Requiem for the Sun

  “What makes that so astounding is that, except for Grunthor and me, Achmed trusts no one,” Rhapsody agreed. “Trust is the thing that allows you to risk, but the concept of risk is not in his personality. He hates acting without a plan, without the ability to control every aspect of the situation, even though he has so many skills that he can call upon in a crisis or an unexpected circumstance. He’s consummately impatient.”

  Ashe’s smile faded a notch.

  “I don’t know if you are right about that, Aria,” he said. “I think Achmed is more patient than we think. It all depends on what he is waiting for.”

  Rhapsody laid her hand on top of his that lingered on her face.

  “What are you telling me, Sam?” she asked softly.

  Ashe entwined his fingers with hers. “That if you agree, if you are willing to undertake with me a new beginning, I think we can set about ordering your birthday present tonight.”

  Rhapsody leaned closer so that her lips were just a breath away from his.

  “And what do you plan to give me for my birthday?”

  Ashe gazed into her eyes, the love in his own burning as brightly as the lanternlight, the candleflames.

  “Someone to teach your morning aubade, your evening vespers to,” he said.

  All of the worry, the concern that had plagued both their minds over the years was gone, banished from the room as if by the hand of an unseen guardian, leaving nothing but the soft, inconstant light of the candleflames, the scent of tuberoses, the crackle of the lantern fire, the splash of the fountain, and each other.

  And yet there was anticipation, a nervous, dizzying excitement that they had felt once before, so long ago, on the other side of Time.

  The sense of portent, the good cheer that Rhapsody had felt on the balcony, blew in on the evening breeze and wrapped itself around the bedchamber; there was an utter lack of foreboding, a palpable good cheer that drove any doubt from the room.

  Only once did Rhapsody speak.

  “Why — ?”

  “Shhh, love,” Ashe said, resting his finger on her lips, then replacing it with his own. “Don’t ask why tonight; leave that for the morning.”

  She returned his kiss without hesitation of any kind.

  The lanternlight within the fiery cylinder that shone on the falling water of the fountain mirrored their movements, a slow, gentle dance of melding, opposing elements, improbable in their attraction, beautiful in their union.

  Those bonds of elemental power, tied inexorably to their souls, sang deep within each of them; the crackling passion of the fire that was she, the patient relentlessness of waves of the sea that was nascent in him, oscillating, undulating, building and cresting as it joined with her, warmed by the pure, gleaming fire within, forming a new element, one that burned with heat, ebbed with the tides of the sea, remaining stalwart, unending, as their love for one another.

  The element of Time.

  In a fleeting moment of conscious thought amid the blissful oblivion of lovemaking, Rhapsody felt a tone sound within her, a melodic note that was different from ela, her own Naming note, and sol, the musical pitch to which Ashe was attuned. This new tone resonated through her body and mind, then disappeared, leaving a mark she could sense, but only distantly.

  It was the most beautiful sound she ever remembered hearing.

  The water in the fountain on the table leapt with joy; the fire in the lantern burned brightly in time with it, until its fuel was spent. Then it resolved to a gentle glow, reflecting in the ripples in the basin, no longer leaping, but smooth as glass.

  The moon crept over the horizon’s edge, bathing the red clay of Yarim in white light, making the city shine as if in a dream, the silent brick buildings and empty market stands gleaming in its radiance.

  The moonlight glided through the open balcony window and came to rest on the two lovers, wrapped in sleep and the arms of each other, spreading to lovers like them all across the city.

  It tiptoed into the apertures beneath which children slept, blanketing them in its light, shining in their dreams.

  It shone around the sad, lifeless relic that stood in the center of a disrupted fountainbed, illuminating it to dazzling as the tiny flakes of mica in its surface reflected the light.

  From the depths of the now-cleared earthen passageway came a whisper, then a gurgle, and finally a sigh.

  A particularly bright moonbeam caught the first mist around the Fountain Rock’s summit; it sparkled in the haze of the glistening vapor, bathing it with an ethereal radiance of mist.

  And as the dry, weary city slept in the cool wind of an otherwise warm summer night, life-giving water began to pour forth, once more, from Entudenin.

  18

  Morning clanged in on the clamor of the bells from the Judiciary’s tower ringing over a swell of shouting in the still-dark streets.

  Groggily Ashe sat up, deep in the fog of dragon-sleep, his head humming unpleasantly at the ruckus. He muttered an inaudible curse, then rubbed his eyes with one hand as he propped himself up with the other, the blissful ease of the night before dissipating around him.

  His dragon senses came to awareness first; the fire in the room had gone out, and the heat of day had not yet come to dispel the chill of dawn from the chamber. In the scope of his awareness he could feel the water coursing forth from Entudenin a few street corners away, hear the glad tidings being shouted and acclaimed by voice, the ringing of bells, the clashing of pots, and the banging of drums as Yarim Paar awoke to the miracle. The minutiae of it all was mammoth; each individual in the square — four hundred twenty three, four hundred twenty four, the dragon counted — each of the three hundred and seven, no, nine, noise makers, each of the one hundred and eleven sparks in the fireplace, each drop of newly flowing water — seven hundred million, four hundred sixty seven thousand, three hundred thirty six, seven, eight — counted obsessively by his dragon nature. The resulting din made his head hurt, made him struggle to subdue his innate awareness, shielding it from his conscious mind so he would not end up with a colossal headache.

  Rhapsody slept fitfully beside him, pale and whispering to herself. After spending half the night in deep slumber she had become restless, edgily twitching from side to side in the bed, embroiled in dreams that he could not chase away. He had, as a result, not gotten a great deal of rest, and he was certain, based on the reverberations from her body and the alabaster hue of her face, that she had not, either.

  He leaned over her and kissed her neck, his lips warm against her cold skin; it was moist, perspiring. He laid his hand on her side and shook her gently.

  “Rhapsody? It’s almost dawn. Are you going to sing your aubade?”

  She moaned in response, drawing her knees up and curling into a ball.

  Alarm rushed over him. Ashe sat up, shaking off the tremors of cold worry and gathered him wife into his arms. She was breathing shallowly, face beaded in sweat.

  “Rhapsody?”

  Weakly she pushed away from him and rolled onto her side, then dragged herself to the edge of the bed. She stumbled as she stood, then hurried to the privy closet, slamming the door behind her.

  The alarm that had gripped him was replaced a moment later with realization as the sounds of retching issued forth from behind the bathroom door.

  He rose quickly and dressed, waiting for her to return. After a few minutes had passed he walked to the privy and stood outside the door.

  “Rhapsody? Are you all right?”

  Her answer was weak. “Go away, please.”

  “Can I get you something?”

  “No. Go away.”

  He ran a hand nervously through his red-gold hair. “Do you —”

  “Ashe.” Her voice came through the door more loudly this time, still ragged but a little stronger. “Go away for a while, or I will have to kill you when I come out of here.”

  “Oh. Well, since I don’t want to die just yet, I suppose I will go out on the balcony for a bit,” he said, his smi
le fighting with the furrows of worry in his brow. “If you need anything, just snap your fingers, and I will be there.”

  “Thank you. Go away.”

  “All right.”

  “Now.”

  “At your will, m’lady.”

  The Lord Cymrian turned away from the renewed sound of retching and went out onto the balcony. Dawn was breaking over the city, coming to light over the red buildings and making them gleam with morning fire. Ashe took a deep breath, inhaling infinitesimal drops of moisture that had coated the air in the night, leaving it heavy, sweet.

  In the streets below a crowd was gathering, larger than the crowds that had pushed into the Marketway to stare at the Bolg. There was an almost palpable violence mixed with the joy as the townspeople at the edge of the central streets, those who had obviously heard the news from those closer to the city square, shoved themselves forward, carrying jars and clay vessels for harvesting the liquid bounty that had returned in the night.

  Ashe noted, lacking any genuine interest, that the Shanouin priestesses had been summoned; a thin corridor in the pressing crowd had been opened to allow a dozen or so of the veiled women in their pale blue ghodins into the town square where the fountainbed had already begun to overflow, spilling precious water onto the dry bricks of the streets. One among them seemed different, awkward in the ritual countersigns they were making as they approached the Fountain Rock; he might have thought it noteworthy if he cared at all, which he did not.

  He stared at the wellspring; Entudenin had darkened, like wet clay, to a deeper hue of brown. Tiny rivulets of green and blue, too insignificant to be visible to human eyes yet, but within range of his sight, striated the clay; by the end of the cycle, the color would be starting to return to the Fountain Rock. There was something deeply pleasing about the knowledge of that. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the miracle a few streets away.

  The element of water that formed the core of his soul sang within him; the waters that were issuing forth from Entudenin shouted in return. Ashe stood for a moment, lost in the silent song, then went to the sword rack and drew Kirsdarke, the ancient elemental sword that he carried as its bearer. His hand gripped the hilt more tightly than usual; the sword was more alive today, gladdened by the presence of the living water pouring into the streets of Yarim Paar.

  He returned to the window and held up the sword in the light. The liquid blade, which normally ran in blue rivers from tip to tang, disappearing just above the wave-shaped hilt, was frothing like breakers rolling to the shore of the sea; it sparkled in the light of dawn, rejoicing in kinship with the fountain. Ashe could feel its power, enormously vibrant and strong, even at rest, surge and increase, celebrating now with renewed excitement, as if it were welcoming a child in this place of dry desert.

  In his kinship with the sword, he could understand its thrill.

  Soon he would welcome a child of his own, one who shared the same blood, the same history.

  And love for the same woman.

  The privy closet door opened with a slow creak and Rhapsody emerged. Ashe sensed her return and quickly sheathed the sword, then ran into the room from the balcony and took her arm. She was pale as milk and her eyes seemed to be struggling to keep a focus.

  “I am all right, Sam,” she said, forestalling his query, “but I can’t see very well. Can you please help me to the bed?”

  “You can’t see?” Ashe asked nervously, guiding her gently across the cold tiles of the floor. “I have never heard of that before.”

  She squeezed his hand as a spasm shot through her, stopping where she stood, trying to regain her balance, then nodded when she had done so. “How many times have you witnessed a woman of human and Lirin blood who was carrying a wyrmkin child?”

  “Never,” Ashe admitted, “but I didn’t think you would be ill so quickly.”

  “Neither did I,” Rhapsody said, pushing back against the pillows as Ashe delivered her to the bed. “My mother carried six of us without missing a single morning’s chores. It’s frustrating to be so weak. And cold. I feel so cold.” Her eyes cleared for a moment, and she took Ashe’s hand and smiled. “But I am very happy.”

  Ashe kissed her on the forehead. The skin was still clammy, beginning to burn with feverish heat. “Yes. As am I.” He looked down into her green eyes, which were beginning to cloud over again. “Tell me what I can do for you,” he said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice, and the worry from taking command of his mind.

  Rhapsody winced as her abdomen contracted again; she rolled to her side, trying to keep from groaning in pain.

  “Take me home,” she said, her face buried within the pillow. “I want to go back to Haguefort.”

  Rhapsody had just reemerged from the privy closet when Ashe returned to the room. She was sitting in one of the chairs near the fire a few feet away, dressed in her traveling clothes, and looking as if she felt better, though still ghostly pale. Ashe came to her side, took her by the shoulders, and bent down, kissing her cheek.

  “It should a fairly simple task to slip, unnoticed, from Yarim,” he said, running the back of his hand over her hair, still damp from the bath he had given her before he left to make arrangements for their journey. “Every man, woman, and child in Yarim Paar, it seems, is dancing in the spray from Entudenin, filling jars and being generally jubilant or disruptive. No one is paying attention except our own guard regiment.”

  “Good,” Rhapsody said, clutching the arms of the chair as another spasm rocked her.

  Ashe sighed in a mixture of frustration and sympathy. “I hope you will forgive me, but we will be traveling by coach,” he said, a note of humor in his otherwise-worried voice. “At the risk of having to brave your ire for being made to feel pampered, old, or ill, I thought you should be as comfortable and as contained as possible.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, exhaling deeply as the tremor passed. “You have been most kind. At the risk of making myself ill again, can you answer the question I was trying to pose to you last night?”

  “Yes. What is it?”

  “When you said that we could, er, order my birthday gift, you commented something about it taking thirteen months to craft,” she said, her hands moving back to her stomach. “Why?”

  Ashe winced. “Well, you are half Lirin, and the Lirin have a longer gestation than humans do,” he said, watching as the realization began to come over her face and trying not to laugh at the comic horror in her expression. “A child of a full Lirin mother and a human father generally is carried for about thirteen months, as you know. And that’s being optimistic. With dragon blood involved, it’s impossible to know how long this will take.”

  “How long was your mother pregnant with you?” Rhapsody asked shakily.

  “Two and a half years. Close to three.”

  The Lady Cymrian stood up sharply, her hand over her mouth.

  “Excuse me,” she said quickly, then lunged for the privy closet again.

  Ashe waited for a moment, then went to the door and summoned the guard.

  “Tell the quartermaster to hurry with that coach,” he said.

  The jolting ride through the rocky outskirts of Yarim Paar was sheer agony. Every rocky rut the coach contacted brought on another spasm, another bout of nausea, leaving Rhapsody sallow and trembling. By the time they reached the foothills above the city, she was unable to remain upright and lay, curled under a heavy blanket, on the coach’s bench, jostled violently with each lurch of the carriage.

  Ashe was growing frantic, though he fought to keep his panic from his wife’s notice. He kept repeating the words of the Seer over and over again in his mind, struggling to draw comfort from them but finding none.

  Rhapsody will not die bearing your children. The pregnancy will not be easy, but it will not kill or harm her.

  If you have lied to me, Aunt, I will come for your blood, he thought bitterly, endeavoring to remember the primordial mandate that the Seers could not do so, but failing to be c
onsoled by it. After all, his own grandmother, Manwyn’s sister, had deceived him about Rhapsody’s survival more than a hundred years before.

  When they reached the summit of the promontory that overlooked Yarim Paar, Ashe glanced out the window, then rapped on the window that opened onto the driver’s perch.

  “Stop here, please.”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  As the call to halt traveled fore and aft of the carriage in the caravan, Ashe knelt on the floor next to Rhapsody’s seat and ran a hand gently over her hair and face. Her body was still cold and trembling, her eyes still fleetingly glassy. He lowered his lips to her ear, kissing it, then spoke softly.

  “Aria? Can you hear me?”

  She nodded distantly.

  “I’m going to stop here and take you outside for a moment to get a breath of air.” Rhapsody didn’t respond.

  Carefully he gathered her in his arms and kicked open the carriage door, carrying her out of the darkness of the coach, down the steps and out into the blinding summer sun.

  The wind at the top of the bluff snapped his cloak of mist behind him, spattering droplets into the hot air, as it blew her hair in front of her face. Rhapsody’s eyes remained closed, but her grip on his arm tightened slightly.

  He carried her to the edge of the rocky promontory and came to a halt there.

  “Aria — look if you can.”

  At first Rhapsody did not respond, but after a moment of the wind in her face she opened one eye, then the other, and gazed out at the city of Yarim Paar stretching out on the flat red plain below.

  In the center of the distant city, a glorious mist of blue and white was emanating forth from the tiny gleaming obelisk that yesterday had been dead, shriveled in centuries of heat and loss. The light of the summer sun caught the water droplets and refracted them into a glorious spectrum of color, reaching from the ground into the air above, disappearing in a shaft of gold from the sunlit clouds.