Soon he slipped into a rhythm, smashing the tiny tool into the rock over and over. The iron began to bend, but he continued relentlessly. Rhapsody and Achmed set up in the tunnel behind him, passing back the debris from his digging, shoving it behind them to avoid blocking the passageway.
“Isn’t this an excellent way to bring the ceiling down on our heads?” she asked the Dhracian as he handed her a good-sized rock. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the sound of Grunthor’s strikes.
“Not really,” he replied, turning away to gather more stone shards. “If you want him to accomplish that, I’ll ask him to dig straight up.”
“No, thanks,” she replied hurriedly. Achmed had a look of quiet anger in his eyes; she wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or sincere. The latter was far more frightening.
As the hours passed, several things became clear to the two companions who crawled behind Grunthor as he chiseled his way out of the earth. The first, and most obvious, was that there was no longer any way to stop him; the giant Bolg was unresponsive to their calls to slow down, to rest. It was as if he had taken on a life-and-death struggle with the Earth itself, refusing to give in, even if it would mean his demise.
That prospect seemed somehow unlikely. Another conclusion the two others had come to was that Grunthor was more than a man possessed, he was becoming part of the Earth as he worked.
He now aimed unerringly for the tiny fissures and faults in the granite, sending large chips flying off the rockface. Each crack, each weakness made itself apparent to him in a way that filled the tunnel with the sound of ringing metal and crumbing stone.
Rhapsody watched him work with a smile of wonder on her face. Grunthor, strong and reliable as the Earth itself, she had called him in his namesong, among other descriptions. She was seeing the truth in her words before her.
The last revelation they had mutually come to was that, for better or worse, they would either succeed here or die now. The tunnel behind them was filling with the rubble from Grunthor’s efforts, blocking any escape back down the way they had come.
The understanding of this had been exchanged wordlessly. Rhapsody had looked back at the wreckage to find Achmed staring in the same direction. Their eyes had met, and both had smiled with the look of shipmates clinging to the last piece of a storm-ruined ship.
Grunthor stopped only once, long enough to turn Digga at a different angle. Then he began shearing sheets of rock off the wall before them, his trajectory changing slightly.
He was as a gemcutter, seeing intrinsically the perfect place to strike the stone. The more he dug, the more refined became whatever gift of sight into itself the Earth had given him. He seemed to see not only the cracks in the wall but how those cracks stretched into the surrounding bedrock, and where the bedrock eroded away into the soil far above it. He now had to break the debris he was passing back to Rhapsody and Achmed into smaller pieces, as it was growing too large for them to move.
His sense of conscious thought receded; he fell deeper and deeper into himself. Whatever awareness of the world around him that remained vanished, along with dreams of the Future and the memory of the Past. There was only Grunthor and the Earth, and then just the Earth. He could feel the element as if it were his own body. It was all that remained of the universe, and he was part of it, just the soil, and the clay, and the rock. And then there was no more rock.
Grunthor stumbled out into the air in shock. The wind around him stung his eyes and nose with its freshness, making him feel strangely morose. The blood that had been pumping in great volume from his racing heart slowed suddenly, leaving him faint. He staggered into the new darkness and pitched forward on his face. The earth that a moment ago was entwined around him with a lover’s warmth bit painfully, coldly into his eyes.
Immediately behind him Rhapsody and Achmed emerged into the freezing night air. The Singer was on him a moment later, clutching his shoulders in alarm.
“Grunthor! Are you all right?”
He nodded numbly; it was only nominally true. The sensation of being ripped from the bosom of the Earth, expelled from the warmth into the icy wind, was worse than the separation of birth, worse than the pain of death. Grunthor raised himself up onto his hands and knees. His palms and fingertips stung in the snow.
Rhapsody watched him stand and exhaled in relief. Then, her mind assured of her giant friend’s safety, she looked around her and stopped, thunderstruck.
She stepped all the way out of the hole in the ground as if she were stepping into paradise. The air around her was clean and bright in the light of a waxing moon; they were in a forest clearing at night, in winter. She laughed shortly, and turned around as Achmed emerged fully from the tunnel. Another giggle escaped her; then she was overcome with shuddering sobs and fell to the ground, at once crying, laughing, rolling in the snow.
Achmed helped Grunthor rise, then walked off to the edge of the clearing, taking in the sights around him. His compatriot stared blankly into the distance, the amber eyes clearing as he returned, piece by piece, to the realm of himself.
Their hostage, the woman they had brought along and kept alive only because he had not been certain if she would be necessary to recall his old name, having been the vehicle herself of its change, gibbered like a lunatic, digging her hands into the snow beneath her.
Sour bile rose in the back of his throat. If they were back, if this was Serendair, then he had forfeited his birthright. Instead of the beating of a million hearts on the wind, the sound he had known all his life, the air was strangely quiet. The only rhythm came from the slowing pulse of Grunthor and the quickening one of Rhapsody. It was as if no one else in the world was still alive but the three of them.
Rhapsody began to gasp, still in the throes of her tearful laughter. The sound echoed through the forest. Achmed looked suddenly around them. Then he strode to the giddy Singer and grasped her by the arm, hauling her roughly to her feet with a jolt. The look of ecstasy vanished from her face, replaced by one of stunned amazement.
“If your orgasm is over, do you think you might be quiet?” he barked. Rhapsody stared at him, then pulled her arm free, her face hardening into a glare.
“Shut up,” she said angrily. She walked away from him and looked up into the heavy canopy of forest branches where a sprinkling of stars glimmered down at her. Her rage melted away instantly at the sight, and she glanced above, looking for a break in the tree limbs where she might be able to see them without obstruction. She started to make for the clearing’s edge when Achmed’s firm grip closed on her shoulder.
“Hold up.”
She twisted furiously away. “Don’t touch me.”
He ignored her command. “Don’t go running off until we make some plans. We have no idea where we are, and who lives here.”
Rhapsody pulled her arm free, but already she was beginning to see the wisdom of his statement. “I’m not going far,” she said sullenly. “I need to see the stars. Don’t try to stop me.”
Achmed’s eyes ran over her face. It was very different in the dark night air than it had been an eternity ago when they had entered the primeval forest of the Lirin. In addition to the strange physical perfection that had seemed to come over her in the fire, there was a commanding air, a charisma unlike anything he had ever seen or experienced. He looked back to Grunthor, who was walking back to the hole from which they had come.
“All right; be careful,” he said, then turned and jogged to catch up with their companion.
Rhapsody waited until Achmed was out of the area, then cleared her mind as best as she could from the jangled cobwebs that the horror of the trip along the Root had woven into it. The stars gleamed above her, shining like the scattered pieces of the soul of the sky. She was vaguely aware of forbidden tears that welled up, only to freeze, unspilled, at the edges of her eyes.
Slowly, as if in a dream, she drew forth the ancient sword she had found within the Earth. Its flames billowed up the blade, licking the glowing ste
el but conducting no heat through the hilt; the weapon’s handle remained cool and dry in her grip. Then, as if directed by a voice only her hands could hear, she held the weapon aloft.
Instead of her view of the stars diminishing in the light of the flames, they seemed to grow brighter, though perhaps it was the blurring of her unshed tears that made it seem so. Rhapsody opened her mouth but no song came forth. She swallowed, fighting down the pain that had risen from her depths. Then she tried again, singing the vespers of the evening star, the song of Seren, for which the Island had been named, the star of her birthplace.
The sweet notes rose slowly up into the sky, captured by the wind that was blowing tattered clouds around the stars.
Far off to the south, in the heart of different forest, another woman woke from sleep to a vibration hidden from her by the passing of many years. The sword has returned, she thought, but there was more than that on the wind. It was a longing she didn’t understand but thought she had felt before, a sorrow that clung to the outer edge of remembrance. Like a shadow on the face on the moon it passed over her, then was gone. A frown touched the ancient Lirin face.
Grunthor looked back down the tunnel. He was slowly returning to himself, though the bond with the Earth remained, solid and reassuring, resonating up through his feet.
Every sinew was on fire, every muscle ached with a weariness he had never known before, not even as he and Achmed had made their desperate escape from the hand of the demon. He shook his limbs. He had one more task to perform before he could give in to sleep.
Grunthor closed his eyes and leaned on the edge of the earth-hewn tunnel. His hand ran along the entrance lovingly, sensing, as he had while digging, each strength, each flaw in the ground. He steeled his resolve and struck the ground with all his might at the precise points of greatest weakness. The exit from the Earth collapsed in a rising cloud of fine dirt and crystals of snow. The giant sank to his knees on the ground.
“No exit now.” Achmed’s voice came from behind him.
Grunthor raised his head at Achmed and grinned, an action that took the last of his remaining strength. “We knew that ’ad to be when we came,” he said. “We knew we weren’t goin’ back.”
Achmed chuckled sardonically. “Back? We never left.”
Grunthor laid his head down on the snow-carpeted earth, feeling the comforting rhythm of its beating heart beneath his ear. “Not so, sir,” he muttered. “This ain’t where we came from. We’re on the other side o’ the world now.” Exhaustion took him and he fell into a dreamless sleep that brought him a deeper knowledge of the land born of his bond with the Earth.
Achmed didn’t need to confirm what the giant had said; a moment later he heard a deep sob from the edge of the glen. Rhapsody had seen the stars. She knew.
16
The breeze picked up just before dawn, blowing a shower of fine ice crystals across Rhapsody’s face.
She woke with a start and sat up, shaking off her dream to find that she hadn’t been dreaming. The air had gained a bitter edge in the night, and the sky was now perfectly clear, the stars beginning to fade but still glimmering, as if reluctant to leave. The dawn was coming, bringing with it a wash of violet light barely visible through the trees.
One of the crude camp blankets they had used for warmth, with minimal success, on the Root had been placed over her. She had been sleeping beside Grunthor, who was still unconscious. They were in a sheltered copse of thick brambles. A small fire crackled a few feet away, overhung with a spitted rabbit, roasting in the flames.
Achmed sat across from her under the bare branches of a forsythia bush, watching her silently. He nodded to her as she pulled off the blanket. Involuntarily she smiled at him in return. Then she turned to the sleeping mountain snoring beside her and checked him over. Grunthor seemed none the worse for his heroic undertaking.
“He’s fine,” Achmed said over the sounds of the fire.
“Good,” she replied, and stood slowly. Her muscles had stiffened in the night, leaving her sore and feeling her age, whatever it now was. “Excuse me a moment.”
She walked toward the east, grateful for the ability to sense direction again, and found a clearing from which she could view the coming dawn.
As she had the night before she drew the sword, marveling at the coolness of the hilt below the flames that rippled up the blade, burning more intensely than the campfire. Faint tones of purple and rose touched the fiery weapon, turning the flames the color of the sunrise. Rhapsody could feel the heat on her face as she stared at the sword, entranced by its beauty.
Daystar Clarion, Achmed had called it. It had a musical ring to it, like the sound of a trumpet call at dawn. She held the weapon aloft, closed her eyes, and began her morning song to the sunrise, the aubade with which the people of her mother’s family had bade the stars farewell with the coming of day. She sang softly, not wanting to call attention to herself.
Her thoughts cleared; she could see the blazing weapon hovering before her in her mind’s eye, could hear its song, and noted in amazement that it changed its pitch, its vibration, to match hers. A surge of power swept through her unlike anything she had ever felt and she panicked, dropping the sword in the snow.
Rhapsody opened her eyes and gasped, sweeping the weapon from the ground. The fire had not been extinguished by its brief contact with the cold, wet earth; in fact, it was glistening even more brilliantly when it came back into her hand. She shuddered and sheathed it quickly, then walked back to the camp, where Grunthor was just coming to consciousness.
Achmed had been watching Rhapsody carefully. She cast a small, lithe shadow, standing at the rise in the clearing, her eyes searching the sky in the east. When the first ray of light crested the horizon it caught in her hair and set it aglow, gleaming brighter than the sun itself would a moment later.
The shimmering gold of her hair crowned her face, rosy in the dawn, emerald eyes sparkling in the morning light. She was sending forth vibrations like nothing he had ever felt before, radiating the intense purity of the fire through which she had walked. It seemed clear that she had absorbed some of that element in the course of passing through it, tying it to herself in song. The compelling call of the flames burned in her now; she was mesmerizing, hypnotic to behold. All imperfections of the flesh now burned away, she had become beautiful beyond compare by human standards. The prospect fascinated him, as did all opportunities to tap or harness power.
After she had finished her devotions she came and bent down next to Grunthor, who was stretching in obvious pain and fighting off wakening. Rhapsody rested her hand lightly on his shoulder and sang softly into his ear.
Wake, Little Man,
Let the sun fill your eyes,
The day beckons you to come and play.
Eyes still closed, Grunthor broke into a vast, pasty grin at the sound of the Seren children’s song. He rubbed his crusted eyelids with his thumb and forefinger, sitting up with a groan.
“Oi smell food,” he said, wrapping an arm around Rhapsody.
“I hope you’re referring to the coney,” Rhapsody said, looking over at the fire.
“O’ course.”
“Well, one can never be certain with you, especially in your grasp. How are you feeling?”
“On top o’ the world, miss,” he said with a laugh. “Oi certainly likes it a lot better up ’ere than down in its bowels.” His enormous eyes took her in. “Duchess, ’ave you done somethin’ with your ’air?”
Rhapsody laughed. “Yes. I’ve smeared it with mudfilth and grime and left it unbrushed for time undetermined. Do you like it?” She jokingly pulled at the edges of a mass of tangles, a flirtatious look of humor on her face.
“Actually, yeah. Oi guess grime suits you, miss. Maybe more women ought to try it.”
She gave him a playful shove and walked over to the fire, where the rabbit flesh was cooking. As she approached, the embers leapt into new flames, charring the outside of the meat.
“I
think this is done, Achmed; if we don’t get it out of there it will be ashes. Here, Grunthor, can I have the Friendmaker for a moment?” Grunthor drew forth the wicked-looking spike and handed it to her. Without a thought she reached into the fire and plucked the meat from the spit with it, then pulled her arm out of the flames and gave the spike to Achmed.
Grunthor whistled. “That was nice.”
“What?”
“How does your arm feel?” Achmed asked her. She was looking at Grunthor in confusion.
“Fine. How is it supposed to feel?”
“Well, judging by what you just did, I’d say charred.”
Rhapsody shrugged. “The fire’s not that hot; I was only in there for a moment. Well, come on, are you going to share? Grunthor’s hungry, and I have a vested interest in seeing him fed.”
Achmed slid the rabbit off the skewer and tore it asunder, handing half to Grunthor, then dividing the remainder between himself and Rhapsody.
They ate in silence, the men watching in amazement as Rhapsody devoured her portion. She had rarely eaten meat in the time they had known her. Perhaps the endless slivers of the Root had given her an appetite for something a little more substantial, or just different.
When the meal was over and the gear repacked, Achmed threw snow onto the fire. Rhapsody stood and cast a glance around, then shouldered her pack.
“What’s the plan?”
Achmed looked up at her from the ground and smirked. “You seem to have an idea of where you’re going.”
“Well, I certainly don’t want to stay here. I have to find whatever settlement there is in these parts and make my way to the nearest port city.”
“You’re heading back, then?”