“King Achmed, Lord Gwydion, you must listen to what I tell you without argument, for I am telling you the truth,” he said clearly. “Though history records his death, history is sometimes wrong.”
“He was a Cymrian and a Kinsman,” Ashe said softly, taking care with his words. “If he was alive, he would have felt the call of the Council horn, if not for this last Council, then certainly for all those that were held before it. Every Cymrian, no matter where he or she was, felt the compulsion; it only grew more difficult to ignore when resisted, leading to death if held at bay Iong enough. He never came; he can’t be alive, Barney.”
The old barkeep sighed in annoyance.
“I can tell you why that is not true, m’lord,” he said evenly. “The reason for your misconception is because you don’t understand why the horn works as it did. I was there, however, so what I bear witness to is what I have see with my own eyes, and heard with my own ears.” His face took on the same faraway expression it had held when talking the moment before about the old world.
“As each man, woman, and child of Serendair boarded the ships that woul sail to this new land, they were presented with two things: a dipper of water from the Well of the Before-Time, and the silver horn of the king. Gwyllian had decreed that each refugee would drink from the Well, believing that would guard their lives and health in the course of the passage, and for the most part he was correct. It is still not known decidedly what gave the Cymrians their agelessness, the ability to cheat Time, though many theories abound. Personally, I would guess that the living water from this ancient well might have been largely, if not solely, responsible.
“As for the horn,” the old man continued, “Gwylliam, your grandfather, had decreed that any Seren citizen wishing to sail to the new continent must pledge his or her fealty on the horn, and swear that they would come, in times of need or council, in answer to the horn’s cry. Because of the import of the moment, and the presence of such primordial elemental power, it was a promise that could not be broken.”
“Yes,” Ashe agreed. “And we know that MacQuieth sailed with the Second Fleet-”
Old Barney’s voice crackled with controlled anger. “Lord Gwydion, if you would listen, you would cease to sound so much like your grandfather. If you are to seek MacQuieth’s help, you will want to separate yourself as much as you can from that lineage.” Ashe lapsed into silence.
“MacQuieth did not pledge fealty to Gwylliam on the horn. It is a long story as to why, a tale you have no time for now, but suffice to say that MacQuieth hated your grandfather, his king. He was old at the time of the Island’s peril, and volunteered to stay and watch over the last hours of Serendair, but the king wanted to assure the Second Fleet, and commanded that he lead it. MacQuieth blamed your grandfather for the death of his son, Hector, who, in his place, stayed behind when the fleets sailed to protect the Island in its last days. When the Sleeping Child erupted, and the Island was lost, Hector was lost with it.
“And all who were part of the story knew that was how it would end—Hector, MacQuieth, and Gwylliam. So while MacQuieth accepted what was to come to pass, his loathing of Gwylliam never abated. When he was presented with the horn, on which he was to place his hand and swear fealty to your grandfather, MacQuieth instead spat into the sea. ‘I’ll not pledge,’ he said to the soldiers lining the gangplank. ‘I have given all I have to give. If you require more of me, I will stay behind with my son.’ Faced with this choice, the soldiers looked at one another and, knowing MacQuieth was the commander of the entire Second Fleet and captain of the ship they were boarding, they let him pass. So he made no promise, as the rest of us did. And when the horn of the Council sounded, while we were all impelled to come in response, he heard no summons, felt no compulsion. He remained hidden away, out of the sight of Time.”
“He walked into the sea,” Ashe murmured, thinking back to the endless history lessons his father had imparted to him. “He stood on the shores of Manosse, where the Second Fleet ultimately landed, knee-deep in the surf, and stood vigil for the Island. The only person he would tolerate the company of was his daughter-in-law, Talthea, the Favored One; I remember witnessing her death when I was a small child. When he felt the Island’s death in the waves, he walked into the sea and disappeared. Everyone assumed he drowned, for he was never seen again.”
Old Barney smiled. “Ah, yes, Everyone. He is surely the wisest of men, since he always knows so much; as a barkeep I’ve heard his false assumptions and half-truths for a millennium. How do you think that Gaematria, the Island of the Sea Mages, has remained unmolested all these centuries there, alone, in the middle of the Wide Central Sea? MacQuieth guards it from the depths. There is a whole world beneath the waves of the ocean, Majesties, a world of high mountains and deep chasms, of unimaginable wonders, of beings that rarely, if ever, are seen on the drylands. Do not assume because something is not within your senses that it is dead; there are many places in the world for a man to hide if he does not wish to be found.”
“Will he aid us in our search for Michael?” Ashe asked, suddenly invigorated. “My mother was descended of Talthea; I am of his line, and carry Kirsdarke, the sword of which he was in his time the bearer.”
“Aye,” Barney said seriously, “but you are also descended of Gwylliam, whom he may never forgive.”
“Perhaps, then, he will do it for Rhapsody?” Ashe persisted, desperation creeping into his voice. “She met him once in the old world—she was looking for me.”
Barney shook his head. “If MacQuieth does anything, it will be because of Michael,” he said. “He needs no reason other than that. There are ties there that are far older and far stronger even than the fact that you are of his blood. But I cannot speak for him—bartenders never make promises for ancient heroes. It’s bad form.”
Achmed and Ashe looked at each other, then chuckled.
“Thank you, Barney. We will guard his secret as well,” Ashe promised.
“Where is he?” Achmed asked.
The elderly Cymrian barkeep stood and pushed his chair in.
“Come, and I will show you.”
In the cool of the evening, the glassworkers, exhausted from twelve days of work without cease, sleeping in five-hour shifts, stumbled out into the fresher air of the corridors that led out into the mountain passes, finished except for one giant panel.
The woman known to the glassworkers as Theophila was standing at the top of the grade, directing the finishing touches on the sealing of the circular dome of glass. After three major and two minor adjustments she still was not satisfied, and so was perched on the top rigging of the dome itself, dangling over the massive drop below it, soldering the edges of the tracery that bordered the green and yellow sections.
A number of the Bolg stonemasons who had participated in the building of the tracery supports, the framing of the glass, stood silently and somewhat helplessly to the side, watching the woman, who was harnessed to a nearby support. The thin air at the mountain’s summit was causing her to struggle for breath; the Bolg were waiting to see if she would finish, expire from lack of air, or plunge to her death first.
When she finally was satisfied, she signaled to Shaene, ever-present, hovering obsequiously.
“All right, Shaene, have them pull me in.”
The Bolg masons grasped the ropes that ran through three pulleys, maneuvering her away from the glass dome below and back to the rocky ledges. She unhooked herself from the support wires, pulled off her heavy goatskin gloves and threw them to the ground, then began walking down the mountain pass back to the Cauldron, then stopped.
“Put the cover on,” she called back over her shoulder.