Chapter 21

MIST. THAT was all Gwynofar could see at first. Damp mist covering the ground about her feet. Tendrils of mist curling about her ankles. Clouds of mist overhead where the sky should be, a few hints of pale blue seeping through here and there, quickly swallowed by whiteness.

Where was she?

Squinting against the haze, she thought she could make out some vague shapes ahead of her, and she headed toward them. The ground seemed solid enough beneath its foggy blanket, and her shoes made soft squelching sounds as they pressed into the damp earth, disquieting in an otherwise eerie silence. Now and then she felt something small crunch underfoot, and memories from her childhood provided a name: pinecone.

What was this place?

Slowly the mist began to fade, trees becoming visible one by one as she continued walking, emerging from the fog like soldiers in a pine-clad army. Silent. So silent. Then the last of the mist withdrew from the tree-trunks, and she could see where human faces had been carved into them long ago, now glistening from a coating of dew.

Ancestor trees.

She could see now that she was walking along a narrow path that wound its way between several thick stands of the carved trees. This place was both familiar and unfamiliar to her, and though she had the distinct feeling she had been here before, she did not recognize the faces that surrounded her. But their identities did not really matter right now; that was not what she had come for.

She wrapped her arms about herself as she walked, sensing that she was here for an important reason but having no clue what it was.

At last she came to a place where shadowy pine groves gave way to an open field. Here, where more sunlight could reach the ground, a single young sapling had taken root. Gwynofar approached it, then stopped. She felt as if she should recognize this place, but she was unable to put a name to it.

And then the sapling began to transform. Drawing added substance from the air surrounding it, painting itself in colors that could not have arisen from mere bark, it slowly took on the form of a child. A very young child, whose features were hauntingly familiar to her. After a moment she realized why, and a terrible sorrow filled her heart.

“Anrhys,” she whispered. Part of her brain now understood this was a dream, but another part—the larger part—did not care. She fell to her knees as the apparition of her dead child approached her, tears of sorrow and pain running down her cheeks. The real Anrhys had never known the touch of forest air upon his face or the soft crunch of pine needles beneath his feet. She had killed him while he was still in her womb, sacrificing him for a cause he never knew anything about. Even the tree that had been planted over his ashes—the tree that now stood before her—would never bear his true features, only a witch’s estimate of what he might have looked like had he lived long enough to reach manhood. The guilt that welled up inside her seemed vast enough to consume an army of souls. She wanted to reach out and embrace him, to bury her face in his pale blond hair—so like her own!—and weep and weep and weep, until all the terrible guilt in her soul was washed away. Telling him she was sorry—so sorry!—and praying to hear some response from him that hinted at forgiveness. Something in which she might discover even a shadow of absolution.

But she could not approach him. She dared not approach him. She was spellbound by his presence, terrified that if she made contact with him—if she tried to make him real in any way—the dream would fade, and he would be lost to her again.

It was he who held out his hands to her. It took her a moment to realize that he was offering her something, and he expected her to come forward and take it. Nestled in each palm, she saw, was a small natural black crystal, whose irregular facets reflected the sunlight in glints of color as he moved. They were of a like size and shape, though not perfectly identical, and it seemed to her that somehow they belonged together. And they belonged to her.

Take them. He did not speak the words aloud, but she could hear them nonetheless. You will need them.

Slowly, hesitantly, she rose to her feet and approached him. How hard it was to be this close to her lost child and not draw him into her arms! But she dared not touch him, lest the flood tide of emotion that was nearly overwhelming her right now drown her. She reached out her own arms toward him, instead, and rather than take the crystals from him directly, cupped her hands beneath his own, waiting to receive them. After a moment he nodded and turned his hands over, dropping one small stone into the center of each hand. Where they touched her palms she could feel that they were radiating a strange warmth, as if they were living things, and they pulsed as if from the beat of an unseen heart.

The centuries are entrusted to you, came the unvoiced words. Guard them well.

Then the crystals in her hands began to change shape. Their columnar spines melted back into the base rock, until there were only smooth black stones in her hands, roughly hemispherical in shape. And then those, too, began to melt. Soon her cupped palms held not rock, but pools of thick red liquid. Blood. She trembled as it began to drip down between her fingers, pattering to the ground like crimson rain. The earth itself seemed to shudder as the first drops struck, as if some sleeping creature buried deep beneath her feet had suddenly stirred to life . . . or perhaps the earth itself was awakening.

Transfixed, she watched as the blood at her feet began to spread out across the earth, finally reaching the base of a nearby tree. The roots seemed to shudder as they drew in the precious liquid, and the slender needles began to transform in color, one after the other, until the entire tree had turned crimson. Other trees were following suit now, as the blood reached them; in a few minutes’ time the entire clearing was filled with transformed foliage: a forest of blood. Then the first tree began to transform in shape. Its branches curled in upon themselves, and the knots in its trunk vanished. The bark that had covered the carved ancestral face grew smooth and pale, like human skin, and the eyes glistened wetly, as though they were somehow conscious.

And a man stood before her. His clothing was ancient in style and gashed in several places. A deep cut across his face glistened with fresh blood, and his tunic was splattered with mud. Another man appeared beside him. Then another. The fourth to take shape was a woman; she was dressed in a man’s garments, her long hair tangled and wild and streaked with blood from a wound in her skull. More and more figures appeared as Gwynofar watched, until there was a veritable army of bloodstained warriors surrounding her. She had seen enough illustrations of the Great War to recognize the style of their armor, and her breath caught in her throat as she realized just who the figures were supposed to be.

These were the men and women who had fought the Souleaters the first time. The martyrs of the lyr. Her ancestors.

She opened her mouth to ask them why they had called her here, what it was they wanted from her . . . but even as the words formed on her lips, the whole of the scene suddenly began to dissolve. Mist rose up around the warriors’ feet as their flesh gave way to less solid substance, and the colors of their clothing dissipated into the air in ripples and eddies, until all of it was gone. Gwynofar looked about desperately for her child, but he had disappeared long ago. She had lost him again! A short moan of anguish escaped her, even as the last details of the dreamscape faded from sight.

And in the end there was only featureless mist, as there had been at the beginning: a vast white silence broken only by the pattering of blood as it dripped from her hands, and by the broken, mournful beating of her heart.

Gwynofar lay upon a bed of silken sheets, her thin linen shift slicked to her skin by a layer of cold sweat, struggling to get her bearings. Moonlight coming in through the narrow windows picked out embroidered details on the canopy overhead but left the fabric itself in shadow, resulting in a ghostly display of feathery patterns that seemed to hang in midair, dreamlike. For a moment she just stared at them, trying to get her mind to focus. Was she awake yet? If so, then she knew she must do her best to interpret the strange dream she’d had while its memory was still fresh in her mind. Once she slept again, many details would be forgotten.

The centuries are entrusted to you, Anrhys had said.

What did that mean? And what were the crystals that he had given to her supposed to represent?

The eyes of the Souleaters look like black crystal, she recalled. She remembered when the northern queen had locked eyes with her, and her soul had almost been sucked into those terrible orbs. But she did not think this dream was meant to refer to Souleaters. No, this was about something more personal, something that would provide strength and healing for the lyr armies. Not something that would harm them.

Her hands curled instinctively at her sides, and it seemed to her for a moment she could see Anrhys standing before her again. Not moving. Not saying anything. She remembered the feel of warm, sticky blood beneath her fingers, and a wave of fresh mourning came over her, as intense as the moment in which she had realized what the cost of her Alkali mission would be, the nature of the sacrifice that would be required to bring the Throne of Tears to life. For a moment she was back in the tower, experiencing the fear of that terrible day, feeling the cold bite of despair in her soul.

And then it came to her. She understood.

And for a moment she just lay still on the bed, her heart pounding so hard the heavy frame seemed to tremble. Unable to move. Barely able to think. Anrhys was gone now—again!—but she knew why he had come to her.

With sudden determination she rose up, reached for the robe that had been laid out across the foot of her bed, and headed toward the door. The moons had set long ago. but the first dim light of dawn was seeping through the windows, just enough to see by as she exited her bedchamber, struggling to get her arms into her sleeves as she walked. Outside her door two startled maidservants stumbled to their feet, trying to look as if they had not just been sleeping, and the pair of guards stationed outside the entrance to her apartment chamber snapped to attention as soon as they saw her. Gwynofar did not acknowledge them. She did not see anyone or anything. The person who she needed would come to her, she knew that. His wards would sense her agitation and alert him to her need, and he would wake up and come to her.

Never mind that he had promised not to work sorcery in Salvator’s palace. She knew him well enough by now to understand when and why that vow might be broken. Besides, Salvator had said that he was allowed to use sorcery for transportation, and that was what she wanted him for, wasn’t it?

He was there as she turned a corner, waiting for her. His black robes were nearly invisible in the pre-dawn darkness, but his white hair and beard glowed as if they contained their own source of light. As it had been on so many occasions when she had been a child: a familiar and comforting sight.

“Majesty?” His eyes were narrow with concern.

“Kierdwyn,” she said breathlessly. Her heart was pounding so hard it was difficult to speak. “I must go to Kierdwyn, Ramirus.”

He hesitated only for a moment, then nodded. He shut his eyes for a moment, and it seemed to Gwynofar that he was concentrating on something. She understood sorcerous protocol well enough to know that he must send word ahead to Kierdwyn’s Magister Royal—was it Lazaroth now?—before entering the man’s territory, but it was difficult for her to accept such a delay. Any delay. She paced anxiously in front of him, fearful that her precious moment of revelation would fade before she had a chance to test it.

At last his eyes opened. His expression was calm and serene, and she tried to draw strength from that serenity. He looked her over, shook his head slightly, and with a wave of his hand banished her nightwear, replacing it with a simple day gown of summer-weight wool. Her sleep-tangled hair was smoothed and separated by the same power, and a golden circlet bearing the Aurelius arms took its accustomed place above her brow.

“Now you are fit for your father’s house.” The air before her began to shimmer and ripple like water. “Come,” he said, offering her his hand. She took it, and together they stepped through the portal.

Behind them a note appeared in midair, then slowly began to flutter toward the ground. Salvator, it said. Have gone to Kierdwyn with Ramirus. Will return soon. G.

By the time it reached the floor, the portal had vanished.

“Lord Alkali wanted to keep it, of course.” Lord Kierdwyn’s tone was distracted as he sought the proper key on the ring. “He all but threatened to go to war over it. But in the end he had no real choice. We told him that since a member of House Kierdwyn had unlocked its secret, and might still have some sort of magical connection to it, it belonged in Kierdwyn’s care.” Settling at last on a large brass key, he inserted it into the lock on the ironbound door and turned it clockwise. The mechanism of the lock fell into place with a loud metallic thunk. “Truth be told, it had less to do with you than with the fact that a Souleater invasion had just taken place right under his nose and he hadn’t even known about it. Priceless artifacts should not be guarded by idiots.”

He took hold of the heavy door and pulled; Gwynofar and Ramirus stepped back to give him room to swing it open. Beyond the threshold was a dark chamber, windowless; the shadow of a single large object could be seen in its center, but no details were visible.

Lord Kierdwyn opened wide the hood on the lantern he had brought with him and handed it to Gwynofar. “Why is it that you need to see this so urgently?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, Father.”

Despite how frantic she had been to come here, she suddenly found herself hesitant to approach the thing. No one knew better than she did just how powerful the Throne of Tears was, or how destructive it could be. For a moment she shut her eyes, remembering the day she had channeled its power to all her people, linking together every man, woman and child of lyr descent and pouring fearsome images into their heads.

And killing her unborn child.

Her hand trembled as she entered the room, sending the lantern’s light dancing about its walls. The Throne seemed even larger and more ghastly than she had remembered it. In this setting it appeared almost alive, its vast sculpted wings poised as if to take flight, its blue-black surface—made from a Souleater’s skin—organic and expectant. Her skin crawled as she looked at it, and her hand moved over her belly instinctively, as if trying to protect her unborn child from its influence. But that child was gone now; the Throne had already claimed him.

Forcing herself to move closer, she knelt before the great seat, searching out one feature in particular. Had she remembered it right? Deep carvings trapped the lantern’s light, casting shadows that made it hard to distinguish any fine details. She angled the lantern upward, trying to focus the light where she needed it—and suddenly a circle of candles appeared, surrounding both her and the throne. Hundred of candles, some resting on the floor itself, some raised high on stands, offering light from every angle. She nodded her appreciation to Ramirus without looking back at him, then leaned in closer to study the arms of the chair. Now she could see where her blood had dripped down its arms as she had prayed for the gods to accept her sacrifice, and where her nails had gouged deeply into the ancient wood as images of past wars had surged through her. And there was the place where she had first made her blood-offering, tearing open the flesh of her arm on the sharp talons that jutted out from the arms of the throne, smearing her blood on the fist-sized spheres they guarded.

Spheres of black crystal.

With a trembling hand she touched one of them. There was nothing mystical about the feel of it, but there hadn’t been that first day, either, until her sacrifice had awakened the Throne’s power. Rubbing off a layer of crusted blood that had dulled the crystal’s surface, she saw its sharp facets catch the light, reflecting back Ramirus’ candle flames in a thousand broken bits. At first glance it reminded her of a Souleater’s eye—an eerie confluence—but looking more closely, she could see that the facets were random in size and shape, as if a thousand shattered fragments of black glass had been glued together and attached to a spherical base. Her fingers explored the upper edge of the thing, as far as the design of the chair allowed. Only half of the sphere was visible, she realized; the upper half was obscured by the sculpted claw.

If it was there at all.

With sudden determination she dug her nails under one of the claws and tried to break it off. But she couldn’t get a good enough purchase on the polished surface, and her fingers slid off with no more than a broken nail to show for the effort. Behind her she could hear one of the men moving toward her, alarmed by her assault on the artifact. But she knew that the gods had brought her this far for a reason, and they would not let anyone stop her now.

Reaching up to her head, she removed the circlet that Ramirus had conjured for her. It was thin and flat, and it slid easily under one of the claws. Grasping it tightly with both hands, she twisted it with all the strength that her altered muscles possessed, trying to force the thing from its mooring. The circlet bent but did not break, and after a moment the claw snapped free; she could hear it skittering across the floor as she attacked the next one. And the next. Four claws had to be removed before the crystal could be loosened in its mooring, and two more before she could pull it free.

When she did so, she sat back on her heels, breathless, and stared at the thing in her hands. It was hemispherical, just as the crystals in her dreams had been. The flat portion was irregular, and bore the scars of some sharp instrument having been driven through it.

“What is it?” her father asked, moving to her side so he could see it more clearly.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. The crystal was warm in her hand and seemed to thrum with unnamed energies, but she lacked the skill to interpret them. “We need a Seer. Someone with lyr blood, if possible.”

He nodded sharply and went to summon one. Gwynofar turned her attention to freeing the other crystal. This time Ramirus helped, bracing the chair so that it did not move as she attempted to yank the claws free. She noted that he hadn’t questioned why she had asked for a Seer rather than accepting his aid. Which was good, because she couldn’t have answered him. She was running on instinct now, trusting to the gods to direct her.

By the time Kierdwyn returned with a Seer, Gwynofar had released the second crystal from its setting. Like the first, it showed signs of having been struck from some larger piece. Breath held, she put the two pieces together, and found that they fit perfectly together. Two halves of a whole. But what was its purpose?

She turned to the Seer—a young woman who had clearly been dragged out of bed for this meeting—and held the crystal globe out to her. The Seer took it into her hands, keeping the two halves pressed together as she turned it over, studying it. Except for the place where a long, thin chip was missing—presumably where some sort of chisel had been applied—it was perfectly spherical. Sparks of candlelight danced along its facets as it moved, giving it a strangely animated aspect.

When the Seer seemed satisfied that she had gleaned all the information she could by physical inspection, she closed her hands over it, shut her eyes, and began to incant softly. Gwynofar muttered a prayer of thanksgiving under her breath for the sacrifice of life that was being offered, and she could see that her father was doing the same. Ramirus alone watched impassively, immune to such sentiments. The concept of sacrifice meant little to a Magister.

“So many souls,” the Seer murmured, her eyes still closed. “Each one an offering. So much death! Blood and ash and tears pour in the offering bowl, overflowing. Never alone. Never alone. Give our prayers to the others. Bind our souls to the others. Anchor us to the earth, until the final battle has been fought . . . .”

The Seer fell silent. It seemed to Gwynofar that she shuddered slightly, and her hands tightened about the crystal sphere. Then, slowly, she looked up at them. Her eyes, which had been cool and clear only a few minutes before, were now bloodshot from the strain of her spellcasting. Whatever secrets this thing contained, it had not surrendered them easily.

“It’s an anchor.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, tinged with awe. “The people who were bound to it are long gone, and their spirits have expired, but their resonance remains affixed to it.” She shook her head in amazement. “So many people! It would be impossible to give names to them all. This sphere . . . .” She turned it over in her hand; the pieces shifted as she did so, the two halves separating slightly. “It was conjured from their flesh. Their blood. Collected from men and women who fell in battle, offered up by those who knew they were about to die . . . each drop of blood was an anchor to its owner . . . so many of them . . . .” Her voice trailed off into awestruck silence.

“This is the essence of our people,” Lord Kierdwyn said reverently, “preserved against the ravages of time.”

“And no doubt why the Throne had the effect it did,” Ramirus provided. He was staring at the grotesque chair, his eyes narrow; unlike the Seer, he did not require incantations to focus his power. “The spells that were woven into it were simply meant to link the messenger to the message. It must have been the traces contained in this funeral crystal that allowed her Majesty to connect to its ancestral memories, providing a means whereby all the lyr might be connected . . . .” There was a strange tone to his voice that Gwynofar had never heard from him before. Awe?

The Seer looked at Gwynofar. “Do you wish me to repair it?”

Another sacrifice, offered freely. Not for power’s sake but to honor the dead. Gwynofar thought about what elements of this matter were important enough to merit such a sacrifice and finally said, “Fasten the two halves together again. Don’t repair the other damage.”

The woman nodded and muttered a soft incantation, summoning her power. When she handed the sphere to Gwynofar, it still bore the chips and chisel-marks of its fracturing, but it was whole once more.

This was the flesh and blood of a lost generation, she thought. And a fulcrum point for the current generation. It was impossible to hold such a thing in one’s hand and not feel a sense of reverence, as one did on holy ground.

The centuries are entrusted to you, Anrhys had said. Now she held them in her hand. But for what purpose?

“I need to take this with me,” she said softly.

She half expected her father to object, but he did not. He just stared at the Throne for a moment and then asked, “Why?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. The vision that brought me here said that I was meant to guard it. I don’t know if that means it needs to be kept safe or . . . or used for something.”

“You are connected to it,” Ramirus told her. “Ever since the day you awakened the Throne. You are as much a part of it now as the martyrs for whom it was crafted.”

“We’re all part of it,” she whispered.

Slowly Lord Kierdwyn crouched down before her. He took her hands in his, folded her fingers over the sphere, and waited until she met his eyes before speaking. “Gwynofar, I don’t know where this path will lead you, but clearly it’s your destiny to follow it. And anything the gods have so clearly ordained, it is our duty to facilitate. So take this anchor with you, if you feel you need to. Guard it as you see fit. And remember, if it is true that our enemies have no dominion over the blood of the lyr, then this may be the one thing on earth that cannot be corrupted by their power.”

Gwynofar nodded solemnly. Her father stood, then offered her a hand to help her to her feet. “Do you need to return home immediately? I can summon Lazaroth to provide transportation, though I’m not sure where he is right now. He said he had some personal business he needed to attend to. I have the means to contact him, but it may take some time.”

“I will see to her transportation,” Ramirus said.

“No,” Gwynofar said abruptly.

She held up the crystal. Its strange, irregular facets burned with reflected firelight. Did the number and shape of the facets have any meaning? Or had the thing just been sculpted with mad abandon, reflecting the chaos of its age? “Sorcery must never touch this,” she whispered. She didn’t know why that was important, but something inside told her that it was. Very important.

Ramirus’ white brow furrowed. “It will be a good week’s journey without a portal.”

“The weather is good,” she said stubbornly. “I’ll enjoy the ride.”

“Pardon, your Majesty.” It was Kierdwyn’s Seer. “There’s no need for that. I’m sure my fellow Seers will be willing to offer up a spellsong for you.”

Gwynofar nodded regally, accepting the offer. Transportation was costly magic, and the etiquette of the Protectorates required that she not ask her father’s witches to make such a sacrifice unless it was absolutely necessary. But it didn’t surprise her that they would volunteer their efforts. The spellsongs of the Guardians allowed a group of witches to pool their power so that the cost in life-essence was divided among them. Spread out among a dozen souls, the sacrifice was minimal, and there was great honor in offering such a service. Especially to Gwynofar, who had sacrificed her own child in the name of their cause.

“It will take time to gather them,” Lord Kierdwyn said. “Will you have breakfast with us, in the meantime?” A corner of his mouth twitched. “Your mother will never forgive me if I let her sleep through your visit.”

Gwynofar smiled faintly. The expression felt strange to her. “Well,” she said. “I certainly wouldn’t want to get you in trouble. So I suppose we’ll have to stay.” She turned to Ramirus. “I do need to get word to Salvator. If he wakes up to discover that I disappeared from the palace with no explanation . . . he will not be pleased.”

A corner of the Magister’s mouth twitched. “I have already seen to that, Majesty.”

She smiled faintly. “You care for me well, as always.”

The ice-blue eyes glittered. “It is my duty. “

But he was not even curious about why she had forbidden the use of sorcery on the crystal, she noted. Was there meaning in that?

Curiosity is second nature to a Magister, Danton had once told her. He can no more resist its summons than a man can resist the urge to breathe.

Disquieted, she waited in silence for her father to shut and lock the heavy door, then she turned to follow him back to the heart of the keep. While Ramirus banished the candles he had conjured, leaving the Throne of Tears in darkness once more.