For a thing o’ such endless beauty.
A score or so of raspy Bolgish voices picked up the chorus to the cadence:
Aye-eh, Aye-ah, a wondrous sight to sec,
Aye-eh, Aye-ah, my girl in Ter-I-lee.
Achmed was only half-listening to Grunthor and his troops extolling the praises of the Sergeant’s favorite bedwench in song; he was watching instead for the approach of the Yarimese guards. He suspected that Ihrman Karsrick, paranoid old goat that the duke was, would do whatever he could to contain the presence of the Bolg in his province, escorting them grudgingly into the work zone, perhaps under cover of darkness, to avoid exposing his subjects to the cannibals, as Bolg were frequently referred to by humans.
He didn’t need to wait long to be proven correct.
Just as the Bolg chorus had arrived at the place in the tune where Grunthor’s wench’s nose ring was being compared favorably to that of a local prizewinning bull, a thin line of horsemen appeared in the distance.
The melody choked off, swallowed with precision.
“Ah, ’ere comes the welcoming committee,” the Sergeant said, smirking. “Was wonderin’ when the royal treatment was gonna begin.” He turned to the two dozen Firbolg workers and signaled the caravan to slow to half speed. “Ya all remember ta use yer napkins and fingerbowls like Oi taught ya. Now set to.”
The Bolg guard that was riding escort, numbering a dozen more, nonchalantly aimed their crossbows, targeting the forelegs of the Yarimese guards’ mounts as the Sergeant and the Bolg king rode slowly out to meet the soldiers of Yarim.
A single rider, a dusky-skinned man with light eyes, separated from the contingent in turn and urged his mount forward gently.
“Well met, sire,” the officer from Yarim said when he was within earshot, addressing the Bolg in the Orlandan vernacular. “Welcome to Yarim; I am Tariz, and am to be your escort and aide while you are here in the province.”
Achmed did not favor the man with a glance. “Lead.”
The soldier reined his horse around, and rode back toward the Yarimese contingent, his shoulders twitching as if he expected a crossbow quarrel to be planted between them at any moment.
In all seasons save for summer, Yarim Paar was a cold, dry place, a flat wasteland nestled between the fertile fields of Canderre to the west and the towering peaks of the Teeth to the east. It was an older city than most others on the continent, and the most ancient of all the provincial capitals, having preceded the Cymrian era in its building by more than a thousand years. Exactly how long it had been standing was lost to Time and the wind that blew the red clay around in spiraling clouds across the wide, arid plain.
In summer, the current season, the dry red clay clotted the air, making it difficult to breathe in the heat. The parched ground had baked at the surface and cracked, sending forth spirals of red clay dust with the tramping of the horses’ hooves, stinging the eyes along with the glare of the sun.
Achmed had seen the bright white cloth of the construction tents that had been erected around Entudenin long before any of the rest of the decaying buildings in the center of the capital could be discerned. In the massive expanse of what had once been the jewel of the cold desert, the gleaming fabric of the site glowed against the backdrop of blood-red clay. He inclined his head toward it, and Grunthor nodded.
Tariz noticed their exchange. Nervously he shifted the reins into his right hand and pointed with his left.
“That is the site, sire,” he said awkwardly.
“Then why are we riding away from it?” Achmed asked, already knowing the answer. The sensation was similar to being a cat playing with a bird it had caught. His head hurt with the game, and it annoyed him.
“Er — we, ah, well, I have specific orders from the Duke of Yarim to first take you and your contingent to the barracks complex that has been set up for you outside the city to the northeast. You will be most comfortable there; we have arranged for housing for the men and animals, as well as for the machinery.”
“The men too?” asked Grunthor in mock amazement. “Oh, goody! Ya mean we don’t have ta sleep in the rocks amongst the snakes? You truly are a gentleman, sir.”
“The duke intends to see to your every need while you are his guests,” stammered the aide.
“I presume that includes our need for constant guard,” Achmed said.
“Yes, yes indeed.” Tariz looked relieved.
The Bolg king reined his mount to a halt and gestured for the aide to stop alongside him. He leaned nearer, locking eves with the man.
“Let me make one thing undeniably clear from the outset, Tariz,” he said quietly. “Whatever your orders, my men and I are not your prisoners. For practicality’s sake I will tolerate your presence, your needless vigilance, your standing guard over us while we work, for as long as it suits me. But bear in mind always that it is the ignorant fools in your own province you are watching for and holding arms against, whose curiosity is injurious in some way in the mind of your duke, not the Bolg artisans he has hired. If for one moment I feel a shift in that understanding, if any of my workers are harassed or made to feel like anything less than the hired experts that they are, come to save your province from dying of thirst, we will be gone before you draw a second breath, leaving you to wither and desiccate in the sun. Do you understand my words?”
The Yarimese soldier nodded, his eyes bright in the sandy wind.
“Good. Then let us move out more quickly; the men deserve a rest from this sun before we begin work at nightfall.”
From the gleaming marble balcony of her guest room in the Judiciary, the palace of Yarim’s duke, Rhapsody watched the procession of wagons and horses as it turned to the east. The gown of green Yarimese silk in which she was clothed, the duke’s welcome gift, gleamed in the sun passing over it as she turned to follow the caravan.
“Where are they going?” she demanded, shielding her eyes from the bright glare radiating off the balcony railing, inset with precious opals and lapis lazuli, the gloriously colored products of Yarim’s famed mining camps.
Ihrman Karsrick cleared his throat. “I have arranged for them to be quartered in the Bissal Crescent, a few miles outside of the city,” he said blandly. “They should be easy to protect there.”
“That’s nothing but a dust bowl,” said Ashe, crossing his arms. “Have you recently built a garrison there, Irhman?”
“No, m’lord, not a permanent one, but a full camp has been erected, with a ring of guards around it.”
Rhapsody turned to the duke. “Let me understand this. You have invited King Achmed to your province for the purpose of benefiting from his expertise, in a matter that could remedy the possible starvation of your people and save your treasury from being emptied, and you are expecting him to quarter outside the city, sleeping on a cot in a tent in the middle of a barren wasteland, under continuous guard, much in the same manner as you once housed the murderers from the Market of Thieves?”
“Not at all, m’lady,” replied Karsrick, his teeth set in annoyance. “The murderers from the Market of Thieves were given bedrolls, not cots. Where did you expect me to house the Bolg?”
The Lady Cymrian turned and strode angrily to the door. “I expected you to house them as you would any other guests in your province, Ihrman, and I am embarrassed on your behalf, as well as my own, that you didn’t expect to do this as well. As for the Bolg king, who is a visiting head of state, and a fellow member of the Cymrian Alliance, I expected you would put him up in your very own bedchamber, if need be, and sleep yourself on the scullery floor with your fat arse to the fire before you would disgrace both of us like this.”
When the duke turned, purple with fury, to her husband, the Lord Cymrian merely shrugged.
“Namers must tell the truth as they know it, Ihrman,” he said, following Rhapsody to the door. “Speaking anything other than the truth dilutes their power. So perhaps it would have been more politic of me to address you myself, rather than leaving it to Rha
psody, and tell you what a graceless, mannerless idiot you are.” He caught her arm before she went through the doorway.
“You are right, of course, Aria,” he said quietly. “But practically speaking, do you not think the Bolg would be uncomfortable here in the Judiciary? Wouldn’t they, in fact, have chosen the same sort of accommodation that Ihrman has provided had they been asked?”
“Undoubtedly,” his wife replied, kissing him on the cheek. “But they weren’t asked. Sometimes the etiquette is more in the question than in the answer. I will return before supper.”
Ashe caressed her face gently, then returned to the balcony, watching in silence, listening with Karsrick as the palace guards repeated her orders to bring forth her mount and open the gate.
“Make certain she is accompanied and guarded on her way to the Bissal Crescent,” the Lord Cymrian directed Karsrick, who nodded angrily and left the room, leaving him to stand alone on the balcony, observing his wife ride off to meet the other two of the Three, the men who had brought her across Time, through the belly of the Earth, unknowingly returning her to his life and his world again.
He swallowed, willing himself to be grateful.
“Well, would ya look at that.”
Grunthor laughed aloud at the sight approaching the camp. From the west a rolling cloud of dust rose, in front of which a Lirin roan could be seen, in full canter transitioning to a gallop. Atop the roan was a woman in a green silk gown, her lower legs bare, the skirts streaming behind her in the wind, similarly to the way the blond tresses of her hair were flying, her scabbard slapping at her side. Behind her, a small retinue of guards struggled to keep pace.
“Looks like she’s bent on losing them, eh, sir? Think she might be ’appy to see us?”
Behind his veils Achmed smiled as well. He knew it was only a matter of moments before she would descend upon them, because he had been tracking her heartbeat for most of the morning. It was racing in time with the galloping mare.
“Yes, I believe she is,” he said.
As she crested the rise where they were encamped, the roan slowed, then came to a graceful halt in a swirl of red dust. Rhapsody vaulted from the animal’s back, and ran toward them, bare of foot, grinning.
She threw herself first into the waiting arms of the giant, allowing him to lift her from the ground and swing her about in his embrace like a child.
“Grunthor! I am so glad to see you! Thank you for coming!”
“My pleasure, miss,” the Sergeant grinned in return. “Been far too long.”
“I agree,” she said as he put her down gently on the ground. She turned to the Bolg king and embraced him. “Hello, Achmed.”
“Hello yourself,” Achmed replied. “That was quite a spectacle, the Cymrian Lady riding astride with her skirts flying up in the wind. If you decide to give up the royal life and go back to your previous profession, that might be a good way to attract business.”
“Thank you, I’m glad to see you as well,” she said, ignoring his comment and taking his arm, then Grunthor’s. “I’m here to escort you to the Judiciary in Yarim Paar.”
“Why?” Grunthor asked.
“Well, it’s bound to be more comfortable than billeting in the middle of the desert.”
“Naw, that’s all right, miss. The troops are more comfortable ‘ere actually; fewer ’umans gawkin’ at ’em. They can get some rest and a good meal and be ready ta work tonight. An’ Oi’d just as soon stay with ’em, if ya don’t mind.”
“Well, what about you, Achmed? Do you wish to remain here as well?”
“Did your husband accompany you to Yarim?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll pass on the invitation,” the Bolg king said. Rhapsody’s face fell, so he quickly added, “It’s better that I remain with my ‘men,’ as you are so fond of calling them.” He stopped at the top of a sandy rise, watching the deployment of the Yarimese guard around the perimeter of the camp. “But as long as you’re here, I need you to look at something.”
Rhapsody glanced around the Bissal Crescent. Far away at the horizon to the east she could see the shadow of the Teeth, their multicolored peaks faded by distance into a muted gray, ringed with a haze of clouds; it was raining there, filling the watersheds, no doubt, with the life-giving rain that was denied by Nature to the vast expanse of the province of Yarim.
To the north and west of the Crescent, great red rocky formations were strewn about the desert floor, some reaching heights of over one hundred yards. Their curves and hollows spoke of a time when they might have been supple clay, now fired in the kiln of the wind and sun into the hard, dry skeletons that baked in the heat along with the rest of Yarim.
There was something unnerving about this place to her, this open land ringed with dead red rocks and Yarimese guards; it was as if there were eyes somewhere, watching her, watching them, but hidden from sight in a place that had no natural cover.
She shook her head to clear it. “Very well. Show me.” She waved to the Yarimese guards, dismissing them. The guards looked at one another helplessly, then assumed parade rest.
Achmed reconnoitered for a moment, then took her elbow and led her to a sheltered place in the lee of a rocky formation, ten or so feet in height, where a small tent had been erected. He led her inside, then pulled off one of his outer veils that served as a cloak and tossed it on the ground at her feet.
“Sit.”
Rhapsody obeyed, heedless of the clay dust that crept into the drapes of the silken gown.
The Bolg king shrugged off the pack he wore across his back, removing from it a thin locked box fashioned of steel. Beeswax sealed the edges; Achmed ran his finger around them, melting the wax, then produced a tiny wire, with which he sprung the lock. With the greatest of care, he removed the contents of the box, wrapped in several layers of protective oilcloth. The cloth contained a few pages of brittle parchment, an ancient manuscript that Rhapsody surmised must have come from Gwylliam’s library in Canrif.
He handed the drawings to her with the greatest of care; she took them with similar gentleness. The schematics were detailed in the painstaking detail she had seen in other examples of Gwylliam’s work, meticulously rendered in a fine architect’s hand, for that had been the training of the ancient Cymrian king before he had led his people away from the doomed Island of Serendair.
The schematic was of a tower of sorts, supported by beams or pipes of some kind, its fan-shaped ceiling set in panes of colored glass, ordered as the colors of the rainbow. The key that indicated each of the colors was in Old Cymrian, the common tongue of the Island that she, Grunthor, and Achmed had each spoken when they lived there, now considered a dead language by the people of this land, who spoke Orlandan, the language of the provinces of Roland, or the vernacular of their individual homelands. A separate drawing detailed a wheel of some sort, also set with panels of glass, or something like it, though clear, not colored.
She pointed to a series of notations near the bottom of the page. “Gurgus,” she read. “Wasn’t that the mountain peak in the Central Corridor of the Teeth that had been smashed to bits by Anwyn’s forces early in the siege of Canrif?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm.” Rhapsody turned the sheaf of papers slightly to better catch the diffuse light shining through the fabric of the tents. “This is interesting, but why are you showing it to me? You can certainly read this yourself.”
“This part I can, yes,” Achmed agreed. He ran a perennially gloved finger along the edge of the top page. “It is the page below it that I cannot, and am hoping you can.”
“What is this apparatus? Do you know?” Before the Bolg king could speak, Rhapsody quickly handed him back the parchment and put a finger to her lips. “Tarry a moment, Achmed.”
She rose from the dirt floor of the tent, pulled the flap aside, and stepped out into the blinding light of noon again. The wind whipped warm across her face, slapping her hair into her eyes; she turned in to it, allowing it to blow the stra
nds clear. Then she drew her sword.
Daystar Clarion, the elemental sword of fire and starlight forged millennia before, came forth from its sheath with a whispering ring, a note that sounded quietly, a muted call of a battle horn. Drawing it in peace, as she had, caused it only to ring softly, vibrating gently in the sandy wind, but when it was drawn in battle, the call of the sword could be heard across continents, could shake the foundations of mountains.
Rhapsody held the sword aloft in the hot breeze, focusing on the metaphysical tie that bound her to the weapon. She could feel it resonating within her, humming in the same note, pulsing in time with her heartbeat and the breath of the elemental fire within her. Quickly she drew a circle in the air around the tent, a thin ring of light that remained even after the sword had passed from it, hovering on the wind. It was a circle of protection, a musical tone that would divert the currents of air around it and keep what was said within it from escaping onto the wind.
The silver circle undulated on the air, expanding and contracting with the changes in the breeze, but continued to hover, steadfast, flexible but unbreakable. Satisfied, Rhapsody returned to the tent.
“I have an uneasy feeling lately that someone is watching me. I don’t know if it has to do with the work here in Yarim, but I think it’s best we take extra precautions. What we say now cannot be overheard,” she said as she sat back down beside her friend.
He was staring at the pages, his mind clearly far away from the windy plain of Yarim. She noted the absence of focus in his eyes, and thought to herself how much his other nature, the Dhracian bloodline, was showing at this moment. Rather than the heavy, rough-edged angularity of the Bolg features that were apparent when he was around Grunthor and his Firbolg subjects, she could see instead the thin, fine veins that scored the surface of his skin, the long, sinewy musculature and dark eyes of the race of his mother. He was very far away, she knew, lost in thoughts, most likely from the other side of Time, so she waited in silence until he was ready to speak again.
Requiem for the Sun Page 15
