Achmed shook his head. “No. Despite what I just said about worthiness, in truth weapons of this kind of ancient power do choose their bearers, and make them, in a way. I prefer to choose my own weapon, and make it.”
“Like your cwellan?”
The Bolg king nodded. “That is of my own design,” he said, shrugging slightly to bring forth from behind his shoulder the machine shaped like an asymmetrical crossbow, with a curved firing arm. “I made it to heighten my strengths and accommodate my weaknesses, but mostly it is tailored to the sort of prey I once hunted.” He indicated a spool on which whisper-thin disks were housed. “It fires three at a time, each one driving the previous ones deeper in. And it can be adapted as I have need—this one I developed to be able to pierce the hide of a dragon.” He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the reviewing stand. “Ashe is around here somewhere, no doubt. Perhaps I can test its efficiency later.”
Gwydion chuckled. “How did you adapt it to dragons specifically?”
“This one has an especially heavy recoil,” Achmed replied. “Dragon hide is as thick as stone. The disks are specially made as well; they are of rysin-steel, a metal that is extremely malleable when heated, which has been shrunk to a compact size by cold manufacture. Once inside the body and exposed to heat they swell in vast proportion with jagged edges, expanding the original damage many times over.” He turned the cwellan over lovingly. “I got many of the ideas from a weapon Gwylliam was working on before his death; I suppose he had his own problems with the dragon he was married to. The properties of fire and earth make the disks expand—that’s mostly what a dragon is inside, despite all the other elemental lore they possess.”
“You know it won’t work on Ashe,” Gwydion said humorously, trying to break his attention away from the humming sword hilt in his hands and failing. “He’s mostly water.”
Achmed stared down at the weapon in his hands.
“Hmmmm,” he said finally. “Back to the drawing board.”
Gwydion laughed. “You don’t need it against Ashe, anyway,” he said. “Even though you may argue, I know you are really allies. But I have seen your weapon in successful use—it was this cwellan that took Anwyn from the sky in the battle at the Moot, was it not?”
Achmed slung the cwellan again. “I hit her, and took off a claw or two, but the credit for that kill goes to Rhapsody,” he said, securing the cover beneath his robes. “She was in the dragon’s clutches; she carved her way out with Daystar Clarion. Once free, she called starfire down on Anwyn, then sealed her in her grave. But I suppose you could say I assisted—as did Anborn, at the cost of his legs.” He looked over his shoulder as trumpets blared, sudden and loud, in the distance. The Bolg king winced. “I assume that is your godfather’s subtle way of indicating your presence is needed.”
Gwydion nodded. “What should I do with this?” he asked anxiously, nodding toward Tysterisk.
Achmed shrugged. “It’s yours to use, to bear, to live with,” he said nonchalantly. “It should be with you upon your ascension to duke, assuming you wish to accept it. Remember, if you are going to take on the responsibility of such a sword, you will be expected to use it when needed, even at the cost of your duchy. But somehow I doubt that will be a problem for you. Get Anborn to instruct you in its use.” He turned to leave, then paused and looked back at the nervous young man. “It’s best to be ready. This is what I came to tell you, why I wanted to give the sword to you myself. The world in which you are about to claim a part is an uncertain place, but one thing can be predicted without fail—sooner or later, you will need to fight. You may as well have the best blade in your hand when you do. Just remember that you wield it; do not let the weapon wield you.”
Gwydion nodded and looked down at the hilt once more. As he stared at it, he thought he could see the blue-black outline of the blade against the brown oilcloth, gleaming dully, with tiny currents of wind swirling randomly within it. He continued to watch it in fascination until the trumpets blared again. Then he shook off his reverie and looked up.
“Thank you—” he said, but Achmed was already gone.
As Faron moved west, the winter was catching up with him.
Day into day his body became more melded to his mind; his hands and feet, once totally foreign and unwieldy, now served him with the same unconscious direction with which anyone else moved. His mind was still cloudy, still roiling in a sea of confused thoughts and the combined memories of an ancient soldier, an even more ancient demonic father, and the asexual creature he had once been.
The uninhabitable desert eventually had given way to steppes and dry grasslands, where only nomads and caravans passed. Faron had taken to hiding when such things came into view; his sun-deprived eyes were slowly gaining strength, and now he put them to use scanning the horizon for anything that moved. As he followed the sun across the sky he found that winter had hold of the places into which he was now coming. He had a vague recollection from his time as a soldier of snow, which stung the edges of his earth-hewn legs, but otherwise did not bother him. It gave him little hindrance, except that its presence added difficulty to his ability to hide.
Across the frost-blanched plains of upper Sorbold and into the southern province of Navarne he traveled, deeper and deeper into winter’s grasp.
His fragmented mind seething, bent on destruction.
22
When Achmed returned from visiting Gwydion Navarne, he came directly into the garden where he had left Rhapsody. As luck would have it, she was inside the buttery, preparing to return to the festival, so instead he was alone when he met up with the ambassador from the Sea Mages.
He stopped in his tracks, and stared over his veils at Jal’asee, his mismatched eyes sighting on the man as if he were leveling a cwellan at him.
“You lived,” he said accusatorily.
Jal’asee sighed and tucked his hands into his outer cloak.
“Yes,” he replied. “I am sorry about that.”
Achmed glanced around the garden for Rhapsody. “Well, at last you and I agree on something, Jal’asee,” he said shortly. He turned to leave, only to be stopped when the Sea Mage raised his hand.
“I have been waiting to see you for almost three months, Your Majesty,” he said in his interesting voice. “I beg you do me the honor of favoring me with your attention for a few moments, and then I will withdraw and allow you to enjoy the festivities.”
Achmed snorted. “Do be serious.”
Jal’asee’s face lost its natural expression of serenity. “Believe me, Your Majesty, what I have to say to you is very serious.”
“Then get on with it. I have more pressing matters to attend to, such as informing Rhapsody that should she ever invite us to the same event again I shall burn down her almost-completed house.”
“Did I hear my name being bantered about in disrespect?” the Lady Cymrian asked humorously upon entering the garden. “It must be that Achmed has returned.”
“Had I known you planned to ambush me with this academic, I would have gone directly home from my meeting with Gwydion Navarne,” Achmed said, the hostility in his voice unmistakable. “There are three types of people I despise, Rhapsody—Cymrians, priests, and academics. You should certainly know this by now.”
“I see no need to be rude to an ambassador from a sovereign nation who is also my guest,” said the Lady Cymrian tartly. “Perhaps you can at least hear the gentleman out, Achmed.”
“No need to defend my honor, m’lady,” said Jal’asee, a twinkle in his eye. “I have been fielding the Bolg king’s insults for millennia now.” He walked a few steps closer and tucked his hands into his sleeves, crossing his arms. “It is our understanding that you are seeking to rebuild the instrumentality in Gurgus Peak,” he said seriously.