The Merchant Emperor Read Online Free PDF Page A

and heartsick, handed the shell back.
    “I fail to understand what you are on about,” he said brusquely. “Again, I am happy that you can itch and not piss yourself. Now leave me in peace.”
    “In this shell I can hear the vibrations that make up my true name, the essence of myself at the purest of levels,” Anborn pressed on. “Vibrations placed in there by the only Lirin Namer I know. She told me if I were to repeat the song of my own name over and over again, I might be able to remake myself, at least somewhat, back to the way I once was. Foolish as it has made me feel, I have done as she asked. Three years I have felt nothing below my rib cage; now suddenly there is pain in my skin and strength in my groin again. You’re a man of faith, are you not, Constantin?”
    The Patriarch snorted. “I was. Now I am an outcast, expelled from my office by the army of a nation that a few days ago was counted among the adherents of the religion. My faith in the All-God is not in question, but perhaps His faith in me is.”
    “Nonetheless, is it not possible that you are bearing witness to a miracle, or at least the successful application of an age-old lore?”
    “My city is in ruins, most likely with thousands dead. The Chain of Prayer, the core of our religion, has been shattered. I have told you that I am glad for you. What do you want me to do—dance in glee?”
    The Lord Marshal’s expression blackened. He crawled closer and seized the Patriarch’s hand and held it up before the man’s tired blue eyes.
    “Clearly the Ring of Wisdom that is the symbol of your office must have been shattered along with the walls of Sepulvarta,” he said acidly. “What is happening in my legs is the result of the same age-old lore that the Bolg king and the Lady Cymrian are working on at this very moment , in the depths of the mountains of Canrif. Recall the story of the Lightforge, the instrumentality built by my father Gwylliam, an instrumentality he used successfully to keep my hated mother Anwyn’s forces at bay for five hundred years in the Cymrian War? That is what has obsessed the Bolg king—he has been attempting to reconstruct it, or some version of it, for just such a time as this which is upon us now. Being a man of little faith myself, I did not believe either Achmed or Rhapsody had the insight or the skill to resurrect such an instrument, itself shattered and long buried. Rhapsody may be a Namer, but by her own admission she is largely self-taught and did not have access to the Primal Lore of her kind before she fled the Island of Serendair. But she evidently does understand how it works. And while he is half Firbolg, I have learned never to underestimate Achmed, though it still seems a daunting task to restore something that was built by the Nain a thousand years ago under the tutelage of Gwylliam the Visionary, one of the greatest inventors and machinists the Known World has ever seen, with nothing more than a cadre of brutish, demi-human Bolg as artisans. That is the miracle, you fool, though there are still only glimmers of it. Given how badly the Cymrian Alliance is outnumbered, and our position in the very middle of this continent, with potential enemy nations surrounding us, we will need that glimmer to roar, full-fledged, into a miraculous fire if we are to survive what is coming.”
    For the first time since he had crawled to the summit of the swale, Anborn saw the Patriarch breathe.
    Then a hint of light in his eyes.
    Finally the tall cleric turned to him, and steel was in his expression.
    “Let us begin gathering the kindling for that inferno, then,” he said.

3

    PALACE OF JIERNA TAL, JIERNA’SID, SORBOLD
    Talquist, Emperor Presumptive of the nation of Sorbold, stood in the top parapet of the palace of Jierna Tal, staring west, watching the sun slide down an indigo horizon beyond the sandy desert rim. Dusk was his favorite time of day, especially in the arid realm of Sorbold, an old land long forgotten