By the time she had anointed the first root, her song had gained a rhythm and a tune; when she had finished the third, her voice was strong and she was singing in a mixture of Old Cymrian, the language of her father, and the tongue of the men she had faced this day.
Devli protar hin elenin, Hope is a safe anchor,
Long was your journey at sea
Vidsuol hin yl gornit marbeth, Time is the best healer,
And whole once more now you will be
Calenda o skidoaun, Calenda o verdig, A year of snow, a year of plenty,
You’ve suffered the cold and the gloom
Ovidae tullhin kaf san; ni wyn bael faerbon, Sometimes there’s no summer, but always there’s spring,
And in the spring you shall bloom
A fynno daelik, gernal federant, He who would be healthy, let him be cheerful,
So hold this song in your soul
Yl airen er iachâd daelikint, A song of joyous healing,
Sing it until you are whole.
Rhapsody had never written an original song of healing before, and inwardly she cringed at the poor verse. She had used for the main lyric adages from the old world, words of wisdom spoken by the people who had come here, part of their folklore, and somehow the music spoke to the tree. The song seemed to flow through its roots, moving up through the trunk and branches until it touched the leafless twigs.
Still humming the tune, she picked up the higen and ran her fingers along its curved wood frame. The higen was her greatest treasure; it was the first instrument she mastered, and it had helped her learn the science of Naming. It was fashioned from wood from the old world, like the tree itself.
Rhapsody began to play an accompaniment to her song on the higen. The tune remained simple and clear as the notes leapt from her fingers, and slowly the tree began to respond. She could almost feel the sap move through its branches, restoring life where death had been lurking. The vibration of the song reached the smallest twigs, causing them to bring forth tiny green buds, the precursor of leaves that would come in the spring.
Rhapsody took the higen and set it in the highest crotch she could reach, right above the first hollow of the trunk. It continued to play, fueled by the tree itself singing the song in response. She smiled as the tree returned to life, then turned and headed back to her friends and the children.
On her way back through the garden Rhapsody passed a long, flat table, largely hidden beneath a blanket of snow. When she had hurried past it on the way to the tree she had presumed it was a garden bench of some kind, but now she felt compelled to stop and look at it again. As she did, an image formed, unbidden, in her head.
Her body began to shake as the snow melted away in her mind’s eye, leaving the stone table black and gleaming in the ominous light of a full moon. On the table was the body of a man, lying still as death, looking as if it were formed from the ice left behind in the melting snow’s wake. She could discern no particular features; in the moonlight, the body barely seemed human.
Within the darkness above the lifeless form she could discern movement, and concentrated as best she could to see it in her trance. Disembodied hands, their owner obscured from her view, gestured within the air, seemingly in the performance of a religious ceremony. They folded together, as if in prayer, then opened as if in blessing. Blood poured from between them into the lifeless form, staining it red as it filled.
Words, spoken as if in her ear, sounded in the darkness, absent of any voice.
Child of my blood.
Rhapsody watched, feeling nothing in the detachment of the trance, as a small glowing object appeared in the hands, pulsing with a light that twinkled almost like a star. It burned so intensely that she blinked, trying to shield her eyes from the pain.
With great care the hands placed the shining object gently into the blood-form that lay on the table. The body gleamed for a moment, then began to glow brightly, light surrounding it, swallowing the hands that had hovered above it.
Now shall the prophecy be broken. From this child will come forth my children.
The light began to fade, and as it diminished, the figure began to become solid, distinct.
The thunderous sound of horses hooves shattered the trance. Rhapsody’s legs gave out and she fell to her knees in the pink-stained snow, shuddering from the sudden loss of the vision. Her heart pounding in revulsion, she leapt from the ground, ran to the garden wall, and looked down into the courtyard below.
Achmed looked up from the notebook as the music began to resound from the garden. He returned almost immediately to his reading; the book was proving quite useful.
According to the carefully graphed script, Canrif, the city of Gwylliam, capital of the Third Cymrian Fleet, had been abandoned after the death of the Lord Cymrian due to the alarming increase in Firbolg raids and the havoc that the war had played with the Cymrians’ resources and ability to organize.
They had been unable to hold the city as the barbarian assaults intensified, and so with much regret they had sealed those parts they could and left it in hopes that they might one day return. Apparently they never had, and now this city, with its treasures and library locked away, was deep within the heart of the Bolglands.
What was more, the key to Gwylliam’s vault had been left in the House of Remembrance by Anborn, the general who had evacuated the mountain. A few notes seemed to indicate that regents of Roland, the ancestors of Lord Stephen and his fellow dukes, were Cymrian generals from the First and Third Waves, but Achmed was uncertain he was reading the fragmented annotations correctly. He would have to have Rhapsody read these parts.
His attention was drawn from the book when he noticed the older girl captive in the process of secreting away a dagger from one of the dead guards. She was nimble, good enough that Grunthor, who was watching the children, had not noticed. Achmed made a soft clicking noise, drawing Grunthor’s immediate eye. A quick nod in the direction of the girl sent Grunthor ambling over to her.
“’Ey, what you got there, lit’le miss?” the giant asked.
“Nothin’,” the girl responded, looking away and shuffling her feet.
Achmed smiled. Her movements, intended to look like a coy, frightened or bashful reaction, had in fact been a ruse to hide the weapon within her clothing. It was well done enough that the assassin wondered if she had succeeded in fooling Grunthor. She hadn’t.
“Well, what’s this, then?” the Sergeant asked.
His enormous hand reached behind her back and plucked out the small dagger. The girl was surprised by the giant’s speed, her expression quickly melting into one of fear. She had been caught, not just stealing a weapon, but lying about it. Her eyes quickly darted toward the door, looking, Achmed assumed, for the potential protection of Rhapsody.
“Um—it looks a lot like a knife,” the girl answered.
“Now, what would a girl like you want with somethin’ like this?” Grunthor asked, disdain on his face. He quickly drew a longer, nastier-looking blade from his own hoard of weapons, and smiled. “If you’re gonna use a blade, make sure it’s a good one. ’Ere, now this is a dirk worth carryin’.” He handed his blade over to the girl, who took it with a questioning stare.
“Now, see, this knife ’as a real good edge to it, and see that bronze ridge along the top? It’s perfect for parryin’ the other guy’s slashes. Once you do that, you can slice ’is wrist with the recurved bit on the front, see?”
“Yeah,” the girl said. A wary smile appeared.
“Now, you practice that—a block and a twist, got it?” Grunthor said, demonstrating the movement with the small dagger he had taken from her. The girl nodded. Grunthor backed up two steps and watched her appreciatively before turning to go back to looting the dead. As he did, he noticed Achmed’s look of disbelief.
“What?” Grunthor held his hands out in bewilderment. The Dhracian nodded at the girl, and the giant shrugged. “Oh. What’s the ’arm, eh?”
Achmed merely shook his head and
returned to the book. He read two sentences more before Rhapsody returned to the room, panting from running. Her eyes were dark with concern.
“There’s a troop of men approaching,” she said.
34
“They’re moving quickly; they are almost to the door.”
“What?” Achmed’s unpleasant face went blank with surprise. He ran to the door of the library and through the glass windows of the connecting hall. From that vantage point he could see ten men entering the garden, walking gingerly through the bloody snow.
Leading them was a man in a heavy gray hooded mantle, flanked on either side by white wolves. When he reached the tree in the garden’s center he stopped and looked up at it, then walked around it with interest.
Upon seeing the leader, a faint buzzing filled Achmed’s inner ears; he was unsure if he heard it, or merely felt it. He ducked back through the door and, with an agile shrug, swung the cwellan from his back and into his hands.
Even back inside the tower, behind the solid wall, he could feel the vibration rattling in his skull, emanating from where the man in the gray cloak stood. He felt the pounding of blood in his ears, and the buzzing noise grew louder. Achmed quickly closed the door.
“Did they see you?” he asked Rhapsody.
“No,” Rhapsody said, “at least I don’t think so. I just caught a glimpse of them coming before I came to warn you. What do you think they want? Are they in league with Cifiona, or are they here to find the children?”
“If they’re here for the children, it’s not to help them,” Achmed said. “I got the same sick feeling when I saw their leader that I had when I saw the House back on the trail.”
“Oh, lovely,” Grunthor said. He held his snickersnee at the ready. Suddenly a look of concern swept over his face. “Oh, son of a whore—Oi left my poleax out there.”
“I don’t think there’s enough room for you to use it in here, anyway,” Rhapsody said.
“It’s not that, miss. When the bastards see it they’ll know we’re still around.”
“Marvelous,” Achmed sighed. “Rhapsody, take the brats upstairs. Grunthor, get your bow out and barricade this door as soon as I’m through it.”
“You’re not going out there alone, are you?” Rhapsody put her arm around a small boy who was beginning to sob in fright.
“I’m at my best when I’m alone. Now get them upstairs.”
Achmed cracked open the door. The guards had not yet entered the hall where the children had been kept. Quickly he slipped through the door and Grunthor closed it behind him. The giant slid the crossbar in place before going to the library desks and quietly stacking them on their sides to form a barricade near the stairs.
Rhapsody gently ushered the children up the steps. Despite her best efforts, she could not hide the concern in her voice.
Slinking through the shadows like a cat, Achmed traversed the long hall unseen, even though some of the brigands entered the room before he had finished. The men carried themselves with the gait of the well-trained and were well armed. All but their leader wore ring mail, and several carried crossbows.
Crouching in the corner, all but invisible, Achmed closed his eyes and listened. He counted fifteen soldiers, not including the nine who had been left outside the main door, and their leader. He cursed himself for letting Rhapsody and the children get caught in the tower, but it had been the preferable option. At least while they were there Grunthor could hold their attackers at bay for a long time while he picked them off slowly from outside.
Achmed decided to get a start on that. He crept through the door Grunthor had smashed from its hinges, into the long, bloodstained hall, and through the outer windows that lined it. The nine men outside the House died before their leader had left the garden.
Inside, Grunthor waited patiently behind his makeshift fortress of desks. He kept an arrow nocked to his long recurved bow, and had stuck the tip of his snickersnee in the floorboards near him. After a moment, he heard a slight rattling of the door, then a series of thuds, like a man trying to shoulder his way in.
Grunthor smiled. This door was thick, and even he would have had serious trouble smashing it in without the aid of a log. Then they heard a light noise, as if someone was knocking.
“Hello? Is anyone home?” It was a man’s voice, warm and pleasant, tinged with humor. “It isn’t very nice of you to lock me out of my house, you know. Let’s be reasonable, shall we?—let me in. I know you’re in there.”
“BUGGER OFF!” Grunthor roared.
Suddenly the door burst apart in an explosion of dark fire. Burning splinters flew across the room, flames burned in black hues, and smoke filled the air.
Six or seven soldiers ran into the room. Grunthor began loosing his yard-long arrows. He heard the distinctive thud of crossbow bolts embedding in the heavy oak desks, and returned fire. One crossbowman was down; his other shots had missed the two who had leapt for cover.
Of more immediate concern were the three swordsmen who charged across the room toward his makeshift barricade. He managed to down one of them with an arrow in the thigh before the other two jumped the desks. More followed from the door. The first met with an arrow driven by Grunthor’s hand into his chest; the second managed to get to his feet before the huge fist of the Bolg smashed into his face, crushing the front of his skull.
Grunthor grabbed his snickersnee as four ran around the sides of the barricade. The giant had to stay on his knees to avoid the crossbow bolts that were slamming into the staircase and the desks in front of him. With a quick lunge and a thrust, he dispatched the first, but he knew he would momentarily be flanked and outnumbered.
The Sergeant parried the blow of the next and turned to defend against the third, only to find the man spinning to the ground with a smoldering wound in his forehead.
A lithe form sped across his field of vision as Rhapsody left her victim and engaged the other man who had made it past the barricade. Grunthor smiled as he turned his own attentions on the soldier who was attacking him. He was surprised when the man was able to parry his blow without losing his grip on his sword. Grunthor lunged, thrust, and slashed, with little effect, receiving a deep cut to his forearm before dispatching the well-trained guard.
“Nice form, soldier,” he said to the corpse in admiration.
He turned to assist Rhapsody just in time to see her knocked down by a kick to her knees. He cleaved her opponent in two and Rhapsody quickly regained her feet.
“Oi’m quite glad to see you, miss.”
Rhapsody smiled. “The feeling’s mutual,” she said.
They turned to face any new adversaries about to rush them when they were knocked off their feet by another sudden explosion of dark fire that set the countless bookshelves aflame.
As Achmed slipped behind the altar in the garden, he saw the man with the wolves raise his hand. A blast of black fire sprang forth from his palm, blowing the heavy tower door into pieces. At once a number of his troops rushed the door.
Achmed flexed his hand, then raised his cwellan to his eyes to sight his targets with care. The first to fall were the two guards who stood by the doors to the garden. The next shot was aimed at the man in the gray hooded cloak.
The leader turned as the silver disks approached his head, but the missiles never hit their mark. Instead, the shining projectiles flared suddenly and burned away within inches of the man’s eyes. He smiled as he raised his hand.
At once a ball of ebony flame sailed through the air and exploded at the base of the stone altar. The ground shook slightly, the frames that held the dead children collapsed to the ground, and the stone altar cracked, but Achmed backed away, uninjured.
As he heard the footfalls of soldiers rush into the garden, Achmed sprang once more into action, loosing a deadly hail of disks into the eyes and throats of the brigands, but their commander was out of his line of fire. At the entrance to the hall, a wall of dark flames had risen to block his way. Achmed swore, and moved swiftly to t
he main door, the only other route he knew to the tower. Silently he cursed the fact that the fires were black; obviously the lore of such dark power had not been lost with the Island.
Grunthor and Rhapsody rolled quickly to their feet as the fire spread and the smoke choked the air. In the doorway they could see the silhouette of a man. Grunthor grabbed one of the hand axes from his weapons belt and hurled it at the figure. The twirling hatchet never reached its mark, vanishing in a dark flash.
“Come now,” the voice said, “you’re trapped here—throw down your weapons and I will let the fires fall. Refuse, and I shall be forced to let you burn to death.”
The voice in the shadow of the flames was sweet and rich, like honey on a warm day. Something in the words made her think back to their time after exiting the Root.
And then there’s the fire.
What about the fire?
Come here. Take off your scabbard and leave it there.
There. So what?
Now have a look at the fire.
I see it.
Good; now walk slowly toward it.
Gods, what’s happening?
It’s you, miss. See? But if you don’t stop it, you’re gonna burn up my lit’le den ’ere, maybe set the whole forest ablaze.
Rhapsody closed her eyes, and calmed her spirit. She concentrated on the fire.
“Be at peace,” she said.
At once the flames responded, the bonfire fed by the books and scrolls died down to flickering embers.
From the door she heard cursing and within her heart she felt a tug at the edge of her perceptions. At once the fires began to rise back to life.
Panic shot through her, and in response the flames burst forth even higher. She realized her mistake and quelled the flames once more, but she felt effort in the act, as if another will was struggling with hers. She gripped the sword tightly and tried to channel her thoughts and feelings through the blade. The effect was immediate. The fires were snuffed out, and a howl of frustration and pain came from the doorway.