Elegy for a Lost Star Read Free Page A

magic within them was refusing him right of entry.
    Red—Blood Saver, Blood Letter
, he thought, trying to employ the techniques of visualizing the words that Rhapsody, the Namer, had taught him. That one, at least, was easy for him to recall.
Orange—Fire Starter, Fire Quencher
. He was fairly certain of that one as well.
Yellow—Light Bringer, Light . . . Queller?
His mind faltered.
Damnation. I can’t remember
.
    But soon it would not matter. He had finally found a glass artisan in the neighboring kingdom of Sorbold, a Panjeri master from a tribe known the world over for their expertise in molding the sand of the desert and the ashes of wood into the most exquisite of glass, capturing rainbows in a solid yet translucent form to adorn the windows of temples and of crypts. He had given her free rein, under the eye of Omet, his head craftsman, to move ahead with the firing and inlay of the glass ceiling of Gurgus, which, oncefinished and outfitted with the other pieces of the apparatus, would become the Lightcatcher. He had even dared to look forward to that being completed by the time of his return.
    So it was with more than a little shock moving to unbridled fury that he dragged his hapless mount to a halt upon discovering the rainbow grit that was scattered across the Krevensfield Plain at the foothills of his kingdom.
    Achmed dismounted slowly, his considered movements mirroring the motion of the reptile he had received a nickname from. He walked in measured steps to a place where the layer of colorful glass powder was somewhat thicker, crouched down, and scooped some of the tiny shards up in his perennially gloved fingers. The glass was little more than dust, but it still contained the unmistakable colors that he had seen being fired when he left home some weeks back.
    Achmed sighed deeply.
    â€œHrekin,”
he swore aloud.
    He glanced up from his crouch to the multicolored peaks of the Teeth, where he reigned over the Firbolg hordes in what was known in their tongue as the kingdom of Ylorc. Gurgus, the peak in which the colored windows had been inlaid, was deeper in, past the guardian ring of mountains at the edge, so it was impossible to see what had befallen his tower from this distance. He could, however, see that the guard tower of Grivven, one of the westernmost and highest peaks, was still standing.
    At least the entire bloody kingdom didn’t blow to bits while I was gone
, he thought ruefully.
I suppose I should be grateful
.
    He tossed the glass powder angrily behind him, mounted, and urged his horse into a steady canter, growing more irate with each breath of the wind that poured over his face as he rode.
    S ergeant-Major Grunthor, commander of the united Firbolg forces and Achmed’s only other friend in the world, was directing a massive reconstruction that had clearly been under way for quite some time when the king returned to the mountain. As Achmed strode down the interior mountain corridor leading to the former entrance to Gurgus, he could hear the Sergeant bellowing commands to the workers, his voice occasionally straining with exertion as he moved massive broken pieces of earth himself.
    The Firbolg king rounded the corner and stopped for a moment, beholding him. Grunthor was paused as well, though he hadn’t caught sight of Achmed yet; with a dray sled at his feet piled high with broken basalt, a hand cart gripped in his massive hands, the giant commander was catching his breath, his skin, the color of old bruises, glistening with sweat from the exertion. Even at rest he was a terrifying sight, seven and a half feet of musculatureat rest for the moment, preparing to resume the strenuous task, directing a squad of Firbolg soldiers in their tasks while he rested.
    The sheer scope of the destruction took its toll on Achmed’s limited patience. The king stormed to the end of the hallway, stopping just short of the Sergeant’s presence.
    â€œWhat in the name of every