Rhapsody stood as still as she could, in mutual silence, waiting. Finally he finished his thought.
“Unlike the villain I was because of Damynia.”
“Is she—was she the one you didn’t—kiss goodbye? Is that why you won’t say that word to me without doing so?”
The Lord Marshal’s face darkened suddenly, and he turned away. He stood silent for a long while, traveling down old roads in his mind. Then he raised his head, looked back and her and smiled.
“It would be a fair assumption,” he said at last. “You remind me a great deal of her, though you look nothing like her. If Fate is kind, I will tell you the story someday.”
“You keep promising me that,” Rhapsody rebuked him gently. “And yet you never do.”
“True enough, I suppose.” The general sighed. “This is old lore, Rhapsody—frozen for centuries, buried in a vault of unforgiving stone. Allow me to chip away at it a little at a time, please—it’s painful. Shrike knew, because he could show me glimpses of it, of her. And he never required me to speak of it. But my heart is sore from what little I’ve already said. I beg you—give me time.”
“Then you must promise to come back to me and finish the story.”
“Now, my dear, I may have made many promises I couldn’t keep to a battlefield’s worth of bedwenches, but I would never, upon my life, never, make one to you. I will promise you that I will do my very best to remain alive and sound, but after that, I’m afraid there is little to nothing else I can commit to. But I know you already understand that.”
A horn blast echoed up from the floor of the steppes.
Anborn looked down over the edge and chuckled at the Bolg king’s displeasure, evident even a thousand feet below.
“His Majesty summons,” he said humorously. “I really can’t keep him waiting any longer. Rhapsody, may I ask just one last boon of you?”
“Anything.”
Anborn laughed again. “Now, what have I told you about making rash promises you can’t or don’t want to keep, m’lady? I believe the last time you did so I suggested I could have you there on the ground outside the Moot, but that was a considerably softer and warmer place than this rocky ledge.”
“I remember,” Rhapsody said. “Nonetheless, I love and trust you enough to make the same offer of anything.”
The Lord Marshal’s eyes took on a sheen. “I am well and truly honored,” he said, repeating the words she had spoken upon receiving his sworn pledge of allegiance. “Will you tell me of the Veil of Hoen?”
Rhapsody’s mind went back to the drowsy woodland place of healing and dreams, the realm of the Lady Rowan, Yl Breudiwyr, the Guardian of Sleep, and her husband, the Lord Rowan, Yl Angaulor, the Peaceful Death, where she had passed seven years’ time healing children sired by a demon, during which time only a moment had passed in the eye of the world.
“Yes,” she said, though the breaking of silence about the place made her nervous. “What do you want to know?”
“Do you—can one really see those who have gone before?”
Rhapsody smiled through her tears.
“Yes,” she said. “I saw Jo, my sister, the first person I adopted in this world. I don’t think you ever met her.”
“I believe Shrike once described her to me,” Anborn noted. “I sent him to Achmed’s court when the Bolg king was accepting visits of state just after the three of you had taken the mountains; Shrike told me upon his return of a thin blond adolescent who he assumed was you, but by his description of her I knew he was mistaken. What happened to her?”
Rhapsody swallowed, but her face returned to a calm mien.
“I killed her,” she said. “She was a thrall of the demon, and would have killed Achmed when he was compromised, so I killed her first. It was horrendous. The guilt and regret was torturous, until she came to me one night behind the Veil, granting me her forgiveness and telling me that I needed to forgive myself, demanding it, in fact. My mother came to me as well; it was only after that I was able to make peace with being in this world, on this side of Time, and was able to let the old world go to its rest.”
Anborn’s eyes began to shine.
“And that was just on this side of the Doorway,” Rhapsody continued, “because that is essentially what the Veil of Hoen is—the doorstep between life and death. When Stephen Navarne lay dying after the battle of the Moot, when you were clinging to life as well, I sang the Lirin Song of Passage for him, and I saw—” Her voice faltered.
“Yes?”
“I saw him in front of the sun, in the doorway, whole, unbroken, with his wife, Lydia. The song allowed Gwydion Navarne and Melisande to see them both, their mother and father, for a last moment as well.”
“So the legends are true,” Anborn murmured. “Your husband had told me he had been healed there, but didn’t remember anything about it.”
Against her will, Rhapsody broke into tears again.
“Please do not hasten to that place,” she pleaded. “You and I have been close enough to it before many times—when you rescued me in the forest near Sorbold, when I left you with Daystar Clarion as Michael took me hostage in the fire of Gwynwood, when you caught me as I fell from the sky—we are Kinsmen of more than one kind, Anborn. And so I will ask you as I did in Gwynwood, beg you even, selfish as the request is: live, please live. If I am that face for you, then live for me. I need you, Meridion needs you—Ashe needs you. Please, live, for us, for me, if not for yourself.”
Anborn smiled and pulled her into an embrace.
“In a way, I already do, my dear, in case you haven’t been listening,” he said. “But I will do my best.”
Another blast of an impatient horn caused him to release her quickly and step away from the ledge.
“Since we do plan to see each other again, there’s no need to drag this out,” Anborn said, checking the buckle of his sword belt and his vambraces. “Buck up, m’lady; there’s no need to be weepy. You are the mother of a fine, strong son who lives and thrives, all predictions to the contrary, even mine. It’s a bright morning, with fair weather, and it turns out your husband was heeding my warnings after all, so a worthy fighting force with Right on its side is gathering as we speak, coming to the rescue of an Alliance well worth saving. It’s quite a glorious day to be alive—I will keep in touch by bird when I can. Keep out of harm’s way as much as you can, and call me on the wind, Kinsman to Kinsman, if you are ever in need.” His eyes twinkled; he turned away and started down the mountain pass to the steppes below. He had gone a score of paces when he stopped and looked back over his shoulder.
“Goodbye, Rhapsody.”
The Lady Cymrian watched him turn away again, rooted to the spot. Then madly she ran to him, stumbling blindly, and threw herself into his arms, startling him.
“Wait! Don’t you dare say that to me without kissing me. Don’t you dare!”
As the Lord Marshal stared at her in shock she pressed her lips to his, holding his face in her hands, breathing him in, passionately, fearfully, intimately. She was too frightened to notice his arms wind around her, too terrified to feel his heart pounding against her chest beneath his mailshirt, too worried to care what it looked like in the sight of the world. She sustained the kiss, letting her mouth cling to his until their breathing slowed, until her fear was spent, until it settled into a calmer gesture, a respectful salute, a gentle goodbye.
When finally their lips parted, she took one hand from his face and caressed his black hair, the silver streaks that had been evident when she first met him somewhat wider now.
“Let that be from her,” she whispered. “Whatever you missed, whatever the story of that loss was, let it be rectified now. Let that be from her.”
Anborn smiled down at her, his eyes shining radiantly.
“Thank you,” he said gently. “But it’s more than enough that it was from you.”
He let go of her reluctantly and, after a long final look, headed back to the pass leading down to where the tw
o Bolg waited. Just before he disappeared around the rocky bend, he turned one last time and called up to her.
“If that’s the way you plan to bid me goodbye, I may have to find reasons to come back more often.”
“Do so,” she called back.
“Not sure how much my nephew will like it.”
“He will understand,” she replied. “Be safe. My love goes with you.”
The Lord Marshal held up his hand. Then he vanished from her sight.
She watched until he reappeared on the steppes below, saw him talking with Achmed and Grunthor, bowing finally amid pats on the shoulder from the Sergeant-Major and a nod from the Bolg king. Then Anborn pulled himself atop his beautiful black warhorse and shouted orders to his men.
He looked up to the rise and waved to her; she waved in return, and watched as the small cohort started out into the west.
Then she sank to her knees and gave herself over to grief.
As heart-wrenching as it had been to say goodbye to Ashe, somehow it was even more painful to do so to Anborn.
Perhaps it was because, in the deepest place in her heart, she believed she would see her husband again.
* * *
As they waited for Anborn to come down from the cliff, Achmed and Grunthor watched the two figures above them saying goodbye. It was taking an infernally long time, and the Bolg king was growing angrier by the moment, blasting the horn, which Rhapsody and Anborn apparently heard but were choosing to ignore.
Just before he put the horn to his lips for a third time, Anborn finally turned to go and stepped away from the ledge. To Achmed’s surprise Rhapsody ran after him and threw herself into his arms, kissing him.
Grunthor, standing beside him, scratched his head.
“Hmmm—what do you suppose that’s about, sir?”
Achmed exhaled and let the horn hang down to his side.
“It appears she finally understands the reality of the situation.”
PART FOUR
The Calm Before the Storm
20
THE OCCUPIED CITY OF SEPULVARTA
Both of the monarchs who sat in the opulent carriage on the thickly padded benches across from the newly crowned emperor of Sorbold had been shifting uncomfortably in their very comfortable seats for the better part of the morning. It was not a lack of physical ease that was causing the men to be fidgeting, but rather the vastly different clime of the places through which they were passing, and had been for the better part of a week.
Or perhaps it was the sight that they caught from time to time out the carriage window of the massive stone soldier, driving a chariot pulled by a team of eight horses, standing without rest.
The arid climate of the vast and mountainous Sorbold desert made both men itch. Beliac was a son of the seacoast in his southeastern coastal realm, and had benefited all his life from the ocean’s tempering effect on the weather, meaning that the summers were never too hot, the winters never too bitter, and the wind was never too dry. The burning sand that was blasting occasionally through the seams of the carriage, stinging his face and eyes, was torturous, as was the rough pitching that occurred every time the wheels of the coach went through the ruts in the primitive roadways over which they were traveling. While the pitching of an ocean vessel had no effect on Beliac, the constant jolting of a land vehicle pulled by a team of twelve horses was enough to make him need to call the coach to a halt, jump out and vomit from time to time, much to the secret amusement of his host.
The Diviner of the Hintervold, a realm of all-but-endless winter, was not accustomed to the fortuitous weather of a seacoast kingdom, but his body’s constant exposure to cold in his homeland made the brutal heat of early spring in Sorbold a nightmare for him. He had long since shed his polar bear robe and the hat bearing a life-sized replica of a roaring wolf’s head that he had worn when embarking on the trip. Now he was attired in the thinnest of tunics and trousers, and was pulling continuously on the cord that was attached to the large fan strung in the upper ceiling of the carriage. His panting and the constant back-and-forth movement of his fist put Talquist in mind of a far more pleasurable activity that the Diviner could be undertaking; he could barely contain his mirth.
Because the more uncomfortable his allies could be made prior to seeing what they were about to see, he believed, the more ready they would be for it.
Finally, the carriage began to roll to a slow stop. The heavy velvet shades at the windows had allowed a soothing darkness that enabled the monarchs to drowse in fitful repose, and so the cessation of movement had not wakened them. Talquist reached out impatiently and grasped the king of Golgarn’s arm, shaking him roughly awake.
“Come, my friends,” he said in a pleasant, if somewhat loud tone. “We have arrived.”
Beliac and the Diviner opened their eyes. Talquist raised the bottom of the shade slightly, allowing a crack of sunlight into the dark carriage; the monarchs squinted in pain. He pulled the rest of it up slowly, to allow their eyes to adjust; once the daylight had filled the interior of the coach, he knocked on the door and waited for the footman to open it, then stepped out, followed by the other men.
Who looked around and about them in stunned silence.
Before them was what was known to the population of Roland as the holy city of Sepulvarta, the City of Reason, built at the height of the Cymrian era a thousand years before, in the time known as the Illuminara, the Age of Enlightenment. It was set at the northernmost point in the foothills of the mountainous region of Sorbold, an independent city-state dedicated to what the adherents of the Patrician faith called the All-God. In its time it had been erected on the threshold between Sorbold’s northern border and the beginning of the enormous grasslands known as the Krevensfield Plain, the southern edge of the realm of Roland. Somewhere within its massive walls, both of the visiting kings knew, was the massive basilica of Lianta’ar, the Citadel of the Star; they both were looking up in awe at the enormous tower known as the Spire, which stood a thousand feet in the air, atop of which was a gleaming pinnacle that, according to legend, held an actual piece of the star Seren, for which the Lost Island of Serendair, the birthplace of the Cymrian people, had been named. The Spire was said to tower above the massive basilica, which itself was set several hundred feet above the street level atop the city’s tallest hill.
Each of the Patrician basilicas across the continent was dedicated to one of the five primordial elements in nature—ether, fire, water, air and earth. Of all of the cities in which a Cymrian-built basilica stood, Sepulvarta had been perhaps the smallest in population, but that was because it had as permanent residents only the large number of clergy that served in Lianta’ar, the laity that served the needs of the clergy, and the standard workers, tradesmen, shopkeepers and soldiers that had served to keep the city itself running smoothly. Pilgrims made up the largest part of the residents at any given time, but that group was transient, traveling to Sepulvarta for healing or supplication for an infinite number of spiritual requests, thus providing the monetary sustenance that kept hostels, inns, taverns, shops and markets of the holy city flush with coinage.
In every time of the year, but most especially on the high holy days, which took place beginning on the first day of summer, the roads leading into the walled city were packed with travelers in a long, snaking line, seeking entrance through the one gate that led inside. The pathway off the main road to the north that bisected the continent through Roland, known as the trans-Orlandan thoroughfare, was always teeming with people, from the pilgrims on the way to the holy shrines, clergy traveling to and from assignments, and the typical humanity that wandered the thoroughfare from province to province, looking for commerce of both honorable and nefarious natures.
Now that immense line of people seeking entrance to the city was gone.
The massive wall that surrounded the city on either side of the enormous gate was teeming instead with guards, some patrolling the ramparts in shifts, others placed in regular format
ion behind mounted crossbows and ballistae. The gate itself had been shattered, recently by the look of it, and one side of it, the massive door which had absorbed the impact of that damage had been sealed and braced with temporary iron banding in the advent of real repair. The other door stood open, though vigorously guarded both at the ground level and from the ramparts above. Passing through it was an endless stream of soldiers, driving wagons filled with matériel, equipment, goods, and occasionally captives, most of whom looked like civilians or clergy, seated in open wagons, always in some sort of restraint.
From every crenellated tower, the flag of the Empire of the Sun flew proudly in the desert wind.
For the span of five hundred heartbeats, Beliac and the Diviner stood in stunned silence, trying to take in what they were beholding. Finally the Diviner looked at Talquist, who was smiling broadly, surveying the hundreds of banners displaying his colors.
“You—you have taken the holy city, Talquist?”
“For what purpose are you occupying Sepulvarta?” the king of Golgarn said. His voice was quavering.
Talquist turned to his two friends.
“I will try not to take offense at your words, Beliac, Hjorst,” he said, the smooth tone of the merchant he had been most of his life in his voice. “I certainly am not surprised at your misunderstanding, which is largely due to the distance your kingdoms enjoy from this dry, parched land. What you do not realize is that, three years ago, when the Cymrian Alliance was restored and the Lord and Lady crowned, a new Patriarch was vested as well—a miscreant, a maniac by the name of Constantin.