Requiem for the Sun by Elizabeth Haydon Read Free Book Online Page A

was.”
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œBy all means, do tell, m’lady,” said Quentin Baldasarre, the Duke of Bethe Corbair.
    â€œYarim 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.
    â€œDoes m’lady have a way of beseeching the clouds for rain, skysinger that she is? Or are you merely stating the obvious for amusement at my expense?”
    â€œI 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 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?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd that the Shanouin well-diggers are finding surface veins of water less and less often?”
    â€œYes,” 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 monocolored rock, unnoticed every day by hundreds of oblivious passersby in the town square of Yarim Paar.
    â€œEntudenin has been dead for centuries, m’lady,” said Ihrman Karsrick as pleasantly as he was able.
    â€œPerhaps. Or perhaps it is merely sleeping.” Rhapsody leaned forward, the fireshadows gleaming in her eyes, which sparkled with interest.
    â€œAnd 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.
    â€œPerhaps. 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.”
    â€œPlease 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