Read Requiem for the Sun Online
Authors: Elizabeth Haydon
Requiem for the Sun (30 page)
“If you must know, part of what I'm doing is to prepare for some instability on the border, and, in truth, I'd appreciate die details when it is settled, but I must go. I don't have the stomach or the time to watch what comes to pass just so that I am able to say I was there and could do nothing to stop it.
“Now I must find the benison. Good night.”
24
A
chmed was awake long before dawn broke.
chmed was awake long before dawn broke.
He crept from the sleeping palace, stopping long enough to stare up at the towering minarets, the dry, imposing edifice, where the bells had thankfully abstained from ringing since the evening before. His head still vibrated from the cacophony of the funeral.
Quickly he made his way down to the livery. The gardens were glistening in the light of the setting moon, the sparse dew on the shrubs and flowers shining like spidery lace.
The stablemaster was there, as he had requested, overseeing the morning's mucking and watering. The horse he had asked for was tacked and saddled, quartered beside his own. Achmed handed him the bill of tender, allowing his eyes to wander over the mount. The stablemaster has chosen generously; the mount was the one he would have selected himself. Achmed inhaled, pleased that, for once, his Firbolg blood had not been an excuse to be mistreated.
He withdrew from his pocket a platinum sun and gave it to the man for good measure, then led both horses away from the warm, heavy air of the stable into the cooler wind of dawn. It was the first time he remembered ever paying more than was asked; it was an interesting feeling.
He was not certain he liked it. But he felt no despair at it, either.
Quickly he vaulted onto his mount and, leading the horse he had just purchased,
trotted off into the gray haze of predawn to the cliff face that overlooked the camp of the Panjeri. The advent of sunrise was causing the sky behind him to lighten in anticipation of the dawn.
trotted off into the gray haze of predawn to the cliff face that overlooked the camp of the Panjeri. The advent of sunrise was causing the sky behind him to lighten in anticipation of the dawn.
As he crested the last rise, Achmed reared to a halt.
The camp was gone.
As were the nomads.
His heart began to pound as his eyes scanned the vast expanse of the steppes to the west, searching the gray mist of the world below for signs of the Panjeri caravan, but it were nowhere to be seen.
A sense of panic, or something like it, began to settle on him, burning in his thin skin. He had finally found the artisans for whom he had searched for months, one in particular who seemed precisely what he needed, a sealed master who was diligent and uncompromising in her work, who would brook no nonsense from Shaene, and could stare a Bolg in the face without flinching.
Who could help turn the Lightcatcher from a schematic into an instrumentality.
And she was gone.
By the gods, no, I will not let this slip through my hands again,
he thought angrily.
he thought angrily.
He spurred the horse to canter, doubling back to the base of the hill that led up to the summit where the glass windows were embedded into the peak of Night Mountain.
As before, a quartet of guards was stationed near the crypt.
“Where are the Panjeri?” Achmed shouted to them as the two horses danced in place. The four soldiers blinked, the words rousing them from a state of half-sleep in the drowsy coolness of dawn.
The soldiers shook their heads. One of them shouted back.
“The mail caravan came through in the night. They might have gone with it for part of the way; nomads often do. It heads west through the Rymshin Pass and then north to Sepulvarta. You might try there.”
Achmed raised a hand in acknowledgment and spurred the horses again.
T
wo days later, an hour's ride through the Rymshin Pass brought him in sight of the western Krevensfield Plain. The sun had crested the horizon, bathing the world below the foothills in a haze of steam, the green waves of highgrass, burned at the tips, waving in the wind as it swept through.
wo days later, an hour's ride through the Rymshin Pass brought him in sight of the western Krevensfield Plain. The sun had crested the horizon, bathing the world below the foothills in a haze of steam, the green waves of highgrass, burned at the tips, waving in the wind as it swept through.
In the distance the guarded mail caravan, seven wagons escorted by two score and ten guards, was slowly winding its way, unhurried, north along the feeder road to the trans-Orlandan thoroughfare. They were headed to Sepulvarta, halfway through their four-week transcontinental cycle. Achmed was
intimately acquainted with the schedule and workings of the mail caravan, because it was he who had established it.
intimately acquainted with the schedule and workings of the mail caravan, because it was he who had established it.
Following closely behind the caravan were four crude wagons, gaily painted, each drawn by two teams of horses, with single riders traveling along at intervals alongside.
He had found the Panjeri.
Achmed considered for a moment the logistics of his approach to the caravan. The Krevensfield Plain was flat enough, unguarded enough, that even a single rider coming rapidly down from the foothills and across the steppes might be mistaken as a marauder, though surely the most foolish marauder even spawned. Having no desire to be brought down by an arrow from one of Tristan Steward's caravan guards, he looked around quickly for something to signal his peaceable intentions.
A banner depicting the Sun and Sword of the now-dead empress was flying dispiritedly at the entrance to the pass, its companion flag missing from its pole. Achmed rode to the entranceway and seized the banner, affixing it to his own riding staff. He looked up for a moment, contemplating the dynasty he had heard declared dead the day before, and its symbols of the endless power of the sun, the enduring might of the sword.
Even these pass away,
he thought.
Perhaps better in life to take on symbols of less grandiose stature, so that in death one might not look as ridiculous
.
he thought.
Perhaps better in life to take on symbols of less grandiose stature, so that in death one might not look as ridiculous
.
He checked the reins on the horse he had purchased in Sorbold, then spurred his own, guiding it down the rocky pathway into the open arms of the Krevensfield Plain.
A
shout went up simultaneously from the Orlandan guards in the rear of the mail caravan and the Panjeri riding alongside their wagons.
shout went up simultaneously from the Orlandan guards in the rear of the mail caravan and the Panjeri riding alongside their wagons.
“Hie! South! A rider!”
The caravan continued to roll, picking up a half-gait of speed, as the southern flank of guards peeled off and formed a vanguard waiting to intercept the rider. The Panjeri caravan continued on as well.
Within the second wagon, an older woman grabbed the arm of the younger woman called Theophila, and shook it to get her attention.
“Theophila! Hie to the south! Isn't that the King of the Bolg in pursuit?” she said in the strange pidgin dialect of the nomadic tribe.
“It is! I recognize his veils,” said another. “Look! He's come for you, Theophila!”
The younger woman shaded her eyes with her hand, staring south to the foothills. A smile, something the Panjeri had almost never seen on her face, crept across the corners of her mouth, but she said nothing. The women began
teasing her as the wagon slowed, and two of the caravan guards rode out to meet the approaching rider, who was flying the standard of the dead empress and leading a second horse.
teasing her as the wagon slowed, and two of the caravan guards rode out to meet the approaching rider, who was flying the standard of the dead empress and leading a second horse.
“It's not your skills as a glass-
shairae
that he covets, girl!”
shairae
that he covets, girl!”
“No, it's your arse! You do have a lovely arse, Theophila.”
“Yes, but she's been waggling it in Krentice's face through this last project. Won't he be jealous?”
“Of the Bolg king? Hardly.”
“Why not? He has the same sack in his pants that every man doesâ
“Yes! A coin purse!”
“Stop that, you peahens,” the older woman scolded. “Mind your manners.”
The object of their teasing put her hand into the pocket of her trousers, and fingered the coins she had taken from the eyes of the empress and the Crown Prince after the clergy and other mourners had left and sealed the tomb high up in the desolate mountaintop. She ran her thumb over the rough metal surfaces, still feeling regret and the sting in her abdomen of misjudging the width of the hole she had opened in the stained-glass window. It was this entranceway she had been sealing when the Bolg king had first seen her.
“Let them twitter,” she said. “I pay them no mind, anyway.”
She watched with interest as the caravan guards exchanged a few words with the rider, then tugged on the reins, peeling their mounts back to the caravan line. The Bolg king, swathed in veils as she had seen him on the rise of the mount of windows, tossed his Sorbold standard on the ground and eased his horse forward, leading a second one, an expensive, beautiful gelded bay. He came to a halt before the wagon in which she was seated and shielded his strange eyes, staring directly into her own as she rose to a stand.
“Have you considered my offer?”
She squinted in the sun. “To work for tools?”
“Yes. Any hand tools you can design, they will be made for you.”
She thought for a moment. “And the two hundred thousand gold suns?”
Achmed blinked, his voice skipping slightly as he answered. “That was for the entire retinue of Panjeri.”
“No, it was for hiring what Panjeri you needed. It was you who said you needed but one.” She put her hands on her hips. “Are you reneging on your offer?”
“No,” the Bolg king said quickly. He smiled as an afterthought occurred. “It is a fair price to purchase the unlimited time of a sealed Panjeri master.”
It was now Theophila's turn to experience a skipping of voice. “Wait,” she said, “Unlimited time? I did not agree to that.”
“Indeed you did. I told you I would not have you unless you were committed to finish the project, and you rather stoutly informed me that you never leave any aspect of your work unfinished. For all you know, my project is to line every crag in the Teeth with intricate windows depicting the geography of the entire world, from each mountain's roots to it summit. Are you reneging on your acceptance of my offer?”
Theophila squared her chin defiantly.
“No,” she snarled.
Achmed smiled slightly. “Good. Then bid your clan goodbye, assure them you will be well treated and well paid, and come with me.”
The woman turned to the Panjeri, who were staring at her in confusion, spoke a few quick words, listening to the reply of an older man in the same wagon as she, the one that Achmed had determined to be the leader of the nomads based on his actions the day before. She turned back to the Bolg king.
“The leader wants your assurances that you will treat me with kindness.” Her voice held a hint of irony, perhaps at the knowledge of how much kindness she herself tended to show.
Achmed sat up straighter in the saddle, then dismounted and walked to the wagon, where he stood beneath Theophila, looking up at her.
“I treat no one with kindness,” he said quietly. “You may question both my dearest friends and direst enemies, and they shall both tell you the same thing. But you will be safe, well fed, well protected, and well outfitted. Beyond that, I promise nothing.”
The woman stood silent, considering his words. Behind her the Panjeri began whispering to one another in their strange tongue. Achmed grew annoyed. He put out his gloved hand to her.
“Come with me,” he said bluntly.
The words, his own, born of impatience, echoed in his mind. He had spoken very similar words centuries before, a lifetime ago, on the other side of Time, in the air of a world now gone, to another woman who was trying his patience.
Come with us if you want to live.
Theophila stared down at him; Achmed could see the instant when the decision was finalized in her eyes. She gathered her things, took his hand, and jumped down from the wagon, ignoring the stares and bewildered mutterings of the Panjeri, then followed him back to the horses and mounted the one he had brought for her.
The mail caravan guards, seeing that the Firbolg king's business was completed,
passed the word up along the line, preparing to resume their journey. The caravan leader waited long enough for the two strange people to begin to ride, then called to his own wagon drivers.
passed the word up along the line, preparing to resume their journey. The caravan leader waited long enough for the two strange people to begin to ride, then called to his own wagon drivers.
“Move on, lads. We have to catch up with the sun.”
25
I
t took the better part of a day for the various factions to sort through their own pecking orders enough to choose a symbol to represent their interests.
t took the better part of a day for the various factions to sort through their own pecking orders enough to choose a symbol to represent their interests.
Ashe spent that time cloistered with Rial and Tristan Steward, comparing their observations and setting an agreed standard for participation in the remainder of the colloquium.
“This nation is sorting out some of the most grievous decisions ever to face a realm,” he said quietly to the Lord Roland over their sparse noonmeal served in the cavernous dining hall of the palace; a good number of the cooks and servants had fled after the funeral, fearing the unknown, but trusting in their anonymity, assuming if a friendly regime took Jierna Tal, they would be rehired, since no one would recognize them anyway. “Whatever system replaces Leitha, I mean to see that it maintains its status as a friend to the Alliance. And while privately I agree with you in principle, Tristan, that Sorbold is stronger and an easier nation to deal with as a whole, not as a conglomeration of independent states, it is not for us to decide, or deride, what they choose to become in this new incarnation of their realm. Not to mention that strong neighbors aren't always good things.”
The Lord Roland fixed a demeaning stare on his sovereign and childhood friend.
“When we were lads, I remember you saying once that there were leaders, and there were politicians,” he said in a surly tone, “distinguishable by whether they looked inward or outward to find the courage of their convictions. I am sorry to see which one you have turned out to be.”
“I agree that a monolithic Sorbold is more stable,” Rial inserted hastily, hoping to forestall the response he saw brewing. “But there are some legitimate points raised by the nobles. The needs of some of the larger city-states sometimes have gone unmet in the game of power the empress played with some of the smaller ones. The One-God knows that the outlying states with a shipping concern need more military might, more naval support; the pirate and slave trades have flourished in Sorbold for years, the gladiatorial arenas grown in scale and popularity as blood sport becomes more and more brutal. It's an
atrocity that Leitha turned a blind eye to; I don't blame Damir, whose lands border Tyrian, for his concern.”
atrocity that Leitha turned a blind eye to; I don't blame Damir, whose lands border Tyrian, for his concern.”
“Though Kaav's protestations are disingenuous,” Ashe said. “His central lands are the largest mining regions, anthracite and silver, sulfur and salt. Where do you think he gets his workers for those terrible places?”
“From the slave trade,” Rial agreed.
“Perhaps we have coddled them too long,” said Tristan Steward. “Ever since it broke away from the Cymrian Empire at the end of the war, Sorbold has been like a great, looming blight to the south, a nest of scorpions and Gray Assassins hiding in the rocks, biding its time. A more sensible tack to take would be to begin the process of reabsorbing them into the Alliance, rather than trying to make peace accords with them.”
“And how would you enforce such a reabsorption, should they not wish it to happen?” Ashe asked disdainfully. “Their army is five, perhaps six times the size of the united forces of Roland â”
“But is dwarfed when you add Tyrian and Ylorc.”
Ashe put out his hand quickly to stop Rial's acid reply.
“Let me not hear such talk again, especially while we are guests in this place,” he said with a terrifying softness, his voice quavering with the multiple tones of the dragon in his blood. “You are putting ideas on the wind that have no support, but those words have power, and may bring about unintended consequences. What you are advocating is a return to days that are gone, and for good reason.”
“Why do you fear that?” Tristan shot back. “Why do you not wish to annex what is unstable, to make it a part of the whole, where we would be safe from it?”
Ashe drained his glass and stood up from the table.
“Because, unlike you, I have no desire to rule the world. Sooner or later, the world comes to resent it.”
T
he colloquium reconvened at sunset.
he colloquium reconvened at sunset.
The various factions of Sorbold had gravitated toward each other, so that the inner table was divided into four distinct groups â the nobility of the nine large city-states Tryfalian had listed as worthy of independence; the counts of the remaining states, sitting silently and smoldering across the table from them; the Mercantile in the presence of Ihvarr and Talquist; and the army, whose sole representative was Fhremus.
Nielash Mousa had, by his appearance, gotten no sleep the night before. His face, which normally bore the puffy wrinkles under the eyes of a man of
his years, sagged under the weight of the import of the proceedings, his dusky skin flushed and sweaty. He stepped into the center of the square, cleared his throat politely, and then spoke as the silence deepened.
his years, sagged under the weight of the import of the proceedings, his dusky skin flushed and sweaty. He stepped into the center of the square, cleared his throat politely, and then spoke as the silence deepened.
“Before we set about the task of another Weighing, I ask if anyone present has a concern or objection that they wish to voice.”
No one spoke.
The benison nodded. “Very well. Since I am to conduct this Weighing, with the aid of Lasarys in the keeping of the records, I feel that I should submit myself to the Scales for their judgment beforehand. The Scales detect more than the eye can ever see, more than the mind can rightly know. They know a man's heart, and a man's destiny; if they adjudge me to be false, I have no defense against it.” He fingered the holy symbol around his neck, a representation of the Earth. “My office resides in this symbol. If I am not worthy of it, if I have violated any of my vows or compromised my holy oaths, I will be found wanting.” He eyed the crowd as a smile took up residence at the corner of his mouth. “Bear this in mind for yourselves as well.”
As the assemblage exchanged nervous glances, the benison removed the chain from his neck and handed it to Lasarys. The priest walked hurriedly to the top of the steps where the Scales loomed and reverently set the holy symbol down in the western plate. Then he stepped aside and nodded anxiously to Mousa.
The Blesser of Sorbold mounted the steps to the top of the platform, his back straighter than Ashe had seen it since arriving in Sorbold. He closed his eyes and stepped carefully onto the other plate.
For a moment the Scales did not move. Then, with a creak of the great wooden arms, the chains that held the plate rattled, and the benison was lifted aloft, then balanced perfectly with his holy symbol.
Ashe, watching from the outer circle, felt a swell of amazement. It never ceased to impress him, the sight of a man's weight balancing in the air against a tiny symbol like the ring, a sign of the power of the ancient Scales. He thought back to their history, how Gwylliam had valued them enough to bring them across the sea from Serendair, rescuing them from being obliterated in the cataclysm. It was one of the truly great accomplishments in his grandfather's sordid life.
Nielash Mousa remained still for a moment, his eyes closed, as if listening to voices no one else could hear. Then he opened his eyes, inhaled deeply, and stepped down from the Scales, sanctified by the Earth, and prepared to conduct the Weighings. He collected the holy symbol, which he kissed and returned to its place around his neck, then signaled for Lasarys to place the Ring of State in the western plate.
“Very well. Assuming no one wishes to dispute the findings of the Scales â” He paused for a moment, then, hearing no comment, plowed on. “I invite the factions to present their cases. Once we know which faction's vision for Sorbold the Scales determine to be the right one, we will weigh anyone within that group who wishes to present himself as emperor.”
“What if our faction disputes that there should
be
an emperor?” Tryfalian called out.
be
an emperor?” Tryfalian called out.
Mousa considered for a moment. “Then the vision articulated by the person chosen from the faction by the Scales will be enacted â whatever it may be.” He turned to Lasarys amid the murmuring that broke out at his words, then turned back to the assemblage.
“Who brings forth a symbol from the army?”
Fhremus pushed his chair away from the table and stood, taking a moment to stare at each of the other factions. Then he ascended the steps to the platform. He held aloft a shield that blazed with a golden sun; it glinted in the rays of sunset.
“This is the shield of the empress's regiment, the column which has protected and defended the throne of Sorbold for three hundred years,” he said stiffly. “The army does not seek to rule, merely to guard and sustain whomever the Scales choose as the rightful voice of the realm.” He coughed, then met the eyes of the assemblage. “If the Scales select our faction, the vision will be to remain a single nation, with a leader selected by the Scales from the military, and coronated as emperor.”
Nielash Mousa motioned him to place the shield on the plate. The commander kissed the shield and set it down to be weighed.
The Scales did not move. The shield remained hovering at the place it had been, outweighed by the Ring of State.
“Your wisdom has been borne out,” said Mousa to Fhremus, who nodded and retrieved his weapon. “It is not from the military that the visionary who will lead Sorbold will come. Who is next?”
“I â we are next,” called Tryfalian, his voice booming over the square. He strode to the steps and mounted them without looking back, ignoring the whispering that had begun.
“What symbol do you present?” Mousa asked.
Tryfalian held up a large brass wax seal. “This seal was presented to my grandfather by the empress, for the purpose of stamping trade agreements on behalf of the Crown,” he said. “It is a symbol of the autonomy which she granted to the city-states, an autonomy that will be furthered should the Scales weigh in favor of the Greater Nobility, the counts who steward the nine largest states. Should this be the choice of the Scales, the empire will be dissolved;
autonomy and freedom will be granted to the nine large provinces which between them comprise more than three-fourths of the landmass and population of the current state. They will absorb the remaining eighteen, after meetings to discuss the specifics.”
autonomy and freedom will be granted to the nine large provinces which between them comprise more than three-fourths of the landmass and population of the current state. They will absorb the remaining eighteen, after meetings to discuss the specifics.”
Mousa nodded and indicated the western plate. Slowly Tryfalian approached the Scales, and knelt, laying the heavy seal in the plate to be weighed against the small ring.
The Scales tipped immediately, dumping the heavy seal out of the plate onto the reviewing stand, where it rolled quickly to the edge. Tryfalian lunged to keep it from falling onto the bricks of the square, and landed on his stomach, the seal banging against his knuckles with a crunching sound that made the onlookers wince.
“Perhaps the empress favored you, but the Scales apparently do not, Tryfalian!” one of the lesser counts shouted derisively over the laughter that bubbled up from his faction.
“Silence!” thundered Nielash Mousa. The assemblage froze at the steel in the benison's voice; Mousa was generally a soft-spoken man with a famously long temper. “You dishonor the Scales.” He laid a hand on the shoulder of the Count of Keltar as he rose, glaring at the lesser counts, then waited until Tryfalian had taken his seat again.
“Who will present next?”
The Mercantile and the lesser counts looked at one another blankly. Finally Ihvarr stood.
“All right,” he said testily. “The Mercantile will go next.”
Quiet whispering rose up from the lesser counts as Ihvarr walked to the stand. Nielash Mousa met him at the top of the steps, then glared the lesser nobility into silence.
Ihvarr held up a single gold sun, the coin of the realm of Sorbold, imprinted with the empress's face on one side and the sword-and-sun symbol on the other, larger and heavier than a gold crown of Roland.
“This simple coin is the symbol of commerce in Sorbold,” he said, his glorious merchant's voice filling the square. “It represents the wealth and power of trade in Sorbold, shipping lanes, mining interests, and linen weavers that are known the world over. While the Mercantile does not seek to rule, it does seek to keep the nation together. The men who plough the earth and the sea, who ply the tradesâthese are the lifeblood of Sorbold. I speak for them.” He tossed the coin flippantly into the plate.
Slowly the Scales moved, scuffing the platform.
The arm raised to the inky sky, lifting the coin aloft, then brought it to balance with the Ring of State.
Ihvarr stepped back as if slapped. He looked quickly over at Talquist, who was similarly stunned, and then to the benison, who nodded gravely.
“Take the coin off the plate,” Mousa instructed.
Quickly the merchant leader complied.
“There must be a mistake,” Tristan Steward whispered to Ashe, echoing the thoughts and comments of countless others in the factions and among the guests. “Surely the next emperor is not to come from the Mercantile?”
Ashe waved at him to be silent. “Why not?” he whispered. “You know the work of a head of state. Half of the time is spent in mind-numbing figuring of tariffs and grain treaties. These people
live
for that.” He inhaled deeply, thinking of Rial's words earlier regarding the slave trade. “And perhaps with the Scales watching their movements, they will address the illegal trade that deals in human blood, lest they risk the ire of the Dark Earth.”
live
for that.” He inhaled deeply, thinking of Rial's words earlier regarding the slave trade. “And perhaps with the Scales watching their movements, they will address the illegal trade that deals in human blood, lest they risk the ire of the Dark Earth.”
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