The Merchant Emperor (The Symphony of Ages)

  “But even if you choose to never tell or teach him anything, I beg you, I beg you, please, shelter him, protect him; hide him here, in your hidden kingdom. Keep him safe, please, please. I will give you anything I have, I will do anything you ask. Please.”

  Her spirit broke along with her voice. Rhapsody dissolved into the tears that had been welling in her eyes, and sank to the floor, her face in her hands.

  Melisande, alarmed, started toward Rhapsody, but Faedryth waved her silently away. He came down from the dais and stopped in front of the sobbing queen. Gently he took Rhapsody’s chin in his finely gloved hand and raised her face, looking into her eyes.

  His eyes, cloudy with age and the terrible things they had seen over time, were glinting with tears of their own.

  “Very well, m’lady, I will do as you ask,” he said, his voice unusually gentle. “I will guard your child until you are able to come and retrieve him; my kingdom will stand to protect him with every resource it has. But do not mistake my willingness to do so with any other commitment. While we are grudging members of the Cymrian Alliance, I have said that I will not commit my forces to a war that does not threaten my lands, and I mean it still. Are we clear in that?”

  Rhapsody smiled through her tears, causing the Nain king to feel pleasant warmth flooding through his body, the likes of which he could not recall feeling before.

  “We are,” she said. “You have my deepest gratitude, and that of his father as well.”

  “That’s an interesting boon of its own,” Faedryth said humorously. “I should assume, then, that Lord Gwydion will be more than happy to renegotiate our tariff structure once the war is over, assuming anything is left of the Middle Continent.” He watched as the smile left Rhapsody’s face, taking the good cheer that had come over him with it; she merely nodded in assent.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught Gyllian’s glance; his daughter was watching him evenly, but there was a look of approval in her visage. Faedryth coughed, then turned to the Bolg midwife with the draping cloth emitting a fine mist that apparently held the Cymrian heir. He shuddered inwardly, then turned and offered the Lady Cymrian his hand, helping her to her feet.

  “All right, let’s have a look at this supposedly miraculous child,” he said as pleasantly as he could. “I want to see what all the fuss is about.” He gave Rhapsody his arm and walked with her to where the Bolg woman was glowering, and shuddered once again.

  Rhapsody took no notice. She gently pulled the folds of the cloak of mist apart, revealing a little shining face crowned with the finest of golden curls and two tiny cerulean blue eyes, scored with vertical pupils, intently focused on the Nain king. They sparkled with interest, and his mouth widened into a grin as he loosed a musical cooing sound that filled the hollow chamber.

  “Oh, my,” said Faedryth distantly. A smile wide enough to crack his curmudgeonly aspect spread slowly across his face, causing his fulsome beard to twitch with delight.

  “Oh, my.”

  48

  When she finally felt almost strong enough to leave her child, Rhapsody did it quickly, knowing that if she faltered she would never be able to protect him properly.

  She gave given him a warm bath, letting him splash happily as he always did, striping her laughing face with rivulets of water that served to mask her tears. She sang to him for the better part of two hours, and nursed him to sleep.

  Then, after kissing him until she felt the tears return, she laid him in his cradle, rubbed his back, and left the room, not meeting Analise’s sympathetic gaze.

  Whereupon she snatched her pack from the hallway and broke into a dead run.

  She ran through the halls of the palace, past the startled guards and servants, out into the city streets until the pain stopped.

  It leaked out of her slowly, like milk from the breast; when she first had stepped away from him, she was unable to breathe for the agony of the loss.

  But the farther she got away from the name she had left with him, the more she could feel that pain drain out of her, along with any feeling whatsoever.

  She was almost to the mouth of the Molten River when an airy voice, sounding in the multiple tones of soprano, alto, tenor and bass, rang out in the cave.

  Rhapsody, Friend of Elynsynos, tarry.

  She came to a halt, her hand on the hilt of Daystar Clarion.

  For a long moment, there was nothing but silence and the dripping sounds she had heard on her way to the Deep Kingdom.

  “Well?” she demanded. “What do you want now, Witheragh?”

  “Did Faedryth agree to give sanctuary to your child?”

  “Yes.”

  The cave echoed hollowly. Then the voice spoke again, ringing quietly against the rockwalls high above.

  “There are men, humans, four of them, on horseback, at a distance of three and a quarter leagues to the west,” Witheragh said. “They appear to be searching for something, most likely the entrance to the Deep Kingdom.”

  Rhapsody’s grip on the sword tightened.

  “Thank you for the warning,” she said. “Can you direct me to where I can find them—”

  “That will not be necessary,” the great wyrm interrupted. “I have bargained with you to protect your child, and I will take care of this. They will not enter; if they try, they will not live, and I will enjoy a supper of flame-roasted horseflesh this night. Now, I have something for you. Step away from the riverbank.”

  Rhapsody blinked, then obeyed.

  At her feet a swirl of mist appeared, whirling vaporously, then dispersed. As the mist vanished, a solid object, long and thin like a length of rope about two-thirds Rhapsody’s height with a wide, flared end, seemed to solidify in the reflected light of the fiery river. It was dark red, with a scored, mottled surface. When she looked questioningly into the darkness of the massive cavern beyond the river, the voice spoke again.

  “For your use, until you come to retrieve your child.”

  Rhapsody bent down and tentatively touched the object. It was both warm and cold; the heat seemed to be contained deep within it, while its surface was cool and dry, almost like the skin of a snake.

  “What is it?”

  “It belonged to my grandmother, the matriarchal wyrm of my clutch. She was like you, in a way, a lore-tender, a keeper of draconic history. It was her greatest weapon in many ways.”

  Rhapsody gingerly lifted the thick ropelike object and turned it over in her hands. The wider end looked like the opening in a jousting gauntlet or the sleeve of a lance; it had a smooth, shiny interior, even darker red than the surface.

  “Thank you,” she said uncertainly. “I’m not sure what to do with it, how to use it. I’m not familiar with the weapons of dragons; Elynsynos did not tell me anything of them.”

  She could distinctly hear a chuckle in the voice.

  “She probably felt no need to do so, given that you have one of your own. Yours is, of course, much smaller.”

  Rhapsody’s brow furrowed.

  “I don’t own anything that looks like this.”

  “I didn’t say it looked the same, just that you have one.”

  “How do I use it?”

  “Put your hand inside the wide end.”

  Slowly Rhapsody complied.

  The interior of the rope was as smooth and slippery as it had appeared, tapering into what seemed to be a hollow tube. Her fingers had just touched the inner edge when suddenly the rope collapsed with great force of suction, adhering to her arm from the elbow down.

  Panic roared through her, and Rhapsody shook her arm violently, trying to dislodge the object. As she did, the rope thinned and lengthened by more than three times over, cracking and snapping in the air high above her like a whip as she slapped her arm about wildly. Where the end contacted the ground or the cave wall, sparks flew, and chips of rock broke off, tumbling to the ground amid small puffs of smoke.

  “Stop!” the draconic voice commanded. “Peace—you will bring harm upon yourself if
you thrash about so.”

  “What—what have you done? Release me!”

  The commanding voice took on a distinct chuckle.

  “Be still a moment,” Witheragh said. Having no alternative, Rhapsody obeyed. The strange, whiplike object hung limp at her side as she stood still. She took hold of the flared end at the place where the whip grew thinner and pulled; it came off her arm easily.

  “Thank you, but I believe I should leave this here with you,” Rhapsody said as she bent down and started to place the weapon on the floor of the cave again.

  “That would be an opportunity grievously missed.” The voice of the dragon resonated through the cavern. “With a little adjustment and practice, it could be very useful to you in battle.”

  Rhapsody paused, then stood erect again and looked down at the weapon.

  “What is this called?” she asked as she turned it over and examined it more closely.

  “In your tongue, I believe it is called—a tongue.”

  The object dropped to the floor of the cave.

  Rhapsody bent quickly and retrieved it, wincing at what she was certain was a great insult.

  “I’m so sorry. Are you telling me that this is your grandmother’s, er—”

  “Her tongue. Yes.”

  “You have her tongue?”

  The humor resolved quietly from the dragon’s voice.

  “It was the greatest thing she owned. Not only did it serve her well as a weapon, but it spoke only the truth, and was talented in the telling of the ancient lores and the history of our race. I thought it might have some meaning to you on a rather significant level. My mistake.”

  “No—no, I’m very sorry,” Rhapsody said quickly, turning the whiplike object over in her hands. “I am immensely honored by your offer to lend it to me.”

  “You have just proven your understanding better than I could have hoped,” said the dragon’s voice. “It is but on loan, and I expect it to be returned, assuming it survives.”

  “Of course. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  The cave echoed with silence for a moment. Then the multitoned voice spoke again.

  “I also expect an introduction to your child at the same time.”

  Rhapsody nodded. “Of course.”

  “Her name was Mylinmacr, as you probably already discerned. The tongue by itself has spoken from time to time over history, but not of late. It has been silent for most of this age; I would not expect much if I were you. But you can always ask if you want to know something. Mylinmacr was said to be a great sage and gifted not only with the knowledge of our history, but with the wisdom of how to apply that knowledge. With any luck, having it in your possession may allow the same to be said of you one day—perhaps when someone is carrying your tongue about with him.”

  Rhapsody exhaled. “Thank you again. If it’s not rude to ask, can you tell me what made you decide to loan this precious object to me?”

  “You were a friend of Elynsynos,” said the voice. “Perhaps carrying Mylinmacr’s tongue will allow you one day to relate the tales Elynsynos told you in the way a dragon would tell them, and would be able to understand them. It may keep her lore from being lost to the Wyrmril, now that she is gone.”

  “Thank you,” Rhapsody said again. “And thank you for what you have agreed to undertake on behalf of my child.”

  “Go now. I have an entrance to guard.”

  Rhapsody pulled forth a length of cord from her pack, coiled the tongue whip and bound it to her sword belt.

  “Goodbye, Witheragh,” she said quietly. “Godspeed and may your guardianship be uneventful.”

  There was no reply.

  She doubled her gait and hurried away from the Molten River, back to the place in the lee of the rockwall where the horses had been left.

  Feeling utterly numb.

  49

  THE BROKEN VAULT OF KURIMAH MILANI

  Deep within the sand of the northern wasteland that led to the piedmont of the Teeth, hidden in the broken wreckage that in ages past had been part of the legendary city known as Kurimah Milani, the draconic body of the being known as Anwyn ap Merithyn stirred, then opened her eyes.

  She had retreated to this place to heal from the wounds of her battle, or to die, but in either case, she sought the blissful oblivion of solitude and sleep in a place that had long been forgotten by Time.

  Only to be jarred from that sleep, in a way that suggested a loss of solitude as well.

  For a moment, the only sound in the cavern was the distant dripping of water. The searing blue light that had gleamed madly from the dragon’s eyes had ebbed to a ghostly azure shadow. An even dimmer glow shone from the wounded one, tinged rosy with blood.

  The great beast lay prone, her hide still smoking, charred over the great expanse of her body. Her copper scales were tarnished by black soot and the muddy clay through which she had crawled back to the ruined cave, in ages long past a renowned place of healing, now little more than a shattered relic, a realm of broken sluiceways and smiling statuary with arms or heads missing.

  The silence in what had been one of the great public baths of Kurimah Milani echoed in her stinging skin. The beast breathed raggedly, trying to control the pain.

  And then, somewhere within her awareness was another vibration, an unwelcome, hated one. It hovered in the very air of the place, waiting.

  The dragon recognized it immediately.

  “I can—feel you—m’lady,” Anwyn said aloud. Her scratched voice vibrated hollowly in the underground cavern, its bitterness flickering off the stone.

  “Indeed,” came the voice of the Namer in return. It spoke quietly, clear as the wind, slicing through the heavy air beneath the ground. “I am here.”

  The dragon shuddered involuntarily. She was not certain if her shivering was a result of the loss of blood or something deeper, more disturbing that she heard in Rhapsody’s words.

  After a momentary reflection, she realized it was the latter.

  What chilled her was actually something in the reviled woman’s voice that was missing, rather than present, a warmth that had always been nascent in the few words that the Namer had spoken directly to her, within the Great Moot of Canrif, or in the air of the fields around it, when she had the woman in her grasp, spinning in flight, raining fire down on the Cymrian people who had once revered Anwyn as their lady. Those words returned in flashes of memory now, in response to her own taunting ones.

  A pretty sight, isn’t it, m’lady? Look well on your people—see where you have brought them. Child of the Sky! How do you like the view from up here?

  Damn your soul, Anwyn!

  She grimaced as she remembered her own reply. Too late.

  The beast closed her eyes and flexed her tattered claw, scarred from where the talon had been torn from it, recalling the delicious feel of her rival struggling, trapped within her clutches.

  End it. They were your people—serve them! Save them.

  “They betrayed me,” the wyrm whispered, now as she had then.

  The woman said nothing. Anwyn could not tell where she was within the cavern; only the slightest of vibrations even indicated she was there at all.

  The dragon concentrated, trying to locate the source of that vibration. More words echoed in her mind, spoken in the warm voice she remembered with such loathing.

  I rename you the Empty Past, the Forgotten Past. I consign your memory to those who have gone before you, you wretched beast.

  Anwyn had felt it then, the Namer’s ancient power, older even than her own. It had reached down into her very blood and stripped every piece of her that had been able to exist within the Present, consigning her to irrelevance she could feel in her bones. Her anger at the time of being replaced as the Lady of the Cymrians by this woman had swelled to fill the holes and passageways left behind until it all but consumed her, packing her with hate.

  Another fragment of memory rose up from the depths of her mind, an even more disturbing one, of the w
oman’s voice as she banished her from the Moot after singing her a song of tribute. The kindness with which the words had been spoken left her sick with nausea.

  Give Anwyn her due; she is leaving. My tribute to you is ended. Go now, m’lady of the Past. Go and sort out your memories. We will be making grand new ones for you to count soon.

  By contrast, the few words that had been spoken a moment before in the resounding cavern of Kurimah Milani were cold, efficient, missing any tone of kindness, compassion, or humility.

  Like Anwyn’s own.

  “At least you have not tried to hide, coward that you are,” the dragon murmured. “How I hate you.”

  “You have made that abundantly clear.” Within the dragon’s ears, frost seemed to form on the bones. “And while you are entitled to feel however you like, your insistence on venting that hatred has threatened too many innocents. This needs to end now.”

  “So finally—I am—at your mercy,” the dragon muttered softly. “You have—come for retribution, to—torment me—in my last moments.”

  “No.” Wherever she was in the echoing cave, the Lady Cymrian’s voice was steady. “I have come to kill you, to end your torment, not to prolong it.” In her tone there was no mercy, no forgiveness, just the simple statement of fact.

  “How kind of you, as always,” the dragon sneered. “The beautiful Child of the Sky, the innocent heart with whom the Cymrian populace fell in love, then cast me out, replaced me. You hypocrite; you liar. They did not know of your treachery. You took over my—home in Canrif, polluted the places I once reigned undisputed. Drove—the anger out, the rage born of—righteous fury. Filled those shrines to Gwylliam’s betrayal, those hallowed sepulchers of hatred, with—banal music. You planted flowers of condolence where rightfully—there should have been perennial mourning. How dare you, usurper.”

  Rhapsody said nothing.