Rhapsody rubbed her hands up and down her arms, trying to fend off a sudden chill. Slowly she walked around the Child of Earth’s catafalque, her eyes absorbing the sight in the darkness pooling around the muted light from the lantern above. The wonder on her face made Grunthor’s heart twist.
Elynsynos’s words echoed in her heart.
Since dragons could not interbreed with the races of the Three, they tried to carve a human-like race out of what few fragments of Living Stone remained after the vault was made. Rare and beautiful creatures were the result. Those creatures were called Children of Earth, and had a humanoid form, or at least as close to one as the dragons could fashion. They were in some ways a brilliant creation, in other ways an abomination.
“She’s beautiful,” Rhapsody said softly.
The Grandmother nodded. “She thinks well of you, too.” She pulled the cover over the child again. “She is calmed by your vibration, by the music in the air around you.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, and she stared at the Singer. “She wonders why you hold back tears.”
Rhapsody blinked self-consciously, trying to drive the water from the edges of her eyes, and cast a wry glance at Achmed. “Crying is forbidden in the Bolg king’s presence.”
“Why do you mourn?”
“I mourn for her,” the Singer answered. “Who would not? To be condemned as she is to a living death; to never wake? For so rare and beautiful a child to never have a life? Who would not mourn for her?”
“I would not,” said the Grandmother shortly. “You are incorrect that she is without a life. This is her life, her destiny; this is what it is, what it will always be. It is to be endured, to be appreciated, just as a life of solitary guardianship is to be endured and appreciated. Just as your life is, no doubt, sometimes to be endured, sometimes appreciated. That it is not recognizable as life to you does not make it so to her. Life, what ever it is, is what it is.”
“Ryle hira,” Rhapsody whispered. The wisdom in the Lirin adage settled on her softly, like the falling of snow, until it rested solidly on her shoulders. Finally she was coming to understand fully the meaning of the words she had been taught so long ago.
The Child of Earth’s lips moved silently, as if echoing the Lirin refrain. The Grandmother quickly bent down, leaning over the child as if trying to catch the soundless words. She waited, but no more was forthcoming. She sighed silently.
“Does she speak?” Grunthor asked.
“Not as yet,” the Grandmother answered softly, running her hands along the grassy hair that faded from summer’s green to winter’s blanched gold. “The last prophecy of the greatest Dhracian sage said that she one day would, but in all this time she never has.
“From the oldest days it has been recorded that wisdom resides in the Earth and stars. All else, the churning seas, the evanescent fire, the fleeting wind, all these are too ephemeral, too transitory to hold on to the lessons taught by Time. But the stars see all, though they don’t reveal what they know. The Earth alone holds the secrets passed down through the ages, and the Earth sings; it imparts this knowledge constantly, in the changing of the seasons, the destruction and rebirth of wildfire. There is much to learn in the repositories of the Earth.
“That was one of the saving graces of going In. Though it meant that we would never see the sky again, never read the vibrations of the wind, the Earth that was a prison to us as much as it was to the F’dor was also our teacher. The Zhereditck studied the Earth’s lessons, learned its secrets. And the wind, in bidding us farewell, gave us one last message: that ultimate wisdom would come from the lips of the Earth Child.
“I have been waiting all my life to hear what she has to impart, waiting for those words of wisdom. Through the centuries she has said nothing intelligible, has given not a single answer, not one clue. But though she has formed no words, I know her heart.” The long fingers that tenderly caressed the smooth cheek trembled a little.
Lines of worry puckered the old woman’s forehead as the child began to whisper more rapidly, her eyelids twitching.
“Now her heart knows fear,” the Grandmother said. “I just cannot put a name to it.”
“Can you do anythin’ for ’er, Duchess?” Grunthor asked anxiously.
Rhapsody closed her eyes and considered the question. The mother’s song most known to her soul, the prophecy had apparently said. She tried to summon the image of her mother in her mind, a picture that had one been clear as the summer sky, and now was almost impossible to call forth. It had been so ever since the last time she had heard her mother’s voice in her memory.
Fire is strong, her mother had said in the final dream Rhapsody had had of her. But starfire was born first; it is the more powerful element. Use the fire of the stars to cleanse yourself, and the world, of the hatred that took us. Then I will rest in peace until you see me again.
She could still remember the words, but not her mother’s voice. It was a loss she felt keenly.
Rhapsody moved closer to the catafalque, bending nearer to the child’s ear. Gently she rested her hand on the grassy hair, brushing away the stray strands that had fallen into her eyes as she tossed restlessly. The Grandmother made no move to stop her, but rather removed her own hand and slid it silently back into the folds of her robe.
“My mother had a song for everything,” she said quietly. “She was Liringlas, and every event had a song ascribed to it. I heard them all so often; it was like breathing the air. I don’t know which one is the mother’s song that the prophecy refers to.” Almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth a thought occurred to her. “Wait,” she said, “perhaps I do at that.”
“It is tradition among the Lirin that when a woman discovers she is with child, she chooses a song to sing to the growing life within her. It is the first gift she gives to the baby, its own song; perhaps that’s what meant by ‘mother’s-song.’ She sings it through the course of each day, through mundane events, in quiet moments when she is alone, before each morning aubade, after each evening vesper. It’s the song the child comes to know her by, the baby’s first lullabye, unique to each child. Lirin live outside beneath the stars, and it is important that the infants remain as silent as possible in dangerous situations. The song is so familiar that it comforts them innately. Perhaps this is what the prophecy meant.”
“Perhaps,” said Achmed. “Do you remember yours?” Rhapsody swallowed the disdainful retort that rose to her lips, remembering that Achmed had never had a family and could therefore not understand. “Yes,” she said. “And it’s a wind-song, so perhaps it’s the one the prophecy refers to.” She sat down on the slab of stone next to the catafalque that served as the Grandmother’s bed and drew one knee under her, all the while leaving her hand on the child’s forehead. Closing her eyes, she sang the song from a lifetime ago.
Sleep, my child, my little one, sleep
Down in the glade where the river runs deep
The wind whistles through and it carries away
All of your troubles and cares of the day.
Rest, my dear, my lovely one, rest,
Where the white killdeer has built her fair nest,
Your pillow sweet clover, your blanket the grass
The moon shines on you as the wind whistles past.
Dream, my own, my pretty one, dream,
In tune with the song of the swift meadow stream,
Take wing with the wind as it lifts you above,
Tethered to Earth by the bonds of my love.
When she finished, Rhapsody opened her eyes and looked at the Earth child. She had grown silent during the song, but as soon as it ended she began to twitch again, building quickly into thrashing movements; it seemed as if she was even more agitated then she had been before. Rhapsody looked on in dismay. Grunthor’s huge hand closed gently on her shoulder.
“Aw, don’t feel bad, Duchess,” he said. “’Twasn’t that bad-soundin’.”
The Grandmother was growing agitated as well; Achmed could tel
l by the electricity in her vibration. “Isn’t there something else?” he asked Rhapsody, who was making soothing sounds, trying to hush the child’s panic.
“My mother sang me hundreds of songs,” she answered, running her hand over the child’s flailing arm. “I have no idea which one the prophecy refers to.”
“Perhaps you’re interpreting it wrong, then,” Achmed said. “Maybe it’s not your mother the prediction means; maybe it’s hers.”
A note of clarity rang through Rhapsody’s head. “Yes, yes, you’re probably right,” she said nervously. “But how can I sing her own mother’s-song? I don’t even know who her mother was.”
“She had no mother,” said the Dhracian matriarch firmly. “She was formed, as you see her, out of Living Stone.”
“Perhaps the dragon that made her, then?” Rhapsody suggested.
“No,” said Grunthor quietly. “It’s the Earth. The Earth is ’er mother.”
The three others stared at him in silence. “Of course,” Rhapsody murmured after a moment. “Of course.”
“And you know that song as well, Duchess. ’Eard it over and over again, ya did; sang with it all the time we was travelin’ inside the Earth. Can you sing it now?”
The Singer shuddered. It took a great deal of effort to force herself to think back to those days on the Root, the living nightmare they had endured to escape Serendair. Rhapsody closed her eyes again and concentrated on trying to hear the hum, remembering the first time she had actually listened to it, the great, slow vibration that modulated ever so lightly in the endless cavern towering above them.
It was a song deep as the sea, thrumming in her skin, rumbling through her heart, though soft as the falling of snow, almost inaudible. It was more a feeling than a sound, rich and full of wisdom, magical and unique in all the world. The melody moved slowly, changed tones infinitesimally, unhurried by the need to keep pace with anything. It was the voice of the Earth, singing from its soul. And in the background, deep and abiding, was the ever-present beating of the heart of the world, a cadence that had steadied her in her moments of despair, that reassured her in the dark of the Earth’s belly. She heard it again now in her ear, as she had each time she had slept with her head against the ground.
Then the realization came. More often than not she had slept not with her head on the earth, but on Grunthor’s chest. The two sensations were very similar; the giant’s chest was broad and strong, solid as basalt, the beating of his heart matching the rhythm of the Earth’s song exactly. It rang through him, comforting her in her nightmares. You know Oi’d take the worst of them dreams for you if Oi could, Yer Ladyship, he had said. Rhapsody reached out and touched the Sergeant.
“Grunthor,” she said, “will you help me do this? Like you did with the wounded soldiers?”
A slight grin broke through the consternation on his face. “O’ course, miss,” he said. “You want a few choruses o’ that ol’ Bolg mother-song, ‘Maw’s Claws’?”
“No,” she said. “I just need you for percussion. Bend down so I can reach your heart.”
Grunthor complied amid the soft squeaking of armor, the rustle of his greatcloak. Gently Rhapsody ran her hand over his chest until she could feel his heartbeat, the slow, steady pounding she had come to know over what seemed like a lifetime. It was still the same, attuned to the rhythm of the Earth.
Rhapsody closed her eyes and cleared her mind of everything but that sound. It rang in her head, vibrating in her sinuses and through the roots of her hair, making her skull tingle. She took a deep breath and drank it in further, feeling it run down her spine and into her muscle, out to the very edges of her skin. When it had reached her fingertips she extended her free hand and touched the Earth child’s chest, slipping it inside the folds of the child’s garment until it came to rest on her heart as well. The rhythms matched exactly, though there was a tremolo to the child’s pulse that worried Rhapsody. She bent closer to the child’s ear, pressed her lips together, and began to hum.
She knew the exact pitch when she found it, because instantly her mind was filled with the musical images from that mystical, horrific time, the deep basso of miners singing as they carved their way through the depths of the world, the slow, melodic rumbling of the magma beneath the surface, peppered with the occasional staccato hiss or pop, the sweet, steady tune of the Axis Mundi that bisected the Earth, and the Root that had wound around it. It was an ancient symphony of earthsounds, wordless and almost just beyond hearing, but filled with power and awe.
She sang the earthsong as best as she could, keeping time with Grunthor’s steady heartbeat, only changing the tone subtlely, as slowly as it would within the Earth. In the near distance she heard Achmed exhale softly, and realized it was a signal; they must be seeing some effect, some transformation from the song.
Beneath her fingers the trembling vibration within the child’s heart vanished, replaced by smooth, steady tides of respiration. Rhapsody recognized the state; the Earth Child was finally sleeping dreamlessly, deeply and soundly. She felt the same state of calm come over herself, as if she, too, was sleeping deeply and soundly. So deeply, so soundly, in fact, that the hideous gasps that issued forth from Grunthor and the Grandmother did not disturb her at all.
It was the thudding sound of their bodies hitting the sandy floor that did.
34
Achmed was already on the floor, checking the Grandmother, when Rhapsody opened her eyes.
The child was still sleeping, beads of crystalline sweat dotting her forehead like dew, as though she had just broken a fever. She was breathing easily, not moving.
Once she was certain that the child was safe for the moment, Rhapsody ran to where Grunthor was lying sprawled on the floor. She helped him to sit up, examining him worriedly as he clutched his head.
“Somethin’s comin’,” he muttered. His eyes were glassy, his breathing shallow.
“What, Grunthor? What’s coming?”
The giant continued to mutter, becoming more disoriented by the moment. “It’s comin’; it had stopped but now it’s on the way again. Somethin’—somethin’s comin’.” Rhapsody could feel his gargantuan heart racing, pounding ferociously, and it frightened her.
“Grunthor, come back,” she whispered. She spoke his true name, a strange collection of whistling snarls and glottal stops, followed by the appellations she had given him so long ago when they passed through the Fire at the Earth’s core: Child of sand and open sky; son of the caves and lands of darkness, she sang softly. Bengard, Firbolg. The Sergeant-Major. My trainer, my protector. The Lord of Deadly Weapons. The Ultimate Authority, to Be Obeyed at All Costs.
Grunthor’s eyes cleared, and focused on her again. “‘At’s all right, darlin’,” he said woozily, awkwardly pushing her hand away. “Oi’ll be fine in a minute. ’Elp the Grandmother.”
“She’s all right,” Achmed said from the other side of the catafalque. A moment later he rose, assisting the elderly woman to a stand. “What happened?”
The Grandmother seemed steady, though her hand remained at her throat. “Green death,” she murmured in all three of her voices. “Unclean death.”
“What does that mean, Grandmother?” Rhapsody asked gently.
“I know not. It is repeated over and over in her dreams; I could hear the words suddenly. Now I cannot make the voice grow still.” The elderly woman’s hand trembled; Achmed took it carefully between his own. “It was as if your song broke them free from her mind, gave them to me.” The Grandmother’s strange eyes glittered nervously in the dark. “For that I thank you, Skychild. At least I now know some of what plagues her, though I understand it not. Green death; unclean death.”
“She’s also dreamin’ about somethin’ comin’,” Grunthor added. “He took the handkerchief Rhapsody held out to him and mopped his sweating brow.”
“Any idea what?” Achmed asked. The giant shook his head.
“I’m so sorry,” Rhapsody said to them both. “I fear I may be respon
sible for your visions. I was thinking about how you said you would take the worst of my nightmares on yourself, Grunthor. Perhaps I’ve inadvertently condemned you both to do that for her as well.”
“If you did, it was because we were both willing to accept them,” said the Grandmother. She leaned down and kissed the Sleeping Child, brushing the last of the moisture from her forehead. “She sleeps peacefully again, at least for now.” With a final caress, the Grandmother rose to her full height again.
“Come.”
Rhapsody bent down and kissed the Sleeping Child’s forehead as well. “Your mother the Earth has so many beautiful clothes,” she whispered in the stone-gray ear. “I’ll try and write a song for you so that you can see them, too.”
The letters on the arch above the Chamber of the Sleeping Child gleamed as the torchlight passed over them. Time had begun to fill the carvings in soot and the crumbling detritus of the centuries.
“What does this inscription say?” Rhapsody asked.
The Grandmother slipped her hands inside the sleeves of her robe. “‘Let that which sleeps within the Earth rest undisturbed; its awakening heralds eternal night,’” she answered.
Rhapsody turned to Achmed. “What do you think that refers to?”
His mismatched eyes darkened angrily in the dim light of the passageway. “I think you’ve seen it once yourself.”
She nodded. “Yes. I think you’re right, but only partly.”
“Explain.”
“It seems to me that there is an entity known as the Sleeping Child in more than one mythos,” she said. “There was the star that slept beneath the waves off the coast of Serendair, a story from Seren lore. I think we know how correct the prediction was of the consequences of its awakening. There was the—” She flinched under the intensity of the look Achmed shot at her—“the one we saw on our journey here, the one the dragons refer to as the Sleeping Child. Those consequences would be even greater should it happen to waken.”