The Merchant Emperor (17 page)

“All right, that’s enough of
that
lullabye,” Rhapsody said, laughing along with her son, who was giggling as Grunthor crooned to him, slightly off-key, while dangling a necklace of subterranean wolf teeth that was making a pleasant clacking sound over his tiny head. The Sergeant-Major inhaled deeply, sucking in his nostrils until they turned inside out, causing Meridion to break into squealing gales of laughter, and Rhapsody to spit her tea across the breakfast table, inadvertently spraying Achmed, who had just sat down.

“It’s so lovely having you back here, Rhapsody,” the Bolg king said sourly as the door of the dining hall balcony opened. Trug, the Archon in charge of communications known as the Voice, entered silently and bowed politely.

“What is it?” Achmed demanded, wiping his chest off with his napkin.

“Avian messages, Majesty,” Trug said. He crossed to the king and handed him the leg containers from the messenger birds, then turned to Rhapsody and gave her two as well. Grunthor put out his enormous hand, claws extended hopefully, but Trug hurried past him and closed the door quickly behind him, missing the enormous pout that came over the Sergeant’s face.

“Awww. Nobody ever sends me mail. It’s breakin’ my ’eart.”

“I sent messages to you all the time when I was in Haguefort or Tyrian,” Rhapsody said as she broke the wax seal on the first message and slid a tiny piece of parchment out of the small steel tube. “I don’t remember getting any back from
you
.”

“Not true. Oi ’ad several lovely shrunken ’eads delivered to you with an ’eartfelt poem for yer birthday just last summer.”

“Oh, right. I’d forgotten. Thank you again.” She unrolled the message carefully. The miniature, carefully graphed antiquated script was instantly recognizable as that of Rial, her viceroy in the Lirin kingdom, over which she reigned as titular queen.

Have made the attempt you requested. Was refused. Very relieved. LLTQ

Rhapsody sighed.

“Well?” Achmed was unsealing his own message tubes.

“Rial did as I asked at the meeting in Haguefort, and attempted to pick up the diadem of the Lirin kingdom, but was unable to do so; apparently the crown refused him.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Achmed said as the first scrap of oilcloth slid into his hand.

“Rial doesn’t seem to think so—he signed it ‘Long Live the Queen.’ I’m sure he’s smirking as we speak. Who is yours from?”

Achmed’s mismatched eyes were scanning the scrap.

“Your husband’s uncle.”

“Anborn?”

“Well, since the other one lives two thousand leagues away in the middle of the ocean, I would imagine it might be difficult getting a message from him by bird, unless it was a giant albatross,” Achmed said. “Yes, Anborn. He says he is coming to speak with me, and will be here, most likely, tomorrow morning.”

Rhapsody smiled. “Good; it will be nice to see him.” She broke the second seal and slid the missive from its housing. She unrolled the tiny scroll, smiling slightly as she read the words of love in Ancient Lirin that Ashe sent every morning, then tucked it away and rose. “I need to look in on Rath.”

“He was asleep a few moments ago,” Achmed noted, having just come from the injured Dhracian’s makeshift bedside in the hospice room in the well of Grivven Peak. “His breathing is much better.”

“Good; that’s good.”

The Bolg king nodded. “If you’re going to assess him, or speak with him, I want to be there.”

“Well, finish your breakfast and reading your mail and then join me at his room. I will wait for you before saying much to him. He needs to be encouraged to eat and drink, but I don’t know what is customary to the Dhracian diet. I would hazard a guess that yours is more Bolg.”

“Undoubtedly. Even I don’t know what real Dhracians eat and drink.”

“One more thing he can teach you about your mother’s people, then,” Rhapsody said.

“If you think he might like the Bolg diet we could feed Meridion to him,” Achmed offered.

“Oi would ’ave to object to that,” Grunthor interjected. “Oi ’ave first claim there. If nobody’s gonna send me messages, Oi should at least get to snack on the lit’le prince.”

“Bad idea,” Rhapsody said humorously. “He has dragon blood; I’m sure whatever Bolg or Dhracian ate him would end up with a stomach ache at best, and poisoned at worst. The last thing you want is a serious case of dysentery from a poorly considered snack. I’m sure all the soldiers who share the barracks with you would agree.”

She rose and kissed Grunthor’s cheek, dissolving his look of mock disappointment into a grin, then made her way out of the room to the tunnels of the hospice, Meridion wrapped securely in her arms, as she wished he could have been in the mist cloak his father had given her to keep them both safe and hidden from eyes that had the power to scry for them from afar.

As well as from her hungry Firbolg friends.

But, given that the mist cloak had been destroyed in the fire of the dragon Anwyn’s breath on their way to the Teeth, she would just have to be extra vigilant.

And hide him in her own cloak.

*   *   *

The door opened with only the slightest sound.

Rhapsody glanced quickly inside, then knocked softly.

From the bed inside the room, the dark head of the Dhracian hunter turned slowly and opened his eyes.

“Rath?” she said softly. “May I enter?” The ancient man in the bed nodded. She came into the room and closed the door quietly behind her.

“How are you feeling?” she asked as she approached the bed. She reached into the pocket of her cloak and drew forth her lark’s flute, a tiny reed instrument she carried with her when traveling.

“Grateful,” Rath whispered.

“Achmed will be here momentarily,” Rhapsody said. She let her eyes wander over the exposed parts of the Dhracian’s body, his head, neck, and arms, taking note of the return of color to his skin, the quieting of his exposed veins, the absence of blood in his black eyes. “You need to take some nourishment, some fluid—what can I get for you?”

The Dhracian shook his head. “Later. Not yet.” He closed his eyes as if in pain. “My thanks.”

“If you wish, I could sing you a windsong,” Rhapsody said, feeling awkward. “Or play for you on the lark’s flute; it’s a gentle instrument.”

A ragged smile appeared on the Dhracian’s face.

“Again, later, if you please,” he said. “I am trying to reach my brother hunters.”

Rhapsody glanced around the room. It was an interior chamber, windowless, as most of the rooms in Ylorc were.

“How careless of me,” she murmured. “I’m sorry—I can have you moved to a chamber with an aperture that opens out onto the western steppes, where the wind can enter. How foolish of me—”

“Peace,” said the Dhracian. “You were wise to put me in the solace of dark stillness, where I could rest and heal. In a few more hours, I will be well enough to walk on my own, and then I will accept your kind offer. For now, I must tell you something.”

Rhapsody looked back as the door opened silently, and the Bolg king entered the room.

“Achmed is here now,” she said.

Rath nodded again.

“I must report to you the outcome of the hunt,” he said, taking his time with each word. “I know you have already discerned that I failed, that the Thrall ritual was broken. What you do not know is this—what broke my performance of the ritual was the intervention of a giant man of Living Stone, a soldier. He attacked me just as the host of the demon succumbed, but before the demon itself did, tossing me across the forest glade and into a tree with ease.”

Rhapsody and Achmed looked at one another.

“The titan of Sorbold,” the Bolg king said. “He was said to have disappeared from Sepulvarta after successfully leading the assault on the city.”

“I wonder why he went to Navarne,” Rhapsody said.

“Most probably because he sensed another of his kind on the wind.” Rath’s voice was little more than a whisper.

“Of his kind?”

“It was hard to discern, but within the stone statue I could sense something with the taint of F’dor, but not one of the known pantheons. I am not certain, but I suspect it might be a Faorina, the hideous result of F’dor procreation with a being of another race. They are extremely rare, as their conception and birth requires the demon to part with a piece of its own essence, diminishing its power permanently, something very few F’dor are willing to undertake. But whatever was powering that statue, it had a spark of life, and as a result, it was enough for the F’dor known as Hrarfa, the beast that I was attempting to destroy, to cling to it as a host. It took her on willingly.”

“Gods,” Rhapsody whispered.

“Do you know where it went?” Achmed asked.

Rath shook his head with effort.

“I was a bit distracted, trying to escape on the wind,” he said. “I have experienced some bad luck with the availability of air currents of late, but, thankfully, just before the titan bore down on me again, I was able to catch one and be lifted away. The wind was kind in getting me back to you here, as well.”

“We have to get word to Ashe,” Rhapsody said to Achmed as Meridion began to make buzzing and cackling sounds within her cloak. “Perhaps I can transmit a message to him if you are ready to test the blue spectrum.”

Achmed waved her into silence.

“Have you been able to report to the Brethren?” he asked Rath quietly.

The Dhracian nodded. “I sent an emergency missive as the wind caught me, but I have not had the strength or ability to reach them since.” He turned his head toward Rhapsody. “May—may I see your child? I was so intent on finding you, Bolg king, that I didn’t pay attention to the miracle in our midst that is every child.”

Rhapsody looked at Achmed, then came to the chair at Rath’s bedside and sat down. She turned the cloak toward him and carefully opened the folds, revealing Meridion. His blue eyes twinkled and he let forth a series of squeaking sounds, causing Achmed to put a hand to his ear and turn away.

Rath, however, pulled himself closer and opened his scleraless black eyes wide, drinking in the sight of the little boy. He studied him intently, then turned to the Firbolg king.

“Fascinating,” he said softly. “Wyrmril, human, Seren, Lirin, time, fire, water, air, earth, and ether, with a dynastic right as well. What an interesting, highly magical child—was he born naturally, or was he conjured?”

Rhapsody blinked. “I don’t know what you mean,
conjured
. I carried him and gave birth to him as any other child, though his delivery was, well, a bit unusual.”

Achmed snorted but said nothing.

“One of the oldest lores of the world, possibly the oldest, is the lore of conjuring a child,” Rath said to Rhapsody. “Indeed, the child of which you are the
amelystik
is such a child.”

“The Earthchild?” Rhapsody spoke the word using a Namer’s tool that allowed her to remove the element of air from it. It sounded directly in Rath’s ear, silent to the rest of the world.

The Dhracian nodded and closed his eyes, as if suddenly tired.

“Any child like her was born the same way,” he said quietly. “The race of dragons, the Wyrmril, regretted their folly of ignoring the Creator’s model when assuming their racial form, which made it impossible for them to interbreed with the other Firstborn races. When the desire for progeny beyond their own race, for immortality, became strong, they turned to the act of conjuring. In order to make the offspring tangible, not ethereal, they used a base of their most precious possession—Living Stone.” Rhapsody, who had heard the tale before from Elynsynos, nodded. “But in order to bring a soul forth to inhabit it, the Wyrmril needed to provide two parents who were both willing to sacrifice a part of their personal essence, the equivalent of a soul, to be joined together in the child. Like the F’dor, who found the birth of Faorina not to be worth the diminution of their power, I believe the Wyrmril made the same assessment, and, after conjuring a small number of Earthchildren, returned to propagation with their own kind, through the laying of eggs. So the use of conjuring fell out of history, though I know it has taken place rarely from time to time over the course of it. Because of the level of elemental power involved, it tends to produce extremely magical beings. Forgive me; I meant no insult to your child.”

“None taken,” Rhapsody said. She kissed Meridion on the top of his head, reveling in the softness of his golden curls. “Well, again, in answer to your question, Rath, Meridion was a product of ordinary love, not magical summoning.”

The Dhracian did not open his eyes, but something akin to the first smile Rhapsody had ever seen him undertake appeared on his face.

“Do not assume that conjuring occurs without the presence of love,” he said quietly. “Indeed, it can be the example of the greatest love possible—because it comes, by definition, with selfless sacrifice and the specific desire to bring a child into being. Nature does not have that same requirement, as I am certain you well know. Again, no disrespect intended. If you like, when I am well, I can share the incantation of the lore with you—it’s quite beautiful and fascinating, and given your Namer status, you should know it for the ages. Now I must rest. If your offer of a room with a window is still good, I should appreciate it in a few hours.”

Achmed opened the door, and Rhapsody left the room. He followed her, closing the door soundlessly. She turned to him in the corridor.

“If you are not busy this afternoon, I should like to take Meridion and tend to my
amelystik
duties,” she said. “I want to do whatever I can to offset the despoliation of Terreanfor and its effects on her.”

Achmed nodded. He had been thinking the same thing.

“Do you plan to perform any lullabyes?”

Rhapsody blinked in surprise. “Yes, why?”

“Because I think she might like that one Grunthor was singing when I came in to breakfast. Just don’t spit tea on her.”

*   *   *

The passageway to the Loritorium, a vault from the Cymrian era built to house the instrumentalities and artifacts of elemental lore, had its entrance hidden in a trunk at the foot of Achmed’s bed.