Grunthor nodded, having studied the battle records.
“But when Anwyn finally did return to the Teeth, what was her first objective?”
The giant exhaled. “Gurgus,” he said.
“Right. This peak, this tower was the first thing she attacked—why?” The Firbolg king began to pace, leaving little or no trail through the colored dust on the floor. “She didn’t bother to secure her perimeter, to advance her borders. She ignored Griwen and Xaith and the westernmost outposts, left her army well behind the line of engagement, and instead sent a stealth brigade, three cohorts of her best troops, into the depths of the Teeth, knowing none of them would ever return, specifically to destroy this tower. But why? It had no weapons, no battlements, nothing but a ceiling of rainbow-colored stained glass and some sort of metal support piping and a wheel. What could possibly have been so important about this tower that Anwyn would compromise her position, sacrifice her best-trained soldiers, to destroy it before engaging Gwylliam?”
“Dunno,” Grunthor said, shaking his head. ” Twas a long time past, that war; damned thing ended four ’undred years ago. You met ’er at the Cymrian Council; she was off ’er flippin’ track. Maybe she was just crazy then, too. ’Avin’ seen ’er in action, Oi’d say there was probably a stupid reason, like she ’ated the colors of the roof windows or ol’ Gwylliam ’ad once said ’e liked it. These people were fools. Now they’re both dead, an’ we’re all better off for it.”
He stood straighter, casting an enormous dark shadow across the room. “But you, sir, you’re no fool, and neither am Oi. So why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re bent on rebuilding something, when ya don’t even know what it is?”
Achmed’s mismatched eyes studied his longtime friend for a moment, then looked away.
“I’ve seen an instrumentality like it before,” he said. His voice was distant, a world away. “Same cylindrical tower; same piping. Same colored glass ceiling. Same wheel.”
Grunthor waited in silence until it became too heavy to bear. “Where?” he said finally.
“In the old world. Someone in Serendair had one.”
“’Oo?”
The Bolg king let his breath out slowly, as if trying to hang on to the word for as long as possible.
“Glyngaris,” he said at last.
It was a name that he had only uttered once before in Grunthor’s hearing, and never in the new world.
The Sergeant stood still for a long moment, then shook his head, as if shaking off sleep, and nodded.
“If that’s all, sir, Oi’m going to go and see about settin’ up to leave in a few weeks.”
Achmed said nothing, standing still as death, as the Sergeant left the room.
5
Blue
Cloud Chaser, Cloud Caller
The rush of wind and sun that blew the tower window open awakened Ashe, filling his eyes and causing him to turn for a moment away from the warmth beside him, shielding his forehead from the brightness of morning invading his chambers and his sleep. He muttered vulgar, muted curses that he didn’t particularly mean in a variety of tongues, some common, some obscure, then rolled back over and stared down at Rhapsody, sleeping deeply, undisturbed in the filtered light.
His good mood returned upon beholding her again. The lacy curtains at the window, fluttering on the wind of dawn, cast moving patterns on her delicate face, striping her cheekbones and brow with fleeting shadows that darted a moment later over her hair, which spread in silken waves over the pillow and white bedlinens like a golden sea.
Within his dichotomous soul, he could feel the swell of divided emotion, the love the man felt for her vying for dominance with the satisfaction in her safe return that was appreciated by the dragon side of him. It was an interesting disparity; his draconic, covetous nature counted her as treasure, struggling with jealousy and bereft despair when she was gone from his sphere of awareness, juxtaposed with the simple, uncomplicated adoration his human side accorded her as the other half of his soul.
Either way, he was wholly glad she was finally home.
He reined in his breathing and moved away slightly so as not to awaken her, settling back against the pillows to study her face while she slept.
With her eyes closed in unconsciousness, she appeared younger, slighter than she did when awake, almost childlike. The heat of the element of pure fire that she had absorbed long ago during her trek through the Earth from her island homeland to this place on the other side of the world burned latent in her cheeks, much dimmer than it did in her eyes, where it could be seen most clearly when she was awake. That elemental magic living within her had a powerful effect on the people who beheld her; it caused some to stare at her as if hypnotized, others to cower in fear as they would in the presence of a roaring inferno. It was an aspect that was misperceived by the masses as an intimidating beauty, because they were unfamiliar with the power behind it.
He, unlike them, was not bespelled by that beauty, but recognized it for what it was, because his dragon nature could sense the power within her, could almost see it. Indeed, because he was tied as powerfully to the element of water as she was to that of fire, he understood on the deepest possible level the gift and curse of such an elemental bond. As a result there was a perfect balance between them, an opposition and a commonality that had made him fall inescapably into enchantment with her even before he had ever seen her; just being within a few miles of her had been enough for the dragon to sense her magic and succumb inexorably to it.
The man, on the other hand, living himself with immense natural powers but imperfect in his humanity, could see beyond that magic, that beauty, to the imperfect woman beneath it. What his human heart felt for her was the love any man had for the woman who completed him, whom he in turn completed, flaws and strengths endured and appreciated, arguments and petty annoyances fought over and forgiven in the course of weaving the tapestry that was a shared life. Being of the lineage from which he came, with its vast powers and terrible history, it was this ordinary love, this common, perfectly imperfect union that he treasured above all else, the sense of normalcy and reality she brought to him.
And she was home.
From the moment he had laid her carefully on their marital bed the night before, as she extinguished the bedside lamp with a simple gesture toward it, there had been no words between them; no words were ever necessary. The fireshadows on the hearth across the room had leapt and danced in time with their lovemaking, the flames roaring with abandon, diminishing down to glowing coals as their passion was sated, dissolving into the contented sleep of lovers blissfully reunited.
And now she slept still, pale, undisturbed by the morning wind rippling through her hair, as he watched her, content with his world.
Finally, when the sun had risen fully above the rim of the horizon and the window ledge, flooding the bedchamber with light, she stirred, then opened her deep green eyes and smiled at him.