“Well met, sire.” The man saluted Achmed briskly. “I am Garson ben Sardonyx, sent as an emissary of His Majesty, Faedryth, Lord of the Distant Mountains.”
“I know who you are,” Achmed said snidely. “I suffered your presence, and that of many of your kind, during my investiture, and later at the Cymrian Council four years ago. Your contingent consumed ten times the victuals and spirits as all the other delegations combined, and left an unholy mess that has only recently been scoured clean. What do you want?”
The veneer of politeness vanished in a twinkling from the Nain’s eyes. He reached unconsciously for the end of his beard and angrily smoothed it into place.
“I can see you are in a pleasant mood, as always, Your Majesty,” he said testily. “As am I. Receiving a visit at midnight in Ylorc can only be slightly less foul than having to make one. I needed to catch you before you left for the winter carnival in Navarne, to which I know you have been invited. I will be brief; I have come with a direct message from His Majesty, King Faedryth.”
“And what is it?” demanded Achmed impatiently.
The Nain ambassador’s gaze met the Bolg king’s and did not waver.
“He knows that you are attempting to reconstruct the Lightforge,” he said, his voice heavy with import. “He bids me to tell you that you must not.”
For a full score of heartbeats the Bolg king and the Nain ambassador locked eyes in silence. Then the mismatched pair belonging to Achmed narrowed behind his veils.
“You traveled all the way from your lands to dare to instruct me in such a manner? You’re a brave man with too much time on his hands.”
Garson did not blink. “My king commanded it.”
“Well, I am puzzled, then,” said Achmed, sitting down on the chair of ancient marble scored with channels of blue and gold giltwork. “I know of no Lightforge. And yet Faedryth has risked my ire, which as you know is considerable, by sending you to barge into my rooms in the middle of the night to issue me an order regarding it? Even I, who places less stock in diplomacy and matters of etiquette than anyone I know, find that offensive.”
“Perhaps you do not call it by the same name,” said Garson evenly, ignoring the king’s objections. “But I suspect you know to what I refer. The Lightforge is an instrumentality that the Nain built for Lord Gwylliam the Visionary eleven centuries ago, a machine formed of metal and colored glass embedded into a mountain peak, which manipulated light to various ends. It was destroyed in the Great War, as it should have been, because it tapped power that was unstable, unpredictable. It poses a great threat not only to your allies and enemies, but to your own kingdom as well. You are attempting to rebuild something you do not fully understand; your foolishness will lead to your destruction, and very possibly that of those around you. You have already seen the effects of this. The tainted glass from your first attempt still litters the countryside. This is folly of unspeakable rashness. King Faedryth commands that you cease at once, for the good of the Alliance, and for your own as well.”
The Bolg king’s hands went to his lips, where they folded in a contemplative gesture. He stared at the Nain diplomat, who remained rooted to his spot on the polished marble of the Great Hall floor. Then a crooked smile crossed the lower half of his hidden face, visible in his eyes.
“And how precisely do you know of all this?” he asked casually. “Your hidden kingdom is so distant that it cannot be reached even by extended mail caravans; the Nain are all but invisible in the sight of the world. If the ocean separated us we could not be more isolated from one another; how is it that you are so aware of my undertakings?”
“King Faedryth makes it his business to monitor events that could have a disastrous impact on the world, sire,” Garson said haughtily. “Information finds its way to him when it is important that it do so.”
Achmed’s amusement dissipated, and he rose from his seat slowly, deliberately, like a snake preparing to strike.
“Liar,” he said contemptuously. “The Nain turned their backs on the world four centuries ago; you have no interest in the day-to-day goings-on of the world outside your own, and no means of hearing of them, even if you did have the interest. And yet here you are, telling me the details of the most secret of my projects, at the command of a king who believes he has the domain to tell me what to do about it?”
He walked down the aisle and stood directly in front of the Nain ambassador, looking down into his smoldering eyes.
“You have one yourself,” Achmed said levelly. “You have built your own instrumentality, and you make use of its scrying ability to spy on my lands. It’s the only way you could have known.”
Garson glared at him in stony silence.
Achmed turned his back on the ambassador and returned to his seat. “Get out of my kingdom at once,” he ordered, gesturing to Kubila, who had remained in a shadow at the back of the Great Hall. “Return to your king and tell him this from me: I once had respect for him and the way he conducts his reign; he has as low an opinion of the Cymrians as I do, and is a reticent member of the Alliance, just as I am. He keeps to himself within his mountains, as do I. But if he continues to spy into my lands, or send emissaries who tell me what to do, when my own version of your so-called Lightforge is operational, I will be testing out its offensive capabilities on distant targets. I will leave it to you to guess which ones.”
“I doubt very much that you wish me to convey that message to Faedryth,” said the ambassador.
“Doubt it not, Garson. Now leave.”
Achmed waited until the Nain diplomat had stalked out of the Great Hall, then turned to Kubila.
“Have Krinsel waiting here for me when I return.”
Grunthor was putting the calipers back in their leather case when Achmed appeared at the summit of the mound of gravel and ash that served as the final barrier in the Earthchild’s sepulcher.
The giant said nothing as the Bolg king approached, but Achmed could see, even at a distance, the quiet despair in his eyes. When he finally reached the catafalque on which the Child lay, he could see the shadowy outline of where she had lain the last time they had been in this dark place, her body smaller within it.
“The withering continues,” he said aloud. He spoke the words just to give voice to them; before that they were hanging painfully in the air, heavy above his head.
Grunthor merely nodded and laced the caliper case shut.
Achmed brushed his gloved hand delicately over the Earthchild’s hair, parched golden brown now as the dry wheat chaff on the steppes beyond the mountains. Then he followed Grunthor back up the passageway to the Cauldron again.
Krinsel was waiting in the Great Hall, as he had commanded. She appeared slightly haggard, her dusky face grim but expressionless, having passed most of the night on her feet at attention, awaiting his return. In her hands she bore the list of casualties, the victims of the Sickness that still lingered in their torment, their conditions detailed in notes carefully documented by the midwives and their aides who had been tending to them.
“Any new deaths?” Achmed asked as he came to a halt before her.
The head midwife shook her head.
The Bolg king nodded. “I believe we’ve come to the end of the main wave of casualties,” he said, nodding his readiness to leave to Grunthor. “Those that survived the picric exposure and are still alive will probably make it. Gurgus has been scoured of all traces of it, as have the hillsides on which the dust from the explosion fell. All that is left now is to try and make those who are recovering comfortable, and to attempt to return to normal as quickly as possible. Do you agree?” The midwife nodded again. “Good. Then I will be on my way. I will be traveling a route parallel to the guarded caravan, so if you need to reach me, have Trug send out a hawk.”
“Tell ’Er Ladyship Oi said hullo,” Grunthor said dryly as Achmed made his way to the doorway that would lead him through the exit tunnels of the Cauldron, out through the breastworks and onto the open steppes beyond. ??
?An’ don’t forget my sugared almonds. If we’re gonna put the kingdom at risk, we might as well ’ave somethin’ nice to eat. On second thought, bring back any Lirin ya might see at the carnival. Especially the dark-’aired variety; they ’ave the best flavor.”
“I’ll be back in a fortnight,” the Bolg king said. “And when I return, nothing had better have exploded, imploded, or shattered—unless it’s the head of that ambassador from the Nain.”
Traveling through the earth was a mixed blessing, the dragon found.
There was a power around her now that had been missing in the frozen wasteland of her lair, a warmth and vibrancy she could feel in the strata of the crust of the world. The earth welcomed her, though it was a somewhat cold welcome still. The return of her name had brought back only fragments of memories; still lost were the ones that tied her to the element from which her mother’s line had sprung.
Below the ground, the song that had echoed her call was harder to hear, muffled, though still ringing somewhere in the distance. The dragon was never completely certain of its bearings, and in her singlemindedness she often found herself doubling back, confused by the echo of it. Her mind, once as brilliantly honed as a gleaming blade, was still thick, confused easily, and frequently she found, to her dismay bordering on rage, that she had circled back, or lost the path, or taken a route through the darkness that had misdirected her.
Still, the wail in the distance remained, guiding her southward, returning her to the path when she lost her way.
It may take time to get there, she thought after one particularly disappointing diversion. But when I do, what I find will be worth it.
The bloodlust within her heart burned brighter in the darkness of the earth.
18
THE SEXTON’S MANSE, HILLSIDE ABUTTING
NIGHT MOUNTAIN, JIERNA’SID
At midnight that night Talquist pounded on Lasarys’s door.
It took the sexton of Terreanfor a few minutes to answer, hurrying to the door of the manse set in a rocky grotto outside Night Mountain, halfdressed, opening it in between outbreaks of violent knocking. As soon as the latch was lifted and the door open a crack, the Emperor Presumptive pushed his way inside.
“My—m’lord,” Lasarys gasped, clutching at his nightshirt, the candle in his elderly hand trembling so that wax dripped onto his forearm, “what—what’s wrong?”
“Is it done?” Talquist demanded, shutting the manse door quickly. “The soldier—is it felled?”
The sexton hung his head and sighed. “Yes,” he said dispiritedly. “And wrapped in linen soaked in holy water. But it has not been transported to the altar yet.”
“Good—belay that and bring it instead to the square of Jierna’sid.”
“Now?” The sexton looked horrified.
“Yes, now. Summon your acolytes; wake them.”
“They—they are exhausted, m’lord. It was a very emotional and difficult day.”
The Emperor Presumptive’s face hardened in the candlelight. “It will be a difficult night as well, but then they can rest. Go get them, Lasarys.”
“Yes, m’lord.” The sexton disappeared into the darkness of the manse.
It took every acolyte in the temple’s monastery to drag the dray sled containing the giant statue of Living Stone to the square in front of the palace of Jierna Tal.
Talquist had ordered his guard, the mountain regiment dedicated to protecting Jierna Tal, and thereby the emperor, to ring the pathway between Night Mountain and the square where the Scales stood, to keep the peasantry away. They had maintained the evening’s peace with little difficulty; no one lived in the square around the Scales except the occupant of the palace, and so it was possible to have a large wagon pull into the square in the middle of the night without notice.
Lasarys, who had been silent and pale throughout the journey, watched in trepidation as the acolytes slowly unloaded the wagon, carefully bearing the wrapped figure between a score of them by bracing it with heavy timbers and carrying them, two men to a beam, slowly up the steps to the weighing platform on which the Scales stood. As the priests placed the huge statue onto the easternmost of the two weighing plates he finally turned to Talquist, anguish in his voice.
“What are you doing, m’lord?” he whispered desperately. “Please tell me that this desecration has some meaning, some higher reason. I feel as if I have perpetuated an atrocity for which the Earth Mother will never forgive me.”
Talquist turned and watched the suffering priest with eyes that a moment before had been shining with excitement, now dimmed into the soft light of compassion.
“Lasarys, take heart. What we do here is not destruction, or desecration—it’s a rebirth.” He patted the sexton’s arm comfortingly. “Do you remember, all those years ago when I was your acolyte, how you would tell me the tales of the formation of Terreanfor? How it was believed that the ancient peoples planted seeds of the flowers and leaves from the trees, and that the Living Stone, still alive and full of the power of creation, grew those glorious statues that still grace the basilica? That the animals and birds were carved in the same way, by the earth itself, from some piece of those selfsame animals?” Lasarys nodded distantly. “Then, Lasarys, if that be the case, where do you think those statues of soldiers came from?”
The sexton blanched. “I—I have no idea,” he stammered.
“Is it possible, Lasarys, that they are, in fact, buried heroes from early days, interred in the warmth of the living earth, grown into statues to honor them as great warriors?”
“Yes, it is possible, m’lord, but whatever—whatever is given into the Earth Mother’s arms should be left there,” said Lasarys haltingly. “It is folly to try and take it back, to raise the dead. It is against nature.”
Talquist’s brows drew together in displeasure. “I am not trying to raise the dead, Lasarys,” he said sharply, watching the acolytes remove the beams from beneath the statue, now lying on the weighing plate. “I am merely trying to tap life that is unused—to transfer it, so to speak.” He nodded benevolently to the acolytes who were wiping their brows and who had signaled that their task was complete. “Well done, gentlemen. Thank you.” He turned to the captain of his guards and spoke loudly enough for the acolytes to hear him.
“Take these holy men into the palace, where a repast has been prepared for them. After they’ve supped, lead them to the wagons, return them to their beds at the monastery, and withdraw, that they might rest themselves after such a difficult task—all but two.” The weary acolytes bowed and followed the captain of the guard into the palace.
Talquist gestured to the soldiers as the two priests, Dominicus and Lester, came to Lasarys’s side and stood, exchanging questioning glances but otherwise still.
“Bring out the creature’s tank,” the regent ordered.
Slowly a dray cart was wheeled out from the royal stables, wrapped in canvas. The priests continued to watch as the tank was unwrapped, then shattered. From the detritus a creature was lifted, pale and sickly in shape, its flesh hanging limply from bones that appeared to be little more than cartilage.
“Sweet All-God, what is that?” Dominicus whispered to Lasarys, but the sexton silenced him by raising a hand.
The creature in the soldiers’ grasp hissed and flailed weakly, but was no match for the men in armor. They bore their struggling burden up the steps to the Scales and deposited it into the empty western weighing plate, then stretched its curved arms out and weighed them down with bags of sand. Finally, when it stopped struggling, the soldiers withdrew as well, leaving Lasarys, the two acolytes, and Talquist alone in the square, their footsteps echoing away into the emptiness. A moment later they could hear the distant clattering of cartwheels, as the wagon bearing the acolytes made its way from the cobbled streets of the city to the hillside monastery next to the sexton’s manse where they lived.
Silence returned to the streets of Jierna’sid.
The regent of Sorbold slowly mounted the steps
to the ancient instrumentality, the Place of Weight, where the golden pans had weighed decisions of life and death, war and peace, the survival of nations, and the overthrow of despots for millennia, in this land and the one before it, now sleeping beneath the sea on the other side of the world.
“Lasarys,” he said softly, “unwrap the statue.”
The sexton remained frozen for a moment, then reluctantly nodded to the two acolytes. Together the three holy men gently removed the wet linen wrappings while Talquist continued to gaze at the Scales as if in a trance.
Beneath its linen coverings the statue was still warm from the heartbeat of the Earth in the Living Stone, its smooth clay flesh pulsing with a static hum. The extreme edges of it, where the shoes were carved, the rough-hewn sword in its right hand, and the tips of the mail gauntlet on its empty left hand had begun to harden into lifeless clay, but otherwise it was still damp, still multicolored clay formed into a tall man with irisless eyes, staring blindly up into the night sky, its heavy features expressionless.
Once the statue was laid bare, Talquist moved silently in front of the priests to gaze down at the enormous piece of Living Stone. He ran his hand over the massive shoulders gently, almost lovingly, his face transfixed in an excitement that bordered on holy ecstasy.
“Imagine, Lasarys,” he whispered, “imagine all that can be done here. I have been planning this since before my ascension—the first time I saw those soldiers, I knew they held the power of an entire army in each one of them! I am the keeper of the scale of the New Beginning—don’t you understand, Lasarys, these things are meant to work together! This is the key to all of the plans I have been crafting since I discovered the power of the violet scale. If the Scales can take the life essence of a useless freak, a barely alive piece of flesh, and put it into this stone soldier? If it can stand watch, alive, over my palace, unmoving but animate, it would be a wonderful guard, a fearsome deterrent to any who might try to enter in malice. And if it can move—if only it can move! It might be the perfect weapon, a stone neolith functioning completely under my command, perhaps able to understand the same primitive commands as the being whose life was sacrificed to animate it? Imagine then an army of them—every statue of Terreanfor harvested and brought to life? Not just the twenty or so in the cathedral, but the hundreds, perhaps thousands down in the City of the Dead in the crypt below? Just imagine—”