Rhapsody
“What is it?” Rhapsody asked, looking down at the feathery script on the cracked pages, dried and worn with time despite their careful storage.
“It’s one of Gwylliam’s most valued manuscripts, the documents he considered most sacred,” Achmed said, smiling slightly. “You should see the second library within the hidden vault. There are plans for parts of Canrif he wanted to build, and a few that he did that we haven’t seen. Books brought from Serendair—a whole race’s history. This seems to be a family registry, the royal annals of births and deaths, and family trees. It appears to be written in the same language as that contract was.”
Rhapsody studied the frail page. “Actually, this is real Ancient Serenne, not just the script like that was.”
“Can you make anything out?”
She turned the pages carefully, feeling pieces of the paper crumble beneath her fingers. Tracing carefully, she found the line of the royal family that she had known. Trinian, crown prince at the time of their leaving Serendair, had been four generations before Gwylliam. She passed this information on to Achmed, then turned the page, following the faded ink.
Suddenly her face went pale. Achmed noted the change in the light of the fire on the hearth, which suddenly leapt as if in panic.
“What’s the matter?”
“Look where the line ends,” she said, pointing to the last entries on the page. “Gwylliam and Anwyn had two sons. The elder, and heir apparent, is listed as Edwyn Griffyth.”
“And the younger?”
She looked up into his face, her emerald eyes wide in the light of the blazing fire.
“Llauron.”
You know, it’s possible the name is the same for two different people,” Achmed said as Rhapsody stared into the fire and drank the rest of the wine in her goblet. “What’s the likelihood that either of Gwylliam’s sons would have survived the war that killed their father, who was supposedly immortal?”
“Who knows?” Rhapsody said dully. “I suspect it is the Llauron we know, though.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Little things. He had a fascinating device in his glass garden that provided the equivalent of summer rain indoors in the middle of winter. He said his father had built it for his mother.”
“That would count against your theory, I would think; Gwylliam hated Anwyn.”
Rhapsody opened the book again. “Not always. And stop it; you’re baiting me. I know you think it’s the same Llauron, too.”
“You’re right, I do. Gwylliam was, if nothing else, a visionary as an inventor; everything in Ylorc attests to that.”
“And Llauron wants to see the Cymrians reunited. He said it was his hope for peace that made him believe in the need for the reunification, but now I wonder if it’s just a lust for power.”
The Warlord sat on the edge of the table. “This is the religious leader of more than half a million people, who lives like a well-paid gardener. Why would he be likely to want the trappings of royalty just because he was Gwylliam’s heir, when he could have them now and doesn’t bother?”
“I have no idea.” She searched the book but could find no further entry. “It’s hard for me to imagine this lovely man having any nefarious thoughts whatsoever. I mean, when I was brought to him I was totally at his mercy, and he showed me nothing but kindness. He reminds me of my grandfather. It turns out he is the son of this world’s biggest bastard, with dragon blood to boot. Well, at least that explains how he knew things about me without asking; legends say dragons can sense things like that. I wonder what else he knows about us.”
Achmed sighed and closed the book in front of her. “This dovetails nicely into our talk about Jo. By now you know Grunthor and I have both had some contact in the old world with demonic entities.”
Rhapsody rolled her eyes. “Yes.”
“Don’t be rude to your sovereign; I’m not being sarcastic. Several types of demons—not just the ancient ones we have been discussing—are able to bind people to themselves, and their victims don’t even know it. It’s possible that anyone we meet here, if they have been in contact with such an entity, is working for an evil master, willingly or not. Trust me; I know what I am talking about here.” He stared at her so intensely that she had to look away.
“And you think that’s true of Jo?”
Achmed sighed. “No, not really. But I don’t know that it isn’t true, either. Rhapsody, you are too willing to trust, especially in the circumstances we find ourselves. You’re busy adopting half the known world, trying to make up for what you’ve lost.”
She looked back up at him and smiled, though her chin trembled slightly. “That may be true. But adopting one person as my brother saved my life.”
It was Achmed’s turn to look away to save her from seeing his own smile. “I know. What are the odds of good coming out of it again? Look, I have nothing against Jo, and Grunthor seems to like her, too. I think it’s just better not to trust anyone but the three of us among ourselves.”
“Better, or safer?”
“Same thing.”
“Not for me,” she said vehemently. “I don’t want to live like that.”
The Warlord shrugged. “Suit yourself. Behave as you have been, and you may not live like that. But remember, there are worse things than dying. If you are bound to a demonic spirit, particularly the kind from the ancient era, the time you spent with Michael, the Wind of Death, will seem like paradise, and will last for eternity.”
Rhapsody shoved the book away and rose from the table. “I’ve had enough of this. I’m going to sing my patients to sleep.”
Achmed swallowed his annoyance. If ever there was a waste of time, it was the hours she spent ministering to the wounds of the non-mortally injured Firbolg, dabbing them with herbal tonics for pain and singing to them to chase away their anxiety.
“Well, that’s a useful investment of your evening. I’m sure the Firbolg are very appreciative, and will certainly reciprocate your ministrations if you should ever need something.”
Rhapsody’s brow furrowed, and she turned back to him. “What does that mean?” The light of the flickering fire caught in her eyes and hair, making them gleam intensely in the dark.
Achmed sighed. “I’m trying to tell you that you will never see any return for your efforts. When you are injured or in pain, who will sing for you, Rhapsody?”
She smiled knowingly. “Why, Achmed, you will.”
The Firbolg king snorted. “Don’t you want to see what’s in the chest?”
She paused near the door. “Not particularly. And definitely not if it’s going to make me find out that Lord Stephen is responsible for the sinking of the Island of Serendair and the Plague. A few more days like this and I’ll be as paranoid as you.”
Achmed ignored her words and opened the chest, pulling back the dry velvet covering. He lifted the contents aloft, and it caught the light of the fire; it was a horn.
Rhapsody stopped in spite of herself. “Is that the council horn? The instrument that calls the Cymrians together in council?”
“The very one.”
She stared at it, dumbfounded, for a moment. Despite its centuries in the vault, the horn was shining as bright as a spring morning. There was good cheer in the air that clung to it, a sense of hope that only moments before had been driven utterly from the room.
“All right,” she said at last, “so what are we going to do with it?”
Achmed shrugged. “Nothing at the moment. Maybe we’ll fill it with wine to celebrate your successful trip to Roland next week. Or decorate your birthday cake with it. Or maybe Grunthor and I will get very drunk, use it to summon the surviving members of the council to the Moot outside the Teeth, and piss on them all. Who knows? I just thought you might want to know we have it.”
Rhapsody laughed. “Thank you. Maybe you might learn how to play it, and then you can come accompany me on my nightly lullabye rounds.”
Achmed set the horn back in the case. “Rhapsody,
I can assure you, all of the things I just mentioned and more will happen before that does.”
50
Tristan Steward, High Lord Regent of Roland and Prince of Bethany, stood at the window in his library, wondering if his counselors and his fellow regents, gathered in his keep for his annual meeting, had gone collectively mad.
From shortly after breakfast that morning to the present they had come, one by one, and had interrupted his work with insistent, if polite, suggestions that he entertain the uninvited guest that was waiting patiently in the foyer of his keep.
Tristan had refused each time, citing an overload of pressing grain treaties and a decided lack of protocol. Once he had been told the emissary was from the Bolglands he was even more unwilling to consider the possibility.
Yet here was Ivenstrand, Duke of Avonderre, second among his fellows only to Stephen Navarne, both in title and in the Lord Regent’s estimation, tapping like a timid woodpecker on his door and peeking in like a chambermaid.
The Lord Roland sighed. “Gods, not you, too, Martin. First the chamberlain, them the High Counselors, and the other dukes, and now you? What is so bloody pressing that you keep me from my work?”
Ivenstrand cleared his throat. “Ah, Your Highness, I think perhaps this is a visitor you will want to meet. I took the liberty of bringing her to your office in case you decided to do so.” He looked nervously at the Regent.
The Lord Roland slammed shut the atlas that he had been trying to study. “Fine. I can see I’ll have no peace unless I do.” With a glare he strode to the door and past Ivenstrand, only to stop and turn back again. “Did you say ‘her’?”
“Yes, m’lord.”
Roland shuddered. It was bad enough that the Bolg had sent an emissary to his keep; undoubtedly the place would need to be aired afterward. But a female one—the thought staggered him and pushed his irritation into the level past full-blown. He marched to his office in fury.
The chamberlain was standing at the rightmost of the double doors, averting his eyes. He had caught the expression on Roland’s face and tried to slide closer to the wall as the Lord Regent approached. He opened the door for him and announced the guest.
“M’lord, the Lady Rhapsody, out of the lands of Ylorc.”
“What? What nonsense is this?” demanded Roland of the chamberlain. “I’ve never heard of any such place. Stand aside.”
He stalked into the library, bracing himself for the sight of the monstrous emissary. The new Firbolg warlord was either a coward or a genius for sending a Bolg female in the hopes that she would not be put to the sword immediately.
She was small for a Bolg. Her back was turned to the door as she stared up at the arched ceiling above her, admiring the ornate carving. The emissary was attired in a plain, unremarkable winter cape and hood, and appeared to be wearing trousers. Somehow the Lord Regent wasn’t surprised by the lack of court clothing. As soon as she heard him enter the library she wheeled and dropped a low, elegant curtsy. Roland was taken aback, as he had not expected her to do much more than soil the floor with spittle.
“What is it? What do you want?”
The female looked up, and Roland was caught off-guard by the correction of his many wrong assumptions. That she was not Firbolg was surprise enough; her other attributes were cause for astonishment that he could not overcome.
Rhapsody smiled at the Lord Roland. “I’m here with a message from His Majesty, King Achmed of Ylorc.” Her smiled broadened as she thought of the official Firbolg appellations she had left off—the Glowering Eye, the Earth-Swallower, the Merciless. “He has asked that I deliver it to you on his behalf, as you have not yet sent official ambassadors to his court.”
Roland closed his mouth; he was unsure how long it had been hanging open. “You are not Firbolg.”
“No. Should I be?”
Tristan Steward shook his head numbly. “Definitely not. I mean, no. No, you don’t have to be.” He cringed inwardly at how stupid he knew he sounded.
“Thank you.” Rhapsody smiled respectfully, but Roland could see amusement glitter in her amazing green eyes. He took a deep breath and tried to recover his composure.
“Sit down. Please. Chamberlain, take this lady’s cloak for her. Would you care for some refreshment?”
“Thank you. And no, thank you.” Rhapsody sat in the curved walnut chair he pointed to after removing her cloak and handing it to the chamberlain, causing another moment of awkward silence. Finally, as though shaking off sleep, the chamberlain shook his head, took her cloak, and left, with a bow to the Regent.
The Lord Roland walked hurriedly behind his desk and sat down himself, hoping it would shield him somewhat from the pleasant effect she was having on his physiology. He was, after all, publicly betrothed.
“So, before you tell me your message, indulge me, if you will: where or what is Ylorc, and why do you come on behalf of the Firbolg warlord?”
Rhapsody folded her hands patiently. “Ylorc is the Firbolg name for the old Cymrian lands that were once called Canrif. I am here as his messenger, on behalf of my sovereign.”
The Lord Roland swallowed, and Rhapsody tried not to laugh. She could read his thoughts plainly on his face: the idea of her being subservient to a Firbolg ruler was clearly disgusting to him. She decided not to let his prejudice bother her. Unconsciously she crossed her legs, and watched as his face turned magenta. When he came back to at least partial lucidity, he addressed her sternly.
“What is the message?”
“It involves the annual custom of Roland that your soldiers call ‘Spring Cleaning,’ the practice of ransacking Firbolg border villages and encampments.”
“I know the practice; what of it?”
“It needs to cease, immediately and in perpetuity, beginning this year.”
The Lord Roland snapped out of his reverie. “Really? That’s interesting. And who does this warlord believe he is that he would make such a brash dictate to me?”
Rhapsody’s voice was calm. “He knows who he is; if you had been listening, m’lord, you would know as well. He is the king and singular ruler of the Firbolg lands, and, as such, objects, along with his counselors, including myself, to the unwarranted and heinous slaughter of innocent Firbolg citizens.”
The Regent looked at her as if she were insane. “Citizens? Are you daft? The Firbolg are monsters, and aggressive ones at that. The Spring Cleaning ritual is a defensive maneuver that has been practiced for centuries, ever since the mudspawn took over the old Cymrian lands. It eliminates the potential for the brutal raids and other border incursions that they are well known for.”
The light in Rhapsody’s eyes began to burn a little brighter, and the color of the irises began to kindle. “Really? When was the last of these brutal raids?”
Roland stared at her in silence; she met his gaze unblinkingly. Finally, he glanced about the room and looked back to her. Her eyes had not moved.
“Well, it would be difficult to cite you a specific raid. As I told you, the Spring Cleaning custom has been practiced for centuries, and has been very effective in keeping the violence at a minimum.”
Rhapsody’s face lost the last vestige of its smile. “Oh, I see. Now I understand. Violence is only violence if it is against your citizens, Lord Roland; the slaughter of the people of Ylorc doesn’t matter.”
The Regent’s mouth fell open. “People? What people? The Firbolg are monsters.”
“That’s right, you did say that earlier, didn’t you? Aggressive monsters, I believe. So, the army of Roland, under your direction, is responsible for a yearly raid that routinely destroys towns and shelters, leaving children dead and homeless. You cannot, on the other hand, name me one single example of a similar, even retaliatory raid on their part, in your lifetime, and probably not the lifetime of your grandfather. I am moved to ask, Lord Roland, since this is the case, who is it that qualifies as the aggressive monsters?”
Roland leapt to his feet. “How dare you? Who do you think you ar
e, young woman, to address me in such an insolent manner?”
Rhapsody sighed. “Once again, my name is Rhapsody. I am an emissary from the court of Ylorc. I believe my answers have been consistent, and therefore bear out the fact that I do know who I am. I must say, m’lord, I’m not sure you can say the same thing.”
His eyes began to smolder with rage. “Meaning what, exactly?”
“You see yourself as lord of a civilized and noble people, and, for the most part, you are probably right. But when a people such as yours deny the humanity of a race of individuals that builds homes and villages, makes tools and forms family groups, you are doing a far greater disservice to yourselves than you are to the innocents you kill; you become far worse monsters than you accuse them of being.”
The Lord Roland slammed his hand down on his desk. “Enough! Get out. I cannot believe I have wasted my time being insulted by the likes of you. You are a very disturbed young woman. You may look more like the previous inhabitants of the Cymrian lands, but you have the manners and attitudes of the current population.”
Rhapsody stood and stared him down. “Thank you. From what I understand of the Cymrians and their history, you have just delivered me a great compliment, however unintentional. I will leave posthaste, with two final comments.”
“Make them quickly, before I call the chamberlain.”
“That won’t be necessary; as I said, I am going. First, the other part of the message. King Achmed says to tell you that if you abide by his wishes and cease hostilities this year, he will guarantee no incursions into Roland by the Bolg.”
“The Bolg are a loose collection of brainless beasts that know only animal instinct, and could not organize an official incursion any more than they could fly. In addition, I doubt that this warlord, if he is still alive when you return with my scoffing message of refusal to him, has any control or jurisdiction over what they do.”
“Well, m’lord, you are certainly entitled to your opinion, however misinformed that may be. Allow me to pass on a bit of intelligence you might not have: the Bolg are now united, for the first time in their history, under their king. We are training them, and educating them, in many things, including the production of salable material goods for which we hope to have Roland as a trading partner.”