Rhapsody could see that the majority of the scouts and foresters were not escorting pilgrims, but were traveling the lands of the holy forest, engaging occasionally in combat. Many of the patients in Khaddyr’s hospice were men such as these, coming in haggard and worn, and often injured. Apparently this was not particularly unusual; Khaddyr and his acolytes tended to the men without any obvious surprise.
Late each afternoon Rhapsody returned to the Invoker’s house. Llauron would be finishing up the duties of his office as leader of the Filids—a substantial job, from what Rhapsody could tell.
Each town had a Filid assigned to it to assist with crops and animals, and to help maintain a balance between nature and agriculture. In addition to providing guides to the religion’s spiritual sites, it also fell to Llauron’s office to maintain the hostels along the way. He did not object to these tasks, but early on he had confided to her how much he missed the days of his youth, when he had roamed the wild seas and wandered the forests of the world, free from administrative duties.
His way of recapturing those lost days was by taking her with him on long walks, where he would instruct her on the balance of nature and various aspects of the forest and the world around them. He knew every animal, and roughly how many of them lived in the wood, as well as each plant and tree, knowledge that he imparted to her in his light, pleasant voice.
It was almost like listening to a song, and she strolled with him, fascinated, as he told her of trees, how the oaks were strong and sacred, how ash trees were close to the spiritual world and so their branches were often used for wands and ritual magic. He said that willows were greedy, maples were leaders, and evergreens were adventurous. He told her of the woodland plants, of mistletoe and holly, which held spiritual properties of life, of ferns and mints and countless others. Occasionally he would sing sea chanteys for her as they walked.
Llauron walked with a young man’s pace and a vigor in his step; Rhapsody had known men half his age whose pace was half that of the Invoker. On their outings he carried a staff made of white wood and topped with a gleaming golden oak leaf, which he swung to keep pace rather than to bear his weight.
It had been made from a branch of the Great White Tree that had fallen ages ago during a storm and had been given to Ulbren the Younger, the Invoker of the Filids who had come from Serendair, bringing with him the religion they now practiced. It was considered the symbol of his office, but Llauron carried it as if it were an ordinary stick, pointing out birds and rapping on the trunks of ancient trees to sound their health.
Each evening their walks would end at sundown beneath the branches of the Great Tree, in time for Rhapsody to sing her twilight vespers. She had determined that Llauron had known the customs of the Liringlas prior to her arrival, and would expect her to sing her salutations to the rising sun and the stars, and so she did not attempt to hide the ritual from him, though Achmed’s voice nagged in her head. The Invoker always stood beneath the Tree with her as she sang, smiling to himself, but never sharing whatever thoughts occurred to him during these times.
They would share an evening meal together, often talking late into the night about the forest and its creatures, or the Cymrian Age and all its wonder. In particular they discussed the Cymrian Council, an annual meeting of all the refugees of Serendair, held in something called the Great Moot. It was the intent of the council to maintain peace among all the diverse races that had fled the doomed Island, to keep communication channels open, a worthy aspiration that had died on the battlefields of the Cymrian War.
Llauron was of the belief that the fragmented nations that had once been part of the Cymrian empire, Sorbold and Roland and the lands now occupied by the Firbolg, would only be able to maintain peace and resist war again if they were reunited into a common land. Rhapsody had noticed one realm missing in his discourse.
“What about the Lirin?” she asked, looking up over her sweet-fern tea.
“The Lirin were never part of the Cymrian realm. They were here first, after all, and resisted becoming part of it. But they were allies, and good friends to the First Generation, the refugees who had actually made the voyage and landed here. It was unfortunate that they ultimately got drawn into the war, which devastated much of Tyrian. And on top of that, it fragmented their society as well. Now even the Lirin are divided among themselves. A shame.” Rhapsody nodded as Llauron fell silent.
“I will need to be going soon,” she said as he stared into the fire. The Invoker’s eyes turned back on her immediately, but she saw no sign of the glint that came into them occasionally when he was annoyed.
“Oh, dear, what a pity. I knew this day would come eventually, but I have to admit I’ve been dreading it, my dear. We’ve all grown to love you around here, Gwen and Vera and I. And I’m sure your instructors will be sorry to see you go.”
“I’ll be sorry to leave everyone as well,” she replied sincerely. “And I’ve learned so much from all of you.” A thought occurred to her when he mentioned the teachers. “May I ask you something about the Filidic instructors?”
“Certainly.”
“The religion does not ascribe celibacy to its priests, does it?”
“No, we leave that unnatural state to the Patriarchal religion of Sepulvarta, to the Patriarch and his benisons—those are his version of our high priests, the next rank below him in the hierarchy of that faith. Benisons are sometimes also known as Blessers when it is a specific title, such as the Blesser of Avonderre. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I thought it interesting that none of the high priests of Gwynwood are married.”
Llauron sat back in his chair and touched his fingertips together. “No, none of them are at that, are they?” he mused. “Well, Ilyana was married, but her husband was killed in a border incursion ten or so years back.
“Lark has never married, but then, as you know, she is very shy, as is Brother Aldo. He prefers the company of beasts to that of women, though I certainly could introduce him to some that qualify as both.” Rhapsody laughed. “Gavin isn’t here often or long enough to marry; he is constantly on the forest path somewhere. And Khaddyr, well, actually, he is proscribed from marriage and progeny as my Tanist.”
Rhapsody blinked. “Your what?”
“The Filids now use the laws of Tanistry to select a successor to the Invoker instead of some of the uglier rituals they once practiced, which generally involved fighting to the death.”
“Oh, yes, Khaddyr did tell me something about that, but he said those rituals had not been practiced in a very long time, and you had not ascended through them.”
“That is correct,” Llauron said. “Tanistry dictates that the religious order pick its successor, generally someone hale and hearty and likely to survive the leader.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Frankly, I think I am much younger in body than Khaddyr, poor fellow. I doubt he’ll outlive me.”
She laughed again, feeling a little guilty. “I agree.”
“In fact, I think that when the Circle elders meet, it’s possible they will remove the title from him and make Gavin my Tanist. He has a better chance of surviving me, and is a very wise man. Not that Khaddyr isn’t as well, of course. Khaddyr is one of the kindest men I know, and I think that’s what makes him such a singular healer.” Rhapsody nodded.
“But a Tanist vows celibacy because the whole point of having one is to avoid the problems of succession and family lineage. If the Tanist were to have children before he or she became Invoker, it would complicate things, make him less likely to have a successor named. It’s an awful system; it allows the Invoker to marry eventually if he so chooses, but usually by the time he takes the office he is a brittle old man like me, having waited for his predecessor to die. Silly, isn’t it?”
Exhaustion was descending on Rhapsody. “I guess so. If you’ll forgive me, Llauron, I think it’s time for me to retire for the evening.”
Llauron stood as she did and walked her to the door of the study. “Yes, my dear,
get some sleep. You have a busy day ahead of you.” He touched her arm. “And you’re more than welcome to invite your two companions to come back here for a visit, too. I would most enjoy meeting them, I’m sure.”
Rhapsody’s arm trembled beneath his touch. She had never spoken of her Firbolg friends. She looked into the blue eyes and found them twinkling in the reflected firelight.
“Excuse me?”
“Come now, my dear. These are my lands. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize something foreign when it came onto them? At first I believed it might have been a Firbolg incursion, but that is most unlikely. The Firbolg lands are very far away, and two of them traveling alone would doubtless have run into one of my scouts between here and Canrif.
“No, I assumed they were waiting for you, since they have been watching this place. I long to hear the story of how you ended up in their company, but that can wait until another time. Why don’t you invite them back for a visit?”
Rhapsody’s entire body was trembling. “I—I don’t think that would be a good idea,” she whispered, her voice betraying her. “They’re a little—well, antisocial.”
Llauron nodded. “Well, I don’t blame them a bit. Firbolg are often treated as less than human. How about a compromise? I will come to them. Ask them if they’re willing to meet me, how’s that? I will come to their camp instead, and come alone. It would be most enlightening; I’ve never met a Firbolg before.”
Rhapsody’s head was spinning. “All right,” she said finally. “I can ask them.”
The elderly face broke into a broad smile. “Very good. I will look forward to the meeting. Good night, my dear.”
“Good night.” She left the study quickly and wandered, as if in a daze, up the stairs and to her room. She undressed quickly and slid beneath the covers, pondering how she was going to explain this to Achmed, given his dislike of strangers and priests. Every answer she came up with was inadequate, so she closed her eyes at last and fell into an anxious sleep. Her dreams of disaster shifted from the sinking of the Island to the reaction of her friends when they learned how many of their secrets were out.
25
The light of the full moon overhead cast strange white shadows on the melting snow. The winter wind was high, and blew the cloak Rhapsody wore behind her as she rode the strawberry bay into the darkness of the forest road.
Once she came to the spot where she and the Firbolg had parted, near Tref-Y-Gwartheg, Rhapsody tied the horse to a bare-branched sycamore tree, leaving him with a feed bag of oats. Then she struggled through the mud of the forest floor to the clearing where she had agreed to meet Achmed and Grunthor.
It was easy to find the spot for two reasons, the first being that she had trained with Gavin. He had taken her through this area several times, and each time it had been effortless for her to find the spot Achmed had blazed as a waymarker.
The second reason for her ready location of the meeting place was that two shadows, one enormous, were already waiting for her there.
Until she saw her two Firbolg companions in the glen, she had not realized the depths to which she had missed both of them. The feeling was not a surprising one where Grunthor was concerned. What did cause her a moment’s astonishment was that she found herself feeling the same way about Achmed. For a considerable amount of time along the Root she had hated him, blamed him for bringing this nightmare on her. Even after the passage of endless time it had not been an easy relationship to convert to the status of friendship.
But now, seeing his shadow in the moonlight beneath the branches of the forest canopy, she realized he was far more dear to her than she ever would have believed. Perhaps it was the passage of time and the natural outcome of growing accustomed to him. Perhaps it was more that he was one of only two people in the entire world who had known her in her other life.
She threw herself into Grunthor’s waiting arms, struggling to ignore the hideous odor that had remained on his body from the Root. Unlike herself, the two Firbolg had not found the opportunity to wash well in the intervening two months; it was amazing that they had remained undetected all this time. She could smell them from a good distance away.
“Oi was worried, Duchess, but you’re a sight for sore eyes,” the Sergeant said, a slight catch in his voice.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you,” she said, hugging him tightly. When he put her down she turned to Achmed and opened her arms as well. She thought she saw a flicker of a smile cross his face in the moonlit shadow; then he returned her embrace quickly and led her over to a sheltered copse of trees where they could confer out of the wind.
Once they had reached the hidden glen they sat on a frozen log facing each other, to keep the distance between their spoken words short.
“Did they treat you well? Were you abused in any way?” Achmed asked, tapping his gloved fingers together.
“No, not at all. Did you find out anything interesting?”
“Quite a bit. Most important where you’re concerned, we explored the principality to the south of here, a place called Avonderre, and found the main trade route to the seaport. It shouldn’t be too difficult to get you there undetected, and then you can secure passage home.”
Rhapsody’s mouth went dry, and she fought back the tears the Dhracian had forbidden so long ago. “No point in that now,” she said, her voice breaking.
A look of puzzlement came into the mismatched eyes. “What? Why not?”
“Because home has been gone fourteen hundred years now.”
After she regained her composure, the two Firbolg questioned Rhapsody intently about what she had learned during her time at Llauron’s, particularly the information that had pertained to Serendair.
She went over everything she knew, in some cases several times, outlining Llauron’s story of Gwylliam, the last of the Seren high kings, and his forewarning of the Island’s doom. She explained the arrival of the Cymrians and their assimilation into the culture of this land, and how the Age they had brought and the realm they had founded had disappeared in the smoke and devastation of a great war centuries ago.
Achmed had asked her many questions she had been unable to answer, notably exactly how the Island had really met its doom, and how long it had been between their leaving the Island through the Root, and when the Cymrian ships had sailed. Rhapsody found the questions tiresome.
“Look, I didn’t think it was wise to ask that,” she said, somewhat testily. “What did you expect me to say—‘Hey, Llauron, I’ve never heard of Gwylliam before, he must have come after Trinian, who was the crown prince when I lived there. How many years or kings after him was Gwylliam?’”
Beneath his tattered hood Achmed smiled slightly. “I suppose you have a point. I was just hoping to know how things worked out there, if anything that was being planned when we left came to pass.”
“I have no idea. I don’t even know if Gwylliam was of Trinian’s line, or if Trinian even ascended the throne. For all I know, Gwylliam or one of his predecessors usurped the throne from the rightful heirs.”
“You have no idea what a real possibility that is.”
“And I don’t care!” she shouted. Grunthor quickly put his hand to her lips, covering much of her face.
She lowered her voice, but the anger was still there. “Don’t you see? It doesn’t make a damned bit of difference. Everyone and everything I’ve ever loved is dead, and has been for more than a millennium; do you think I care what the lineage of the king was? Whether your hunters lived a year, or ten, or a hundred? They’re dead, too. So celebrate; you’ve lost your enemies. Just don’t expect me to join you.”
Achmed and Grunthor exchanged a glance. “Oi ’ope you’re right, miss,” Grunthor said at last.
“Of course I’m right. Didn’t you hear what I said? Fourteen centuries.”
“It’s not a given, Rhapsody,” Achmed said tersely. “There are some evils for which time is not a barrier or a limitation.”
“Well, Achmed, you can
have a go at asking Llauron yourself. He wants to meet you both.”
Achmed recoiled like the spring of his cwellan. “What?”
Rhapsody withered under the icy stare. “He knows you’re here; he told me so last night. I didn’t give you away; I swear. He is the supreme head of his religion, the Filids; each of them knows the forest intimately, and these are his lands. He could feel you on them. He said he would like to meet you, and would come to you, if you were uncomfortable coming to him.”
Grunthor looked dismayed, and Achmed buried his head in his hands. “Gods. Well, I suppose it was to be expected. This is a very strange place; what we saw made no sense, wherever we went.”
“How so?”
“Everywhere we scouted there seemed to be peculiar border incursions, and random raids on villages that were totally unarmed and unprepared, though it is obvious the people of this region have come to expect this, in a way.
“At first we thought the Lirin lands to the south and this area were at war, but there are no other signs of it. Just pointless pillaging and looting, destruction of property and slaughter for no apparent reason.
“The raiders are from different places each time, and they don’t seem to be after anything but destruction and terror. We watched huge stacks of valuables seized in one of the attacks piled into a village square and burned, instead of being taken and sold.
“Once we tracked a raiding party that had destroyed a town in Avonderre and saw it return to the guard barracks of the very town it had attacked. We could have written it off to treachery, but then within a few days the town came under attack again, and this time the same guards defended it with their lives.