Elegy for a Lost Star (29 page)

Rhapsody inhaled deeply. The Sea Mage and his retinue had been away from Haguefort since the morning after Ashe's announcement of Gwydion's investiture, visiting the Lirin kingdom of Tyrian with her viceroy, Rial. She had hoped he would return earlier, so that he might spend some time instructing her in the science of magic that the Sea Mages practiced, as he had promised, but his absence meant the secrets of the Isle of Gaematria were still a mystery. She suspected that his timing was intentional. He smiled disarmingly and shielded his eyes, looking into the sky.

“Have you greeted the daystar yet?”

“Not yet,” Rhapsody said. She turned toward the east, where the star was setting; a thin line of pink had cracked the gray vault of the horizon, and was pulsing with impending light.

“I am sorry I am so late in arriving; I know I had offered some instruction in lore you had not yet been made aware of. If it pleases you, m'lady, I would be happy to teach you the elegy for Seren, the aubade that the ancients composed upon leaving the old world. It is a song of praise to the Creator for the wonder of that star. We find it helps to maintain the connection we had when we sang our hymns beneath her light in Serendair.”

Rhapsody considered for a moment. “I'd be honored,” she said finally.

The tall golden man smiled, took her hand in his own, and closed his eyes. She followed his example, and a moment later felt the breeze whisper over her; it was in pitch with
ela
, her Naming note, the vibration on the musical scale to which she was attuned.

Behind her eyes she saw, or perhaps felt, a shimmering light appear, singing in the darkness of the universe. The star she had long welcomed with music was returning the laud that Jal'asee was chanting, but it was a different response than Rhapsody was used to. It seemed present, not on the other side of the world; inadvertently she opened her eyes and blinked in shock. Her aubade faltered to a halt as she dropped Jal'asee's hand.

An ethereal light was emanating directly from the head of the Sea Mage, shining brilliantly from his eyes.

He finished the song, then turned to her.

“When one is baptized in ethereal light, he carries it with him wherever he goes,” he said. “It is really not necessary to wait for evening or morning to chant the praise, because it is always with me.”

“Well, thank you for the instruction,” Rhapsody said, observing the preparations with a wary eye.

“And now, has the Bolg king arrived yet?” Jal'asee inquired politely, though Rhapsody could detect a modicum of impatience in his eyes; otherwise, his ambassadorial countenance was perfectly serene.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, he has,” Rhapsody said, watching with consternation as a bevy of cooks marched by in the snow, each carrying a towering array of trays of sweetmeats, winter fruits, and pastries. “He should be back in a moment. I didn't get a chance to tell him you wanted to see him.”

“Good, that's just as well,” Jal'asee said smoothly. “Well, I believe I will leave you to your preparations, and have a walk about in the snow. Gaematria is tropical, thus we do not see much snow unless we manufacture it ourselves.”

The Lady Cymrian shook her head. “I hope someday before I die I will be invited to see your island, Jal'asee,” she said, putting her hand on her belly as the baby began kicking ferociously, causing her stomach to turn. “It certainly sounds like an interesting place.”

“It's the place you must come if you are interested in learning magic as
a science, m'lady,” said Jal'asee mildly, “which is very similar to your Naming studies now, but with additional areas of expertise and a maritime focus. As an academic, I am a firm believer that one should seek out the best teacher, or physician, or mentor that one could possibly have, and place oneself utterly in his or her care. Those people at least know all the missteps, and everything that can go wrong in their area of expertise; it's probably something they've had to solve before.”

Rhapsody smiled. “Actually, I was thinking something very much along those lines, Jal'asee. Now, if only my husband will agree.”

F
ond as he had been of Lord Stephen Navarne, Achmed had never been to his grave. Such visits were not in his makeup; he had dispensed enough death in his career as an assassin and king to understand the finality of it, to recognize the separation of soul from earthly substance, and so did not make a practice of observing anniversaries or tending to cemetery plots. If he ever had need of remembrance, he combed the wind and his own memory, rather than planting flowers on burial ground.

So it took him a few moments to find Gwydion Navarne in the quiet garden behind Haguefort, gated in wrought iron and evergreen bushes.

He had thought perhaps that one of the taller monuments that gleamed in various shades of aged marble might have stood to mark the resting place of Haguefort's beloved master and caretaker; no one could have done more to renovate and tend to the rosy-brown stone keep than Stephen had. Stephen had also built the Cymrian museum that stood within its gates, a squat marble shelter for the artifacts of the enlightened age that had been born, had its heyday, and ended in war while he, Grunthor, and Rhapsody were still in the course of their travels through the Earth. If anyone deserved one of the foolishly ornate headstones pointing toward the winter sky in this place, it was Stephen.

And yet, to Achmed's gratification, Stephen was not buried in a mausoleum guarded by a towering obelisk of stone, but rather was entombed in snow-covered earth beneath two slender trees, along with his wife, Lydia. A simple bench and a small piece of inscribed marble were all that marked the place; he would never have even seen it were it not for the presence of Stephen's son, who sat quietly on the bench in reflection, attired in silver-blue court brocade and a grim expression.

“Your grandmother wore the exact same look on her face the night before the Lirin invested her as queen,” Achmed said wryly.

The young man turned around and smiled slightly. “Well, I suppose I am in good company, then.” He stood and offered his hand. “Welcome, Your Majesty. I didn't see you yesterday; did you just arrive?”

“Yes,” the Bolg king said, shaking Gwydion's hand with his gloved one, a practice he participated in rarely. “I brought you something.”

“Oh?”

From within his robes Achmed produced something wrapped in oilcloth and handed it to Gwydion. The duke-to-be took it questioningly, but when Achmed said nothing, he slowly untied the bindings and unwound the wrapping. As he peeled the last layer back, Gwydion's hair was suddenly touseled by a stiff breeze, cold and stingingly clear, that seemed to rise up from the layers of the package.

Within the cloth lay a sword hilt of polished black metal the likes of which he had not seen. It was carved in ornate runes, its crosspiece curled in opposite directions. It had no blade.

“This is an ancient weapon, the elemental sword of air known as Tysterisk,” Achmed said quietly. “Though you cannot see its tang or shaft, be well advised that the blade is there, comprised of pure and unforgiving wind. It is as sharp as any forged of metal, and far more deadly. Its strength flows through its bearer; until a short time ago it was in the hands of the creature that took Rhapsody hostage, part man, part demon, now dead, or so it seems at least. In that time it was tainted with the dark fire of the F'dor, but now it has been cleansed in the wind at the top of Grivven Peak, the tallest of the western Teeth. I claimed it after the battle that ended the life of its former bearer, but that was only because I wanted to give it to you myself. Both Ashe and I agree that you should have it—probably the only thing we have ever agreed on, come to think of it.”

Gwydion stared at the hilt. He could see within the swirls of its carvings movement, but it was evanescent, fleeting; he blinked, trying to follow the motion, but lost it. A shiver of excitement mixed with dread rose up inside him; the sword handle was heavy, humming with power.

“I—I don't know that I am ready for such a weighty gift,” he said haltingly, though his hands were beginning to shake from the vibration as well as his own exhilaration. “I haven't done anything to be worthy of such a weapon.”

Achmed snorted. “That's a fallacy long perpetuated by self-important fools,” he said scornfully. “You cannot be ‘worthy' of a weapon before you begin to use it. It's in the use of it that your worthiness is assessed. It is an elemental sword—no one is worthy of it.”

“Don't—don't you want it?” Gwydion asked nervously, his eyes beginning to gleam.

Achmed shook his head. “No. Despite what I just said about worthiness, in truth weapons of this kind of ancient power do choose their bearers, and make them, in a way. I prefer to choose my own weapon, and make it.”

“Like your cwellan?”

The Bolg king nodded. “That is of my own design,” he said, shrugging slightly to bring forth from behind his shoulder the machine shaped like an asymmetrical crossbow, with a curved firing arm. “I made it to heighten my
strengths and accommodate my weaknesses, but mostly it is tailored to the sort of prey I once hunted.” He indicated a spool on which whisper-thin disks were housed. “It fires three at a time, each one driving the previous ones deeper in. And it can be adapted as I have need—this one I developed to be able to pierce the hide of a dragon.” He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the reviewing stand. “Ashe is around here somewhere, no doubt. Perhaps I can test its efficiency later.”

Gwydion chuckled. “How did you adapt it to dragons specifically?”

“This one has an especially heavy recoil,” Achmed replied. “Dragon hide is as thick as stone. The disks are specially made as well; they are of rysin-steel, a metal that is extremely malleable when heated, which has been shrunk to a compact size by cold manufacture. Once inside the body and exposed to heat they swell in vast proportion with jagged edges, expanding the original damage many times over.” He turned the cwellan over lovingly. “I got many of the ideas from a weapon Gwylliam was working on before his death; I suppose he had his own problems with the dragon he was married to. The properties of fire and earth make the disks expand—that's mostly what a dragon is inside, despite all the other elemental lore they possess.”

“You know it won't work on Ashe,” Gwydion said humorously, trying to break his attention away from the humming sword hilt in his hands and failing. “He's mostly water.”

Achmed stared down at the weapon in his hands.

“Hmmmm,” he said finally. “Back to the drawing board.”

Gwydion laughed. “You don't need it against Ashe, anyway,” he said. “Even though you may argue, I know you are really allies. But I have seen your weapon in successful use—it was this cwellan that took Anwyn from the sky in the battle at the Moot, was it not?”

Achmed slung the cwellan again. “I hit her, and took off a claw or two, but the credit for that kill goes to Rhapsody,” he said, securing the cover beneath his robes. “She was in the dragon's clutches; she carved her way out with Daystar Clarion. Once free, she called starfire down on Anwyn, then sealed her in her grave. But I suppose you could say I assisted—as did Anborn, at the cost of his legs.” He looked over his shoulder as trumpets blared, sudden and loud, in the distance. The Bolg king winced. “I assume that is your godfather's subtle way of indicating your presence is needed.”

Gwydion nodded. “What should I do with this?” he asked anxiously, nodding toward Tysterisk.

Achmed shrugged. “It's yours to use, to bear, to live with,” he said nonchalantly. “It should be with you upon your ascension to duke, assuming you wish to accept it. Remember, if you are going to take on the responsibility of such a sword, you will be expected to use it when needed, even at the cost of your duchy. But somehow I doubt that will be a problem for you. Get Anborn to instruct you in its use.” He turned to leave, then paused
and looked back at the nervous young man. “It's best to be ready. This is what I came to tell you, why I wanted to give the sword to you myself. The world in which you are about to claim a part is an uncertain place, but one thing can be predicted without fail—sooner or later, you will need to fight. You may as well have the best blade in your hand when you do. Just remember that
you
wield
it
; do not let the weapon wield you.”

Gwydion nodded and looked down at the hilt once more. As he stared at it, he thought he could see the blue-black outline of the blade against the brown oilcloth, gleaming dully, with tiny currents of wind swirling randomly within it. He continued to watch it in fascination until the trumpets blared again. Then he shook off his reverie and looked up.

“Thank you—” he said, but Achmed was already gone.

A
s Faron moved west, the winter was catching up with him.

Day into day his body became more melded to his mind; his hands and feet, once totally foreign and unwieldy, now served him with the same unconscious direction with which anyone else moved. His mind was still cloudy, still roiling in a sea of confused thoughts and the combined memories of an ancient soldier, an even more ancient demonic father, and the asexual creature he had once been.

The uninhabitable desert eventually had given way to steppes and dry grasslands, where only nomads and caravans passed. Faron had taken to hiding when such things came into view; his sun-deprived eyes were slowly gaining strength, and now he put them to use scanning the horizon for anything that moved. As he followed the sun across the sky he found that winter had hold of the places into which he was now coming. He had a vague recollection from his time as a soldier of snow, which stung the edges of his earth-hewn legs, but otherwise did not bother him. It gave him little hindrance, except that its presence added difficulty to his ability to hide.