Elegy for a Lost Star (56 page)

He knew the statue's destination.

He ran from the balcony to the tower stairs, climbing two at a time, his heavy velvet robes no longer a cherished luxury but a fatal hindrance. He had barely broached the doorway of the tallest tower when he heard the shattering of the palace's massive gates; the screams echoed throughout Jierna Tal, shaking the walls of the minaret.

There was nowhere else left to run.

Gray sweat poured from his brow and neck as the thundering steps of the titan approached. The resistance noise had disappeared; after the decimation of the soldiers sent to battle it, the household staff had fled or was hiding. Now the regent emperor could hear the heavy footfalls thudding as mercilessly, unfalteringly, the titan came closer.

The tower shook violently as Faron mounted the stairs, climbing four at once, honing in on his prey. Talquist lost what little was left of his composure and screamed, slamming and bolting the door of the highest tower shut behind him, knowing as he did what a pathetically futile action it was.

He had taken cover behind an overturned table of shiny walnut wood when the door split open and the titan emerged, dragging his massive body through the stone opening that was too small to accommodate his height.

Talquist screamed again. Knowing that Faron had come for vengeance, he dropped to the floor on his knees, hopelessly praying that the titan might recognize the gesture of surrender and be moved by it.

Faron broke through the stones of the doorway.

With all hope lost, Talquist began to weep.

“No, Faron,” he gasped, struggling for breath in the grip of terror. “Please—I meant only to—”

Fear got the better of him as the living statue's eyes, blue and milky with cataracts, stared at him stonily, and he fell silent.

Slowly the titan crossed the small room until it was standing directly in front of the regent emperor.

Its stone arm reached out at the level of Talquist's neck.

Its gigantic hand opened.

In it were five colored scales, each tattered about the edges, each inscribed with runes in a language long dead in the material world. Each was of a different hue, though in the fading light of dusk they gleamed iridescently in all the colors of the rainbow.

Humming a symphony of power.

With great care, the titan crouched down and placed the five scales on the floor at the regent emperor's feet.

Dumbfounded, Talquist could only stare at Faron for the longest of moments. Finally he found his voice and thoughts again.

He reached into the folds of his robe where he always carried his treasure, the violet scale, and drew it forth, holding it up before the statue's milky eyes.

“Is this what you seek, Faron? A return to Sharra's deck? Are you looking to join forces with me, and combine them into a set again?”

The titan nodded slowly.

The regent emperor let out a sharp gasp.

Then a chuckle of relief.

And finally an unbridled laugh of manic glee that echoed off the broken tower, down the stairways, over the grounds of the palace, and out into the night, where it rang, triumphant, through the streets of Jierna'sid.

A
thudding shook the foundations of the cavern that was once Llauron.

Achmed sat upright, jolting the baby awake.

Rhapsody had collapsed against the wall where she'd sung. She barely stirred as the thudding ceased.

A light appeared on the wall, forming a doorway in the side of the great stone beast. Achmed summoned the strength to rise to his feet, his eyes stinging, and pulled Rhapsody up behind him, still clutching the baby in his arms.

A dark humanoid shape, taller than a man by half over, filled the opening.

“Oh, right, ya can't manage ta stay in Ylorc yerself, so now yer draggin'
me
away from there now?”

Achmed stumbled forward, using his right arm to shove Rhapsody into Grunthor's while cradling the baby with his left.

“Air,” he croaked.

The light dimmed and vanished. The giant Bolg grabbed the Lady Cymrian and lifted her out of the cavern, depositing her quickly and gently onto the snowy ground outside, then pulled Achmed through the opening as well. Then he leaned back into the cavern, letting out a low whistle as he did.

“Criton, what's this?”

“It used to . . . be . . . Llauron,” Achmed said, choking on the fullness of the snow-filled air of the forest. He took a moment to catch his breath, then looked up at the giant Sergeant. “He died rescuing us from Anwyn,” he said when he could speak.

“Ah, she made it 'ere, then?” Grunthor said under his breath. “That
bitch. Glad Oi brought this with me.” He held up the key of Living Stone that had once opened Sagia's root. “Oi was right there in the vault when the call came, and Oi jus' 'ad a feelin'.”

Grunthor looked down into Achmed's arms and froze, his amber eyes widening in the morning light. “Whatcha got there, sir?”

Achmed shook his head and nodded at Rhapsody, who was rising weakly to her knees, staring at the carriage that was waiting in the glen a short distance away.

She was watching her husband approach the cavern, the end of the world on his face.

W
inter had returned in all its fury by the time the caravan returned to the sheltered courtyard of Haguefort.

Gwydion Navarne watched the carriages arrive from the tall windows above the library; the firelight reflected off the glass in the panes, warming a room that had felt cold for some time. How long, he did not know; he waited anxiously for the doors to open, but the carriage driver took his time, endeavoring to position the coach as close to the steps as possible.

Melisande stood beside him, wrapped in the drapes, dancing impatiently to see the baby.

“Why aren't they hurrying?” she demanded, pushing in front of her brother again.

Gwydion's hands came to rest gently on her shoulders.

“They want to keep him as warm and safe as possible,” he said, thinking back to what he had seen in Ghant, and what it portended for the future. His hands gripped her shoulders a little more tightly, as if to hold on to her without worrying her. “I guess that's the natural impulse with babies—and sisters.” He smiled as reassuringly as he could as Melisande looked up at him, her face contorted in humorous doubt.

They continued to stand at the window and watch as Ashe finally exited the carriage, followed by the shadowy cloaked figure Gwydion recognized immediately as the Bolg king. The coach swayed from side to side for a moment, and to his delight the young duke saw Grunthor step out as well.

“They're—” His words choked off; Melly had already run from the room. He could hear her footfalls dashing down the steps of the Grand Stair. Gwydion smiled and followed her.

By the time he reached the entranceway of the keep, Ashe had already carried the newborn inside, and had handed him, with an awkward smile, to the chambermaid who had opened the door. The servant took the baby and moved out of the draft as the Lord Cymrian reached through the doorway
and assisted Rhapsody over the threshold, where a bevy of other household staff descended upon them, taking cloaks, hats, and winter wear out of the way.

Excitement overran his natural reserve; he dashed across the foyer to the doorway and threw his arms around Rhapsody, whose smile was bright, though her face seemed pale and somewhat drawn. He looked up happily at his godfather, only to see him staring absently over his shoulder at the chambermaid, who was cooing to the baby; a chill went up his spine, though he had no idea why.

Melisande hugged Ashe, oblivious of his preoccupation.

“Can I hold him? Please, please?”

“By all means,” Ashe said quickly. “Portia, please bring the baby to Lady Melisande.”

The chambermaid nodded respectfully, then, seeing the door close behind the Firbolg king, carried the child across the entranceway and put him into the waiting arms of Melisande.

“I'm sorry to interrupt your homecoming,” Gwydion said quietly to Ashe, “but I have a matter of great urgency that I must discuss with you once Rhapsody and the baby are safely settled in. I regret having to impinge this way, but—”

A loud metallic clanking sounded down the corridor in the Great Hall.

The two Firbolg, the Lord and Lady Cymrian, the children of Navarne, and the household staff all looked up to see Anborn appear at the doorway of the hall, standing erect and without his crutches, in the center of the great silver walking machine that had been brought to him from Gaematria.

“Sweet All-God,” Ashe exclaimed. “I thought I'd never live to see this day.”

“May you live to see many such days that you'd never expect to see,” said Anborn seriously.

“What changed your mind, Uncle?”

Anborn exhaled deeply, his eyes going to the bundle in Melisande's arms that had started to kick.

“The need to be ready for what is to come,” he said seriously. “You and I have need to speak now, Gwydion; your ward may already have told you what he and I have witnessed since we left. I have even worse news to add.” He blinked as Ashe took the baby from Melly, walked over, and offered the baby to him.

“Tarry a moment, Uncle,” Ashe said gently, “and meet your new great-nephew.”

A change came over Anborn's stern face. He stared at the infant for a moment, then reluctantly reached out and took the infant in his arms, cradling him gently as Rhapsody came over beside him, smiling.

He smiled slightly down at the child for a moment, watching in wonder
as the tiny fist curled around his finger. He looked up first at Rhapsody, then at Ashe, and spoke in a voice that was uncharacteristically gentle.

“Well done, my dear, and congratulations, nephew,” he said quietly. “To celebrate this occasion, Gwydion, I am going to stand here for a moment and marvel at this child, allowing you a few final moments of contentment before I tell you what I saw in Sorbold.”

Ashe exhaled deeply. “And I will return the favor by giving you yet a few more moments of happiness before I tell you what has happened to Llauron.”

The two Firbolg looked at each other, then turned away and started toward the door.

“I don't envy Rhapsody her homecoming,” Achmed said, pulling his cloak around him and preparing to start out into the building storm.

Grunthor cleared his throat as he opened the door.

“Yeah, well, sir, Oi don't especially envy you yours, either.”

The Bolg king's eyes narrowed as he glanced back over his shoulder.

“What now?”

“Well, if ya thought that the ‘birthday party' we had while you were gone the last time left a mess, wait until ya see the one that's waiting for you when you get back this time, sir.”

Achmed sighed in annoyance.
“Hrekin.”

“Actually, sir, that's right. And lots of it.”

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel
are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

ELEGY FOR A LOST STAR

Copyright © 2004 by Elizabeth Haydon

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book,
or portions thereof, in any form.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Edited by James Minz

Maps by Ed Gazsi

A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010

www.tor.com

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is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

First Edition: August 2004

Printed in the United States of America

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eISBN 9781429912488