He was following a sound that resonated in his ears as well as his blood; the namesong by which Rhapsody had called him. The song vibrated in his soul and resonated in his eardrums, through the sensitive network of veins and nerves that formed his skin-web, to the very tips of his fingers.
Achmed the Snake, come to me.
It was both a welcome sensation, and horrific one, to be summoned thus by a Namer. While the melody being chanted in the distance was perfectly attuned to his brain and the natural vibrations that he emitted in the course of drawing breath, there was still something deeply disturbing to him about his name being on the wind, even if no other living soul could hear it. Achmed had been a solitary and secretive creature his entire life.
Some habits were hard to break, some natural impulses all but impossible to overcome.
Achmed, come to me.
The winter had faded, as it always did in the middle continent during Thaw, for one turn of the moon. The ground at the base of trees was visible, dead or emergent grass in tones of pale green and gold drying in the morning wind. The snowcap, hard and frozen most of the winter, had softened to a thin, watery layer, and the breeze was warm, but did not carry the scent of spring, because the melt was false. In a few short weeks the cold would return with a vengeance, choking back any early shoots that might have come up in response to the cruel invitation the earth issued during Thaw, burying them securely under a resilient blanket of hard white ice until the turning of the season.
Still, he had to admit to himself that it was pleasant to hear Rhapsody’s voice in his ears again. She had been away from Ylorc for so many years now that he had almost grown accustomed to not hearing the morning messages she used to broadcast daily through the natural echo chamber of the ring of rocks that rose above her subterranean home in the grotto of Elysian, an underground lake in his lands.
Even though she liked living alone when she, Grunthor, and he had first come to Ylorc, away from the Firbolg who considered her a source of food and watched her hungrily when she passed by, Rhapsody was good at keeping in touch, and made of point of checking in with him each day. When she first married Ashe and moved to Navarne Achmed found to his shock that he missed her Lirin sunrise aubades and sunset devotions as well, the love songs of her people, sung to the heavens and the stars they had been born beneath, ceremonies she had marked daily all the time that he had known her. She had even continued to sing the prayers when they were traveling within the earth along the Axis Mundi, as far from the stars as it was possible to be, and so they were annoyingly ingrained in his mind, enough so that not hearing them had become even more bothersome than hearing them had been.
So it was, in a way, comforting to hear her voice again, singing his name, in the depths of his consciousness. Almost as comforting as it was disturbing.
He inhaled, allowing the air of the forest to circulate through his sensitive sinuses. Then he grimaced.
There was a taste of salt on the wind; Achmed rolled it around in his mouth, then spat it out on the ground sourly. They were a good way from the sea, and the breeze was blowing from the east, not the west, so that tang could only mean one thing.
Ashe was around here somewhere.
From what he could ascertain the droplets of salty water were a ways off; perhaps he had as much as half a day’s lead on Rhapsody’s husband. Achmed signaled to Krinsel to hurry; he wanted to have a chance to confer with the Lady Cymrian alone before Ashe showed up and distracted her completely, as he had done ever since he interposed himself in their lives four years before.
Achmed.
Achmed flinched and shook his head; the voice was different now, harsher, he thought, though when pondering a moment later he realized that it was not a good characterization of it. Is she growing impatient? he wondered as he quickened his steps, homing in on the aural beacon. Tired of being holed up in a dragon’s cave for an unknown number of months or even years, until her confinement is over and her brat born?
Finally he and Krinsel came to the banks of a placid forest lake nestled against a hillside. Its crystal waters were perfectly calm and reflected the trees that lined it like a mirror; broken chunks of ice floated lazily in the current draining into a small stream. From the descriptions Rhapsody had given him of Elynsynos’s lair, he thought this might be the reflecting pool that was fed from its depths. The grove in which the pool rested was serene, the silence broken only by an occasional chirp of birdsong, which grew lesser with each step closer toward the dragon’s lair.
He motioned to Krinsel to follow him around the quiet lake, the only sound now the trickling of the brook. The song of his name grew louder as he approached; when he got to the far shore he could tell that it was issuing forth from the entrance of a cave that was hidden in the steepest part of the hillside, obscured all but entirely by trees and the grade of the land. From the mouth of the cave a small stream flowed, emptying silently into the glassy waters of the reflecting pool.
Achmed indicated the cave entrance wordlessly, and Krinsel nodded again.
No path was visible to the eye; in fact, it seemed to Achmed that the trees that grew around the lake up to the entrance of the cave had been planted, or perhaps subtly twisted, to obscure the way, to lend yet one more layer of guardian flora to the place. Fortunately, not long after she had given him the ridiculous moniker of Achmed the Snake, Rhapsody had also retitled him with other names—Firbolg, Dhracian, Firstborn, Assassin, Unerring tracker. The Pathfinder. The words, spoken in the pure flames of the fire at the center of the earth, had imparted those traits to him, some of which he had had all his life, others of which were new. The ability to find paths was a useful addition to his skills, and he employed it now; the way through the labyrinth of trees became instantly clear to him.
He had started down the path that led to the entrance when the silence of the forest was suddenly shattered by a voice that rumbled through the forest floor, its pitch at once soprano, alto, tenor, and bass.
Stop.
Achmed froze involuntarily.
The odd voice sounded both annoyed and amused.
One does not walk, uninvited, into the lair of a dragon, unless one is a great fool. I suggest you knock, or at least announce yourself.
The words echoed up the tunnel beyond the cave entrance. They rippled unpleasantly over his sensitive skin, disrupting the agreeable vibration of his namesong that had been dancing there, irritating it and making his head throb. Beyond that, there was an inherent power to them, elemental in origin, that was unmistakably threatening.
He looked back at the Bolg midwife, whose face was set in the same stoic expression it always held, but whose eyes were glistening with fear.
“You can wait here,” he said; the woman nodded slightly, relief evident, though her expression did not change.
Achmed walked to the mouth of the cave. On the outer wall, obscured by a layer of frost and lichen, he saw some scratched runes; upon closer examination, he recognized them, and exhaled deeply. The words were carved in the ancient language of Universal Ship’s Cant, a compound tongue that was formed from Old Cymrian and the languages of the known world more than two millennia before:
Cyme we inne frid, fram the grip of deap to lif inne dis smylte land
The irony made his skin itch. This was the birthplace of the Cymrian people, the very spot where Merithyn the Explorer had carved the words given to him by his king with which he was to greet anyone he met in the new world.
Come we in peace, from the grip of death to life in this fair land.
The dragon that lived in the bottom of this cave had been fascinated with the explorer, then enamored of him; she had invited him to return home and bring his doomed people with him to refuge and safety in her lands. And the imbecile had done so, bringing with him all manner of selfish, spoiled people who had gained a sort of immortality, or at least an immense longevity, in the process. Though Merithyn died at sea on the way back, the Cymrians, as the refugees from Serendair were kn
own, then proceeded to conquer the Wyrmlands and the lands beyond, ruling undisputed, subjugating the indigenous peoples who could not withstand conquerors with such unearthly powers and life spans, only to despoil it all with their great, stupid war.
And this was where it all began.
His teeth hurt thinking about it.
“Rhapsody!” he shouted impatiently into the mouth of the cave.
The namesong abruptly ceased, ripping the pleasant vibration from his skin, leaving it humming with a slight sting.
Silence reigned for a moment. Then the multitoned voice spoke again, displeasure evident in its tone now, replacing the humor that had been there a moment before.
You may enter, Bolg king, but mind your manners.
“Huzzah,” Achmed muttered. He gestured to Krinsel to make camp outside the cave, then started down the tunnel into the dark.
The mouth of the cave began to widen a few feet in, stretching into a vast, dark tunnel that glowed farther below with a pulsing light. At the tunnel’s exterior, a starlike lichen grew on the walls of the cave, spreading out into the light of day, but thinned as the tunnel deepened and eventually disappeared.
The walls of the cave twisted in ever-growing circles as the pathway descended. Achmed could hear the sound of trickling water farther in, could smell the unmistakable odor of the forge, of brimstone burning in the tunnel’s depths. The breath of the dragon, he thought, the acrid scent irritating his sinuses. He squinted in the dark, following the glow.
He was wading now through a shallow stream that deepened the farther he went in. Rhapsody had described the lair to him years before, had told him that the wyrm lived along the banks of an inland sea. Steam rose from the water he walked through.
He lost track of time as he traversed the tunnel, much as he, Grunthor, and Rhapsody had when traveling within the Root. The sensation surprised him; he was amazed that Rhapsody was able to pass any amount of time within this subterranean cave, as it was very reminiscent of that time within the Earth’s belly. Being Lirin, a child of the sky, she had suffered every moment she was away from the open air; the journey along the Axis Mundi had been torture for her. And she had been here for months.
The rancid air blasted around him in a wave of tainted heat again, and ahead of him he could hear the sound of taloned feet scraping against the stone floor of the cave, followed by the splash of water as the beast dragged itself out. Achmed stopped as he rounded a corner and looked up.
Ahead of him the dragon loomed, filling the cave from floor to ceiling, its enormous body ethereal but with surprising mass. The immense wyrm was at least a hundred feet in length, perhaps longer, in her nonsolid state, the copper scales that clad her skin glittering in the warm light from torch-fires that illuminated the bottom of the cave, causing her skin to reflect the light like a million twinkling red stars. Her eyes were prismatic orbs bisected vertically with narrow silver pupils, and gleamed like lanterns in the darkness. And in those eyes was the unmistakable look of irritation.
“Do not upset Pretty,” the beast warned, her multitoned voice echoing through the cave. The multicolored eyes narrowed to emphasize the words that had issued forth from the very air itself.
Achmed nodded curtly. “Where is she?”
The dragon eyed him suspiciously for a moment longer, then moved to one side, allowing him to pass by her translucent body and continue deeper into the cave.
In the midst of all the treasure from the sea Rhapsody sat in a canvas hammock suspended between two walls of the cave, a trident buried into the stone up to the top of its prongs holding one end up. Achmed slowed his steps and came to a halt, watching her intently.
He barely recognized her.
She had changed physically since the festival, but at first Achmed had difficulty trying to isolate in what way she was different. Her features had seemed to sharpen, to have lost some of the softness of angle that her father’s human blood had given her otherwise Lirin face. Now her appearance was colder, more severe; the warmth of the elemental fire that she had absorbed walking through the Earth’s core had diminished, leaving her skin paler, more alabaster, less rosy than it normally was. She seemed detached; she must have heard him come in, but she did not favor him with a glance. There was an almost draconic edge to her, and Achmed swallowed angrily, bile rising in his throat at the sight.
“Are you forming this baby, or is it forming you?” he asked.
Rhapsody turned then and looked at him. Achmed’s throat tightened; her clear green eyes, emerald in the torchlight, were scored with the same vertical pupils that her husband’s eyes, and those of the dragon, had.
“Both,” she said. There was an echo in her voice that was reminiscent of the multiple tones of the wyrm, though less pronounced. “And hello to you, too.”
Achmed measured his breathing, trying to beat down the rising sense of distress that was welling up inside him.
Rhapsody slid out of the hammock then and came to him. She nodded to Elynsynos, who glared at Achmed once more and slipped deeper into the cave through a mountain of gleaming silver coins.
“It’s only to be expected that a blend of such powerful blood would have an impact on both the mother and child,” Rhapsody said calmly, but clearly disturbed by Achmed’s reaction. “It’s temporary.”
“Has Ashe seen you like this?” Achmed demanded.
Rhapsody’s brow furrowed. “Yes. Did you bring Krinsel, as I asked you to?”
“She is outside. Did you finish the translation?”
“I did,” Rhapsody said.
“Where is it?” Achmed asked, his hackles beginning to rise from the static air in the cave and the disturbing change in Rhapsody.
Rhapsody crossed her arms. “That doesn’t matter,” she said. “I am not going to give it to you, Achmed.”
The air in the damp cave suddenly seemed to go completely dry. The two friends stared at each other intently. Finally Achmed spoke, and his voice was calm, but with a deadly undertone.
“I must have misheard you.”
“You didn’t,” Rhapsody said flatly. “You cannot have this lore, Achmed—it mustn’t be used. Not now, not ever. For any reason. You must abandon your plans to rebuild the Lightcatcher, and find some other way to keep the Earthchild, and Ylorc, safe. This way will only make things more dangerous.”
The pupils in Achmed’s mismatched eyes contracted, as if drinking in a blinding light. His breath became more measured, shallower, but there were no other outward signs of the towering rage that was building within him. Both of them knew it was coming. Finally he spoke.
“Over the time I have known you, Rhapsody, you have given me many reasons and even more opportunities to kill you. You always do it so blithely that your sheer ignorance saves your life every time, because it would be difficult to summon up the initiative to terminate the existence of someone who is so clearly missing the point.” His eyes narrowed perceptibly. “This time, however, you are so willfully unaware of the thinness of the ice on which you are treading that it is breathtaking.”
Rhapsody exhaled but did not blink. “Do whatever you think you must, Achmed,” she said evenly, but with a deadly undertone of her own. “If my death at your hands is what it takes to keep you from moving forward with this folly, then it will have been worth it.”
Achmed flinched. She was using the Namer’s skill of True Speaking; there was no sarcasm, no jest in her voice.
“Why?” he spat. “Tell me what is so worrisome to you about me having this information that you would jeopardize—no, sacrifice—our friendship, and possibly your own life, to keep it from me, knowing how much I have need of it? Have you lost your mind, or just your commitment to the Earthchild and her safety?”
“Neither.” The pupils in Rhapsody’s emerald eyes expanded in the same way Achmed’s had, mirroring the control he was struggling to exert over his anger. “My commitment to keep her, and the rest of the people for whom I have responsibility, safe has not changed. Not e
ven in the face of having to refuse my dearest friend something he craves beyond reason. Whatever that costs me is a price I’m willing to pay because, unlike you, I understand what is at stake here.”
“I am fully aware of what is at stake,” Achmed said softly, menace dripping from his words. “What is at stake here is the continued existence of life, and the Afterlife. Should the F’dor find the Earthchild, they will tear her rib of Living Stone from her body, and use it to unlock the Vault of the Underworld, in which all their remaining kind are imprisoned. Once loose, the demons will destroy all that lives on the earth, for that is what they crave, but since their existence is not limited to the material world, well fed with the power of that destruction, they will use it to undo even that life which exists beyond this one. Even I, godless man that I am, find that to be a fate that I cannot allow while there is breath in my body. So why is it that you, who see yourself as the savior of the world, not to mention every lost wastrel, child, and cat, cannot see the need to help me in this totally baffles me, Rhapsody.”
She exhaled deeply, then glanced over to the wall of silver behind which the dragon had disappeared.
“For ages you have had Grunthor’s loyalty, loyalty without limits, unto death and beyond. And yet there have been times over the course of your association that he has had to refuse you, has he not?”
“There is a considerable difference between Grunthor and you,” Achmed said, the hint of a sneer in his voice. “I trust his judgment. He is wiser than me in many ways. So when he questions me, I listen, because he and I have the same basic goals in mind, and he never does it just to be cantankerous. You, on the other hand, are like a spinning top. Your ethics, while consistent, are frequently foolish, your loyalties ill placed. Ofttimes you defy me or what I mean to do for reasons that make no sense to anyone ruled by his head rather than by whatever body part rules your decisions.”