He had modestly insisted, in the wake of the untimely deaths of the previous monarch and her heir, that a suitable waiting period of a year pass before his coronation, and instead chose to become regent of Sorbold, stewarding the power that in the spring would officially be his.
He did not wait to make use of that power in unofficial capacities.
Now the dusty streets of Jierna’sid, once little more than a pathetic market of beggars and sheeted tents, workmen, animal traffic, and greasy pit fires for roasting goat meat, had been transformed into a tidy place of military patrols and marching cadences, expanded linen factories and tradesmen whose sole clientele was the army and the crown. Jierna Tal, long out of place in its dingy surroundings, had been transformed as he had been transformed, into the royal center of a growing city blooming in the desert heat, growing strong in the blessed rays of the endless sun for which Sorbold was known.
It was only the beginning.
Talquist looked back at the ancient Seer. Rhonwyn’s slender hands held a battered metal compass, an instrument said to have been used by her Seren father fourteen centuries before to find his way to the Wyrmlands from the Lost Island of Serendair. Her ability to know the truth of the Present was a birthright gained from the elemental power of Merithyn the Explorer and her dragon mother, Elynsynos. Talquist, a descendant of the indigenous humans that had lived at the outskirts of the Wyrmlands for time uncounted before the Cymrians came with their odd powers and their ridiculous longevity, was not impressed.
But even if the power of the Cymrians did not impress him, their longevity—a seeming resistance to all of the ravages of time—was something he craved above all else.
Given the length and intensity of his list of cravings, that was impressive.
He had heard once, long ago and in passing, that the spark which lit the fire of the Great War that ended the Illuminaria, Gwylliam the Visionary’s great era of empire building and enlightenment, was a family argument about succession. It was well known in the lore of the sea that Edwyn Griffyth, Gwylliam’s eldest son, had spurned his birthright and gone off to live evermore in Gaematria, the mystical realm of the Sea Mages, so Talquist surmised that Gwylliam had been denied the heir he wanted to his throne, a dynasty that would live on after him, even though he was thought to be immortal.
Talquist wanted no dynasty. He needed no heirs.
He wanted to live forever.
He came over to the fragile woman and crouched down beside her.
“Come now, Grandmother,” he said, his merchant’s voice as smooth as Canderian silk, “look beyond the fog and fragments of dreams that cloud your eyes, and tell me—has the raiding party been successful?”
The mirrors in the Seer’s eyes reflected his face, her expression blank.
Inwardly Talquist cursed. He had still not learned how to speak easily to her in the correct structure she needed to grasp his questions. Rhonwyn could only see the Present, and what he had asked required knowledge of the Past. He swallowed and tried again.
“The raiding party of the Second Mountain Guard of Sorbold—is the Child of Time in their possession?”
The ancient woman shook her head.
Talquist exhaled. “Where is the raiding party now?”
The Seer’s fleeting grip on the moment prior faded from her face before his eyes. “What raiding party?”
He struggled to keep the seething anger out of his voice. “The raiding party of the Second Mountain Guard of Sorbold—where is it at this moment?”
Rhonwyn ran her fingers, shaking with age, over the nautical instrument in her hands.
“Forty-six, forty-eight North, two, twenty East,” she intoned.
Talquist consulted the map on the wall. Those coordinates positioned his covert soldiers, disguised in the uniforms of common Roland cavalry, in the sparsely populated forest lands of eastern Navarne, less than a day’s journey from their intended target: a small keep in the western duchy of Navarne.
Haguefort.
“And the Child of Time?” Talquist pressed. “It is well?”
The Seer blinked, then closed her eyes again, basking in the reflected light of the sky.
The regent clutched his hands into fists so tight that his neatly trimmed fingernails threatened to puncture the skin of his palms. It was all he could do to keep from seizing the compass and driving one of its sharp legs through the ancient Seer’s heart. He willed himself to be patient, as he always had to during these interviews.
“Is the Child of Time in Haguefort well? Answer me.”
Rhonwyn opened her eyes and looked at him while her hands manipulated the battered instrument.
“I see no Child of Time in Haguefort.”
“What are you babbling about? A fortnight ago, your answer to my question ‘where is the Child of Time?’ was ‘in the forest of Gwynwood.’ Every day since then you have been giving me positions leading it back, unmistakably, to Haguefort. Yesterday, your very answer to my question was ‘Haguefort.’ If it’s not there, where is it?”
The woman’s mouth quivered, but she said nothing.
Black rage exploded behind Talquist’s eyes. His hand, unstayed by any rational thought, shot out and gripped the ancient Seer by the throat. Intellectually he knew the sacrilege he was committing, but his intellect was entirely overwhelmed by his frustration.
The brittle bones of her ancient neck crackled in his clenched hands. The Seer gasped, her lips quivering with shock. The regent emperor loosed his grip, panting, and stepped away from the fragile woman.
“Now, again, Rhonwyn,” he said through gritted teeth, “where is the Child of Time? Where is it?”
Purple bruises appeared on the skinfolds below Rhonwyn’s chin, then quickly disappeared. She idly ran her hands over her neck, her face contorted with fear, which faded a moment later into the Past, replaced by serenity once more.
“I see no Child of Time on the face of the Earth,” she said blithely. Then she leaned back in her chair and began to rock slowly again, her eyes closed in the warmth of the sun.
Talquist swallowed, and tried one more time.
“You said the Child was with the Lord and Lady Cymrian each time I have asked you its whereabouts since its birth,” he said softly. “Is it still with them?”
“Is what still with whom?” The Seer’s face was blank, her tone without comprehension.
A bitter taste filled Talquist’s mouth; after the span of a few heartbeats he realized it was the grist from his own clenched teeth. The dust of his molars was a foul reminder of the night he had stood before Rhonwyn’s sister Manwyn, the Seer of the Future, and had done a version of this same irritating dance, seething in silent frustration while the madwoman cackled and swung on her platform over a dark pit in her decaying temple in Yarim, tossing insane predictions into the incense-heavy air. Finally he had lost his patience and raised his crossbow, pointing it at her heart.
Tell me, hag—or I will put an end to your ramblings. Answer my question—what must I do to achieve immortality? Who has the knowledge of how to live forever?
The woman stopped as if frozen. Her mirrored eyes fixed upon him, and her thin mouth crooked into a half smile. She looked through the battered sextant that her explorer father had bequeathed to her at the stars glowing in the dark dome of her temple, then returned her blind gaze to him once again.
You will not kill me, Emperor, she had said. The future holds no picture of my blood on your hands, though they will be red with that of countless others. Manwyn had laid down on her belly then, inching toward him on her suspended platform. If immortality is what you seek, you must find the Child of Time. She cackled, as if to herself. It sleeps now within the belly of its mother, but soon it will come out into the light and air of the world. And Time itself will have no dominion over it.
Talquist swallowed the bitter grit, remembering how the breath had gone out of him as he lowered the bow.
How will I learn immortality from this Child of Time? he had
asked, his voice wavering.
The Seer had sat bolt upright, as if suddenly struck. Her hands went to her mouth, trembling. Then she stretched out a shaking hand, and pointed at him accusingly.
Murderer, she whispered, the golden skin of her face paling visibly in the dim light of the candles. Murderer. Murderer.
Her voice rose to an even more insane pitch. Murderer! she began to shriek, until the word became a scream. Murderer, murderer!
He had left her rotting temple then, the madwoman’s howls ringing in his ears. His spies reported that the guards of the Seer’s temple had shut the great cedar door into her chambers to the pilgrims who came seeking prophecies; rumor held that Manwyn had continued to scream nothing but the word murderer from that day on, night into day into night again.
Talquist inhaled deeply, then bent down beside Rhonwyn once more.
“One last time for today,” he said softly, his voice deathly calm, though his stomach was boiling. “Tell me the exact whereabouts of the Child of Time.”
The Seer turned to face him and slowly opened her eyes. Talquist reared back in shock; each of the mirrored scleras contained, for the first time in his notice, a clear blue iris, its dark pupil contracting in the light of the setting afternoon sun.
The Seer looked at him thoughtfully.
“Right before you, I suppose,” she said steadily. “My sisters and I were often called by that name—children of Time.” She broke her gaze away and looked out the window at the mountains beyond. “I remember, Anwyn,” she said quietly.
Fury roared through Talquist so quickly that he did not even notice she had spoken in the past tense. He seized the back of her chair to steady himself and leaned close enough for his lips to brush her auburn hair where it faded to gray.
“I’m not certain you can fathom, in your blithering state, what risks I have taken on your supposedly infallible word, what sacrifices I have made, m’lady,” he said acidly. “I sent soldiers into Roland ere I was ready to begin the assault, tipped my hand before I was ready. The Patriarch no doubt has learned of your disappearance by now, perhaps even your great-nephew, the Lord Cymrian, knows as well. The element of surprise is an arrow already off the string and away—this is your doing, Rhonwyn, as if you had given the order yourself.”
“Manwyn, the Present will be veiled,” the Seer whispered, staring into the sun. “No more will you see me when you search the skies of the Future—farewell, sister.”
Something black broke within the Emperor Presumptive. He seized the brittle woman by the back of her neck and arm and, without thinking twice, hurled the ancient prophetess out the window of the parapet, past the courtyard and into the chasm below.
Her scream followed her down by a split second, frightening the roosting swallows that had perched in the hollows of the castle’s stone, sending them fluttering skyward in a great white and gray rush.
Talquist rose to his feet shakily, his control returning, and stood at the window, staring down into the all-but-bottomless crevasse. He looked for any sign of the mythic woman, listened for any sound that portended the survival of one of the three daughters of Fate, but heard nothing save the whine of the wind racing through the canyon, bringing dust in great scattering swirls to the stones of the courtyard. He contemplated the loss to the lore of the world that he had just delivered.
“I had always heard that Time flies,” he said. “Oh, well.”
Boot steps thundered up the steps. Talquist turned idly to see his chamber guards, followed a moment later by his puffing chamberlain, appear at the top of the stairs.
“Are—are you all right, m’lord?” the chamberlain inquired between breaths.
“Never better,” Talquist said. He looked out the window into the depths of the chasm once more.
“The commander of the imperial army is awaiting your pleasure in your antechamber, m’lord. He says you summoned him, but that I was not to disturb you if you were not ready for him.”
“Send him in.”
The chamberlain hesitated. “Are you certain, m’lord? He is happy to wait if his presence is an imposition. Commander Fhremus doesn’t wish to interrupt your work.”
Talquist smiled. “Not at all,” he said as he headed for the stairs. “He’s interrupting nothing; I was just killing Time.”
Far across the continent, on the other side of the Krevens-field Plain, deep within her moldering temple of splashing fountains and decaying tapestries, the Seer of the Future ceased wailing.
For more than five months she had been keening without ceasing, howling away in her insanity. The pilgrims who occasionally had sought her advice had long stopped coming to her great carved door; no gold coins had been dropped in the offering box. Even the guards had left, being unable to bear the nightmarish sound any longer.
Now, with the murder she had foreseen accomplished, her sister’s very existence forgotten, the clouds within her mind dissipated. Manwyn sat slowly up on the swinging platform above the deep well in her temple; her gaze returned to the heavens painted on the dome above her.
And softly began to sing to herself a song of madness once again.
20
Haguefort, Navarne
The commander of the raiding party of the Second Mountain Guard reined his horse quietly to a halt, signaling for the other soldiers to fall in behind him. The remainder of the cohort took shelter along the far side of the great wall that encircled Haguefort, the only sound the occasional snorting of the animals in the cold air. The commander nodded to Mardel, one of his spryer lieutenants, to dismount and draw near for instructions.
The young soldier complied, tossing his reins to another, and came forward.
The commander leaned over and spoke softly.
“Slip over the wall and open the gate for us. We will ride the wall where it is unguarded and then cross to the far entrance. Take your time. You know the rest.”
Mardel nodded, saluted, and jogged silently to the wall. Upon approaching it he could see that the commander had chosen an opportune spot; although the wall had guard towers every twenty feet or so, this side appeared to be largely unguarded.
He waited in the shadows, nonetheless, until he was satisfied that no one atop the wall could see him. After a few moments, when no sign of a guard appeared at all, he quickly crossed to the wall and felt around for handholds.
Atop the wall were metal spikes, but Mardel had been trained for just such a purpose. He scaled the wall quickly, then slid between two of the spikes with ease, then crouched low and dropped down to the ground within, rolling to absorb the shock of the twelve-foot fall, ending up on his feet.
He glanced around and saw nothing but thick shadows within the walled field. He clung to the wall, staying low in case there was anyone on the keep balcony in the distance, but the lights of the small castle were low; probably the entire house had retired for the evening.
It only took a few moments to traverse most of the inner field. Mardel could hear soft sounds without, noises that would not have been detected had he not known that the remainder of the cohort was traveling at approximately the same speed outside the ramparts. His heart pounded with excitement as he passed a low two-story building that their reconnaissance had described as the Cymrian Museum that the keep’s previous lord, a famous historian, had maintained.
The gate was almost within reach. Mardel glanced one last time at the balconies and windows in the distance and, seeing no one on or near them, made for the gate.
A ringing sound, followed by a hum, rent the air, followed a split second later by pulsing waves of blue light.
Mardel turned around slowly.
Behind him in the shadows, almost within arm’s reach, was the dark figure of a man silhouetted by the blazing light of the sword in his hand. That sword had a blade that ran in blue ripples from tang to tip, waves of what appeared to be water flowing hypnotically down the shaft, appearing to fall away into nothingness.
The shadow was crowned with hair of shiny r
ed-gold, metallic in its sheen like burnished copper. That, and two blazing blue eyes in the middle of the face, was the only part of the man not cloaked in darkness.
“Oh, let me guess—you were sent in to open the gate, am I right?”
The voice issuing forth from the shadow sounded almost bored, as if annoyance was too great an expenditure of effort.
Mardel stood stock still.
Before his eyes, the tip of the watery blue sword was at his neck.
“Again, you were sent to open the gate? Answer, or I will cut your throat.”
“Yes,” whispered Mardel.
The dark figure lowered the weapon.
“There’s a much closer one near the main entrance. Would have saved you a lot of running.”
Mardel swallowed but said nothing. Of the entire cohort of the Second Mountain Guard, he was the least experienced, though he had been in military service to the crown almost half his short life. While he had partaken in bloody raids and served in some unsavory situations, he had never been surprised on a raid before, especially by someone who blended into the darkness without detection.
“How many?” The man sheathed his blade, dousing the light and returning the inner field to shadow again.
“Fifty men,” Mardel lied.
The hidden man snorted. “Only fifty?” He rolled his eyes, the blue irises gleaming in the white scleras, and gestured toward the wall with utter contempt. “Open the gate.”
A metallic clanking could be heard in the near distance behind the man.