Requiem for the Sun (40 page)
Read Requiem for the Sun Online
Authors: Elizabeth Haydon
Faron's occluded eyes widened in panic, then tempered. Its gnarled left hand came to rest on its father's head, the contorted fingers gently caressing his hair with the overgrown nails. The creature sat, emitting no sound, just listening to the outpouring of anguish that made the mist that hung over the glowing green pool swirl and twist as well.
Finally, something occurred to the creature. Without pausing in its comfort,
it reached below the surface of the water, feeling around for a moment, then pulled forth a dark green scale and the lock of hair that the seneschal had given him long before to scry with.
it reached below the surface of the water, feeling around for a moment, then pulled forth a dark green scale and the lock of hair that the seneschal had given him long before to scry with.
Faron continued to pat the head of its father, who had settled into quiet hiccoughing, as it ran the scale and the hair through the pale green currents, finally pulling them up to stare into the rune inscribed on it.
The cloudy eyes blinked.
Then the creature began to squeak, tapping its father on the shoulder with its arthritic digit.
Michael looked up dispiritedly.
“What, Faron? What is it?”
The creature's strange, fused mouth was contorted in a hideous wave of muscle and lip tissue, the flaccid skin at the sides of its face flapping excitedly.
It held up the scale.
“What is it?” the seneschal asked again, beginning to sense the creature's message.
The creature let go of its father's head long enough to catch the lock of brittle hair; it turned it between its bent fingers, holding it over the dark green scale, then shook its head in rapture.
The seneschal took Faron's face gently in its hands.
“You are looking through the death scale?”
Faron nodded.
“And you do not see her?”
The creature nodded again, exhilaration evident in its contorted face.
The seneschal looked at Faron intently. “Are you saying that â she is â still alive?”
Faron wriggled happily, nodding vigorously.
“Are you certain, Faron?”
Faron nodded yet again.
“Where?”
The mutant child shook its head.
The senechal's eyes were on fire, but he endeavored to keep his voice steady, so as not to frighten Faron. He kissed the creature's head amid the wrinkles of loose skin and wisps of white hair.
“Can you continue to scry for me, Faron? See if you can find any clue, any direction at all.”
The creature nodded and slipped back beneath the surface of the glowing water.
Invigorated, the seneschal leapt to his feet and started to cross the pitching hold.
Stop. No more.
The voice of the demon, respectfully silent in Michael's misery, spoke up harshly.
You looked
, it said, black fire crackling in its voice.
You searched everywhere; your men combed the beach in the dark and the light. There was nothing there.
, it said, black fire crackling in its voice.
You searched everywhere; your men combed the beach in the dark and the light. There was nothing there.
“She's alive,” the seneschal retorted, heading for the stairs. “We must turn back.”
Enough of this foolishness. We will return to Argaut.
Michael chuckled as he began to climb the ladder back to the deck.
“What? And miss all the lovely burning?”
Burning?
“Yes,” the seneschal said warmly as he opened the door to the world above. “It is about to begin in earnest now.”
35
NAVARNE
O
n the morning of the day Ashe returned to Haguefort, the smoke from the fires burning along the western coast had begun to drift over Navarne, hanging loosely in the summer sky, coloring it from clear blue to a hazy gray, lacing the wind with the rancid residue of trees that burned too soon, while they were still living.
n the morning of the day Ashe returned to Haguefort, the smoke from the fires burning along the western coast had begun to drift over Navarne, hanging loosely in the summer sky, coloring it from clear blue to a hazy gray, lacing the wind with the rancid residue of trees that burned too soon, while they were still living.
The smell had been burning the inside of Gerald Owen's nostrils all day, irritating his eyes as well. He had to squint into the gray miasma of the air to see the riders galloping up the road, pushing their horses too hard, even when the shouts had gone up for half a league that they were coming.
Ashe had not slept for four days since receiving the tidings. That he was still able to maintain a seat on his horse caused Owen to marvel; the Lord Cymrian had undoubtedly stopped at each way station along the mail route, trading mounts, and no doubt was feeling the effort in his legs and hindquarters, but he had disregarded that, spurring the horse mercilessly for the last half-league.
He did not wait to dismount before looking for answers.
“What happened?” he demanded, his face haggard but his eyes burning with consternation. “Has she been found?”
Owen signaled subtlely to the stablemaster to lead the horse away after he helped the Lord Cymrian down.
“No, m'lord. Your uncle and the Sergeant-Major are awaiting your arrival in the Great Hall.”
“Sergeant-Major? What S-ergeant-Major?” Ashe asked brusquely, ignoring the salutations of his guards as he hurried past them.
“Er â the Lady Cymrian's friend. From Ylorc, sire,” Owen said, trying to keep pace.
“Grunthor? What's he doing here?”
“It was he who brought Anborn back to Haguefort, m'lord.”
Ashe shook his head and made his way as rapidly as he could into the keep.
In the Great Hall he found them, the General and the Sergeant, poring over a map of the western continent. The sight of his uncle caused the anger that had been brewing behind his eyes to explode.
“Where is my wife?”
The soldiers looked up at him.
“If we knew that, Oi wouldn'ta sent for you, sonny,” Grunthor said curtly. “Now, don't go gettin' all peevish. Won't help.”
Ashe stopped in front of Anborn. “I entrusted her to you, Uncle. You swore you would guard her with your life. She's gone, but you still seem to be here, unless you are a very hale ghost. What happened?”
Anborn lowered his eyes. Grunthor's brow darkened; he interposed himself between the Lord Cymrian and the General.
“Oi know you're upset, Ashe,” he said quietly, but in a deadly tone. “You ain't the only one, but you're the only one âere who didn't walk through fire ta try an' save 'er. Don't start be'aving like yer grandparents, or you'll be lookin' for âer alone. Ask yerself â would the Duchess want you browbeatin' the General? 'E's doin' a right fine job of it to 'imself without yer 'elp, thank you very much.”
Ashe inhaled, his eyes locked with Grunthor's. Then he let his breath out slowly to try and calm the rising ire of the dragon in his blood; the wyrm was panicking at the loss of its treasure, threatening to rampage.
“I apologize,” he said to Anborn, noticing for the first time the fresh scars and bandages. “I know you must have done everything you could. Tell me what happened.”
The General did not speak for a long moment. Finally, when he did, Ashe noted that his voice sounded older than he had ever heard it.
“We were barely more than a day out from the dragon's lair when we were attacked in Gwynwood north of the old forest outpost of Penn-yg-Naral,” he said stiffly. “I counted at least thirty of them altogether â and some masters of the stonebow. One of them killed Shrike; he was the first casualty, riding rear guard.”
Ashe exhaled. “I am sorry, Uncle.”
Anborn waved his hand in the air sharply, as if to deflect the sympathy.
“She held her own. They overwhelmed the guards, set her carriage alight, cornered her â sick as she was, she fought back. I almost had her out of there, but they took down my horse. And then, because of these cursed useless legs, there was no escape for her. She knew it, so she traded swords with me, knowing that to allow Daystar Clarion to fall into their hands might be fatal to the continent.” Ashe nodded, his eyes gleaming.
Anborn's voice became hoarser. “She healed me, told me to tell you â both of you, and the children â that she loved you. Then she said some blasted words over me that put me to sleep, caused me to appear dead, until they were gone.” He coughed to clear his throat. “But we saved the body of one of the bowmen â all the rest, our men, their men, Shrike â all of them burned to cinders in the fire that ensued.
“The man who took her carried the elemental sword of air, Tysterisk. Though I have never seen it, I am certain of it â he commanded the wind with the power of a god. He torched the entire northern forest, nephew. The Invoker is probably still working to extinguish it. Unfortunate that your father has gone off to play with himself amid the ether; he might have been able to summon rain or quiet the flames before it burned a good piece of the continent.” At the mention of Llauron, Anborn's eyes darkened.
“Did you see where they took her?”
“No. But I am certain it was into the fire. They came from the west, even though we were hit first from behind, from the east. I am the world's biggest fool for allowing her to fall into such a simple trap.”
“None o' that,” Grunthor said gruffly. “We got a bad enough enemy to fight without you giving 'im any free shots at yer arse.”
“So where were they from?”
“No idea. I did not recognize them, and their garb was foreign.”
Ashe began to pace the stone floor of the Great Hall. “Then they were probably heading to the sea, perhaps to Traeg or Windswere, or even down to Port Fallon.”
“If they was takin' 'er to sea,” Grunthor said. “'Oo knows?”
“The
bowman
knows,” Anborn said acidly, “which is why we saved his misbegotten body. We have to take it to Sepulvarta, to the Patriarch. He can wring the truth from his corpse, chase his spirit into the Vault of the Underworld and wrestle the information out of him â or so it's rumored.”
bowman
knows,” Anborn said acidly, “which is why we saved his misbegotten body. We have to take it to Sepulvarta, to the Patriarch. He can wring the truth from his corpse, chase his spirit into the Vault of the Underworld and wrestle the information out of him â or so it's rumored.”
Ashe paused in his pacing, looking doubtful. “Those may be folktales, Uncle,” he said uncertainly. “Having worn that ring myself, though not as Patriarch,
I recall nothing of that in the Office. I fear that may just be wild tales and wishful thinking.”
I recall nothing of that in the Office. I fear that may just be wild tales and wishful thinking.”
Anborn snorted. “Perhaps. But I am willing to make the journey on the chance that it is not.”
“I know you are,” the Lord Cymrian said, running his hand over the backs of the chairs that stood beneath the tallest windows at the end of the Great Hall, where he and Rhapsody had heard petitions for aid and supplications for relief every month for the last three years during Days of Pleas. “But you will not. I need you here.”
The General's face blanched, then turned a livid shade of purple.
“It will take more men than you have in your army, nephew, to confine me so when the lady to whom I am sworn is â”
“Anborn,” Ashe interrupted, his voice ringing with quiet authority and the deeper, more menacing tone of the dragon, “I do not question your willingness to do so, or your fealty to Rhapsody. But we know very little still about the motivations behind this. For Rhapsody's sake, and for the security of the continent, it is imperative that, we make no missteps here. Calm and order must be maintained, and we must do all that we can before word of her disappearance comes out. Once it is known that she has been taken, chaos will break out. The ensuing uproar may compromise her safe return, or even her life.”
He turned to Gerald Owen, who had quietly withdrawn and now stood at respectful attention in the doorway.
“Aside from those in this room, who else in Haguefort knows?”
“Only young Master Gwydion, m'lord.”
Ashe considered for a moment, then turned back to Anborn.
“One of us must seek Rhapsody's return, while the other stays in Haguefort, keeping a watchful eye on the Alliance, maintaining order and as much secrecy as possible. Can we stipulate that I must go, and you must stay?”
Anborn glared at him balefully. The dragonesque pupils in Ashe's eyes expanded infinitesimally, but otherwise he did not move. Finally the General nodded, then stared down at the floor, his face suddenly older.
Ashe turned to Grunthor. “Will you accompany me to Sepulvarta, Sergeant?”
“Aye,” Grunthor said. “And 'Is Majesty will be meetin' us there; Oi directed him so in the message Oi sent by bird.”
Ashe's breathing loosened. “Good,” he said in relief. “Achmed can track her by her heartbeat. Though it pains me to say it, he is our best chance to find her now.” His attention returned to Anborn. “Grunthor, will you excuse us, please? Owen, please have another horse restocked and ready to go in ten
minutes, with provisions for Sergeant-Major Grunthor as well.”
minutes, with provisions for Sergeant-Major Grunthor as well.”
“Yes, m'lord.” The chamberlain waited respectfully for Grunthor to leave the hall, then quickly followed, closing the heavy door behind him.
Ashe walked slowly over to where his uncle sat, staring out the window. He stood in silence for a moment, studying the ancient Cymrian's face, watching the shadows flicker across it.
“I know what a sacrifice you are making, staying in this place yet again at my request,” he said finally. “I know, too, that Roland and the rest of the Alliance will be safe in your hands.”
Anborn said nothing, just continued to stare out the tall window.
“I also know that she has no better friend in this world than you, Uncle,” Ashe said quietly. “And that if it were possible for anyone to have saved her, she would have been saved.”
“Get out of here,” Anborn said flatly.
Ashe waited a moment longer, then turned and left the Great Hall.
As he passed the Grand Staircase in the foyer, he saw Gwydion Navarne waiting on the steps, his shoulders square, but his face pale as death. He gestured to the boy to follow him.
When they reached the doors to the keep, Ashe strode past the guards and stopped at the top of the stairs that overlooked the roadway, where only a few short weeks before Rhapsody had eschewed the carriage he had provided for their journey to Yarim. He closed his eyes, remembering the look of comic horror on her face, trying to freeze the moment in his memory.
“I
will
bring her back, Gwydion.”
will
bring her back, Gwydion.”
The boy inhaled deeply but said nothing.
Ashe turned and regarded him thoughtfully.
“You've heard those words before, haven't you?”
Gwydion nodded. “It's what my father said when he rode out to the place where my mother's carriage â”
“I know.”
“Do you?” the boy asked sarcastically, his voice rising with barely contained hysteria. “Do you know, Ashe? Did you know she was attacked by Lirin? Our friends, our neighbors, a race my father loved and trusted, who he counted as his friends. Did you know that they cut her head off? That they kept on sawing at her neck, even when my father's soldiers were shooting them point-blank? That she was still clutching Melly's baby shoes, even while â”
He stopped and broke down as Ashe pulled him into his arms.
“No one lies on purpose,” Gwydion Navarne choked, his face buried in his guardian's shoulder. “My mother didn't know she would never come home when she told me she would. My father didn't know that he couldn't bring
her back, except in â pieces. Rhapsody didn't know that she would not return to watch me shoot the albatross arrows she brought me from Yarim in an archery tournament. And you can't make any promises, either. Everyone leaves. And no one ever comes back. So don't tell me you
know.
You know
nothing.”
her back, except in â pieces. Rhapsody didn't know that she would not return to watch me shoot the albatross arrows she brought me from Yarim in an archery tournament. And you can't make any promises, either. Everyone leaves. And no one ever comes back. So don't tell me you
know.
You know
nothing.”
Ashe squeezed his shoulders, then pulled back and looked down into the youth's tearstained face.
“I know your grandmother,” he said, smiling slightly. “I know that she will fight with everything she has to come back to us. I know she has an even better reason now, a child to protect, to live for. But I understand why you don't want to hear the words again. So instead of making you a promise you won't believe, I will ask you to make one for me, that I will.”
Gwydion Navarne nodded slightly.
“Stand to serve Anborn,” Ashe said, noting that the quartermaster was almost done outfitting the horses. “Stay with him, and keep his spirits up. Aid him in whatever he needs to keep order while I am gone. His task is critical; help him in it.”
“I will.”
For the first time since returning home, Ashe mustered a melancholy smile.
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