Requiem for the Sun

by Elizabeth Haydon

  Ashe squeezed his shoulders, then pulled back and looked down into the youth’s tearstained face.

  “I know your grandmother,” he said, smiling slightly. “I know that she will fight with everything she has to come back to us. I know she has an even better reason now, a child to protect, to live for. But I understand why you don’t want to hear the words again. So instead of making you a promise you won’t believe, I will ask you to make one for me, that I will.”

  Gwydion Navarne nodded slightly.

  “Stand to serve Anborn,” Ashe said, noting that the quartermaster was almost done outfitting the horses. “Stay with him, and keep his spirits up. Aid him in whatever he needs to keep order while I am gone. His task is critical; help him in it.”

  “I will.”

  For the first time since returning home, Ashe mustered a melancholy smile.

  “He likes you a great deal, Gwydion, and I know you have a fondness for him too.”

  “Yes,” the boy said. “I do.”

  “Cherish that bond,” the Lord Cymrian said. “It is a precious thing, one that I always longed for in my heart, but that never came to pass. I am at least happy to see that he has found the ability to share it with you. He is a great man.” He dropped his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “A colossal pain in the privates, but a great man.”

  Gwydion Navarne did not smile in return.

  “What I am asking of you is a man’s task,” Ashe said, signaling his readiness to Grunthor, who was standing beside the quartermaster, ready to mount up. “But you are up to it. You have been a man for a long time, even if you haven’t the beard yet to prove it.” He patted Gwydion’s arm, then turned and jogged down the stairs.

  Gwydion watched until the two men had ridden out of sight, east into the ascending sun, before breaking into sour, hidden tears that burned like acid.

  36

  SEPULVARTA

  The journey to Sepulvarta, under most conditions, took six days from Haguefort on horseback, assuming a minimal encampment and watch. Ashe and Grunthor, determining that to be too long, forwent any troop accompaniment, preferring to rely on their natural or ingrained abilities to go without sleep for extended periods and the well-supplied mail route along the trans-Orlandan thoroughfare, where fresh horses could be had every eighty leagues.

  Grunthor had been unwilling to part with Rockslide. The flexibility of the horse trade meant individual mounts were lost, rotated out as need be, so he settled for the heaviest war horse in Haguefort’s stable, a battle mare with dray bloodlines, apologizing to the animal as the quartermaster packed it.

  “Poor ol’ girl,” he said, eyeing the heavy hocks and strong gaskins. “Gonna be putting you an’ all the rest like you through your paces. You’ll be glad Oi’m offa ya by day’s end.” He patted the animal’s shoulder and neck. “Hmmm. Used ta say the same thing to ol’ Brenda back at the Pleasure Palace.”

  The holy city, sometimes called the Citadel of the Star, lay to the southeast, a tiny, landlocked independent nation-state bordering Roland, Sorbold, and Tyrian. The religion of the Patriarch, known generally as the Patrician faith of Sepulvarta, had adherents in all three of its neighbors, but, while Roland was overwhelmingly Patrician, and most of Sorbold could be counted among the faithful, the vast majority of the Lirin citizens of Tyrian were followers of the Invoker and the practice of the Filids, the nature priests of Gwynwood.

  Two days out from Sepulvarta, Grunthor and Ashe caught sight of the towering minaret known as the Spire, a slender campanile that was one of the greatest architectural achievements in the Cymrian era, designed and built by an ancestor of Stephen Navarne. Broad as an entire city street at the base, it tapered up into a needle-like point a thousand feet in the air, crowned at the top with a silver star, the symbol of the Patriarchy. It was said that the pinnacle contained a piece of pure elemental ether, part of a fallen star that now glowed at the top of the Spire, sanctifying the basilica beneath it with the most powerful of the five elements, and lighting the way to the city.

  It glowed in the clear air of the summer night, like a star that was tethered to the Earth.

  Midmorning on the fifth day of travel, the two men arrived at the outskirts of the holy city. They had gone overland for much of the journey, but now caught up with the north-south roadway that led to the only entrance into the walled city. Grunthor dismounted reluctantly as they prepared to join the thoroughfare, shaking his head at the sight of the mass of humanity that was traveling the roadway, pilgrims and merchants, beggars and clergy, all wending their way to and from Sepulvarta.

  “All the time we saved is gonna be lost if we don’t get around this,” he grumbled to Ashe, who was feeding the two pack horses they had brought with them, one of which carried the bowman’s body.

  The Lord Cymrian’s appearance and demeanor had deteriorated in the intervening days. Worry was etched in the lines around his eyes, and his hair and face, unkempt and unshaven, were now hidden beneath the cloak of mist he had worn for so many years when he was a hunted man.

  “What do you suggest?” he asked bitterly, his voice terse with shared frustration.

  The Sergeant contemplated the question for a moment. Then he nodded to the horses.

  “Hitch ’em to the next post we come to,” the giant said.

  Another half a league up the road they came to the barracks of the mail caravan, where the convoy quartered, picked up messages and supplies, and changed guard. Ashe nodded at the heavy metal posts outside of the barracks.

  “Will those do?”

  “Yep.”

  The two men secured the animals. Ashe nodded toward the well.

  “I’ll get water.”

  “All right,” Grunthor said, shading his eyes while watching the thickening crowds of travelers clog the road to the holy city.

  Once the horses and the men were refreshed, Ashe went to untie the pack animals.

  “Wait,” Grunthor instructed.

  “Why?” Ashe asked.

  “Ya wanted to get there faster?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then cover yer ears, sonny.”

  Ashe opened his mouth to ask what Grunthor had planned, but before he could the giant Bolg threw his head back and screamed. It was an earsplitting, gut-tingling sound that struck panic in the hearts of men and horse alike; Ashe had forgotten Rhapsody’s description of it, and Grunthor’s tendency to employ it when need be.

  The swirling crowd of travelers panicked, the horses among them rearing in fright, clearing the roadway or dashing off into the surrounding fields.

  “Now we can go,” Grunthor said, untying the reins.

  They made their way quickly to the city gates, past the staring throng of unsettled pilgrims, into the teeming streets of Sepulvarta.

  The Patriarch’s manse was not difficult to find; they had both been to the basilica, the enormous cathedral that was the center of the Patrician faith. The manse where the head of the church resided was attached to the basilica, high on a hill near the city wall. It was a beautiful marble building, its engraved brass doors guarded by soldiers in bright uniforms.

  The two men approached the guards, and were instantly rebuffed at spearpoint.

  “What is your business?”

  Ashe considered for a moment. Word that the Lord Cymrian was in Sepulvarta might compromise them, and ultimately Rhapsody, should the information come out. He knew how easily secrets carried on the wind.

  “Please tell the Patriarch that he who supped with him on the way to the Cymrian Council three years past seeks an audience now.”

  The guards exchanged an amused glance, then laughed.

  The travelers exchanged a glance as well. Grunthor rolled his shoulders as if working loose a cramp; Ashe saw that he was removing something from the massive bandolier that he wore on his back which held many of his prized collection of weapons. The guards were still in the throes of their merriment when the long bullwhip lashed, wrapping around their throats and the t
ips of their spears, pulling the two of them together, entwined in its leather cord.

  With a great recoil of Bolg musculature, the Sergeant hauled the two encumbered guards into his proximity and glared down at them.

  “P’raps you didn’t ’ear my friend. ’E said please.’”

  “As usual, you are the very pinnacle of subtlety, Sergeant,” Ashe said. He addressed the fettered guards quietly. “Is Gregory still the Patriarch’s sexton?”

  The soldiers glared at him from within the coils of the bullwhip around their throats.

  “Yes,” one of them spat.

  Ashe took the end of the bullwhip and disentangled one of the soldiers. When the guard reached for his knife, Ashe’s hand locked on his wrist and dragged the soldier close enough to meet his direct gaze. His tone was polite.

  “Kindly ask the sexton if he will meet with two weary travelers, one of whom is going to kill and eat your fellow guard here in the street if you don’t return with him immediately.” He shoved the soldier toward the door of the manse.

  “Oh, now, that was subtle,” Grunthor remarked as the soldier hurried off. “Glad for the lesson; thank you, Ashe. Though Oi must admit Oi don’t partic’lary appreciate you makin’ promises regarding who Oi will and will not eat.” He eyed the guard like a side of beef. “Oi’m partial to Lirin myself.”

  “Who said anything about you?” Ashe said sourly, watching the doorway for the guard’s return. “I am not only impatient, I’m hungry.”

  A moment later the ornate brass doors swung open, and a tall, thin, middle-aged man emerged.

  “Lord Gwydion?”

  Ashe and Grunthor looked at each other in surprise.

  “Yes?”

  “Please come with me, both of you.”

  Grunthor went to the pack horse and untied the bowman’s body.

  “Oi’m sure ’e woulda invited you, too, if ’e knew you were ’ere,” he said comfortingly to the bagged corpse, slinging it over his shoulder.

  The sexton led them into the rectory. The heat of the sun disappeared the moment they entered the building, a place of few windows and marble walls that blotted out the light completely, leaving a dark and dismal feel to the interior of the beautiful building. Heavy tapestries hung on the walls and ornate brass candlesticks held large wax cylinders that provided the only light. The pungent scent of incense did little to mask the sharp odor of mildew and stale air, made even more vile by the reek from the corpse they bore.

  The sexton led them down long hallways, past sallow-faced men in clerical robes, finally stopping before a large carved door of black walnut, and opened it, gesturing for them to enter.

  In the sparsely decorated meeting room beyond the door, which had a large gilt star embossed on the floor and a pair of enormous braziers, now cold, two men were standing near a heavy walnut table at the top of a small rise of stairs. The taller of the two was the Patriarch of Sepulvarta, his muscular shoulders seeming somewhat bent with worry beneath his silver robes.

  The other was the Bolg king.

  “Sorry; I just arrived myself,” Achmed said to Grunthor as the two men came into the room. The sexton closed the door behind them. “Didn’t have a chance to get word back to the guards that you were coming.”

  “No ‘arm done,” Grunthor said as he came to greet the king and the Patriarch. “Ashe ’ere picked out someone ’e wants ta kill and eat in the street for supper while we were waiting. Should be entertainin’.”

  Ashe’s face had lost its composure. He stared at Achmed, terror lying deep in the recesses of his eyes, almost too afraid to speak.

  “Have you heard her heartbeat?” he asked nervously.

  The Dhracian shook his head.

  “Oh gods,” Ashe whispered, his voice breaking.

  The Patriarch sighed, then gestured to the table.

  “Sit,” he said to the three men. “You have traveled far, and are weary in body and heart. Tell me what I can do for you.” He eyed the body on Grunthor’s back. “Lay that on the table.”

  “My wife is gone from the reach of my senses, Constantin,” Ashe said as he sank into a heavy walnut chair. “She was taken in an assault on her carriage in the wilds of Gwynwood eleven days ago. There is no trace of her, and before I send the combined armies of the Alliance out to comb the countryside, I wanted to consult you and seek the guidance of the Ring of Wisdom. I fear that calling attention to her disappearance may jeopardize her safety, but as the days pass, and there continues to be no sign, I fear inaction more.”

  The Patriarch nodded his head, his broad brow knitted with consternation. “Who is this?” he asked, pointing at the body on his council table.

  “A witness that Grunthor carried from the burning forest. A bowman, apparently, who killed Shrike, Anborn’s man-at-arms. He was in the company of the bastard who laid the trap for her. Anborn suspects whoever he is, he is in possession of an ancient sword known as Tysterisk, a blade imbued with the pure element of air. Like Kirsdarke, the blade I bear, the sword of elemental water, and Daystar Clarion, Rhapsody’s weapon, the sword of starlight and pure fire, Tysterisk is legendary from the old world, but has no history on this continent. If this man really is in possession of Tysterisk, he must have come by it somewhere else in the world. And he isn’t a Cymrian; if he were, I would know him.”

  “One can be from the Island and not a Cymrian, can one not?” the Patriarch asked, looking at the shroud-wrapped body.

  Achmed and Ashe exchanged a glance. “I suppose,” Ashe said after a moment. “But those on Serendair who did not refugee with Gwylliam did not enjoy the immortality that the Cymrians did. They fled to nearer places, not crossing the Prime Meridian as the Cymrian Fleets did, and lived out the remainder of normal life spans, or so the history texts say. The sword might have left the Island with a refugee, then been handed down, or lost, as Daystar Clarion was for a time before Rhapsody found it.”

  The Patriarch rose. “Let’s have a look.”

  The other three men stood as well while the holy man carefully unwound the cords that bond the shroud around the corpse.

  The stench of decompostion was strong as the linen was peeled back, but not as overpowering as it might have been; the body had been cured, like ham or fish, in the smoke of the burning forest, and so the flesh had dried to the bone, much of the bodily fluids evaporating in the ferocious heat.

  “He died with his eyes open,” the Patriarch said, more to himself than aloud. “Good. He will have seen more.”

  Suddenly, as if catching a scent of fire on the wind, he looked up, then leaned over the decaying corpse and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. He did it again, as the other men looked to each other. When he opened his eyes again, they narrowed.

  “Can you smell it?” he asked softly.

  “What?” Achmed asked.

  The Patriarch passed a hand over the body, as if brushing away unseen currents of wind. “It’s there, though faint, unmistakable. The malodor. F’dor.”

  For a moment, silence reigned in the council room of the manse. Ashe, who had begun to tremble immediately at the word, spoke first.

  “No, Your Grace,” he said haltingly.

  The Patriarch turned away from him and looked to Achmed, whose body had tensed almost imperceptibly.

  “For nineteen years of my life I carried such a taint within my own blood,” he said, his voice deep and certain. “I would know that stench in any form. It is undeniable. Somewhere in this man’s life he was touched by a demon spirit; most likely not a host, but perhaps a thrall to one.”

  “So somewhere there is another F’dor alive, walking the continent,” Achmed said, trying to absorb the words, struggling to contain his blood rage, the racial hatred of F’dor that screamed like needles in the veins of every Dhracian. “Of this you are certain?”

  “Yes. Or there was; where it currently resides is unknowable until we speak with this man.”

  Achmed turned to Grunthor. “Get back to Ylorc,” he said tersely. “G
uard the Child.” The Sergeant nodded and turned toward the door, only to be stopped by the Patriarch’s large, rough hand on his arm.

  “Tarry but a moment, Sergeant,” Constantin said gently. “I may have need of you until we have heard all that we can. Then you can go.”

  “Is it true,” Ashe said desperately, trying to blot the image of Rhapsody in such a demon’s clutches from his mind, “that you can see into the realm between life and death?”

  The Patriarch said nothing, just passed his hand over the moldering flesh, thinking.

  “Can you speak with the spirits of the dead, Your Grace?” Ashe asked again, more forcefully this time.

  “No,” Constantin said flatly. “It is not to the spirit of a dead man that I can speak, but rather to his blood.” He looked askance at Achmed as he spoke.

  “I assume you know that a few years ago, in the time of this world, I was a gladiator in the arena of Sorbold,” he said, his thunderous voice now soft. “It was Rhapsody that dragged me from that life, brought me beyond the Veil of Hoen, to that place between life and death that you mentioned, Lord Gwydion, the realm of the Lord and Lady Rowan. I know you visited that place, too, in your hour of need, but you left upon being healed.

  “I chose to stay. Had my mother not been of Cymrian descent, I would doubtless be dead now; I remained within that drowsy place of healing and wisdom for centuries, aging, growing old, though on this side of the Veil, only a few short months passed. Much of what I learned of blood, and of healing, I learned in that place.

  “But not all of it. Some of it I learned in the arena. I was born with a tie to blood; in my youth, that bond made me a skilled and relentless killer. Now, in my old age, I try and use it for healing, to be a blood saver, not a blood letter.” He ran a finger carefully down the gashes in the bowman’s body.