Grunthor’s head snapped back at the change in the voice of the Earth. The song it had been weaving was a lilting roundelay that had come to lull him into a sense of peace; now, with a sudden jolt, the melody changed, screamed into a searing crescendo, then stopped altogether. Beneath the images in his mind, the voice of the Earth whispered sadly.
Miles to the west of Entudenin, at the border of Canderre, was one of the great opal fields of Yarim, Zbekaglou, whose name in the language of the indigenous people of the continent meant Rainbow’s End, or “where the sky-colors touch the earth.” Zbekaglou had been scoured for centuries for its treasures, the earth rent in great delves and mined of its soft, colorful gems, then left empty, open. Where the earth had been mined, the ground was instable, even below the water table. A strong vibration, a normal occurrence in the heartbeat of the earth, had shaken loose a landfall of the disturbed clay beneath the ground, plugging the watercourse completely.
Since this happened in the middle of the Week of Slumber, the water merely never returned. Entudenin went dry, overnight, never to shout with the joy of the Awakening again.
While Rhapsody had told Grunthor the lore of the humans of Yarim, and how the people had reacted with horror, then blame, then finally resignation to the loss, allowing their jewel of a city to wither in the heat, but going on with life, the Earth told him in quiet tones the end of the tale of what had happened to Entudenin.
It was a slow, painful death.
Like the great Trees of the Earth, or vast canyons carved over time by rivers, or the pounding sea itself, or any of the other places where elemental earthen magic is embodied, Entudenin had a soul of sorts. In its time it had been a vibrant entity, a natural formation with almost human moods, roaring with joy at the Awakening, laughing happily as the water flowed copiously, filling the vessels, the fountains, the canals of Yarim Paar. Sinking into sober reflection at the Sennight of Loss, contemplating the mortality of the world. Silent in its slumber, to awaken again, beginning the wondrous cycle all over, never tiring of it.
The beautiful obelisk, deprived of the gift of water, at first experienced a sense of what in human terms might have been bewilderment. It could hear the prayers of the humans that had tended it, feel their vibrations, even though it could not comprehend them, but their desperation translated, transcending the differences in consciousness, and that desperation became its own. As time passed, and the water did not return, the Fountain Rock yearned for salvation, prayed in supplication in its own way to its Mother, but the Earth could not undo what man had caused.
Finally, in sorrow, the obelisk succumbed to the inevitable. It continued to stand beneath the sun, feeling the moisture leach out of it more and more as each day, year, and century passed, baking from the outside, withering. It lost some of its height, a good deal of its girth, and all of its myriad colors, passing from the beauty of a child to the ugliness of a crone over time. As each drop evaporated beneath Yarim’s blistering heat, Entudenin mourned.
But it refused to crumble.
Stalwartly, what tiny remains of soul had been embodied in the Fountain Rock held fast, standing tall beneath the stars, the mica that remained in its surface still gleaming in their light on occasion.
Grunthor’s head swam, then snapped back again at the abrupt end of the Earth’s song.
When the voice went mute, his stomach turned; he felt the connection to the warmth that had been coursing through his veins, winding its way through the chambers of his massive heart, shatter suddenly. It was an internal blow so strong that it buckled his knees. He fell to the ground, his hands on the earth, searching unconsciously to reestablish the connection, but the Earth had gone silent.
A moment later he felt hands on both his shoulders; he waved them away, fighting the nausea that had rushed into his mouth, swallowing to choke it down again. He sat back with effort and waited for his head to clear.
When finally it did, his amber eyes blurry as the vision righted itself to the world around him, away from the pictures that accompanied the Earth’s song, he looked up to see Rhapsody and Achmed standing over him, Ashe at Rhapsody’s side. The Bolg in the tent were whispering among themselves with fear at the sight of their felled Sergeant-Major.
Again he waved away Achmed’s hand, and rose, unsteady for a moment, inhaling deeply through his great nostrils. After a moment he turned to the king and nodded once. An intricate view of the inner pathways of the obelisk and its feeder lines was etched in his brain.
“Right. ’Ere’s the plan: we take off that angled arm—it’s withered to the point o’ being solid anyway, and it’s too fragile to withstand the bit.”
“Take off the arm?” Ihrman Karsrick interjected nervously. “You can’t do that—it’s a holy relic.”
“It’s a holy relic that doesn’t function,” said Achmed, his back to Karsrick while he continued to watch Grunthor, who had lapsed into silence at the higher-ranking official’s interruption. “Do you want to maintain a dead decoration, or do you want water?”
The duke thought for a moment, then put his hand on the Bolg king’s shoulder. “Can you guarantee that the water will flow if I allow you to remove the Obelisk’s arm?” he asked hesitantly.
“No, but I can guarantee that blood will if I remove yours,” the Bolg king replied, staring at Karsrick’s hand.
“Achmed,” Rhapsody chided. “Some courtesy, please.”
The Bolg king exhaled as the duke quickly withdrew his hand. “I can guarantee very little in life, Karsrick. The return of the water is not something I can warrant. But I can guarantee that if you do nothing, the water will not return. If he says the arm must be removed, then it must be. Now kindly be silent and allow us to hear the rest of his directions.”
The duke cleared his throat and nodded at Grunthor.
“We’ll drill out the obelisk itself, and the first thirty yards below it,” the Sergeant said, wiping the sweat from his wide forehead, his skin having returned to its normal hue, the color of old bruises. “That’ll get ’er ready to withstand the return of the water, if it comes. Right now she’d shatter.” He glanced up at the dry red geyser. “The pathway beyond that is clear; the real blockage is farther away, almost to the border of Canderre. That’s somethin’ I can ’andle myself, sir; no point in draggin’ the men there. Once they finish ’ere, you can take ’em back to Ylorc and Oi’ll ride out to the border, clear the blockage, an’ then come on ’ome.”
“Will you need any of the equipment?” Achmed asked.
The giant grinned broadly, then fumbled in his pack for a moment. He produced a small hand spade, battered and worn, and held it up for Rhapsody to see as well. It was Digga, the retrenching tool he had used to dig the three of them free from the Earth after their journey through its belly four years before. Rhapsody laughed.
“This is all Oi’ll need, sir,” he said.
“All right,” Achmed agreed. He turned to the assembled Bolg craftsmen. “Unpack the rest of the equipment and we’ll set to work.”
Outside the tents the ring of Yarimese guards was slowly, subtly growing larger. The ever-expanding ring had pushed the crowd gently but resolutely back to two street corners away from the town square, where the flickering torches that lighted the tent from the outside did not reveal the movements of the shadows within.
At the edge of the rope, Esten waited, struggling with the throng of townspeople to get closer, to catch a glimpse of what was happening. She was preparing to leave, having seen nothing, when Dranth touched her elbow and shook his head, indicating that thus far none of her spies had managed to broach the work site either. Esten inhaled deeply, then pushed her way through the crowd to the empty streets beyond.