The tower shook so much Xemion feared it might crumble any minute. But he waited until all that was left of the book was smouldering ash before fleeing. Still half-blinded by the light, he nearly stumbled over the books at the top of the stairs, but the leap he took at the last moment ended fortuitously on the seventh step. He raced down the remaining fourteen steps.
Outside, he saw it was not supernatural forces that had been shaking the tower; it was the dragon. She had regained consciousness while he’d been inside, and now, terrified for her life, she tugged furiously at the chain, trying to escape. But the chain was wrapped twice around the tower and she did not know enough to walk counterclockwise to freedom. The wind blew ferociously and a heavy rain hit them sideways, stinging Xemion’s cheeks. He was in a hurry to get to the Panthemium, but he had to stop. The dragon caught his eye and he called her by the name he had used for her in the valley.
“Poltorir!” he shouted in a voice he didn’t recognize. “Stop!”
The dragon’s nostrils widened as she looked at him. Her huge shoulders were hunched and she drew a sharp breath, held it, and stopped. He saw a shiver run through her frame.
“Wait!” he shouted. Xemion tugged with all his strength at the chain until he drew it out from under her bloody scales. Then he walked it counterclockwise until it was no longer wrapped around the tower. And since he couldn’t cut it free, he wrapped it round her neck, all the while trusting her not to turn on him. When he finally had the chain secure enough that it wouldn’t hang free, he looked into the dragon’s eyes again and said “Xemion.”
The dragon let the breath she had all this time been holding go and the warmth of it swelled up about him as the rain continued its sideways drive. “I will free you now for a second time,” he said, pointing to the sky just as it was shattered by an explosion of lightning that illuminated the whole city. Poltorir reared up on her haunches in the driving rain. The timbers in the crushed houses cracked and groaned beneath her as she lifted her wings and propelled herself into the sky. He watched her disappear into the storm and then turned and surveyed the streaming, ruined landscape about him to see which way was west and what might be the quickest way to get back to the other side of the city by morning.
Suddenly the lightning lit up a great black shadow speeding toward him like an arrow to a target. Xemion gasped and ducked crouching low against the tower wall, prepared to defend himself with his bare hands if need be, but the creature stopped at his feet.
“I beg you, Lord, do not fear this dark dog.” It was Bargest, and he had a very familiar-looking stick in his mouth. “I beseech you, sire, take up again this staff.”
Xemion slowly stood back up, shaking his head to and fro as he took the stick from Bargest’s mouth. He stared down at it, straining to see around the blue dot, which still hung suspended in the middle of his vision. Finally he realized with a shock that it was his old painted sword. The last time Xemion had seen it was when Montither had flung it into the swamp beside the Castle Road. Judging from the wet mud that still clung to it, Bargest must have retrieved it. This connection to younger, more innocent days made Xemion momentarily happy. He felt like throwing his arms around the dog and kissing him. Seeing the joy in his master’s face, Bargest lifted his huge paws onto Xemion’s shoulders and began to rapidly lick the rain away from his face until Xemion had to stop him. The dog lifted his snout to the rain-riven night and in a deep voice rumbled, “Never let me stop loving this master.”
Xemion held the blade firmly in his right hand, still not realizing the true nature of this stick he had found in that riverbed in Ilde. Its silver star paint was now somewhat faded, and here and there the paint had peeled away, revealing the original white surface beneath. “Fine then,” he said in a grumbling voice as he slid it into the long narrow pocket of Vallaine’s cloak. “Now I need to get back to the other side of the city.”
Bargest nudged Xemion’s hip with his nose.
“No!” Xemion said, almost automatically, but the dog caught his eye. “Ah … yes,” Xemion said, “You’re right. I am feeling a little … hungry.” Bargest watched him intently through the rain as he removed the remainder of the wafer from inside Vallaine’s cloak and bit off half of what was left. Panting a little from his exertion, he savoured the taste for a moment as he stowed the last piece absent-mindedly back in the cloak. It was a taste like no other; a taste that could go on forever. He could already feel his strength and confidence picking up. Lightning again struck hard and close. Bargest reared up on his hind legs and barked back at it with a terrible thunder of his own.
“I beg you, sir,” he said when he was back on all fours, head contritely hung down, voice soft as milk. “Let me show you the fastest way.”
21
The Phaer Queen
An hour later the storm subsided. It was dawn of the spring equinox. The first day of spring, and true to form a bright and fertile sun rose up from the horizon. In celebration of Glittervein’s newly completed iron sea gates, a crowd had gathered in the cavern where the tunnel from the top of Phaer Point emerged at sea level. To a ship entering the Bay of Ulde the cliffside into which this cavern was recessed looked much like the head of a recumbent lion with the cavern as its mouth. Two long, stone limbs of land extending out into the bay from each side of the mouth not only gave the added effect of being the lion’s front legs, but served to create a smaller harbour within the bay — one whose entrance was just wide enough for a narrow cargo boat to pass.
The first of the gates, which Glittervein’s Nains had rebuilt, was placed here, between the Lion’s Paws. Most vessels, in the days of old, would have come no farther than that. Here, their goods would be removed and stored in one of the two storage towers at the ends of the Lion’s Paws. Only the select few would be granted entrance to the inner harbour. And fewer yet would make it through the Lion’s Mouth to the shelter of the cavern and the tunnel, which led to the city above. It was at the mouth of this cavern, the very spot were Tiri Lighthammer had slain a Kagar Prince fifty years earlier, that Glittervein had built the second gate.
If last night’s smithying had taken a toll on him, he showed no sign of it. In fact, he looked quite chipper. Dressed in a lime-green robe, pointy-toed red shoes, and a peaked black hat, he had taken extra care this morning to draw his long hair down over one side of his face so that only that pretty left side smiled out at the crowd. Doffing his black hat, he pulled the lever that sent the signal to the gateman high atop the city walls. The gateman began turning his wheel and slowly the vast grill descended over the cavern mouth. Most of the workers, and most members of the staff who were there for the celebratory occasion, began to applaud. The new Lion’s Gate, as the construction was called, had been forged from huge metal rods a foot in diameter. Its bottommost bars, when lowered, slid into matching iron sheaths beneath the water so that there might be no digging under it, even at low tide. Its metal had been extracted from pins and needles, pots and pans, and old trophies, anything that might contain a shred of iron, and it had been smelted and refined and hammered and shaped, much of it by giant nocturnal Thralls of Munia such as Oime. She stood there now, with a number of her fellow workers, shielding themselves from the bright sunlight, which found its way over the sea fog and through the bars of the gate, to sparkle on the green waters inside the cavern.
The only other access point to the heights of Ulde, the narrow ridge up which the wounded Tiri Lighthammer had been carried fifty years earlier, was on the far eastern side of the larger bay. It was too narrow, precipitous, and exposed to offer anything but a suicide mission to any invader foolish enough to try and climb it. Even so, Glittervein had taken the precaution of having a third, much smaller gate constructed there.
“In times to come, when you have received the just fruits of all your labours,” Glittervein was saying to the crowd as he puffed away on his pipe, “I hope you will think of me and these fine young workers who gave so much of their life and energy to the poetry of di
gging, I promise you. You cannot tell me that the shovel is not as mighty a sword as a sword itself. Or that the mighty awl is not as serious a dagger as a dagger is. Let us have a cheer for these brave workers.”
The great shout that followed was interrupted by an eerie call reverberating out of the mist and over the waters from the centre of the bay.
The crowd hushed and everyone watched in excited silence as Glittervein gave the signal for the far gate to be lifted. Slowly it rose and a magnificent red and gold painted barge with a green-curtained canopy in the middle of the deck and a red velvet banner waving overhead passed between the Lion’s Paws and entered the inner harbour. A crew of twenty or so Phaerlanders with barge poles were steering her along the side of the inner harbour toward the cavern. A man with the head of a bird stood at the prow, holding on to a long, coiled rope.
Hardly a heart was not beating wildly as Glittervein gave the signal to raise the larger gate at the Lion’s Mouth. Without a squeak, the massive grill of iron rose again, while a single flautist played the ancient anthem, “Phaer Domain.” Even as the gate lifted, a majestic carriage rolled down the rails through the tunnel from the city above and came to a halt a few feet from the dock. Slowly, the barge slid through the Lion’s Mouth and into the waters of the cavern until it was close enough for the birdman to cast his rope toward the dock and be slowly drawn in.
An elegant hand parted the golden curtains and a magnificently attired figure stepped out onto the deck. She had done her best to resist the invitations of the staff to take on this position. It might send the wrong message, she had said, but they had assured her that it was traditional and that no Equinox Festival could be authentic without it. So there she now stood — quite majestically, just as the position demanded. Veneetha Azucena, Queen of the Equinox! A great murmur went up from the crowd when they beheld her in her high crown. The mist off the sea and the shimmer of rainbows refracting through the many diamonds and amethysts in it gave the whole scene an almost spectral radiance. Gently, the elegant barge nudged against the dock. All of the crew but the birdman alighted and tied it securely to mooring rings, so that the Phaer Queen might step delicately ashore.
Veneetha Azucena motioned regally to all those down upon their knees to arise. The cavern resonated with a mighty cheer that echoed beyond the gate and out across the waters to the wraith-like morning moon, which was just then lifting its head above the horizon. Slowly, as the carriage ascended, taking Veneetha Azucena and her entourage to the city above, Glittervein’s newly made black gate lowered once again into place. Even as Glittervein smiled triumphantly, the tiniest sheet of seawater atop that salty cove began to slowly draw back; for as they have always done, and as they did fifty years ago, the tidal waters obeyed the dictates of the moon.
Glittervein wore an expression of great satisfaction. He reached into the ceremonial robe he wore for this special occasion and from one of the many pockets inside it withdrew a small, cooing pigeon.
22
Two-Spell Well
The number of rumours about the end of the Pathan civil war underearth was matched only by the number of rumours about its expansion. Some swore that Akka Smissm, the former governor of Ulde, was sailing toward Ulde with a massive army of mercenaries, others that the Pathans were bankrupt, their ranks in tatters and their empire in chaos. Cyclop mercenaries and slavers, it was said, once again roamed the seas. A week previously, there were stories of a vast Kagar fleet bearing down on the Phaer Isle, but today there was absolute confirmation from Glittervein that a thousand Kagar ships had been sent to the bottom of the sea by last night’s storm.
Whatever the truth, there had not been such a hopeful mood in the Phaer Isle for fifty years. The Phaer people were jubilant, joyous, and in love with life, ready to be courageous. All of the brigades had returned in good health and fitness from the camps in the mountains and the city was as clean and orderly as it had ever been. Its gems sparkled; its surfaces shone. The weather, too, had played its part in showing off Ulde’s new look. The sun was a warm balm on the flesh, the air a moist, spring day perfume that made all who breathed it exuberant and glad to be alive. And there were thousands of people. Many more than had been expected, for word of the recent changes in the ancient city had spread rapidly through the Phaer Isle.
Those who had planned for the influx from the well-populated western portion of the Phaer Isle had vastly underestimated. They’d had to double and triple the number of guards and inspectors at the western gate, but these were quickly overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of those entering the city. Unsearched, unscreened, the Phaer people poured back into Ulde en masse. It was almost as though something elemental had changed, for not only had the normal hordes of Nains, Thralls, and Freemen come, as was predicted, but an unforeseen number of others. Chimerants from the other side of Ulde, who normally kept their spelled-crossed features hidden, strolled about right out in the open. There were strange two-faced people and an alleged fortune-teller who seemed to be half woman and half man. Most delightful to the crowds was a small troop of triplicant jugglers, one of whom also had the hindquarters of a horse.
Chief among the items of gossip and rumour was a story of a new warrior maid by the name of Zero. A tale of how she could disarm and defeat any opponent but had only had her own sword stricken from her once — and that by her master, Tiri Lighthammer. Some said she was an avatar of old Queen Phaeton come back to lead the Phaer people to a new golden age. Others proclaimed she was a forest sylph, a genius with the sword, but a genius even more with the heart.
Zero took her place in the lineup of those who wished to compete in the Tourney and stared out solemnly at the faces of the multitudes. Her iron breastplate had been burnished without adornment. She wore a simple tunic underneath it and her hair was bound and hidden in her helmet, which came down to just above her eyes. Yellow streaks of war paint radiated out from her lips and over her face.
The vast open arena where the tournament would be fought had a strange history. Originally, two hundred years ago, it had been intended as a well. But when two mages fought over its design, it became one of the first casualties of cross-spelling. One mage had conjured it to be as big as possible, while the other conjured it to be as small as possible. In Phaer fashion, the well obeyed the first spell by becoming bigger in one sense — it became much wider, but it obeyed the other in another sense, by interpreting “small” to mean incredibly shallow. The result was something a little like an immense but virtually depthless wading pool. It covered a level area three times the size of the playing field, but not deep enough to hold more than a thimbleful of water. Though this rendered it useless as a well, it still bore the name Two-Spell Well, and for that reason, ignorant people still made double wishes on it, thinking it a wishing well. The Pathan Imperial Council had insisted after the spell fire that this practice be stopped, but to this day Veneetha Azucena had to employ two glitter Thralls to go out every morning and pick up the fresh batch of double-bound coins thrown into its centre.
As Zero made her way forward in the line, there was a massive blowing of trumpets. It was the royal procession. Led by a baton-twirling Phaerlander, a full battalion of Phaer infantrymen marched by, their golden swords flashing in the sun. Behind them, drawn by two white horses, Veneetha Azucena waved at the crowds from a golden carriage. Everyone stood at the edge of the road waving back and marvelling as the carriage rolled by. Some people bowed and some took off their hats and many openly wept. Zero, inspired by the magnificence of the parade, bowed deeply.
At the centre of the arena, Veneetha Azucena dismounted nimbly from her carriage and to everyone’s delight gave a speech.
“Blessed be the Phaer people. We have accomplished something wonderful. We have done what we were told we could never do. We have taken back our Phaer city and revitalized our culture. For the first time in fifty years, thanks to your hard work, there are sea gates at the Lion’s Paws and the Lion’s Mouth. Our young men and women are well-tra
ined and ready. Our fortifications are as strong and well-guarded as any fortifications anywhere. We … you … are magnificent, and I tell you quite honestly I do not think we can be stopped now. So let us not hold back today in our merrymaking, our valour, or our love, for this feast of action, which we gratefully prepare today, is a treat time has long hungered for. Let us not disappoint.”
When she finished, a great shout of joy went up. None of those who cheered so wildly in that moment had ever felt so right about anything. They were in the right place, at the right time; the right mood abounded and the right things were about to happen. Thralls were hugging men, men were kissing Nains, Nains danced with Thralleens, and little children laughed at the antics of triplicant jugglers, most of whom claimed the last name Lighthammer. Among the waving flags and strutting gulls, the cawing kittiwakes and skralling terns, no one noticed the flight of a single pigeon overhead with something affixed to one of its legs.
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