Rhapsody

  As each life begins, Blood is joined, but is spilled as well; it divides too easily to heal the rift.

  The Earth is shared by all, but it too is divided, generation into generation.

  Only the Sky encompasses all, and the sky cannot be divided; thus shall it be the means by which peace and unity will come.

  If you seek to mend the rift, General, guard the Sky, lest it fall.

  “The great general cursed her then, shouting that she should keep her useless prophecies to herself. Manwyn left the council, to follow Anwyn, I suppose, but turned before she left and issued one last prophecy to Anborn.

  “‘General,’ she said, ‘first you must heal the rift within yourself. With Gwylliam’s death you now are the king of soldiers, but until you find the slightest of your kinsmen and protect that helpless one, you are unworthy of forgiveness. And so it shall be until you either are redeemed, or die un-absolved.”

  “And did he?”

  “I’ve no idea. That was between him and his Creator. Well, gentlemen, as I told your friend, you are more than welcome to stay at my home for a day or so, or more, if you’re not headed anywhere. I can offer you a bed and a chance to bathe, as well as some new clothes; Gwen has already outfitted Rhapsody quite nicely.”

  Rhapsody and Grunthor both looked at Achmed, who nodded after a moment. Grunthor broke into a pleased grin.

  “Well, that’s mighty kind o’ you, Yer Excellency.”

  Rhapsody tapped him on the arm as the three companions followed Llauron out of the glade.

  “Grunthor, generally the title of address granted to Invokers, the Patriarch, benisons, the Filidic high priests and other high-ranking clergy is ‘Your Grace,’ not ‘Your Excellency.’”

  The giant Bolg grabbed her hand. “And if we don’t ’urry and catch up to ’im, your title is gonna be ‘You’re Lost.’”

  27

  Unlike the first part of her visit with Llauron, the time Rhapsody spent in the house of the Invoker with the Firbolg bristled with uneasiness. Neither Achmed nor Grunthor wished to be seen by any of the faithful who were constantly in proximity to the Tree.

  Gwen and Vera were terrified of the two men, particularly Gwen, who was given the unwelcome task of making their new clothes. After one fitting with Grunthor, Rhapsody was able to employ the new medical skills she had learned from Khaddyr to help Llauron’s housekeeper over her palpitations.

  As soon as they were outfitted and provisioned again, they made ready to take their leave. Llauron seemed genuinely sorry to see them go.

  “Where will you be heading now, my dear?” he asked Rhapsody, who was watching the men pack the satchels for traveling.

  “East,” she said simply. She knew better than to tell him that Achmed and Grunthor wanted to find the Teeth and the realm of the Firbolg; the prospect was not one she relished.

  The three companions had talked long into each night, discussing their next moves, though Achmed had refused to give her the reasons for his plans, saying that they would discuss it once they were off Llauron’s lands.

  They had agreed, after some hot debate, to stay together until they got a better feel for the lay of the land, at which time they would determine where Rhapsody would live. Having spent so long in the hope of returning to the Island, she had not yet fully absorbed the thought of staying permanently in the new world.

  Llauron looked back over his shoulder at the Firbolg. “East, hmmm. Well, if that’s the case, why don’t I give you a letter of introduction to my dear friend, Lord Stephen Navarne. He is the regent of the province due east of here, the duke, actually; quite a nice chap. I think you’ll like him. And I know he’ll enjoy you as well.”

  His eyes glittered momentarily; there was a subtext to his statement that Rhapsody was not sure she liked, but decided to ignore. “All three of you,” Llauron added, as if reading her mind.

  Rhapsody looked uncomfortable. “A duke? You want me—us—to drop in on a duke?”

  “Yes; why?”

  A crimson glow crept through her cheeks. “Llauron, for what possible reason would a duke even allow a person of my station through the door? I’m not exactly royalty.” Dread wound its way through her stomach much as the blood was making its way through her face. She hoped Llauron had not guessed her history as a former courtesan, though the restoration of her virginity from her walk through the fire might confuse him a bit. The Invoker seemed to know things about her that she barely knew herself.

  Llauron’s smile was fatherly. “Stephen’s not concerned with the trappings of family lineage. In addition to being a pleasant fellow, he is also a bit of an historian. If you’re interested in any more of the Cymrian history, he would be the man to see. In his keep is the Cymrian museum. I know he would be delighted to show it to you. I doubt he has many requests to do so anymore.”

  “Really?” Rhapsody asked absently. She was preoccupied watching her friends. While Achmed was making more disks for his cwellan, Grunthor had apparently obtained some new weapons from Gavin, most notably a long curved sword he called a snickersnee. He was busy adding his latest acquisitions to the array of blades that protruded from behind his pack, making him resemble an evil flower with deadly petals.

  She turned her attention back to the Invoker and smiled. “That would be very nice, I’m sure. How far is it from here?”

  “Three to four days’ walk.” The elderly man took her by the shoulders. “Now, Rhapsody, I hope you have enjoyed your stay here. I’ve loved having you.”

  “It’s been wonderful,” she said sincerely, pulling up the wide hood of her new cloak, “and I’ve learned so much. Is there anything I can do to repay your kindness?”

  “Actually, yes,” the Invoker said, growing serious. “When you reach Lord Stephen’s, give him my letter. In it I will ask him to lend you the manuscript on the Ancient Serenne language. As a Namer, you pick up foreign tongues easily, I’m sure, and its linguistic basis is musical. You should have no problem learning it.

  “I want you to do so, my dear, that we might communicate in it. Now that you’ve learned about the Cymrians, and the growing unrest that threatens to sunder this land again, I hope you will agree to help me by being my eyes and ears out in the world, and report back what you see.”

  Rhapsody looked at him in surprise. Llauron had thousands of scouts and foresters in his service. She could not imagine what value her efforts might be.

  “I’ll be glad to help you, Llauron, but—”

  “Good, good. And remember, Rhapsody, though you are a commoner, you can still be useful in a royal cause.”

  “That would be the preservation of nature and the Great White Tree?”

  “Well, yes, and its political aspects.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Llauron’s eyes glinted with impatience, though his voice was soothing. “The reunification of the Cymrians. I thought I had been clear. In my view, nothing is going to spare us from ultimate destruction, with these unexplained uprisings and acts of terror, except to reunite the Cymrian factions, Roland and Sorbold, and possibly even the Bolglands, again, under a new lord and lady of that lineage.

  “The time is almost here. And though you are a peasant—please don’t take offense, most of my following are peasants—you have a pretty face and a persuasive voice. You could be of great assistance to me in bringing this about.”

  Rhapsody was dumbfounded. “Me? I don’t know anyone—I mean, as you know, we’re not from this place. Who would listen to me? I’d never heard of the Cymrians until I met you, Llauron.”

  The Invoker took her hand and patted it comfortingly. “Anyone who looks at you will have no choice, my dear; you’re pleasant to behold. Now, please, say you will do as I’ve asked. You do want to see peace come to this land, do you not?”

  “Yes,” she said, uncertain why she was suddenly trembling.

  “And the violence which is presently killing and maiming many innocent women and children—that is something you’d like to
see ended?”

  “Of course, I just don’t—”

  “All right, Yer Ladyship, we’re ready,” Grunthor called. Achmed gave her a curt nod as he shouldered his pack.

  Rhapsody looked back to Llauron once more. “Who are you planning to install as lord?” she asked.

  “No one; that’s for the council to decide. Remember the tales I have told you of the Cymrian philosophy, of their way of life. The lord and lady were chosen for their ability to rule, and though that means a certain amount of nobility is necessary, it is not in the lineage of one particular family, as it is in other nations.

  “Just remember what I told you about the negative feelings that some people have about the Cymrians, so be discreet in your inquiries. Those who are of Cymrian lineage rarely speak of it. And those who are not will see it as I do, a philosophical lifestyle that would well serve to bring the fragmented nations of this land back together again, now that Anwyn and Gwylliam are no more. Keep me informed of your progress.”

  “I’m still not sure exactly what it is you want me to do.”

  “We’re leaving now,” Achmed shouted.

  Llauron smiled broadly. “Always the well-mannered guest, isn’t he? Well, let us get you to him so I can say my goodbyes. Travel well, my dear; if you will give me a moment I will get you that letter.”

  The forest to the east of Llauron’s was thinner and younger than the deep primeval woods that surrounded the Great White Tree. For a while they were retracing their steps, traveling down the forest roadway past the village of Tref-Y-Gwartheg and turning northeast in the attempt to avoid contact with the inhabitants as much as possible.

  Rhapsody had discovered in her time at Llauron’s, particularly on her sojourns with Gavin, that the forest was the size of the eastern half of the Island of her homeland, and that the Lirin woods to the south were three times the size of this one.

  Though she had heard tales in her youth about forests the size of nations, she had never been within one until now. Somehow it seemed ironic that she be surrounded eternally by trees, since it was a Root that had brought her here in the first place.

  It took them the better part of two days to locate the north forest road that ran from the upper part of Gwynwood to the province of Navarne, a partially wooded land with sparser forest than she was used to.

  Soon the unrelenting grip of the woods gave way to patches of rolling farmland and small towns, built with the same ingenuity and frugality of material that was the hallmark of the subsistence farms in Gwynwood. Navarne was a more densely populated area, and the road was far more heavily used, with foot traffic interspersed with oxcarts and the occasional haywagon pulled by dray horses.

  As the woods thinned out, it became increasingly difficult for the companions to remain hidden. Finally they decided to walk where possible in the disappearing brush and occasional copse of trees, and take to the road when no cover was present.

  A few miles into Navarne, while they were still within the cover of the meager woods along the roadside, they came upon a group of peasant children playing on the forest road. Rhapsody moved closer, watching intently, while Grunthor and Achmed receded into the underbrush.

  The children, oblivious of their observers, laughed and ran about in the road, playing a game that seemed to be a form of tag. Around them farmers and carts passed through the mud of the forest road, occasionally spraying the children with filth, making them screech gleefully.

  A smile spread slowly over Rhapsody’s face as she watched the farm children playing in the winter sun. There was something in their merriment that reached down into her atrophied heart and loosed it a little, making it ache and breathe easier at the same time.

  There was an innocence to them, a carefree celebration of the ordinary occurrence of the thaw, that rang in her memory. As they scooped the mud from the quagmire that the road had become and pelted each other with it, she longed to run and join them. The grief that had been stifled so long ago by Achmed’s order squeezed her heart, then dissipated on the warm, sweet wind.

  At the edge of her consciousness and vision to the west she heard the sound of a horse’s hooves, their thunder muted by the soggy earth. Rhapsody looked in the direction of the commotion to see the few travelers on the road staring in the same direction at the oncoming stallion, a black-barded war horse that was galloping down the forest road.

  The children did not notice immediately, so intent were they at their game, until a gasp of horror erupted from two of the women who were riding in a haywagon. The man who was leading the dray team gestured frantically to the children, who stood, statue-still, in the middle of the road. The rider of the charger showed no sign of slowing.

  Before Grunthor could restrain her, Rhapsody bolted from her hiding place into the muddy roadway, scattering the children like pinecones and interposing herself in the path of the oncoming steed. An equine scream and the rumbling of horseflesh roared over her, and instinctively she covered her head and neck, anticipating the impact.

  In a swirl of violent motion the rider brought the panicked animal under control, muttering foul curses. When the horse came to a dancing halt, he glared down at her with azure eyes that burned like a raging fire.

  “Bloody shit, woman!” he bellowed at her from above. “I’d run you down right now if I knew it wouldn’t lame the horse.”

  Slowly Rhapsody rose to a stand and looked up at the horse’s rider. The eyes beneath her own hood were scorching with a similar fire, turning them green as meadow grass in the height of summer. For a moment it seemed that the rider’s face, contorted in anger, slackened a moment, as if he was surprised by the intensity of her reaction. Ugly words from her days on the street spilled out of her mouth.

  “If buggering you twice a day hasn’t killed that horse, it can take anything,” she snarled, glaring back at him.

  The man’s face registered shock, then, slowly, amusement. The visor of his helmet was up, but he removed it anyway, and stared down at the small woman before him in the road.

  His face was one of a middle-aged man, though his muscular body belied it; his hair and beard, black as night with streaks of silver, seemed undecided. His forehead and facial structure were broad, with features that seemed oddly familiar, despite the fact that Rhapsody was certain she had never seen him before. He wore a black mail shirt, its dark rings interlaced with bands of gleaming silver, and beautifully crafted steel epaulets from which a heavy black cloak flowed behind him.

  “Tsk, tsk, such language from a lady,” he said in a tone of condescending sarcasm. “I, madam, am appalled.”

  “No. You, sir, are appalling,” Rhapsody retorted, straightening her shoulders. “Apparently you are also blind; didn’t you see that there were children in the road?”

  “I did.” The soldier sat back a bit in his saddle, his smile widening. It did not appear to be an expression he wore very often.

  Rhapsody’s anger burned into a deeper rage. “And I don’t suppose it occurred to you to slow down, or perhaps try to avoid them?”

  “Actually, no, it didn’t. In my experience they generally move out of the way of a charging horse. It’s a good lesson to instill early.”

  “And what if they didn’t, or couldn’t?” she shouted. “What if you trampled them?”

  The soldier shrugged. “Obstacles that small generally won’t harm the horse if it rides over them. I should have kept that in mind for you; you don’t seem too big yourself.”

  A screech of wrath preceded the handful of mud that spattered across his face and chest. “Come down here and I’ll correct your impression,” she bellowed, her hand on her sword.

  “Yeah, and if there’s anythin’ left when you’re through with ’im, Duchess, we can ’ave supper,” came an angry rumble from the forest’s edge.

  The soldier turned and looked to see the giant Firbolg rise out of the brush, his hands clenched at his sides. The dray horses attached to the haywagon screamed in panic, as did one of the women, and the
farmer hurried off in a dead run with them down the muddy road; the children had fled long before.

  The soldier threw back his head and laughed. “Well, well, look at this, Paradise and Perdition, traveling companions. Fascinating. The least you could do is take down your hood, madam; I have. Or are you afraid to show your face?” He wiped the mud from his own.

  With an angry tug Rhapsody pulled the hood off her head. The rider’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

  “Ah, now I know who you are; you’re Rhapsody, aren’t you?”

  Her rage dimmed in the shock that followed his words. “How did you know that?”

  The soldier shook his helmet and smoothed out the flaps, brushing the mess from them in preparation for putting it back on. “You’ve been studying with Gavin, and word of you has spread. From the descriptions of the foresters, you could only be the one of which they spoke.”

  Rhapsody felt a shuddering cold run through her as her body cooled from the fire that had blazed within her a moment before. “Why is that?”

  He put his helmet back on, ignoring Grunthor. “There could only be one such freak of nature. Move out of the way, unless you want to see my horse’s new shoes close up.”

  “Really? And just who are you? I don’t know your name.”

  The soldier took hold of the reins again. “No, you don’t,” he said flatly. He clicked to the horse and then rode off in a wild gallop. She had just enough time to leap out of the way, and was spattered by the mud from the horse’s wake.

  Well, that was amusin’, miss,” said Grunthor in annoyance. “Come on, now, we need to be on our way.”

  Rhapsody wiped the mud from her cloak and nodded. As she crossed the road, following him back into the brush, she heard a small voice in the scrub at her feet.