“Rhur and Shaene; they’re around here somewhere, I think. I heard them talking just before —”
Grunthor patted the small of Omet’s back, his face impassive but his eyes raging.
“’Ush now,” he said firmly. “There will be plenty o’ time for talking after Oi’ve gotten ya out of ’ere and you’ve ’ad a chance to rest.”
Eight days later, the scion of the Raven’s Guild received a package by way of the mail caravan from Ylorc.
Dranth broke the seals and tore off the parchment in which it was wrapped carefully; Esten had thus far only sent nonfragile articles and papers, but he wanted to take no risk of damaging the contents. By the odor issuing forth from it, the package might have already suffered some damage and spoilage from the heat of the mail carriages.
Upon pulling off the last piece of the carton, Dranth, the guild scion of the most soulless, deadly coterie of thieves and assassins in Roland, took a step back from the table, slapped his hand over his mouth, and then vomited all over the floor of the guildhall.
Grunthor had not even bothered to shut her festering eyes before shipping her head back to them.
Epilogue:
Tying the Threads
The rolling backswell from the wave from the explosion beneath the surface of the sea unceremoniously disgorged the Kirsdarkenvar and the two who clung to him onto the black, unforgiving sand of the rocky beach.
The purchase of ground, even sandy ground that slipped and whispered into the sea as the breakers rolled over it, felt like a lifeline to Ashe. He let go of the sword and rolled quickly over onto his belly, checking to see that Rhapsody was breathing and, finding that she was, turned to the Bolg king, who was coughing his lungs up onto the sand.
The next wave that foamed up the beach was shallower, tracing echoes in the outline of the last, but not reaching where it had left them. As the water rolled back, it littered the shore with splinters of wood and rope, the detritus of the ruined ship. None of the pieces were more than the size of driftwood.
Ashe drew his wife into his arms and pressed her body up against his to impart to her what warmth he could. The dragon in his blood assessed her frantically, finding some of her body weight to be missing; her skin was sunken and pale from the salt and the endless exposure to the water during her time in the cave, her hair matted and dark, ragged in varying lengths from where she had sawed it off. He choked back tears at the thinness of her hands, her neck.
But she was home, returned to him from the sea.
And within her their child still grew, strong; he could feel its presence, vibrant.
He pulled her closer, speechless with relief, matching his breathing to her own, reveling in the ragged sound of life coming from her, and let his head fall back on the sand, his eyes blind in the sun above.
Beside him he felt the Bolg king rise, still clearing the sea from within himself, and wander down to the shoreline.
Achmed stared down the windswept beach to the black, jagged bed of boulders over which the sea crashed, where MacQuieth had taken the beast into the sea. Where once there had been boiling steam and turgid froth was now peace; the sea had returned to its ever-violent pounding against the shore, the waves rushing in a great swell of white water, to hurry back out again, dragging the undertow with them.
Gingerly he put his foot in the water.
“Do you see him?” Ashe asked, rising from the sand and pulling Rhapsody up with him. “Do you see anything?”
Achmed squinted, then shook his head.
“Michael?” Rhapsody whispered, her voice harsh from the salt.
Ashe put his arm around her.
“MacQuieth,” he said. “It was he who found Michael, who took him into the sea, wrestled him off the precipice, perhaps even taking the demon into himself.” He fell silent, a sense of loss overwhelming him.
“Could he have survived?” Rhapsody asked, leaning closer to the water’s edge and staring up the beach into the crashing surf. “There are thousands of places to be caught, to hide; believe me.”
Achmed exhaled sharply, then waded into the sea past the crest where the waves were breaking. Slowly he bent down until his skin-web was submerged, listening. After a moment he stood rapidly, shook his head, and strode back out of the sea.
“No,” he said. “His heartbeat is gone, as is the stench of the demon. I heard it once; it rang like a great bell. There is nothing here now but the sound of the waves.”
“Such an incalculable loss,” Ashe said softly. “Imagine what he has seen, what he could have told us. In just the few days we spent with him, I learned more of the Island, and of my line, than I have ever known in all the time before that. Now I can finally see the stock of soldier from which Anborn comes; both Kinsmen.” He shielded his eyes from the red glow of the sun at the horizon’s edge, a bright slice of diminishing fire. “Anborn studied him endlessly, worshipped him; it was MacQuieth on whom his whole life’s plan was modeled. Such an incalculable loss to us. And yet —”
His mind went back to the sight of the old man walking, blind, in the light of the morning sun, unable to see it, feeling its warmth, its glory just beyond his sight.
The All-God give thee good day, Grandfather.
If He were to do so, I would be gone from this life now. All of the years I have ahead of me, and all those behind, would I trade for but one day in which to see what has been lost to Time once more.
I understand.
Do you? Hmmm. I think not. But I suspect one day, a thousand years or more from now, you will.
“And yet what?” Rhapsody asked.
“And yet there is nothing to mourn,” Ashe said simply. “He is at peace.”
Rhapsody nodded, brushing the heavy snarls of her hair out of her eyes, remembering words she had spoken once to Elynsynos long ago, consoling her over the loss of her lost sailor.
Sailors find peace in the sea, just as Lirin find it on the wind beneath the stars. We commit our bodies to the wind through fire, not to the Earth, just as sailors commit them to the sea. The key to finding peace is not where your body rests, but where your heart remains.
“I will sing a requiem for him,” she said.
“And for his son,” Ashe said. “Hector; the one who stayed behind in the Island’s last days. MacQuieth could never bring himself to sing it; perhaps you could do it for them both.”
Rhapsody nodded, brushing the salt from below her eyes. She gathered what strength she had left and walked to the water’s edge, Ashe’s hand still in hers, and touched Achmed’s shoulder.
The men stood silent on either side of her as she lifted her voice, harsh and brittle like a crone’s, chanting the ancient vesper to the sun, the song of the funeral pyre, for the father and the son, both now resting in the sea.
She sang in the lore she had learned in her time in the cave, the ancient melodies the sea had taught her, blending the keening call of the wind with the rhythm of the waves, endless and enduring, in all the colors and subtle tones that had filled her ears while floating in its embrace. It was a song that resonated within her now, in her blood, from her grandfather who had left the lowlands to ply the sea, in her heart, from the lore she had learned, in the child she carried, steeped now and forever in the lore of the water world, the hidden mountains, the unseen splendors, the treasures that lay beneath the rolling waves.
She sang of the lives of two soldiers, one cut short, one lingering far beyond reason, both stalwart guardians, both now part of the never-ending rhythm of the sea, part of its lore.
Part of its song.
The ocean roared in time, the salt-flecked air above the churning waves buffeting her face, all the colors of light wrapped within its swirling, eternal dance. It was a symphony of time, an endless dirge, an elegy, a lullabye, a song of creation, of desolation, of quiet, relentless guardianship, of inevitability. Time carries on, the sea seemed to sing. Live your human lives, however long; they are but a flicker in the eye of eternity.
She s
ang the sun down, then fell silent, her voice, like her strength, all but gone. She turned to her husband and spoke while she still had voice.
“Did Anborn live?” she asked tentatively. Achmed nodded. Rhapsody sighed deeply.
“Thank the One-God,” she whispered to Ashe. “Sam, please take me home. I need to see Anborn, to let him know that he did not fail me; and Gwydion. I need to make good on my promises to him. Then, if you will come with me, I still need to go to the dragon’s lair.” She smiled slightly, remembering the music of the Explorer she had learned. “I have some songs I have to sing for her. The silence of her cave will do me wonders. After all that constant noise, what I crave most is peace.”
Ashe drew her closer, his eyes sad.
“If I have learned one thing from this, Rhapsody, it is that men like Achmed and Anborn are right; there is no such thing as lasting peace, just lulls between episodes of strife,” he said softly. “But I mean to see that those lulls last as long as they can for you, and for us all.” He ran a hand over her ragged hair. “Now, come; I will take you home. On the promontory above there is a sword hilt glinting in the sunlight; I suspect we should gather it before we go. Tysterisk was once the weapon of Kinsmen; my namesake may have use of it one day.”
Rhapsody smiled weakly. “Thank you for helping me make good on my promise to return to him and Melisande,” she said, her voice a harsh whisper. “Let us get there with all due haste; I don’t want them to suffer a moment longer.”
Ashe nodded, raising the back of her hand to his lips.
“There is a stop we should make first, a place we can eat and get some rest that I know you will like. There’s someone there, an old friend of yours, who has been waiting a lifetime to see you again.” He put his arm around her waist to support her and led her up the beach to where the horses waited.
Achmed stared at the sea for one last moment, his eyes scanning the waves, which were still slowly washing up the broken debris from the ship, then turned and watched the bedraggled couple moving slowly along, arm in arm, allowing himself a wistful moment.
Then he shook his head and followed them up the coast.
“Why do I have a sickening feeling Barney will be serving mutton?” he muttered to himself.
THE WEAVER’S LAMENT
Time, it is a tapestry
Threads that weave it number three
These be known, from first to last,
Future, Present, and the Past
Present, Future, weft-thread be
Fleeting in inconstancy
Yet the colors they do add
Serve to make the heart be glad
Past, the warp-thread that it be
Sets the path of history
Every moment ’neath the sun
Every battle, lost or won
Finds its place within the lee
Of Time’s enduring memory
Fate, the weaver of the bands
Hold these threads within Her hands
Plaits a rope that in its use
Can be a lifeline, net — or noose.
SONG OF THE SKY LOOM
Oh, our Mother the Earth;
Oh, our Father the Sky,
Your children are we,
With tired backs.
We bring you the gifts you love.
Then weave for us a garment of brightness … .
May the warp be the white light of morning,
May the weft be the red light of evening,
May the fringes be the fallen rain,
May the border be the standing rainbow.
Thus weave for us a garment of brightness
That we may walk fittingly where birds sing;
That we may walk fittingly where the grass is green.
Oh, Our Mother Earth;
Oh, Our Father Sky.
— Traditional, Tewa
Ode
WE are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world forever, it seems.
With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world’s great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire’s glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song’s measure
Can trample an empire down.
We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o’erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world’s worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.
— Arthur O’Shaughnessy
Seven Gifts of the Creator,
Seven colors of light
Seven seas in the wide world,
Seven days in a sennight,
Seven months of fallow
Seven continents trod, weave
Seven ages of history
In the eye of God.
Because he saw Rhapsody in curlers and a mudpack
and didn’t slam the manuscript shut
Because he is willing to take risks
that others would not
Because he refuses to accept less than my best
Because it matters as much to him as it does to me
this book is dedicated
with gratitude and affection
to
James Minz
Visionary
Editor
Friend
Tor Books by Elizabeth Haydon
Rhapsody: Child of Blood
Prophecy: Child of Earth
Destiny: Child of the Sky
Requiem for the Sun
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
REQUIEM FOR THE SUN
Copyright © 2002 by Elizabeth Haydon
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Edited by James Minz
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Maps by Ed Gazsi
eISBN 9781429912495
First eBook Edition : March 2011
Elizabeth Haydon, Requiem for the Sun
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