Elizabeth Haydon - Rhapsody 4 - Requiem for the Sun

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Book Information:

Genre: Fantasy

Author: Elizabeth Haydon

Name: Prophecy: Requiem for the Sun

Series: Book 4 in the Rhapsody Saga

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Requiem for the Sun

Rhapsody Saga 4

Elizabeth Haydon

Ode

WE are the music-makers,

And we are the dreamers of dreams,

Wandering by lone sea-breakers,

And sitting by desolate streams;

World-losers and world-forsakers,

On whom the pale moon gleams:

Yet we are the movers and shakers

Of the world forever, it seems.

With -wonderful deathless ditties We build up the world's great cities,

And out of a fabulous story

We fashion an empire's glory:

One man with a dream, at pleasure,

Shall go forth and conquer a crown;

And three with a new song's measure

Can trample an empire down.

We, in the ages lying

In the buried past of the earth,

Built Nineveh with our sighing,

And Babel itself with our mirth;

And o'erthrew them with prophesying

To the old of the new -world's •worth;

For each age is a dream that is dying,

Or one that is coming to birth.

—Arthur O'Shaughnessy

Seven Gifts of the Creator,

Seven colors of light

Seven seas in the -wide world,

Seven days in a sennight,

Seven months of fallow

Seven continents trod, weave

Seven ages of history

In the eye of God.

--Artford Demastam

SONGOF THE SKY LOOM

Oh, our Mother the Earth;

Oh, our Father the Sky,

Your children are we,

With tired backs. We bring you the gifts you love.

Then weave for us a garment of brightness…

May the warp be the white light of morning,

May the -weft be the red light of evening,

May the fringes be the fallen rain, May the border be the standing rainbow.

Thus 'weave for us a garment of brightness

That we may walk fittingly -where birds sing;

That we may walk fittingly -where the grass is green.

Oh, Our Mother Earth; Oh, Our Father Sky.

—Traditional, Tewa

THE WEAVER S LAMENT

Time, it is a tapestry

Threads that weave it number three

These be known, from first to last,

Future, Present, and the Past

Present, Future, weft-thread be

Fleeting in inconstancy

Yet the colors they do add

Serve to make the heart be glad

Past, the warp-thread that it be

Sets the path of history Every moment 'neath the sun

Every battle, lost or -won

Finds its place within the lee

Of Time's enduring memory

Fate, the weaver of the bands

Hold these threads within Her hands

Plaits a rope that in its use Can be a lifeline, net—or noose.

One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown; And three with a new

song's measure Can tramp an empire down.

ARGAUT, CONTINENT OF NORTHLAND

The light of the harbor torches fluttered on the waves and reflected back at the night sky, a dim imitation

of the waxing moon that hung stubbornly above the end of the quay, ducking in and out of the clouds

racing past on the wind.

Long into the dark hours, scores of even darker figures had sworn, sweated, and spat, reaching

endlessly into the bowels of the ships that lined the jetty, dragging forth their treasures in the forms of

barrels and chests and loose bales of goods bound for market in Ganth, then throwing them roughly into

wagons or carrying them, corded muscles straining with exertion, into the dray sleds amid muttered

cursing. The dray horses, sensing the onset of a night rain, danced in their hitchings, fearing the coming

thunder.

Finally, when the docks were silent, the torches had burned down to the stalk joints, and no light

remained but that of the obstinate moon, Quinn emerged from the belly of theCorona and made his way

down the gangplank, glancing behind him several times until he reached the pier.

The longshoremen had joined the ship's crew in warmer, louder haunts, and were now undoubtedly

drinking themselves into belligerent fits or pleasant stupors. The stench in their quarters the next morning

would be a fine one, to be sure. But the smell of intestinal gas and sour vomit tomorrow would be

welcome compared with what Quinn faced now at the end of the dark quay.

Quinn's eyesight had always been acute. He had sailor's eyes that scanned the endless horizon for a

fleck of variation in the swimming expanse of monotonous gray-blue; he could tell a gull from a tern from

the crow's nest in the glare of the sun at distances that befuddled his shipmates. Still, he always doubted

the accuracy of his vision in the last few moments of this familial walk, for the person he was meeting

always seemed to change before his eyes as he approached.

Quinn was never quite certain, but it seemed as if the manthickened , and grew more solid, his long,

thin fingers subtly gaining flesh, the shoulder; broadening slightly beneath the well-made cloak. Once

Quinn thought he had caught a glimmer of blood at the edge of the seneschal's eyes, but a closer look

proved him to be mistaken. They were clear blue, cloudless as a summer sky, without a trace of red. The

warmth of those eyes was almost enough to dispel the chill that never failed to creep though Quinn like a

slithering vine whenever they met.

'Welcome back, Quinn." The heat in the seneschal's voice matched that of his eyes.

'Thank ye, m'lord."

'I trust your voyage was successful."

'Yessir."

The seneschal still did not favor him with a glance, but instead stared into the lapping waves cresting

under the pier. "And was it she?"

Quinn swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "I'd say sure as certain, m'lord."

The seneschal turned finally, and looked down at Quinn with a contemplative expression. Quinn

caught it then, that smell, the faint, foul reek of human flesh in fire. He knew the odor well.

'How do you know this, Quinn? I don't want to sail across the world for nothing; I'm sure you'd

agree."

'She wears the locket, m'lord, a shabby piece amongst all 'er jewels."

The seneschal studied Quinn's face for a moment, then nodded distantly. "Well, then. I suppose it's

time I paid her a visit."

Quinn nodded dumbly in return, almost unaware of the raindrops that had begun to spatter the

dockside planks.

'Thank you, Quinn. That will be all." As if in enthusiastic agreement, the rippling glow of heat lightning

undulated across the docks, punctuated a moment later by the rumble of distant thunder. The sailor

bowed hurriedly and turned, scurrying back to theCorona and his tiny, dark hole belowdecks.

By the time he reached the gangplank and looked back, the figure had become part of the windy rain

and the darkness again.

HAGUEFORT, NAVARNE

In the other side of die world it was raining harshly. Night was coming, bringing with it the relentless

downpour that had been dogging Berthe's mood from the moment the storm had begun at dawn, though

early on it had taken the form of a mild but insistent shower. Every hour or so a wayfarer had pounded

on the scullery door, begging shelter and tracking rainwater and mud from the road over her newly

washed floor.

By nightfall she was livid, berating the last of the men with language so acid that the chamberlain

himself had rebuked her, reminding her of the re-centness of her hire and the strict standards of courtesy

die Lady Cymrian expected to be in place at Haguefort, the keep of rosy brown stone in which the royal

couple lived while the beautiful palace her husband was building for her nearby was being completed.

But the lady was away and had been for weeks, her absence evident in the ever-souring mood of her

husband. Lord Gwydion was passing die remaining fortnight before her return in all-night meetings with

his weary councilors, who privately expressed die hope that the next two weeks would come and go

rapidly, given his ugly state of mind. Berthe had never met her, never even seen her, but unlike the rest of

the palace staff, she did not pray for the lady's speedy return, the lord's bad mood notwithstanding. From

what Berthe had been able to discern in her ten days' tenure at Haguefort, the Lady Cymrian was an odd

duck given to some fairly strange ideas.

Now the vast kitchen was dark, die polished stones of the floor finally scrubbed clean, the firecoals

burning down to flickering ash. Upstairs in the meeting rooms on the other side of the main wing lights still

burned, and voices were occasionally raised in barely audible laughter or argument. Berthe leaned against

the hearth wall and sighed.

As if in blatant mockery, the door knocker sounded. "Be off wi' ya," the scullery woman scowled

through the latch. Silence reigned for a moment; then the knocker sounded again, louder this time.

'Go away!" Berthe roared back before her better sense took hold; she glanced around furtively,

fearing the return of the chamberlain. When she had ascertained that no one important, or likely to report

her to someone important, had overheard her, she lifted the bolt, cleared her throat, and opened the door

a crack.

Before her was nothing but the gloom of the dreary night. Seeing no one at the threshold, Berthe

started to close the door, a growl of annoyance emanating from the wrinkled folds at her throat.

A flash of lightning blazed, and in its momentary light a figure could be seen lowering the hood of a

cloak, the oudine of which she could barely make out, and had caught no sight of the moment before. A

crackle of electricity hummed over her skin as she peered out into the murkiness of the night Berthe had

to look closely through the sheeting rain to see even this shade of a person; had she not squinted into the

darkness at the same moment as the flash, it was unlikely she would have noticed anything at all. She

interposec herself in front of the figure that was preparing to step into her clean anc buttoned-down

kitchen.

'There's an inn down the road a piece," she growled into the rain. "Every one's to bed. The buttery's

closed down tight. I don't mean to keep the staff up all night."

'Please let me in; it's very cold out here in the rain." The voice was that of a young woman, soft and a

little desperate, heavy with the weary tone of a tired traveler.

Berthe's annoyance was apparent in her answer, though she struggled to maintain the civility she had

heard the lady was insistent upon, even to peasants. "What do you want? It's the middle of the night. Be

off wi' you, now."

'I want to see the Lord Cymrian." The reply came as if from the darkness itself.

'Days of Pleas are next month," Berthe answered, beginning to close the door. "Come back then; the

lord and lady hear requests beginning at sunrise on the first day of the new moon."

'Wait," called the voice as the opening narrowed. "Please; if you'll just tell the lord I'm here, I think he

will want to see me."

Berthe spat in a puddle of dirty water forming near the scullery step. She had dealt with such women

before. Her former employer, Lord Dronsdale, had a veritable flock of them, assigned to different nights

of the week; they gathered outside the stable, waiting for the Lady Dronsdale to retire, then began

preening beneath the back window, each hoping to be selected by the lord, who signaled his interest

from the balcony. It had been her job to shoo away the girls not chosen on a given night, and an onerous

task it was. She had hoped not to have to repeat it here at Haguefort.

'Well, now, aren't we the cheeky wench?" she snapped, her recent training forgotten. "It's past

midnight, my girl, and you're here unannounced, on a day not in keeping with the law. Who are you that

the lord would want to see you at this hour?"

The voice was steady. "His wife."

Later Berthe realized that the clicking she heard following the words was the sound of her jaw

dropping open; it remained thus for much too long. She closed her mouth abruptly and pulled the heavy

door open wide, causing the metal hinges to scream in protest.

'M'lady, forgive me-I had no idea'twas you."Who would expect the Lady Cymrian, dressed in

peasant garb, unguarded, at the buttery door in the middle of the night ? she wondered, clutching

her icy stomach.

The darkness shifted, and the cloaked figure hurried inside. Once she was silhouetted against the

firelight, Berthe could see that the Lady Cymrian was no taller than she, and slight of frame. Her jaw

trembled as the young woman untied the hood of her cloak amid a cloud of mist that rose from the folds

of it, then pulled the garment from her shoulders.

First to emerge from the shadows of the plain blue-gray fabric was as fair a face as Berthe had ever

seen, crowned with golden hair the color of sunlight pulled back in a simple black ribbon. The expression

on that face was clearly one of displeasure, but the lady said nothing until she had carefully hung her

cloak, still surrounded with an aura of mist, on a peg over the fire grate, followed by a quiver of arrows

and a white longbow. Then she turned to Berthe.

When the lady's eyes, deep and green as emeralds in the shadows of the firelight, took in the scullery

maid's face, however, the look of annoyance faded into a serious aspect devoid of anger. She brushed

the rainwater from her brown linen trousers and turned back to the fire on the hearth, which leapt as if in

welcome, warming her hands.

'My name is Rhapsody," she said simply, looking at the scullery maid from the corner of her eye. "I

don't believe we've met."

Berthe opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She swallowed and tried again.

'Berthe, m'lady; I'm new here in the kitchen. And I apologize most humbly—I had no idea'twas you at

the door."

The Lady Cymrian turned again, and folded her arms. "You didn't need to know it was me, Berthe;

any traveler who has come to this door is to be let in and welcomed." She saw terror come over the old

woman's wrinkled face, and her hand went unconsciously to the tangled gold locket around her neck.

She smoothed the chain and cleared her throat.

'I am sorry that this was not explained to you upon your hire," she said hurriedly, casting a glance in

the direction of the buttery's inner door. "And also for disturbing you so late in the evening. Welcome to

Haguefort. I hope you will like working here."

'Yes, mum," Berthe muttered nervously. "I'll go tell the chamberlain to alert the lord you're here."

The Lady Cymrian smiled, the firelight dancing off her locket. "No need of that," she said pleasantly.

"He already knows."

The buttery door banged open with a force that made Berthe jump. She leapt even farther away as

the maelstrom that was the Lord Cymrian rushed past her in a flurry of billowing garments and speed

born of long musculature, his odd red-gold hair catching the light of the roaring fire and glinting ominously.

Her hand went nervously to her throat, watching the man who was said to have the blood of dragons in

his veins sweep down upon the small lady, gathering her into his arms. Berthe would hardly have been

surprised to see him tear her limb from limb, or consume her, on the spot.

A moment later the buttery door opened rapidly again. Berthe leaned against the wall for support as

the chamberlain, Gerald Owen, and a number of the lord's royal visitors crowded in the opening, some of

them with weapons drawn.

Owen's wrinkled face relaxed upon seeing the lady in the arms of the lord. "Ah, m'lady, welcome

home," he said, pulling out a handkerchief and mopping his brow in the heat of exertion and the blazing

hearth fire. "We weren't expecting you for another fortnight."

The Lady Cymrian tried to extricate herself from the lord's embrace, managing to merely to raise her

head above his shoulder.

'Thank you, Gerald," she replied, the words partially muffled by the fabric of her husband's shirt. She

nodded in the general direction of the nobles crowding the buttery doorway. "Gentlemen." "M'lady,"

returned an awkward chorus of voices.

The lady whispered something into the lord's ear that made him chuckle, then patted him and slid out

of his arms. Lord Gwydion turned to his councilors.

'Thank you, gentlemen. Good night."

'No, no, please don't abbreviate your meeting because of me," the lady objected. "Actually I'd like to

sit in; I have a few matters of state I need to discuss with some of these good nobles." She looked back

up at the lord, who stood a head taller than she. "Are Melisande and Gwydion Navarne to bed?"

Lord Gwydion shook his head as the chamberlain crossed to the fireplace and took her cloak down

from its peg, still radiating its aura of mist. "Melly is, of course, but Gwydion is keeping council with us.

Has made many good suggestions, in fact."

The lady's smile grew brighter and she opened her arms as her husband's namesake, the tall, thin lad

who would one day be the Duke of Navarne, made his way through the convocation at the doorway and

came into her embrace. As they conferred quietly, the lord turned back to his councilors.

'Give us a few moments, please," he said. "We'll resume our conversations—briefly—at half the

hour." The nobles withdrew, closing the buttery door behind them.

Berthe eyed the chamberlain, gesturing nervously toward the back door to her chambers; Gerald

Owen nodded pointedly. The scullery woman bowed clumsily and made a hasty retreat to her room,

wondering if the Lady Drons-dale would consider taking her back.

T'he Lord Cymrian watched as Gerald Owen walked slowly over to his wife, who was unbelting her

scabbard without breaking her conversation with their ward. Owen had been the chamberlain of

Haguefort for many years, serving both Gwydion Navarne's father, Stephen, and Stephen's own father

before him. Even in his later years, his staunch loyalty and service to Stephen's children, and their

guardians, was unfailing. He carefully took Rhapsody's sword and cloak, and left the buttery without

causing so much as a pause in her conversation.

'Twenty center shots in the same round?" she was saying to Gwydion Navarne. "Excellent! I've

brought you more of those long Lirin arrows you liked from Tyrian; they've fletched them in your colors."

Gwydion's normally somber face was shining. 'Thank you."

The Lord Cymrian tapped his wife on the shoulder, gesturing toward the door through which Gerald

Owen had left.

'I made a loan of my cloak of mist to you so that you might travel unseen by highwaymen and thieves,"

he scowled with mock severity. "Not so that you could return without my notice."

'Trust me, my return will garner your notice later," she said teasingly. "But I really must speak to

Ihrman Karsrick before he returns to Yarim; did I see him among the councilors in the doorway?"

'Yes."

'Good." She slipped her hand inside the crook of her husband's arm. "Now, let's go attend to affairs

of state—so that we can retire to our chambers and discuss the—er—state of affairs."

She walked arm-in-arm with both Gwydions through the towering hallways of Haguefort, past ancient

statuary and carefully preserved tapestries from the First Cymrian Age, Rhapsody found herself suddenly

battling a wave of conflicting emotions, some warm, some bitterly painful, all deeply held, none changed

in any way by the passage of time.

The loss she and Ashe, as her husband was known to his intimates, still felt at the death three years

ago of Lord Stephen, Gwydion Navarne's father and Ashe's dearest friend, was still acute. It was

impossible to traverse the corridors of Haguefort, the keep that Stephen had lovingly restored and filled

with priceless artifacts, or tend to his historic exhibits in the Cymrian museum on the castle's grounds

without being overwhelmed with the memory of the young duke and the great joy he had held for life.

Each time she left Haguefort, she returned to find his son resembling him more.

The thought caught in her heart; Rhapsody blinked. Gwydion Navarne was staring down at her from

the first step of the grand staircase, offering her his hand on their way up to the keep's library, where

Ashe had been meeting with his councilors, looking for all the world like his father. Beside her Ashe

squeezed her hand; he understood. Rhapsody squeezed back, then took their

TILE FOUNDRY, YARIM PAAR, PROVINCE OF YARIM

Justas rivers flowed inevitably to the sea, in Yarim Paar all knowledge, public and hidden, all secrets,

made their way, sooner or later, to the ear of Esten.

And Slith knew it.

Whether the secret was uncovered in the bright, unyielding sun of Yarim Paar that baked the

red-brown clay of the crumbling northern city to steaming in summer, or in the dark, cool alleyways of

the Market of Thieves, the opulently decadent bazaar in which trade, both exotic and sinister, flourished

at all hours of the night and day, Esten would eventually hear of it.

It was as unavoidable as death.

And since death could come from standing in the way of such information, it was usually better to be

the bearer of the secret to Esten than the one who might be perceived as trying to hide it from her.

Though not always.

Slith glanced up nervously. The journeyman who was overseeing his work and that of the other

apprentices was stretching out in the shadows of the large, open kilns, seeking relief from the blasting

heat, paying the boys no mind. Bonnard was a corpulent man, a skilled ceramicist whose touch with tile

nippers and mosaic tesserae was unrivaled, but he was not much of an overseer. Slith exhaled, and

cautiously reached into the greenware jar on the lower shelf again.

What he had found was still there where he had seen it yesterday, wedged at an angle in the unfired

clay at the bottom of the urn.

Another backward glance reassured him that Bonnard's attention was otherwise engaged. With a

smooth movement, in the attempt to avoid the notice of the other lads stoking the dung fires and stirring

the slip, Slith plucked the clay container from the shelf and tucked it quickly under his arm, then made his

way out the back door of the tile foundry to the privies beyond.

Slith had long been accustomed to the stench of waste that slapped him each time he drew the rotten

burlap curtain open; he ducked inside and pulled it closed carefully. Then, with moist hands that trembled

slightly, he reached gingerly into the open mouth of the vessel again. With a firm tug he pulled out its

contents and held it up to the light of the rising moon that leaked in through the gaps in the privy curtain.

A blue-black gleam stung his eyes in the dark.

Elizabeth Haydon - Rhapsody 4 - Requiem for the Sun

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