“Well, ’e would know.”
“Yes, and he has even acknowledged that the place to find one is Yarim.”
Grunthor whistled. “’E must really be growing desperate.”
“Or he knows that I am.” The two friends exchanged a smile; Omet’s terror of Yarim and his sensitivity even to the mention of the place had made for many entertaining moments over the last three years. It was a source of great amusement among the Bolg to see the calm young man who lived casually among them and was rarely at a loss for a wry comeback become instantly flummoxed at any reference to the province, going white and trembling violently. The guildmistress he had served there, whose name he had only mentioned once, must have been formidable; Omet had whispered to him, back when he was still a bald teenager they had rescued from the ceramics works, that evil in a purer form did not exist.
But of course, Omet had seen nothing of the world. Achmed knew that no matter how terrifying the guildmistress was, evil had a whole array of purer forms it could assume.
He had met a number of them personally.
“So Oi suppose that means we’re going,” Grunthor said.
“Yes, unless you can’t spare the time away.”
“Naw,” the giant said, stepping over the debris and going to stand directly under the tower. “Hagraith and the others can ’andle it while Oi’m gone for a bit. An’ it’ll be wonderful ta see the Duchess again; been too long.”
“Indeed,” Achmed agreed.
“Is that really why you’re going, sir?” Grunthor said, avoiding the king’s gaze. “It’s been fair on to impossible to break you away from this secret glasstower project.”
Achmed exhaled shallowly, then went to the draftsman’s table and drew forth a sheaf of vellum pages, weathered with age, from a box beneath it.
“These are the plans I could find for this place,” he said, his voice soft, as if speaking more to himself than to the Sergeant. “They are incomplete, unintelligible in places, written in code or ancient languages in others. I can follow the basic diagram, but there is so much missing that I can’t find in Gwylliam’s library or the vault underneath it. I know that the dome is supposed to be formed from colored glass — it says thus in Gwylliam’s notes, and there were seven glass test blocks buried in the vault, one of each color, to use as a gauge — but which colors are arrayed where is not clearly spelled out. There is one manuscript — this one” — he separated out a ragged page — “that seems to make reference to the tower, but I can’t decode it. Perhaps Rhapsody can. Besides reading Serenne, as a Namer she is knowledgeable about the science of the vibrational scale. Some of the notations in the manuscript look like musical script of a sort.”
“Ah,” Grunthor nodded. “Oi knew there ‘ad to be a connection between this and Yarim for you to be willin’ ta go, even more than the chance to see ’Er Ladyship again.” He sighed as Achmed held the ratty diagrams close to his eyes. “Perhaps could you finally break down and tell me what is so all-fired important about rebuildin’ this tower, sir?”
Achmed blinked. “What?”
“You’re obsessed, if ya forgive me for sayin’ so. An’ Oi can’t fathom why.” The Sergeant crossed his arms. “Ain’t never seen ya like this except when you’re huntin’. The troops are fully trained, the borders secure; the Alliance seems ta be goin’ well, from what an ’umble soldier like me can tell. We got plenty o’ battlements, outposts, lookouts. So why does this one ’ave you in its grip?”
The Bolg king’s olive complexion darkened as he contemplated the question. Grunthor waited patiently until he was able to sort out his thoughts enough to give voice to them.
“When Gwylliam and Anwyn battled during the Cymrian War, it took her five hundred years to make it from the western coast to the Teeth,” he said finally. “Their sons had been divided against their wills, pressed into service by each parent, so as a result, Anwyn couldn’t even approach the Teeth to assault them for most of the war. Anborn held back his mother’s armies for his father with tremendous success. All across the continent there was zerosum warfare; Llauron would take a town or a province for Anwyn, Anborn would take it back for Gwylliam. As long as the brothers were the generals, it was hardly a real conflict; you can tell they were not prosecuting the war too enthusiastically by the length of time over which nothing of any note was accomplished. That is not surprising, given that neither of them really wanted to be participating in it the first place.”
Grunthor nodded, having studied the battle records.
“But when Anwyn finally did return to the Teeth, what was her first objective?”
The giant exhaled. “Gurgus,” he said.
“Right. This peak, this tower was the first thing she attacked — why?” The Firbolg king began to pace, leaving little or no trail through the colored dust on the floor. “She didn’t bother to secure her perimeter, to advance her borders. She ignored Grivven and Xaith and the westernmost outposts, left her army well behind the line of engagement, and instead sent a stealth brigade, three cohorts of her best troops, into the depths of the Teeth, knowing none of them would ever return, specifically to destroy this tower. But why? It had no weapons, no battlements, nothing but a ceiling of rainbow-colored stained glass and some sort of metal support piping and a wheel. What could possibly have been so important about this tower that Anwyn would compromise her position, sacrifice her best-trained soldiers, to destroy it before engaging Gwylliam?”
“Dunno,” Grunthor said, shaking his head. “’Twas a long time past, that war; damned thing ended four ‘undred years ago. You met ’er at the Cymrian Council; she was off ’er flippin’ track. Maybe she was just crazy then, too. ’Avin’ seen ’er in action, Oi’d say there was probably a stupid reason, like she ’ated the colors of the roof windows or ol’ Gwylliam ‘ad once said ’e liked it. These people were fools. Now they’re both dead, an’ we’re all better off for it.”
He stood straighter, casting an enormous dark shadow across the room. “But you, sir, you’re no fool, and neither am Oi. So why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re bent on rebuilding something, when ya don’t even know what it is?”
Achmed’s mismatched eyes studied his longtime friend for a moment, then looked away.
“I’ve seen an instrumentality like it before,” he said. His voice was distant, a world away. “Same cylindrical tower; same piping. Same colored glass ceiling. Same wheel.”
Grunthor waited in silence until it became too heavy to bear. “Where?” he said finally.
“In the old world. Someone in Serendair had one.”
“’Oo?”
The Bolg king let his breath out slowly, as if trying to hang on to the word for as long as possible.
“Glyngaris,” he said at last.
It was a name that he had only uttered once before in Grunthor’s hearing, and never in the new world.
The Sergeant stood still for a long moment, then shook his head, as if shaking off sleep, and nodded.
“If that’s all, sir, Oi’m going to go and see about settin’ up to leave in a few weeks.”
Achmed said nothing, standing still as death, as the Sergeant left the room.
Blue
Cloud Chaser, Cloud Caller
Brige-sol
5
HAGUEFORT, NAVARNE
The rush of wind and sun that blew the tower window open awakened Ashe, filling his eyes and causing him to turn for a moment away from the warmth beside him, shielding his forehead from the brightness of morning invading his chambers and his sleep. He muttered vulgar, muted curses that he didn’t particularly mean in a variety of tongues, some common, some obscure, then rolled back over and stared down at Rhapsody, sleeping deeply, undisturbed in the filtered light.
His good mood returned upon beholding her again. The lacy curtains at the window, fluttering on the wind of dawn, cast moving patterns on her delicate face, striping her cheekbones and brow with fleeting shadows that darted a moment later over her hair, w
hich spread in silken waves over the pillow and white bedlinens like a golden sea.
Within his dichotomous soul, he could feel the swell of divided emotion, the love the man felt for her vying for dominance with the satisfaction in her safe return that was appreciated by the dragon side of him. It was an interesting disparity; his draconic, covetous nature counted her as treasure, struggling with jealousy and bereft despair when she was gone from his sphere of awareness, juxtaposed with the simple, uncomplicated adoration his human side accorded her as the other half of his soul.
Either way, he was wholly glad she was finally home.
He reined in his breathing and moved away slightly so as not to awaken her, settling back against the pillows to study her face while she slept.
With her eyes closed in unconsciousness, she appeared younger, slighter than she did when awake, almost childlike. The heat of the element of pure fire that she had absorbed long ago during her trek through the Earth from her island homeland to this place on the other side of the world burned latent in her cheeks, much dimmer than it did in her eyes, where it could be seen most clearly when she was awake. That elemental magic living within her had a powerful effect on the people who beheld her; it caused some to stare at her as if hypnotized, others to cower in fear as they would in the presence of a roaring inferno. It was an aspect that was misperceived by the masses as an intimidating beauty, because they were unfamiliar with the power behind it.
He, unlike them, was not bespelled by that beauty, but recognized it for what it was, because his dragon nature could sense the power within her, could almost see it. Indeed, because he was tied as powerfully to the element of water as she was to that of fire, he understood on the deepest possible level the gift and curse of such an elemental bond. As a result there was a perfect balance between them, an opposition and a commonality that had made him fall inescapably into enchantment with her even before he had ever seen her; just being within a few miles of her had been enough for the dragon to sense her magic and succumb inexorably to it.
The man, on the other hand, living himself with immense natural powers but imperfect in his humanity, could see beyond that magic, that beauty, to the imperfect woman beneath it. What his human heart felt for her was the love any man had for the woman who completed him, whom he in turn completed, flaws and strengths endured and appreciated, arguments and petty annoyances fought over and forgiven in the course of weaving the tapestry that was a shared life. Being of the lineage from which he came, with its vast powers and terrible history, it was this ordinary love, this common, perfectly imperfect union that he treasured above all else, the sense of normalcy and reality she brought to him.
And she was home.
From the moment he had laid her carefully on their marital bed the night before, as she extinguished the bedside lamp with a simple gesture toward it, there had been no words between them; no words were ever necessary. The fireshadows on the hearth across the room had leapt and danced in time with their lovemaking, the flames roaring with abandon, diminishing down to glowing coals as their passion was sated, dissolving into the contented sleep of lovers blissfully reunited.
And now she slept still, pale, undisturbed by the morning wind rippling through her hair, as he watched her, content with his world.
Finally, when the sun had risen fully above the rim of the horizon and the window ledge, flooding the bedchamber with light, she stirred, then opened her deep green eyes and smiled at him.
“You’re awake?”
“Yes.”
“You’re awake.”
“Apparently.”
“You’re never awake before me.”
“Now, that’s an insulting overgeneralization.”
Rhapsody rolled over and stretched, then slid her small, callused hand into his. “Very well, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you awake before me until this morning. You are usually deep in the sleep of a hibernating dragon and almost impossible to rouse with anything short of the overpowering stench of that nasty coffee you like so much.”
Ashe drew her into his arms and rested his nose against hers. “I dispute that utterly. It is remarkable how easily I am roused when you are here, m’lady. If you are complaining, I insist on the opportunity to prove my point.”
“You’ll get no complaint from me,” Rhapsody said. “On the contrary, I am impressed at your prowess, as always, even more so after last night. You must have been practicing in my absence. I hope you were alone.” She laughed as Ashe’s face colored, then kissed him warmly.
“Well, I am happy to hear that you were not disappointed after traveling all that way to come home.” He pulled her against his chest and lay back on the pillows with a contented sigh, reveling in the contrast of the warmth beneath the down coverlet and the cool sting of the wind above it. “Did you manage to attend to all your affairs of state in Tyrian?”
“Yes.”
“Good; glad to hear it, because I don’t intend to let them have you back any time in the foreseeable future. And as you know, dragons can foresee quite a way into said future, so I hope Rial obtained your signature on whatever he needed for the next several years.”
Rhapsody chuckled, then sat up and regarded Ashe with a thoughtful expression. “I did indeed make certain that all of Tyrian’s business requiring my attention received it duly, because I now hope to undertake a project that would have me here in Navarne for an extended period of time. After the excursion to Yarim to rejuvenate Entudenin, that is.”
Ashe sat up as well. “Oh, really? I’m intrigued. What project might that be?”
“The care and education of a child.”
“You adopted another honorary grandchild? How many does this make now? Are you over one hundred yet?”
Rhapsody shook her head, her green eyes kindling to a darker emerald shade. “No, only thirty-seven. And that is not what I meant.”
“Oh?” Ashe felt a slight chill hum through his skin at the tone in her voice. “What did you mean, then, Aria?”
The coals on the fireplace, a moment before nothing but cooling gray ash, gleamed red again, matching the blush in her cheeks.
“I think it’s time we had one of our own,” she said, her voice steady, though Ashe could feel a slight tremor in her hand.
He stared at her, trying to force the words that she had spoken to pass from his ears into his mind, until he saw her wince in pain; quickly he released her fingers, which he had unconsciously clutched to the point of unwelcome tension.
Slowly he sat up more fully, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and leaned forward, bringing his chin to rest on his folded hands. He could tell by the change in her heart rate, her shallow, rapid intake of breath, and a dozen other physiological signs his dragon sense was aware of that his reaction was distressing her, but he was too upset by her words to do anything to relieve her anxiety. Instead he concentrated inward, trying to beat back the jumble of words from the past that were echoing in his mind.
In a sudden swirl of muscle and bedsheets Ashe rose and went to the wardrobe, trying not to see the look of astonishment and hurt on his wife’s face. He pulled on a shirt and trousers, then turned finally, not meeting her eyes.
“I must return to my meetings with the councilors,” he said flatly. “I am sorry to have wakened you; I should have let you rest longer after your long journey.”
“Ashe —”
He strode rapidly across the room and took hold of the door handle. “Go back to sleep, Aria,” he said gently. “I will have them bring you a tray in an hour or so.”
“You told them you would not be meeting today.”
“That was inconsiderate of me. They have been held captive here for weeks; they doubtless want to finish and return to their provinces.”
Rhapsody tossed back the coverlet and rose from the bed, pulling on her dressing gown.
“Don’t be a coward,” she said evenly but without rancor. “Tell me what has you so frightened.”
The vertical
pupils of Ashe’s eyes expanded, as if drawing in the light and her words. He met her gaze for a moment, then opened the bedchamber door.
“Rest,” he said simply.
He closed the door quickly and silently behind him.
She found him later that afternoon at the top of one of the carillon towers that flanked the main gate of Haguefort.
Rhapsody knew her husband was aware of her presence, would have felt her coming from a great distance away, so she assumed he was willing to be found. She waited in the doorway at the top of the tower stairs, following his gaze over the rolling hills of Navarne, where the sun was painting the highgrass in swaths of yellow light and deep, cool green. Finally, when she saw his shoulders rise and fall as he exhaled deeply, she spoke, breaking the silence that heretofore had been interrupted only by the occasional whistling breeze.
“Is it Manwyn’s ranting? Is that why you are afraid?”
Ashe said nothing, but continued to stare over the foothills toward the Krevensfield Plain. Rhapsody stepped through the doorway and stood beside him, resting her hands on the smooth stone crenellations of the parapet, newly rebuilt after being destroyed in rank fire and burning pitch three years before. She waited in silence, breathing in the sweet summer air, following his gaze over the hills.
Finally, when he spoke, his eyes were still fixed on the seemingly endless sea of green meadow beyond the walls of the keep.
“Stephen and I used to roam these fields endlessly in childhood,” he said quietly. “Sometimes it is as if I can see him there still, chasing imaginary warriors, flying kites, lying on his back staring at the clouds and reading the future in them.” He shook his head, as if shaking off a chill, then turned and regarded her seriously. “Did you know his mother, like mine, died when he was young?”
“No.”