Legacy of Kings (39 page)

But she could not approach him. She dared not approach him. She was spellbound by his presence, terrified that if she made contact with him—if she tried to make him real in any way—the dream would fade, and he would be lost to her again.

It was he who held out his hands to her. It took her a moment to realize that he was offering her something, and he expected her to come forward and take it. Nestled in each palm, she saw, was a small natural black crystal, whose irregular facets reflected the sunlight in glints of color as he moved. They were of a like size and shape, though not perfectly identical, and it seemed to her that somehow they belonged together. And they belonged to her.

Take them.
He did not speak the words aloud, but she could hear them nonetheless.
You will need them
.

Slowly, hesitantly, she rose to her feet and approached him. How hard it was to be this close to her lost child and not draw him into her arms! But she dared not touch him, lest the flood tide of emotion that was nearly overwhelming her right now drown her. She reached out her own arms toward him, instead, and rather than take the crystals from him directly, cupped her hands beneath his own, waiting to receive them. After a moment he nodded and turned his hands over, dropping one small stone into the center of each hand. Where they touched her palms she could feel that they were radiating a strange warmth, as if they were living things, and they pulsed as if from the beat of an unseen heart.

The centuries are entrusted to you,
came the unvoiced words.
Guard them well.

Then the crystals in her hands began to change shape. Their columnar spines melted back into the base rock, until there were only smooth black stones in her hands, roughly hemispherical in shape. And then those, too, began to melt. Soon her cupped palms held not rock, but pools of thick red liquid. Blood. She trembled as it began to drip down between her fingers, pattering to the ground like crimson rain. The earth itself seemed to shudder as the first drops struck, as if some sleeping creature buried deep beneath her feet had suddenly stirred to life . . . or perhaps the earth itself was awakening.

Transfixed, she watched as the blood at her feet began to spread out across the earth, finally reaching the base of a nearby tree. The roots seemed to shudder as they drew in the precious liquid, and the slender needles began to transform in color, one after the other, until the entire tree had turned crimson. Other trees were following suit now, as the blood reached them; in a few minutes’ time the entire clearing was filled with transformed foliage: a forest of blood. Then the first tree began to transform in shape. Its branches curled in upon themselves, and the knots in its trunk vanished. The bark that had covered the carved ancestral face grew smooth and pale, like human skin, and the eyes glistened wetly, as though they were somehow conscious.

And a man stood before her. His clothing was ancient in style and gashed in several places. A deep cut across his face glistened with fresh blood, and his tunic was splattered with mud. Another man appeared beside him. Then another. The fourth to take shape was a woman; she was dressed in a man’s garments, her long hair tangled and wild and streaked with blood from a wound in her skull. More and more figures appeared as Gwynofar watched, until there was a veritable army of bloodstained warriors surrounding her. She had seen enough illustrations of the Great War to recognize the style of their armor, and her breath caught in her throat as she realized just who the figures were supposed to be.

These were the men and women who had fought the Souleaters the first time. The martyrs of the
lyr.
Her ancestors.

She opened her mouth to ask them why they had called her here, what it was they wanted from her . . . but even as the words formed on her lips, the whole of the scene suddenly began to dissolve. Mist rose up around the warriors’ feet as their flesh gave way to less solid substance, and the colors of their clothing dissipated into the air in ripples and eddies, until all of it was gone. Gwynofar looked about desperately for her child, but he had disappeared long ago. She had lost him again! A short moan of anguish escaped her, even as the last details of the dreamscape faded from sight.

And in the end there was only featureless mist, as there had been at the beginning: a vast white silence broken only by the pattering of blood as it dripped from her hands, and by the broken, mournful beating of her heart.

Gwynofar lay upon a bed of silken sheets, her thin linen shift slicked to her skin by a layer of cold sweat, struggling to get her bearings. Moonlight coming in through the narrow windows picked out embroidered details on the canopy overhead but left the fabric itself in shadow, resulting in a ghostly display of feathery patterns that seemed to hang in midair, dreamlike. For a moment she just stared at them, trying to get her mind to focus. Was she awake yet? If so, then she knew she must do her best to interpret the strange dream she’d had while its memory was still fresh in her mind. Once she slept again, many details would be forgotten.

The centuries are entrusted to you,
Anrhys had said.

What did that mean? And what were the crystals that he had given to her supposed to represent?

The eyes of the Souleaters look like black crystal, she recalled. She remembered when the northern queen had locked eyes with her, and her soul had almost been sucked into those terrible orbs. But she did not think this dream was meant to refer to Souleaters. No, this was about something more personal, something that would provide strength and healing for the
lyr
armies. Not something that would harm them.

Her hands curled instinctively at her sides, and it seemed to her for a moment she could see Anrhys standing before her again. Not moving. Not saying anything. She remembered the feel of warm, sticky blood beneath her fingers, and a wave of fresh mourning came over her, as intense as the moment in which she had realized what the cost of her Alkali mission would be, the nature of the sacrifice that would be required to bring the Throne of Tears to life. For a moment she was back in the tower, experiencing the fear of that terrible day, feeling the cold bite of despair in her soul.

And then it came to her. She understood.

And for a moment she just lay still on the bed, her heart pounding so hard the heavy frame seemed to tremble. Unable to move. Barely able to think. Anrhys was gone now—again!—but she knew why he had come to her.

With sudden determination she rose up, reached for the robe that had been laid out across the foot of her bed, and headed toward the door. The moons had set long ago. but the first dim light of dawn was seeping through the windows, just enough to see by as she exited her bedchamber, struggling to get her arms into her sleeves as she walked. Outside her door two startled maidservants stumbled to their feet, trying to look as if they had not just been sleeping, and the pair of guards stationed outside the entrance to her apartment chamber snapped to attention as soon as they saw her. Gwynofar did not acknowledge them. She did not see anyone or anything. The person who she needed would come to her, she knew that. His wards would sense her agitation and alert him to her need, and he would wake up and come to her.

Never mind that he had promised not to work sorcery in Salvator’s palace. She knew him well enough by now to understand when and why that vow might be broken. Besides, Salvator had said that he was allowed to use sorcery for transportation, and that was what she wanted him for, wasn’t it?

He was there as she turned a corner, waiting for her. His black robes were nearly invisible in the pre-dawn darkness, but his white hair and beard glowed as if they contained their own source of light. As it had been on so many occasions when she had been a child: a familiar and comforting sight.

“Majesty?” His eyes were narrow with concern.

“Kierdwyn,” she said breathlessly. Her heart was pounding so hard it was difficult to speak. “I must go to Kierdwyn, Ramirus.”

He hesitated only for a moment, then nodded. He shut his eyes for a moment, and it seemed to Gwynofar that he was concentrating on something. She understood sorcerous protocol well enough to know that he must send word ahead to Kierdwyn’s Magister Royal—was it Lazaroth now?—before entering the man’s territory, but it was difficult for her to accept such a delay. Any delay. She paced anxiously in front of him, fearful that her precious moment of revelation would fade before she had a chance to test it.

At last his eyes opened. His expression was calm and serene, and she tried to draw strength from that serenity. He looked her over, shook his head slightly, and with a wave of his hand banished her nightwear, replacing it with a simple day gown of summer-weight wool. Her sleep-tangled hair was smoothed and separated by the same power, and a golden circlet bearing the Aurelius arms took its accustomed place above her brow.

“Now you are fit for your father’s house.” The air before her began to shimmer and ripple like water. “Come,” he said, offering her his hand. She took it, and together they stepped through the portal.

Behind them a note appeared in midair, then slowly began to flutter toward the ground.
Salvator,
it said.
Have gone to Kierdwyn with Ramirus. Will return soon. G.

By the time it reached the floor, the portal had vanished.

“Lord Alkali wanted to keep it, of course.” Lord Kierdwyn’s tone was distracted as he sought the proper key on the ring. “He all but threatened to go to war over it. But in the end he had no real choice. We told him that since a member of House Kierdwyn had unlocked its secret, and might still have some sort of magical connection to it, it belonged in Kierdwyn’s care.” Settling at last on a large brass key, he inserted it into the lock on the ironbound door and turned it clockwise. The mechanism of the lock fell into place with a loud metallic thunk. “Truth be told, it had less to do with you than with the fact that a Souleater invasion had just taken place right under his nose and he hadn’t even known about it. Priceless artifacts should not be guarded by idiots.”

He took hold of the heavy door and pulled; Gwynofar and Ramirus stepped back to give him room to swing it open. Beyond the threshold was a dark chamber, windowless; the shadow of a single large object could be seen in its center, but no details were visible.

Lord Kierdwyn opened wide the hood on the lantern he had brought with him and handed it to Gwynofar. “Why is it that you need to see this so urgently?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, Father.”

Despite how frantic she had been to come here, she suddenly found herself hesitant to approach the thing. No one knew better than she did just how powerful the Throne of Tears was, or how destructive it could be. For a moment she shut her eyes, remembering the day she had channeled its power to all her people, linking together every man, woman and child of
lyr
descent and pouring fearsome images into their heads.

And killing her unborn child.

Her hand trembled as she entered the room, sending the lantern’s light dancing about its walls. The Throne seemed even larger and more ghastly than she had remembered it. In this setting it appeared almost alive, its vast sculpted wings poised as if to take flight, its blue-black surface—made from a Souleater’s skin—organic and expectant. Her skin crawled as she looked at it, and her hand moved over her belly instinctively, as if trying to protect her unborn child from its influence. But that child was gone now; the Throne had already claimed him.

Forcing herself to move closer, she knelt before the great seat, searching out one feature in particular. Had she remembered it right? Deep carvings trapped the lantern’s light, casting shadows that made it hard to distinguish any fine details. She angled the lantern upward, trying to focus the light where she needed it—and suddenly a circle of candles appeared, surrounding both her and the throne. Hundred of candles, some resting on the floor itself, some raised high on stands, offering light from every angle. She nodded her appreciation to Ramirus without looking back at him, then leaned in closer to study the arms of the chair. Now she could see where her blood had dripped down its arms as she had prayed for the gods to accept her sacrifice, and where her nails had gouged deeply into the ancient wood as images of past wars had surged through her. And there was the place where she had first made her blood-offering, tearing open the flesh of her arm on the sharp talons that jutted out from the arms of the throne, smearing her blood on the fist-sized spheres they guarded.