Then balanced perfectly against the Ring.
Silence so profound that a man could hear nothing but the beating of his own heart filled the square.
Then the benison knelt reverently, followed by Lasarys, Fhremus, and the other citizens of Sorbold, some reluctantly, others in awe.
Finally the Blesser of Sorbold stood. He bowed to the Hierarch, then turned to the assemblage.
“Whosoever doubts the wisdom of the Scales, it is as if he is calling into question the integrity of the Earth itself,” he proclaimed, his wrinkled features relaxed into a contented expression. “Let none be so blasphemous as to do so.”
He turned to Talquist and offered him his hand to help him down from the plate.
“What are your directions now, m’lord?”
Talquist contemplated the question for a moment, then came to the edge of the platform and stood staring down at the assemblage before him. Finally he spoke.
“The first order of business will be to tend to the burial of Ihvarr, who was an honorable man, a loyal Sorbold, a defender of the nation, an advocate for the common man, and a good friend,” he said simply. “After that we can set about sorting out the business of state.
“I am as shocked as anyone else, probably more so, at this turn of events. I would propose that, rather than move to a coronation, I be invested as regent for the period of a year, an office with which I am much more comfortable at this moment. The army will continue as it has, in its steadfast defense of the realm, the Mercantile will continue to ply their trades, the nobility may keep their offices—for the time being. If, after a year has passed, the Scales still say I am to reign as emperor, I will bow to their will and accept the Sun Scepter as well as the Ring of State, which I will wear beginning now. But until then, I wish only to hold the empire together, and get back to work.”
The benison bowed deeply. “As you command, m’lord.”
Talquist exhaled deeply. “Come, then,” he said to assemblage. “Summon the chamberlain to tell the cooks to return and prepare all of us a well-deserved repast. We can sit together, at this table without hierarchy, as friends and allies, and drink to Ihvarr and the future of Sorbold. For this night holds great promise.
“For Sorbold, it is a new beginning.”
Something in the words rang false against Ashe’s ear. He turned to look more carefully at Talquist, but the new regent was obscured from view by Nielash Mousa, who hovered near him.
The benison turned to Lasarys.
“Command the bells to peal!”
Two days after the colloquium had concluded, Ashe was finally able to break away from the requests for his attention and depart for Haguefort. He bade the Blesser of Sorbold goodbye, wishing him well.
“Try and find an excuse to rest,” he said, clapping Nielash Mousa on the shoulder. “This has been a difficult few weeks for you, but there is still much work to be done. Sorbold needs you well.”
The weary benison smiled wanly and nodded his thanks. “We can but petition the All-God that the difficult times are behind us, not ahead,” he said softly.
“Ryle hira,” Ashe replied, using the ancient Liringlas expression. Life is what it is. “Whatever comes to pass, we will make the best of it.”
The morning of their leavetaking was hot. The sun had risen rapidly, energized as if with the renewed stamina of a new era, and burst forth into the heavens, eager to light the land. Ashe’s men, sweating already at breakfast time, cursed mutely and wished for less solar enthusiasm, but nonetheless packed the caravan quickly and efficiently, departing the Sorbold capital speedily and without looking back.
As the Lord Cymrian’s retinue descended the northern face of the Teeth, through the Rymshin Pass heading north to Sepulvarta, a cry went up from a single voice, which was picked up a moment later by the rest of the regiment.
“M’lord! M’lord!”
Ashe followed the fingers of the soldiers pointing west into the sun. Even before his eyes tracked, his stomach clenched in terror; his dragon sense discerned the approaching bird, noted the feathers it had shed, the strain in its wings, the rapid movement of its eyes as it searched from above for its perch on its trainer’s glove.
“Sweet All-God,” he whispered, reining his horse to a halt. “No.”
It was a falcon.
26
Rhapsody coiled the last of the sections of curly hair into a chignon and pinned it, more by feel than sight.
“Blue ribbons, or white, Melly?” she asked.
“Blue, I think,” the girl replied, examining her young face seriously in the looking glass. “And can you entwine the crystals with them at the base as you did at the spring ball?”
“Of course.” Rhapsody put out her hand for the ribbons, swallowing quickly as another dizzy spell signaled its approach. She blinked rapidly, trying to quell the unsteadiness, and improvised by running her hands along the sides of Melisande’s hair to smooth it.
“There,” she said when the unsteadiness had passed. “How is that?”
“Wonderful!” Melisande replied, turning to hug her. “Thank you. I wish the Lirin hairmistresses would teach me to plait pretty patterns as they taught you.”
“I was a poor student, I fear,” Rhapsody said, brushing a kiss on the side of the girl’s head. “You should see some of the configurations they are able to weave. Once I attended a meeting with the sea-Lirin ambassador with an accurate depiction of the coastline of Tyrian embroidered in my hair.” The young girl giggled. “Next time you come with me to the Lirin lands I will ask them to teach you, too. Now, come. Help me find your brother.”
Melisande put out her hand, and slipped an arm around Rhapsody’s waist to steady her. Together they strolled up the front entranceway of Haguefort, past the walls of rosy brown stone blooming with fragrant floral ivy, taking their time on the stairs.
The sounds in the distance told Rhapsody the carriage and its escort were close to being ready to leave; she could hear the drivers, little more than moving shapes in the distance, calling to each other, making final preparations; a squeak of doors indicated that the carriage was being stocked.
“Is Gwydion here?” she asked a little nervously, scanning the swimming green horizon for her adopted grandson.
“Behind you,” came a voice that was deeper than it ought to be, with a slight crack in its tone. Rhapsody turned and smiled fondly at the blurry shape now in front of her.
“I was afraid you would be caught up in your archery, and not remember to come and bid me goodbye.”
“Never,” said Gwydion Navarne solemnly. She opened her arms, and awkwardly he came into them, embracing her carefully, as if she might break.
“I’m not made of glass, you know, Gwydion,” she said as Melisande ran off to inspect the inside of the carriage. “Please don’t worry so.”
“I’m not.”
“Balderdash. You’re lying; I can hear it in the frequency of your tone.” She reached up and laid a hand on his cheek, the smooth, boyish skin rough with an emerging beard. “Tell me what is troubling you.”
Gwydion looked away. “Nothing. I never really like it when you leave. Particularly in a carriage, and even more so when you refuse to allow me to go along.”
Rhapsody inhaled and held her breath, cursing herself for being thoughtless. Gwydion’s mother had been mercilessly slaughtered after kissing her seven-year-old son goodbye and heading off to Navarne City with her sister to purchase a sturdy pair of shoes for one-year-old Melly. She had forgotten the circumstances until now, though she had noticed his reticence to say goodbye each time she left for Tyrian or some other place.
“I will be back to see you shoot those new arrows,” she promised, running her hand up and down his arm as if to warm it. “Do you like them?”
The lad shrugged. “I’ve used but one, and it was true. I am saving them so that you and Ashe can both see me use them in an archery tournament.”