The Weaver's Lament

by Elizabeth Haydon

  Achmed smirked. “No luck in the pleasure palaces of the former Sorbold, eh?”

  Grunthor shook his head. “Lost my taste fer women other’an Bolg a long time ago, sir. Well, at least that kind o’ taste. Always willin’ to snack on a few Lirin, but seems that’s frowned upon nowadays.”

  “Truly we have lived too long. Well, best of luck with the new crop. If you keep at it, you may even catch up with Rhapsody. How many brats has she pushed out so far?”

  “Still only six,” came a voice in their ears, as if from the air around them. “And you would both know if anything had occurred otherwise, given that one of you is godfather to each of them, and the other is guardian to them all.”

  Both men looked around them in surprise.

  “Where are you?” Achmed demanded of the air.

  “On my way. You’re standing in the vibrational buffer zone surrounding Tyrian, Achmed, you idiot. You didn’t think I, and every communications specialist in the Lirin army, could hear you? And yes, snacking on Lirin is still considered frowned upon, Grunthor. Now back up about three hundred paces and, for the love of God, the One, the All, stop talking until I get there.”

  The two men looked at each other, then dissolved into quiet snickering.

  Achmed sought her heartbeat on the wind and caught it a moment later, a strong, steady rhythm, though light in tone compared to the thundering of Grunthor’s. They were two of the only heartbeats he could still feel in his skin, a gift he had inherited long ago from a Dhracian named Father Halphasion, who had been his mentor in youth, and had named him the Brother.

  He thought back, for the first time in as long as he could remember, to the gentle monk who had rescued and cared for him after his escape from the Bolg of Serendair who had raised and abused him from birth. The name had been bestowed upon him, the priest had said, because he was “brother to all, akin to none.” The resulting connection to the populace of the Island of Serendair, the drumming, tittering, pounding, and thrum of every heartbeat on that island, had all but driven him mad.

  Now there was most often silence in his skin unless he sought those heartbeats.

  But one that he frequently monitored was approaching from the west.

  Grunthor was the first to catch sight of her, and broke into a wide grin upon doing so.

  “Well, there she is. The ’orse looks new.”

  Achmed nodded as the forest roan, and the woman atop it, came into his view.

  He breathed a little easier upon beholding her.

  Occasionally over the centuries when seeing her after a long absence he found her appearance startling. While neither Time nor battle had made a mark on her physically, there was often something in her eyes and expression that was different, or something off-putting to him about the clothing in which she was attired at events where they met up.

  While he and Grunthor, in his estimation, had changed very little from the days when the Three had first met, Rhapsody had evolved a great deal. Her inability to contain both excitement and wrath from her younger days had resolved into a queenly calm, a steadiness he recognized as necessary to her role as Lady Cymrian and Lirin sovereign, but he considered boring nonetheless. Her emerald eyes used to sparkle at anything she found interesting, and it had been a secret challenge of his in the old days to make that happen. Now they tended to gleam when she was pleased or angered, which brought the same light into those eyes, but it was hardly as interesting.

  And the court clothing in which she was often garbed at events of state was nothing like the two or so dozen dresses he had reluctantly purchased for her when they first had come to the mountains of Ylorc together. In those days, Rhapsody’s excitement upon receiving what was by and large high-quality peasant garb had made his skin-web, the sensitive network of veins and nerve endings that scored the surface of his body, tingle and hum pleasantly for days afterward. Now she was routinely gowned in heavy fabric of countless cost, sewn and embroidered by the patient hands of expert seamstresses from around the world. It was always a spectacular blending of beauty and artistry to behold, but it made her seem an entirely different person.

  But the woman atop the roan was the one he remembered.

  Rhapsody was smiling broadly, her face alight, her golden hair pulled back in a simple fall and tied in a black ribbon, as he remembered it from the old days. She was garbed in a white muslin shirt like any other Lirin citizen and wore moleskin pants tucked into sensible boots, much like the ones she had clothed herself in during their time together as the Three.

  Achmed could hardly contain his relief.

  “You came alone?” he demanded as she reined the horse to a stop and vaulted down from it, running to greet them.

  She wrapped her arms around him first, filling his nostrils with her scent and soothing his prickly skin with the natural musical vibration that emanated from her. Then, upon comprehending his comment, she pulled back and looked at him in surprise.

  “You have a problem with that?” she asked incredulously. “I somehow thought you preferred it when Ashe doesn’t come with me.”

  “That goes without saying,” Achmed said as she moved on to Grunthor, who picked her up and spun her around like a child. “I was referring to Meridion.”

  “Oh,” said Rhapsody when the giant returned her to the ground after a long, warm hug. “I hadn’t realized you would want to see him, I’m sorry. He can be here if you’d like. He and you, Achmed, are the only people—besides Rath and the other Dhracians, of course—that I have ever known who can travel in a way that essentially overcomes time and distance—you by riding the currents of the wind, as the Dhracians taught you, and Meridion by collapsing the passage of Time. I would be happy to summon Meridion if you’d like. He’s nearby—he and I have been attending a Namers’ convocation at the Repository of Lore in Tyrian City.”

  “Yeah, why not?” Grunthor said. “Always a nice thing ta see my first godson.”

  Rhapsody nodded and turned back to the forest. She sang a sweet incantation, repeating it several times, then loosed it to waft away on the hot wind of summer’s end.

  “Come with me,” she said, waving them both back in the direction of her roan. “I’ve arranged a meal, some privacy and security at one of the border watchers’ longhouses just inside the forest edge. I know that you aren’t fond of being away from the deep Earth, but the longhouse roof is enclosed, so it’s a little like the caverns of Ylorc, and I think you should enjoy the food and libations. And we can be together, just like old times, at least for a while. I’m so glad you both were able to come for the family gathering.”

  “Family gathering?” Grunthor queried.

  “I am not coming to that,” Achmed said flatly. “I came to see you, and perhaps Meridion, or any other of your progeny you had with you, but I believe I was clear in my response to your invitation to the gathering at Highmeadow.”

  Rhapsody hoisted herself back up atop her roan.

  “Oh, that’s what I was supposed to infer when you returned the invitation I sent you via avian messenger, for security reasons, by shredding the paper and blowing your nose on it? I completely misunderstood. I apologize.”

  “You should consider yourself lucky with my choice of bodily excretions,” Achmed said, mounting as well. “I had to scale back my original intentions for the health of the innocent bird.”

  “Why would you not come?” Rhapsody asked, appearing sincerely stricken. “You are the only members of my family that won’t be in attendance.”

  “My point exactly.”

  Rhapsody sighed as Grunthor finally summited his mount, taking his time and care.

  “You could come, you know, Grunthor. I hope you will. Your godchildren, and all the Grands and Greats, are really looking forward to seeing you.”

  The Bolg Sergeant shook his head regretfully.

  “Naw, thanks, Yer Ladyship, but I’m not really feelin’ up fer it,” he said wistfully. “Just came from putting Trom in the ground. Not in the mood for
a celebration, sorry.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Rhapsody said, reaching across horses and patting his arm consolingly. “I had no idea.”

  Grunthor covered her small hand with his enormous, pawlike one. “Yeah, it was quiet and fast,” he said, taking the reins in his own. “The way ’e woulda chosen if ’e’d been given the choice. Do ya think you might sing ’is dirge? Trom always did love to ’ear you sing.”

  “Of course; I’ll do it tonight before Meridion and I head back toward Highmeadow. Was he ill?”

  “Not really.” Grunthor nodded to Achmed as the Bolg king signaled his readiness to ride. “Trom never really got back ta whole from when those Alliance soldiers beat ’im into oblivion a couple ’undred years ago.”

  Rhapsody’s eyes flashed with anger. She set her teeth and nodded, but Achmed could see the rage swim through the muscles of her shoulders.

  He took silent pleasure in the fact that she was still furious over the unprovoked assault that Trom and his regiment had endured at the hands of the soldiers of her husband’s army.

  And hers.

  He had stood beside her on the gallows at the hangings of the men responsible, with very much the same look on her face, the same anger in her eyes.

  “Grunthor is looking forward to returning to Ylorc and getting started on fathering a new rash of baby Bolg,” he said, attempting to lighten the mood.

  Rhapsody’s eyes cleared of anger, and she smiled in the direction of the Sergeant.

  “That’s wonderful,” she said sincerely. “I know how much you love your children, Grunthor, especially in the infant phase.”

  “’At’s right,” said Grunthor smugly. “Bite-sized, chewy, with a nice crunch. It’s a good breedin’ plan—either they’s well-be’aved, or they’s delicious. Ya win either way.”

  “Oh, stop that,” Rhapsody said to the back ends of both of her friends’ horses, noting how much they had in common with their riders as she rode astride, catching up and leading them into Tyrian by the forest road.

  2

  HIGHMEADOW, NAVARNE

  In the corner of the main bedchamber in the palatial estate of Highmeadow, a silver bell rang sweetly, its sound resonating through the air of the room.

  After a moment, a voice, trained in the Lirin science of Naming, intoned a quiet message, audible only to the person to whom it had been sent.

  Sam—good morning. You should expect a Great surprise today. I love you; I’ll be home soon. Your Emily

  Lord Gwydion ap Llauron awoke slowly, a headache buzzing behind his eyes as he did.

  As was his accustomed reaction to the morning light and his wake-up call, he gritted his teeth and inhaled slowly, then allowed his breath to seep out between those teeth in a long release.

  The accustomed reaction took some of the pain of awareness in small puffs with it.

  His mind, wrapped a few moments before in a dream of a long-dead uncle who had survived to be his age, gradually absorbed wakefulness, thanks to the gentle vibrations imbued into the metal of the bell in the corner of the room. Gwydion stretched slowly, willing himself to be grateful for another day and struggling in the attempt.

  A respectful tap sounded against the bedchamber door.

  “Cmmmminn,” the Lord Cymrian grumbled.

  The summons was met with an enthusiastic response as the door burst open and three small children came dashing into the room on billowing waves of excitement—a young blond boy of seven or so summers, his four-year-old sister, an impish redhead, and a towheaded toddler who was struggling to remain erect and in motion simultaneously as he hurried, arms outstretched, in the general direction of the bed.

  “Papa! Papa!”

  Gwydion, or Ashe, as the Lord Cymrian had been long known to his intimates, exhaled deeply and opened an eye, blue as those set in the excited faces heading his way, bearing the same vertical pupils.

  The sense of the dragon in his blood, a primordial nature that had been with him most of his life, assessed the approaching small progeny, recognizing its own nature carried within them and reporting back to his human mind within the span of a single pair of heartbeats.

  Reimund, Elysabeth, and Andret, it whispered, each of their names resonating in its unheard tones.

  My children, Ashe thought warmly, allowing the understanding to wash through his still-sleep-addled brain with the sensation of a quick-running stream rushing through the frozen ground of a forest in spring. My beloved children.

  A thought from deeper in his consciousness, the dragon sense, corrected him.

  Your Greats, it whispered, this time irritably.

  Ashe closed his eye again, absorbing the thought.

  Behind his lids he could sense the presence of Merilda, their mother, hovering in the doorway, her arms crossed in amusement.

  His granddaughter, the middle child of his middle daughter Elienne, the dragon informed him.

  How is it possible? he wondered as Reimund, his oldest Great in Merilda’s family, summited the bed, launching himself onto Ashe’s abdomen.

  “Oooof,” the Lord Cymrian grumbled, mostly for effect, but still feeling the squeeze of the wind leaving his lungs.

  He rolled onto his side and pulled his great-grandson into his arms, burying his nose in the giggling boy’s neck as the lad’s younger sister struggled to climb up the coverlet that had slid to the floor on the other side of the bed. Ashe stretched out an arm to assist her in her efforts, thankful that he had chosen to wear his nightshirt to bed.

  He opened the eye that had not yet seen the light of morning to the sight of Andret, the youngest, staring him in the face with his hands above his head and bouncing enthusiastically on legs far too short to make the climb.

  Ashe rolled onto his back again and opened his mouth, allowing a rolling draconic sound, part hiss, part gurgle, part roar, to emerge from the depths of his throat, clicking and glottal-stopping, to the screeching delight of the children. They imitated the sound capably in a joyful chorus, possessed of the necessary dragon throat structure, as all his progeny seemed to be, filling the air of the bedchamber with noise that would have caused any human present, were there one, to take shelter in fear.

  It was a tradition begun with his own children when they were this age, and passed along, in spite of Rhapsody’s feigned horror, to each member of the family throughout the generations.

  Merilda was already across the room, snagging her wiggling boy and assisting him onto the child-covered mound that was now his great-grandfather.

  “Good morning, Papa,” she said, leaning down to Ashe and kissing his brow.

  Ashe smiled easily. “Good morning, Gingersnap,” he said, his voice still rough with sleep and the aftermath of the roar. Merilda, unlike her dark-haired mother and alone among her siblings, had a head of red-gold hair that echoed his own in his youth, before the gray of age had slipped into it, and her grandmother’s emerald-green eyes. “Thanks for bringing the wake-up brigade.”

  “They have been up since foredawn, eager to jump on you,” Merilda said, unconsciously putting out a hand to prevent a tumble. “I’m sorry if you were deep in a dream, or actual restfulness, something I scarcely recall from my own youth since I entered sleepless motherhood.”

  “Sleep is unduly overvalued,” said Ashe, tickling Elysabeth and eliciting a gale of laughter that rang in his ears like the famed bells of the basilica in Bethe Corbair. He sighed, feeling the physical satisfaction of the wyrm in his blood from being in the presence of his greatest treasure—his family.

  Andret’s belly was near his mouth, so he blew loudly on it, and dodged out of the way of the toddler’s scrambling feet, now trying to find purchase on the pillows.

  “Here, you rascals, allow Papa some breathing room,” Merilda ordered, dragging Andret back into her arms. Ashe pulled himself up against the headboard and wrapped his arms around the oldest two.

  “Have you had breakfast yet?” he inquired of Elysabeth, who nodded briskly.

  “Hours
ago. Your tray is outside, by the way,” Merilda said. “Shall I bring it in?”

  “No, thank you. I think I’ll just snack on these two tasty-looking Greats.”

  Reimund and Elysabeth squealed in delight.

  “Come along,” Merilda instructed, putting the wriggling toddler on her hip and signaling for the older two to join her. “Let’s give Papa a few moments of peace. Your cousins will be along soon enough and the place will be ringing with noise.”

  Ashe kissed the oldest two great-grandchildren and watched wistfully as they slid off the bed and hurried to their mother. “Peace, like sleep, is unduly overvalued as well, at least where children are concerned,” he said, kissing Andret, who hung upside down like a bat from his mother’s arms. “Thank you for bringing them in, Gingersnap. I loved this morning’s reveille.”

  “They do have the timbre of a bugle call,” Merilda laughed. “The others should be arriving over the next few days before the family summit, and there’s much to be done in preparation, so I will leave you to your breakfast and your privacy. Thank you for indulging their need to tussle with you. I remember how much my brothers and I loved waking you when we were their age, along with the other Grands when they were here with us.”

  “Where is Hamimen, Papa?” Reimund asked as his mother led him away.

  Ashe smiled. “She’ll be home soon, and happy to see you.” He exhaled as Merilda led the children out the chamber door and smiled at him in very much the same way that Rhapsody would have. Then he lay back against the pillows, suddenly bereft as the door closed behind them.

  Though certainly not soon enough, he thought.

  Then he rose creakily from the shambles of the bed and made his way to the privy, feeling cold and overwhelmingly lonely.

  * * *

  A little more than half an hour later, the Lord Cymrian descended the curving staircase leading to the round vestibule of the main residence at Highmeadow, bathed, shaven, dressed, fed, and in a considerably better state than he had been in upon first awakening.

  The antechamber was the main entranceway to the part of the fortress generally reserved for family matters and small meetings, a building full of bedchambers, medium-sized dining rooms, and private libraries, decorated in a homey manner, in stark contrast to the grander facilities in other buildings elsewhere in Highmeadow.