' time from now until then.” His eyes sparkled brightly. “Without extraordinary measures, that is.”

Rhapsody smiled. “Someday I would like to learn about such measures,” she said, rising and gathering her skirts in preparation of leaving the Hall. “Though I understand that the Sea Mages are very guarded when it comes to their magic.”

The ambassador nodded noncommittally. “I would be honored to tell you a little about it, given your status as a Namer, m'lady,” he said, offering her his arm. “Your vow of speaking the truth and guarding the ancient lores makes you one of the few people outside of Gaematria with whom it would be appropriate to discuss such things. When you are feeling up to it, perhaps we can take a walk in the gardens and do so.”

“Thank you; that sounds very appealing,” Rhapsody said, taking his arm.

“And perhaps in return you can tell me a bit more about the Bolg king,” Jal'asee continued, starting across the floor of the Great Hall. “He is one of the two men with whom you traveled along Sagia's roots to this land from Serendair, is he not?”

The Lady Cymrian jerked to a halt in shock. She pulled her arm away, shaking. Other than Ashe, no living soul knew of how she and her two friends from the old land had escaped the death of the Island of Serendair, to arrive here, on the other side of time.

“How—how did you know that?” she asked, her voice trembling. She had been caught by surprise so deeply as to be unable to cover gracefully; the nausea of her pregnancy and the exhaustion she was routinely fighting prevented her from it.

Jal'asee smiled at her.

“Because I saw you leave,” he said.

D
usk was coming, taking the remaining light of the afternoon sun with it.

Talquist, regent of the vast, arid empire of Sorbold, had been scribbling notes and poring over balance sheets throughout the latter part of the day in the back of his opulent coach, the shade of the window up to allow him both fresh air and illumination in the course of his task. Now, with the approach of night, he paused in his work for a moment, taking care to blot the last of his writing before allowing himself to stare out the window at the sunset.

For all that he had modestly chosen to remain regent for a year, even when the Scales of Jierna Tal had weighed in his favor and selected him as emperor, Talquist did not deny himself any of the luxuries of the position that would soon be his. He had been nibbling all day upon the bounty of the shipping trade from which he had arisen as the hierarch of the western guilds: sweetmeats from Golgarn, flaky pastries layered in honey and cardamom, roasted nuts and delicate wine from the Hintervold, where the frozen grapes were pressed through ice to make an incomparable nectar. He had worked in the trade of the shipping lanes of the continent all of his life, and as a result he had developed a taste for and access to the finer things, even when he was a mere longshoreman. Once he became First Emperor of
the Sun in a few months, he would have even better gastronomical delicacies to look forward to. The kitchens of the palace of Jierna Tal were considered among the finest in the world.

The splendor of nightfall over the Sorbold desert was impossible to ignore, even for so focused a man as Talquist. The air, normally static and dry to the point of bringing blood from the nose, took on a sweeter, moister aspect for a moment, as if tempting the sun to return in the morning. The winds had quieted, leaving that air clear as well; the firmament of the heavens was darkening to a cerulean blue in the east, with tiny stars glimmering through the cloudless veil of night. In the west was a swirling dance of color, fiery hues that tapered away to a soft pink at the outer edges, wrapped around a blazing ball of red orange flame descending below the distant mountains.

Talquist sighed.
There is such beauty in this land
, he thought, the fierce pride of his nation welling in his heart.
She is a harsh land, this dry, forbidding realm of endless sun, but her riches are undeniable
.

The clattering of the hooves of the horses in his escort, fifty strong, roused him from his musings. Talquist reached for the platinum tinderbox, removed the flint and steel, and struck a spark to the wick of the lamp of scented oil on his table. A dim glow caught, then expanded, bringing warm light into the deepening darkness of the coach's velvet interior.

Three more days until we reach Jierna Tal
, Talquist thought, his eyes returning to the detailed ledger before him. The thought made him itch; he was eager to return to the grand palace with the parapets nestled deep in the mountains of central Sorbold after so much time on the western coast, attending to business there. An unfortunate accident at the time of his selection by the Scales had taken the life of Ihvarr, the hierarch of the eastern guilds, Talquist's friend, cohort in trade, and only real competition. Talquist had quickly absorbed Ihvarr's network of miners, carters, tradesmen, and store owners, which required extensive oversight, and he himself had always had the shipping concerns, which needed even more. But the heavy workload didn't bother him, because Talquist was an ambitious man.