“The benison is no longer here,” he said. “He’s returned to Sorbold, alas. Be on your way.”
The three priests stared at each other in dismay, then quickly turned away, not wishing to further rouse the ire or the interest of the guards.
“Now what?” asked Lester desperately.
“Perhaps we could speak to the Patriarch,” Dominicus suggested.
Lasarys choked back a sour laugh.
“The Patriarch doesn’t receive the likes of us, nor should he,” he said, stepping past an icy drain where street water had clogged, leaving a patch of ice that reached into the cobbled road like frozen fingers. “When he is not consulting with heads of state or the high priests and benisons, he is receiving our prayers to the All-God and offering them up.” The two acolytes nodded; every adherent to the Patrician faith understood the tenet that prayer was offered by the people to their local priest, who in turn offered it to the area’s high priest, whose entreaties were made to the benison, and ultimately to the Patriarch, who offered them, in a great convocation of praise, directly to the All-God. The Patriarch alone had a straight means of communication with the Creator; all others went through channels.
“Then what are we to do?” Lester persisted.
Lasarys sighed dispiritedly.
“Let us visit Lianta’ar, and offer our prayers there,” he said. “If nothing else, the presence of the holy ether above us in the Spire may cleanse our minds a little of the horror we have witnessed. Perhaps wisdom will come to us then.”
The priests circled the enormous building, seeking the entrance doors. They found them at the eastern side of the temple, facing the rising sun. The doors were fashioned of gleaming brass inset with silver in the pattern of an eight-pointed star, framing the huge basilica whose towering walls of polished marble and overarching dome were taller than any in the known world.
For the sexton and acolytes, who had spent a good deal of their respective lives serving the faithful of the Patrician faith but who had never until this day been to Sepulvarta, and never until this moment had been to Lianta’ar, entering the basilica through those doors was a little bit like stepping directly into the Afterlife. The basilica’s architecture was unsurpassed in breadth, depth, and beauty, with countless colors and patterns of mosaics gracing the floors and ceiling, exquisite giltwork on the frescoed walls and the windows fashioned in colored glass. The men stopped, unable to take it all in and continue moving, just as the hundreds of other members of the faithful who had entered the doors moments before them were standing still in awe.
Finally, after more than a few moments of rapture, the sexton shook off his reverie and plucked at Lester’s sleeve. Quickly they made their way through the assembled faithful staring openmouthed at the ceiling, past the lector’s circle, where sacred texts were read aloud, and into one of the rows of seats and kneelers that surrounded the central altar on all sides.
The altar itself was elevated atop a cylindrical rise of stairs. It was fashioned in plain stone but edged in platinum, and could be seen from anywhere in the basilica. To this altar each week were brought special intentions, special prayers, and requests for wisdom or healing that had been compiled by the five benisons of the faith, and sent to the Patriarch for presentation to the All-God. Lasarys stared at the altar now, silently placing his petition at the feet of the Creator through the hands of the Patriarch, even though he was not in the position to do so.
O holy one, Father of the Universe, Lord of Life, hear my prayer, for I am in fear for your world.
He bowed his head, struggling to remain calm.
The silence of the basilica, broken by the occasional echoing of footsteps and whispering, settled on his shoulders, but no words came to his mind. Finally, after almost an hour in reflection, Lasarys lifted his head and looked at the two acolytes.
Dominicus was still bent in prayer, his hands folded before his eyes. Lester was staring without focus at the altar, a look of quiet panic on his face.
“Anything?” he asked them softly.
The two priests-in-training shook their heads.
Lasarys sighed. He rose stiffly, the joints of his elderly frame sore with age.
“Very well, my sons. Let us quit this place and look around the city; perhaps there are others of our order here we can find sustenance with. But be certain you do not share your name with them, lest it get back to Talquist.”
The acolytes nodded again, and followed the sexton out of the basilica.
As they stepped into the blinding winter sunshine, another, brighter flash assaulted their eyes.
It was the blade of a spear that had stopped a hairsbreadth from Lasarys’s face.
“Are you the sexton of Terreanfor?” the guard demanded. “And did you enter this city on false grounds?”
Lasarys, always a shy, bookish man, looked the man in the eye and nodded slightly.
“Come with me,” the guard said gruffly.
As four other guards closed around them, the priests’ eyes glittered, but they said nothing; they bowed their heads beneath the hoods of their cloaks and followed the lead guard away from the basilica.
With the hardening of the earth at winter’s approach came a similar hardening of Faron’s will.
Each passing day drove him deeper into the frost-blanched fields, through the undisturbed snowpack of the inner continent. His primitive mind had comprehended the necessity to hide, to be unseen in populated areas, but now, as he scoured the lands southeast of Navarne, where there was little but open field, endless road, and forest, his fear and need to remain unseen was dissipating, leaving him emboldened, almost rash.
The coldness of the earth was displeasing to him; he felt like a child pushed from its mother’s lap. He could still feel the heartbeat of it, still sense the warmth beneath the deep blanket of snow, but the sense of comfort that he had drawn from the ground beneath his stone feet in the heat of the desert sand was gone, replaced by a growing sense of anger, of agitation.
Of hate.
He had no need of sleep or of sustenance; the earth was sustaining him through the Living Stone that formed his body. All the while, the dark fire within him, his demonic father’s legacy, was baking the core of his being, withering that stone, making it hard, too, like the earth.
Like his will.
Beneath the crust of that same cold earth, the dragon heard the echo of her name change.
Aaaaaaaannnnnnnnwyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyynnnnnnnnn!
The beast’s eyes widened in the darkness. The sound that she had followed for so long, had tracked within the strata of the Earth, rang clear and high above her, signaling that she was directly beneath the place where it had been spoken.
It vibrated in waves, as if she were hearing it through water; the beast concentrated and decided after a moment that she was, in fact, hearing a watery echo from a spring-fed lake that she sensed, cool and dark, above her. Despite its distortion there was a clarity to it that could not be denied; her heart began to race with excitement darkened by the cruelty of revenge.
With all the force that her titanic muscles could muster, the beast bore up through the layers of rocks, crawling with every ounce of her coiled strength, gaining speed, gaining fury, toward the surface.
Toward sweet destruction.
28
EVERMERE, THE NONALIGNED STATES
The royal caravan slowed to a halt at the call of the lead driver.
Gwydion Navarne waited until his carriage had rolled to a stop, then carefully pulled aside the heavy shade and glanced outside. Salt spray blew into the carriage, carrying with it crystals of ice that stung as they made contact with his skin. He dropped the shade and looked questioningly at the Lord Marshal, who was sitting uncomfortably on the velvet bench across from him.
The visit of state to Tyrian, the Lirin forest realm over which Rhapsody was titular queen, had gone reasonably well. Anborn had remained, for the most part, out of sight, as the Lirin tended to still harbor an old grudg
e from the era of the Cymrian War only recently put aside at the Lady’s insistence. As a result, Gwydion’s first official state visit was experienced almost entirely on his own, under the guidance of Rial, Rhapsody’s viceroy. He had been fascinated to walk the forest streets of Tyrian City, the capital hidden deep within the greenwood, with its ingenious defenses and elevated walkways suspended in the forest canopy between the trees. He felt a sense of wonder that he had long ago forgotten as he watched the passage of the foot traffic, where the people and forest animals traveled the same roads in harmony. His father had always been fond of the Lirin and had maintained friendly relations with them; it warmed Gwydion to see that affection returned in the greetings of the populace of Tyrian, the slender, dark-eyed people of the forest who opened their longhouses and battlements, their palace and winter gardens to him.
It had been difficult to leave, but once his official duties had been discharged, and his tour was complete, Gwydion had bidden Rial and the Lirin dignitaries farewell, indicating that his next stops were the harbor towns of Minsyth and Evermere in the unclaimed region known commonly as the Nonaligned States, as Anborn had instructed him to do. He had received their gifts of state with eagerness, reciprocating with the excellent Canderian brandy and the crystal from his own province that Rhapsody suggested he bring, then met up with the Lord Marshal, who was impatiently awaiting their departure for what he considered the real destinations of their journey. Twelve days of travel followed, much of it spent in silence as Anborn watched out the carriage window, contemplating whatever he was seeing through azure eyes that had beheld much of the region’s bloody history. Gwydion maintained that silence respectfully.
“Are we in Evermere now, then?” he asked uncertainly now.
Anborn nodded shortly.
Gwydion pulled the curtain back again, more cautiously this time.
In the distance the sea was rolling to a windswept shore, crashing in icy breakers beneath ragged floating docks. He could make out perhaps a dozen ships of varying sizes, many of them sea-worn and old, docked at a pier that was similarly old and dark of timber. From the docks a walkway dotted with holes led to a small port town, its wooden and brick shops and houses having clearly seen better days.
After an awkward length of silence, Gwydion coughed politely.
“Er—Lord Marshal, why are we here? I thought you wished to concentrate on Sorbold.”
Anborn leveled his piercing blue gaze at Gwydion.
“We are here because Evermere is well known for its whorehouses,” he said. “An important part of any young man’s education.”
Beads of sweat emerged from Gwydion’s brow.
“I—I had not realized that this was your intention,” he stammered nervously. “Besides, are there not such things in Roland?”
“Indeed,” Anborn said idly, glancing out the window again. “By the time I’m done with your mentoring, you will know each and every one from here to the middle continent.” He caught a glimpse of the young duke’s paling face and blinked in astonishment. “Not to frequent as a client, you young fool, although there is certainly nothing wrong with that when you are older. Brothels are an excellent source of information and refuge. I’ve hidden out in more whorehouses than bunkers in my life.”
“So why are we here now, then? Are you seeking information on Sorbold in the brothels of Evermere?”
Anborn scowled and pulled the shade back, then shouted to the captain of the mounted honor guard accompanying the carriage.
“Roust! Bring two riderless horses round. The young duke and I wish to set out on our own—and once we’re gone, you may visit the port in shifts as well.” The captain’s eyes shot up into his hairline, then a smile crept over his face.
“Yes, m’lord.”
Anborn’s face molded into a forced smile. “Don’t dip your wicks into any suspicious lamp oil,” he said heartily. “Every legend you’ve heard about the brothels of Evermere is true—so it’s best to rosin yourself off afterward, or you’ll be sharing lice with every sailor who plies the wide central sea. Understood?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good. We’ll be back in a sennight.”
Anborn let the curtain fall back over the window. He reached under his seat and pulled out a bundle of clothes, which he tossed at Gwydion.
“Wouldn’t want to be too conspicuous among the finer citizens of Evermere,” he said, pointing to the crest on Gwydion’s chest. “Imagine the scandal.” He reached around his useless legs and pulled out another bundle, and began to change as well.
Within moments a pair of mounts were saddled and outfitted. Gwydion watched the guards assist the Lord Marshal onto one of them, then climbed uncertainly onto the other. Anborn dragged on the reins and rode off for the port town; Gwydion set off after him, having no idea what to expect once they dismounted.
Once they were over the hill toward Evermere, Anborn glanced back over his shoulder, then turned east and rode off along a cargo path, with Gwydion struggling to keep up.
“We—we’re not going to—Evermere—then?” he gasped, spurring his mount in the futile attempt to catch up.
“Sorry to disappoint your loins if I misled them, but no, we are heading to Ghant now,” Anborn called back. “If they think we are whoring, they will be discreet as to our disappearance.”
“Ah,” Gwydion said; his tone signaled disappointment, but his relief was immediate. The concept of lessons in a seaside whoring town had turned his stomach to porridge, especially given Anborn’s reputation for wenching and some of his proclivities.
They rode in silence eastward along the windy coastline, through frost-bleached highgrass and over rocky roadways that had been all but overgrown in autumn from decades of disuse. Most of the sea traffic of the Nonaligned States came into port in the western port of Minsyth, which found Tyrian to be a more comfortable neighbor than Evermere found Sorbold to be.
Anborn’s handicap limited the length of each leg of their travels, though Gwydion was grateful each time the Cymrian hero called a halt to their ride; he found himself sore from the saddle as he helped the Lord Marshal down from his horse. A few hours of rest by a hastily built fire, another hour of instruction in the use of Tysterisk, and they would mount again, riding with the intent of crossing the border unseen.
Each time Gwydion drew the all-but-invisible blade from its sheath, he felt the wind around him die down, as if the very air awaited his command. Anborn seemed to be aware of his discomfort but ignored it. He had blindfolded the young duke from the outset of his training so that he was able to feel the heft of the weapon, rather than be deceived by the seeming absence of a blade. Day by day, Gwydion felt his anxiety diminish. Achmed’s words rang in his head as Anborn’s rang in his ears.
Just remember that you wield it; do not let the weapon wield you.
Sorbold was a nation of massive breadth, its borders long and sporadically guarded, though Anborn commented more than once that the number of troops and outposts had greatly increased since the death of the Dowager Empress. Once they finally arrived at the border it took the better part of a day to find a point of entry where two horsemen might cross, unnoticed.
That night, when Anborn had ascertained that they were safely out of sight of any patrolling troops, they made camp in the lee of an old tavern that had once been a way station along the trans-Sorbold thoroughfare. Anborn deemed a fire unwise, so the two men blanketed the horses and then settled down with what blankets remained shared between them to maximize body warmth.
In the moonlit darkness Gwydion pulled his gloves more tightly against his fingers, watching the man he admired more than almost any other save his godfather. Anborn was generally much merrier in his presence; this evening he seemed melancholy as he smoothed the rough horse blanket beneath which they were both huddled.
“This was Shrike’s,” the Lord Marshal muttered as he ran his callused hand over it.
Gwydion held his silence. Shrike had been one of Anborn’s most
trusted men-at-arms, probably his closest friend. Unlike the Lord Marshal he was a First Generation Cymrian and ancient, a surly, gnarled old man that Gwydion had found hard to understand. He waited, knowing that if the General wanted to impart more than the words he had already shared, he would do so only if he was not encouraged to do it. His patience was rewarded a moment later.
Anborn stared out the broken ceiling of the way station, his eyes scanning the clear, cold sky for stars.
“Eternal life is nothing without some semblance of eternal youth,” he said finally. “When Shrike left the Island he was already a fairly old man; whatever cursed entity granted the Cymrians an extended life span must have had a perverse sense of humor to condemn so many to lengthy old age.”
Gwydion nodded, remaining silent. The General had not spoken of Shrike since his death some months back; he had died in the ambush in which Rhapsody had been kidnapped.
Anborn’s eyes gleamed in the dark. “I always allowed him to make a fire, because he was so often cold. Sailors—” He snorted gruffly, with an undertone of amusement. “Scrawny, wiry sea rats that can stand in a gale that whips the skin from your bones, out in blasts that make this cold place seem like a tropical paradise, as long as they are on their bloody water. But bring them to land, and they shiver like children.”
Gwydion chuckled quietly. “Your brother Llauron was a sailor for a while, wasn’t he? And yet he seemed quite at home on land, even in the cold.” He tried to blank the memory that rose up at his own words, the image of the Invoker at the bloody winter carnival, standing in the midst of the winter wind in the onslaught, commanding wolves to rise from the snow and tear at the invaders’ mounts.
Anborn’s eyes narrowed. “Llauron has always been more dragon than Edwyn or me. His multiplicity of elemental lores suits him, even as it damages those around him, chiefly my useless nephew, your godfather. It is just as well that he chose to forsake his human form and go commune with those selfsame elements in dragon form. Good riddance to him. May he remain in the ether, content.”
Elegy for a Lost Star Page 27