Rhapsody rose as well. “Yes. Show me the Loritorium. I’ve been thinking about it since I left for Elynsynos’s lair.”
The Firbolg king specifically positioned himself at the entrance to the underground vault so he could watch Rhapsody’s face as she entered the Loritorium for the first time. Despite being prepared for her reaction, he felt a chill run through him as the wonder of the sight spread slowly across her countenance, lighting it with a glow that rivaled the sun in the world above.
“Gods,” she murmured, turning slowly beneath the high marbled ceiling, staring into the firmament of the cavern. “What a beautiful place. And what a shame that no one ever saw it finished. It would have been an unrivaled work of art.”
“I’m glad you like it,” he said impatiently, annoyed by the reaction he had experienced yet again in watching her. Rhapsody’s extraordinary beauty was a source of power he had made glad use of when it served his purposes. He was not happy to be reminded that he was occasionally vulnerable to it himself as well. “Now can you please help us determine what this silver hrekin is.” He pointed to a pool of the glimmering liquid. It shone up from the cracks between the marble slabs, the puddle noticeably smaller than it had been when he first found it.
Rhapsody bent over the gleaming liquid and extended a hand toward it. She felt a strong vibration dance across her outstretched fingertips, causing them to tingle, then burn. She closed her eyes and hummed her naming note, trying to discern the origin of the vibration.
Her mind suddenly filled with a jumble of images, some thrilling, some of them ghastly. The swirl of pictures caught her off balance and involuntarily she stepped back.
“What is it?” Achmed asked as he gripped her arm, helping her regain her equilibrium.
“It’s memory,” Rhapsody said, rubbing her eyes. “Pure, liquid memory.” She looked around the square at the altars placed at each of the directional points, then walked to each of them, trembling with excitement. She pointed at the case designed to hold one of the August Relics that had been shaped somewhat like a stone birdbath.
“Listen,” she said, trying to remain calm. “Can you hear the song?”
“Stay back, miss,” Grunthor warned. “It’s trapped.”
“I know,” Rhapsody said. “It’s telling me that, too.”
“What is?” Achmed demanded.
Rhapsody’s face glowed even brighter. “In that basin is a single drop of water—can you see it?” The Bolg squinted, then nodded. “It’s one of the Ocean’s Tears, a rare and priceless piece of living water, the element in its purest form.” She whirled and pointed to another of the cases, a long, flat altar carved from beautiful marble in muted shades of vermilion and green, brown and purple.
“And that is a slab of Living Stone,” she continued, “still alive from when the Earth was born.”
“The Earthchild is formed from the same substance,” Achmed reminded her.
“It looks as if the case for wind is empty,” Rhapsody said. She pointed to the hole in the vaulted ceiling overhead. “I would guess that Gwylliam intended that to be the place where he would house the piece of a star, the seren—ether—that he brought with him from the Island. The manuscripts you showed me seemed to indicate it.
“That explains how these pools of memory were formed. Action causes vibration, and vibration remains behind, dissipating only when it blends with other vibration or is swallowed by the wind or the sea, the two greatest repositories of vibration. This place was sealed, airtight, and filled with pure and powerful forms of elemental lore, like the altar of Living Stone and the Ocean’s Tears. All that magic blended with the vibrations of what transpired here and made the memory solid.” She bent beside the little gleaming pool. “I suspect it has begun to dissipate since you opened the tunnel and let in some of the air from the world above. Still, centuries of trapped vibrations have left a strong signature in this place.”
Achmed nodded. “And can you discern from that liquid memory whether or not the firewell was plugged intentionally, or by accident?”
Rhapsody walked over to the blocked fountain in the heart of the Loritorium and walked around it slowly. The heat from the vent grew suddenly more intense, as if the fire beneath it was responding to her presence. She closed her eyes and reached her hand out to the plugged pipe, then let her fingers come to rest on it. As her mind cleared, she began to hum a note of discerning.
Grunthor and Achmed watched in amazement as silver mist from the pool around the fountainhead rose into the air like heavy rain, forming an indistinct image of a human figure. The figure was hazy, its actions not clear, but it seemed to be looking over its shoulder. It turned and approached the fountain, then dissipated into the air.
Rhapsody opened her eyes, and in the torchlight the men could see them gleaming in emerald intensity.
“The answer to your question is yes, it was deliberate,” she said quietly. “The fountainhead was plugged, as were the other wells that vented the smoke from Gwylliam’s forges. All that caustic vapor was directed into the Colony.” A moment later she lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Achmed waited for her to come around again, anxious for more details and the chance to question her further. After a few minutes he saw her eyes clear.
“Now I remember,” she said softly, almost to herself. She turned to the two Bolg. “The man who plugged the fountainhead did so on purpose, and a long time ago. I had seen him once before, though I didn’t recognize him at first.”
“But you eventually remembered who he was?” Achmed asked.
“Well, in a way. When we first came here, when we were exploring the royal bedchambers of Canrif, I had a vision of Gwylliam sitting morosely on the edge of his bed, a corpse with a broken neck lying beside him.” Achmed nodded. “The man who plugged the vent was that corpse.”
“Can you describe him?”
Rhapsody shrugged. “Unremarkable in appearance, blond hair with traces of gray in it, and blue-green eyes. Other than that I don’t recognize him from any surviving manuscripts or frescos we have found. But it doesn’t matter. If that was the F’dor’s host, and somehow I suspect that it was, it has taken on another host by now, since that man is dead.”
Achmed exhaled slowly. “So the F’dor knew about the existence of the Colony.”
“So it appears.”
“It must know the Earthchild is here, then. That means it will be back.”
“Is that residue in the channels cleared?”
Achmed twisted the oily rags into a knot and tossed them into a heap at the edge of the Loritorium’s square. He ran a finger through the gutter below the nearest streetlamp.
“Yes, at least near enough to keep from igniting when you open the wellhead.” Rhapsody looked at him askance, and he bristled, then turned to Grunthor for confirmation. “What do you think, Sergeant?”
The giant Bolg was otherwise occupied. He was standing before the altar of Living Stone, gazing down at it as if listening to distant music. Finally he shook his head as if shaking off sleep, and turned to see the quizzical expressions on both of his friends’ faces.
“Hmmm? Oh, sorry, sir. It’s clear enough, Oi suspect.”
“What about the vents, Grunthor?” Rhapsody asked. “Can you tell if there will be any adverse affect on the Colony if this is unsealed?”
Grunthor closed his eyes and stretched out a massive hand; he brought it gently down on the altar, trembling slightly, as if touching a lover’s face for the first time. The thrill of the contact almost unbalanced him. It shot through his fingertips and up his arm, setting his shoulder afire with heat and life.
Within his mind he could see the veins of the earth around him, the ravines and cracks in stone and clay layer, the strata of rock above them, surrounding them. He let his mind follow the vent of the firewell through its ancient outlets and intakes, noting their unobstructed passageways. The sensation was a bit akin to following a dear friend through the hallways of a beloved ancestral estate, each nook and special
alcove lovingly proffered for viewing. With great difficulty he tore his mind away before he became utterly lost to the journey.
“No, miss, it’s all clear,” he said. “What few passageways remain within the vent system ‘ave long since been emptied. Besides, the Grandmother’s dug out a few ventilation tunnels of ’er own since then.”
Rhapsody nodded, satisfied. Carefully she slid her small hands into the fountainhead’s pipe on either side of the rock that was wedged there. Basalt, Grunthor had said it was. And he had known the true name of the rock; the Earth had spoken it to him. She called on her abilities as a Namer and carefully spoke the word, singing the song of the basalt.
The rock, wedged for centuries, began to hum in the presence of its name. Rhapsody took a breath, then changed the song. Magma, she sang, just cooled, still molten. Her fingers slid further into the hot stone, now molding around them like clay. She gave the blockage a strong pull, freeing it from the fountainhead, and then heaved it to the ground before it could solidify on her hands.
With a roar, a small jet of fire from the Earth’s core leapt up through the wellhead, splashing liquid heat and light to the Loritorium’s ceiling. The flame that issued forth from the firewell was blindingly bright, the illumination so intense that the three cried out in pain to a one as it shot forth from the fountainhead. Rhapsody fell back, shielding her eyes.
In the new light the Loritorium took on an entirely different aspect. The polished marble gleamed with a new radiance, making the streets shine. The half-finished frescoes on the walls were revealed in all their exquisite detail, the intricate carvings in the stone benches made obvious for the first time. The crystal domes of the streetlamps twinkled like stars in the fire’s reflection. In but a single moment the new, pure light was banishing the darkness of the place’s ignominious history. The firejet settled into a bubbling flame, burning quietly within the confines of its receptacle.
Once her eyes adjusted, Rhapsody looked at the fire fountain with satisfaction, then around to the system of lamps and channels connected to the great repository of lampfuel. “This place will be magnificent when you finish it,” she told Achmed excitedly. “It will be perfect for scholarship and study, just as Gwylliam intended it to be.”
“Assuming we live that long,” Achmed said impatiently. “Now that the silver sludge has confirmed that the F’dor once knew about this place we have to expect that an attack will be coming. It’s just a matter of time.”
“If that was the case, why didn’t it happen before now, before the Bolg were organized?” Rhapsody asked.
“That’s what we’re bringing you down to the Colony to determine,” he said, gesturing toward the opening. “The Grandmother won’t tell us the prophecy unless we’re all there. I’m hoping there might be some answers in whatever the Dhracian sage foretold.”
Rhapsody picked up her gear and slung it over her shoulder. “I see,” she said teasingly. “Whatever that may be, we’re going to do it because some Dhracian seer said so.” She smothered a laugh at the scowl that twisted the Firbolg king’s face, then followed the two of them through the tunnel Grunthor had burrowed into the buried Colony.
Grunthor could see the annoyance building in the lines of Rhapsody’s brow, even by the light of his torch. She and Achmed had been arguing without stopping since they had left the Loritorium and begun their descent into the tunnel that led to the Colony.
“It makes even more sense that the F’dor is Llauron,” Achmed was saying, ignoring the thunderclouds building in her eyes. “He lived here, in Canrif, before the war. He very well might have had access to the Loritorium in those days. He undoubtedly plans to reform the Cymrian state—you even acknowledged that he sought your help in reuniting them—and make Ashe their Lord.”
“That makes no sense whatsoever,” Rhapsody growled. “If Llauron was the F’dor, and he wanted to make Ashe the Lord, why would he rip his chest open, and almost kill him?”
“Enough!” Grunthor snarled. “She can feel you both arguin’, and it’s upsetting ’er.”
The other two stared at him, astonished. Rhapsody recovered her voice first.
“Who, Grunthor?”
“The Sleepin’ Child, naturally. Be still now, miss. She knows you’re coming.”
The Singer looked up into the solemn face of her giant friend. “All right, Grunthor. Perhaps on our way to the Colony you can explain to me just how you know that.”
33
The Grandmother was waiting for them in the darkness at the tunnel’s end.
Her eyes ran over Rhapsody with interest, the silvery pupils expanded into thin oblong mirrors.
“Well met, Skychild,” she said.
Achmed and Grunthor looked at each other; in addition to the two voices which she had used to communicate with them, a third was now sounding, dry and sandy like Achmed’s own. This one, however, used words.
“You are late in coming.” The Grandmother’s words were full of accusation.
“I’m sorry,” Rhapsody stammered, taken aback at the brusque tone; she had not been expecting to hear spoken words, either. “I’ve been away.” She stared at the woman before her, all concerns of her own rudeness drowning in the amazement she felt.
In the Grandmother’s strange features she could see some decided similarities to Achmed; now, finally, she was able to assign to his Dhracian heritage what could not previously be seen in standard Bolg traits. They had guarded his Dhracian heritage as one of their closest secrets; she had never spoken the word to anyone save for Oelendra, not even Jo. The rare magic she could see before her explained far better than words could why it had been so important to keep the secret.
The woman was thin as a rapier, with skin that was more exposed vein than dermal covering. While in Achmed this trait had a nightmarish effect on most people, in the Grandmother it was a thing of beauty, like an ink etching or intricate body painting; at least it seemed so to Rhapsody. She reminded herself that she had never seen the woman in the light. Here in the dark, the woman was breathtaking.
Looking into the Grandmother’s eyes was much like staring into a mirror in a dark room. Black as ink but reflective, they stared back at her now, their silvery pupils drinking in the limited light. Then the woman looked at the two Bolg, and the loss of her gaze all but ripped Rhapsody’s breath away. The Grandmother’s stare was almost as hypnotic as that of Elynsynos.
In the sharpness of her features, the dryness of the air around her, Rhapsody was suddenly put in mind of animal races that were born of the wind, as the Dhracians were—crickets, with their brisk, scratching sound; raptors, with their gracefully quick movements; owls, with their unblinking gaze, best suited to the night.
The Grandmother nodded curtly, then turned and began to walk away.
“Come.”
The Three followed the Colony’s lone survivor down the dark tunnel and into the chamber of the Sleeping Child.
The large iron doors to the chamber were closed. The Grandmother paused before them, then turned to Rhapsody.
“You are a skysinger.” There was no question in her words.
“Yes.”
The Grandmother nodded. “First you will meet the Earthchild,” she said, nodding to the heavily banded doors. “Then I will take you to the canticle circle. You will find the prophecy there in its entirety. But first you must tend to the child.”
“How am I to tend to her?”
The Grandmother took one of the enormous door handles in her thin hand. “‘The wind of the stars to sing the mother’s-song most known to her soul,’” she recited. “That is the piece of the prophecy I believe applies to you. You must be her amelystik now. I will soon be too aged to do it.”
Rhapsody rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. “I don’t understand; you are going too quickly,” she said.
The black scleras of the Dhracian woman’s eyes expanded explosively. “No; you are going too slowly,” she snarled in a voice full of sandy spit. “You are late,
all of you. You should have been here long ago, when I was still strong, before Time broke me. But that did not occur.
“Nonetheless I have waited, waited alone these many years, these centuries, watching as the pendulum clock counted each hour, each day, each passing year. I have waited for you to come and relieve my watch; now you are here.
“But even now, it is not as simple as the mere passing of guardianship from my hand to yours. The child has begun to dream, is tormented by nightmares. I cannot hear them; I do not know what bedevils her mind. Only you can free that knowledge, Skychild. Only you can sing her back to a peaceful slumber. It was written in the wind. It is so.”
The last words were spoken in a voice that trembled. Rhapsody’s chest tightened; she knew the fear in those words, recognized the vulnerability behind them. The Grandmother was more than the stalwart, solitary guardian of an invaluable tool that the F’dor prized; she loved the Earthchild as her own. It was the same sound that had been in Oelendra’s voice when the lute met its destruction. The same fear that had been in the Lirin champion’s eyes when she bade her goodbye.
“I understand,” she said. “Take me to her.”
The iron doors opened with a metallic sigh, and the three companions followed the woman into the dark chamber. The Grandmother struck a spore against the cave wall, bringing forth a spark, then set about lighting the lamp over the catafalque.
Once the chamber was no longer completely dark, Rhapsody and the men drew nearer. The child rested, as she had when they first discovered the Colony, on her great stone altar, beneath a blanket of woven spider-silk as soft as eiderdown. Her smooth gray skin was still as cold-looking as stone, but there was a decided difference in her appearance since the men had seen her last. The roots and the length of her hair were green as summer grass, withering down to the dry brushy scrub ends that had once made up the entirety of her tresses. Summer was high, and the child of the Earth felt it; she was reflecting it in the only way she could here in her dark cave, away from the season of the sun.