Ashe sighed. What is this ritual?
Rhapsody looked above her. The sun had crested the peak, and the blue section of the spectrum had passed at least three-quarters of its time.
“Listen well—our time runs short. In the old world, history purports that Vandemere, the king who reigned when I was young, was kidnapped and held hostage for a time, long after Grunthor, Achmed, and I left Serendair through the root of Sagia. Do you know of these times?”
I do.
“Good—wait, of course you do, because you are of the line of MacQuieth on your mother’s side. One of MacQuieth’s titles, appellations, was the King’s Shadow, because, being related and sworn to King Vandemere, he could stand in the place of the king and hold on to his Right of Command, keeping charge of the land for him until he was returned.”
I am not a king, Ashe said. My office is elected, not inherited.
“It doesn’t matter,” Rhapsody said impatiently. “You can bestow upon Gwydion any part of your lore, your office, that you so choose—and he will be the repository of it until you reclaim it, because you and he share a name. Listen carefully, and I will teach you the ritual, but only if you want to learn it.”
Ashe thought for a moment. I do, he said finally. I am not certain that I will ever wish to take the Right of Command back, however.
“That’s your choice, my love,” Rhapsody said, smiling slightly. “If that’s the case, I will expect you to begin construction of the goat hut you have long promised to build me immediately thereafter. For now, just listen.”
She spoke the incantation for him, repeating the difficult parts several times, then had him echo the words. When she was finally satisfied with his rendering, she exhaled deeply.
The light is fading, Ashe said sadly. The tones of the dragon were still within his voice, but it seemed quiet, brooding. May—may I see Meridion again?
Without a word Rhapsody turned and signaled to Omet, then hurried to the far edge of the light. Gently she took the baby into her arms and brought him quickly across the light pool to Ashe. She turned him around and tickled him under the arm, eliciting a squeal of delight and a toothless smile, which was directed at his father.
She could almost see the dragon’s hold on Ashe shatter, at least for a moment, as he stared in wonder at his son.
“Nothing you can do, at least from where you are, can harm either of us, beloved,” she said. “Hold out your finger—he may try to grasp it—he’s been doing that for a while.”
Ashe obeyed, then looked back at her, new realization in his eyes as the baby’s tiny hand caught his fingertip and passed right through it, leaving behind the thrilling buzz he had experienced before.
You bring him here to restore me to sanity, don’t you, Rhapsody?
“I bring him here because he is your son, and you have a right and a need to see him, just as he has a right and a need to see you, whenever possible,” she replied. “I bring him here because I love and miss you beyond description, and want you to have a chance to share in our son’s upbringing, even though you have made the greatest living sacrifice I know of in sending us away for our safety. And yes, I bring him here to restore you, to remind you of what you are fighting for, what we are fighting for, all of us, Achmed, Anborn, Grunthor, Gwydion, all of us—a world which holds a future for him and children like him, a safe, peaceful future. Do not lose sight of this as the dragon rises, as the world grows dark. Hold on and endure, my love—we will be waiting for you.”
Ashe opened his mouth to answer her, words of love that he did not get a chance to pronounce.
The image of the tiny fingers trying to coil around his disappeared as the blue light vanished.
Taking with it his sanity again.
37
WINDSWERE
Titactyk’s regiment came to a halt behind the chariot of the stone titan, their horses dancing on the sandspit beach in the blasting sea wind. The silver light of the full moon above them danced merrily in the swirling froth of the tide, the light reflecting back at the sky.
They had ridden alongside the tower cliffwall to the east for some time, in between other spits reaching like fingers out into the cold ocean, the spring tide roaring in between the rockfaces.
Titactyk waited atop his mount until the immense stone soldier stepped forth from the chariot. It had been a terribly bruising ride, as the leader of their expedition had no physical needs to tend to, nor did he seem to give thought to those of the soldiers following him. As a result, very few breaks had been taken, and the men were suffering now, feeling the impact of the ride in their backs, bladders, and bowels. They dismounted and addressed their needs as Titactyk approached the chariot from as safe a distance as he could.
“Orders, sir?”
The monstrous statue, which had been standing with its arms at its sides and its head tilted toward the sky in the streaming light of the moon, turned slowly and regarded him thoughtfully, its milky blue eyes gleaming at Titactyk in the dark. It seemed to the commander of the regiment that the statue’s lip had curled into a slight smile of amusement, which made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Then the stone soldier spoke, its voice harsh and shrill.
As the tide advances, the tunnel in the moraine should be shown, Faron said. My task is but to open it for you; yours is to enter the abbey. I trust there should be no problem with a small hidden settlement of women and children, but if you are fearful, I could hold your hand, Titactyk.
The commander swallowed the insult and rode back to the place where his men were quartering their horses. He vaulted off his mount and summoned the soldiers.
“Who has lots on him?”
“Here, sir,” said Stephanus, a second lieutenant and subcommander. He ripped open the bindings on one of his saddlebags, dug around inside and pulled out a leather bag that he brought to the commander.
Titactyk took the bag and shook the gambling stones it contained into his palm.
“Determine your order of entry,” he said.
One by one the soldiers cast their lots on the cold, wet sand of the beach. Kymel reached for the stones, but Titactyk shook his head.
“Refrain, Kymel; your order has already been determined.”
Kymel nodded. “Last, sir?”
“Indeed.” Titactyk handed the lots back to Stephanus. He turned around to see the stone titan, bathed as they all were in the light of the moon, almost as bright as day, just in time to watch the statue slam its fist into a dark depression at the base the cliff that had been revealed as the waves rolled back into the belly of the sea.
The hidden tunnel, low to the sandy ground, spat forth a small landslide of rubble and grit that the sea swallowed a moment later.
Faron turned to the cohort of soldiers.
The pathway is long and narrow; it will take some time for me to widen it. Take this chance to organize and rest; you will not have another.
Titactyk nodded and turned to the men.
“First watch, set to,” he said. “Second, third, pull out the provisions and sup quickly, then sleep.”
Kymel glanced at his commander as he set to getting rations. There was a gleam in Titactyk’s eye that radiated as bright as the moon, though no light touched it.
He spread his bedroll beside his mount and caught a quick round of shuteye, the roar of the sea drowning out the crash of the shattering rock and the crumbling of the stone of the moraine at the titan’s hands that had been a natural barrier protecting the cliff above them provided by the All-God and nature.
He was half asleep when he thought he overheard Titactyk’s command to the watch.
“Depending on what we find, there should be plenty of opportunity for recreation. The briefing said these cliffs at one time each had an ancient catapult, which should be of interest. Take your turns in order of the lots you drew. Whoever goes first cleans up.”
“Yes, sir,” came an assortment of voices; at least, that was Kymel’s impression, though he was not certain if
he was only dreaming. The light of the full moon was shining in his dreams.
Making them burn.
It only seemed a moment later when the toe of a boot roughly prodded his shoulder.
“It’s done. Let’s go.”
Kymel rose quickly and followed his fellow soldiers into the darkness of the passageway. The stone titan stood at the entrance, watching intently. He tried not to flinch as he passed the statue, managing only to be able to keep the chill that had run down his back from being visible.
Or so he hoped.
* * *
He was the last one out of the new passage as the sun was showing indications of rising over the sea beyond the cliff the next morning, his face as pale as the moon that had set while they were within the abbey.
In his hand he clutched a small wooden chest, its contents wrapped in layers of cloth.
His stomach was in his mouth, threatening to spill out.
THE CAULDRON, YLORC
“The fried potatoes are lovely this mornin’,” Grunthor commented, looking down at the first seating of soldiers from the balcony of the dining hall. “Burnt to a crisp. Just the way Oi like ’em.”
Rhapsody made a face. Achmed rolled his eyes.
“Oh, come now, Rhapsody, I have always assumed you enjoyed the taste of ash in your mouth.”
“Are you quite through?” she snapped as the door to the balcony opened and Trug came in with the morning messages. “What in the world has gotten into you?” She shifted the baby to her lap and took the two metal tubes from the Voice Archon, breaking the seal on the first one.
It was from her husband, but the handwriting was shaky and rough, betraying the fraying of his mind she had witnessed in their last communication through the Lightcatcher. Tears came to her eyes as she read the missive, then she put it down on the table and broke the seal on the second one, sliding the scrap of parchment out of the tube.
“Oo’s it from, darlin’?” Grunthor asked idly, stabbing a series of crisp black potato shreds onto his fork.
“Rial, by the look of the script,” she said as she unrolled it. She read the message, then put her hand to her mouth as she read it again.
“What’s it say?” Achmed asked, noting the color fleeing her face.
“Port Tallono, the Lirin harbor. It’s been destroyed in a iacxsis attack, just like Avonderre.”
38
HIGHMEADOW
Half a world away, the Lord Cymrian was slowly climbing a narrow set of curving stairs high into the tower in the center of his fortress.
In his shaking hand was a tiny metal leg container holding the message of love he sent every morning to his wife in Ylorc. The script in which it had been graphed was jagged and almost unreadable.
Which was just as well, since the words made very little sense anyway.
Ashe’s head was pounding; he had just received the field report, in Anborn’s curt and emotionless text, of the slaughter at the Abbey of Nikkid’sar, and had been struggling to keep the dragon in his blood from rampaging since reading it just after dawn. The darkest recesses of his mind still held the trace scars of memories from the days more than two decades before when a piece of his soul had been torn out in his battle with the host of a F’dor and used to power a humanoid construct that did the demon’s bidding, including many horrific acts similar to the ones detailed in Anborn’s report. He had, with Rhapsody’s loving support and the use of her healing lore, managed to lock those memories away in a mental vault, to put them in perspective and only dream about them rarely.
His eyes, and his mind, had seen some very terrible things. He was almost inured to the horror of war and the evil of which man was capable.
But nothing could have prepared him for the description of what had been done to the infants of Nikkid’sar.
Especially because he could not put the image of his own son, in the care of his mother alone, inside a reputably unassailable fortress of mountainous rock, out of his mind.
When he reached the platform at the top of the stairs, he found the master of the rookery finishing up his morning tasks, the care and feeding of the birds that were so critical to maintaining communication across the continent. Ashe stood in silence as he watched the man go about his chores, cleaning out the beautiful cages, each a work of a kind of rare art that both evoked the great architecture of the continent and served to train the avian messengers in recognizing their destinations. Each building, palace, basilica, and mountain fortress, from the Judiciary of Yarim to Lianta’ar in the broken and sundered holy city of Sepulvarta, that had been considered important to maintain contact with had a birdcage, guaranteeing the Alliance’s ability to keep abreast of the happenings there.
Or to warn it in times of danger.
The Abbey of Nikkid’sar had apparently not been important enough to warrant the building of such a cage.
When the master of the rookery had finished his work, he bowed to the Lord Cymrian, who looked past him as if he were not there, then made his way down the staircase, leaving Ashe alone with his leg container and his thoughts.
Almost entirely out of habit, he made his way to the cage shaped like Ylorc, the massive windows, doors, and balconies of stone that his grandfather had carved into the forbidding mountains as he shaped the world he thought of as his own possession, beautifully detailed by the artisan who had rendered them.
Ashe stared at the birds in that cage, a few pecking at the seeds left for them, or drinking from the dish of water. Finally he opened the door, almost as if in his sleep, and took out a rock pigeon he recognized as having used on many occasions before.
He held the bird up to his eyes, eyes even more noticeably scored with vertical dragonesque pupils than they usually were.
His father, Llauron, had known each of his birds’ names, Ashe mused in a dark melancholy, had spoken and even sung to them as if they were his children. Ashe had not bothered to name any of his own; it had always been his plan to leave that task and honor to Rhapsody who, as a Namer, seemed the most appropriate member of the family to take over the tradition. He had looked forward to that, and Meridion’s Naming ceremony, and countless other mundane and silly conventions, rites, and celebrations that they would have undertaken together as a family in the blessing of their new home at Highmeadow, a home he had spent three years building for his wife, obsessing over every detail and designing with her every comfort and amusement in mind, knowing what joy it would give her appointing and decorating it, making it their own.
The home in which she had never spent even a single night.
The home that did not carry any of her scent, or any of her music, but rather smelled of war, of horseflesh and manure, of steel and leather and smoke. The home that rang with the sound of the anvil, and the thunder of horses’ hooves and wagon wheels and the ringing of swords, the twanging of bowstrings, the cursing and the shouting and the chaos of battle preparations.
The home that was not a home, but merely the largest of the military outposts of the Alliance, peopled with soldiers and servants and blacksmiths, but not his wife or his son.
I would make your happiness my life’s purpose, he had said tenderly to her in the course of asking for her hand in marriage on a warm, beautiful night at the end of the most glorious summer he had ever remembered years ago.
He had not known then how capable the very world was in conspiring to keep him from even having her in his presence.
Ashe felt blood in the back of his throat.
The dragon sensed it there as well, and in his hand.
He consciously struggled to unclench his teeth; his jaw had tightened to the point where they were grinding together, rending his tongue and the sides of his mouth until they were bleeding.
Then he glanced down at his hand.
The rock dove’s feathers were stained a dark red, almost black, its neck and back crushed in his grip.
The message container still attached to and dangling from its broken leg.
* *
*
Later that night, as Gwydion Navarne was getting ready for bed, a knock came at his door. When he opened it his godfather was standing there.
He almost didn’t recognize him.
The Lord Cymrian was clean-shaven for the first time in Gwydion’s memory of the time since Rhapsody had left, his hair neatly trimmed, his clothes freshly washed.
“May I come in?”
Gwydion felt himself staring, and looked away. “Yes, of course.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you so late in the evening. I have something important I want to give you.”
Gwydion nodded, but saw nothing in the Lord Cymrian’s hand. “What is it?”
Ashe went to the window and looked out into the darkness. “My Right of Command.” He tried to not see the shock on the young duke’s face. “I have to go into the sea, Gwydion; there is no other option anymore. Port Tallono in Tyrian was assaulted four days ago, with very much the same outcome as the attack on Avonderre Harbor. Talquist owns the entirety of the coast; our naval vessels, those few that survived the assault, are unable to broach the blockade. We have resources and allies in Gaematria and Manosse that will come to our aid as long as we can get word to them.” He looked back at Gwydion. “I mean to do that.”
“But if the harbor is blockaded, surely your ship will be destroyed immediately. And even if you can run the blockade, didn’t you say that Talquist has pirate—”
“I’m not going to run the blockade on a ship. I am going to walk through the sea on my own. I’m the Kirsdarkenvar, Gwydion. The element of water is my friend—my servant. The only regrets I have are that I am leaving you and the western continent alone to face forces of power that are unlike any that has been dealt with in memory. Fortunately, both your grandmother and I know you are up to the task.”