The dunes seem higher tonight, he thought; the tiny beams from the distant candles vanished as he stepped into a swale in the marsh. He pulled his hat brim lower to shield his eyes from the wind, then cupped his hand around the battered lantern, trying to keep the wind from snuffing it.
Before him in the blackness the frost-bleached ground seemed to heave, then rise until it towered into the sky.
Quayle stopped, night blind. His lungs seemed suddenly full and heavy, as if the chill he had caught a few days before had returned, stealing his breath. Shakily he held up the lantern.
In front of him the dune shifted again, sand and marsh grass raining from it as if it were a waterfall. The dim light of his lamp flashed on what appeared to be a giant statue, taller than himself by more than half, a primitivelooking man clad in armor, shedding sand in great wispy waves. Its blind eyes seemed to be fixed on him.
“God’s drawers,” Quayle whispered. “What is this?”
The statue in the sand did not move.
Quayle swallowed hard, his throat sore and suddenly without spit. He tried to imagine, with a mind clouded by shock and illness and anticipation of frolic, how this statue could have come to wash up on the beach, and especially how it could have happened without his hearing of it. Jeremy’s Landing was a tiny community, many generations of families who plied the sea for a living, selling their catch in nearby towns, all interdependent upon one another. Each event, no matter how insignificant, was reported breathlessly from hut to hut; how he could have missed this news was incomprehensible to him.
He shook his head, then turned northward, and took a step toward the village.
The statue’s head moved in unison with his.
Quayle gasped, the lantern in his hand shaking violently.
He held the lantern up higher in the wind. There was something malevolent in the statue’s stance, as if seething anger had been sculpted into it by the artisan who carved it. Quayle did not know how he knew this, but the tension, the fury was palpable. He leaned forward and stared at the figure’s eyes.
Then reared back in horror as those eyes stared back, gleaming with hatred behind milky cataracts.
The lantern fell from his hand onto the sandy marsh and went out. Blackness swallowed Quayle.
In that blackness, he felt certain that the titanic figure before him was breathing.
Or moving.
Blind, Quayle turned and dashed to his left, running hell-bent for the lights of the village. He had gone a half-dozen steps before he was lifted from the slippery ground up into the air with a force that stripped the breath from him.
A sickening crack resonated in his ears; dully Quayle realized it was his pelvis shattering under the crushing weight that had clamped around him. He tried to scream, but no air would come into his lungs. All he would do was open and close his mouth silently in terror as he was dragged forward in the air, until he was a hairsbreadth away from the terrible eyes, black with a milky sheen, staring at him in the darkness.
Quayle’s mind, never the keenest in the world, disconnected from his body. The unreality of what was happening was too much to comprehend; instead he decided that he must still be in the throes of the fever that had gripped him with the onset of his chill. I’m still in bed, having nightmares, he thought as the titan turned him onto his back, until the stone fingers gouged through his underbelly and began digging around in his viscera. Then the agony and the spinning lack of air hit him at once, and he began to shudder, the only bodily function he was capable of.
The statue ripped through his intestines, searching, then pulled its bloody fingers out of his abdomen and pushed aside the folds of his tunic. It seized the tattered scale that Quayle kept tucked inside his shirt, dropping the fisherman as it raised the object up to the light of the moon, the beams dancing off its ridges in rainbow ripples.
As the darkness started to close in, Quayle had only the momentary sight of the titanic being above him, an expression of almost piteous joy evident on its rough-featured face, before the statue turned and brought its foot down on his face, splitting his skull like the husk of a soft-shelled crab.
The pieces of him were found in the morning, first by the ptarmigans and gulls, then by Brookins, who stained the sand with all the liquid his body held at the sight.
For the first time in as long as his cloudy mind could remember, Faron felt joy.
No longer a formless creature trapped inside a statue, he felt the pieces of his divergent identity start to fall into place; he was a man now, a titan formed of living earth and fire, the son of a demon, blessed and cursed with the memories of ancient battles and conquests that he did not understand.
The green scale hummed in his hand, the light of the moon rippling off it like seawater flowing over the edge of the world. Reverently he pressed his treasure against his face, feeling once again the vibration that had resonated deep within him for so long. He had mourned its absence by becoming weaker, withering; now the strength of spirit came flowing back, sparking inside him. He slid it into place with the other three, forming a gleaming fan of color in his stone hand; the warmth they emitted coursed through him, filling him with something akin to bliss.
But he was still missing something.
Distantly he heard the roar of the sea; it was a sound that had struck great fear into Faron from the time his father had brought him forth from the quiet darkness of the cavernous tunnels in which he had lived to sail across the world to this place. His father had been chasing a woman, a woman whose hair he had saved and carried with him, tied with a moldering ribbon. Faron had scryed for her with the scales, and had found her. They had come to this new, frightening land, only to have his father die and their ship scuttled in the ocean.
He stared at that ocean now, shrinking from the might of it. Slowly he walked to the beach, where the foaming waves were chasing up on the sand. He stood, staring at the glittering green scale until those waves touched his bare stone feet; the sensation nauseated him, filling him with fear, and he shrank away, back to the dry land, where he could feel the warmth of the earth once more.
Then, his treasure returned to him, he turned slowly in the night and walked away from the pounding sea, leaving the noise of Jeremy’s Landing and the solstice celebration behind him.
24
The closing banquet of the winter carnival started out festively, and ended even more so.
With the final races complete, the last of the competitions’ prizes awarded, and the final round of choral singing ended with enthusiastic participation, such that the white fields of Navarne had rung with the sound of it, all without any noticeable mishap, the Lord and Lady Cymrian, the two Navarne children, Anborn, and the household staff had wearily sat down to a late supper, reviewing the final arrangements and determining the festival’s success.
“Two drunken fights leading to fisticuffs; otherwise, all in all, a fairly peaceful event, I would say,” Ashe commented, running his thumb over his wife’s hand. Rhapsody smiled in response, assenting. “And Navarne has a new duke now, with full participation in the council of Roland, which bodes well for the province. I think we can cautiously term this carnival a success.” Gerald Owen, the last of the servants to leave the table, smiled tiredly and nodded, gathering the plates and withdrawing from the room, followed by Melisande, who was on her way to bed.
Anborn belched loudly, deadening all sound in the room.
“Indeed. Any party where no one of significance gets killed can certainly be seen as a good one,” he said. “I’d like to offer my thanks to the Lady for her kind hospitality, and make known that I will be taking my leave shortly.” Those around the table nodded in assent; such an announcement was never unexpected, as Anborn rarely remained in one place very long.
“This time, however, I would like to issue an invitation to the new duke of Navarne to accompany me in my travels.”
“Where are you going?” Ashe asked, taking a sip from his glass of spiced cider.
The Lord Marshal waited until the door had closed behind Gerald Owen to answer.
“Sorbold. I am still troubled by things I have heard on the wind from there; I suspect it is worth investigating.”
Ashe nodded in agreement. “I’m sure whatever information you gather will be highly useful, Uncle. I have been concerned about some of the reports from the shipping trade there; we’ve been watching the actions of the new regent emperor since his selection by the Scales, but thus far, at least on the surface, he seems to be conducting a measured regent year. I have had some doubt expressed about him from people I trust, so whatever you can determine will be valuable.”
“Only if you choose to act on what I tell you, Gwydion,” Anborn said darkly. “I’ve been warning you for some time that war is coming, and while you’ve taken some of my suggestions to heart, I would like to see you moving more aggressively to reinforce both the infantry and the navy.”
“I’ve placed an order for a dozen new warships, built in Manosse and outfitted in Gaematria, this very week, Uncle,” Ashe said mildly. “And the shipments of horses for the Alliance cavalry have been arriving regularly from Marincaer; training is well under way. I am taking what you have said, and what I have seen, to heart, rest assured.” He squeezed Rhapsody’s hand again; her capture had been sufficient to make him see Anborn’s warnings as timely.
“So we would be going to spy, then?” Gwydion asked, barely able to contain his excitement.
“Gwydion, an invested duke does not spy on a sovereign nation,” Rhapsody said reproachfully.
“No, indeed not,” Anborn agreed. “He makes a visit of state, but without telling anyone, and watches from places where he cannot be seen.”
“Forgive me,” Gwydion grinned. “Is that all right, then, Ashe? May I accompany Anborn?”
“That’s for you to decide,” Ashe said, draining his tankard. “You are fully invested; your decisions are your own now. It probably is a good idea for you to make an official visit of state at the beginning of your reign, anyway—but I think you might wish to limit that visit to Tyrian or the Nonaligned States, which are safer havens for you, it would seem, and travel through Sorbold only as a means to get there.” He ignored Anborn’s withering glance. “I would also caution you about remaining away from Navarne for long; as the duke now, you need to be available to keep the province running.” He saw the young man’s face fall, and hurried to finish his thought. “But you have inherited an elemental sword, and need time to travel with it, to train. There is no better teacher than Anborn. I think it’s a good use of your first weeks as duke—and I will mind Navarne while you are gone. Then you can return and assume your full duties.” He turned to his wife. “What say you, darling?”
Rhapsody folded her hands.
“If you are going to venture forth, those are good reasons to do so—the official and unofficial ones—and you will be in good company,” she said. “To that end, I’d like to note that I desire to leave Navarne for some time as well.”
The three men at the table stared at her.
“I have been feeling ill and weak for some time, and it is disturbing to me,” she continued, her face flushed from the weight of their stares. “Something Jal’asee said before Achmed left made a lot of sense to me—it seems to me that since my situation is unique, and somewhat chancy—it would make sense for me to go and spend some time with Elynsynos, to see if there is something I can learn from her experiences with wyrmkin pregnancy, or just to visit with her. There is something drowsy and comforting about being in her cave, and I have not seen her for quite a long time.”
“How long a visit are you talking about, Aria?” Ashe asked, trying to not allow the reaction he was experiencing internally to become rampant.
Rhapsody shrugged. “I don’t really know. I suppose it depends on how I’m feeling. I have no idea how long my confinement is going to be, given that your own mother carried you for close to three years. I think I might like to stay at least until Thaw. But I am not much good in Haguefort; I cannot even properly look after Melly, being ill so much. I am looking for a way to get better, and I believe that the search for the answer as to how to do that may reside in the dragon’s cave.”
She turned her attention away from the others and to Ashe.
“We have talked about this before; what is your decision, Sam? Is it all right with you?”
Ashe choked back his rising gorge. No, the dragon in his blood whispered. My treasure. Stay.
“If that’s what you want, Aria; if you think you will be safer or more comfortable with Elynsynos, I will gladly take you there.”
“Thank you,” Rhapsody said, her green eyes shining. “You can always come to visit me from time to time.” She looked at Anborn, whose face betrayed his disapproval, and said quickly, “Remember, Lord Marshal, should anything happen to you in Sorbold where you might need assistance, you know the Kinsman call. I’m sure I would hear it, even in the dragon’s cave, and come to your aid, if the wind is willing to carry me as it does other Kinsmen.”
Anborn chuckled in spite of himself. “Now, that’s a pretty thought. The three known Kinsmen on the continent—one is lame, the second is pregnant and sick as a dog, and the third—well, the third is a Bolg.”
“Indeed,” said Gwydion Navarne. “But in my view, if I were ever in need, any of those three Kinsmen, however compromised, would be a great relief to have around.”
“You’re right about that,” said Ashe, rising from the table and helping Rhapsody out of her chair. “And as long as the three of you remember to call for aid should the need arise, I will at least be somewhat comforted until you are home again.”
Two mornings after the festival ended, and the last of the stragglers had made their way out of the grounds and back to their homes, when the last of the debris and detritus had been cleared away, Anborn and Gwydion Navarne saddled their mounts and left on their mission together.
Rhapsody had been fighting back tears all morning, helping Ashe check Gwydion’s provisions and sitting at breakfast with him and Melisande, who felt no need to hold any tears back and instead allowed them to roll down her porcelain cheeks into her clotted cream.
“I think I am finally understanding what you went through all those times when the people you loved left you at home and went off to do things they assured you were important, promising to come back,” she said to her adopted grandson after Melisande had left the table. “You want to believe so badly what they say is true, but your dread prevents it. Additionally, you can’t give voice to that worry, for fear that your doubt will somehow be taken as a lack of faith, or bring bad luck. So you put on a brave smile and tell your loved one to hurry home safely, all the while dreading the moment they leave your sight.”
“That would be correct,” Gwydion said sympathetically. “I’m sorry to have made you experience it.”
“No need to be,” the Lady Cymrian replied. “Do what you need to do, and come home safely. I know that Anborn will guard you with his life.”
“And I will guard him with mine.”
Rhapsody resisted the urge to smile. “I know that as well,” she said.
A slamming sound startled them. The young duke stood as the doors opened and the litter bearers entered, carrying the Cymrian hero, who was snarling at Jal’asee as they came through the door.
“No, I did not try the infernal contraption, bugger it all,” Anborn said, gesturing contemptuously at the Ancient Seren. “And as I have told you over and over again, I have no intention of doing so, unless the bloody thing can be used to hone weapons or ferment ale. I don’t want my brother’s damnable pity, or his largesse. You can tell him that rather than its intended use, I plan to donate it to a whorehouse and suggest that they use it on their guests who find it intriguing.”
Jal’asee consulted his cards, then pulled one out of the sheaf.
“Hmmm, whorehouse, whorehouse, whorehouse. Ah! Here it is. ‘Then at least I know you will be getting some use o
ut of it occasionally.’ ”
“Are you ready yet?” Anborn demanded of Gwydion Navarne, glaring daggers at the Sea Mage.
“I will be in just a few more moments, Lord Marshal,” the new duke said, bending to kiss Rhapsody on the cheek. “I need to say my goodbyes to Gerald Owen and Melly, and then I will be prepared to go.”
“Get on with it, then,” Anborn said gruffly. Gwydion nodded and took his leave.
The Lord Marshal gestured at his bearers. “Withdraw to the edge of the room; I wish to speak privately with the Lady Cymrian.” The servants bowed and walked away. “And you, Jal’asee—tell my miscreant brother that the next time he wants to make something for me, he might want to be certain it is something that would not squash him flat should it drop on him unexpectedly next time he comes to visit.”
“I will relay the message,” said the Sea Mage dryly.
“Good. Now go away.”
Rhapsody and the Seren ambassador exchanged a sympathetic glance; then Jal’asee bowed slightly and withdrew from the room.
“You know, it’s a shame that you chose to go into soldiering,” Rhapsody said, a sour edge mixing with the humor in her voice. “You really would have made a fine diplomat.”
“Indeed, the finest sort of diplomat is the one that is plainspoken about his goals and intentions, and where he stands. I don’t think anyone could seriously accuse me of vacillating on my positions, or obfuscating my statements.”
“Certainly can’t disagree with you there.”
Anborn’s azure eyes twinkled. “Well, to that end, I have to ask you if you are still planning your ill-considered visit to the lair of Elynsynos.”
“Yes,” said Rhapsody, taken a little aback. “Why would you think that I had changed my mind?”
Anborn shrugged. “I have no reason to believe that good sense would suddenly strike you; it has never made an appearance up until now. I had just hoped against hope that it would.”
“What is your objection to my plans?” Rhapsody asked.