The Merchant Emperor (31 page)

The evening had been so comfortable and easy that Achmed had to remind himself they were at war, and preparing for it to spread into calamitous bloodshed.

A respectful tap on the doorway across the long room sounded, disturbing the reverie.

“Come,” Achmed said, not looking up from his field reports.

Trug stepped into the room just inside the door.

“Majesty, there is a visitor, arrived at the northern gate—a woman, not human. She asks pardon, and says she has come to see the First Woman.”

All four sets of eyes in the room locked on him.

“What?” Achmed demanded. “Repeat that.”

“A woman, not human, alone, at the northern gate, requesting entry, though through apology. Has come to see the First Woman.”

“Didn’ make any better sense the second time,” Grunthor said. “You expectin’ someone, Duchess? Maybe from Tyrian?”

Rhapsody shook her head. “Of course not—I’m
hiding
. This is most disturbing.”

Achmed rose and tossed his papers on the table.

“Well, let’s go see who it is. Trug, call down through the speaking tube and have a full cohort armed and ready below in the breastworks at that gate, full alert.” The Archon nodded and hurried out of the room.

“’Ere, give me the lit’le prince, Yer Ladyship,” Grunthor said, rising as well and holding out his enormous hands, the claws withdrawn. “’E can sleep in my quiver.” He shrugged the wide arrow sheath over his shoulder from his back and tucked it inside his arm, packing the edge of his cloak into it, then tilted it for Rhapsody to put Meridion inside. She looked askance at him, then sighed and slid the baby into it, layering his blankets carefully around him. She kissed his golden curls.

“If he starts to wake up, summon Yltha,” she said as she followed Achmed out of the council room. “She might be able to keep him quiet, but I wouldn’t count on it. I can’t imagine how his cries will sound from the depths of your quiver—the Bolg will think we’re haunted by demons again.”

“Go,” said Grunthor affectionately. “One too many stinkin’ women around ’ere anyway.” He sat back down, the quiver with the sleeping baby against his chest, and went back to his plans.

*   *   *

It took the better part of an hour for Achmed and Rhapsody to get all the way to the northern gate.

The northern gate was the second largest of the ramparts in Ylorc, as the old Cymrian stronghold of Canrif was called by the Firbolg. It stretched for more than two miles, growing almost organically from the stone of the mountain, with tunnels below the ground before and behind it, breastworks that could hide ten thousand soldiers, unseen. Above the ground, the gate could shelter even more, Firbolg crossbowmen that provided cover to “jumpers,” soldiers who had come from the Eye clans. The Eyes were the Bolg that lived in the highest of the peaks of the western Teeth, scaling the heights with natural ease; jumpers were specially trained to hide within the crags and outcroppings of the mountainous edges by the gate, leaping from heights considered impossible by humans, adding an aerial element of attack to the subterranean one.

Two carriage lights burned in front of a small guard station inside the enormous wall of towering brick columns, reinforced with interior steel cores.

The Firbolg soldiers opened the wooden door bound in steel as the king approached.

Inside the small station, lit by oil lanterns, a woman approximately as tall as Rhapsody but substantially broader was sitting in a wooden chair. She rose as Achmed entered the room.

She was at the same time youthful and aged; there were lines at the outside corners of her eyelids, but otherwise her face was smooth. Her hair was long and light of color, with touches of gray at the temples, bound back into a long braid by a series of rawhide straps. Her features were heavier than those of human women, and Achmed instantly recognized the confusion of the Firbolg, who had not seen many of her race because her people lived in the far northern mountains, in the Deep Kingdom known as Undervale.

The kingdom of the Nain.

The visitor was the daughter of Faedryth, the Nain king.

“Lady Gyllian?” Rhapsody asked. “What—to what do we owe the honor of your presence?”

“Why are you here unannounced?” Achmed demanded. “Where is your retinue?”

The Nain princess smiled slightly, and made a small bow to the king and the Lady Cymrian.

“I am here alone, Your Majesty,” she said to Achmed as she reached into the pocket of her cloak. “I came on my own, through the mountains, to bring you this, m’lady.”

She pulled out a small velvet drawstring bag and offered it to Rhapsody.

“Through the mountains?” Rhapsody asked incredulously. “Alone?” She took the bag from the Nain princess; it felt heavy, as if filled with rice grains. “I am very happy to see that you are here, uninjured. What could have been worth such risk?”

“You have it in your hand.”

Rhapsody looked at Achmed, who returned her blank expression. She walked over to one of the lanterns and stood where its radiance would illuminate the object in her hands. Carefully she untied the knotted cords and pulled open the velvet sack, then tilted it to catch the light.

In the dusky radiance of the oil lantern, inside the sack she saw a small landslide of what looked like colorful sand, ground finely, in every hue of the rainbow. Her brows drew together as she looked back at Gyllian.

“Ground glass?”

Gyllian smiled slightly again.

“Indeed.”

“I was under the impression, given strongly to me by your father when he departed my lands, that our kingdoms are not currently on the best of terms,” Achmed interrupted, annoyance in his tone. “Has something happened to change his mind?”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“Well, I assure you, nothing has changed mine. Then, with respect, why are you here?”

Rhapsody had withdrawn from the conversation. She was humming her Naming note, trying to get the ground glass in the velvet bag to tell her its story, to sing her its song. Her mind was filled with the clear, sweet tones of pure color, glowing like gemstones—rubies and sapphires, emeralds and amethysts. Then, with a shocking rush of power, she was overwhelmed, and she began to shake so violently that the bag of ground glass almost fell from her hand.

“Sweet One-God, Gyllian,” she whispered, looking with wide eyes at the Nain princess, “is this—is this from the Lightforge in the Nain kingdom?”

The Nain princess nodded.

“How—how—did Faedryth—did he
destroy
it?”

“Evidently.” Gyllian looked from the shocked Namer to the Bolg king, whose brows were drawn together, though his demeanor had remained calm. “I have brought you this as evidence of its destruction, so that you will know indisputably, with utter certainty, that whatever threat was posed from that instrumentality no longer exists.”

“Well, that surely is reassuring,” said Achmed, taking the bag from Rhapsody’s trembling hand, “but I’m not certain what you want from me now. I hope you are not expecting me to follow suit.”

The Nain princess eyed him steadily.

“I had no real hope that such wisdom would occur where it has not chosen to present itself up until now,” she said. “I felt that you had reason to know what had taken place, and now you do. I will be on my way now; thank you for hearing me out.” She turned around in the direction of the chair in which she had been sitting, where her pack was stowed on the floor.

“Your Highness, please, tarry,” Rhapsody blurted. She put her hand on the Nain princess’s forearm to stop her. “Unless you are desperately needed immediately in the Deep Kingdom, please consider staying for a visit.” She turned rapidly away from the poisonous look Achmed shot in her direction.

“You are most kind, m’lady, but I must be returning to my homelands.”

“But surely not tonight, in the dark. And surely you must need to be reprovisioned, at least. It seems a great shame to have traveled so far to only spend a few moments in Ylorc.”

Gyllian’s slight smile took up residence on her face again.

“You did not deem the news I have brought you worthy of the journey?”

Rhapsody’s face grew solemn.

“Indeed, I most certainly do. But I think it would be an even better outcome of your undertaking if you could stay and see what is being done here, within the Teeth.” She ignored Achmed’s incredulous stare. “At the time your father came to Ylorc, and had, er, words with Achmed, he was under some severe misconceptions about what was being attempted. I think it would be worthwhile for you to see what is actually going on here—if only to be able to honestly assure Faedryth that his worries are groundless. Perhaps your own wisdom would be useful in a cause you may find that you actually support. And, if nothing else, you would be providing me with a brief but blessed respite from being outnumbered consistently by those of the less fortunate, and usually less pleasant, gender.”

The Nain princess chuckled.

“Well, I suppose there is wisdom in waiting until morning at least,” she said. “If the invitation meets with His Majesty’s approval, I will gratefully accept. We can discuss the length of stay, and what you are comfortable with me doing while here, in the morning.” She turned her steady gaze on Achmed, who nodded curtly, then went back to retrieve her pack.

“What exactly do you think you are doing?” Achmed said in a low tone and in the Bolgish tongue.

“Repairing the damage you have done, with my help, to the Alliance,” she whispered back. “And possibly bringing in someone who has actually seen an instrumentality very much like this operated before; if, for no other reason than that, you should have thought to issue the invitation yourself.”

She put out her hand to Gyllian, taking her by the shoulder, and led the Nain princess out of the guardhouse, back to the path to the Cauldron, the furious Bolg king following closely behind, reconsidering the value of old times.

26

HIGHMEADOW

Ashe was deeply engrossed in the reports coming in from the battlefield commanders when Gerald Owen appeared at the door of his study.

“Pardon, m’lord?”

The Lord Cymrian looked up. His face was haggard, the chamberlain noted, his hair unkempt and his face shadowed with untold mornings’ worth of unshaven beard. From the snippets of conversations Owen had caught in passing that morning, it appeared that the forces of the Alliance were once again experiencing random raids that were serving as distractions to whatever the Merchant Emperor’s unknown strategic advances might be.

Having served the Lord Cymrian for more than three years, Owen knew that at least one aspect of his nature was also concentrating on a second, far more important front as well; the dragon in his blood was keeping active vigil in guarding the unseen shield of protection that his race held as a bulwark against the demonic forces of the Underworld. The Lady Cymrian had undertaken to explain this guardianship to him once, but the concept was beyond the understanding of the chamberlain.

All he knew was that it cost the Lord Cymrian dearly in lost sleep and mental exhaustion.

“Yes, Gerald?”

“The guard tower at the western gate has sent word that a woman is here to see you, or, rather, to see the Lady Cymrian. She was informed that Highmeadow is on high alert and closed to visitors, but she was most insistent. As she is said to have come from Manosse, with the blockade of the harbor, I thought perhaps you should decide if she is to be turned away.”

“She is come from Manosse?”

“So she says—or at least that is the guard report.”

The Lord Cymrian’s brows drew together. Manosse, the land of his mother’s birth and many of his own holdings, was almost half a world away on the other side of the Wide Central Sea. He shook his head and stood, stacking the tall piles of parchment neatly on his desk.

“I’ll go to the gate myself; the walk would be welcome in clearing my head. Thank you, Gerald.”

The chamberlain bowed and withdrew.

Ashe reached out and picked up the tiny scrap of parchment that lay within reach of his hand on the desk. It was the note of love from Rhapsody that had been delivered by the master of the rookery that morning, as notes from her were on most days; he had read it over many times already, each time he felt especially bereft or as if the world was beginning to close in around him.

A loving touchstone that kept him sane.

He hoped the ones he was sending her were having the same effect.

He rose, put it in his pocket, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

*   *   *

As Ashe made his way through the forest citadel of Highmeadow, his dragon nature, much more evident at the surface of his consciousness than it normally was, took notice of every infinitesimal detail of the activities going on around him
. Thirteen thousand, seven hundred seventy-four heavy crossbow bolts, sixteen hundred forty-seven ballistae shells, two hundred thirty-two light infantry breastplates
, it whispered as he passed the first in a long line of supply wagons rumbling past along the quartermaster’s route. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, trying to drown out the insistent natter of the internal voice as his draconic nature made note of and enumerated every last piece of weaponry and matériel down to the tiniest lead sling bullet. He touched the scrap of paper in his pocket and deliberately made the effort to imagine Rhapsody singing to Meridion in the hidden grotto of Elysian, painting as clear and detailed a mental picture of her as he could.