Elizabeth Haydon - The Assassin King

But even if the power of the Cymrians did not impress him, their longevity—a seeming resistance to all of the ravages of time—was something he craved above all else. Given the length and intensity of his list of cravings, that was impressive. He had heard once, long ago and in passing, that the spark which lit the fire of the Great War that ended the Illuminaria, Gwylliam the Visionary’s great era of empire building and enlightenment, was a family argument about succession. It was well known in the lore of the sea that Edwyn Griffyth, Gwylliam’s eldest son, had spurned his birthright and gone off to live evermore in Gaematria, the mystical realm of the Sea Mages, so Talquist surmised that Gwylliam had been denied the heir he wanted to his throne, a dynasty that would live on after him, even though he was thought to be immortal.

Talquist wanted no dynasty. He needed no heirs.

He wanted to live forever. He came over to the fragile woman and crouched down beside her. “Come now, Grandmother,” he said, his merchant’s voice as smooth as Canderian silk, “look beyond the fog and fragments of dreams that cloud your eyes, and tell me—has the raiding party been successful?” The mirrors in the Seer’s eyes reflected his face, her expression blank. Inwardly Talquist cursed. He had still not learned how to speak easily to her in the correct structure she needed to grasp his questions. Rhonwyn could only see the Present, and what he had asked required knowledge of the Past. He swallowed and tried again. “The raiding party of the Second Mountain Guard of Sorbold—is the Child of Time in their possession?” The ancient woman shook her head. Talquist exhaled. “Where is the raiding party now?” The Seer’s fleeting grip on the moment prior faded from her face before his eyes. “What raiding party?” He struggled to keep the seething anger out of his voice. “The raiding party of the Second Mountain Guard of Sorbold—where is it at this moment?” Rhonwyn ran her fingers, shaking with age, over the nautical instrument in her hands. “Forty-six, forty-eight North, two, twenty East,” she intoned. Talquist consulted the map on the wall. Those coordinates positioned his covert soldiers, disguised in the uniforms of common Roland cavalry, in the sparsely populated forest lands of eastern Navarne, less than a day’s journey from their intended target: a small keep in the western duchy of Navarne.

Haguefort.

“And the Child of Time?” Talquist pressed. “It is well?”

The Seer blinked, then closed her eyes again, basking in the reflected light of the sky. The regent clutched his hands into fists so tight that his neatly trimmed fingernails threatened to puncture the skin of his palms. It was all he could do to keep from seizing the compass and driving one of its sharp legs through the ancient Seer’s heart. He willed himself to be patient, as he always had to during these interviews. “Is the Child of Time in Haguefort well? Answer me.” Rhonwyn opened her eyes and looked at him while her hands manipulated the battered instrument. “I see no Child of Time in Haguefort.”

“What are you babbling about? A fortnight ago, your answer to my question ‘where is the Child of Time?’ was ‘in the forest of Gwynwood.’ Every day since then you have been giving me positions leading it back, unmistakably, to Haguefort. Yesterday, your very answer to my question was ‘Haguefort.’ If it’s not there, where is it?” The woman’s mouth quivered, but she said nothing. Black rage exploded behind Talquist’s eyes. His hand, unstayed by any rational thought, shot out and gripped the ancient Seer by the throat. Intellectually he knew the sacrilege he was committing, but his intellect was entirely overwhelmed by his frustration. The brittle bones of her ancient neck crackled in his clenched hands. The Seer gasped, her lips quivering with shock. The regent emperor loosed his grip, panting, and stepped away from the fragile woman. “Now, again, Rhonwyn,” he said through gritted teeth, “where is the Child of Time? Where is it?” Purple bruises appeared on the skinfolds below Rhonwyn’s chin, then quickly disappeared. She idly ran her hands over her neck, her face contorted with fear, which faded a moment later into the Past, replaced by serenity once more. “I see no Child of Time on the face of the Earth,” she said blithely. Then she leaned back in her chair and began to rock slowly again, her eyes closed in the warmth of the sun.

Talquist swallowed, and tried one more time. “You said the Child was with the Lord and Lady Cymrian each time I have asked you its whereabouts since its birth,” he said softly. “Is it still with them?”

“Is what still with whom?” The Seer’s face was blank, her tone without comprehension. A bitter taste filled Talquist’s mouth; after the span of a few heartbeats he realized it was the grist from his own clenched teeth. The dust of his molars was a foul reminder of the night he had stood before Rhonwyn’s sister Manwyn, the Seer of the Future, and had done a version of this same irritating dance, seething in silent frustration while the madwoman cackled and swung on her platform over a dark pit in her decaying temple in Yarim, tossing insane predictions into the incense-heavy air. Finally he had lost his patience and raised his crossbow, pointing it at her heart. Tell me, hag—or I will put an end to your ramblings. Answer my question—what must I do to achieve immortality? Who has the knowledge of how to live forever? The woman stopped as if frozen. Her mirrored eyes fixed upon him, and her thin mouth crooked into a half smile. She looked through the battered sextant that her explorer father had bequeathed to her at the stars glowing in the dark dome of her temple, then returned her blind gaze to him once again. You will not kill me, Emperor, she had said. The future holds no picture of my blood on your hands, though they will be red with that of countless others. Manwyn had laid down on her belly then, inching toward him on her suspended platform. If immortality is what you seek, you must find the Child of Time, She cackled, as if to herself. It sleeps now within the belly of its mother, but soon it will come out into the light and air of the world. And Time itself will have no dominion over it. Talquist swallowed the bitter grit, remembering how the breath had gone out of him as he lowered the bow. How will I learn immortality from this Child of Time? he had asked, his voice wavering. The Seer had sat bolt upright, as if suddenly struck. Her hands went to her mouth, trembling. Then she stretched out a shaking hand, and pointed at him accusingly. Murderer, she whispered, the golden skin of her face paling visibly in the dim light of the candles. Murderer. Murderer. Her voice rose to an even more insane pitch. Murderer! she began to shriek, until the word became a scream. Murderer, murderer! He had left her rotting temple then, the madwoman’s howls ringing in his ears. His spies reported that the guards of the Seer’s temple had shut the great cedar door into her chambers to the pilgrims who came seeking prophecies; rumor held that Manwyn had continued to scream nothing but the word murderer from that day on, night into day into night again. Talquist inhaled deeply, then bent down beside Rhonwyn once more. “One last time for today,” he said softly, his voice deathly calm, though his stomach was boiling. “Tell me the exact whereabouts of the Child of Time.” The Seer turned to face him and slowly opened her eyes. Talquist reared back in shock; each of the mirrored scleras contained, for the first time in his notice, a clear blue iris, its dark pupil contracting in the light of the setting afternoon sun. The Seer looked at him thoughtfully. “Right before you, I suppose,” she said steadily. “My sisters and I were often called by that name-—children of Time.” She broke her gaze away and looked out the window at the mountains beyond. “I remember, Anwyn,” she said quietly. Fury roared through Talquist so quickly that he did not even notice she had spoken in the past tense. He seized the back of her chair to steady himself and leaned close enough for his lips to brush her auburn hair where it faded to gray. “I’m not certain you can fathom, in your blithering state, what risks I have taken on your supposedly infallible word, what sacrifices I have made, m’lady,” he said acidly. “I sent soldiers into Roland ere I was ready to begin the assault, tipped my hand before I was ready. The Patriarch no doubt has learned of your disappearance by now, perhaps even your great-nephew, the Lord Cymrian, knows as well. The element of surprise is an arrow already off the string and away—this is your doing, Rhonwyn, as if you had given the order yourself.”