“I am sorry I am so late in arriving; I know I had offered some instruction in lore you had not yet been made aware of. If it pleases you, m’lady, I would be happy to teach you the elegy for Seren, the aubade that the ancients composed upon leaving the old world. It is a song of praise to the Creator for the wonder of that star. We find it helps to maintain the connection we had when we sang our hymns beneath her light in Serendair.”
Rhapsody considered for a moment. “I’d be honored,” she said finally.
The tall golden man smiled, took her hand in his own, and closed his eyes. She followed his example, and a moment later felt the breeze whisper over her; it was in pitch with ela, her Naming note, the vibration on the musical scale to which she was attuned.
Behind her eyes she saw, or perhaps felt, a shimmering light appear, singing in the darkness of the universe. The star she had long welcomed with music was returning the laud that Jal’asee was chanting, but it was a different response than Rhapsody was used to. It seemed present, not on the other side of the world; inadvertently she opened her eyes and blinked in shock. Her aubade faltered to a halt as she dropped Jal’asee’s hand.
An ethereal light was emanating directly from the head of the Sea Mage, shining brilliantly from his eyes.
He finished the song, then turned to her.
“When one is baptized in ethereal light, he carries it with him wherever he goes,” he said. “It is really not necessary to wait for evening or morning to chant the praise, because it is always with me.”
“Well, thank you for the instruction,” Rhapsody said, observing the preparations with a wary eye.
“And now, has the Bolg king arrived yet?” Jal’asee inquired politely, though Rhapsody could detect a modicum of impatience in his eyes; otherwise, his ambassadorial countenance was perfectly serene.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, he has,” Rhapsody said, watching with consternation as a bevy of cooks marched by in the snow, each carrying a towering array of trays of sweetmeats, winter fruits, and pastries. “He should be back in a moment. I didn’t get a chance to tell him you wanted to see him.”
“Good, that’s just as well,” Jal’asee said smoothly. “Well, I believe I will leave you to your preparations, and have a walk about in the snow. Gaematria is tropical, thus we do not see much snow unless we manufacture it ourselves.”
The Lady Cymrian shook her head. “I hope someday before I die I will be invited to see your island, Jal’asee,” she said, putting her hand on her belly as the baby began kicking ferociously, causing her stomach to turn. “It certainly sounds like an interesting place.”
“It’s the place you must come if you are interested in learning magic as a science, m’lady,” said Jal’asee mildly, “which is very similar to your Naming studies now, but with additional areas of expertise and a maritime focus. As an academic, I am a firm believer that one should seek out the best teacher, or physician, or mentor that one could possibly have, and place oneself utterly in his or her care. Those people at least know all the missteps, and everything that can go wrong in their area of expertise; it’s probably something they’ve had to solve before.”
Rhapsody smiled. “Actually, I was thinking something very much along those lines, Jal’asee. Now, if only my husband will agree.”
Fond as he had been of Lord Stephen Navarne, Achmed had never been to his grave. Such visits were not in his makeup; he had dispensed enough death in his career as an assassin and king to understand the finality of it, to recognize the separation of soul from earthly substance, and so did not make a practice of observing anniversaries or tending to cemetery plots. If he ever had need of remembrance, he combed the wind and his own memory, rather than planting flowers on burial ground.
So it took him a few moments to find Gwydion Navarne in the quiet garden behind Haguefort, gated in wrought iron and evergreen bushes.
He had thought perhaps that one of the taller monuments that gleamed in various shades of aged marble might have stood to mark the resting place of Haguefort’s beloved master and caretaker; no one could have done more to renovate and tend to the rosy-brown stone keep than Stephen had. Stephen had also built the Cymrian museum that stood within its gates, a squat marble shelter for the artifacts of the enlightened age that had been born, had its heyday, and ended in war while he, Grunthor, and Rhapsody were still in the course of their travels through the Earth. If anyone deserved one of the foolishly ornate headstones pointing toward the winter sky in this place, it was Stephen.
And yet, to Achmed’s gratification, Stephen was not buried in a mausoleum guarded by a towering obelisk of stone, but rather was entombed in snow-covered earth beneath two slender trees, along with his wife, Lydia. A simple bench and a small piece of inscribed marble were all that marked the place; he would never have even seen it were it not for the presence of Stephen’s son, who sat quietly on the bench in reflection, attired in silver-blue court brocade and a grim expression.
“Your grandmother wore the exact same look on her face the night before the Lirin invested her as queen,” Achmed said wryly.
The young man turned around and smiled slightly. “Well, I suppose I am in good company, then.” He stood and offered his hand. “Welcome, Your Majesty. I didn’t see you yesterday; did you just arrive?”
“Yes,” the Bolg king said, shaking Gwydion’s hand with his gloved one, a practice he participated in rarely. “I brought you something.”
“Oh?”
From within his robes Achmed produced something wrapped in oilcloth and handed it to Gwydion. The duke-to-be took it questioningly, but when Achmed said nothing, he slowly untied the bindings and unwound the wrapping. As he peeled the last layer back, Gwydion’s hair was suddenly touseled by a stiff breeze, cold and stingingly clear, that seemed to rise up from the layers of the package.
Within the cloth lay a sword hilt of polished black metal the likes of which he had not seen. It was carved in ornate runes, its crosspiece curled in opposite directions. It had no blade.
“This is an ancient weapon, the elemental sword of air known as Tysterisk,” Achmed said quietly. “Though you cannot see its tang or shaft, be well advised that the blade is there, comprised of pure and unforgiving wind. It is as sharp as any forged of metal, and far more deadly. Its strength flows through its bearer; until a short time ago it was in the hands of the creature that took Rhapsody hostage, part man, part demon, now dead, or so it seems at least. In that time it was tainted with the dark fire of the F’dor, but now it has been cleansed in the wind at the top of Grivven Peak, the tallest of the western Teeth. I claimed it after the battle that ended the life of its former bearer, but that was only because I wanted to give it to you myself. Both Ashe and I agree that you should have it—probably the only thing we have ever agreed on, come to think of it.”
Gwydion stared at the hilt. He could see within the swirls of its carvings movement, but it was evanescent, fleeting; he blinked, trying to follow the motion, but lost it. A shiver of excitement mixed with dread rose up inside him; the sword handle was heavy, humming with power.
“I—I don’t know that I am ready for such a weighty gift,” he said haltingly, though his hands were beginning to shake from the vibration as well as his own exhilaration. “I haven’t done anything to be worthy of such a weapon.”
Achmed snorted. “That’s a fallacy long perpetuated by self-important fools,” he said scornfully. “You cannot be ‘worthy’ of a weapon before you begin to use it. It’s in the use of it that your worthiness is assessed. It is an elemental sword—no one is worthy of it.”
“Don’t—don’t you want it?” Gwydion asked nervously, his eyes beginning to gleam.