“Do you like the way it looks on my hand?” He admired the ring a moment longer, then sighed and removed it from his finger. “Alas, I shall have to wait until my investiture as emperor to keep it.” He leaned over to return the ring to her finger and choked, then laughed aloud. The empress’s rigid hand was frozen in an obscene gesture.
“Bravo, again, Serenity. This has proven quite enjoyable.” He slid the ring back in place, roughly this time, then seized the elderly hand, dragging forth the power it held into the scale as before, leaving the flesh withered to the bone.
A look of solemnity settled over his swarthy features. He knelt down and leaned against the bed, his eyes locked with hers; the defiance in the empress’s gaze dimmed in the face of what she saw in those eyes.
The man ran his finger delicately around the perimeter of her head, tracing a circular path through the wisps of thin white hair at her temples.
“This head bore upon its brow the Crown of Sorbold, the golden acknowledgment of sovereignty, of dominion,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Ingrained in this skull are many of its secrets, whispered to it from monarchs past, wisdom handed down through the ages, ruler to ruler, in one, unbroken line.” The gleam in his eyes softened as tears came into the old woman’s eyes, and his voice became even more gentle. “Those secrets, that wisdom, belongs to me now, Empress,” he said, nodding slowly, as if to soothe her.
With great difficulty the dowager wrenched her head away.
The man rose, leaving his hand in place. The soft look in his eyes hardened as his fingers gripped the fragile skull at the temples.
He held up the scale once more.
The runes glowed, fiercely bright.
“Please give my best regards to Crown Prince Vyshla when you see him in the next few moments,” the man said. “How lucky it is that you have lived all your life in Sorbold, Serenity. The climate here should be a good preparation for what is to come.”
With a sudden contraction of muscle and will, his fingers clutched the top of the small skull and squeezed mercilessly.
A blisteringly bright line of light appeared in the flesh of the empress’s head at the precise line where the crown was worn. It jumped, as with a life of its own, in a blazing arc, lighting the woman’s contorted face, into the violet scale, exploding with brilliance and sending frenetic waves of colored light spilling in ever-replenishing waves off the scale’s tattered edge.
The man’s body convulsed violently, orgiastically, as a harsh guttural sound ripped forth from his throat. His body stiffened and became opaque, growing instantly warm with the sensation of power and authority visited upon him. He shuddered, trying to maintain his stance, and fell to one knee, overcome by the lore of dominion over the land, its treasures, and its people.
How long he knelt, regaining his breath and his balance, he was uncertain, but eventually when his legs could bear his weight again he struggled to a stand, and looked down into the royal bed.
The Dowager Empress of the Dark Earth was gray and cold, the color of clay. Her body no longer trembled, her chest giving only the slightest of indications of breath. All the pigment that had tinted her skin, her hair and eyes had faded from her, leaving her pale, colorless. Not even a hint of defiance remained in her glassy stare, but her skeletal hand still clutched the Ring of State in a death grip. The man exhaled slowly, amusement returning. They would have to pry it from the claw of her dead fingers. It seemed fitting.
He bent over the shell of the dying empress and softly kissed the cold, papery skin of her forehead.
“Thank you, Serenity,” he whispered.
Then he stepped back into the moonlight. The illumination wrapped him in its glow, making him shine, translucent again, against the heavy damask silk of the royal bedchamber’s draperies.
He waited thus, unseen, as the bells began to ring frantically down the hall, watching the understanding of their import pass through the reflective stare in the old woman’s eyes.
In her last moments of fading consciousness, the empress could make out the whispered words on the other side of her heavy mahogany door, spoken in a voice clogged by tears.
“Should we waken her?”
A long moment of silence followed, finally broken by the final words the dowager heard.
“No, let her sleep. Morning will come soon enough; give her one last night of happiness before we tell her that her son is gone.”
17
THE GUEST CHAMBERS OF THE JUDICIARY, YARIM PAAR
“Come away from the balcony, Aria.”
Rhapsody looked over her shoulder and smiled. “I’m waiting for dusk, so that I can sing my sunset devotions,” she said, turning back to the sight of the all-but-empty town square and the dry rock formation at its center.
The five days Achmed had believed would pass before the water would return had come and gone; Grunthor had remained three more until the moon began to wax full, then departed for the Canderian border, shaking his head.
“Don’t know what’s keepin’ it,” he had muttered as he mounted Rockslide. “Shoulda been ’ere by now.”
“Be careful traveling alone through the areas near the mining camps to the west,” Rhapsody had said, handing him a kerchief tied with a knot. “That’s a fairly rough area.”
“Oi’m tremblin’.”
Rhapsody laughed. “Well, be careful anyway. Once you get in range of the border, things will be better. The people of Canderre tend to be a friendly lot; many farms in the eastern part of the province. It reminds me a good deal of where I grew up.”
Grunthor reached down and caressed her small cheek with his enormous hand. “Look after yerself, Duchess, and don’t be a stranger. Come back for a turn in Ylorc; don’t ya miss Elysian?”
Rhapsody exhaled deeply at the pang that was summoned by the reference to the beautiful underground cottage in the center of a subterranean lake in the Bolglands where she and Ashe had fallen in love. It was a haven for them both, a place away from the world and its cares. “Yes, more than I can say. But not as much as I miss the people in Ylorc. I will try to come and visit, Grunthor. I just can’t say when it will be. There are a few things that require me to be close to Haguefort for the time being.”
“All rightee. Well, fare thee well, miss. Be’ave yourself.”
“I promise nothing.”
“An’ kiss Miss Melly for me; give my regards to my mate, the young Duke o’ Navarne. Tell ’im next time we meet Oi’ll show ’im ’ow to pick ‘is teeth with a fallen enemy’s ’air. Works with yer own, o’ course, but it’s much more fun when it’s a foe.”
“I shall tell him.” Rhapsody clenched her jaw to stem the sadness she felt at his leaving, the loss that ached intensely whenever she was parted from him, or from Achmed, the only two living people who really knew her in her other life.
“What’s this, by the bye?” Grunthor had asked, lifting the kerchief and taking the reins in hand.
“A memento of Yarim, just for you, since you were so good and didn’t consume any of its inhabitants. Even though I know you really were tempted.”
“Damn right,” Grunthor had chuckled. “With all of ‘em standing around the square all day, it was pure torture. A lot like workin’ outside a bakeshop and never able ta go inside for a taste.”
Rhapsody, still at the balcony, smiled, remembering the exchange, and hoping he had enjoyed the gingerbread men decorated with horned helmets like the ones the Yarimese guard wore, and the note — Eat vicariously. She was certain he had enjoyed the joke.
The door closed quietly behind her, and she felt Ashe’s shadow fall on her from behind; he often came to listen to her evening vespers, the requiem that Liringlas sang for the sun as it sank below the edge of the world, welcoming it again in the morning with the dawn aubade, the love song to the morning sky. He always stood in respectful silence until she was finished; Ashe had Lirin blood in his mother’s line, but not from the Liringlas strain. Nonetheless, all Lirin were call
ed Children of the Sky, so it seemed fitting that he share the devotions she kept to the sun, moon, and stars, the other Children of the Sky.
She began the vespers, an ancient melody, in sweet major tones that turned quickly minor, a song of natural sadness and daily loss, resolving to a major key again, hopeful in its ending, a pledge of devotion that would last the long night and be there to greet the return of the sun in the morning. It was a song handed down in Lirin families from parent to child; in her case, her Lirin mother had imparted the melody to her, a twice-daily ritual that now brought her comfort in the memory.
Her human father had stood, much as Ashe did, in the shadows during these times, listening to the beauty of her mother’s voice, and her own awkward attempts to imitate the sacred air. Her brothers, their Lirin heritage an afterthought to them, ignored the tradition, busying themselves instead with farmwork in the golden light of the morning sun, still at work in the red light of its setting.
A tear crept down her face, unbidden. It dried on her cheek in the warm wind.
Strong arms, comfortingly strong, encircled her.
“Lovely as always. Coming inside?”
“In a moment.” Rhapsody pulled his arms tighter around her and laid her head back against his chest. She closed her eyes and felt the wind on her face, the heat of day beginning to wane with the cool of oncoming night.
Behind her eyelids she could remember the placement of the evening star; its memory still burned bright in the darkness, much like the ones she had just been recalling, though all the people bethought had long since passed into the realm of the Afterlife.
Ashe buried his face in her hair, exhaling deeply.
“Worried? Anything of concern to you on the wind?”
Her eyes still closed, Rhapsody listened carefully. The wind was muted, still; it gusted intermittently, dying down to the stagnant air of summer, only to pick up again in a moment. She concentrated, trying to discern the vibrations it carried.
Like the breeze in which she stood on the windy hilltop near Haguefort, the wind of Yarim carried a sense of arrival, of portent; something was coming. Yet unlike the sense she gained in Navarne, that something evil was brewing, it was a gentle omen, seeming to be a harbinger of something good.
A sense of hope, of good cheer, rippled over her skin, leaving it tingling.
She leaned back against Ashe, listening to the beating of his three-chambered dragon heart; it was a comforting sound, musical, slow, like the rhythm of waves in the sea. The vibration she felt in the air around her, the sense of peace and good fortune, blending with the heartbeat of her soulmate — it was intoxicating, making her face flush warm in the rosy luminance of the setting sun.
She struggled to come back to consciousness, back to calm, knowing that if she remained in Ashe’s arms a moment longer she would succumb to a deep and blissful reverie, one from which it would be painful to rouse, and would remain on the balcony into the dark hours, reveling in the sounds of the night, the warm wind on her face, her husband’s enduring embrace, his breath on her skin, the spicy scent of summer mixed with the intoxicating perfume from the Outer Market.
Rhapsody gently broke free from his hands and turned around to him, her face shining. Ashe blinked, then smiled.
“All right, I will assume that your answer is no, there is nothing worrying you on the wind.”
“Nothing at all. Not on the wind, not anywhere else.”
“Good.” He took her hand and kissed it gently, then led her from the balcony into the inner chamber that had been lighted while they were outside with dozens of scented tapers.
All around the room were porcelain vases overflowing with fragrant summer lilies in fiery shades, dianthus and tuberoses, and sweet woodruff, known to the Lirin as ease-the-mind. On a table in the center of the room a silver platter of rich red berries coated in white and dark chocolate lay next to a bottle of Canderian brandy, two crystal snifters beside it, light dancing off their bowled surfaces. And in the middle of the table, a tiny fountain danced and splashed around a glass cylinder of flame, causing watery, fire-colored ripples of light to flicker on the chamber’s walls.
It was Rhapsody’s turn to blink. “What is all this? Do you think this means Ihrman has forgiven me for forcing the Bolg on him?”
“Probably not,” Ashe said, walking to the table and uncorking the brandy. “This is from me.”
“From you? Why? Are we arguing?”
Ashe chuckled. “I don’t think so. Not yet, at least.”
Rhapsody bent close to a vase of tuberoses and inhaled the sweet-spicy scent. “Then are we celebrating?”
“Yes.”
She looked up at Ashe; the light of the candleflames was glistening in his cerulean-blue eyes, a half-smile on his face.
“What are we celebrating?”
Ashe poured the gem-colored liquid into the snifters, then swirled them both gently.
“Your birthday.”
Rhapsody cocked her head and looked askance at him. “My birthday is not for another two months.”
“Not the upcoming one, Aria. Next year’s.”
“Next year’s birthday? Why?”
He ambled across the room and stopped in front of her, handing her a glass.
“Because the gift I plan to give you for your birthday next year will take time to craft; about thirteen months, I think. I need to be certain you will want it before it is started.”
Rhapsody lifted the glass to her lips and took a sip. The liquid was warm, like fire, and it burned pleasantly in her mouth. She swallowed, inhaling over the fiery sensation in her throat. “Why don’t you tell me what it is?”
Ashe took a sip himself, then stood, regarding her, one hand in his pocket. After a moment he pulled out a small leather drawstring bag and tossed it to her. She caught it, sending rolling waves through the brandy in her glass.
“Goodness; you’ll make me spill,” she chided, setting the glass down on the table and opening the pouch. She shook the contents out into her hand.
Five heavy gold pieces, older coinage than she had seen in Roland, slid out, clinking pleasantly as they came. Rhapsody turned the top one over slowly and examined it.
“‘Malcolm of Bethany,’” she read, squinting at the inscription, then looked up at Ashe, a puzzled expression on her face. “Was this Tristan’s father?” Ashe took another sip of his brandy and nodded. “Thank you,” Rhapsody said doubtfully.
“Do you remember ever seeing coins like this before?”
“I don’t think so.”
He sighed in disappointment. “Ah well. I had antiquities merchants scrambling all over Yarim to find them. What a waste.”
“Where would I have seen them?” Rhapsody asked, her voice betraying a hint of impatience.
Ashe set his glass down and came over to her, taking her shoulders and staring down into her questioning eyes.
“In a windy meadow, on the other side of Time,” he said gently. “I offered you coins just like these, because I had nothing else to give you on the eve of your birthday.”
Rhapsody turned away, clutching the coins tightly in her hand. She braced against the flood of emotions that swept over her, some stinging, others sweet, all treasured memories of their meeting in the old world, a story that no person other than they knew.
Sometimes, even now, she wondered if it had all been merely a dream that lingered until it had formed a memory.
Ashe took her by the shoulders and turned her around. He tucked his forefinger under her chin and lifted her gaze to meet his own, the vertical pupils in his eyes expanding and contracting in the flickering light of the candles.
“Through all the years, down all the roads I have traveled, after every nightmare, every dream, I have never forgotten how you looked in the moonlight that night, Emily,” he said softly, using the name her family called her in the old world. “I still do not know what magic, what hand of Fate, plucked me from the road to town that I was walking and deposited me where I
could find you, outside that foreharvest dance, but whoever it was, I owe them my soul. Because without you, I wouldn’t have one.”
“Do not be so quick to feel gratitude,” Rhapsody said, her eyes on her fist, gripped tightly around the golden coins. “Whoever it was must have been the cruel person who also ripped you away from me the next day.”
Ashe smiled broadly. “Exactly. And the pain nearly killed both of us — all but ruined our lives.”
“And you’re grateful for that?”
“Yes. All of it. The good and the bad, the pain and the ecstasy. Because it was our beginning, Aria. And in that beginning we knew, without question, what we wanted — each other, in any way we could have that. It was simple; there was no questioning it. You were willing to leave behind everything you had to come away with me; I was willing to give up the life I had known in the Future, knowing the war that was to come, in a heartbeat, to be with you. Risk was something we never even considered; that is what is so pure, so holy, about a new beginning. And nothing — not being dragged back to this time, not the cataclysm that took Serendair to the bottom of the sea, not having to travel for centuries through the belly of the earth, not separation, misunderstanding, pain, death, betrayal — nothing has thwarted the love that began that night.” He reached out then and caressed her face, receiving a smile in return.
“And nothing will,” she said.
“Each new beginning we’ve had in our lives has been a renaissance for us. There is a risk that is weighed, then discarded, when we forge ahead, trusting in what we are doing,” Ashe continued. “Look at your undertaking with Entudenin. There was considerable risk there — the ire of the citizenry, the potential for conflict between the Bolg and the Yarimese, the possibility that you were destroying an ancient holy relic, which I know as a Singer and student of lore would be devastating to you — and yet you understood that the need for the water outweighed the risk. You forged ahead, staked your credibility with the dukes, the people, and with the Bolg, unable to promise any of them results or protection, but undertaking it anyway. As you said to me in Navarne, what in life is not worth risk? Even Achmed was willing to assume his part in that risk, for whatever his reasons were.”
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