The Weaver's Lament (36 page)

He had chosen to put the pleas aside, to remain Uncounted, much to Rath's dismay.

Now he was beginning, for the first time, to truly fathom why.

I am not of the Gaol,
he had protested.
I am but half of the blood of the Brethren—and that which was of the other half raised me, if such words can be applied to my upbringing. I know none of your lore, your prophecies—your history. My skills are limited, my talents pale in this area. While I was given a blood-gift that allowed me to unerringly track the heartbeats of any of those born on the same soil as I had been, that was an upworld gift. Each time I have faced one of the Pantheon, I have needed help to complete the task. Without that assistance, I would be dead or possessed myself.

Rath had fixed the silver pupils of his eyes on Achmed and spoken softly, with more emphasis than the Bolg king had ever heard.

What you do not know is this—you could walk the Vault alone, and when you were done the silence would ring with nothing but the whisper of your name.

Achmed heard the words again in his mind.
I certainly hope you are right, Rath,
he thought.
But with any luck, we are about to find out.

He continued to sit in the sand and contemplate his world and his task until the sky lightened, until the wind of morning calmed somewhat, until he could see beyond the dark water into the western horizon, until he could feel on his back and see out of the corners of his eyes the pinks and pale blues of the sunrise behind him.

Then he sighed.

He had neither felt, nor heard, any words of wisdom, any hints or suggestions or anything else that would make this hateful task successful.

Finally he stood as daybreak came fully, and brushed the sand off his calves and put his boots back on, muttering obscenities under his breath at the feel of the granular dirt rubbing against his feet.

Driftwood and other waste from the sea had floated onto the beach, a piece of which came up on a wave and wedged itself between an indentation in the sand and his boot. Irritated, Achmed kicked it away.

Then he looked at it more closely.

At first it had appeared as a long, hollow stick of driftwood, unremarkable save for the way the sunlight glittered as it rocked from side to side in the low surface and splashover from the waves that were pulling back with the tide. This object, in fact, had been delivered by the sea but had been caught in a similar sand furrow.

Achmed bent down to pick it up.

He turned it over, examining the regular scoring and the shape of it.

And when he had been at it for a few moments, he noticed from the two weapons sticking in the sand nearby that there were crude runes of a sort on it that he had seen inscribed in ancient manuscripts and on historical objects of art.

Different from any he had seen in all his time across the wide world.

His hand shaking, he held the object up to his eyes and the light of the now-rising sun.

“It's a scabbard,” he whispered, though no one was around to hear him.

*   *   *

Achmed appeared at the door of the Hat and Feathers later that afternoon.

Old Barney was waiting for him, just getting ready to open for the evening.

“Any luck, Majesty?”

Achmed extended the scabbard.

The elderly barkeep smiled, tired and broadly.

“He is the soul of the sea,” he said. “I hope that whatever it is you're seeking there will be as easy to come by.”

Achmed merely smiled. “Ever seen this before?”

“Aye; 'twas his. He had several at one time, but I never got to see him in his days as a soldier, except when he would come into the Hat and Feathers in Easton. That was the one his sword rested in during those days; I do know it was special to him. But I did not sail with him—I went with the First Fleet, and he commanded the Second. By the time I got to know him in the new world, he was—well, you know how he was.”

Achmed nodded. “Thank you, again, for your assistance. I wish you continued health and comfort.”

“I'm sorry for your loss,” Barney said, continuing to wipe down the bar. “I know you and Rhapsody were very close.”

The Bolg king thought of his son and winced internally. “Thank you. Condolences to you as well; I know the two of you meant a great deal to each other as well.”

“Aye, that we did.”

“I would like to purchase some supplies from you, if I may, ere I leave.”

“Of course. What can I get you?”

“Some potent potables and a flask of Canderian brandy, if you have some,” Achmed said. “I'm told the sea can be bitter cold, and I might need some bracing.”

Barney smiled and went to the back room, returning a few moments later with a dozen thin cylindrical metal flasks with belt hooks and a regular-sized canteen.

“Fishermen call these ‘the third pole,'” he said, holding up the thin vessels. “Almost as necessary as the first two poles a man has; maybe more for us old lads. Fair winds and following seas to you, Majesty.”

“Thank you,” Achmed said. He waited until Barney had turned away, then laid five gold sovereigns on the bar, sufficient to pay for the alcohol and room rental.

As well as to purchase the entire establishment.

He slid the scabbard into the bandolier and took his leave, heading back down the rocky path, well lighted by the sun now.

 

35

THE WINDSWEPT COAST OF TRAEG

Once again, filled with disgust, Achmed waded into the sea.

The swishing silence as the waves closed over his head was a little less horrific this time, but still, being encased in the element that was his nemesis, it was all the Bolg king could do to keep from panicking once he was sinking again into the churning depths.

He had waited until the light had come fully up in the east, so that he could see the rocks along the coast. As he had been waiting, the waves had drawn back, as Barney had mentioned, and a ragged set of marks scored the sand in front of him.

If it was meant to be a drawing, and it could only be called so in the most generous of terms, it was one he thought he recognized.

It appeared to be a circle with a spiral within it, with rays extending from it.

Achmed knew the image well.

He had seen it long ago, both in the old world and the new, particularly in Vrackna, the basilica of Fire. He had explained to Rhapsody on their first visit to the temple in Bethany that, her belief and that of the numbskull clerics who worked there notwithstanding, she was not looking at an image of the sun, but rather the symbol of the goal of the ancient race of demons.

It was a picture of the Earth in flames.

The wyrm within its bowels was represented by the spiral, as the means the F'dor expected to use to achieve that goal.

He still took a rancid delight in remembering the horror in Rhapsody's expression as she realized what she was seeing, and how it was being misinterpreted.

If this really is a message from MacQuieth, or whatever else may constitute the soul of the sea, it's a presumptuous one,
he thought, amused. As far as he knew, the famous hero had never attempted to go after what slept within the belly of the Earth.
Nice of you to suggest that I do, if that's what this image in the sand is implying.

Now he was traversing the sea, struggling to hold down his nausea, when in the distance he heard, or rather felt, the tolling of a deep bell again.

His disgust abated, replaced by anticipation.

Achmed waited for the sound to return, but his ears were met by nothing but the noise of the waves crashing above him, muted in the grip of the water, and the heavy, thick rippling of the drift.

He turned in the direction that he thought the resonating sound had come from, but was lost in the chaos of the waves.

Hrekin,
he cursed silently.

Quickly he reached over his head and withdrew the sword of water from the bandolier. It came forth, glowing with light, its blade ephemeral, its hilt solid in his hand.

Achmed closed his eyes.

He tried to block the swooshing and gurgling sounds from his mind and focus instead on the noise of the bell in the Deep.

After a few moments, he heard it sound again, low and far away.

The sword of elemental water vibrated in his hand.

In one of the true triumphs of will over instinct he had ever managed in the course of his life, Achmed let go of his need for control and allowed the sword to lead him, following the vibrations of the tolling of the bell, into the Deep.

He followed it blindly, without any other sense of where he was going.

*   *   *

All grasp of time and distance was now gone.

The Bolg king, having struggled with losing his sense of control, abandoned it utterly and focused his consciousness, much as he had back on the Island when tracking the heartbeat of prey, on the only clear sound he could hear in the confounding universe of endless water and muted vibration.

He was vaguely aware of passing days and nights from the darkness and deepening cold he could feel at the edges of his eyelids, but soon lost count of them. Traveling the sea in this manner was like voluntarily agreeing to forgo any sense of time, and, after surrendering his meaningless resistance, he just moved on, often with his eyes closed, following the slow tolling of the bell.

He had almost become accustomed to being lost forever in the hateful waves when a ray of sunlight, too bright and glaring to be ignored, pierced the blue gloom, stinging his eyes into opening once more.

The water had gone from endless blue-black to a light shade of green. Achmed looked down to see that he was hovering over a shallow bottom, one that was stirred more or less constantly by the churning of harsher, stronger waves than those he had been passing through. He recognized them after a moment as surf that approached a shoreline.

I've come to land,
he thought.

He wasn't certain if he should be pleased or not.

He allowed the surf to drag him onto the shore and vomit him up on a sandy beach strewn with shells and pebbles, rolling his body in the long drapes of his veils and robes to keep his sensitive skin from being shredded by the shards of rock and the husks of sea creatures. After he had lain for several moments on the slippery but undeniably solid ground, he unrolled himself slowly and brought his head up, opening his eyes fully for the first time in so long that the salty crust of the lids made it difficult.

He gave himself a moment to focus, then looked at what lay before him.

Then he swore in the ugliest manner he ever remembered undertaking.

Rising ahead of him in the distance was a city of gleaming buildings, polished in the colors of mother-of-pearl, and far away, a tall, slender tower made of what looked even more like shell, twisting like an enormous conch, rising into the low-hanging clouds.

Achmed put his head down on his soaking wet sleeves and contemplated what he had done to offend the Universe.

Gaematria,
he thought in disgust.
I'm on the Isle of the Sea Mages.

A moment later his fears were confirmed by the arrival of a guard unit dressed in the colors of the academics who had made this place their home since the sundering of the Second Fleet at the Prime Meridian.

He rose slowly to a stand and stretched out a hand in a gesture of warning as the regiment slowed to a halt before him. A strange heaviness, like a coating of seaweed, was hanging on him, light but tangibly there.

Achmed looked down at his body.

He had come into the water in simple clothing, a shirt and trousers, his cloak, robes, and veils.

Now, in addition to those garments, he was attired in a hauberk, a mail shirt of a sort, a coif, also seemingly of mail but a hood, and a mantle, a protective collar on his neck and shoulders. They were all comprised of the same strange carapace-like material that the scabbard of Kirsdarke was made of.

Before he could examine this new armor, the regiment came to a halt.

“I am the king of Ylorc,” he said in a voice cracking from exposure to salt. “Tell Edwyn Griffyth I am here.”

Then, overwhelmed with exhaustion and the beating he had taken in the sea, he collapsed on the sand again.

GAEMATRIA

When Achmed awoke he was, to his fury, lying outstretched not on the beach but in a comfortable bed, most likely in a hospice ward from the looks of the equipment around him.

Hovering near him was a hook-nosed man with a solid build, soft around the middle but still upright despite what the Bolg king knew to be advanced age.

“You carried me?” he demanded.

Edwyn Griffyth, the High Sea Mage, looked down at him with severe displeasure.

“The wind carried you, Majesty,” he retorted dryly. “I make it a rule never to touch anything I suspect might be poisonous. I merely provided the elevation of your body and the direction of your journey into the bed you currently inhabit through the arts. To what do we owe the extreme pleasure of your company, unannounced?”

Achmed sat up shakily.

“I need to meet in council with some of your odious academicians.”

“Ah, you came under the auspices of
diplomacy
.” Edwyn Griffyth shook his head and sighed. “I should have guessed, given your polite address and graciousness. A thousand years in Alliance, and it's still a fulsome pleasure to speak with you.”

The Bolg king noted that none of his weapons had been touched or removed, nor had his clothing, which apparently had been dried of seawater by some sort of magical means. He also concluded that news of Ashe's death or the buildup for war had not reached the isolated Isle.

He decided to allow that state of ignorance of both issues to remain in place for the time being.

“Given that you
have
known me for a millennium, I assume you understand that I would never have come here, especially through the sea, had it not been a matter of extraordinary urgency,” he said, struggling to keep his voice from cracking, either from anger or salt exposure. “Kindly summon your experts in the subjects of tidal or other oceanic impacts of the Cataclysm that ensued with the rise of the Sleeping Child, as well as anyone familiar with the area of the sea that lies above what was once the Island of Serendair and the northern islands of Balatron, Briala, and Querel. Additionally, I need to speak to any scholar who knows anything of the lore of what sleeps within the Earth.”