Elizabeth Heydon - Elegy for a Lost Star

“This is the thousand-and-first secret: Your lives will be spent in endless vigil, guarding the Earth, and all that lives on it, and after it, from that which seeks to extinguish it. Your training, your dedication, your wisdom—your very lives—are pledged to hold these mountains, to guard the Earthchild, as I guard her, to be the first, and possibly last, barrier, between the F’dor and the wyrm that sleeps in the heart of the world.”

The Archons nodded one by one in understanding.

The Bolg king lifted his veils back into place.

“But lest you think the task is too onerous to be borne, remember that at least you were born Bolg. If you begin to feel sorry for yourselves, keep in mind that you could have been born human or, far worse, a human Cymrian . Self-pity usually disappears when you consider that could have been your lot.”

Grunthor chuckled for the first time that night.

“Yeah, and if ya want ta see what it’s like being one o’ those, Oi can rip ’alf yer brain out and send ya to Roland to live. Any takers?”

The vigorous shaking of heads raised a faint cloud of dust in the stolid corridors of the Hand.

Upon returning from the Hand, Achmed discovered a nervous messenger waiting for him in the Great Hall.

Impatiently he put his hand out to him, a boy even younger than Trug, and was quickly given the ivory tube which had been delivered by the mail caravan. He broke the wax seal, and, seeing that it was from Haguefort, drew the parchment it contained across his veiled face between his nose and lips. Rhapsody’s scent still clung to the paper, the fresh aroma of vanilla and spiced soap. The odor pleased him, though he was not consciously aware of why. Where it could have carried the perfumes of myrrh and amber sought by other queens, other monarchs, the scent was instead that same sweet spice she learned to cleanse herself with as a farm girl on the other side of Time. It was innately comforting to know that at least some things about her had not changed in the time since she had taken on the title of Lady Cymrian, and the role of being Ashe’s wife.

“Somethin’ from the Duchess?” Grunthor inquired.

Achmed nodded. “Just a note requesting in code that I be on the lookout for a messenger bird to arrive sometime in the next few days.”

The Sergeant-Major let out a low whistle, and reached into the bandolier that adorned his back. The hilts of his prized collection of weapons, spread out in a fan like the spines of some ferocious reptilian creature, squeaked as he felt around for one to play with. Upon settling on The Old Bitch, a serrated short sword named in honor of a hairy-legged harlot he had known in the old world, Grunthor drew the weapon forth and ran it along the palm of his hand.

“Sounds like we may be seein’ ’er again soon. Good; Oi’ve missed ’er.”

The Bolg king exhaled. “Let’s just hope that she’s not going to need rescuing again. She hates that even more than I do, if that’s possible. But for now, I can’t be concerned about her and whatever she wants. I have a shattered kingdom to rebuild.”

For most of the wagon trip to Bethany, Faron was mercifully unconscious.

The creature’s insensible mind, primitive at its best, sank into an almost comatose state, a hazy realm where half-formed dreams and images appeared in fragments, dashed away by the splash of tepid water the fishermen routinely tossed on its body, causing it to sizzle in the hot sun. Faron lay beneath the seaweed that the fishermen had blanketed its pale body with, wishing for death when conscious, flitting through nightmares when not, burning in the sun in either case.

Finally, after a time that seemed endless, the wagon rolled to a slow stop and did not show signs of starting up again.

Quayle climbed down from the wagon and stretched painfully. He shaded his eyes and looked at the round-walled capital city of Bethany, surrounded by its exterior ring of villages and settlements, then pointed into the depths of the shops and huts and foot traffic swirling within it.

“The tinker said the fellow in charge of the sideshow is in the alley out back of the Eagle’s Eye Tavern,” he said to Brookins, who stretched as well and nodded. “You go into the city proper and sell the catch to the fishmonger, and I’ll go into the outer circle, see if we can make a bargain for our Amazing Fish-boy.” Brookins nodded and clicked to the horse.

Quayle watched as the cart wended its way up to the western gate, one of two of the entrances that were allowed by law to give access to animals of trade and other mercantile traffic. Entry through Bethany’s eight gates was strictly enforced, and therefore much of the trade that did not fit within the law was conducted outside the ringed ramparts, in the external villages and settlements.

It was to this place he went now, seeking the Eagle’s Eye, and the alleyway behind it.

Quayle was no stranger to this place, or places like it all over Roland. He chose to sell his wares and spend his profits in just such fringe settlements—the margin was higher, and the goods were cheaper. In addition, there was a variety and availability of merchandise that no self-respecting merchant in the city proper would handle.

Along the route to Bethany they had passed many other tradesmen of their ilk, asking if anyone had seen the traveling circus that had been performing along the coast a few weeks prior. Finally a tinker had told them, amid the rattle of the pots and pans hanging from his cart, that the carnival had traveled to Bethany and was doing a fair business in the grim streets outside the walls.

He had also provided directions to the tavern.

Quayle made his way through the cobbled streets, past the rows of small shops, inns, and houses, absorbing the sights and sounds of the place—the squawking of chickens at the poulterer, the merry, screeching laughter of street children, the haggling of the old women in the air market, the appetizing smell of food wafting from within the taverns. Quayle was hungry, and he wanted to remain that way until he had made his bargain; it assured that he would be more virulent in his negotiations.

Finally he came to the place where the tinker had directed him. The Eagle’s Eye was a seedy building in need of repair, fronted on a dark thoroughfare known as Beggars’ Alley. Quayle slipped into the lane that led behind the building, following the sound of commerce in the back streets.

A small group of men, with a plain-dressed woman and a few boys, were gathered in a circle around a brawny, bald man, shirtless, wearing hobnail boots and a length of wire whip looped around his shoulder that hung to his waist. He was leading something on a chain, a bear perhaps, that was jumping around on the filthy street, growling and squealing. Quayle moved closer to get a better look.

Once he broached the circle he could see that the creature on the end of the leash was a man, or at least manlike; it was covered completely with hair, even to its eyelids, walking around like an ape on its knuckles. Every now and then the freak would lunge at the crowd, causing them to reel back in amused consternation; the huge man dragged the hairy being back by the leash, growling at him in a menacing voice. Quayle’s lip curled in disgust.

His obvious disdain caught the keeper’s eye, and the muscular man glowered back, then loosed the chain a little and nodded in Quayle’s direction. The hairy creature lunged wildly at the fisherman, scratching at his leg and crawling in frenzied dementia up as far as his waist, slobbering on his clothes, before the keeper tugged on the chain, dragging him back to the ground again. The other bystanders stepped hastily away from Quayle. The fisherman’s gaze did not waver; he glared at the keeper but otherwise did not move.