Hello everyone! I am finally done with REQUIEM, though to an author, "done" is a state of mind. We are now in editorial revisions, but at least I am no longer biting the heads off telemarketers and small children who disturb my thought processes. The beloved dragon has been asking, pleading for, insisting upon and finally demanding an excerpt to whet your appetites. It was hard to find one that wouldn't give away a lot of the surprises that happen in this book, but I think I finally found one. This is the first full chapter after the prologue, in which Rhapsody returns home after a long visit to the Lirin lands of Tyrian, to find Ashe meeting in a rather cranky council of Roland's dukes, dealing with the drought in Yarim. Also in attendance is sixteen-year-old Gwydion Navarne, who is now very near to taking on the title of duke. Rhapsody and Ashe have been living in Navarne while the palace Ashe is building at the House of Remembrance is being constructed, tending to the two orphaned children of Stephen Navarne. So while this is not one of the more thrilling chapters, I hope it gives you an idea of one of the three threads of the story that are being woven together to form REQUIEM FOR THE SUN. It is a story of the Past, and how it can be, as Manwyn prophesies, "a relentless hunter, a stalwart protector, a vengeful adversary." Hope you enjoy it. Elizabeth

Requiem for the Sun by Elizabeth Haydon Chapter One Haguefort The members of Lord Gwydion’s advisory council had reconvened in Haguefort’s richly-appointed library and were grouped in pairs and triads in various parts of the voluminous room, examining papers or talking quietly among themselves. To a one they rose from their seats and fell into a pleasant, welcoming silence as the lord and lady entered. First to greet the returning lady was Tristan Steward, prince of Bethany, the most powerful of the provinces of Roland. He had been hovering near the doorway by himself, away from the other councilors, and stepped quickly into Rhapsody’s path, bowing politely over the ring on her left hand. “Welcome home, m’lady,” he said in a thick voice, oiled with the fine brandy of Haguefort’s cellars. The light from the library’s lanterns pooled in his auburn curls, making it gleam darkly in the red-gold hues similar to those in Ashe’s hair, though not with the same odd, metallic sheen that the Lord Cymrian’s dragon heritage bequeathed him. Rhapsody kissed the prince on the cheek as he stood erect again. “Hello, Tristan,” she said pleasantly, extricating her hand from his grasp. “I trust Lady Madeleine and young Malcolm are well?” Tristan Steward’s eyes, green-blue in the tradition of the Cymrian royal line, blinked as they looked down at her. “Yes, quite well, thank you, m’lady,” he said solemnly after a moment. “Madeleine will be honored to know you asked after her.” “Young master Malcolm must be getting ready to take his first steps,” Rhapsody said as she continued into the library, her hand resting on Ashe’s forearm. “Any day now. How kind of m’lady to remember.” “I remember every child at whose naming ceremony I have sung. Good evening, Martin,” Rhapsody greeted Ivenstrand, the duke of Avonderre, who smiled and bowed deferentially; she nodded to each of the other councilors and slipped hurriedly into an empty seat at the long table of polished wood where Ashe and his advisors had been meeting. The dukes of Roland and the ambassadors from Manosse and Gaematria, the Isle of the Sea Mages, all member nations of the Cymrian alliance, took their seats as well, following the lead of the Lord Cymrian. “I can see you’ve been keeping these good councilors far too long and far too late into the night in my absence,” Rhapsody said to her husband as she gingerly moved aside a half-eaten turkey leg that lay on a plate amid crumpled sheets of parchment and empty cordial glasses on the table before her, eyeing the refuse that was clumped in piles around the rest of the table and other parts of the library. Ashe rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. “Revisions to the Orlandan tariff structure,” he said with mock angst. “Ah. Well, that explains it.” She turned to young Gwydion Navarne, seated to her left. “Where were you in your discussions when I interrupted, Gwydion?” “The impasse seems to have occurred in the discussion of the exemption that the province of Yarim has requested on foodstuffs, owing to the drought conditions of the last two growing seasons,” the young man said. “Indeed,” Ashe agreed. “Canderre, Avonderre and Bethany oppose the waiver of such tariffs, while Bethe Corbair agrees.” “Bethe Corbair shares a border with Yarim, and does not have the cost of transportation of goods that Avonderre has,” protested Martin Ivenstrand, whose coastal province was the most distant from Yarim. “Nor do I remember Yarim agreeing to reduce tariffs on their opals or their salt in the past when restrictions on sea trade threatened our revenues,” said Cedric Canderre, the older man who was the duke of the province that bore his name, known for its production of luxury goods, fine wines and rich delicacies. “I am unclear as to why this drought is any different than the obstacles Canderre or the other provinces of Roland have faced.” “Because this drought is beggaring my province, you imbecile,” growled Ihrman Karsrick, the duke of Yarim. “Those so-called obstacles did not make even a nail’s worth of a dent in your fat treasury, and you know it. Yarim, on the other hand, is facing mass starvation.” Rhapsody leaned back in her chair and looked to Tristan Steward. “And what is Bethany’s position, Tristan?” “We are certainly sympathetic to Yarim’s plight,” said the prince smoothly. “As such, we are more than willing to extend them generous extensions on their tariff payments.” Amusement sparkled in Rhapsody’s green eyes, but her face and voice remained passive. “How kind of you.” The mild look on Tristan Steward’s face hardened a little. “More than that, m’lady, Bethany is concerned that this matter was brought up for discussion at the level of the Cymrian alliance at all,” he said, a terse note entering his otherwise warm voice. “Hithertofore each province of Roland has always had the right to set its own tariff rates, as it deemed fit, without interference from any—er, higher authority.” His eyes met Ashe’s. “At the Council that named you Cymrian lord and lady, we had been assured that the sovereignty of the realms within the alliance would be respected.” “Yes, that assurance was given, and it has not changed,” said Rhapsody quickly, noting the darkening of her husband’s expression. She turned again to the young man who would soon take a place at this table as the duke of Navarne. “What is your opinion of this, Gwydion?” Gwydion Navarne shifted in his chair, then sat forward. “I believe that, while the sovereignty of provincial tariff rights is important to observe, there are some things that transcend tariff,” he said simply, his young voice husky with change, “emergency foodstuffs being one of those things. Why should those of us blessed with more fertile lands and plentiful food profit excessively from the suffering of a fellow Orlandan province, rather than coming to their aid in a time of need?” The Lord Cymrian smiled slightly. “Your father would have proffered the same solution,” he said to Gwydion Navarne, while keeping his eyes locked with Tristan’s. “You are a compassionate man, as he was.” “Well, I am sorry to intrude at what is clearly a sensitive stage of the talks, but if you will allow me, I believe I may be able to proffer an alternative solution to the tariff quandary,” Rhapsody said, squeezing Ashe’s hand. “By all means, do tell, m’lady,” said Quentin Baldasarre, duke of Bethe Corbair. “Yarim needs water.” Rhapsody folded her hands. The councilors looked to one another blankly, then stared in turn at the table, amid the occasional clearing of throats. Ihrman Karsrick’s brow furrowed, barely containing his annoyance. “Does m’lady have a way of beseeching the clouds for rain, Sky-Singer that she is? Or are you merely stating the obvious for amusement at my expense?” “I would never taunt you on so grave a matter for amusement, m’lord, that would be cruel,” Rhapsody said hastily, pushing down on Ashe’s arm to guide him back into his seat as he began to rise. “But Yarim has a great source of water in its midst, a source which you do not currently make use of, and which would doubtless spare you from some of the effects of the drought.” Karsrick’s expression resolved from one of anger into confusion. “M’lady does understand that the Erim Rus has run dry, and that even when it was still flowing in spring, it was contaminated with the Blood Fever?” “Yes.” “And that the Shanouin well-diggers are finding surface veins of water less and less often?” “Yes,” Rhapsody said again. “I was referring to Entudenin.” Silence fell over the dark library, the lanternlight dimming as the oil reserves began to run dry, the firelight on the hearth burning strong and steady, casting bright shadows on the faces of the bewildered councilors. Entudenin in its time had been a towering geyser, a miracle of shining water spraying forth from a multicolored obelisk of mineral deposits sprouting from the red clay of Yarim, in cycles roughly akin to the phases of the moon. For twenty days out of every moon cycle it showered the dry earth with sweet water, water that made the dusty realm bloom like a flower in the desert. In its time it had gifted the province with liquid life, allowing the capital city of Yarim Paar to be built, a jewel in a vast wasteland at the northern foothills of the Teeth, and had nourished the outlying mining camps and farming settlements as well. But its time had come to an end several centuries before, when one day, without explanation or warning, the marvelous artery of life-giving water dried to a shriveled shell, never to give forth water again. Centuries had passed; the obelisk withered in the heat, dissipating into a shrunken formation of mono-colored rock, unnoticed every day by hundreds of oblivious passersby in the town square of Yarim Paar. “Entudenin has been dead for centuries, m’lady,” said Ihrman Karsrick as pleasantly as he was able. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it is merely sleeping.” Rhapsody leaned forward, the fireshadows gleaming in her eyes, which sparkled with interest. “And does m’lady have a song of some sort with which to awaken Entudenin from its sleep of three hundred years?” Karsrick was struggling to maintain his patience. “Perhaps. It’s the song of the drill.” Rhapsody folded her hands. “And I am not the singer to make use of this song, but within the Cymrian alliance there are such singers.” “Please elaborate,” Ashe said, noting the looks of bewilderment on the faces of the councilors. Rhapsody sat back in her chair. “Entudenin was the embodiment of a miracle; fresh water in the middle of the dry clay of Yarim, heralded as a gift from the all-God, and the gods that the indigenous population worshipped before the Cymrians came. As such, when Entudenin went silent, it was assumed to be some kind of divine punishment. What if, in fact, it is not?” The silence that answered her was broken only by the crackle of the hearthfire. “Please go on,” Tristan Steward said. “It is possible the water that flowed from Entudenin in its lifetime came from the sea,” Rhapsody said. “That would explain its lunar cycle—the phases of the moon have similar effects on ocean currents and tides. I have just recently been to the lava cliffs along the southern coastline of the lands of the sea Lirin, similar to the ones that line the coasts near Avonderre. There are thousands of crannies and caves in those cliffs, some of which are quite shallow, others of which go on for miles. “It made me wonder about the source of the water for Entudenin. It is possible that an inlet there or even more northward fed water through an underground riverbed or tunnel of some sort all the way to Yarim. The complexities of the strata that make up the earth are immeasurable.” Rhapsody inhaled deeply, having traveled through such strata long ago. “It is possible that the right combination of underground hills and valleys, riverbeds, inlets and filtering sand led to this sweet-water geyser a thousand miles from the sea, swelling and ebbing with the cycle of the moon and the tides. If all this is possible, it is also possible that this pathway became clogged, closed somehow. If it could be opened again, the water might return.” “M’lady, how would anyone know?” Quentin Baldasarre asked incredulously. “If, as you suggest, a blockage occurred somewhere along a thousand miles of subterranean tunnel, how could one ever find it?” Rhapsody sat forward. “One would ask those who know the subterranean maps of the Earth, who walk such corridors in daily life, and have the tools to mine them.” Realization began to spread through the features of the councilors, leaving unpleasant expressions on the faces of the dukes of Roland. “Please tell me that you are not referring to the Bolg,” Martin Ivenstrand said. “Of course I am referring to the Bolg, Martin,” Rhapsody replied testily. “And I do not appreciate your tone or your implication.” She turned to Ihrman Karsrick, whose face had gone an unhealthy shade of purple. “You seem suddenly unwell, Ihrman. I would think that this opportunity would bring you great joy and anticipation, not indigestion.” She glanced at the turkey leg again. “Though I am not surprised if you are suffering from that, too.” The duke of Yarim coughed dryly. “Surely m’lady does not believe me so daft as to want to enter into dealings of some sort with the Bolg?” The expression on the Lady Cymrian’s face resolved into one sharp observation. “Why ever not, Ihrman? There has been a trade agreement between Roland and Ylorc for four years now. You sell them salt, you buy their weapons, they are members of the Cymrian Alliance—why would you not seek their expertise in solving your greatest problem?” “Because I have no desire to be beholden to the Firbolg king, that’s why,” snapped Karsrick. “We share a common border. I do not wish to have him feel he can cross that border and take remuneration from Yarim at any time he wishes.” “I would never think that you would put yourself in such a position,” Rhapsody replied. “My suggestion is that you contract for the services of his artisans, just as you do with those of Roland, Sorbold, and even from as far away as Manosse. Do you have some objection to making use of the talents of Firbolg artisans?” “I do not wish to invite hordes of Bolg—artisans into Yarim, no, I don’t, m’lady,” Karsrick retorted. “The possible repercussions hold great horror for me.” “Surely that is not an unreasonable stance,” interjected Tristan Steward. “King Achmed does not look happily on Orlandan workers coming into his realm. The handful of them that has been invited to work on the rebuilding of Canrif have been subjected to unbelievably intense scrutiny, and even then only one or two have been hired. Why should we issue invitations to his people when he has not been particularly welcoming to ours?” “Perhaps the reason for King Achmed’s lack of hospitality may be that the last time your people came into his lands they were carrying torches and clubs, Tristan,” Ashe commented. He had been sitting back in his chair, hands folded in front of his chin, watching Rhapsody press her argument. “It will take some time for the Bolg to get over the annual Spring Cleaning ritual that was practiced, at their grievous expense, for so many centuries.” “If I recall, you took part in one of those raids yourself when you were a young man training with the army, Gwydion,” said Tristan Steward darkly. “We rode in the same regiment.” “Regardless, you are missing the point,” Rhapsody said. “The Bolg may be able to help restore water to Yarim, sparing it from the drought that now threatens your people. If there is any possible chance that they can, do you not have an obligation to seek their assistance?” “Do I not have an obligation to the safety of those people as well, m’lady?” asked Karsrick, a note of desperation in his voice. “Yes, you do,” Rhapsody replied, “and so do I. Therefore, I offer to take full responsibility for the comportment of whatever Bolg craftsmen, miners or artisans come to Yarim to examine Entudenin, and for whatever work they do. I am well aware that this is, at least historically, a holy relic, and that you are greatly concerned with preserving it.” “Yes.” “So again, let it be on my head. I will take full blame for anything that should occur in this undertaking.” The duke of Yarim threw his hands up mutely, then sat back in his chair with a dull thud. The other members of the council looked at each other in bewilderment. Finally Karsrick sighed in resignation. “Very well, m’lady.” Rhapsody smiled brightly as she rose from the table. “Good! Thank you. We will meet King Achmed and his contingent four weeks hence in Yarim Paar at the foot of Entudenin.” She looked around at the blank faces staring back at her. “Well, good councilors, if you do not have anything else pressing that needs to be attended to this evening, I think I shall commandeer my husband and leave you all to get some rest.” Ashe was on his feet in an instant. “Yes, indeed, thank you for your patience. I shall see to it that you are all able to sleep in late tomorrow; we will not be convening until the day after. At least. Goodnight, Gwydion.” He pushed the chair back under the table, bowed to his councilors and hastily accompanied Rhapsody out of the library. On the way across the room he leaned down to her ear and spoke softly. “Well, darling, welcome home. It’s good to see that causing strife among the members of the council is still a family trait.” As they passed the large open hearth the flames of the fire roared in greeting, then settled into a quiet burn again. Rhapsody stopped and looked quickly over her shoulder. She stared into the fireshadows dancing on the colorful threads of the intricately woven carpet, then looked up to the balcony doors on the other side of the library, where raindrops dashed intermittently against the glass. “Did—did someone just come into the room?” she asked Ashe softly. The Lord Cymrian stopped beside her. His dragonesque eyes narrowed slightly as he concentrated, reaching out with his dragon sense to the corners of the vast library. His awareness expanded between two beats of his heart. Every fiber of carpet, every candleflame, each page in each book, the breath of each member of the council, each drop of rain outside the keep was suddenly known to him in detail. He detected nothing different. But now his blood ran colder. “No,” he said finally. “Did you feel something disturbing?” Rhapsody exhaled, then shook her head. “Nothing tangible.” She slipped her hand into her husband’s palm. “Perhaps I am just eager to quit this place and be alone with you.” Ashe smiled and kissed her hand. “As always, m’lady, I defer to your wisdom.” In a remarkable show of restraint, he waited until the doors of the library had closed securely behind them before sweeping Rhapsody off her feet and carrying her, in a few bounding steps, to their tower chambers. Inside the library, the damask curtains that lined the glass door to the balcony overlooking the Cymrian museum in the courtyard below fluttered gently, unnoticed by the councilors who had immediately returned to their arguments, oblivious to the howling storm outside the library windows. A heartbeat later, they hung motionless, still as death, once more.

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