The Merchant Emperor (22 page)

Anborn laughed in spite of himself.

“Sit, m’lady,” he said as she started to rise. “I will get him for you—it’s the least that I can do for the woman who almost was my wife.”

“Your niece-in-law.”

“Yes. My niece-in-law. May my nephew never take what he has for granted.”

He stood slowly and went to the cradle. Carefully he lifted the baby into his arms and embraced him for a moment before he brought him to his mother to be fed.

His heart breaking wide open, as it had once been long before, filled with light and a fresh wind.

17

Once Anborn’s legs had rested and recovered, Achmed and Grunthor made good on their offer to show him the forges and the factories, the vineyards on the Blasted Heath and the weapons stockpiles, at least those that were not classified. Anborn followed them through corridors he had known a thousand years before, past defenses that had been carefully reconsidered and redesigned from the use in which they had been employed during the Lord Marshal’s time here.

His astonishment grew at each new sector.

The Bolg king and the Sergeant-Major had stripped away almost every decorative element left over from the Cymrian era, a hearty improvement in Anborn’s opinion, and redesigned the mountain stronghold with defense and security first in priority, followed by efficiency and ease of maintainence and use. While Rhapsody’s influence was evident in the more social aspects of the mountain, the hospitals and hospices, the schools and agricultural programs, it was clear that military might and manufacturing were the priorities of the Firbolg king, and all resources were directed to those priorities first.

He set about procuring whatever the Bolg king deemed available in the way of weapons and matériel, cheerfully imagining the benefits those things would provide to his armed farming settlements along the Threshold of Death.

“Anything else you can provide that would help me with that construct would be greatly appreciated, Your Majesty,” he told Achmed as they left the armory.

Achmed smirked.

“I’ll work on a new name for the Threshold of Death for you, then,” he said.

*   *   *

While Anborn was happily touring the new Canrif, Rhapsody was spending time in Gurgus Peak in the room that held the Lightcatcher in the company of Constantin, the deposed and exiled Patriarch of Sepulvarta.

The Patriarch had requested to be taken to the tallest hollow peak within the area of Canrif and, after obtaining permission from Achmed, Rhapsody had led him to Gurgus, the highest mountain past the steppes and before the canyon that separated the part of the Bolglands known as the Cauldron, the place that once had been Gwylliam’s seat of power and was now Achmed’s, from the Deeper Realms, the lands of the Bolg clans grouped roughly into two categories known as Eyes and Guts. The Eyes were thin and wiry people, at ease in the high altitude of the mountain peaks, and therefore had the primary responsibility for spying and lookout. The Guts, far more warlike cave dwellers, had been some of the last clans to swear fealty to Achmed but had mutated into a highly loyal and formidable security force, guarding the mountain passes closer to the level of the piedmont, the gentle sloping area that served as a border between the flat steppes and the rocky peaks.

The Patriarch had seemed more comfortable with keeping his hood up at first, so Rhapsody was still adjusting to the booming timbre of his voice when it issued forth from his cloak. She was amused at this; she had met her husband when he was a hunted man, hiding from the sight of the world in a cloak of mist that he had made with Kirsdarke, his sword of elemental water, so her inability to adjust to the the sound of Constantin’s voice was amazing to her. The tour she had provided ended up inside the room with the Lightcatcher.

The revelation had rendered Constantin speechless.

He stepped into the large circular room with the towering domed ceiling, his clear blue eyes, so intense in his otherwise elderly face, taking in the instrumentality—the stained glass in the ceiling, cast in slices of color, one of each of the hues in the spectrum, above a table, an altar of sorts in the center of a circular track on which a great wheel stood on its side.

“Can you explain this to me?”

Rhapsody followed him as he came to a stop in front of the altar.

“Basically, each color of the spectrum has a lore, or power associated with it and, like the ring you wear, each has a positive and a negative aspect to that power,” she said. “The universe is made up of vibrations, of color, of light, of sound—this is the basis of the science of Singing, of Naming.” The Patriarch nodded, listening attentively. “Because each of the colors of light has a lore connected to it, and the two basic constants of the universe are creation and destruction, those lores are tuned to the sharps and flats of the notes of the musical scale, the sharps attuned to the creative aspects, the flats to the destructive ones. For instance, red is known as Blood Saver in its sharp application, for healing, and Blood Letter in the flat, for killing. The orange part of the spectrum is known as Fire Starter or Fire Quencher, sort of self-explanatory, as is the yellow, Light Bringer or Light Queller. The sharp of green, Grass Scryer, allows for viewing things that are hidden within vegetation or terrain, while the flat, Grass Hider, conceals those things. The blue part of the spectrum is the one we feel confident enough to test first; that one is known as Cloud Chaser or Cloud Caller, which is similar to the green except that it illuminates things, makes them clearer or more obscure. The notes left behind in Gwylliam’s library say that it could see across vast distances, sometimes allowing for communication while the daylight was active in that part of the spectrum, or was good for clearing away confusion and clarifying the properties of an object or hiding them. The indigo properties are called Night Bringer or Night Summoner; we’ve not experimented much with those, but they are said to affect time, to make things that are anticipated come more quickly, or to hold off those that are desired kept at bay. Finally, the last color in the spectrum, purple, is known as the New Beginning, which is the only note that has only a natural tone, not a sharp or a flat. This one is the most mysterious of all, and seems to overturn reality in favor of a new version of it, in small and great ways. Needless to say, we will be very hesitant in trying that one out.”

“That seems prudent,” the Patriarch agreed.

“We’ve had great luck with the red portion of the spectrum in healing so far,” Rhapsody said. “We’re ready to test the blue and the green shortly, but Achmed is wary about experimenting with most of the others any time soon.”

The Patriarch nodded.

“There are basically three parts to the instrumentality’s function—the color, which determines what sort of lore is tapped; the sound, which the wheel produces, or can be done vocally, which determines the specific pitch, sharp or flat; and the light, which shines through the specific color and is the power source. The person utilizing the Lightcatcher stands at the altar, which is made of Black Ivory, an entirely inert, dead stone, beneath the perfect center of the dome above, and states the direction or target where the lore is to be aimed, then either looses the wheel until the pitch is correct, or sings it. We are still learning how to use it, of course, but Achmed adapted this instrumentality from one that was built by Gwylliam the Visionary and Faedryth, the Nain king, changing it from one powered by fire from the heart of the earth, to one that draws on the light of the sun and stars as its power source. Much safer all the way around.”

“Indeed.”

“I am always wary of using anything that was designed by Gwylliam,” Rhapsody said, brushing dust off the altar as the sun shone through the orange section of the spectrum. “Not that he wasn’t a brilliant man, but anything associated with him makes me nervous.”

“Because of the violence he displayed towards his wife?”

“Yes, partly—that event, the Grievous Blow that began the Cymrian War when he struck Anwyn—took place in my duchy, an underground grotto a little north of here that I call Elysian. The memory of that incident is so strong that it lingered in the place; when we first explored it, I witnessed the blow myself. It was like reliving it from Anwyn’s perspective, and it was terrible, though I hardly think it deserved destroying the continent over. Anwyn returned to the Bolg lands recently, and the first place she destroyed was Elysian.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Rhapsody thought of her underground haven, the cottage where she and Ashe had fallen in love, the gardens and orchard she had planted and tended with great care, the cave of purple crystal formations to explore and the small subterreanean meadow open to the sky far above, in which they had picnicked and watched the stars, and sighed in sad memory.

“I think the real incident that gives me pause about Gwylliam was finding his body in the library of the Cauldron,” she said. “It was mummified, and sprawled on the library table, his crown standing on its side. I heard his last words; it’s a shame—as he lay dying, he asked forgiveness of many of the people he wronged. That, at least, humanized him a little for me, but I still abhor what he did, both with the Grievous Blow and the war that came from it.”

“Thank you for the explanation,” Constantin said. “If you and your friends would allow me to make a different kind of use of this instrumentality, I could help you make it more usable.”

Rhapsody looked startled. “How?”

“You remember the Spire in Sepulvarta?”

“Of course.”

“The destruction of the citadel and my exile have left the Patrician faith in chaos. The prayers of the adherents are no longer channeled through the Chain of Prayer, because at its terminus, once all the prayers were collected at each level and passed along to me, it was my responsibility to offer them up as one great collective to the All-God through the tallest tower at my disposal.”

“The Spire?”

“Yes. But if I could reconstruct the Chain of Prayer, using similar structures in each of the corners of the continent, I could triangulate that power and restore the connection to the All-God.”

“What would that entail?”

The Patriarch smiled. “Access to the tower in the early morning and late at night, just as I accessed the Spire. I would only need to utilize it until I can get a connection in place again—an eastern thread—and then I would move on to Ryles Cedelian, the bell tower of the basilica in Bethe Corbair.”

Rhapsody shuddered involuntarily. She, Grunthor, and Achmed had killed the F’dor they had been prophesied to vanquish beneath that very bell tower.

Constantin didn’t notice. “That would provide a northern thread. The elevated mast on the basilica of Abbat Mythlinis in Avonderre, which is shaped like a giant sundered ship, would be able to offer up a western thread. If I can triangulate those directional threads, the Spire itself will serve as the final, southern thread. It would mean the reestablishment of the Patrician faith, m’lady—without the Chain of Prayer, no healing can be accomplished, no entreaties heard by the All-God.”

Rhapsody was not an adherent of the Patrician faith, but her role as Illiachenva’ar, the bearer of the elemental sword of ether and fire, required her to serve as a protector or defender of anyone in the practice of his or her faith, or the worship of what was thought of as God, so she nodded.

“I will advocate for you to Achmed if need be,” she said, “but since we both heard him offer you a place to pray, I believe you have found it, for as long as you need it.”

“Thank you.” Gratitude shone in the bright blue eyes. “And, in return, I will teach you how to remember the face of light, to hold it in your mind, which should help make the instrumentality work for you any time of the night or day, not just the hour of the day that the sun is shining through it.”

“Remember the face of light?”

The Patriarch smiled.

“There are certain intangible things that the mind remembers but cannot completely recall physically,” he said. “One of those things is pain; one can remember having been in it, but unless you study how to do so, you cannot completely recall, both mentally and physically, what pain that has passed actually felt like. That is a defense for the protection of both the mind and the body—if one could actually recall the pain of childbirth, I am told, the population would be severely limited.”

Rhapsody laughed. “I can absolutely agree with that,” she said.

“Light is something that also defies real memory, unless one is trained to recall it,” Constantin went on. “The mind makes note of light—but not the detail of it. And light, as you have just explicated in your description of your tower instrumentality, has as many lengths of waves and colors to it as there are hairs on your head. Each different memory of light is called its face, something that identifies the form it took at a certain moment, defining it as an individual experience and able to be recalled. It’s a complicated study. But to be general about it, if you can find me a diamond of great clarity of any size, I can teach you how to add a store of light to your Lightcatcher.

“And then, whatever your power source, be it sun or star, you can store its light, or the memory of it anyway, for use when it is not shining through the specific color in the spectrum you need.”

“That would not only be fascinating and useful, but something that might make Achmed happy to loan the tower of Gurgus to you,” said Rhapsody. “If you could do something to improve his mood, I would be forever in your debt.”

NORTHERN YLORC

Dranth had plotted the course almost perfectly, it seemed.

The northern deserts west of Yarim were open wastelands, red clay that had baked in the cold sun into hard and unforgiving soil. Little grew there, less lived there, and while that had made for little interest in farming or colonization, for his purposes, the land was perfect to travel through, unnoticed.

He and the four other assassins, members of the Spider’s Clutch of Golgarn and his own brotherhood, the Raven’s Guild of Yarim, had crossed a vast expanse of the clay desert in disciplined silence. Open land was always hazardous; they did their best, in turn, to blend into whatever shadows the cold sun cast for or around them, but it was hardly necessary.