Paul Thompson - The Qualinesti

At Feldrin Feldspar’s hut, a crowd of overseers and guild masters had formed. There was much debate over the strange sunrise. Some in the group insisted that work be halted until the heat abated, while others argued that work should continue.

“Our covenant with the Speaker of the Sun calls for us to work till sunset,” the chief mason complained. “We must honor our pledge.”

“Our people can’t work forever,” objected the leader of the carpenters’ guild.

“Quiet, you shortsighted fools!” rumbled Feldrin, waving his hands over his head. “The sun hasn’t moved for hours. Merciful Reorx! A calamity is upon us, and you quibble about schedules and quotas!”

The overseers and masters lapsed into embarrassed silence. Merith appeared and stood on the fringe of the crowd. He’d shed his armor in the heat and wore a lightweight white tunic and baggy gray trousers.

“This must be yet another of the wonders,” said the elf warrior. “Like the darkness, the lightning, and the scarlet rain.”

That set off a fresh wave of contention in the group. Feldrin let them argue a while, then shouted for quiet again.

The chief mason wailed, “What are we to do!”

“Collect all the fresh water you can,” ordered Feldrin. “Fill every pot and jar in Pax Tharkas. Tell the sewing women to make canopies—very large canopies. We will erect them over the quarry walls to shade the workers.”

The master builder loosened his fur mantle and let it fall to the ground. “Let it be done. And tell everyone to get rid of his heavy garments!”

“Do we resume work?” asked Lugrim.

“In two hours, by the water clock.”

Feldrin’s assistants dispersed to carry out his bidding. The trumpets blew, signaling an end to work, and every worker in the pass hurried indoors, out of the broiling sun. Feldrin and Merith watched the teeming site become a ghost fortress in a matter of minutes. The last people in sight were the dwarves who had been working on the parapet of the west tower. They secured their hoist and winch, then ducked inside the massive stone structure. For some time after that, the hoist swung to and fro, the block and tackle creaking loudly.

The sight of the sun-baked, lifeless fortress bothered the master builder. It was unnerving. In a gloomy tone, he said as much to the lieutenant.

“Why so, my lord?” asked Merith, surprised.

“The other marvels were like conjurer’s tricks—they seemed mysterious and impressive, but they were essentially harmless. This is different. A few days of unrelieved sun could be the end of us all.”

Feldrin dabbed sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his yellow linen shirt. “I can’t help but wonder who has the power to do this. Who can stop the course of the sun itself through the sky?”

“Drulethen?” the lieutenant suggested.

“Certainly not,” Feldrin said firmly. “Even if he possessed both halves of his evil talisman, he could never do such a thing.” The dwarf shook his head. I wonder if even the gods themselves…”

“Nothing is beyond the gods,” Merith replied reverently.

“Perhaps. Perhaps.”

The dwarf picked up his discarded cloak and draped it over one arm. Already his salt-and-pepper hair was clinging to his damp face. With a sigh, he said, “I shall retire indoors now. Can’t have my brain getting scrambled in this blasted sun.”

“A wise notion, master. I shall do likewise.”

Elf and dwarf parted company. Merith crossed the winding road to the fortress site alone, the only living thing moving through the entire construction site. Overhead, the hoist continued to sway and creak. The lieutenant thought it a mournful, lonely sound.

Midnight in Qualinost was as bright as any noon. There had been no night at all for two days, and the heat was appalling. Half the public fountains in the city had dried up during the first twenty-four-hour period of the strange daylight. The people of Qualinost filled the courtyards of the great temples, begging the priests and priestesses to intercede on their behalf with the gods. Incense burned and chants rose to the heavens, but the sun burned mercilessly on.

The water clock in the chamber of the Thalas-Enthia showed it was midnight, yet the senators of Qualinesti were all present. Seated in his place of honor on the north side of the circular room, Kith-Kanan listened to the representatives of the people debate the series of marvels they had experienced, including the current dangerous manifestation. Many of the senators bore the signs of lack of slumber; not only were their duties pressing in this time of crisis, but the lack of night made it difficult for many in Qualinost to sleep.

“Clearly we have offended the gods,” Senator Xixis said, “though I have no knowledge of what the offense could have been. I propose that offerings be made at once, and that they be continued until these plagues cease.”

“Hear! Hear!” murmured a group of senators sitting on the western side of the chamber. These were known as the Loyalists, because they were loyal to the old traditions of Silvanesti, especially in matters of religion and royalty. Most of the full-blooded elven senators were members of this extremely conservative faction.

Clovanos, senior senator of the Loyalists, descended from his seat to the floor. The Thalas-Enthia met in a squat, round tower, larger in diameter than even the Tower of the Sun, though far less tall. The floor of the meeting chamber was covered with a mosaic map of the country, exactly like the more famous and larger map in the Hall of the Sky. High on the wall, near the ceiling, more mosaics ringed the chamber. These were the crests of all the great clans of Qualinesti.

Clovanos held out his hand to his friend Xixis, and the latter handed him the speaking baton. A rod twenty inches long made of ivory and gold, the baton was passed to whomever was addressing the Thalas-Enthia.

Resting the baton in the crook of his left arm, a signal that he intended to speak at length, Senator Clovanos scanned the assembly. The so-called New Landers sat on the east side of the chamber. They were a loose association of humans, half-humans, Kagonesti, and dwarves who favored new traditions, ones that reflected their mixed society. On the south wall was the middle-of-the-road group that had come to be known as the Speaker’s Friends, people like Senator Irthenie, who preferred to follow the personal leadership of Kith-Kanan.

“My friends,” Clovanos finally began, “I must agree with the learned Xixis. From the strange and terrifying wonders that have been visited upon our helpless world, it is quite obvious that a grave offense has been committed, an offense against the natural order of life, against the gods themselves. Now they seek to punish us. Our priests have divined and meditated; our people have prayed; we ourselves have debated continuously. All to no avail. No one can determine why this should be so. However, very recently I received some information—information that enabled me to ascertain what the dreadful sacrilege was.”

A buzz of speculation swept the chamber in the wake of Clovanos’s words. The senator allowed it to continue for a moment, then said, “The knowledge came to me from a strange place—a place close to the hearts of the Speaker’s Friends.”

“Speak up. I can’t hear you,” Irthenie droned mockingly. A scattering of laughter among the New Landers and Friends made Clovanos’s heat-reddened face grow even more florid.

“My information came from Pax Tharkas,” he said loudly, facing the calm Kagonesti woman, “that folly of a fortress the Speaker puts so much faith in.”

“Get on with it! Tell us what you know!” chorused several impatient senators.