Elegy for a Lost Star (54 page)

“Of course. Consider it done, Your Grace.” Talquist signaled to the captain of the guard. “Escort His Grace to the Earth Basilica, and make certain that he is uninterrupted in his prayers. No one is to enter the basilica without my express permission.” The guard nodded and withdrew.

“Thank you, my son,” said Nielash Mousa as the soldiers took up formation around him. “May your actions be returned to you a hundredfold.”

He bowed slightly and walked away, both men fully understanding the intention in each of their words.

T
he regiment of guards followed the Blesser of Sorbold on the long walk to Night Mountain within which Terreanfor was secreted, through a wide pass in the dry mountains that seemed to go on forever.

Finally at midday they reached the single entrance to the basilica, a lowlying door carved into the mountain, an overhanging ledge assuring that sunlight was not let inside. Beside the opening was a large, flat ceremonial stone; the benison signaled to two of the guards, one of whom had been grudgingly enlisted to carry a golden symbol of the sun atop a long pole, the other of whom was bearing a flask of holy oil. These tasks were traditionally performed by priests of Terreanfor, so the guards had little choice but to undertake them now.

The benison ignored their obvious consternation and ugly expressions, freezing his own aspect into a mask of serenity. He gestured to the first of the soldiers to come forward and place the golden symbol on the stone, which he quickly did, then stepped away, as if he feared proximity would yield divine retribution. The benison then reached for the oil, which he poured onto the golden symbols; he stood back to wait for the sun to kindle the oil into the only kind of fire that would be allowed into the basilica in shielded lanterns of cold light.

While the benison waited, he watched bemusedly from beneath his hood the growing boredom and irritation of the guards.
Interesting that you can stand watch in a mountain pass or a field column for days on end without losing focus, but a few moments at the feet of the All-God makes you nervous to the point of dereliction of duty
, he mused.
Well, we will try not to keep you waiting too long
.

When finally the sun overhead sparked a flame, Nielash Mousa transferred the fire reverently into a small ceremonial lantern; he was lighting it for tradition's sake only. Having been all but raised in Terreanfor, he could find his way around the basilica in the dark with his eyes closed.

Once the wick had kindled, he turned to the guards.

“Thank you for your assistance, my sons,” he said graciously. “Now I will be undertaking my prayers and burial rituals; since that will take much longer than your watch here, I bid you goodbye.”

The soldiers nodded and walked away, taking up their positions at the door of the basilica. The benison ducked below the overhang, uttered the words of opening, and entered the basilica, closing the doors slowly and quietly behind him.

Immediately he could hear the song of the Earth ringing in the depths of the basilica, the slow, melodic timbre of the world's beating heart. It was a sound that resonated in his soul, and had done so from the first moment he had become aware of it; its timbre was so deep, its tune so subtle, that until he had spent many years in the depths of Terreanfor, he did not even know it existed. Now it was immediately recognizable, like the voice of his mother, calling to him from her heart.

At last, alone in his beloved sanctuary, the benison broke down. He fell to his knees just beyond the doorway and wept, mourning the men who had served tirelessly with the same love of the dark earth, who had prayed beside him and stood vigil over this last enclave of one of the Creator's Paints, the primordial element from which the world itself was made.

The Earth wept along in unison.

Finally, when he could weep no more, Nielash Mousa rose slowly, with the hesitance of age, and descended the passageway leading to the basilica proper.

Down here in the interior of the Earth cathedral, the dry, stony exterior, dead from contact with the heat of the upworld, quickly gave way to the fresh, cool scent of moist, living earth. The heat of the Sorbold desert dissipated, replaced by colder air, heavy with life. The lamp in the benison's hand reflected off the smooth walls, trim and clean, gloriously colored in random swirls and stripes of deep, rich brown, gold and vermilion, green and purple, the hues of life that made their way up from the primordial world and bloomed on its surface in the form of flowers and wheat, grass and grapes, and all the outer signs that deep below the crust, the Earth was alive.

The noise of the upworld faded away, leaving nothing but silence and the resonating song of the Earth, growing louder with each step he took deeper into the basilica. He followed the song under the high archway that was the entrance to the Antechamber of the Sisters, which housed altars to three of the other primordial elements. Within that vast circular chamber
were alcoves containing a vent to a flamewell from the center of the Earth honoring the element of fire, a bubbling stream to honor Water, and a captured gust of wind that eternally praised the element of Air. The fourth Sister, the element of Ether, could be found deeper within the basilica, where no light of any kind was allowed, in the glowing rocks and organisms that contained its cold light, light left over from the birth of the universe.

The benison doused his lantern, plunging the antechamber into appropriate darkness.

Through the outer sanctum, beneath the gargantuan columns of Living Stone fashioned in the shapes of tall trees filled with earthen birds, past the towering statues of elephants and tirabouri, gazelles and lions, through the archway guarded by titanic soldiers, one of which, to his horror, was missing, the benison made his way quickly to the inner sanctum, the holy altar of elemental earth. He could hear the song of it emanating in the darkness, singing a dirge so painful that it brought him to tears again.

The basilica, his basilica, had been ravaged.

Never again
, he thought, shaking his head as he bowed low before the altar.
Never again
.

In his ears the words of the Patriarch were still ringing.

Nielash Mousa, tarry. Safeguard Terreanfor
.

I understand, Your Grace
, he whispered again.

His eyes dry, his expression resolute, the benison began to chant, opening his mind and the elemental altar to the petitions the congregation of Sorbold had directed toward it. When the rite of receiving was concluded, he began the rite of sending, directing those petitions along the Chain of Prayer toward Sepulvarta, where the Patriarch would offer them to the All-God.

Once his offering was finished, the benison began the rituals of burial, the rites for the dead. For each of the acolytes that was murdered in the manse he bowed five times over the altar of Living Stone and intoned the blessing.

Oh our mother the Earth, who waits for us beneath the everlasting sky,
shelter us, sustain us, give us rest
.

Finally, when the last of his priestly duties was finished, he walked through the inner sanctum, up the wide, dark stone stairs to the base of the burial tomb of Sorbold's emperors. Less than a year before he had performed the funerals of the Dowager Empress and her son, Crown Prince Vyshla, who had been taken by death within an hour of one another. It had not occurred to him at the time that they might have been murdered; now the sickening realization of how it may have come to pass added to the nausea of the rest of Talquist's crimes.

No more
, he intoned, hurrying up the stairs.
No more
.

As light began to filter into the holy darkness, he came into the burial chapel to the base of the Faithful's Stair, the tight, winding passageway up to the stained glass–filled sepulchers. It was a sealed tomb, but Nielash Mousa knew that the windows presented a possible entrance, a back way into Terreanfor, the only other place where Night Mountain's hidden cathedral could be broached.

Nielash Mousa knelt at the base of the Faithful's Stair.

Slowly he began to chant, intoning the words he had learned a lifetime before, words he prayed he would never have to utter. They were the Words of Closing, words of power, of destruction, in a language long dead, that had been taught in secret to each of the benisons who'd had stewardship over Terreanfor since it was built, with the understanding that they were never to be used unless there was no other way of avoiding them, and then only in a time when the basilica itself was under attack, in danger of being destroyed or, worse, its magic misused. That time had never before come to pass, not even in the wake of the war that had torn apart most of the continent, a war in which no weapon of destruction had been deemed too unholy to use.

That time had finally come.

T
he darkness within the cavern of Llauron's body seemed to close in.

“Is there no opening, no hole—”

Achmed held up his hand gently to silence her. He closed his eyes and loosed his path lore, seeking an egress, any small egress, from within the enormous stone structure. Finally he shook his head.

“None,” he said. “That Progenitor Wyrm knew what he was doing when he encircled the Vault of the Underworld. If there had been any small crack, any hole, those formless spirits would have been able to escape. None ever did, not for thousands of years, until the Sleeping Child hit the Earth and shattered the Vault. It appears that in his attempt to rescue us, Llauron may have condemned the three of us to suffocation.”

“Ashe will return soon with the carriage,” Rhapsody said, her eyes glittering in the dark as the panic within her rose. “He will be able to get us out of here.”

“How? What power does Ashe have over a fired shell of elemental earth, any more than Elynsynos does?”

The bundle within Rhapsody's arms began to move; the baby's voice rose in the beginnings of a wail. Achmed watched as Rhapsody's face changed completely, the sadness now replaced with horror. She crawled weakly to a stand and ran her hand up the ribbed wall of stone, banging on it.

“Elynsynos! Help! Elynsynos!”

She banged again, the sound dull and muted beneath the screams of the baby.

Achmed seized hold of her wrist; as he did, he felt light-headed. The world shifted for a moment, and he remembered suddenly the first time he had taken her by the wrist, dragging her away from her homeland, through the bowels of the world, a lifetime ago.

He loosed his grip slightly so as not to cause her pain, noting the thinness of the skin on her arm, the loss of blood in her face as she turned panicked eyes on him.

“Shhhh,” he said gently, in the same tone he had used to gentle down her child. “Save the air. If she's alive, she already knows we're in here. Calling won't help.”

Rhapsody sank back to the floor of the cavern, clutching the crying child closer, her eyes spilling over with tears of desperation. She caressed the infant for a moment, then looked up suddenly.

“Yes, it will,” she said slowly. “Yes, it will help, if I can reach a Kinsman. Anborn, or Grunthor—if my call can reach them on the wind—”

“What wind, Rhapsody?” Achmed asked quietly.

He could feel the breath go out of her, along with her hope.

“Come over here,” he said, leaning against the wall. “You Lirin are so wasteful of air, because you are used to endless quantities of it. Take it from a cave dweller; it's best to try and meditate. You will last longer.” He met her gaze as the baby began to whimper more weakly. “Calm is perhaps the last gift you can give your child.” He smiled slightly, trying to take away the sting of the words.

Rhapsody continued to stare at him for a long moment. Then realization came into her eyes. She rose shakily to her knees and crawled over to him, leaning against the stone wall that had once been Llauron's body. Achmed exhaled shallowly as the baby fell silent, his tiny chest heaving, then put his arm around Rhapsody and drew her head down to his shoulder.

“Meditate,” he whispered with great effort. “Try and—remember—the best of things. There's not . . . air . . . for anything . . . else.”

“You . . . are . . . one,” she said softly, leaning back against his shoulder, her head heavy now. “Even if . . . we have fought, I—I do love—”

“Shhhh,” he said again. “Don't . . . be a Waste . . . of Breath.”

Through his very skin, he could feel her heartbeat begin to relax and slow, until he could barely detect it at all.

N
ielash Mousa's head began to hum with a negative static as he chanted; a stabbing pain emerged above his left eye, making his forehead feel as if it were about to sunder. Resolutely he pressed on until the base of the Faithful's Stair began to shake, then tremble violently, at last collapsing upon itself, sealing off the upper tomb with the sepulchers and stained-glass windows above.