The expression on Ashe’s face was too painful to be borne; she avoided looking at him and instead pulled the blanket away from the baby and turned him to face his father, her hands supporting his head and his back. Then she extended her arms, holding Meridion so that Ashe could see him up close.
Through the haze of his own tears Ashe looked down at his son, translucent in the waves of light as Rhapsody was. The baby’s eyes were focused on him, their tiny dragonesque pupils expanding and contracting vertically, locked on his similar ones. They were intensely blue, like Ashe’s own, fringed with his mother’s black lashes, his cheeks rosy and his small mouth puckered, either in interest or in hunger. Meridion stared at his father for the span of a dozen heartbeats, then let out an enormous burp.
The tearful parents broke into laughter.
He’s gotten so big, Ashe whispered fondly.
“Not big enough for a burp of that size,” Rhapsody said, nuzzling the baby’s head. “He’s obviously picking up some of Uncle Grunthor’s habits—or Uncle Anborn’s.”
Ashe shuddered but continued to stare at his son, love of unmistakable depth in his eyes.
“Hold him,” Rhapsody urged. “You might not be able to feel him through the light, but it’s worth a try.”
I don’t want to hurt him, Ashe said haltingly.
“I won’t let go—I won’t drop him. We can hold him together.”
Beads of sweat broke out on the Lord Cymrian’s brow. He reached forward into the waves of blue light and slid his arms into the spaces that Rhapsody had left open for him. And while, as she had predicted, there was no heft to the image of the little boy, a buzz ran along Ashe’s arms where that image had shape, tickling his dragon sense with the joyful feeling of being reunited with lost treasure.
With great effort he tore his eyes away from his son and looked into Rhapsody’s face. It was shining; she was smiling up at him in the way that always made his heart cramp.
“I will bring him to you as often as can be deemed safe,” she said as Ashe looked back at Meridion. “Can you feel him at all?” Ashe nodded numbly, still transfixed by the sight of the child. “Then why don’t you give him a kiss—I have to talk with you quickly before the light fades and our connection is lost.”
No! screamed the dragon in Ashe’s blood. Mine! My treasure—my child—no!
Thank—you—for bringing him to me, Aria, he said haltingly, the dragon tones present in his voice but fading as he struggled and won control. He bent down and put his lips to the image of Meridion’s head; no heft or solidity met them in return, but a similar buzzing vibration rushed across them, sending a thrill through him that reached into his heart and warmed it.
It was all he could do to keep from howling madly as Rhapsody pulled the baby closer, tilting him one last time for another look.
“Good night, Papa,” she said as the baby gurgled and waved his tiny arms in the air in Ashe’s direction. “I love you—we will see you again soon.” Ashe struggled to keep from screaming as she turned away and walked back to the far edge of the light circle, handing Meridion off into the dark shadows beyond.
She returned quickly to the near edge of the circle and put out her hand to him. Like Meridion, she had no heft, no weight to her, and Ashe’s hand passed through the image of hers like a sunshadow. Seeing his despair, she turned her palm upward and held it out to him.
“Here,” she said. “Let’s try it this way.”
Trembling, Ashe reached out again and matched the vertical angle of her palm, then slowly approached her. This time, as with Meridion, as it came in contact with the translucent image he felt a thrilling tingle of warmth on his skin; it shot through him, ringing with joy.
I love you, Aria, he said. Gods, I love you, I love you, forgive me—
“None of that,” Rhapsody said briskly. “The forgiveness part, I mean; I love you too. I’ve been on the verge of madness myself, missing you so terribly.”
The only thing that has kept me even vaguely sane is clinging to the picture in my mind of you and our son, safe within Elysian, as the world caves in, Ashe said, experiencing another thrill as the undulating image of his wife reached up and laid her other filmy hand lovingly on his cheek. I dream about you both every night—last night you were sitting on the warm ground beneath the young apple trees in the orchard of the grotto, feeding him and singing him his lullabye.
Rhapsody’s smile dimmed slightly.
“Imagine us instead within Ylorc,” she said, her voice echoing softly, “because that’s where we are staying presently.”
Ylorc? Not in Elysian? Why?
Rhapsody swallowed. She did not want to compromise his recent return to fragile sanity by telling him about the destruction of the grotto, its house, grounds, and contents, by his grandmother, the dragon Anwyn, but resolved to be honest with him if he pressed.
“Achmed deemed it safer for us to stay within the mountain for now,” she said. “I will tell you more about our accommodations, and anything else you want to know, later—but first I have to convey something to you for which you need to steel yourself.”
Ashe exhaled. Tell me.
The evanescent image of his wife nodded. “Portia—the serving maid that Tristan Steward brought to us in Haguefort—” Her words were interrupted by a cascade of draconic curses. “Oh good—then I assume you already know she was the host of one of the Older Pantheon.”
I surmised. You have confirmed it?
“Yes, sadly, and more—the demon escaped the Thrall ritual that killed her body—and has taken on another host.”
As I feared, Ashe said. At least it could not have been a very powerful host; Portia was but a serving maid, brought by Tristan Steward for the purpose of seducing me. He watched Rhapsody’s eyes carefully; she blinked, but did not flinch otherwise. Given that F’dor can only subsume a host who is weaker or only a peer in strength of will, it can’t have been anyone particularly powerful.
Rhapsody’s eyes filled with pain.
“Alas, I fear you are wrong, beloved,” she said. “The demon’s new host took it on willingly, like Michael did long ago. It is the stone titan that Anborn told us of at our last council, the animated statue of Living Stone that Talquist brought to life on the Scales of Jierna Tal. The titan that led Talquist’s successful assault on Sepulvarta.”
Ashe’s face went white.
“The Dhracian that was in the midst of the Thrall ritual, trying to kill the one of the Older Pantheon, was attacked, almost destroyed by the titan,” Rhapsody continued, trying not to look at him. “His word is unquestionable. This has just made our task even more complicated, but not insurmountable.”
Now I fear that you may be the one who is wrong, beloved, Ashe said in reply. The task felt insurmountable even before this dire news. I have sent word to Manosse and Gaematria, but have not heard back yet, though it truly is too soon for the ships to have even landed. He looked at the pool in which the image of his wife hovered.
The blue light was fading.
“Any other news?” Rhapsody asked quickly. “I fear we are about to be parted for the time being.”
Tristan Steward is our semi-permanent guest in the most secure of the cells in the internal stockade.
“You’ve arrested Tristan?”
He was sleeping with Portia, Rhapsody, Ashe said archly. I have reason to believe he may be a thrall of the demon.
“Of course,” she murmured. “Of course. How sad—I’m so sorry, beloved.”
I have not put that on the wind for now, Ashe said. If Achmed or the Dhracian you mentioned is ever in Highmeadow, I hope they might assess him and determine him to be free of demonic bondage, but otherwise I know of no other way to handle this. All of Roland, even his wife, believes he is here assisting in the war effort, and for now I am prepared to allow them all to believe that. But I am unwilling to risk his contact with anyone—anyone—until either the demon is dead or he can be declared definitively free of it.
Rhapso
dy smiled at him.
“You are wise, my love. Did Melisande return?”
Yes. She is in Haguefort for a few days visiting Gwydion, and then she will be escorted here—I believe it is requiring a brigade’s effort to pack all her clothing and whatnot—she truly is your granddaughter.
Rhapsody struggled to put the loss of her closetful of dresses in Elysian destroyed in dragonfire out of her mind. “And did she find Elynsynos?”
Ashe ran his hand through his hair uncomfortably.
No. I’m sorry. Gavin sealed the cave. He felt the dragon in his blood rise again as tears came to Rhapsody’s eyes and glimmered, ephemeral, in the fading light. But they did find Krinsel, the Bolg midwife—she was horrifically injured, but Gavin has tended to her intensively, and she seems on the way back to health, at least of some degree. As soon as she is well enough to travel, I will send her with an escort back to Ylorc—she is in need of the skills of a Namer, Gavin says, having sustained her injuries in dragon’s breath—from Anwyn. She survived; it’s a miracle.
“Well, that is good to hear, at least. I will let Achmed know—she is one of his Archons.” The mention of dragon’s breath brought up another thought. “Oh—I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I inadvertently destroyed your mist cloak; it did what it was supposed to do, and kept Meridion safe, but it’s gone. Can you and Kirsdarke make another one for me for the future?”
Of course. I will send it with Krinsel, wrapped about her—it may help soothe her wounds. How did it come to be lost?
Rhapsody glanced above her. The sun had all but moved on to the next pane of glass, the indigo section.
“I’ll tell you next time,” she said. “Goodbye, beloved. Stay well.”
I love you, Ashe said as the vision of his wife dimmed into darkness. Kiss the baby for me. Do you still love me?
The image disappeared, but her reply hung in the air of the study.
“Always.”
A moment later, the household staff and soldiers passing by the window of the study felt a rumbling roar that trailed off into the sound of epic anguish. They quickened their pace as they returned to what they had been doing.
It was a sound they had heard on occasion before.
23
THE OCCUPIED CITY OF SEPULVARTA
The next step of the journey was accorded to the emperor’s guests at somewhat more gradual speed.
The winding internal streets of what had been the City of Reason were not designed for comfort or ease of travel; rather, part of the path to penitence was thought to be the trial of making one’s way through the narrow, cobbled roads and uphill alleyways, a route that pilgrims often trod barefoot. The military occupation of a city built largely of white stone and marble had not improved the streets, which were now even more rutted and uneven. The Diviner and the king of Golgarn found themselves clinging to one another or in each other’s laps as the carriage lurched from side to side, making agonizingly slow progress past the blackened and broken buildings that at one time had obviously seemed almost otherworldly in the glint of the sunlight.
The enormous Spire was now impossible to see from within the city, but it made its presence known nonetheless. Every now and then the sun caught a facet of the star at its pinnacle, sending a broad slash of ethereal light flashing through the air, causing the broken rooftops to gleam in momentary glory, then settle back in the shame of black ash and crumbled brick recently visited upon them.
The carriage tilted at an extreme angle as the horses began to plod even more slowly forward.
“What—what is happening?” Beliac asked nervously.
“We are ascending the hill to the basilica. We have been for a while, but we are now almost at the summit.”
“How much farther, Talquist?” the Diviner demanded, removing Beliac’s elbow from his face for the fourth time.
“We are almost there,” the emperor assured him. “The basilica is within sight; it should only be a few more moments.”
“Thank the All-God, or whatever it is they worship here,” muttered Beliac. He was too busy trying to steady himself to notice the look of black anger that glanced across Talquist’s face, to be replaced a moment later by the same placid mien that had been there all along.
Finally, the carriage rolled to a slow, bumpy halt in front of a massive fountainbed that led up to the wide stairs of the basilica. The fountainbed was the size of three streets put together in both width and length, and running down its center from the edge of the street where the carriage stood to the steps of the basilica were apparatuses that at one time had sprayed curved ribbons of shining water in a multiplicity of colors, forming a shimmering representation of the star at the top of the Spire in the marble basin. Water still gurgled from those apparatuses, but weakly; what had once been a grand reflecting pool that mirrored the beauty of the basilica was now serving as a watering trough for scores of warhorses that were drinking from all four of its sides. Soldiers were bathing the beasts in the enormous basin as well.
Beliac, the sovereign of a highly militarized naval city, put his hand over his nose and mouth to shield them from the stench, and to hold back the nausea that had gripped him at the sight even before the smell did.
The carriage door opened, and the footman stepped clear; Talquist rose and allowed himself to be assisted out, then turned and offered his hand to the Diviner and subsequently to Beliac. The three royal men made their unsteady way along the outskirts of the reflecting pool to the steps of the great basilica.
Now the Spire was visible again; its base from which the tower tapered up toward the clouds was as wide as a city block, and it stood directly across the city from Lianta’ar. The gleaming radiance at the top came from the tiny piece of ethereal matter that had been affixed within a platinum star-shaped housing, and the light of midafternoon was catching in the sculpture’s rays, sending wild flashes around the streets.
The Diviner could only imagine that it was silently calling for help.
The monarchs mounted the stairs and made their way inside the massive basilica. Even before they passed the entry doors, the visiting kings had begun to marvel; the basilica had towering walls of polished marble and an overarching dome that was taller than any in the Known World. It had seating for thousands of souls who now no longer came to it seeking solace, but in spite of the signs of battle, the pitted stone still gleamed as evidence of a time of great architectural inspiration and ingenuity in praise of the divine.
Some of what were known to be the most beautiful and immense mosaics of tile ever assembled graced the floor and the ceiling of the basilica; the two visiting kings were led past the frescoed walls and windows fashioned in colored glass, many of which had been covered with long sheets of rough burlap.
When the Diviner looked questioningly at the obscured frescoes and windows, the emperor chuckled.
“Magnificent as the artwork in the cathedral is, some of it is representative of fallacies and lies from the Cymrian era, the distortion of history in some of the most egregious and appalling ways. Those which will remain in Lianta’ar are the depictions of nature and elemental lore that preceded that terrible, destructive time in the world.”
By now they had come to the central sanctuary of the basilica. In what seemed to be the exact center of the building a tall cylindrical rise stood, atop which was the church’s altar, a large plain table formed of simple stone edged in platinum. Through the openings in the great dome above the altar, the Spire across the city could be seen, casting its radiance down in random flashes of sunlight. By night, it was clear that the basilica would be bathed in ethereal light from the top of the tower.
“Why have you brought us here, Talquist?” the Diviner demanded impatiently. “The beauty of the place is extraordinary, true, but you know that we have much to attend to in our own lands.”
“I wanted you to see the beginning of the return to sanity for the continent, and, eventually, the world,” the emperor said quietly. “Unlike you both,
I was not born into a royal line that led me to the throne of my native land. You, Hjorst, and you, Beliac, knew your destinies almost as soon as you knew your own names; I have had to search the entirety of the earth to discover mine. I have worked in almost every profession, traveled to each of the continents, sailed every one of the seas, all in search of what my purpose in life is supposed to be. I have finally come to understand it—and it is vastly more than merely sitting atop the throne of Sorbold, as Leitha did for three-quarters of a century, dressing in finery and consuming expensive victuals. I have a calling—and it is something I hope you will share in, given that the very survival of your lands may depend on its success.” He fell silent, looking up at the dome of the ceiling high above him.
“What is this calling?” the Diviner asked after a long moment with nothing but the vast echo of the basilica sounding in his ears. “What are you talking about?”
Talquist turned in a full circle at the foot of the cylindrical stairs leading up to the stone altar.
“I believe it is my life’s purpose not only to rule Sorbold, but to return it to a time before the scourge that was the Cymrian era took root in our homeland,” he said, a tone both inspired and bitter in his voice. “Those retched transplants, loyal to a king who could not accept his destiny, and that of his Island—to be stamped out by nature, destroyed in the volcanic fire of the Sleeping Child’s awakening—refugeed to our lands—some of the most magical, beautiful places on the Earth—and remade them in his image, bringing with him famine, death, disease, and discontent that eventually boiled over into a war that destroyed both the land and the population that had taken the Cymrians in, storm-tossed and dying as they had been from their trek across the world. This place, the holiest of their religious sites, is where the renewal of our history begins.”
“How so?” asked Beliac nervously.
“First, we will go back to the name of God that was perverted, made idiotic not only by the fools who followed the Patriarch, but those in the western forests who were overrun by the first of the fleets to come here, to the lands of Elynsynos, the dragon. The All-God, the One-God; ridiculous.”