Free The Merchant Emperor by Elizabeth Haydon

lingered in the shadows.
    “Omet.”
    “Yes, Your Majesty?”
    “Take three of the other artisans up to the peak and remove the cover of the dome. It’s almost morning.” Achmed felt the slight vibration of Omet’s head nodding in assent, but kept his attention on the dying man in front of him as Omet started across the massive room for the door.
    Rhapsody exhaled, trying force the panic out with her breath. She pushed everything else from her mind and focused her concentration on Rath again.
    There was a beauty, a magic in this dying entity that she had seen before, twice. It defied her ability to put words to, strange for a Lirin Namer who by profession sought to know every True Name in the world. She could find the music in almost anything—the voice of the earth, the vibration of the stars, the whispers of meadow grass, the thundering of the waves of the sea, the crackling of fire—but there was something special about the wind, the element which carried the magic of her mother’s race, that reached down into her heart whenever she was in the presence of those born of it.
    As Rath had been born of it, purely and without the pollution of any other element, in the First Age of the world.
    Even her friend the Bolg king, as obnoxious and offensive as he could be, and was being now, had been born of it, and she held him in her heart in spite of his surly behavior.
    She bent back over the dying Dhracian. His eyes had gone glassy, and he was slowly turning the color of chalk.
    “Rath,” she whispered. “Live. Please.”
    “That’s the best you can do?” Achmed demanded. “I could have had the piss boy from the third column of the Blasted Heath do that, with seemingly the same outcome.”
    “The only other thing I can think of to try is empathic healing, taking his injuries onto myself,” Rhapsody said, searching his neck for his pulse and finding none. “But these injuries are not from the crushing blow of the titan that intervened in the Thrall ritual—it’s the damage done to his heart when it was suddenly torn from its connection with the demon he was attempting to kill. Were I to take that on, to absorb that damage, my guess is that you would then have to nurse and wean Meridion, Achmed.”
    “I’ve already told you my solution for that—hawks.”
    “Not funny, sir.” Grunthor’s voice was uncharacteristically serious. “Yer not to even think o’ doin’ that, Duchess, ’owever important or ancient this bloke may be. That’s an order. An’ don’t threaten the lit’le prince, sir—’e’s my friend and sleepin’ partner.”
    Rhapsody looked up at the dome again, then turned quickly and called to Omet, who had just reached the doorway.
    “Omet! Wait.”
    The young artisan stopped, looking questioningly at the Firbolg king, who exhaled in annoyance, then signaled his permission.
    “Do you have any of the frits of glass left over from the original firings?” Rhapsody asked. Omet nodded. “Any of the red?” The artisan nodded again. “Please bring one to me, a little bigger than your hand—but make sure it is one that you have matched exactly to the color keys.” The young man walked back into the recesses of the room as the Three returned their gaze to the dying Dhracian.
    “Clarify something for me, Achmed,” Rhapsody said as dark blood began to drip from Rath’s mouth. “In Gwylliam’s time, when this was a Lightforge, rather than a Lightcatcher, the power source was pure elemental fire from the heart of the Earth, piped here from the flamewell in the Loritorium below, right?”
    “Yes.” She could almost hear the dust of his clenched teeth in his voice. “It has been adapted to use the light of the sun now instead, as you bloody well know.”
    “Don’ think ’e has two hours left in ’im, sir,” Grunthor whispered.
    For a moment Rhapsody continued to stare down at Rath, bringing her right hand to rest on his fractured heart. Then, without looking up, she spoke two