The Hollow Queen (39 page)

After a long moment, the Sergeant-Major turned to his fellow guardian of the Earthchild and shrugged.

“Can we follow 'im on the wind? Never really understood 'ow ya do that.”

“It works more favorably when you are either willing to appear randomly to wherever the wind is willing to take you, or if you are going to a static place rather than following a moving target. But I see no other choice than to try.”

“Damnation,” Grunthor grumbled. “Oi expected 'im to fight me, to put 'is all into finding the Earthchild. Can't believe after all the bloody F'dor initiatives to get to 'er, the bloody coward turns granite tail and runs! Oi was so very ready—”

“What you fail to understand is that once the F'dor spirit you were taunting died, it left the titan with nothing but the Faorina inside it,” Rath said. “It may or may not be a threat to the Earthchild any longer, but the damage it may leave in its wake is immeasurable.”

“Could be, and that would certainly be a shame,” Grunthor grumbled. “But fer my money, if it's not lookin' for the Child, that's better than any other thing that could come out of this. That titan made its way, alone, for goodness' sake, into and through the tunnels of Ylorc. This could 'ave ended way diffr'int. Any day you don't 'ave to fight a demon is a good one. One o' my favorite sayin's. Shall we go?”

“I will do my best,” said the Dhracian. “After all, I
am
a hunter dedicated to the extinction of that species. And, for once, we are in luck.”

“'Ow's that?”

The Dhracian smiled. “I have his trail.”

Grunthor's brow furrowed, then relaxed.

Then a massive smile spread across his wide face, revealing gleaming tusks.

He threw his head back and laughed aloud.

“So, what's keepin' us, then?” he asked.

“I want to check the weather patterns across the Krevensfield Plain one more time,” said Rath. “When one is riding the wind, as my race and kinsmen can, and you arrive where you meant to, it is an even better day than the one you mentioned. Let us go.”

Rath made his way down the same tunnel the titan had fled through, Grunthor grumbling quietly behind him all the way.

 

43

LIANTA'AR, THE CITADEL OF THE STAR, SEPULVARTA

The victories in Yarim, Navarne, and Bethany were substantial enough to convince Anborn that the skeletal armies housed in those cities were sufficient to maintain the Threshold of Death, allowing the bulk of the Alliance troops to move southward to recapture the holy citadel of Sepulvarta.

By the time Constantin and Gwydion Navarne arrived in the late afternoon, Rhapsody was already there, with Knapp, who was pleased to be reunited with Solarrs and Anborn.

“Glad your defenses were successful,” the Lord Marshal said within the canvas walls of the officers' tent outside the fringes of the city. “These next few days are critical—the scouts have relayed information that the largest and most bloodthirsty units of the Sorbold army are advancing from the south, or have been recalled from the western front. At least we know where we're likely to make our last stand.”

He saw Rhapsody exhale silently and smiled, though worry was also present in his expression.

“You are right to assume that this will take some pressure off of Tyrian, m'lady, but the fight here may prove to be far fiercer than it would normally have been.”

The Lady Cymrian shrugged.

“I am armed with an elemental sword, as is Gwydion, in the presence of three ancient Cymrian soldiers, and the tongue of Mylinmacr, surrounded by the elite forces of the Cymrian army. If I can't be useful here, I am of no use anywhere.”

“Having served with you in Bethany, m'lady, I can attest to the untruth in that,” said Knapp pleasantly.

The hollow queen did not smile, saying nothing.

“Very well,” said the Lord Marshal, “let's have at it. The soldiers have been itching to free the holy city, as I'm sure you are, Your Grace.”

The wordless snort from the Patriarch set the leaders to laughing at the understatement before they headed out of the tent and back to the Threshold again.

*   *   *

The army of the Alliance had set up positions inside the walled city in preparation for laying siege to Lianta'ar, the only remaining occupied stronghold, when Rhapsody straightened up sharply, glancing around at the foothills in the distance to the south, and the Teeth beyond them.

Gwydion and Anborn, who had been conferring, both looked in her direction.

“What—what is that sound, Anborn?” she asked.

The Lord Marshal inclined his ear, then shook his head.

“I hear nothing, m'lady,” he said.

She listened again, then shook her head as well.

Only to see, behind where her loved ones were standing, an astonishing sight.

The air of the city outside Lianta'ar was spinning vertically, almost like a waterspout. There was an aura of power, ancient and elemental.

The wind picked up suddenly, spinning in much the same way as the cyclonic vortex seemed to be doing. It rattled the flags on the crumbling ramparts, shaking and rattling the stained-glass windows of the basilica.

“Look,” she said to the Lord Marshal again.

He turned behind him.

Just as he did, the sound she had heard vibrated through the spinning vortex again. As it did, she heard a voice she thought sounded familiar, but that she did not recognize.

By the Star, Oi shall call—Oi—shall wait, Oi shall watch, and shall be 'eard
.

The Lady Cymrian's blood ran cold, and her face turned pale in the setting Sorbold sun.

“No,” she whispered. “Is that—is that the Kinsman call?”

Anborn's brows drew together, and he looked over his shoulder, his black hair streaked with silver catching the wind as he did.

“I didn't hear it.”

“I must be imagining things, then,” Rhapsody said, dabbing her sweating forehead with her sleeve. “It spoke in the same manner that Grunthor does, but not in his voice—or certainly not as
I
have ever heard his voice.”

The Lord Marshal's eyes narrowed immediately.

“You heard the call? Where? From where was it coming?”

Rhapsody pointed behind him. “From that pattern of swirling wind in the almost dry fountainbed in the courtyard.”

Anborn's face went slack with shock.

“Go! Go!” he shouted, grabbing her arm and drawing her away from their astonished companions. “Get out of here! You must never delay when you hear the wind call!”

Rhapsody turned and fled toward the swirling pathway in the wind that apparently only she could see.

She never turned back, but had she done so, she would have witnessed astonishment on the faces of the Patriarch and her godson.

And something much darker, much more fearful, on that of the Lord Marshal.

 

44

THE CANYON BELOW JIERNA TAL, SORBOLD

The closer he came to the wall of the chasm, the more slowly Achmed moved.

The cloaks of stone-colored leather had served well, it seemed, to keep him from sight as he made his way by late afternoon into night crossing the canyon floor. No one and nothing had taken notice of him save for the occasional bird or jurillas, small rodents similar to prairie dogs that prowled the canyon floor by day, searching for vegetation, specifically cacti.

On more than one occasion Achmed had been come upon by the large-eyed animals, startled to discover him beneath his leather sanctuary, sending them screeching in their unnatural voices as they darted away again, leaving his sensitive skin stinging from the vibrations.

His body, normally thin and wraithlike, had dried out considerably in the heat and the dust. He rationed his precious water and food supplies carefully, so his daytime slumber and nighttime movement were timed to make the best use of his resources.

The journey felt like it was taking forever.

Especially once he came within sight of the tower, within eyeshot of the Seer's withered body. Achmed had decided upon taking the time to cover her with scrub, rather than risking her shredding at the beaks of carrion or loathsome creatures like jackals or coyotes, but after he had undertaken to gather the scrub and bury her in it, it occurred to him that there was almost nothing left that resembled meat on her desiccated bones to lure that sort of predator, anyway.

At long last he found himself at the seam of the canyon, where the vertical wall met the floor. The agonizing climb, undertaken only during the evening and night hours, and requiring him to find a large enough shelf on the vertical wall to sleep on when the sun came up, racked up even more days in his journey.

Finally, toward dusk, he had risen to the lip of the canyon, atop which the smooth tower of Sorbold marble rose skyward, an arrogance evident in the very stone of it.

Achmed stretched out beneath his cloaks and allowed sleep to wash lightly over him.

He awoke in the near-dark, a few hours later. The light had left the sky, and on the other side of the palace the moon had risen, waxing. Between the moon and the palace lampposts on the other side of the tower, a faint wash of bland radiance hung in the air, impotent.

Quickly he rifled through his pack, discarding anything that was not utterly necessary to shed weight. His body had done so in the course of his journey as well, as he had intended.

He did not expect to need as much heft to accomplish what he had to do as he needed lankiness and the ability to hide that came with it.

Finally, with no weapons but his cwellan slung over his back and the small pick hammer Grunthor had made as a model for the new outfitting of the Bolglands, he fished out the last objects in his pack, the two folded cloth lanterns that Rhapsody had given him in the forest of Tyrian.

He opened them slowly, careful not to damage the coated canvas fabric, and stretched them out to their odd honeycomb shape. Inside was a small frame fashioned of thin wires; Achmed assembled it quickly, then attached the solid wax fuel that had been formed into a square. It fit perfectly into the center of each wire frame, coated with a slightly oily veneer.

Achmed wiped his fingers off on the rocks around him.

He quickly attached the lanterns to his belt with his last lengths of the white tensile braided rope he had brought with him from the Bolglands. One of their best-selling products in the international trade stream, the Bolg had developed the material from tunnelfuls of spiderwebs that had been discovered in the deepest parts of Ylorc when he, Grunthor, Rhapsody, and the orphan girl named Jo had first come to the mountain. It had become a favorite of sailors and shipbuilders for its impressive strength in combination with its lightness; its weight was a mere fraction of that of the heavy ropes that those who plied the seas were forced to contend with regularly.

Its shiny softness also made it a popular material in the beautiful and scandalous undergarments Rhapsody had designed out of the same material, products whose sales rivaled those of the rope.

Achmed chuckled silently at the thought.

He tucked his head down, still under the cape, and allowed himself to ruminate on his friends. Jo, of course, had been dead for more than four years, the victim of one of the minions of the F'dor he and the other two of the Three had slain beneath the bell tower in Ryles Cedelian, the basilica of Air in Bethe Corbair. It was the first time he had thought of her in years.

But Rhapsody and Grunthor were never far from his thoughts. He raised the cloak slightly and felt the air for their heartbeats; he could feel them pounding in the distance, as if they were traveling rapidly; though they were nowhere near each other, they seemed to be converging.

Good,
he thought.
At least, wherever they are, whatever they are facing, they will be together
.

He swept the thought from his mind and concentrated now on the tool he had devised to help him ascend the tower.

He took the last piece of flint he had saved and struck it against the rock ledge until it sparked a flame, then held it quickly to the edges of the wax fuel squares.