“And if it can be done without their knowledge,” Gyllian noted. “When you have visited with your husband, he is able to see you, to speak to you in return. If what you are attempting is of a clandestine nature, it is imperative that you not be seen, or caught. This was something Faedryth was never willing to try, your belief to the contrary notwithstanding, Your Majesty.”
Achmed merely listened without comment.
“My ability to communicate directly with Ashe may have a great deal to do with the fact I share his name, and his child,” Rhapsody said. “I know very little of Sorbold and even less of Talquist. This is an area of Naming I am uncertain of—I just hope that if I fail in the scrying, I don’t do any damage.”
“Is there any chance that this may leave Ylorc vulnerable to be seen inside of, should we misguess?” Achmed asked Gyllian.
The Nain princess looked at him seriously.
“That was Faedryth’s fear,” she said. “Whether it was founded or not, I have no idea. Understand that, though my father built the Lightforge for Gwylliam, he had only a rudimentary understanding of its lore. Gwylliam himself was the architect and the engineer of it; the Lord Cymrian had that mechanical knowledge, as well as the lore that is known only to kings and rulers with a Right of Command—and, of course, Namers.” She smiled at Rhapsody, who grinned in return. “So Faedryth worked from Gwylliam’s documents, and under his tutelage—the Lord Cymrian was apparently involved in each detail of the process, which is why all the documents you have found are scribed in his hand. Faedryth’s greatest contribution was the understanding of the colors, the hues themselves. Gwylliam could not have determined their true ‘names,’ if you will; only Nain have the eyes for judging the precise hue of the pure color spectrum, because it requires a different kind of lore.”
“What kind?” Achmed demanded.
“The ability to see true color comes from the knowledge of gemstones,” Gyllian said. “The Earth itself holds that secret—certain precious stones, in their purest form, are the precise colors in the spectrum. There are many tales of why, but it best might be explained that, just as with names, which can be spoken commonly as nicknames, or partial titles, or aliases, only those trained in the actual lore of Naming can know a true one. There are many different variants in the colors of gemstones—but only one true hue for each of the most precious stones. Did it ever seem strange to you that, among all the gems and types of stones that exist in the wide world, only a few are considered ‘precious,’ and why?”
“Yeah,” Grunthor said. “They sing diff’rent, those gems.”
Gyllian smiled. “Indeed,” she said. “Bolg and Nain, those who are children of the Earth, can hear those songs that I expect are silent to those without that lore. Gwylliam was, by birth, human and Lirin. Neither of these bloodlines granted him knowledge of the Earth. As vain as it may seem, he could never have built the Lightforge without Faedryth, who may not have understood the reasons for its design, but was the only one who could have determined the true color of the glass to make it work. The woman who fired the plates for you could only do so because you had Faedryth’s color keys, Your Majesty. Had my father taken them when he left Canrif forever in disgust, this effort all would have been for naught. The only reason Faedryth could duplicate the Lightforge in Undervale is because he had built Gwylliam’s, and knew the true colors for the glass, because he understands the secret of the gemstones. When the color is true in one of the precious stones, it sings, at least to ears that can discern it.
“And so, in answer to your question, I do not have any knowledge of the actual lore of the Lightcatcher, because that lore is ancient, and known only to Namers.”
“And dragons,” Rhapsody interjected. “As the original race sprung from the element of Earth, they say that gemstones come from the blood they leave behind when they die. They believe that is their only immortality, because they think they have no other soul. Now I understand how this is all tied in; the Wyrmril guard the Earth from the F’dor, and are the keepers of that Primal Lore of color—because, in many cases, it comes from their very blood.”
“I do know Faedryth worried that scrying through Brige-sol, the blue spectrum, might be a two-way venture,” Gyllian continued. “I believe the last time he used the Lightforge, he got the distinct impression that he was being scryed in return—and by something that all of us fear waking within the Earth.”
“No wonder he was willing to reduce it to ground glass,” Achmed said. “Well, let’s see if the Patriarch is finished with his prayers, or whatever it is he is doing in there, and get on with it.”
* * *
The Patriarch had finished his evening devotions when the women, the two Bolg, and the Dhracian entered the room beyond the Great Hall in Gurgus Peak.
“Are we disturbing you, Your Grace?” Rhapsody asked.
“Not at all, m’lady,” Constantin replied. “Are you ready?”
“I hope so.” She stepped up to the table, the others watching her intently.
Constantin, who had been owned by Talquist only a few short years and a lifetime before, had told her that the name Rev-Penthor had been used about the Merchant Emperor among the members of the Mercantile when he was the guild hierarch prior to his first Weighing on the Scales of Jierna Tal that proclaimed him emperor. Rhapsody swallowed hard and sang the note for Brige-sol #.
The diamond Constantin had been blessing with the memory of light gleamed brightly in the darkness of the enormous room, lit only by lanterns at the far edges of the circle and the light of the stars.
Then a blue light appeared in the enormous room.
Rhapsody exhaled. She thought back to her days training with Oelendra, the Lirin champion, her mentor and friend who had trained her in the sword and taught her so much about life.
How can I find the stars in daylight? she had asked her mentor.
Oelendra had smiled.
Just because you can’t see the stars, Rhapsody, doesn’t mean they cease to be there. The knowledge of their placement in the heavens, and their names, transcend the need for darkness. But you have to be able to find them, and know where they are. Even without seeing them.
Though she was unsure of his True Name, or where he was, she cleared her mind and spoke what she believed it to be into the filmy blue light raining gently down from above.
Talquist Rev-Penthor, she sang. Emperor of Sorbold.
She was fairly certain she saw Constantin’s lip curl.
An image formed in the light.
The group stared at the moving picture hovering above the table.
“Sweet All-God,” the Patriarch murmured. “That bloody bastard’s in Lianta’ar—in Sepulvarta.”
“What’s he doing?” Gyllian asked quietly.
Achmed stared into the light with his mismatched eyes.
“It looks like he is making a sacrifice on the altar of the basilica.”
32
LIANTA’AR, SEPULVARTA
When the Diviner returned to the basilica the next evening, dressed in his robe of polar bear fur and a hat with a life-sized representation of an eagle with talons ascendant, he took the time to question the soldiers who were standing guard at the doors.
“Has anyone come in here since I left this afternoon?”
“Yes, m’lord. The emperor entered a short time ago, with the sexton of the basilica, who was carrying a basket of implements, and a young woman in robes, an acolyte, I believe.”
The Diviner’s brows drew together.
“A woman? That’s odd. Stand aside.”
The soldier nodded and opened the basilica door for him.
The Diviner walked through the shadows of the narthex to the open sanctuary, glowing as it had been the night before in the light of the star atop the Spire.
Talquist stood behind the stone altar atop the cylindrical rise, reverently looking above him at the dome of the basilica.
A body rested on the altar, covered in the sheet of white flax.
/> A body, though slight, far too large to be a lamb.
The Diviner’s throat went dry.
“In the Creator’s name, what have you done, Talquist?” he said as he came to the bottom of the cylindrical rise.
The emperor’s face was bathed in ethereal light.
“You said the more complex the animal, the more accurate the divination would be,” he said, his eyes still above him. “As high as possible on the Ladder of Life, that is what you said, isn’t it?”
“I—I didn’t mean—”
“You said it needed to be ritually pure, virginal, never having consumed meat, did you not?”
“Yes.” The Diviner began to slowly climb the stairs leading up to the altar where the emperor stood.
“Well, I assume a human is the highest rung of the Ladder of Life.”
“Again, yes.” The Diviner stopped on the top step.
Finally the Merchant Emperor broke his gaze away from the sky and looked directly at the Diviner.
“I need for this augury to be as complete and as accurate as it is possible to be, Hjorst,” he said softly. “There is too much riding on this not to do everything possible to assure success.”
The Diviner, a man born of a harsh clime and harsher realities, merely shrugged.
“I told you I would not judge you, Talquist,” he said. “If the fate of the continent is at stake, what’s the life of a virgin in the grand scheme of things?”
“My thoughts exactly,” Talquist said.
“And were you able to accomplish the smothering without spilling any blood?”
“Not even a bruise. The tea was most helpful in that; thank you for the suggestion. The sexton had dried passionflower in abundance; apparently they use it in the hospice to comfort the pain of the dying. How appropriate.”
“Enough talk,” the Diviner said impatiently. “Stop cluttering up the air; you will befuddle the augury.” He approached the altar and took hold of the white flaxen sheet, then pulled it down gently.
The light of the Spire shone just as gently down on the face of the sacrifice, eyes closed in endless repose, the body naked beneath the sheet.
Against his will, the Diviner gasped.
It was the sexton of the basilica.
* * *
Hundreds of leagues away, in the tower of Gurgus Peak, a ragged breath came forth from the Patriarch as well.
“Sweet All-God,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “It’s Gregory—he’s sacrificed Gregory.”
Grunthor and Achmed exchanged a glance. They had both met the sexton on the occasion when they, with Ashe, had come to Sepulvarta with the corpse of one of the kidnappers who had helped Michael, the Wind of Death, take Rhapsody hostage. The Patriarch had wrung every infinitesimal drop of blood from the dead man, then summoned the memory of what he had heard in the last moments of his life, which had happened to be Rhapsody’s own voice.
The sexton had assisted the Patriarch with a ritual that was disturbingly similar to what looked like was about to be undertaken now.
Grunthor looked at the two women watching the images moving in the blue light of Lisele-ut. While Gyllian’s face betrayed no emotion, Rhapsody’s was white. He stepped behind her, put one enormous hand on her shoulder, and squeezed gently, careful not to scratch her with his claws.
* * *
“What have you done with the young woman?” the Diviner demanded.
Talquist looked surprised. He turned and nodded to the area in the back of the basilica.
“Nothing, yet,” he said, a smile returning to the corners of his mouth. “She’s in out in the narthex, sleeping. We had a veritable little tea party after the sexton set up your implements.”
“You may very well have compromised your own outcome, Talquist,” the Diviner said darkly. “I told you a lamb, not a man of middling years. Do you have any idea how likely it is that he is ritually impure?”
“Highly unlikely, actually,” Talquist said defensively. “He was committed to the service of the All-God in this very basilica as a toddler; he has never lived outside of the manse. He assured me that no one living there, which included himself, was anything but a virgin and a vegetarian. I assume that his advanced age, along with his humanity, make him the most powerful, ritually pure receptacle possible—am I incorrect?”
The Diviner exhaled. “We shall see. Let us hope that your hubris has not been both of our undoing.”
He turned to the implements that Gregory had provided—a ritual vessel known as a lachrymatory, four large linen sheets, three large canopic urns, a sewing needle and heavy thread, a brazier filled with incense, an enormous cinerary bowl, often used for storing ashes, a bag of cedarwood flakes and dried rose petals, and a series of horrifically shaped knives, saws, and tongs of all sizes.
“Light the brazier,” he instructed Talquist while he gently uncorked the lachrymatory, covering its mouth with his fingers and drawing forth some of the oil in it. He anointed his eyes and ears, and Gregory’s mouth and abdomen; then, as the smoke from the burning incense began to rise, he picked up the first of the thin knives.
“Step away from the altar,” he said to the emperor. “Ask your question—and take care with your phrasing; you will only have one chance.”
Talquist took a step back, lost in thought. Finally he spoke.
“Who and where is the Child of Time, and what must I do with or to it in order to successfully achieve immortality, without aging, for myself?”
The Diviner held the knife up to the dome of the basilica, then placed the tip of the knife at the base of the corpse’s throat. He then proceeded to slice open the sexton’s thoracic and abdominal cavities, using the implements of the gruesome ritual, all the while chanting the prayers of his office. As if in a trance, he muttered the words to the rite in a language Talquist had never heard as he methodically removed lungs, liver, and intestines, depositing each in a separate canopic urn. With great care he examined each organ and the cavity from which it had come, finally reassembling the flaps of skin and wrapping the bleeding body in the heavy linen sheets. He placed his index and middle fingers on the sexton’s now-bloodless lips; his eyes rolled back as his head tilted upward.
Around the Diviner’s head, a circle of smoke from the brazier seemed to gather. An alien voice, both the Diviner’s own and yet very different, came forth from his mouth.
“The Child of Time hides from the eye of man; who, where, and what it is remains unknown. But if it can be found, an ageless immortality can be achieved by one who eats the beating heart of the Child of Time at the moment between life and death. Then the hold that Time itself has over the one who consumes the heart of the Child will shatter, and the Child’s lore shall be conveyed unto his very blood as it dies.”
* * *
Grunthor’s other hand quickly came to rest on Rhapsody’s shoulder, and he tightened his grip as he watched the blood drain from her face.
“Shhh, darlin’,” he whispered. “Hold on, now.”
Achmed saw the blue light begin to dim; he looked at Gyllian, who had noticed the same thing and nodded slightly.
* * *
The circle of smoke vanished.
The Diviner looked down and shook his head, his eyes returning to normal.
“The best we could hope for,” he said softly to Talquist, who was still standing away from the altar, listening intently. “You must have been right about this poor sexton; a middle-aged virgin whose lips never touched blood meats or strong drink. The only thing more horrible than the way he died was the way he lived. Oh, well.”
“I suppose the only sex the man had in life was in his title,” Talquist said humorously.
The Diviner scowled at the emperor. Carefully he poured more oil from the lachrymatory over the organs in the canopic urns and lit them on fire. As they burned, he filled the sexton’s abdomen with the cedarwood flakes and the rose petals, then proceeded to stitch the corpse up, working as carefully as a tailor on a robe for a royal court.
/>
When at last he was done, he wrapped the rest of the linen sheets around the body, then combined the ashes of the organs in the cinerary bowl, which he handed to Talquist.
“Take these out with you when you leave and commit them to the wind,” he said brusquely. “I will stand vigil until morning. Then you must have the body taken and ritually burned; given the death and destruction that has been visited upon this city, I assume they know how to do that.”
Talquist ignored the slight.
“I thank you most assuredly for your efforts on my behalf, Hjorst,” he said quietly. “Did you get any sense, any fragment of the whereabouts or identity of the child—if it’s a boy or a girl?”
“None whatsoever.” The Diviner’s voice was testy.
Talquist trod lightly. “I have reason to believe it is a baby, an infant of approximately four months of age. No idea of the name or the sex, but I had some indication that it might be the child of our friends, the Lord and Lady Cymrian.”
“Well, that would prove most interesting if it were true,” said the Diviner, continuing to wipe the blood off the altar.
“Indeed. I sent a cohort several months ago to Haguefort, which, sadly, never returned. The intelligence says that the Lord Cymrian has moved on to his new fortress at the site of the old House of Remembrance—but that there is no sign of the Lady or child.”
“Perhaps she has taken refuge among the Bolg in Canrif,” the Diviner said. He tossed the flaxen sheet, now red as a rose petal, into one of the canopic urns and set it alight as well. “She is said to be a close friend of the Bolg king. If that be the case, you will most likely never find them. Canrif is unassailable.”
“Indeed,” Talquist agreed regretfully.
“You may need to search for another wellspring of immortality, or speed up your war efforts to double time.” The Diviner handed the last of the ashes to the emperor. “I am done here. Good night, Talquist. May your reign be long and fruitful.”
* * *