3
At least one of the race of dragons did not attend the blessing of Llauron’s body. Her absence did not mean that she had not witnessed the results of the Ending, however. She had been the cause of it. That Llauron had been her son was only a fragmented awareness for her; she had lain in a grave of coal ash and soot for almost three years, blasted from the skies with ethereal fire, and as a result, her memory was not what it used to be. In fact, she had only a few lingering recollections, and none of her children inhabited any of them. She had long forgotten the primal rale of wyrmdom, that no dragon would ever consider killing another dragon, since the loss of even one made for a terrible hole in the shield of protection they maintained in the world. If she had known, she would not have cared. She knew little more than that she had recently awakened in the earth, in pain and confusion, and that giving vent to her pain through destructive wrath eased her agony a little. She also knew, as she lay in her empty palace of ice and frozen stone, that she was dying. The dragon Anwyn had only been in wyrm form for a relatively minuscule period of time, a few years out of the millennium and a half that she had lived. She had only assumed the form a few times over her life, always as a means to achieve an evil end, and had been caught unawares by the blast of starfire that had crippled her wing and consigned her to a deathlike state in her black coal grave. She had no idea what had caused her to awaken. She only could recall pieces of memories, images that she often did not understand, and how satisfying hatred felt when it was translated into destruction. And one clear memory: the lingering hate for a woman with golden hair, the woman who had put her into the prison of her grave. All of that had receded into the recesses of her mind now as she straggled for breath on the stone floor of her keep in the frozen mountains. Within her chest cavity a piece of metal was embedded, jagged of edge, round, thin, and razor-sharp. It had been cold-fired in its manufacture and made from a type of metal that expanded greatly when it came in contact with heat, but of course she did not know that, either. She only knew that until she had made her way back here, to this place of endless winter, it was tearing at the muscle of her chest, growing bigger as the heat of her body made it expand, slicing nearer and nearer to her three-chambered heart. Now she was lying as still as she could, trying to keep her mind clear and herself from panicking, struggling through the ruins of her fragmented brain, searching for a memory that could help her. Healing, she thought desperately, breathing as shallowly as she could, watching her spittle pool on the floor, tainted pink with blood. I must find healing. But in her life, Anwyn had cared little for the healing arts, and so had little idea of where to find them. Near a window that looked out into the mountains she could hear a humming sound louder than the ever-present north wind howling outside her palace; a moment later she realized that she heard it not in her ears, but in her blood. Slowly she turned her head, wincing in agony, and attempted to focus her gaze on whatever was calling to her. Atop an altar of heavily carved wood lay a tarnished spyglass. Like a strike of lightning, realization came to her. The spyglass had been the tool of her trade for most of her life, an instrumentality that had once belonged to her sailor father, but rather than looking at objects far away at sea, Anwyn had employed it in her capacity as the Seer of the Past. She did not remember any of that, but had a sense that if she could reach the spyglass, it might be able to show her what to do to save herself. So, as she had straggled to bring herself to this place, she now put the last of her energy into dragging her body, enormous of heft and grievously injured, to the altar. The wind beyond the ice-slicked panes of glass screamed in triumph as the dragon’s image, mirrored in the window, came nearer. She could feel her damaged heart beating wildly as she made her way across the floor, leaving a trail of dark blood behind her. With great care she reached a taloned claw up over the wood and felt carefully around where she had sensed the vibration; when she could feel the cool metal beneath her claw she fought against grasping it too eagerly. With the last of her energy, she slid to the ice-covered windows overlooking the vast chasm below her, lifted the glass to her enormous serpentine eye, and peered through as best she could. She had forgotten that the spyglass could only show her things from the Past, but that didn’t matter. The image that formed as she peered through the lens rang a clear chime in her memory. It was the picture of a place of historic and mysterious healing properties, a desert citadel where hot springs flowed, healing gardens bloomed with herbs to soothe the mind, body, and spirit, where the warmth of the sun coupled with the medicinal attributes of the claylike sand could draw even the deepest infection from the body, or the most damaging memory from the soul, leaving nothing but sweet clarity and peace. That this haven for the suffering had slipped into the sands of the desert before her father had even set foot on this continent fifteen hundred years before, and that she had never even seen the place, let alone experienced its healing power, was also something she did not understand. She only knew that she could see, in the tiny lens of the spyglass, exactly what she was looking for. The lost city of Kurimah Milani. Gasping for breath, the dragon began to laugh raggedly.
4
By inexplicable happenchance, at the moment Rath came ashore, the man who had once carried the reviled name that the hunter was seeking was within a few score miles. That man was staring in silent contempt at the rosy brown stone edifice of a small keep known as Haguefort, observing a reunion that made him unconsciously desire to expectorate in the same disgust as was conveyed by what used to be his name. Ysk. Since the time when that name had been contemptuously conferred upon him, the man had borne several other titles as well. In long-ago days he had been cleansed of Ysk by a wise and highly skilled Namer, a man trained in the science of vibration and its manipulation. The Namer had called him sim-ply the Brother, for Ysk was, he said, brother to all, but akin to none. It was a name that gave him power by which he could have come to be a great healer, but instead he chose the oppo- site side of the coin, passing his time in the trade of a solitary assassin. A less-skilled practitioner of that same science had re- I named him decades later, and now that he ruled over a mountainous kingdom of Firbolg, the same race of monstrous beings that had long ago given him the title Ysk, he was known by many dreaded and silly appellations: The Glowering Eye, The Earth Swallower, The Merciless, The Night Man. He had narrowly escaped becoming the owner of the most respected traditional title given to chieftains and warlords among the Bolg tribes, which translated roughly as The Supremely Flatulent, by virtue of the fact that he could not be described as such, or by any other title tied to the senses. In the dark caverns and tunnels of Ylorc, he was never seen or heard, and certainly never smelt, unless he wished to be. Now, at this point in his history, he was known as Achmed the Snake, king of the Firbolg. The name given to him at birth had vanished from history, and from all but the deepest vaults of his memory. He had only given voice to it once in almost two thousand years, and had spoken it softly, in the depths of the Earth, to the Namer who had given him his current appellation. He watched that woman now being led up the steps of the rosy brown keep, shaky from recent childbirth and the sting of the late-winter wind, and exhaled deeply. He turned to his Sergeant-Major, an enormous half-breed who had been his constant companion for most of his life. “No one is watching. If we leave now, they won’t know we’re missing until we’re already home.” The Sergeant-Major shook his head, hiding a smile. “Nope, sir, ’twouldn’t be right,” he said, trying to sound serious. “OF Ashe asked us to wait ’ere so we could brief ’im on what happened in the forest. We ain’t supposed ta talk about it ’til we meet in council to keep the mem’ries fresh.” He pointed in the direction of two young people, the Duke and Duchess of Navarne, who were holding a squalling bundle. “But if we’re talkin’ fresh, Oi say we ’ave a bite ta eat while we’re waitin’. Sound good ta you?” Achmed smiled slightly. “You’re suggesting we eat Rhapsody’s baby?”