In the back of her mind, Rhapsody felt the urge to sing her morning aubade, but her voice would not sound. She shook her head, and as she did, she watched a shadow cross the land, a deep shadow that was moving toward Sepulvarta. She felt horror rise in her heart as the shadow fell across the Spire, and then consumed the basilica, plunging it into darkness.
In the darkness stood an old man. Rhapsody was now no more than a few feet away from him as he stood praying at an altar of a vast basilica, his face white as death. Black fire burned around him, and as he chanted, blood began to pour from his mouth and nose, staining the white vestments he wore a brilliant crimson. She watched, still unable to speak, as the dark fire consumed him.
A moment later the image cleared, and five men came into the basilica. They ran to the pool of blood where the old man’s body had been and stood over it, praying. Two of the men, a callow youth and a decrepit elderly man with hollow eyes, stared helplessly at the pool of blood on the floor. Two of the other men drew swords, and instantly began sparring across the pool. The last, an older man with a kindly face, began sorting papers and making tea for everyone, cleaning up the mess. He turned to Rhapsody and smiled, his hand extended, offering her a cup of tea as well. She shook her head, and he went about his business.
Rhapsody heard a sound at the window of the basilica, and went to look out. Traffic was the same as every other day, townspeople walking about, merchants selling their wares, all amidst a great river of blood than ran through the streets, drenching them to the knees. The people seemed oblivious to it, even as it rose above their heads, drowning them. She could hear the baker making change for the washerwoman at his window as his mouth filled with blood.
She heard a tremendous crack and looked skyward. The star on the top of the Spire dangled from the tower for a moment, then fell into the red sea that had been Sepulvarta, exactly as the star of her earlier dreams had. As it hit the street a great light slashed across the sky, blinding her. When she could see again she was sitting in the Great White Tree, the diadem of Tyrian on her brow, surrounded by Lirin who sang gently with her as the tree descended slowly beneath the waves of the ocean of blood.
There was more to the dream, but Rhapsody was jarred awake by her own screams. Oelendra was sitting on the bed across from her, holding her arms at the elbows.
“Rhapsody? Are you all right?”
Rhapsody could only stare at her and shake. She blinked hard, trying to recall the image clearly. It had obviously been a vision of some kind, a warning she was afraid to ignore. Oelendra sensed her struggle and disappeared, leaving her to find her way to clarity again.
“His warm enough?”
Rhapsody took a sip of the dol mwl and nodded. “It’s fine. Thank you for bringing it. I’m sorry to have awakened you.”
Oelendra watched in silence as her pupil drank deeply, willing her heart to stop racing. She had grown accustomed to Rhapsody’s nightmares, and was only rarely aware of them now; this was the first time she had awakened to the sound of screaming. Having heard the content of the dream, she was not surprised at the Singer’s reaction.
When Rhapsody finished she set down her mug. “I have to go to Sepulvarta in the morning.”
Oelendra nodded. “The man in the white robes fits the description of the Patriarch, certainly, although no one outside of his inner circle ever sees him, so I don’t know what he actually looks like. I don’t know who any of the others are, if they are not just symbols.”
“I recognized the young man who came in with the five as the Blesser of Canderre-Yarim,” said Rhapsody. “I met him once when negotiating a peace treaty between Roland and Ylorc, and he seemed a decent fellow. I imagine the death of the Patriarch would cause the consternation he showed in the dream.”
“Perhaps the others are the four remaining benisons,” suggested Oelendra.
“Perhaps,” said Rhapsody. “I’m sorry to have to leave so abruptly. I wish we could have more time together.”
“’Tis time,” said Oelendra simply. “You know all you need to, Rhapsody; I was wrong to say you weren’t ready. You are. You are strong, and skilled in the ways of the sword now, and have a wise and giving heart. Nothing remains but for you to follow your destiny. I will help you in any way I can. Remember that you are welcome here at any time, for as long as you want to stay. And if you do decide you have it within you to try to unite the Lirin as well as the Cymrians, come to me and I will support you in that as well.”
Rhapsody smiled at her, but there was grave sadness in her eyes. “I think it will be harder for me to say goodbye to you than to anyone I have met so far, Oelendra. In the short time I’ve been here I have felt at home for the first time since I left Serendair. It will be a little like losing my family all over again.”
“Then don’t say it,” Oelendra answered, rising and walking toward the door. “As long as someone is thinking of you here, you will have never really left. And, I can assure you, someone always will be. Try to rest. Morning will be here soon.”
“The High Holy Day in the religion of the Patriarch is the first day of summer,” said Oelendra, handing Rhapsody a saddlebag. The Singer nodded as she positioned the pack, across the back of the chestnut mare Oelendra had given her. It was a strong animal, and gentle; Rhapsody could see innate intelligence in her eyes. “If you ride overland and avoid the roads you can make it just in time.”
Rhapsody was not so sure. “Sepulvarta is two weeks from here, you said. If I don’t follow the roads I’ll get lost. I’ve never been there before.”
Oelendra smiled. “The Spire is an enormous beacon lighted by a piece of a star. If you concentrate, you should be able to feel it in your soul, even without Daystar Clarion. With the sword to guide you to it, you will never be lost. No Lirin soul is ever lost under the stars at night, anyway.”
“My grandfather used to say the same thing about sailors,” said Rhapsody, smiling. Her smile dimmed as she heard her mother’s voice again.
If you watch the sky and can find your guiding star, you will never be lost, never.
“I have one last lesson for you, one you mustn’t forget,” said Oelendra, her eyes glistening. “I would have told you this one day, but I didn’t know our time together would end so quickly.
“In the old land, there was a brotherhood of warriors called the Kinsmen. They were masters of the craft of fighting, and dedicated to the wind and the star you were born beneath. They were accepted into the brotherhood for two things: incredible skill forged over a lifetime of soldiering, and a selfless act of service to others, protecting an innocent at threat of one’s own life.
“Someday you may attain this honor, Rhapsody; you are excellent Kinsman material. You will know if you have by the sound of the wind in your ear, whispering to your heart. I have never met one in this new land; I don’t know if the brotherhood still exists. But if it does, a Kinsman will always answer your cry for help on the wind if you are one yourself. Listen well, and I will teach it to you.” In a quavering voice Oelendra began to sing. The words were in Old Cymrian.
By the Star, I will wait, I will watch, I will call and will be heard.
“Don’t forget to call if you have to,” said Oelendra. “I don’t know if I will hear you, but if I do you can be certain I will come to you.”
Tears stung Rhapsody’s eyes. “I know you will. Don’t worry, Oelendra, I’ll be fine.”
“Of course you will.”
Rhapsody patted the mare. “Well, I had best be off. Thank you for everything.”
“Nay, Rhapsody, thank you for everything,” the Lirin warrior replied. “You’ve brought far more here than you leave with. Travel well, and be safe.”
Rhapsody leaned down and kissed the ancient cheek. “I’ll tell you all about it when I return one day.”
“’Twill be a marvelous tale, to be sure,” said Oelendra, blinking back tears. “Now, go. You have a long day’s ride ahead of you.” She gave the horse a gentle slap on the flank and waved as
Rhapsody rode off, the latest in a long line of pupils to carry her prayers forward with them. Somehow it was different this time, she knew. She didn’t dare to hope anymore; she had seen too many young champions take their leave, never to return. But this time, her heart was riding off with this one. If she never returned, it wouldn’t, either.
26
The ride to Sepulvarta proved to be invigorating. Summer was preceding her by a day like an elusive quarry as she rode northeast, following its trail of new grass and reborn needles on the evergreen trees that lined the forest. Each day the air grew warmer, the leaves fuller, the meadow grass higher, and Rhapsody felt the fire in her soul growing stronger in the flourishing heat. The blossoms and pale leaves of spring had given way to rich green foliage that shaded the ground, ground that grew drier and firmer in the advent of the season of the sun.
The rush of the wind, the pounding of the horse’s hooves, the speed of her desperate journey loosed a wildness in Rhapsody that had been held in check for too long. She had pulled the ribbon from her hair the first day she left the forest and entered the wide plains of Roland; her tresses streamed behind her as she and her mount flew over the ground. She turned her face to the sun and drank in its warmth, letting the burning rays of midday shine down on her countenance, turning her rosy skin a golden pink. By the time she had crossed the fields of Bethany and Navarne she felt healthier and stronger than she ever remembered being.
It took eleven days of furious travel to reach the outskirts of the city of Sepulvarta. The star-topped spire had been in view for three days before that. Rhapsody had first seen it at night, glowing dimly in the distance. It looked exactly as it had in her vision, and the sight of it caused her dreams that night to be especially intense. The nightmare that had made her undertake this journey had returned to her almost every night, a nagging reminder of her need to press on with all possible speed.
The road to the city was teeming with people, pilgrims on their way to the holy shrines, clergy traveling to and from assignments, as well as the typical humanity that wandered the thoroughfares from province to province, looking for commerce or other interaction, some honorable, some nefarious. It was fairly easy to blend in with the crowd and wend her way past the gates of the city proper, winding up eventually at the rectory of Lianta’ar, the Great Basilica of Sepulvarta, high on the hill at the outskirts of the city. It was a beautiful marble building attached to the basilica itself, its engraved brass doors guarded by soldiers in bright uniforms. Rhapsody tied her horse to the hitching area, tended to the mare’s needs with water and oats, and approached the guards directly.
She had not gotten within ten feet of them when their spears crossed, one in front of the other.
“What do you want?”
Rhapsody stood up as straight as she could. “I need to see His Grace.”
“Days of Pleas are in the winter; you’re too late.”
She felt the fear she had carried since the first nightmare had come dissolve into irritation. “I have to see him anyway. Please.”
“No one sees the Patriarch, even on Days of Pleas. Go away.”
Impatience was threatening to take over. Rhapsody kept her voice as calm as she could. “Please tell His Grace that the Iliachenva’ar has come to stand as his champion. Please.” The guards said nothing. “All right,” she said, attempting to control her rage, “until you take my message to the Patriarch you will be unable to deliver any other.” She spoke the name of silence.
The guards looked at each other, then began to laugh. Pity crossed Rhapsody’s face as they found themselves utterly without sound, and their faces contorted in confusion and fear. The younger of the two men clutched at his unresponsive throat, while the more experienced guard leveled his spear at her.
“Now, now, don’t get testy,” she said, looking unimpressed. “If you really want to set to it here in the street, I’d be glad to oblige, but I’m afraid my weapon is far better than yours; it really would be unfair. Now, please, gentlemen, I’ve been traveling for a long time and I really have no more patience left. Either take my message to the Patriarch, or get ready to defend yourselves.” She gave them her warmest smile to take the threat out of her words.
The younger of the two guards blinked, and his face went slack. He looked at the other guard, then back at Rhapsody, before turning and entering the rectory. The other guard kept his spear leveled at her. She, in turn, sat down on the stone steps of the manse to wait.
The view of the city from the steps of the rectory was majestic, sweeping from one edge of the hill to the other. Many of the buildings of Sepulvarta were constructed of white stone or marble, and the resulting effect was a city that glinted in sunlight, appearing somehow otherworldly, like a disappointing vision of the afterlife. Some of the ethereal light was doubtless imparted by the enormous pinnacle in the center of the city. The Spire was so tall that it looked down on the top of the basilica, despite the church being set on the hilltop hundreds of feet above the city itself. When the sun caught a facet of the star a broad slash of light flashed through the air, making the rooftops gleam in momentary glory.
The guard returned just as Rhapsody had decided to stand and stretch her legs.
“Please come with me.”
She followed him up the stone steps and through the heavy brass doors.
The bright sun of the city disappeared the moment Rhapsody entered the rectory. There were few windows, and the marble walls blotted out the light completely, leaving a dark and dismal feel to the interior of the beautiful building. Heavy tapestries hung on the walls and ornate brass candlesticks held large wax cylinders that provided the only light. The pungent scent of incense did little to mask the sharp odor of mildew and stale air.
She was led down several long hallways, past sallow-faced men in clerical black who stared at her as she walked by. Finally the guard stopped before a large carved door of black walnut and opened it slowly for her. He gestured with his hand, and Rhapsody went into the room.
It was approximately the same size as the meeting room behind the Great Hall in the Cauldron, with a large gilt star embossed on the floor. Other than that it was without ornament, and unfurnished except for a heavy black walnut chair sitting atop a rise of marble stairs, similar to a throne but without the grandeur customarily associated with one. In the chair sat a tall, thin man in richly embroidered robes of golden silk patterned with a silver star. He regarded her sternly as she stopped before him; he was no one she had ever seen before, not even in her dreams. She waited for him to speak.
He continued to watch her for a long moment, then his brow darkened. “Well? What did you want to see me about?”
Rhapsody let her breath out slowly. “Nothing.”
The stern face molded into an expression of anger. “Nothing? Then why were you so insistent? Don’t toy with me, young woman.”
“I believe you are the one who is toying with me,” answered Rhapsody as politely as she could, though a hint of her anger did creep into her tone. “I need to see the real Patriarch. Misrepresentation of this nature hardly becomes him, or you.”
The anger vanished from his face in the flood of bewilderment that followed her statement. “Who are you?”
“As I told the guards, I’m the Iliachenva’ar. It’s all right if you don’t understand what that means; I’m not here to see you. But the Patriarch does understand, or will, if you haven’t seen fit to tell him I’m here yet. Now, with all due respect, sir, please take me to see him. There isn’t much time.”
The man stared at her for a moment, then rose. “His Grace is in preparation for the High Holy Day celebration. No one can see him.”
“Why don’t you let him make that decision?” Rhapsody asked, folding her arms. “Really, I think you will find he wants to see me.”
He considered her words. “I will ask him.”
“Thank you. I am grateful.”
The man nodded and came down the stairs. He paused as he came past her, loo
king her up and down, and then left the room. Rhapsody sighed and glanced up at the ceiling. It was constructed of marble as well; the unrelenting solidity made her feel entombed. She itched to get back outside into the air again.
After what seemed like an eternity the door opened once more, and the man she had spoken with returned, attired in simple clerical black this time. He gestured for her to follow him, and she did, down more endless corridors until she was so deep within the building that she had totally lost her bearings.
Finally they entered a long hall of simple cells, many with open doors, that looked like a hospice. As they walked past she could see that each room contained a single bed, or occasionally two, with reclining figures beneath white linen sheets, sometimes moaning in pain or muttering in dementia. The man stopped before a closed door near the end of the hallway, knocked, and opened it. He gestured for her to enter.
Rhapsody came into the room, vaguely aware of the door closing behind her. In the bed rested an elderly man, frail of body, with a fringe of snow-white hair and bright blue eyes that twinkled merrily in the prison of his fragile physical form. He was dressed in the same white linen bedsmock as the other patients she had seen on the hall, and Rhapsody recognized him instantly as the cleric in her dreams. A look of awe came over his face as she came to him, and he held a shaking hand out to her.
“Oelendra?” His voice was a thin croak. “You have come?”
Rhapsody took his hand gently and sat down on the stool beside the bed so he would not have to crane his neck to see her. “No, Your Grace,” she said softly. “My name is Rhapsody. I am the Iliachenva’ar now. Oelendra trained me. In fact, I just came from training with her.”
The elderly priest nodded. “Of course, you are far too young to be her. I should have realized it when you came in. But when they told me a Liringlas woman who said she was the Iliachenva’ar had come—”