Requiem for the Sun

  As the Lord Cymrian’s retinue descended the northern face of the Teeth, through the Rymshin Pass heading north to Sepulvarta, a cry went up from a single voice, which was picked up a moment later by the rest of the regiment.

  “M’lord! M’lord!”

  Ashe followed the fingers of the soldiers pointing west into the sun. Even before his eyes tracked, his stomach clenched in terror; his dragon sense discerned the approaching bird, noted the feathers it had shed, the strain in its wings, the rapid movement of its eyes as it searched from above for its perch on its trainer’s glove.

  “Sweet All-God,” he whispered, reining his horse to a halt. “No.”

  It was a falcon.

  26

  HAGUEFORT, NAVARNE

  Rhapsody coiled the last of the sections of curly hair into a chignon and pinned it, more by feel than sight.

  “Blue ribbons, or white, Melly?” she asked.

  “Blue, I think,” the girl replied, examining her young face seriously in the looking glass. “And can you entwine the crystals with them at the base as you did at the spring ball?”

  “Of course.” Rhapsody put out her hand for the ribbons, swallowing quickly as another dizzy spell signaled its approach. She blinked rapidly, trying to quell the unsteadiness, and improvised by running her hands along the sides of Melisande’s hair to smooth it.

  “There,” she said when the unsteadiness had passed. “How is that?”

  “Wonderful!” Melisande replied, turning to hug her. “Thank you. I wish the Lirin hairmistresses would teach me to plait pretty patterns as they taught you.”

  “I was a poor student, I fear,” Rhapsody said, brushing a kiss on the side of the girl’s head. “You should see some of the configurations they are able to weave. Once I attended a meeting with the sea-Lirin ambassador with an accurate depiction of the coastline of Tyrian embroidered in my hair.” The young girl giggled. “Next time you come with me to the Lirin lands I will ask them to teach you, too. Now, come. Help me find your brother.”

  Melisande put out her hand, and slipped an arm around Rhapsody’s waist to steady her. Together they strolled up the front entranceway of Haguefort, past the walls of rosy brown stone blooming with fragrant floral ivy, taking their time on the stairs.

  The sounds in the distance told Rhapsody the carriage and its escort were close to being ready to leave; she could hear the drivers, little more than moving shapes in the distance, calling to each other, making final preparations; a squeak of doors indicated that the carriage was being stocked.

  “Is Gwydion here?” she asked a little nervously, scanning the swimming green horizon for her adopted grandson.

  “Behind you,” came a voice that was deeper than it ought to be, with a slight crack in its tone. Rhapsody turned and smiled fondly at the blurry shape now in front of her.

  “I was afraid you would be caught up in your archery, and not remember to come and bid me goodbye.”

  “Never,” said Gwydion Navarne solemnly. She opened her arms, and awkwardly he came into them, embracing her carefully, as if she might break.

  “I’m not made of glass, you know, Gwydion,” she said as Melisande ran off to inspect the inside of the carriage. “Please don’t worry so.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Balderdash. You’re lying; I can hear it in the frequency of your tone.” She reached up and laid a hand on his check, the smooth, boyish skin rough with an emerging beard. “Tell me what is troubling you.”

  Gwydion looked away. “Nothing. I never really like it when you leave. Particularly in a carriage, and even more so when you refuse to allow me to go along.”

  Rhapsody inhaled and held her breath, cursing herself for being thoughtless. Gwydion’s mother had been mercilessly slaughtered after kissing her seven-year-old son goodbye and heading off to Navarne City with her sister to purchase a sturdy pair of shoes for one-year-old Melly. She had forgotten the circumstances until now, though she had noticed his reticence to say goodbye each time she left for Tyrian or some other place.

  “I will be back to see you shoot those new arrows,” she promised, running her hand up and down his arm as if to warm it. “Do you like them?”

  The lad shrugged. “I’ve used but one, and it was true. I am saving them so that you and Ashe can both see me use them in an archery tournament.”

  “Wonderful!” she said brightly, her tone belying the nausea that was rising again. “Now, will you escort me down to the carriage? You know how much Anborn hates to be kept waiting. He’ll be bellowing any moment.”

  “Let him wait,” Gwydion said, his humor returning. “He’s going to bellow anyway. You may as well give him something real to bellow about.”

  “They’ve put in a silver bucket with ice in it!” Melisande called up from the roadway in amazement. “And it’s shaped like a knight’s helm! And there are cherry and lemon tarts!”

  Gwydion Navarne brushed some stray pebbles from her path with his toe. “Will you commend me to the dragon?”

  “I will. I’m sure that will please her. She’s really quite kind and has an interesting sense of humor.”

  “I have no doubt,” Gwydion said, offering her his arm. “If she didn’t, the population of western Roland would be hanging upside down, drying into bacon in the world’s biggest smokehouse somewhere north of Gwynwood.”

  Rhapsody put her hand over her mouth. “Ooh,” she mumbled, rushing to the side of the keep’s wall.

  The young duke-to-be turned away and scratched his head awkwardly.

  “I can’t wait to be able to talk to you the way that I used to,” he said remorsefully. “I am so sorry.”

  “I can’t wait either,” she said after a moment, reaching for his arm. “Perhaps Elynsynos will know a way to bring me back to my old self again.”

  “Well, I know a way for you not to have to suffer like this too long.”

  “Oh? How?”

  The boy’s eye glinted merrily.

  “Stay far away from Ashe the next time.”

  The road to Gwynwood wandered for a while through a mixture of sparse forests and open fields before it passed into the thicker white wood for which it was named.

  The summer sun was high in the sky, but the forest was cool, the light flickering in through the carriage window in lacy patterns. Rhapsody drowsed against the cushions, enjoying the feel of the gentle breeze on her face.

  The debilitating illness had lessened in the three days she had passed at Haguefort. Though she was sometimes sick, and often unsteady, more often than not the symptoms of her condition were confined to blurry vision and a sudden lack of balance that overwhelmed her, even when sitting or lying down. Another few days, and I will be with Elynsynos, deep within the quiet of her lair, at the edge of her underground lagoon. The thought made her smile.

  The rumble of the carriage wheels, the muted clip-clop of the horses’ hooves, the occasional twitter of birdsong that made it past the curtain at her window, the sounds of a journey happily undertaken blended in a soothing harmony. It was a peaceable feeling.

  She heard her name being called from out the left window; it was Anborn’s voice, and he sounded almost merry. For all that he protested an unwillingness to be tied to a single place, or kept in a task not of his own choosing, the General seemed quite pleased to be out with a small guard regiment, traveling some of the most verdant and beautiful forest on the continent.

  “Hello in there,” he bellowed. “You alive, m’lady?”

  She moved to the window and stuck her head out.

  “Define ‘alive.’”

  “Aha! She lives!” the General said cheerily to his troops, the eight soldiers and two drivers who had accompanied them. “You must make an effort to let us know you are still among the living from time to time, lady.”

  “Sorry,” Rhapsody said pleasantly. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the feel of the strong breeze, cooled by the green leaves of the forest canopy, as it billowed over her face and buffeted her h
air. It was a feeling similar to being at sea, the constant motion, the stiff wind. A sensation she enjoyed.

  Anborn rode close to the carriage. “Do you wish to stop for noonmeal?”

  Rhapsody opened her eyes and smiled involuntarily. Aside from the high-backed saddle that had been crafted to support him, there was no visible sign that this was a man without the use of his legs. His lameness was even less noticeable because, to a one, all the saddles of the guards riding with him had been similarly outfitted, so that the General could ride any mount he chose. He looked as hale and imposing on horseback as he had the first time she had ever beheld him, when he almost ran her down on this very forest road.

  “If the troops would like a break, we can stop,” she said. “I’m not hungry.”

  Anborn snorted. “They had breakfast,” he said haughtily. “We’ll go on; we’re making good time.”

  “I’d like to stop at the Tree when we pass near the Circle,” Rhapsody said, gripping the window to steady herself as a new wave of unease rolled over her. “How much longer until we are there?”

  Anborn looked around at the forest and the position of the sun. “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  “All right.” She pulled the carriage blanket up to her shoulders. “Then, by all means, let us stop and take noonmeal. Knowing you, Anborn, you won’t give them the chance to eat again until tomorrow.”

  The General smiled slightly. “As m’lady commands.”

  Shrike, as ever riding at Anborn’s rear flank, his dual stonebows in his lap, spoke up.

  “Thank the gods. I was planning to rip the bark from the next tree we passed and swallow it.”

  The deeper they traveled into the greenwood, the easier the journey became.

  Anborn called the carriage to halt every few hours when he determined Rhapsody to be awake, giving her a chance to stretch and feel solid ground beneath her feet for a while. After a few moments, when she deemed herself ready, she was packed carefully back into the coach, and the guard regiment set off again.

  As the afternoon sun fell below the tree line, flooding the forest with shafts of dusty golden light, the General called the carriage to halt for the night.

  “I think you’ve had entirely enough jolting and jouncing for one day,” he said as the coach doors were opened. “Time to rest. We’ll build a fire and sleep for the night.”

  “Don’t refrain from traveling on my account,” Rhapsody said, taking the arm of the guard who stood at attendance to help her down the carriage steps. “I’m just sleeping in here. I’ve done no work at all today.”

  “Welcome to the privileged life,” Anborn laughed.

  As the soldiers set about laying camp, Shrike assisted the general off his mount and onto a bedroll near the pile of sticks and branches in the clearing that would be the campfire. Rhapsody settled down next to him, and was handed a mug of cider and a plate of biscuits.

  She unbuckled Daystar Clarion from her belt and pulled the sword gently from its sheath; it came forth with a quiet hum, the same pitch as the clarion call that it could wind when drawn in anger or need, but almost inaudible, resonating quietly in the still air of the darkening forest.

  The bond to elemental fire deep within her sang a harmonic in response; the music hummed in Rhapsody, quieting her stomach and her mind.

  The soldiers watched, fascinated, as she extended the sword of billowing flames and touched the kit of sticks and branches; it ignited immediately, the fire leaping in the wind, showering the twilight with bright sparks that crackled and winked like fireflies.

  She rested the sword across her knees, her elbows holding it in place, impervious to the flames, and listened to the gossip and banter of the four soldiers who were not standing watch as they relaxed around the fire and ate their simple meals.

  There was something refreshing, invigorating, about being in the forest at night in summer, she thought, breathing deeply to take in the cool, moist air that stood in such contrast to the dry heat of Yarim. Perhaps being in this natural setting, with the full green of the season, the warm, rich scent of the earth, the sheltering canopy of tree branches above her, was improving her condition. She felt better, though she was still off balance and unclear in her sight.

  Many leagues away in the distance she could hear the song of the Great White Tree, a deep, primeval melody that stretched throughout the forest, humming in all the things that grew there. She closed her eyes and listened, entranced, letting the music fill her mind and clear it.

  Softly she began singing a song of home that her seafaring grandfather had sung to her when she was a child.

  I was born beneath this willow,

  Where my sire the earth did farm

  Had the green grass as my pillow

  The east wind as a blanket warm

  But away! away! called the wind from the west

  And in answer I did run

  Seeking glory and adventure

  Promised by the rising sun

  I found love beneath this willow,

  As true a love as life could hold,

  Pledged my heart and swore my fealty

  Sealed with a kiss and a band of gold

  But to arms! to arms! called the wind from the west

  In faithful answer I did run

  Marching forth for king and country

  In battles ’neath the midday sun.

  Oft I dreamt of that fair willow

  As the seven seas I plied

  And the girl who I left waiting

  Longing to be at her side

  But about! about! called the wind from the west

  As once again my ship did run

  Down the coast, about the wide world

  Flying sails in the setting sun

  Now I lie beneath the willow

  Now at last no more to roam,

  My bride and earth so tightly hold me

  In their arms I’m finally home.

  While away! away! calls the wind from the west

  Beyond the grave my spirit, free

  Will chase the sun into the morning

  Beyond the sky, beyond the sea

  Anborn, Shrike, and the soldiers listened, their conversation dying away when the first notes sounded, rapt at the melancholy melody. When she was finished, the circle of men drew in a deep, collective breath, and let it out again in a synchronous sigh.

  “Now for another, if you are up to it, lady,” Anborn said, draining his tankard. “Can you favor us with ‘The Sad, Strange Tale of Simeon Blowfellow and the Concubine’s Slipper’? It’s a favorite of mine, as you know.”

  Rhapsody laughed, feeling the tightness in her chest and abdomen abate a bit. “A Gwadd song? You want to hear a Gwadd song?”

  Anborn adopted a comic air of injury. “Why not?” he demanded. “Just because the Gwadd are tiny folk —”

  “Make good footstools,” added Shrike rotely.

  “— doesn’t mean they aren’t fine singers —”

  “Tender when stewed with potatoes —”

  “And crafters of wondrous ballads —”

  “Can substitute as haybutts for crossbow practice —”

  “All right!” Rhapsody choked, mirth making her ribs hurt. “Stop that at once.” She sat up as straight as she could and cleared her throat. “I need my harp,” she said, positioning herself more comfortably. “Would one of you fine gentleman be so kind as to retrieve it from the carriage?” The guards rose quickly to their feet, looking askance at the ancient Cymrians so willing to be crude in front of the lady, to no apparent displeasure on her part.

  Anborn sighed comically as one of the men jogged to the carriage to get the instrument.

  “Sounds better on a concertina,” he said knowingly to Shrike.

  “Or a fiddle strung with Gwadd-gut.”

  Rhapsody put her hand over her mouth to quell the mixture of nausea and laughter that rose up at the comment. “One more statement like that, Shrike, and I will move over near you so that when I retch, you can be
the direct beneficiary of it.”

  “Tsk, tsk,” intoned Shrike, shaking his head. “Never known her to be so mean and ornery before, have you, Anborn? Wonder what’s got into her? Oh, wait — that’s right. It was your nephew.”

  Anborn cuffed his oldest friend on the ear and glowered at him.

  Quickly Rhapsody took the lap harp from the guard, tuned it and began to play the comically heartrending air from the old land, the song of the Gwadd hero Simeon Blowfellow and his lost love’s shoe.

  “Another! Sing another, lady,” Shrike encouraged when she had finished the tragic tale.

  “How’s for a lullabye?” Rhapsody asked in return, shifting the harp to her other knee. “Not just because it’s late, but because I need to practice.” The men nodded their assent, and she began to sing an old, soothing night air, the origins of which she didn’t remember.

  Sleep, little bird, beneath my wing —

  Anborn turned suddenly pale in the reflected light of the campfire; his hand shot out and gripped her forearm.

  “Sing something else,” he said tersely.

  Rhapsody blinked, taken aback. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, trying to discern the expression on his face, but could only make out the shadow of his eyes and mouth.

  “Do not be sorry. Sing something else.”

  Unnerved, she thought back to the wind-song that was her own lullabye as an infant, knowing that none of those assembled would have heard it before, and so would not take a dislike to it as Anborn apparently had to the last one. Haltingly she began to sing it, her voice reflected in the gentle crackling of the campfire, the pulsing of the flames that licked the blade of Daystar Clarion.