Prophecy

  “Oh.” Jo took another bite of her muffin. “Does Ashe know that?”

  There was a warning note in her sister’s voice that Rhapsody heard, a fluctuation to which she, as a Singer, was sensitive. “I assume so. Why?” An awkward silence took up residence between them. “What aren’t you telling me, Jo?”

  “Nothing,” said Jo defensively. “He just asked if you were Cymrian, that’s all. More than once, in fact.”

  Rhapsody’s stomach turned over in the grip of cold to rival the chill that the land still held. “Me? He asked you that about me?”

  “Well, about the three of you; Achmed and Grunthor, too.”

  “But not you?”

  A blank look crossed Jo’s face as she considered the question. “No, he never did. I think he assumes I’m not. I wonder why that is.”

  Rhapsody rose to a stand and brushed off her trousers and cloak. “Maybe you’re the only one of us he doesn’t think is an arse-rag.”

  Jo’s eyes sparkled wickedly. “I hope not,” she said, looking innocently up at the sky. “Grunthor’s certainly not an arse-rag, either.” She laughed as a shower of snow and dried leaves flew into her face. “Seriously, Rhaps, I mean, have you ever even met a Cymrian? I thought they were all long dead.”

  The sky was lightening at the horizon to a thin gray-blue. “You’ve met a Cymrian yourself, Jo,” Rhapsody said flatly, beginning to pack up the remains of breakfast. “Lord Stephen is of Cymrian descent.”

  “Well, I guess that proves the arse-rag theory,” said Jo, wiping the crumbs from her mouth with the back of her hand. “I meant an old one, one of the ones who lived through the War. The kind that lives forever.”

  Rhapsody thought for a moment. “Yes, I think so. I was once almost trampled on the road from Gwynwood to Navarne by the horse of an obnoxious soldier named Anborn. If he is the one mentioned in the history we heard, he was Gwylliam’s general in the War. That would make him fairly old. The War ended four hundred years ago, but it went on for seven hundred.”

  Jo had been there when they had opened the library vault and found Gwylliam’s body. “Guess the old bastard didn’t look that bad, then. He didn’t seem dead a day past two hundred.” Rhapsody laughed. “Was he the one who started the war when he hit his wife?”

  “Yes; her name was Anwyn. She was the daughter of the explorer, Merithyn, the first Cymrian, and the dragon Elynsynos—”

  “The one you’re going to see now?”

  “Yes—who fell in love with him and told him the Cymrians could come live in her lands, where no human had ever been allowed before.”

  Jo popped the last muffin into her mouth. “Whyys dig-geeay wanddadoo dhat?”

  “The king of Serendair, Gwylliam—”

  “The same stiff we found?”

  Rhapsody laughed. “The very one. He had foreseen that the Island was about to be destroyed in volcanic fire, so he wanted to relocate the bulk of the population of his kingdom somewhere they could maintain their culture, and where he could remain their king.”

  “Power-mad arse-rag.”

  “So they say. But he did save most of his people from certain death, brought them safely halfway around the world and built Canrif—”

  “Now there’s an accomplishment. A fancy place with indoor plumbing that the Bolg don’t bother to use.”

  “Stop interrupting. The Bolg overran it later. He and later Anwyn built an extraordinary civilization out of very little, and reigned in peace over an era of unprecedented advances until the night he hit her. That incident was called the Grievous Blow, because that single slap between the Lord and the Lady started the war that destroyed about a quarter of the population of the continent and much of the Cymrian civilization.”

  “Definitely arse-rags,” Jo said resoundingly. “Is there anything you need me to do while you’re away?”

  Rhapsody smiled. “Now that you mention it, yes. Would you keep an eye on my Firbolg grandchildren for me?” Jo made a face and a gagging sound, which her sister ignored. “And don’t forget your studies.”

  “Sorry I asked,” Jo muttered.

  “And look in on Elysian from time to time, will you? If the new plantings need water, give them a drink.”

  Jo rolled her eyes. “You know I can’t find Elysian.” Rhapsody’s house, a tiny cottage situated on an island in an underground grotto, was virtually impossible to discern by anyone except Achmed or Grunthor. The four companions kept its secret deliberately.

  “Get Grunthor to take you. Sorry these tasks seem so odious. What did you have in mind when you offered?”

  Jo’s pallid face lit up. “I can keep an eye on Daystar Clarion for you.”

  Rhapsody laughed. “I’m taking my sword with me, Jo.” Jo had long been fascinated with the burning blade, watching the flames as though hypnotized. When they were traveling overland, Rhapsody had kept the sword out at night until Jo had fallen asleep, the starlight that radiated from the blade comforting her in the dark.

  “Oh.”

  “After all, I might need it. You do want me to come back, don’t you?” Rhapsody said, patting Jo’s crestfallen face.

  “Yes,” said Jo quickly; there was an unintended urgency in her voice. “If you leave me here alone among the Bolg I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”

  The sky in the east had faded to a soft pink, with a ribbon of palest yellow touching the edge of the horizon below it. Rhapsody closed her eyes, feeling the coming of the sun. At the edge of her hearing she could feel a musical note sound softly, wafting on the wind; it was re, the second note of the scale. In the lore of Singers, re was the portent of a peaceful day, a day without incident.

  Softly she began her morning aubade, the love song to the sun that her race, the Liringlas, sang to greet the daybreak. It was a song passed from mother to child, like the vespers that bade the sun Godspeed at the end of the day and welcomed the stars as they came forth in the twilight. To Rhapsody, the act of marking these ancient devotions was always a poignant one; it was the only way she had left of feeling close to the mother she missed more than anything else she had lost with the sinking of the Island.

  Beside her she could feel Jo begin to tremble as she listened to the song, and Rhapsody took her hand. The primordial song of mother-to-daughter passage was especially poignant to her, too. Jo had never known her mother, having been abandoned to the streets as a child. Rhapsody took the girl into her arms as the song came to its end.

  “She loved you, I know she did,” she whispered. She had been trying to convince Jo of it for a long time.

  “Right,” Jo muttered sardonically.

  “That was beautiful,” said Ashe. Both women jumped. As always, they had not seen him approach. Rhapsody colored in embarrassment, her face taking on the same hue as the edge of the predawn horizon.

  “Thank you,” she said, turning hurriedly away. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes. Achmed and Grunthor are right behind me. I assume they want to say goodbye.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be back,” Rhapsody said, giving Jo one more hug. “If we pass through Sepulvarta, the holy city where the Patriarch lives, I’ll try to get you some more of those sweets you liked.”

  “Thanks,” said Jo, wiping her eyes with her sleeve defensively. “Now hurry up and leave so I can get out of this fornicating wind; it’s stinging my eyes.”

  As Grunthor hugged her goodbye, Rhapsody struggled not to gasp, but her face was turning an unhealthy shade of red in the giant’s embrace. The panoramic vista of the Orlandan Plateau swam before her eyes, the crags of the Teeth tipping at a sickening angle. In her disconnected thoughts she wondered if this was something like being squeezed to death by a bear.

  Finally Grunthor set her down, released her, and patted her shoulder awkwardly. Rhapsody looked up into the great gray-green face and smiled. The Bolg’s face was set in a nonchalant expression, but she could see the tightness of his massive jaw, and the faintest hint of glistening liquid at the corners of his amber e
yes.

  “Oi really wish you’d reconsider, Duchess,” he said solemnly.

  Rhapsody shook her head. “We’ve been through this already at great length, Grunthor. I’ll be safe. I’ve haven’t had a single bad dream about this trip, and you know how rare that is.”

  The giant folded his arms. “And just ’oo is gonna save you from the dreams you do ’ave on the road?” he demanded. “Last Oi knew, that was my job.”

  The amused expression on the Singer’s face softened with his words. “Indeed, you’re the only one who’s ever been able to,” she said, running her hand along the enormous muscular arm. “I guess it’s just another small sacrifice I’ll have to make to keep the Bolg safe.”

  Another thought occurred to her, and Rhapsody dug for a moment in her pack, finally pulling out a large seashell. “But I have this,” she said, smiling brightly. Grunthor chuckled. He had given it to her not long after they had emerged from the Root, a memento from a journey he and Achmed had made to the seacoast, searching for a way to get her back to Serendair after their long journey through the Earth’s belly.

  His smile faded with the memory. When finally they had met up again, she had informed them that the Island was gone, swallowed by the sea more than a millennium before. At that moment, he had felt guilt for the first time in his life, knowing that he and Achmed had dragged her away from a home and a family she would now never see again. She slept sometimes with the shell covering her ear, attempting to use the noise of the crashing waves to drown out the torturous nightmares that left her thrashing and sobbing in despair.

  “You know Oi’d take the worst of them dreams for you if Oi could, Yer Ladyship,” he said sincerely.

  Rhapsody felt her throat tighten, and a sense of overwhelming loss tugged at the edges of her consciousness. “I know, I know you would,” she said, and hugged him again. Abruptly she pulled away, trying to regain her composure. A wicked twinkle came into her eye. “And believe me, if it was within my power, I’d give you the worst of them. Where’s Achmed? Ashe and I need to be going.”

  A sudden lightheadedness washed over her, a sensation that time was expanding all around her. She had felt this way before, but where or when she was uncertain. Grunthor seemed to be feeling it, too; the amber eyes clouded over for a moment, then he blinked rapidly, and smiled.

  “Don’t forget to say goodbye to ’Is Majesty,” he said merrily, pointing to the cloaked figure standing a little way off.

  “Do I have to? Our last exchange was probably about as tender a goodbye as I’m ever going to get out of him. We almost came to blows.”

  “Yes, you ’ave to,” Grunthor commanded with mock severity. “And that’s an order, miss.”

  Rhapsody saluted, laughing. “All right. Far be it from me to defy ‘The Ultimate Authority, to Be Obeyed at All Costs,’” she said. “Does that ultimate authority apply only to me?”

  “Nope,” said Grunthor.

  “You have final dominion over everyone in the world?”

  “Damn right.” The giant sergeant signaled to the Firbolg king. “Aw, come on, Duchess. Tell ’im goodbye. ’E may not show it, but ’e’s gonna miss you terrible.”

  “Sure he is,” she said as Achmed approached. “I’ve heard he’s already taking bids on my quarters and planning to auction off my worldly goods.”

  “Only the clothes, and only if you aren’t back in a reasonable amount of time,” the Firbolg king said as pleasantly as he was able. “I don’t want that hrekin cluttering up my mountain.”

  “I’ll be back, and I’ll send word with the guarded mail caravan as often as I am able,” Rhapsody said, shouldering her pack. “Now that the interprovincial messengers are coming regularly to Ylorc, I should be able to get a message to you if need be.”

  “Of course. I’m sure the dragon’s cave is a regular stop on the mail caravan’s route,” Achmed replied, a note of angry sarcasm creeping into his voice.

  “Don’t start,” Rhapsody warned, casting an eye over toward Jo, who was chatting with Ashe.

  “No,” Achmed agreed. “I just thought I’d give you a little send-off.” He handed her a scroll of tightly bound parchment. “Be careful. It’s very old and very valuable.”

  “If it’s another version of The Rampage of the Wyrm, I’m going to stow it forcibly in the place I suggested to you earlier this morning.”

  “Have a look.”

  Carefully Rhapsody unbound the ancient thread of silk that tied the scroll closed. Achmed had made a substantial study of the writings from Gwylliam’s library and reliquary vault, but the collection was so vast that it would take him hundreds of years to examine even half of it. The fragile parchment crumbled a bit as she unrolled it. It was a careful rendering of an architectural design.

  After a few minutes of staring intently at the plans, she looked back to find the Firbolg king watching her with equal interest. “What is this?” she asked. “I don’t recognize it. Is this someplace in Ylorc?”

  Achmed looked over at Ashe, then back to her, moving slightly nearer. “Yes, if it exists. It was Gwylliam’s masterpiece, the crown jewel of his vision for the mountain. I don’t know if he got to build it or not. He called it the Loritorium.”

  Rhapsody’s palms grew moist. “Loritorium?”

  “Yes, the corresponding documentation describes it as an annex, a deliberately hidden city, a place where ancient lore was housed and the purest forms of elemental power in the Cymrians’ possession would one day be stored, along with a vast conservatory in which to study them. I believe the sword you carry might have been one of those exhibits, based on the dimensions of the display cases and some of the notes.”

  She turned the scroll over. “I don’t see any words. How do you know this?”

  Achmed nodded slightly toward Ashe and lowered his voice even more. “I’m not an idiot; I left the text safely in the vault. I’ve told you repeatedly that I do not trust him. Besides, I didn’t know if the dew might damage the scrolls.

  “From what I have been able to glean, this place was never opened to the Cymrian inhabitants of Canrif. It may never have been started, or if it was, it may never have been finished. But of course, it may have been both, and just known to Gwylliam and a few of his closest advisors. Who knows?

  “What is most fascinating is the way the complex is laid out, at least according to these maps. The cases and displays must have been intended to contain something with great care, judging by the detail with which those elements were rendered. Gwylliam devoted a good deal of effort to designing the defenses, both from the outside and the inside. I’m not sure whether he was more intent on protecting his displays, or protecting the Cymrians from them.”

  Rhapsody shuddered. “Any idea what it might have been, besides Daystar Clarion?”

  “No, but I plan to find out. While you’re gone, Grunthor and I will be checking into some of the Cymrian ruins, the parts of Canrif that were built last and destroyed first when the Bolg overran the mountain. We’ve already seen some signs that point the way to what might have been the Loritorium. It promises to be a fascinating exploration if we find it. Interested?”

  “Of course I’m interested,” Rhapsody whispered fiercely, annoyed by the smirk on his face. “What Namer wouldn’t be interested in a place like that?”

  “Then stay,” Achmed suggested with mock innocence. “It certainly would be better if you were along. Grunthor and I, clumsy oafs that we are, might inadvertently make a mess or destroy something of historical significance, who knows, perhaps even a one-of-a-kind piece of ancient lore.” He laughed as her cheeks reddened with smoldering anger. “All right, we’ll wait for you. We’ll locate the place, and give you a reasonable period to return. If you’re not back by the time we had discussed, we’ll start without you. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” she said. “But you don’t need to give me incentive to hurry back, Achmed. Believe it or not, I have plenty of that.”

  The Firbolg king nodded. “Do you still have y
our dagger from your days on the streets of Serendair?”

  Rhapsody looked at him oddly. “Yes; why?”

  Achmed’s face lost the last vestige of a smile. “If you find yourself in a compromising situation with Ashe, use your dagger to cut his balls off, not your sword. Daystar Clarion’s fire will cauterize the wound, as you’ve seen before. If that need arises, you want him to bleed to death rapidly.”

  “Thank you,” Rhapsody said sincerely. She knew the grisly comment was an expression of genuine concern, and she opened her arms. Achmed returned her embrace quickly and uncomfortably, then looked down at her.

  “What’s that in your eyes?” he demanded. “You’re not crying, are you? You know the law.”

  Rhapsody wiped her hand across them quickly. “Shut up,” she said. “You can stuff the law right in the same cavity behind The Rampage of the Wyrm; there’s certainly enough room in your case. By your own definition, you should be Lord of the Cymrians.” Achmed smirked as she turned and went over to where Jo and Ashe were standing.

  “Are you ready?” Ashe asked, picking up his smoothly carved walking staff.

  “Yes,” Rhapsody said, hugging Jo one last time. “Take care of yourself, sis, and our two big brothers.” The teenager rolled her eyes. Rhapsody turned back to Ashe. “Now let’s be off before I say something else to Achmed. I want the last thing I said to him to be something as obnoxious as what he said to me.”

  Ashe chuckled. “That’s a contest you don’t want to get into,” he said as he checked the bindings on his gear. “I believe you will lose every time.”

  As she and Ashe reached the summit of the last of the crags before the foothills, Rhapsody turned and stared east into the rising sun, which had just begun to crest the horizon. She shaded her eyes, wondering if the long shadows were really the silhouettes of the three people she loved most dearly in the world, or only the hollow reflections of rock and chasm, reaching ominously skyward. She decided after a moment she had seen one of them wave; whether or not she was right didn’t matter, anyway.