Elegy for a Lost Star (25 page)

He carefully lifted the flap of skin and slid out the first tip; as he expected, it was a scale much like his own, the same gray hue but with a flash of yellow as it slid forth from the creature's belly. Faron moaned in agony, but Talquist was not deterred; he continued to remove both of the other scales, all part of the same original set, ignoring the trembling of the creature from which they had come. He held them up to the light of the torches in the square.

The tattered ovals were of the same multihued gray that his prized scale was, scored with tiny, geometric patterns like the hide of a reptile. When they caught the firelight they gleamed prismatically, as if all the colors of the spectrum were contained within them, yet each had a dominant hue; one yellow, one red, and one a dark blue the color of indigo blossoms. Each bore a crude etching on it, runes in a language, like his own scale, that he could not read.

Years before he had translated the writing on the violet scale by finding a key to the language, the tongue of the Ancient Seren race, in the dusty museum of Haguefort, the ancestral home of Stephen Navarne, the Cymrian historian. He had also found a sketch of his own scale. It was in an old relic, the fragment of a tome entitled
The Book of All Human Knowledge
that had been rescued from the sea. Most of the book had been destroyed by the salt water, but in the few pages that remained intact, he had read of a deck of cards owned by a Seren seer named Sharra, and had come to believe that his scale was part of the deck. It was said that, in the hands of someone possessed of Firstborn blood, blood of a race that had descended from one of the primordial elements, the scales had power, power to see things the eye could not see, to heal wounds that could not otherwise be healed, to bring about change that otherwise would never happen.

Power unimaginable.

This is the deck
, he thought, his hands sweating in excitement.
These scales must be part of Sharra's deck
.

The creature in the plate hissed at him angrily.

“Where did you get these, Faron?” Talquist asked, almost to himself.
He reached into the folds of his robe and drew forth the violet scale, then held it up with the others to the flickering light.

The milky eyes of the creature widened.

All the scales matched.

Talquist's hands grew warm. At first he was unaware of the sensation, believing it was merely the result of his excitement, perspiration, and the ferocious beating of his heart. A moment later he realized that the scales themselves were generating the heat, as if together they were unlocking some distant cache of heat, of fire.

They recognize each other
.

“Lasarys,” Talquist said softly, “give me your ceremonial dagger.”

“M'lord—”

The regent's hand shot out with finality, its palm open.

Lasarys sighed, drew forth his dagger made of polished obsidian, and placed it regretfully in Talquist's hand.

“You may leave now,” the emperor presumptive said, finality in his voice. “Go sup, and return to the monastery with your fellow clerics. You have served me well.”

Lasarys and the acolytes exchanged a glance, then hurried away from the Place of Weight. Dominicus and Lester started for the door where the other acolytes had been led, but Lasarys raised a hand and silently stopped them. He glanced back over his shoulder and, seeing that they were unobserved, led them to a sheltered spot near the palace wall where they could continue to watch the atrocity unfold.

T
he regent placed the three scales atop the creature's belly, returning his own to the folds of his garment. He took the knife and held it up before his eyes, then lowered it to Faron's heart.

In the shadows, the acolytes and the sexton stood, transfixed in horror, as Talquist carefully scored the freak's skin with the sharp stone blade, then dipped it into the line of black blood. He walked back to the plate where the stone soldier lay and stood above it, knife in hand. Then he deposited black drops, one by one, onto the plate of the Scales, ignoring the whimpers of pain issuing forth from the grotesque mouth of the creature in the other plate.

Each drop fell with a ringing sound.

In the darkness, the Scale plates began to gleam, the chains that hung from the arm of the instrumentality taking on their light.

Slowly, the plate with the heavy stone statue began to rise, balancing against the plate with the helpless creature.

Through their tears, the Earth priests watched, their faces pale and gray with the sweat of revulsion, as the Living Stone soldier and the twisted body of the creature began to shine with a painful radiance. The light grew
brighter, more intense with each passing second, until the radiance became too agonizing to bear. Lasarys, Lester, and Dominicus shielded their eyes, just as the misshapen form on the one plate burst into dark flames, black fire that stank with rancid fumes, and withered to ash.

The Scales balanced.

Then the eastern plate thudded to the ground. The western plate rocketed aloft at the change in weight, the cinders that had once been the body of the creature exploding into the air with the sudden blast of force, then catching the night breeze and wafting away.

The light vanished, plunging the square of Jierna'sid into lantern-lit darkness again.

A
t first there was no sign of life at all.

Talquist stood, rooted to the spot at the foot of the Scales, his eyes darting from the immobile statue in the eastern plate to the empty western plate, now devoid even of ash.

Then, after a moment, the giant soldier let out an enormous shudder and exhalation of breath.

The vibrant striations of color deepened as the statue took its first gulp of air, the multicolored strand of purple and vermilion, green and rust took on the gleam of life and breath.

The eyes, without irises to break the stone-colored sclera, blinked.

“Praise be the Earth Mother,” whispered Talquist.

The statue's limbs flexed awkwardly. Slowly the arm without the sword moved; the soldier raised its empty hand up before its rough-hewn face. The fingers curled inward, then stretched arthritically.

“Rise,” Talquist commanded.

The statue turned its head in the regent's direction.

“I said
rise
,” Talquist repeated, his tone harsher. A thought occurred to him, and though he felt foolish doing so, he spoke the name of the creature whose life had been sacrificed to animate the statue. “Faron.”

The soldier's head jerked in Talquist's direction.

The regent exhaled in disappointment. Not having any true understanding of the power of the Scales as regarded Living Stone, he had hoped that the blood sacrifice of the creature would form the living incarnation of whatever ancient warrior of the indigenous people of the old continent had been buried in the Living Stone of Terreanfor. Instead it appeared that the entity was actually the embodiment of the freak itself he had purchased from the Monstrosity, mindless as a fish. But his dismay fled quickly upon seeing the statue flex its arms again.
Next time I will be certain to sacrifice a human with a good and capable mind
, he thought, still pleased with the sight of the ten-foot soldier, formed of clay, breathing and moving on its own.

The statue rolled suddenly to one side and fell heavily out of the weighing plate, thudding loudly on the boards of the stand on which the Scales stood. It curled up at first like a baby in the womb, scratching the hand that held the rough sword against the wooden boards, as if trying to rub it off.

Talquist started to step forward but stopped quickly as the enormous soldier brought its right hand violently on the Scale platform, slapping the sword repeatedly against the planks. It scratched at the stone weapon with an urgency that made panic start to rise in Talquist's throat.

“No, Faron, that's a sword. It's all right—do not try to disarm yourself—”

In response, the giant figure began to peel the sword from its left hand with the other.

“Faron—”

With a brutal wrench, the statue tore the stone sword from its hand and heaved it across the platform at Talquist. The regent dodged out of the way just in time to avoid being crushed by it. Then slowly the Living Stone soldier pushed itself awkwardly to its knees.

Talquist watched with mounting concern as the giant struggled to stand, as if believing its limbs were flexible, soft.
It remembers its old form
, he thought as the statue dragged itself to its feet. It reached down to the ground around it and hurriedly and clumsily gathered its scales, dropping them several times in the process.

“Faron, I command you, stop!” Talquist shouted.

The living statue stared for a moment, its irisless eyes fixed on the scales in its hands. Then it lurched forward, awkwardly locomoting toward the steps of the platform, clutching the three scales.

Talquist raised his own hands for Faron to stop, then, seeing that the moving titan was thundering toward him without any sign of halting, dove out of the way just in time to avoid being trod beneath its feet. The titan stumbled down the stairs and out into the cobbled streets of the square of Jierna'sid, where it fell heavily to the ground. Again it curled, as if unsure of its legs, then slowly, deliberately rose, casting an enormous shadow in the faint light of the torches.

“Faron!” Talquist called again, but weakly; having seen the stone musculature flex, his voice was strangled by the rictus of fear.

The thud of boots could be heard coming up one of the feeder streets to the square.

A squad of four soldiers approached, running, shouting to each other. They stopped dead in the shadow of the towering statue.

“No!” Talquist shouted, but Faron had already begun to move, lurching down the feeder street toward the guards. “Get out of the way!” he screamed.

Two of the soldiers obeyed blindly, dashing toward the palace walls.
Another hesitated a moment, then threw himself behind a cart for cover. The fourth was frozen to the spot; he raised his halberd in defense, the polearm shaking.

The titan of Living Stone slammed him into the palace wall as if he were no more than a pile of rags. A sickening
crack
resounded through the streets as his body hit the wall, the reverberation of bones shattering.

The animated statue did not pause; it gained speed along with its footing, quick strides blending into a running gait. It hurried down the streets toward the battlements, melting into the darkness, heading for the open ledges of sandy mountain crags that ringed the city of Jierna'sid.

Numb, Talquist rose to a stand and stared into the shadows, trying to find some sign of the titan, but seeing nothing but night and torches that had burned down to the stalk-joints. He continued gazing into the distance until the leader of the squad knelt before him, the two surviving soldiers behind him, bearing the shattered corpse of the fourth.

“M'lord?”

“Yes?” Talquist answered distantly.

“What was that?”

“A bad idea,” the emperor presumptive murmured, running the toe of his boot along the edge of the great earthen sword that had been ripped from the statue's hand. The clay rim cracked and tumbled like sand onto the stones of the street.

He continued to watch the empty street. “And a terrible waste. A harvest of living earth that is about to crumble to dust, unused.” Finally he turned, as if shaking off sleep, and looked down at the body at his feet.

“You,” he said to the two soldiers who carried their dead compatriot, “take him to the monastery at Terreanfor. Leave him on the steps.” He looked directly at the leader. “Are all the holy men back in the monastery and the manse?”

“Yes, m'lord.”

“Good. Once you have left the body, return to the barracks. The acolytes will attend to his burial. Speak to no one of what you saw, on pain of execution. Tell the others as well. If word returns to me on this matter, I will know from whence it came.”

“Yes, m'lord.” The soldier bowed and hurried to catch up to the other two.

As soon as the soldiers were out of sight, Talquist went to the gates of Jierna Tal and summoned his captain of the guard.

“Have the monastery and the manse been prepared with oil and magnesium?”

The captain nodded silently.

“Good. There are three soldiers headed there now with the body of a
fourth. As soon as the soldiers have deposited the body on the steps of the monastery, light the oil.”

The captain swallowed, but showed no other reaction. “If they somehow dodge the explosion?”

“Drive them back inside with arrow fire.”

The captain, accustomed to such orders, merely nodded. “The holy men as well? Should they survive the flames, that is.”

Talquist shook his head. “They are dead already. The poison from their meal has no doubt taken effect by now. I just want there to be no witnesses, and no trace. There will not be; magnesium burns hotter than the flames of the Underworld. A tragic fire; the benison will doubtless be greatly aggrieved. Perhaps he will take pains to make certain his followers have safer lodgings hereafter.”

The captain of the guard bowed and withdrew.

Talquist continued to stand in the square of Jierna'sid throughout the night until morning came. He scanned the rising mountain peaks for any sign of the titan, but saw nothing more than the pink rays of dawn spilling light onto the vast desert below, heard nothing but the autumn breeze whistle through, no words of wisdom hidden in its whine.

W
hen the square at the Place of Weight was at last truly empty, when the light in the regent's tower in Jierna Tal finally was extinguished, and nothing remained but the tiniest glow from the streetlamps that had burned down to the wick bases, the sexton of Terreanfor and his two surviving acolytes crept cautiously from the shadows, trembling as they had been for the last few hours.

They stood in silence and watched the flames light the distant sides of Night Mountain, knowing that it was their manse burning. Finally Lester touched the sexton's arm with a hand that shook.