The Merchant Emperor (The Symphony of Ages)

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  In Loving Memory

  of

  Carole

  forever faithful

  and William, James, and Constance

  forever young

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With gratitude and profound thanks to Tor Books/Tom Doherty Associates and the readers of this tale, for sticking with it through the long silence and the darkness as it returns to the light and nears its end.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Map

  The Weaver’s Lament

  Overture Dolore

  Part One: A Hesitant Return to Spring

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part Two: Renaissance and Reunion

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part Three: A Moment of Solace in the Advent of War

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part Four: The Calm Before the Storm

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Part Five: The Darkness at the Edge of the Plain

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Part Six: A Night Without Stars

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  The Symphony of Ages Books by Elizabeth Haydon

  About the Author

  Copyright

  THE WEAVER’S LAMENT

  Time, it is a tapestry

  Threads that weave it number three

  These be known, from first to last,

  Future, Present, and the Past

  Present, Future, weft-thread be

  Fleeting in inconstancy

  Yet the colors they do add

  Serve to make the heart be glad

  Past, the warp-thread that it be

  Sets the path of history

  Every moment ’neath the sun

  Every battle, lost or won

  Finds its place within the lee

  Of Time’s enduring memory

  Fate, the weaver of the bands

  Holds these threads within Her hands

  Plaits a rope that in its use

  Can be a lifeline, net—or noose.

  Overture Dolore

  IN THE REALM BETWEEN LIFE AND THE AFTERLIFE

  In a quiet glade, where green leaves were painted in streaks of light, deep in the silence of a place out of Time, the heavy mist of morning burned off in the gentle glare of the rising sun.

  Standing in that diminishing mist was a tall figure, a man clad in a green robe the color of the forest leaves, with eyes of bottomless darkness and brows that matched. A mythic figure, met or heard of only by those who came to this realm, the sleepy wooded place known as the Veil of Hoen, where only the dying were welcome.

  The doorstep between Life and the Afterlife.

  The Lord Rowan. Yl Angaulor.

  The bringer of Peaceful Death.

  The lord, himself a manifestation of an epic concept, was staring at another such manifestation.

  Before him in the glen was an enormous vertical loom on which the tapestry of Time was being woven. Behind that warp-weighted loom sat the figure of a woman, an entity known as the Weaver, the being that embodied the concept of Time in history. Her face was serene, though any living being that had seen it in this drowsy place could never remember what her features looked like afterward.

  The Lord Rowan had stood before the Weaver’s loom on an all-but-infinite number of occasions before, observing the cataloguing of Time’s story in the tapestry she was weaving. Every era, every battle, every great feat or terrible loss was reflected in the warp and the weft of the tapestry, recorded in colored threads that told the tale of the ages of the world.

  But there was something different this time.

  And disturbing.

  The ends of the long colorful strands of time-thread hanging loosely in the Weaver’s hands were more ragged than he had ever seen them before. Each time he had beheld the Weaver at work, the weft-threads were neat and regular and replenished themselves as she wove them through the stationary warp-threads, so they maintained the same length. Now it seemed as if they had been burnt somehow.

  So their ends were approaching the tapestry with each movement of the Weaver’s hands.

  In addition, the warp-threads, usually strung tight within the loom, were hanging loose at the bottom, their ends charred and ratted with smoke as well.

  The Lord Rowan was not certain, but it occurred to him that he might be witnessing the end of Time approaching. Though he himself was a manifestation of Time, he was a thinking and feeling entity enough to contemplate the terror and the sadness that was portended.

  Not just for the end of Life itself, but for the Afterlife as well.

  In the distance he could hear the sound of horses’ hooves dancing in preparation. The Lord Rowan knew this sound from long and terrible memory. It was the foretelling of the Ride, the gathering of his three brothers, the other, less peaceful, manifestations of Death, making ready to dispense it in the chaotic, thundering horror for which they were known, answering the call.

  This time, however, for the first time, he had not heard that call himself.

  Meaning that the wave of death, when it came, would have no peace associated with it.

  He crouched down beside the Weaver and studied the tapestry.

  Though he and his wife, the Lady Rowan, who was known as the Guardian of Sleep, had little awareness of the world beyond their realm, the Veil of Hoen, they did occasionally venture forth when summoned by fate.

  He examined the area that seemed to contain an imperfection.

  In the warp of that place, two weft-threads had been woven together in two separate places in the tapestry. One was gold, shining, the color of the s
un at its peak on a midsummer day. The other was a copper color, a red-gold that gleamed almost metallically.

  The Lord Rowan was fairly certain he had seen those colors before, in the hair of two living beings that had visited his realm.

  A young man with the blood of dragons in his veins, torn asunder in a battle with an ancient demon. A man with hair the color of copper.

  And a golden-haired woman who had come with a group of demonic children needing salvation of body and soul. Children of the same demon the man had fought.

  Apparently these two people had met twice in history, not once as was the law of Time.

  And in the second meeting, Time had been altered to allow for it to happen.

  The Lord Rowan was not certain if the altering of Time had been undertaken to prevent the burning at the ends of the threads in the Weaver’s hands.

  Or if it had caused it.

  The sound of hoofbeats in the distance grew louder.

  The Lord Rowan closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Far away, in the deepest depths of the material world, another being felt, rather than heard, the hoofbeats as well.

  That being was as old as the world was old, though in all the millennia of its life it had never woken, even for a moment.

  Which was the salvation of that world.

  For when it finally did wake, the being, a beast of unimaginable size and even more unnatural appetite, would consume the Earth of which its body comprised one-sixth.

  The oldest entity ever to be called by the name.

  The Sleeping Child.

  The ancient wyrm, a child born of one of the first clutch of eggs of the race of dragons at the birth of the world, stolen by demons that would use it against that world and who had hidden it away within its frozen depths, where it would remain asleep, growing, gaining strength.

  Until at last it was awakened.

  And while that had always been a terrible possibility, the reality had never occurred.

  Yet.

  The beast stretched lazily in the cold depths of its lair, sending tremors through the Earth’s mantle, earthquakes that split the ground in inexplicable tremors, or shook the teacups off the shelves in the larders of farm women. Volcanoes spilled forth lava, and tall, destructive waves lashed the coasts of the seas.

  No one who felt the results of its movement knew what was happening.

  For the moment, it didn’t matter.

  The unconscious beast settled back into slumber again.

  Biding its time.

  Which, given the sound of approaching hoofbeats, might be coming sooner than anyone realized.

  PART ONE

  A Hesitant Return to Spring

  ODE

  WE are the music-makers,

  And we are the dreamers of dreams,

  Wandering by lone sea-breakers,

  And sitting by desolate streams;

  World-losers and world-forsakers,

  On whom the pale moon gleams:

  Yet we are the movers and shakers

  Of the world for ever, it seems.

  With wonderful deathless ditties

  We build up the world’s great cities,

  And out of a fabulous story

  We fashion an empire’s glory:

  One man with a dream, at pleasure,

  Shall go forth and conquer a crown;

  And three with a new song’s measure

  Can trample an empire down.

  We, in the ages lying

  In the buried past of the earth,

  Built Nineveh with our sighing,

  And Babel itself with our mirth;

  And o’erthrew them with prophesying

  To the old of the new world’s worth;

  For each age is a dream that is dying,

  Or one that is coming to birth.

  —Arthur O’Shaughnessy

  1

  GWYNWOOD, NORTH OF THE TAR’AFEL RIVER

  The first sign that something terrible was wrong with the world was birdsong.

  The white forest of Gwynwood was a virgin wood, thick with old stands of pale-barked trees that had been growing undisturbed for so many centuries that their upper branches had become entwined, interlacing in a thick canopy through which the sun struggled to warm the ground in the height of summer. Now, in the dying days of winter’s Second Thaw, the warmth promised by a coming spring had caused trees of all heights to bud with new leaves, casting ever-changing patterns of shadow on the mossy ground below.

  Melisande Navarne, mere days from her tenth birthday, reined her horse to a stop beneath those entwined branches, watching the patterns of light and shadow dance all around her.

  And listened.

  The air of the forest, rich and heavy with life and the lingering scent of old magic, was both sweet and spicy to her nose. The dazzling dance of the sun on the leaves filled her eyes, making her yearn for more innocent times, when she could have taken off her boots and run through the greenwood, playing chase with her brother and the father she had loved to adoration. The sweet singing of birds in the trees delighted her ears, completing the picture of tranquillity of an ancient forest in the advent of spring.

  Except that in this place, if things were as they should be, no birds should sing.

  All around them the woods were alive with natural music, the rustling of trees’ boughs, skittering and snapping in the undergrowth, and everywhere birdsong, a wild, almost nervous cacophony. The clear water of the stream she had been following joined in the forest song, splashing noisily as it hurried ahead of her. Melisande glanced repeatedly over her shoulder for Gavin the Invoker, feeling less than comforted, even at the sight of him following her, as he had promised to do. There was something looming in the distance, something she had been warned about from the beginning, but was still unprepared for, no matter how good a face she was able to put on.

  She clicked to her mount and continued into the greenwood.

  Finally, when the noise was all but deafening, she heard a soft birdcall behind her, one she had come to recognize as the Invoker’s signal. Melisande reined her horse to a halt and looked over her shoulder again.

  Gavin had halted as well.

  “This is where we part company for the moment, Lady Melisande Navarne,” he said seriously, gentling his own mount. “Your instructions from the Lady Cymrian forbid me from going on past this place.”

  The little girl nodded, trying to appear brave, but her stomach turned to water at his words. Gavin had found her, lost and wandering aimlessly in the forest after her carriage had been attacked. In spite of his gruffness and his sparse use of words, Gavin had been a comforting presence, a staunch protector and capable guide to this place of unwelcome birdsong and the errant wind in the trees. She had grown to depend on him to keep her safe not only from the dangers that lurked in the greenwood, but from her own doubts and fears.

  It appeared both of those protections were about to come to an end.

  She glanced into the sky above her. The silver branches of the tall trees reached, twisting, into a sky racing with clouds of almost the same color. Melisande shivered, then dismounted.

  “Are you certain, Gavin?” she asked, hating the nervousness that made her voice sound younger than she was. “You are sure this is the place? You said you have never been here before.”

  The Invoker smiled. It was something Melisande had rarely seen him do in their brief time together, but she knew immediately that he had seen through her attempt to keep him with her a little longer.

  “The instructions you conveyed to me were to bring you to follow the sweetwater creek to Mirror Lake.”

  “Yes.”

  Gavin nodded at the opening in the thicket before them. Melisande followed his gaze with hers, then tremulously ventured into the copse of trees. Beyond it, the splashing stream emptied out into an oval body of water, glistening in the morning light, its surface flat and smooth as a pane of glass. Mist clung to the clear water, hovering above it like
clouds reflecting the sky.

  Don’t be frightened.

  Melisande froze. The words were spoken in her ear, quiet and distinct, as if the speaker had been standing a hairsbreadth away, in the unmistakable voice of Rhapsody, the Lady Cymrian.

  I have a mission for you.

  The little girl spun around, looking anxiously for a glimpse of the Lady’s golden hair, a shadow of her small, slender form, but there was nothing in the greenwood but the wind in the trees and the song of birds. The words could have come directly from her memory, spoken to her as they had been on a dark night, not really that long ago and a whole lifetime away. But they were not a function of memory; she could hear them as plainly as she could hear the rustling of the underbrush around her.

  She thought back to that dark night, to the room in her family’s keep, in the fading glow of the evening’s candles. Melisande could feel the warmth and tingling of excitement now that she had felt then when Rhapsody had taken her hands and had begun to chant softly in the words of an ancient language, taught to her more than a thousand years before by her mentor in the art of Singing, a science known to her mother’s people, the Liringlas, called Skysingers in the common language, and Namers, when they were especially advanced in it.

  Melisande closed her eyes, reveling for a moment in the memory.

  The air in the room had gone dry as the water within it was stripped, and a thin circle of mist formed around the two of them, glittering like sunlight on morning dew. A moment later, the words Rhapsody was speaking had began to echo outside of the mist in staggered intervals, building one upon the other until the room beyond was filled with a quiet cacophony. Melisande had witnessed this phenomenon before; the Lady Cymrian, the closest thing to a mother she had known, often called such a circle of masking noise into being to protect their words from imaginary eavesdroppers whenever the two of them were whispering, giggling, and sharing secret thoughts. The corners of Melisande’s eyes stung with sharp tears, bitter for the loss of those innocent times.

  I need you to do something for me that I can entrust to no one in this world other than you, Melly.

  The voice was even closer now, clearer in her ears. At the time they had first been spoken, the words had rung with a clarity that Melisande recognized as the Naming ability of True-Speaking. Now she wondered if, besides magically ensuring their veracity, the Lady Cymrian had been planting them in her head for this very moment, to remind her of her quest, or to indicate that she had arrived on its doorstep, in this sacred place, this untouched ground where only a handful of people had ever trod in all of history.