She came to where the children stood and smiled at them, first down at Melisande, then on eye level with Gwydion, who was almost as tall as she was.
“It’s very nice to meet you both, Melisande and Gwydion. May I present my two friends, Achmed and Grunthor?” Melisande’s gaze remained fixed on Rhapsody’s face, but Gwydion looked over at the two Firbolg and broke into a wide grin.
“Hello,” he said, extending a hand and walking to where Grunthor stood. The giant Firbolg clicked his heels, shaking the young man’s hand with his enormous one, taking care to avoid scratching him with his claws. Gwydion then proceeded to the window, where he bowed slightly and extended his hand to Achmed as well.
“Are you going to be my new mother?” the little girl asked Rhapsody. This time the Singer’s face matched Lord Stephen’s, which had turned crimson to the scalp.
Across the room Grunthor laughed out loud. “There ya go, guv; my ol’ man always said that children are the only thing that keeps a man from livin’ forever, because they make ’im want to die o’ mortification at least once a day.”
“Well, if that were the case you could be visiting me in the cemetery about now,” said the duke with a laugh. “I apologize for my daughter, m’lady.”
Rhapsody crouched down in front of the child. “Please don’t,” she said to Stephen, never taking her eyes off Melisande. “She’s lovely. How old are you, Melisande?”
“Five,” Melisande said. “Wouldn’t you like to have a little girl?”
Lord Stephen reached for the child’s shoulders, but Rhapsody waved him away and took Melisande’s tiny hands in her own. There was a loneliness in the black eyes, deep as the sea, and it reached down in Rhapsody’s heart, choking it. She knew exactly how the motherless child felt.
“Yes,” she said simply. “But only if that little girl was as special as you.”
“Don’t you like boys?” Gwydion asked from across the room. Achmed grinned in spite of himself.
“If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the Great Hall, jumping off the balcony,” Lord Stephen said.
Rhapsody swiveled to look at the boy, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Yes, I like boys very much,” she said seriously.
“Made a lot o’ money provin’ it, too,” muttered Grunthor merrily under his breath.
Her common status notwithstanding, Rhapsody felt the need to soothe the pain in the lonely royal children. “In fact, if your father would agree, I would like to adopt you both,” she said, flashing Grunthor an ugly look.
Stephen opened his mouth to speak, but Rhapsody rushed ahead before he could. She turned back to Melisande.
“You see, I’m traveling quite a bit, and I’m never in one place very long, so it’s not a very good idea for me to be anyone’s mother right now. But I could be your honorary grandmother.”
“Grandmother?” said Gwydion doubtfully. “You’re not old enough.”
Rhapsody smiled ruefully. “Oh, yes I am,” she said. “You see, I’m part Lirin, and we age differently than other people. Trust me, I am sufficiently old enough.”
“What would it entail?” Gwydion asked, rubbing his hairless chin with his thumb and forefinger in the exact manner Lord Stephen did when considering something.
Rhapsody stood and let one of Melisande’s hands drop, retaining hold of the other as she walked across the room to meet him. She sat in Lord Stephen’s desk chair and pulled the little girl into her lap, reaching out her hand to Gwydion. He came over to her and took it. Rhapsody seemed to be considering the question solemnly.
“Well, first and foremost, I would never adopt any grandchild that I didn’t think was special in a way that no one else in the world was, so it would mean that you would be dear to me in a way that no one else in the world is,” she said.
“Next, each night when I say my prayers, I would think of you, and it would be like you were with me. I do that every evening when the stars come out, and each morning as the sun rises, so every day you would know that I was thinking about you at those times. I sing my prayers to the sky, so maybe you would even hear me, since we’d be under the same one; who knows?
“Whenever you’re feeling lonely, you’d know that you only have to wait for the sun to come up or the stars to come out to have someone who loves you thinking about you, and maybe it might make you feel a little better.”
“You would love us?” Melisande asked, tears glittering in her eyes.
Rhapsody fought back the ones forming in her own. “Yes,” she said softly. “I already do.”
“You do?” asked Gwydion incredulously.
She looked him deep in the eyes, and drew on her lore as a Namer, speaking truly. “Yes,” she said again. She shifted her gaze to the little girl. “Yes, I do. Who wouldn’t? I would never lie to you, especially about that.”
She looked up at Stephen, who was staring at her in wonder, then quickly back at the children, the sin of overstepping her position beginning to twist her stomach.
“I will try to visit you if I can, and send you gifts and letters from time to time, but mostly it would be in here.” She tapped her heart, then each of their chests. “So, how about it? Would you like to be my very first grandchildren?”
“Yes!” said Gwydion. Melisande nodded, too excited to speak.
Rhapsody looked up at Lord Stephen, who still looked amazed. She felt suddenly awkward, knowing she had not only overstepped the boundaries of social status, but of politeness and good manners.
“That is, if your father agrees.”
“Of course,” Lord Stephen said quickly, forestalling his children’s clamoring. “Thank you.” He allowed himself to look her over once more, wishing she would consider Melisande’s first request, before turning to Achmed.
“Well, it’s time for these two to be heading to bed. Shall we go have a look at the museum?”
29
The Cymrian museum was housed in a small building crafted of the same rosy-brown stone as the rest of Lord Stephen’s keep. Unlike the other buildings on the castle’s grounds, it had no torches burning in the exterior holders and sat, unnoticed, in the dark, locked and bolted.
Twilight was descending, wrapped in flurries of snow as they left the castle and crossed the courtyard toward the tiny, dark building.
Rhapsody had stopped long enough to sing her vespers, with the undesired result of causing everyone else in the keep to cease whatever they were doing to listen to her. Melisande and Gwydion, who had been watching them from the balcony, broke into applause when she finished, which made her laugh and turn red with embarrassment at the same time.
Lord Stephen smiled. “Go to bed!” he shouted gruffly up at the balcony, then chuckled as the two figures dashed indoors. He offered Rhapsody his arm, holding a torch to light their way in his other hand.
When they came to the brass-bound door he let her hand go with a small sigh and reached into the pocket of his cloak, pulling forth an enormous brass key with odd scrolling on it. He fitted it to the lock and turned it with some difficulty; it was apparent that the museum had not been visited recently. Grunthor helped him pull the door open with a grinding screech, and they went inside.
In the light of the single torch, the stone depository more closely resembled a mausoleum, with frowning statues and exhibits that had been lovingly displayed for no one to see. Lord Stephen’s face glowed ghostly white in the light of the torch as he went about the small room, lighting a series of curved glass sconces with a long wick held by a brass lamplighter’s stem. Once he was finished, the museum brightened noticeably, the light being enough to read comfortably by.
“That’s impressive,” Rhapsody noted. “Those sconces certainly give off a lot of light.”
“An invention of the leader of the Cymrians, Lord Gwylliam ap Rendlar ap Evander tuatha Gwylliam, sometimes called Gwylliam the Visionary. He was an inventor and engineer, among other things, and is credited with many fascinating designs,” said Lord Stephen. “These sconces are made from conv
ex glass that was heated and then twisted along a curved piece of metal, so that the light reflects off the shiny surface and is magnified by the glass.”
“I’ve heard of Lord Gwylliam,” Rhapsody said as Achmed and Grunthor strolled about the room, examining the exhibits, paintings, and statuary. Grunthor stopped before a narrow stone stairway and looked up into the stairwell, as if gauging his ability to fit through, before continuing on his tour. “But those other words are unfamiliar. Was that part of his name?”
“Yes,” Stephen said, warming to the subject excitedly. “When the First and Third Fleets met up after fifty years of separate existence, and then decided, with the Second Fleet, to become a united people, it caused no end of problems denoting lineage, particularly since many of the Cymrian races each had a separate genealogy practice and nomenclature.
“Simply put, they didn’t know what to call themselves, or whether they should be known by the fleet they traveled with, or their family, or their race. So they devised a simple system they could all use.
“Each person’s first name was stated, then the next two ancestors back of the same gender, followed by the name of the First Generationer from whom they had descended. Lord Gwylliam’s father was King Rendlar, his grandfather, King Evander, and he himself was the First Generationer.”
“I see,” said Rhapsody, feeling a chill in her bones suddenly. Lord Stephen had just answered a part of another question that Achmed had been asking—how long had it been between their exodus through the Root and the sailing of the fleets. Although the historian had not quoted a number of years, it was apparent now that there had been at least several generations of kings between Trinian, the monarch-to-be at the time they had left, and Gwylliam. They had been gone even longer than they had thought.
Rhapsody turned to see if Achmed was listening. She was sure he had been, but he gave no sign of it as he examined a thick volume of Gwylliam’s drawings and intricately rendered architectural plans.
“That’s a reproduction, by the way,” Lord Stephen told him as he leafed gently through the pages. “Obviously the actual ones decayed and crumbled long ago. Each successive generation has had an historian whose job includes recopying them to preserve them. Naturally, something gets lost in the translation, I’m afraid.”
“How many generations have there been since they landed?” Achmed asked absently, studying a drawing of a ventilation system.
Lord Stephen was looking through a series of manuscripts neatly shelved on one of the bookcases. “Fifty-three,” he said.
He pulled out a thin manuscript bound in leather, blew the dust off it, and handed it to Rhapsody.
“Here is that text Llauron asked about, the Ancient Serenne linguistics chart and dictionary.”
“Thank you,” Rhapsody said, coughing. “This is it?”
“Yes. I’m afraid it’s not complete; not very much is known about the tongue.”
“I see. Well, thank you.”
“’Oo are these ugly people?” Grunthor asked, pointing at the small statues.
Lord Stephen chuckled and came over beside him.
“These three are the Manteids, the Seers, Manwyn, Rhonwyn, and Anwyn, who you also see in this sculpture with her husband, Gwylliam. They were an odd blend of bloodlines. Their father was an Ancient Seren, who were tall, thin, gold-skinned people. Their mother was a copper dragon. You should see the paintings; they’re even uglier. Manwyn’s hair is flaming red, and her eyes are like mirrors.”
“Are?” Rhapsody asked. “She’s still alive?”
“Yes, she’s the Oracle in the city of Yarim. Her temple is there, unless it has crumbled around her.”
“’Ow old are you?” asked Grunthor bluntly. “Are you one o’ them First Generationers?”
Stephen laughed. “Hardly. I’m fifty-six years old, and a third of the way through my life, by my reckoning, a relative baby compared to those people.”
His face grew somber. “By the way, I’d be happy to answer any question you might have, but please be aware that almost no other Cymrian or Cymrian descendant would. They’re a secretive people, in many ways ashamed of their heritage. I suppose that’s not surprising, given the history, and despite the fact that each of the dukes of Roland and many of the benisons are of that line. We’re a strange, confused lot.”
“What’s upstairs?” Achmed asked.
Stephen walked to the stairs; his natural exuberance coupled with his interest in the topic made him seem as if he were running. “Come, and I’ll show you.”
At the top of the small stairway was a sizable statue of a great copper dragon rendered in jewels and giltwork, tarnished from neglect. Rhapsody eased by it carefully; the dragon seemed very lifelike, with cruel-looking claws and fangs, and rippling muscles. The expression in its eyes was fierce, and it was coiled to strike.
“This is the mighty wyrm Elynsynos, who held all these lands before the Cymrians came,” Stephen said as he passed the statue. “She was apparently quite ferocious, and had successfully kept the humans from her lands from the beginning of Time, until Merithyn the Explorer came.”
He led them to the back wall, where a series of portraits hung in pairs or triads, one on the end having been painted a long time before the others. An oil rendering of himself, somewhat younger, was displayed below one of them, another painting which depicted a sharp-faced man in a miter, wearing an amulet around his neck.
Rhapsody and the Firbolg examined the pictures. Each of the men in the upper row was wearing a similar headpiece with robes that resembled those of the first man. She turned to Lord Stephen.
“Who are these?”
“The men in the top row are the Patriarch—he’s the one on the end, alone—and the five benisons who serve him. At least that’s what he looked like as a young man; he’s quite aged now, I understand.
“In the bottom row, roughly corresponding, are the various dukes who rule the lands in which the benisons have their Sees. Except for him.” He pointed to an auburn-haired man somewhat older than himself, with the same blue eyes. “That’s Tristan Steward, who is not only the Lord Regent of Roland, but also the Prince of Bethany, which is the capital seat.
“Although each of our states is technically sovereign, he controls the central army and the largest area of land, and makes laws the rest of us abide by. There isn’t usually a problem; most of us are related. Tristan and I are cousins.”
Rhapsody nodded. “Why are the royalty displayed below the clergy?”
Lord Stephen laughed. “An astute question. Well, it’s a traditional conflict, you know, the struggle between the church and the state. Ultimately, it puts the poor citizen in the middle, having to choose loyalty to the All-God or to his sovereign. Of course, only Cymrian royalty would have the temerity to think there should be a choice.”
Rhapsody laughed. There was an irreverent twinkle in Lord Stephen’s eye that was reinforced by the amusement in his voice.
“This, of course, is not true in my case, as the benison of this province is also the Blesser of Avonderre. His See is arguably the most powerful, certainly within Roland, but potentially on the continent as well.
“His only rival, and it is an active rivalry, is the Blesser of Sorbold, as he is the head of the Church for an entire country, not just a pair of provincial states like Avonderre-Navarne. They hate each other with a fury. Only the All-God knows what will happen when the current Patriarch dies.
“As a result, the Blesser of Avonderre-Navarne doesn’t interfere too much with politics here, for which I am eternally grateful. He’s after bigger quarry. There are renderings under glass over here of their respective basilicas. Have a look; the basilicas are the best examples of Cymrian architecture still standing.
“The mountain city of Canrif was far more impressive, but of course that was destroyed when the Bolg took over Gwylliam’s lands—no offense meant, Grunthor.”
“None taken,” said the huge Firbolg absently; he was studying the dragon sculpture. Rha
psody thought it was interesting that Lord Stephen seemed unaware that Achmed was Firbolg as well, but was not surprised. She, after all, had not realized it either. She followed Stephen to the display he was indicating.
“This is a good example of Cymrian ingenuity and culture meeting up with a deep religious philosophy. The ancient Cymrians believed that the five elements of nature were sacred, the source of all power in the universe, and so each of the basilicas that they built in some way honors a specific element and makes use of that element to sanctify its ground.”
Rhapsody looked with interest at the pen-and-ink etchings. They were all drawn by the same artist, and showed in minute detail the architectural features of the basilicas, some of them down to the individual stones from which they were built.
Most fascinating was one labeled Avonderre. It was an apparently immense structure fashioned in the shape of the prow of a great ship breaking forth from enormous rocks at the shore of the ocean. A second rendering showed more of the basilica, that part which apparently was only visible at low tide. Achmed had mentioned seeing something like this, and surely there could only be one.
Lord Stephen noticed her interest and smiled.
“That is the basilica our citizens attend services in, the great seaside church of Lord All-God, Master of the Sea. In the ancient language it is called Abbat Mythlinis.”
Rhapsody returned his smile. Lord Stephen’s grasp of the language was marginal. Abbat Mythlinis meant Father of the Ocean-born, a primordial race of people known in the old world as Mythlin. She glanced back at Achmed and Grunthor, hoping they would not correct him, but they were examining other exhibits, betraying no trace of amusement.
“This basilica was built largely from the wood of the great ships that carried the Cymrians from the Island before it sank,” Stephen continued. “It was dedicated to the element of water, obviously, and the constant churning of the ocean waves reblesses it with each tide, keeping its ground holy.
“Finding holy ground was important to the Cymrians. As strangers in this land they needed a place for sanctuary at each of their outposts, where evil could not enter. That’s why the basilicas were the first permanent structures that they built, after their guard towers. Avonderre is the coastal province where the first of the Cymrian waves landed. Except where Merithyn came ashore, we guard the oldest landfall of the Cymrian migration.”