Requiem for the Sun

by Elizabeth Haydon

  “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.”

  “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 —”

  “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.”

  The 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 — 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.

  “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 —” 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.

  Mousa considered for a moment. “Then the vision articulated by the person chosen from the faction by the Scales will be enacted — 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 — 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 cou
nts 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.”

  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 trades–these 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.”

  The benison raised his hand for the attention of the assemblage. “We shall weigh the symbol of the Mercantile again, so that there can be no doubt,” he said. “Ihvarr, place the coin in the plate again.”

  The eastern Hierarch did as the benison instructed. Again the Scales lifted the coin high to the darkening sky, as if exalting it, then slowly settled down into an exact balance against the Ring of State.

  “It is Weighed, and found to be in balance!” said the benison loudly, his excitement echoing in the stunned silence.

  For a long moment no one spoke. Then a smattering of applause was heard, followed by a more rolling round of it. The eastern Hierarch looked out to his compatriot, who shrugged.

  “Who will stand to be Weighed as a candidate for emperor?” Mousa inquired.

  “Ihvaar!” Talquist shouted merrily. “If his illegitimate birth does not disqualify him, that is.”

  “Blackguard!” Ihvarr shouted back. “If it does, we will surely be in difficulty, because you are a bastard, too, Talquist; a bigger one than I, by all accounts.”

  “Step into the plate,” said Nielash Mousa impatiently. “Allow your amazement to render you speechless, rather than foolish, in the sight of the Scales.”

  Abashed, the Hierarch stepped onto the plate.

  Immediately he was upended. With a rush of air and a swing of the wooden arm, Ihvarr was violently thrown to base of the reviewing stand; he landed with a sickening crack of his neck, then thudded heavily to the ground.

  Talquist shot to his feet, rushing to Ihvarr’s side, panic written all over his features.

  “Help him!” he cried, shoving aside chairs to get to his comrade. “For the sake of the All-God–”

  “Leave him,” commanded Nielash Mousa sternly. “The Scales have spoken. Mount the stairs.”

  Talquist stopped in midstep. “What?” he asked incredulously.

  “Present yourself for Weighing. It is the will of the Scales.”

  “Don’t be a coward, Talquist,” sneered one of the lesser counts. “The Mercantile is to lead us, to take the throne from the hands of the nobility, where is had rested for centuries, and place it for safekeeping in the dirt-stained paws of a merchant. It might as well be you! Throw yourself into the plate. Perhaps you will only break a leg instead of your neck.”

  Talquist, who had bent to close the glassy eyes of Ihvarr, stood again, his heavy features hardening into a frowning mask.

  “Nobility, are you, now, Sitkar?” he said, staring into the ranks of the heads of the smaller city-states. “You only know one meaning of the word, apparently. There is far more nobility in the hand of a man who earns his bread, rather than stealing it from the mouths of those who do by a distant scrap of Right of Kings. Perhaps the Mercantile represent something that none in your faction ever could: an understanding that the Earth rewards the man who works it, honors it, respects it — not just feeds off it.”

  Without another word he walked to the stairs and ascended the platform.

  And stepped into the Scale plate.

  And was lifted high above the red bricks of the square, over the heads of the other contenders for the throne, aloft, as if a precious offering the Scales were making to the moon above.

  Then balanced perfectly against the Ring.

  Silence so profound that a man could hear nothing but the beating of his own heart filled the square.

  Then the benison knelt reverently, followed by Lasarys, Fhremus, and the other citizens of Sorbold, some reluctantly, others in awe.

  Finally the Blesser of Sorbold stood. He bowed to the Hierarch, then turned to the assemblage.

  “Whosoever doubts the wisdom of the Scales, it is as if he is calling into question the integrity of the Earth itself,” he proclaimed, his wrinkled features relaxed into a contented expression. “Let none be so blasphemous as to do so.”

  He turned to Talquist and offered him his hand to help him down from the plate.

  “What are your directions now, m’lord?”

  Talquist contemplated the question for a moment, then came to the edge of the platform and stood staring down at the assemblage before him. Finally he spoke.

  “The first order of business will be to tend to the burial of Ihvarr, who was an honorable man, a loyal Sorbold, a defender of the nation, an advocate for the common man, and a good friend,” he said simply. “After that we can set about sorting out the business of state.

  “I am as shocked as anyone else, probably more so, at this turn of events. I would propose that, rather than move to a coro
nation, I be invested as regent for the period of a year, an office with which I am much more comfortable at this moment. The army will continue as it has, in its steadfast defense of the realm, the Mercantile will continue to ply their trades, the nobility may keep their offices — for the time being. If, after a year has passed, the Scales still say I am to reign as emperor, I will bow to their will and accept the Sun Scepter as well as the Ring of State, which I will wear beginning now. But until then, I wish only to hold the empire together, and get back to work.”

  The benison bowed deeply. “As you command, m’lord.”

  Talquist exhaled deeply. “Come, then,” he said to assemblage. “Summon the chamberlain to tell the cooks to return and prepare all of us a well-deserved repast. We can sit together, at this table without hierarchy, as friends and allies, and drink to Ihvarr and the future of Sorbold. For this night holds great promise.

  “For Sorbold, it is a new beginning.”

  Something in the words rang false against Ashe’s ear. He turned to look more carefully at Talquist, but the new regent was obscured from view by Nielash Mousa, who hovered near him.

  The benison turned to Lasarys.

  “Command the bells to peal!”

  Two days after the colloquium had concluded, Ashe was finally able to break away from the requests for his attention and depart for Haguefort. He bade the Blesser of Sorbold goodbye, wishing him well.

  “Try and find an excuse to rest,” he said, clapping Nielash Mousa on the shoulder. “This has been a difficult few weeks for you, but there is still much work to be done. Sorbold needs you well.”

  The weary benison smiled wanly and nodded his thanks. “We can but petition the All-God that the difficult times are behind us, not ahead,” he said softly.

  “Ryle hira,” Ashe replied, using the ancient Liringlas expression. Life is what it is. “Whatever comes to pass, we will make the best of it.”

  The morning of their leavetaking was hot. The sun had risen rapidly, energized as if with the renewed stamina of a new era, and burst forth into the heavens, eager to light the land. Ashe’s men, sweating already at breakfast time, cursed mutely and wished for less solar enthusiasm, but nonetheless packed the caravan quickly and efficiently, departing the Sorbold capital speedily and without looking back.