Elegy for a Lost Star (35 page)

If I have one message for you it is this: the Past is gone. Learn from it and let it go. We must forgive each other. We must forgive ourselves. Only then will there be a true peace
.

He let his eyes wander over the face of the ethereal beast hanging before him in the air, and on his every word. The dragon's eyes twinkled with intelligence, but there was something more in them; Ashe could not be certain what it was, but for a moment it looked like longing, or something akin to it.

Involuntarily he thought back to his childhood, the earliest days he could remember, before a piece of Seren had been sewed into his chest, before his draconic nature had emerged, the days of innocence, when he was just a boy alone in the world with a father who loved to walk the forests with him, pointing out every sort of tree and plant, singing him sea chanteys and ancient folksongs, teaching him to sail and swim in the ocean that later in life became a part of him. To his shock, those good memories were still there, not obliterated as he had believed them to be by Llauron's later selfishness
and manipulation, his willingness to use his son, and, worse, Rhapsody, to his ends, however noble his intentions.

“I believe you sincerely want to be part of your grandchild's life and upbringing, Father,” he said finally, wincing at the hope he could see taking root in the wyrm's gray-blue eyes. “But, as valuable as the history lessons might be, there are other sorts of lessons that you tend to teach that are very much more dangerous and scarring. I wish things could be different—I'm sorry.”

He turned quickly and made his way through the forest, leaving Llauron's misty form behind him.

The beast watched him go; Llauron's dragon sense followed him for more than five miles, making note of the quickness of his son's step, the flush of blood to his face, the tightness of his throat. Then, when Ashe was finally beyond his reach and his senses, he faded slowly into the wind again and disappeared, leaving only on the dry leaves of the forest the traces of gold that can be seen where dragon tears fall.

T
he outer ring of the city was a maze of white and gray marble buildings set into the foothills of the mountains that eventually became the guardian hills of Sorbold to the south. Those buildings—houses, meeting halls, and museums—shone in the light of morning from a great distance, making the entire city seem to glow from the radiance.

If that were not enough to lend a holy, almost magical patina to the landscape, in the center of the city stood an enormous structure known as the Spire, the pinnacle of Lianta'ar, the great basilica of the Star, the most sacred of all the elemental basilicas. A feat of almost magical engineering, the base of the structure spanned the width of a city block, tapering upward a thousand feet in the air to the pinnacle, which was crowned with a glowing silver star. The shining summit was rumored to contain a piece of ether from the star Melita, the entity known in Cymrian lore as the Sleeping Child, which had fallen to Earth in the First Age of history. Its impact swamped the Island, leaving it half its previous size. Thereafter, the burning star had lain beneath the waves for four millennia, boiling the ocean above it, until at last it had risen and claimed the rest of the Island. But a piece of it had traveled with the Cymrian exodus, or so the legends insisted, and now lighted the top of the Spire, which gleamed day and night, visible from a hundred leagues away.

Lasarys and the two acolytes who had escaped the purge in the square of Jierna Tal had followed that light like a beacon. Knowing that if they were recognized on their way out of Sorbold they would have been returned to Talquist, who believed them dead and would make certain of that belief if he knew otherwise, they had traveled slowly and circumspectly, joining a foot caravan of pilgrims on their way to the holy city. The pilgrims had embraced them, having similarly anonymous travelers in their midst, and allowed them to remain in their company until the Spire came into view. Then the former priests set out on their own, looking to find the Blesser of Sorbold, their nation's benison, Nielash Mousa, and tell him all that they had seen.

Now they stood at the city gates, the towering Spire casting a deep shadow over them. The priests, swathed in the robes of pilgrims, stood in silence, allowing the majesty of their holy city and its Spire to wash over them along with the crystals of ice that danced on the wind. The Spire was seen as the Patriarch's direct link with the Creator, and so looking upon it was a bit like looking at the threshold of the Afterlife.

Lester was the first to gain his voice.

“How do we find the Blesser, Father?” he asked Lasarys nervously, watching the river of human traffic, most of it composed of acolytes and priests of the Patrician religion, streaming into the city gates along with merchants and tradesmen and beggars seeking alms. “None of us has ever been here before; in asking the way, we will doubtless be recognized, as the others here all seem to be of Orlandan blood.”

The elderly sexton shook his head. “Keep your eyes to the ground, my sons, and pray to the All-God to sustain us.”

Dominicus tucked his hands nervously into the sleeves of his robe and fell into place behind Lasarys with Lester. Together the three men approached the city gate.

“What's your business here?” demanded the guard rotely.

Lasarys bowed deferentially. “Linen makers from Sorbold, sir,” he said meekly. “Here to clean His Holiness's robes and scutch the flax for his new set.”

The guard snorted, then stepped aside, his eyes glassy with boredom.

Quickly the three priests hurried through the crowded streets, making their way to the manse where the Patriarch lived. It was not difficult to locate; the rectory was a beautiful marble building with immense doors bound in brass, attached to the basilica itself, at the opposite end of the city from the Spire, but still directly beneath the light of the star at its summit. It was guarded by two soldiers with spears.

“What do you want?” the first guard demanded as the three men approached the doors.

“We're priests of Sorbold, here to see Nielash Mousa,” said Lasarys in a low voice, again averting his eyes modestly. “We beg his immediate audience; it's very important.”

The first soldier regarded him with narrowed eyes, then muttered a few words to his companion, who nodded. The guard opened one of the huge brass-bound doors and disappeared into the manse. Many long moments later he returned, looking smug.

“The benison is no longer here,” he said. “He's returned to Sorbold, alas. Be on your way.”

The three priests stared at each other in dismay, then quickly turned away, not wishing to further rouse the ire or the interest of the guards.

“Now what?” asked Lester desperately.

“Perhaps we could speak to the Patriarch,” Dominicus suggested.

Lasarys choked back a sour laugh.

“The Patriarch doesn't receive the likes of us, nor should he,” he said, stepping past an icy drain where street water had clogged, leaving a patch of ice that reached into the cobbled road like frozen fingers. “When he is not consulting with heads of state or the high priests and benisons, he is receiving
our prayers to the All-God and offering them up.” The two acolytes nodded; every adherent to the Patrician faith understood the tenet that prayer was offered by the people to their local priest, who in turn offered it to the area's high priest, whose entreaties were made to the benison, and ultimately to the Patriarch, who offered them, in a great convocation of praise, directly to the All-God. The Patriarch alone had a straight means of communication with the Creator; all others went through channels.

“Then what are we to do?” Lester persisted.

Lasarys sighed dispiritedly.

“Let us visit Lianta'ar, and offer our prayers there,” he said. “If nothing else, the presence of the holy ether above us in the Spire may cleanse our minds a little of the horror we have witnessed. Perhaps wisdom will come to us then.”

The priests circled the enormous building, seeking the entrance doors. They found them at the eastern side of the temple, facing the rising sun. The doors were fashioned of gleaming brass inset with silver in the pattern of an eight-pointed star, framing the huge basilica whose towering walls of polished marble and overarching dome were taller than any in the known world.

For the sexton and acolytes, who had spent a good deal of their respective lives serving the faithful of the Patrician faith but who had never until this day been to Sepulvarta, and never until this moment had been to Lianta'ar, entering the basilica through those doors was a little bit like stepping directly into the Afterlife. The basilica's architecture was unsurpassed in breadth, depth, and beauty, with countless colors and patterns of mosaics gracing the floors and ceiling, exquisite giltwork on the frescoed walls and the windows fashioned in colored glass. The men stopped, unable to take it all in and continue moving, just as the hundreds of other members of the faithful who had entered the doors moments before them were standing still in awe.

Finally, after more than a few moments of rapture, the sexton shook off his reverie and plucked at Lester's sleeve. Quickly they made their way through the assembled faithful staring openmouthed at the ceiling, past the lector's circle, where sacred texts were read aloud, and into one of the rows of seats and kneelers that surrounded the central altar on all sides.

The altar itself was elevated atop a cylindrical rise of stairs. It was fashioned in plain stone but edged in platinum, and could be seen from anywhere in the basilica. To this altar each week were brought special intentions, special prayers, and requests for wisdom or healing that had been compiled by the five benisons of the faith, and sent to the Patriarch for presentation to the All-God. Lasarys stared at the altar now, silently placing his petition at the feet of the Creator through the hands of the Patriarch, even though he was not in the position to do so.

O holy one, Father of the Universe, Lord of Life, hear my prayer, for I am in fear for your world
.

He bowed his head, struggling to remain calm.

The silence of the basilica, broken by the occasional echoing of footsteps and whispering, settled on his shoulders, but no words came to his mind. Finally, after almost an hour in reflection, Lasarys lifted his head and looked at the two acolytes.

Dominicus was still bent in prayer, his hands folded before his eyes. Lester was staring without focus at the altar, a look of quiet panic on his face.

“Anything?” he asked them softly.

The two priests-in-training shook their heads.

Lasarys sighed. He rose stiffly, the joints of his elderly frame sore with age.

“Very well, my sons. Let us quit this place and look around the city; perhaps there are others of our order here we can find sustenance with. But be certain you do not share your name with them, lest it get back to Talquist.”

The acolytes nodded again, and followed the sexton out of the basilica.

As they stepped into the blinding winter sunshine, another, brighter flash assaulted their eyes.

It was the blade of a spear that had stopped a hairsbreadth from Lasarys's face.

“Are you the sexton of Terreanfor?” the guard demanded. “And did you enter this city on false grounds?”

Lasarys, always a shy, bookish man, looked the man in the eye and nodded slightly.

“Come with me,” the guard said gruffly.

As four other guards closed around them, the priests' eyes glittered, but they said nothing; they bowed their heads beneath the hoods of their cloaks and followed the lead guard away from the basilica.

W
ith the hardening of the earth at winter's approach came a similar hardening of Faron's will.

Each passing day drove him deeper into the frost-blanched fields, through the undisturbed snowpack of the inner continent. His primitive mind had comprehended the necessity to hide, to be unseen in populated areas, but now, as he scoured the lands southeast of Navarne, where there was little but open field, endless road, and forest, his fear and need to remain unseen was dissipating, leaving him emboldened, almost rash.

The coldness of the earth was displeasing to him; he felt like a child pushed from its mother's lap. He could still feel the heartbeat of it, still sense the warmth beneath the deep blanket of snow, but the sense of comfort that he had drawn from the ground beneath his stone feet in the heat
of the desert sand was gone, replaced by a growing sense of anger, of agitation.

Of hate.

He had no need of sleep or of sustenance; the earth was sustaining him through the Living Stone that formed his body. All the while, the dark fire within him, his demonic father's legacy, was baking the core of his being, withering that stone, making it hard, too, like the earth.

Like his will.

B
eneath the crust of that same cold earth, the dragon heard the echo of her name change.