The Weaver's Lament (4 page)

He was rounding the curve of the staircase when his dragon sense roared to life, making his skin prickle.

Ashe closed his eyes and let the sensitive network wash over him, transmitting its information. He smiled warmly and finished his descent.

In the vestibule below him, the Invoker of the Filids, the leader of the nature theology of the western continent, was waiting for him, back turned to the staircase, examining the tapestry across from it.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” he said respectfully.

The Invoker turned and matched his smile. “Good morning, m'lord.”

Ashe's heart cramped upon beholding her with his eyes.

The Invoker was his youngest daughter, Laurelyn.

There was always a moment's hesitation upon seeing her, a woman indistinguishable in the appearance of age from her niece, Merilda, in spite of having been born a generation and three centuries before her. In addition to the glow of youth, Laurelyn was the image of her mother, with golden hair that hung to her waist, braided in leather cords and feathers, except for the blue eyes and draconic pupils she had inherited from him. But while Rhapsody radiated the mercurial warmth and unpredictability of the fire that she had absorbed in her trek long ago through the elemental core at the Earth's heart, Laurelyn had a peaceful, steady mien, a constant, placid soul that reflected her deep tie to the Earth. She had a green soul, sweetened by birdsong and the sounds of the deep forest, wise as a quiet, spring-fed lake.

It was in many ways like looking once more upon his own father, Llauron ap Gwylliam, who had held the office of Invoker more than a millennium before and had taught Ashe everything he knew of the woodlands.

Though, unlike her, Llauron was dead in body and soul a thousand years.

And now she stood in the entranceway to the place that had once been her childhood home, attired in a simple robe of burlap cloth dyed brown in butternut hulls, the wooden staff of her office in her hand, topped with a golden oak leaf.

Ashe opened his arms. “Come to me, little bird.”

Laurelyn hurried into his embrace, beaming.

“To what do I owe the honor of the Invoker's presence in my home?” Ashe said teasingly, holding her tight.

“Actually, I've come to bless the grounds of what I am told is going to be a massive family summit,” Laurelyn replied. She gave her father a final squeeze, then stepped back and regarded him with more distance, holding her staff. “If the royal family is to be all in one place, it is well advised that the Earth hold that information in confidence, and not relay it to anyone who might make improper use of it.”

Ashe nodded approvingly. “A wise decree.”

“I am only able to stay until midday—I must ride back to the Circle by nightfall tomorrow to make preparations for the end-of-summer rites. But I will return a sennight hence for the family summit. I look forward to it greatly.”

“Do you have time to share noonmeal with me?” Ashe said, trying to keep the longing out of his voice. “My military councilors are coming momentarily for a series of briefings this morning, but all that should be done in time for us to dine before you leave, if your schedule would accommodate it.” His throat tightened as he watched her exhale silently. “I haven't seen you since Gavin's funeral pyre. Please, little bird—I've missed you.”

Laurelyn sighed, aloud this time, then chuckled.

“All right, Papa,” she said, humor in her otherwise serious tone. “I'll be back as soon as I have finished the incantations. But not a moment longer. And please make certain that lunch contains bacon if at all possible. I've missed the way it's made by the cooks at Highmeadow.”

“Done.” The Lord Cymrian kissed her forehead and headed for the council room, pleased with the improvement that was continuously occurring in his day.

Pushing to the fringes of his consciousness the fragments of his disturbing dream which still lingered, heavy on his mind.

 

3

Just beyond the doors of the council room Ashe could feel his elevated mood sink rapidly again.

Standing about the room, or sitting uncomfortably in its chairs, were soldiers of various ranks and ages, men and women both, some of them in their third millennium, First Generation Cymrians, others having passed less than three decades of life.

All of them were looking summarily displeased.

Ashe sighed as they rose to their feet when he entered. He waved his hand at them halfheartedly, signaling them to the council table.

“Gentlewomen and men, good morning.”

An irregular chorus of
good morning, m'lord
rattled back against his skin. Ashe closed his eyes as the words buffeted him, then opened them and took a seat at the council table.

“I must say, the expressions on your faces are truly unpleasant to behold on such a fine, sunny morning,” he said as the chairs around the table screeched upon being pulled out, then thudded heavily as they were dragged back in. “I hope that your news is not so disturbing as to merit the ugly looks most of you are wearing.”

“Forgive me, m'lord,” said Knapp sourly, one of the two First Generation soldiers who served as Supreme Commander of the continent's sea-lanes. “My face always looks like this, and has for two and a half thousand years. My ugly look should be interpreted as merely advanced age and general cussedness, not a military problem. The coastlines are, as of the last report yesterday, free from threat.”

“Well, that's a relief,” Ashe said. He turned and addressed the only other First Generationer present. “Solarrs—how stands Manosse?”

“No hostilities reported, m'lord, on land or sea.”

“Good to hear.”

Tian, Mistress of the Lance, the thickset commander of the six-hundred-thousand-strong infantry of the Alliance, cleared her throat. Ashe nodded at her.

“All is well in the northern borderlands, and to the east,” she said quietly. “Tyrian reports no incursions from the south, nor elsewhere. The Krevensfield Plain is preparing for harvest, with nothing of note to report. No activity has been reported up to or at the eastern steppes. The Bolglands appear quiet.”

“Excellent.” Ashe turned to the younger contingent of generals, men and women who had, for the most part, little or no Cymrian lineage and therefore had fewer years of age among them than many of the bottles of port and other libations he kept in his wine cellar. “Air defenses?”

Ariane, the Lirin woman who commanded the reconnaissance outposts of mechanized weather balloons, coastline gliders, and avian messengers, bowed slightly. “All clear. You have the weekly dispatches, m'lord. The Sea Mages report nothing of note on the thermal readings as well.”

“Indeed, thank you. Anything of note from Faedryth in the Distant Mountains, any incursions against the Nain? Communications from the Hintervold?”

“No, m'lord.”

“Very good.” He glanced around the table, his gaze lighting upon Reynard ap Hydrion and Arnald Goodeve, who, with their field commanders Dante Corynth and Markus Mendel, were responsible for patrolling and maintaining order in the city-states of the southern Teeth, and inwardly winced. From the glances between them, and the darkness of their expressions, he knew he had located the area of concern.

“All right, Reynard,” he said, bracing himself. “It appears you are the burr under the saddle. What is amiss in the southern Teeth, or beyond?”

Reynard and Goodeve exchanged another glance. Then Reynard, a swarthy soldier of less than thirty summers and more than his share of battlefield acumen, spoke.

“Permission to speak candidly, m'lord?”

Ashe felt his stomach knot. “Granted, and in fact, demanded.”

Reynard exhaled. “It's Grunthor again, m'lord.”

The Lord Cymrian sighed. “What now?”

Goodeve coughed. “The usual, m'lord—he's sending raiding parties into random city-states and outposts, attacking border troops and guard units.”

“We are getting complaints from your diplomats who have been attempting to establish affiliations with some of the smaller city-states that have been nonaligned since the War of the Known World,” added Mendel. “Most of what was once the former empire of Sorbold is well seated, either signatories to the Alliance or at least friends thereof, as you well know, sire. The diplomatic agreements that the Foreign Service is trying to put in place are continually disrupted by Bolg assault forces that, up until now, had confined their activities to war games, but now have crossed the line. There are casualties, thus far only military ones, but last week came dangerously close to civilian settlements and established towns.”

The headache that had dissipated from behind Ashe's eyes crept back in, rampant, making his skull ring with sharp pain. The dragon in his blood muttered darkly, beyond all but his own hearing.

“Define ‘dangerously close.'”

“An abbot traveling outside of Sepulvarta to a wedding was killed, along with the human contents of a small caravan of wagons populated with itinerant workers of unknown origin, most likely headed to the coastal vineyards or the olive fields in the hills of Windswere. It's not clear who fired upon whom first, but there was nothing left but smoking wagons by the time it was done.”

Ashe's teeth were gritted so tightly he could feel his jaw quiver.

Dante Corynth and Markus Mendel exchanged a glance.

“We have been questioning whether to alert you, m'lord, given the Sergeant-Major's friendship with the Lady Cymrian—” Corynth blurted, only to be brought to silence by a glare from Reynard.

And a horrifying draconic curse from the throat of the Lord Cymrian that even made Solarrs and Knapp blanch.

“Why in the world would you imagine
that
would keep you from reporting this?” he demanded, the vibrations of the wyrm in his blood evident in his tone. “Do you think for a heartbeat that Rhapsody would condone the slaughter of civilians—a priest, or farmworkers? Even at the hands of one of her friends?”

“No, m'lord, no, of course not,” said Reynard quickly. “We came here expecting to make this report.”

Ashe pushed his chair back, the wood screaming against the slate of the floor, and rose angrily.

“How long has this been occurring?”

“There was a report of rowdiness and Firbolg horseplay as long ago as during the month of Fore-Yule last year, m'lord,” Knapp interjected, noting the gleam of panic in the eyes of the younger generals and field commanders. “We've heard it, both at this level and in the lower ranks, for quite some time. When we discussed it at this meeting last year, it was deemed to be boredom, if you recall.

“The Sergeant-Major has long been the epitome of military leadership among the armies of the Alliance, and the recipient of great respect and admiration across the Known World, but of late he seems to be, well, at odds with the peace that has been the standard, more or less, for a thousand years. He's got the best fighting force on the continent, armed with ingenious and high-quality weaponry, a carefully cultivated and expertly bred stable for his cavalry—but no one to engage. He himself was pouting about ‘an onerous peace' at one of the field-commander conferences late last winter. ‘Got myself an army to be proud of, but nobody wants to come out and play,' I believe he said. I did pass this along to you at the time, if you recall, m'lord.”

“The diplomats have been griping about it at least half that long,” said Solarrs darkly.

Ashe gripped the sides of his head, seeking to keep it from exploding.

“He's a menace, and has been for a very long time,” he said in a low, seething voice that rang with the hiss of the dragon. He thought back to the soft one intoning a wakeup message that morning.

I love you; I'll be home soon.

I have a project for you to attend to upon your return, my love,
Ashe thought angrily.

“I cannot wait for the one who is able to put an end to that menace,” he said, running a hand angrily through his graying hair. “Grunthor may be one of the Three, and one of my wife's dearest friends, but there are limits, and they have just been exceeded.”

The military leaders around the table looked at one another blankly.

“Is there anything else under status reports?” Ashe demanded.

“No, m'lord.”

“Good. Then let's get to procurements and training needs, so that I can be done with this cursed discussion and we can all get to noonmeal. I see no need to torture ourselves any more than we already have.”

*   *   *

Laurelyn was already waiting at a table on the balcony of the library when Ashe arrived, a glass of wine at his place setting.

“I've taken the liberty of requesting quiche and greens with herbs from the buttery for both of us,” she said as her father kissed her head, “but if that's not to your liking, they are standing ready for a substitution.”

“That's a wonderful choice, but I thought you wanted bacon,” Ashe said as he took his seat and unfolded his napkin.

“It's in the quiche.”

“Ah. Perfect.” He exhaled as he took in the sight of her, allowing the unpleasantness of the morning to dissipate into the air around him, then took a sip from his glass. “Did you know that Merilda is here?”

“Yes, I had breakfast at dawn with her and the Greats,” Laurelyn said, also unfolding her napkin. “They were very excited about jumping on you afterwards. I hope you enjoyed it, Papa.”

“I may never recover.”

“Hmm.” Laurelyn picked up the coffee server and held it over his empty cup. “Skunk urine?” she inquired blandly, using her mother's name for his dark, odiferous favorite beverage.

Ashe laughed as she poured him a steaming cup of the hot, bitter blend. “Oh, bless you. Did I ever tell you that you're my favorite child?”

“Repeatedly. And I would have been immensely flattered had I not heard you tell every one of my siblings the same thing.”