The Hollow Queen (36 page)

The images that haunted Gwydion's dreams now were no longer the memories of what he had seen in his family's keep. Rather, they were the recollections of the battle for Navarne, the pitting of Ashe's forces of the Cymrian Alliance against the invading tide of desert dwellers and Icemen from the Hintervold, all grimly intent on taking or holding the citadel on the eastern edge of the Great Forest.

And for all that Gwydion had been struck with a terror that had not consumed him in his first experience with warfare in the farming settlement Anborn had converted into an armored garrison, what had really terrified him was watching the man who had stood in Anborn's stead in Navarne.

The Patriarch of Sepulvarta.

Disturbing as the seventeen-year-old found war in general, the sight of Constantin in battle was so unsettling that he could hardly bring himself to close his eyes at night.

The Patriarch, whom Gwydion had met on a few occasions prior to his “surrender” at the gate of Navarne's encampment, had always been a man of religious bearing, often garbed in the robes of a simple pilgrim, with a sense of peace in his aspect.

So the sight of him, armored in nothing more than a mail shirt and armed with a spear and a sword, fighting in brutal hand-to-hand combat, had shaken the youth to his core.

There was something almost obscene in the beauty of Constantin's battle movements, his thunderous strides as he approached the enemy, sweeping men from their feet with the spear and stepping on their throats as he dispatched them rapidly. Gwydion, alone among both the defenders of the Alliance and the attackers from the north and south, was aware of the Patriarch's past in the gladiatorial arenas of Sorbold, had understood his insistence that he would lead the fighting on the ground while others manned the walls or the ramparts with missile weapons, arms that he had never used.

The sight of the holy man, his teeth bared in hatred, tearing men limb from limb in the blood-splashed streets was something Gwydion feared would never leave his mind.

So when the aide-de-camp arrived to wake him, informing him that the Patriarch had returned to the capital, Gwydion had come forth from his tent shaking and covered with sweat, having been woken from a nightmare in which the Patriarch had been putting everyone in the city to the sword.

He swallowed his terror and followed the soldier to the citadel's central courtyard.

Gwydion was relieved to see the religious leader in the dim light of the campfires and torch stalks; Constantin's face was visible, his hood down, and the serenity that had been the hallmark of his aspect before the war had returned. His eyes, searing blue in the colors of the Cymrian dynasties, sighted on Gwydion, and he walked away from the captain who had been addressing him before the man was even finished with his report.

“Young Navarne,” he said, approaching Gwydion, “come with me.”

“Yes sir,” Gwydion said eagerly. “Where are we going?”

“To wrest Sepulvarta from her kidnappers.”

 

Return from Across the Sea

 

38

VLANE, MANOSSE

By the time Ashe returned to the harbor in Vlane, the fleet had indeed assembled, every magnificent warship, each merchant and passenger vessel equipped with ballistae and catapults, the great smoking braziers amidships being stoked with the makings of a substance called Rancid Fire, a type of coal that was almost impossible to put out. The sailors and soldiers of Manosse had received the harbormaster's summons and had responded with surprising alacrity; now the wharf, which routinely docked over a thousand ships in a day's time, was crackling with excitement, anger, and energy.

Ashe was amazed.

He followed the harbormaster, who was waiting for him at the pier, to the ship that had been selected for him to captain, a two-masted brigantine sailing under the flag of Manosse, but with a secondary banner in his own colors and with the symbol of the Cymrian Alliance proudly displayed.

On the stern, the name
Valiant
was proudly displayed.

“A good thought,” he had said to the harbormaster, who smiled.

“We're keeping a secondary billet here for defense, but everything else is going with you, m'lord,” the man said pleasantly, though there were obvious signs of concern in the wrinkles around his eyes.

He piped Ashe aboard and saluted him, then disappeared into the noise of the growing crowd on the docks.

Ashe greeted the first mate, a Manossian man of mixed human and Lirin blood named Stavos, and was quickly briefed on the crew and the headings. Then, while the crew finished loading and running the rope check, he went to the prow of the ship and looked off into the distance, at the eastern edge of the harbor and the open sea beyond.

And, for the briefest of moments, allowed himself to revel in the memory from two years back again, an earlier moment from the same trip he had recalled upon arriving in Manosse that morning.

He thought back to the elaborate surprise he had contrived for Rhapsody upon realizing that, in spite of trekking across the world inside its depths and through its heart, she had still never seen the sea. He had arranged for a visit to Avonderre, her first, and had taken her out to the harbor to the quay, where a beautiful ship was moored, and had offered her a tour of the vessel, which she eagerly accepted.

He closed his eyes again, remembering the joy on her face, her hands over her mouth, as she stood at the prow trying to quell her excitement as she looked west, just as he was now looking east out of the harbor that had been their destination. That joy had exploded into a palpable thrill when he told her they were sailing to Manosse, all packed and ready; her reaction had been so effervescent that he had felt it physically, from the roots of his hair to the heels of his feet.

He had taken her aloft on the mast once they were out on the open sea, the dragon cherishing her excitement as if it were the greatest wonder in the world. After holding her, cradling her against his chest in the crow's nest, pointing out pods of accompanying dolphins and breaching whales, the ocean spilling over the horizon under the welkin of a sky more full of stars than she had ever seen, and the aurora borealis coloring the northern heavens, she had turned and given him a lingering kiss of grateful joy tinged with the salt of tears that he could still taste if he recalled it.

That night, he had held her tenderly again in the beautifully outfitted cabin belowdecks, steadying her in the rocking of the ship, luxuriating in the afterglow of passionate lovemaking that was still sparkling from her exhilaration. With his eyes closed now, he could still hear the words she had whispered to him then when their lips had finally parted.

Sam?

Yes, my love?

Now I can see you even more clearly.

He had smiled at her in the dark of the cabin.
Really?

Abovedeck, I mean. With the ocean all around you, I can more fully see the power of the element of water in you; your steadiness, your consistency, but also your ever-changing mood; your strength, your depth. I understand you so much more deeply now that I've seen the sea. Thank you for showing it to me.

He had sighed in her arms and rested his lips on her cheek, his forehead against her temple. Wrapping his body and his life around her, for her sole protection, the desire and commitment to keep her safe ringing happily through his heart.

Will you bring me here again? When we are ready to have children, can you bring me here, for at least one of their conceptions? Make love with me as we just did, so that the sea will always be part of him or her?

Anything,
he had whispered.
Anything you ever want
.
Anything.

The memory faded as he choked on the fear that rose to take its place.

Because she was not safe. For all he knew, she was not even alive.

He grasped the rail, steadying himself against the ire of the wyrm churning within him.

Trying to force back the picture of her he had seen through the Lightcatcher's radiance, staring at him as if she barely knew him.

And didn't love him.

The ire turning to nausea when he thought of their child, possibly in the hands of a thrall of the demon. Or those of the demon itself.

Or the Merchant Emperor, with his terrible intentions.

Nausea turning to the poison of terror.

The wyrm's rage rang out through his throat, sending ripples of waves in the otherwise calm water of the harbor.

It roared across the docks, and throughout the harbor, which, moments before, had been ringing with the excitement of a sea adventure.

Turning the mood of the entire assemblage to one of grim resolve.

As it should be.

“Are we ready, Mr. Stavos?” The tone was not a question, but a threat.

“Aye, m'lord captain,” the first mate shouted in reply.

Ashe turned to face the crew, spread across the deck and aloft in the ropes. “Are you ready, men and women, to take to the sea to save your fellows on the Middle Continent?” he shouted, his voice full-throated with the ring of the wyrm.

“Aye! Aye, sir!” The answer rolled back like thunder, not just from the
Valiant
, but from all the ships within earshot. It spread to other ships, farther out, until the reply had echoed through the entire harbor.

“Set sail, then,” he commanded. “Let nothing intervene, nothing keep us from taking back our lands and driving the Merchant Emperor's forces from the place our ancestors claimed.”

A chorus of excited babble rose in answer along with sails, one by one, climbing masts across Vlane Harbor.

The
Valiant
's sheets caught the wind and she launched, eager, her sailors shouting joyfully as she broke from the moorings.

Followed, every few seconds thereafter, with ship upon ship, hastening to follow.

Into the coming night, growing thick with clouds of dark rain.

Following a growing wave.

 

39

IN THE LORITORIUM, DEEP WITHIN YLORC

Generally when sitting watch, Grunthor made it a practice not to imbibe potent spirits.

But this watch had lasted so long, and threatened to be so malignant when it finally came to a head, that he had made an exception in this case.

Many exceptions, actually.

He was cracking open a cask of one just such exception now.

“Ya know, Rath, yer only the third Dhracian Oi've ever known. And Oi can't say there's much in common between you and the Grandmother 'oo used to be the Child's guardian, compared to 'Is Majesty, at least from my perspective.”

The Dhracian's smile was wry.

“'Tis true. Your king is unlike any our race has ever known. The fact that he would see himself in the role of king is evidence of his unique stature.”

Grunthor took a sip from his tankard and nodded.

“Not a race o' kings, are Dhracians, then?”

Rath stared up into the dark vault, as if lost in memory.

“Not in the least. The Brethren, the
Zhereditck
, are of one mind, like a hive of bees or a kingdom of ants—we can feel each other's thoughts on the wind; we have no leaders. All are of equal worth. Your king is not the only Dhracian among the
Dhisrik
, the Uncounted, those who choose to remain outside the Collective Mind, but he is the most significant of the outliers. More than that, I cannot say, except that he is very important to our people.”

The Sergeant nodded thoughtfully.

“'E's fairly important to the Bolg as well. They was a bastard race before we came 'ere, put upon by ev'ry conquerin' culture what subdued 'em. The king was the first to make 'em see themselves as worthy o' bein' alive, bein' 'ere.
Firbolg
may mean something fancy in your ancient languages—”

“‘Wind of the Earth,' ” said Rath softly.

“Yeah, the Grandmother said. But to us, the word
Bolg
means
'ard, unyieldin',
” the Sergeant continued, taking another slug from the tankard. “These folks, related distantly to my father's people, live by their wits, and rule 'allways or tunnels or clans, if they're lucky, for as long as somebody bigger don't come 'long and push 'em out. But to rule a nation—to bring this 'ole civilization to 'eel—'e didn't get that from his father's side o' the family, if ya take my meaning.”