In the light of the waxing moon a man again stood, a different man, gazing at the Scales, a look of similar awe molding his heavy facial features into an aspect of reverence. His swarthy hands were at his sides, awash in the silver illumination, fingering something smooth as he watched the magnificent instrumentality of justice gleam in the intermittent brightness.
The last watch of the night had changed while he stood in the shadows of the palace of Jierna Tal. The soldiers of the Second Steppe Column, sweating beneath their helmets of cured leather banded in steel and wrapped in linen, passed by within a few strides of him as if he were not there. Now the street was silent, the lights in the palace dimming, then winking out into blackness.
He exhaled, then took a deep breath of the hot summer air, dry, rich with portent, letting it fill his lungs.
Then he slowly mounted the steps leading to the titanic Scales.
The inconstant moonlight gleamed off the golden trays, large enough to hold a two-ox cart and more. He stared contemplatively at the center of the pan, at the fine lines long ingrained in the metal, the surface marred by time and weather, shining with their own radiance. This had been the birthplace of many new beginnings.
His left hand opened.
In it was a weight shaped like a throne.
The carving on the weight was in and of itself worthy of appreciation; the tiny throne was rendered, curve for curve, angle for angle, engraving for engraving, in the likeness of the throne of Sorbold, down to the image of the sword and sun that decorated the ancient seat of power now occupied by the Dowager Empress.
But more of notice was the material that comprised the weight. It was cool to the touch, even in the heat of the desert night, its rockflesh striated in colors of green and purple, brown and vermilion.
It hummed with life.
Carefully the man set the throne weight into the western tray. He then walked deliberately around the massive machine and stood in front of the eastern tray. He opened his right hand.
The fleeting moonlight had vanished; at first, darkness cloaked the item in his hand. After a moment, as though curious, it returned, shining on the irregular oval, violet in color, though when the light touched the surface it seemed to shimmer radiantly like the flames of a thousand tiny candles. In its smooth-weathered surface a rune was carved in the tongue of an island long settled beneath the rolling waves of the sea.
It was a scale of a different kind.
With consummate care he placed it in the empty tray, marveling at the waves of violet light that rolled to its edges like ripples of a pebble thrown in smooth water.
The man’s dagger, worn a moment before at his side, glinted in the dark.
He rolled up the sleeve of his belaque and drew a quick, thin line, black in the darkness, across the back of his wrist, then bent down and held his bleeding hand above the tray.
Seven drops of blood dripped onto the scale, each one meticulously counted.
Then the man stood up, ignoring the oozing of the blood into the sleeve of his garment, watching the Scales intently.
Slowly the enormous plates shifted, skittering across the stones of the square slightly.
Then the plate bearing the bloody scale was raised aloft, the light of the moon flashing off the golden tray as it moved.
The Scales balanced.
The piece of Living Stone carved in the shape of the throne of Sorbold ignited and burned to ash in a puff of crackling smoke.
The man at the foot of the Scales stood stock-still for a moment, then threw back his head and raised his arms in triumph to the moon overhead.
He did not cast a shadow.
In the opulent darkness of his bedchamber, the Crown Prince was thrashing about in the clutches of disturbing dreams. He began to sweat, struggling to breathe.
Sergeant-Major Grunthor had been somber all night.
The entire ride home to the Cauldron he did not speak a word, did not allow his eyes to move from the ground in front of him. He just spurred his horse to as consistent a canter as he could maintain, rushing to get back to the Firbolg seat of power.
He had actually been quite cheerful earlier when riding the enfilade line, shouting playful obscenities in the Bolgish tongue at the guards on the Sorbold side of the border, grinning widely and waving to the stern-faced sentries, trying to crack their resolve while appearing as nonthreatening as seven and a half feet of green-skinned, tusked musculature can appear. It was his favorite way to end a border check.
“Hie! Sweet’eart! My ’orse ’ere wants a word with you! She thinks ya might be the jackass who fathered the mule she popped t’other night!” The light from the border fires illuminated his broad face, causing his impeccably kept teeth and tusks to mirror the waxing moon overhead.
The Sorbolds, strictly trained not to respond unless attacked, continued to stare due east into the lands of Ylorc, steadfastly holding their watch.
The giant Sergeant-Major tugged at the reins, guiding the heavy war horse to retrace its steps, then stood in the stirrups, balancing perfectly against the skill of his mount.
“Speakin’ o’ fathers, did ya know I coulda been your dad, but the dog beat me up the stairs?”
Not so much as one Sorbold eyelash fluttered. The Bolg line of guard under his command snickered intermittently.
A wicked gleam appeared in the Sergeant’s eye as a new taunt occurred to him. He reined Rockslide, his war mare, to a stop and began to dismount, still shouting taunts at the border guards.
“Why are you all so sore-balled, anyway? What, ’ave you been knobbing the sagebrush or—
As his foot touched the earth Grunthor stopped.
His skin, generally the color of old bruises, went pale enough to be noticed by his men, even in the dim light of the fires.
He bent quickly and placed his hands on the ground, struggling to maintain consciousness over the din in his ears; the internal noise rocked him, made him weak, threatening to bowl him over in pain and despair.
The earth beneath his hands and knees was wailing in terror.
Carding the Threads
1
Red
Blood Saver, Blood Letter
The members of Lord Gwydion’s advisory council had reconvened in Haguefort’s richly appointed library and were grouped in pairs and triads in various parts of the voluminous room, examining papers or talking quietly among themselves. To a one they rose from their seats and fell into a pleasant, welcoming silence as the lord and lady entered.
First to greet the returning lady was Tristan Steward, the Prince of Bethany, the most powerful of the provinces of Roland. He had been hovering near the doorway by himself, away from the other councilors, and stepped quickly into Rhapsody’s path, bowing politely over the ring on her left hand.
“Welcome home, m’lady,” he said in a thick voice, oiled with the fine brandy of Haguefort’s cellars. The light from the library’s lanterns pooled in his auburn curls, making them gleam darkly in red-gold hues similar to those in Ashe’s hair, though not with the same odd, metallic sheen that the Lord Cymrian’s dragon heritage bequeathed him.
Rhapsody kissed the prince on cheek as he stood erect again. “Hello, Tristan,” she said pleasantly, extricating her hand from his grasp. “I trust Lady Madeleine and young Malcolm are well?”
Tristan Steward’s eyes, green-blue in the tradition of the Cymrian royal line, blinked as they looked down at her.