The statue’s eyes met his directly, sizing him up.
I will lead your army. We will take the Middle Continent, even unto the northern reaches of the Teeth. The land will be yours—but I want a particular prize.
“Certainly,” Talquist said quickly. “What sort of prize?”
Like you, I seek a Child as well—a child that sleeps in the mountains. I want that child—and the scales. All of them.
The emperor’s throat tightened. “I’ve—I’ve never denied you access to your scales, Faron,” he said quickly. “Or to mine.” The titan’s blue eyes gleamed more brightly. They will all be mine, Emperor. One way or the other. Talquist inhaled. The threat in the sharp voice was unmistakable. The thought of relinquishing the violet scale that had given him his throne, and his power, was a loss almost too painful to contemplate. Even the knowledge that the titan was offering to fulfill one of the crucial elements in his greatest plan was scarce comfort; the ancient piece of a dragon’s carapace had taken root in his soul, had appeared in his dreams almost every night from the moment he had found it in the sand and fog of the Skeleton Coast buried beneath the bones of ships of the Cymrian Third Fleet. He had spent a good deal of his life trying to discover what it was, and what it could do, apprenticing himself to ships’ captains and miners, merchants and priests. All that servitude was finally beginning to reap a benefit. But, he reminded himself, should he try to withhold it now, Faron would grind him into pulp where he stood. It seemed little enough to pay for getting everything he desired. The merchant met the titan’s eyes, then went to the secret chamber, returning a moment later with the scale swathed in its velvet wrapping. He walked directly to Faron and extended his hand. “Done,” he said. The titan smiled. In that moment Talquist thought he could hear the rumblings of the gears of the world turning.
47
Consider this,” Rhapsody said as she unrolled a sheet of parchment on the worktable in front of Achmed, Grunthor, and Omet. “The lower-mid spectrum, the blue and green sections, Kurh-fa and Brige-sol, are more innocuous in their powers; they alter less of the reality of the world as it is. Part of this is because of the length of the waves of light, the song that they emit is the longest in duration. This is because so much of the blue spectrum is present in the reflection of the sky, which is why the Liringlas are so attuned to this lore, revering the sky as they do. Knowing the blue is key to the rest of the spectrum. So since their primary powers in the Light-catcher are scrying and obscuration, perhaps these would be the safest to test first. The risks are not as great as some of the others, at least of the primary powers.”
“Indeed,” said Achmed. “Though the secondary powers may be even more risky.”
“I’m not in any way prepared to begin experimenting with the secondary or tertiary scales,” Rhapsody said seriously. “The consequences of misuse are far too great. But if you want to try and see if the blue spectrum will add further cover to the realm, and keep prying eyes even farther at bay than they are at the moment, I suppose I am ready to attempt it. It’s not without risk—nothing with this instrumentality is. But it’s the safest of the ones we have, a little like only leaving your hand unarmored upon entering the lion’s den instead of your head.”
Bolg king. Achmed went rigid. The voice in his ear was light and strained. I am in the causeway. The wind went silent for a moment, then rustled in his ear again, this time the voice weaker. Come.
Achmed was on his feet before Rhapsody could blink. She and Grunthor followed him out of the mountain peak and down to the outer battlements of Canrif overlooking the canyon that separated the city from the Blasted Heath.
In the tunnel Rath was waiting, crouched on the floor, his arms around his middle, struggling to breathe. His head was shiny with sweat, his skin sallow in the dim light from the torches beyond the causeway.
“The—news I bring—could not be—worse,” the Dhracian said, gasping between breaths. “The Gaol—know of this— but—you could not—hear me—”
“Tell me,” Achmed ordered as Rhapsody knelt beside Rath, loosening his shirt. The Dhracian attempted to wave her away. “I found—the— beast’s host and—had her in— Thrall, but I was— interrupted—”
“By what?” the Bolg king demanded. “What could even have entered the area with all that power in the air?”
“A—man of Living—Stone,” Rath whispered as the Lady Cymrian began to softly sing a chant of sustenance, the healing reserved for those on the battlefield at the point of death. “Titanic—and able—to walk under his—own—power. The demon—escaped—and has found—a new—host—in him. “And it is—invulnerable.” The two Bolg looked at each other as Rhapsody continued her ministrations.
“We are going to need to take risks earlier than we planned,” Achmed said finally. “While it’s imperative to test the blue spectrum, tomorrow the first rays of the sun should be aimed at the Blood Saver panel—I assume you agree, Rhapsody.”
She looked up at them, then somberly nodded. “Grunthor, carry him to the Lightcatcher,” Achmed instructed. He turned to go, but Rath seized the edge of his robe and dragged him back a step. “Hear me,” the Dhracian whispered, his eyes alight with fire. “You—now no longer—-have a—choice. Someone has to—kill—this titan. It is beyond—the skills of—the Gaol. No—more can you remain—a king—” Achmed snatched the hem of his garment from the Dhracian’s failing hand. “That is where you are wrong, Rath,” he said flatly. “I will remain a king for as long as it suits me. One of the few things Ashe has ever said that I agree with is that a king must stay and hold the land, until there is no choice but for him to leave. For now, no matter what goes on in the world outside, I will remain here. I have a Child to guard, and if nothing else, I am the last bastion in that fight. “But,” he continued as the Sergeant-Major lifted Rath from the ground, “now that the F’dor has chosen a host who is formed of Living Stone, elemental earth, I happen to have an assassin who is just perfect for the job.” Grunthor broke into a gigantic grin. “Oh, goody! An’ it ain’t even my birthday! Thank you, sir.” He proceeded back up the tunnel, whistling a merry tune.
Llauron the Invoker
Chief Priests: Khaddyr (Llauron’s Tanist and healer)
Lark (Herbalist)
Gavin (Chief Forester)
Ilyana (Chief of Agriculture)
The Circle (Lower level priests and foresters)
The Patriarch
The Benisons:
The Blesser of Avonderre-Navarne, Philabet Griswold
The Blesser of Sorbold, Neilash Mousa
The Blesser of Bethe-Corbair, Lanacan Orlando
The Blesser of Canderre-Yarim, Ian Steward
The Blesser of the Non-Aligned States, Colin Abernathy
Ether—Lianta’ar, Sepulvarta
Fire—Vrackna, Bethany
Water—Abbat Mythlinis, Avanderre
Air—Ryles Cedelian, Bethe Corbair
Earth—Terreanfor, Sorbold
Tristan Steward, Lord Roland, Regent and Prince of Bethany
Martin Ivenstrand, Duke of Avonderre
Stephen Navarne, Duke of Navarne Cedric Canderre, Duke of Canderre
Quentin Baldasarre, Duke of Bethe
Corbair Ihrman Karsrick, Duke of Yarim