“Then can’t you be happy for me?”
The giant turned away again and stared off into the tallest crags. Once they had seemed insurmountable; now the Bolg scaled them regularly, maintaining the ancient ventilation systems, rebuilding the Cymrian observatory. Everything that had once seemed so distant now seemed within easy reach. The irony tasted bitter in his mouth.
“Oi’ll do my level best, miss,” he said at last. “Now, if that was all, I need to be on my way. I’m off on a scouting mission to the deep Realms. If you need me, Oi’ll be back in a fortnight or so.”
“Wait,” Rhapsody said, fumbling inside her cloak. “There is something you can do for me, if you’re willing.” She drew forth a folded piece of parchment, carefully sealed, and handed it to him. “This is for Jo. I wanted to explain—what has come to pass, and give her a chance to adjust to the situation.” She wiped a bead of sweat from her brow. “Jo has—a fondness for Ashe, and I want to be sensitive to her feelings,” she added awkwardly. “Will you make sure she gets it, please, Grunthor? Before you go, if possible? I want to give her as much time as possible.” The giant Sergeant nodded, tucking the letter inside his doublet. “And let Achmed know as well?”
Grunthor nodded again, stone-faced. It was clear by the lightness of her tone, and her consideration of the task as an afterthought, that she had no idea of the difficulty of what she was asking. For the first time since he had known the Firbolg king, he would have to struggle to find words. “When ya comin’ round again?”
“I thought I’d wait for a few weeks, give Jo a little time,” she said. “I’ll try and coordinate my return with yours. Then I want to sit down with you and Achmed and talk about going after the Rakshas.”
Grunthor ran a finger under the neck of his jerkin. “All right, miss. Now, I need to be off.” He patted her head clumsily with his enormous hand, then pulled her close in an unwieldy embrace.
“Are you all right, Grunthor? You look tired, haggard.”
“Not been sleepin’ too well at that,” the giant answered. “Nightmares; somethin’ comin’ out o’ the darkness. Can’t put a face on it yet. Now Oi got an idea what you’ve been sufferin’ all this time, miss.” He sighed deeply, and gave her a final squeeze. “You be careful, eh? And let our misty friend know if ’e’s not a gentleman, ’e’ll be answerin’ to me.”
Rhapsody smiled within the depths of his armor. “I’ll do that,” she said, then pulled back and kissed the giant’s hidelike cheek. “Give my love to the others, and to my grandchildren.”
Grunthor squeezed her shoulder, then turned and left the windy meadow, now blooming in bright colors of heartsease, flowers Rhapsody had planted there at winter’s end. Blossoms of condolence, often given to mourners or planted on graves and battlefields, they did little to gladden either of the hearts that had stood for a moment within their glorious panorama.
The ring of the Patriarchy came into its power on the night of Summer’s midpoint. It was a night of great significance in both of their traditions, so Rhapsody and Ashe were glad to be able to observe it together. They had camped out on the heath, Ashe waiting to perform the rites of the religion his father led, Rhapsody observing the ceremonies that the Lirin held sacred. Afterward they lay in a patch of sweet woodruff and watched the night sky, her head on his shoulder, wordlessly. A shower of shooting stars passed overhead, and a moment later Rhapsody could feel the muscles in Ashe’s chest stiffen beneath her. She sat up and looked down at him.
“What’s the matter?”
He was staring at his hand, a strange look coming over his face. “Fascinating,” he murmured.
“What?”
“Well, I was just thinking about a Gwadd chemist, First Generation, an apothecary by the name of Quigley, reputed to know the secret to every medicinal tonic and potion ever mixed, primarily because he invented most of them. I know his history, and the story of his trip with the First Fleet—Gwadd are not generally seafarers and the voyage was terrifying to him. In spite of that, he developed an herbal remedy for seasickness from dried seaweed in the course of the journey. I was thinking what a marvelous person that would be for you to meet.” Rhapsody nodded. “Then I realized I have no idea how I know any of this.”
“How very strange.”
“Yes, but not as strange as the thoughts I was having about the Mountain Knives. They are a band of stout, strong men, Nain, I suppose, who are so gifted with their blades that they can eviscerate an entire army before the soldiers even know it. One legion of their victims kept traveling for a mile before they felt apart, literally. They are pig-headed and merry, and when they are victorious they celebrate with a war dance and earsplitting, hooting cries, even if they are still in imminent danger. Also First Generation; also a thought I had never had until a moment ago.”
“And you think it has something to do with the ring?” Her comment became moot a moment later when the white stone in the center began to gleam, and a broad smile crept over Ashe’s face.
“I know it does. Rhapsody, this is marvelous. I suddenly have knowledge of all the living First Generationers, where they are, what they are like, even whether they are loyal to the Cymrian cause or not. There are some marvelous people still alive, Singers, healers, nobles and peasants, priests and pirates, and I know of them all. I wonder if the Patriarch had this knowledge, too.”
“I doubt it,” she said. “He told me it was a ring of wisdom, and it gave him the knowledge to perform the duties of his office well. I imagine it is telling you these things because the office you will hold is that of Lord Cymrian, and it is giving you information you might need in that capacity. It must believe you’re the best candidate.”
“How disappointing.”
“Stop that; you’re insulting my liege lord.” She bent and kissed him. Then a thought occurred to her. “What about leadership? Does it give you any inkling as to who would be a good set of counselors, or who would make a good Viceroy?” He nodded.
“It’s as though, for those reasons only, I can judge any of their worthiness, not as people, but as leaders.” Rhapsody drew her knees to her chest and grew quiet. Ashe noticed. “What, Aria? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” she answered, looking at the ground. “What about potential candidates for the Lady Cymrian? Any First Generationers alive that qualify?”
Ashe looked at her seriously, and turned his attention to her question. “Well, as a matter of fact, there are several.”
Rhapsody looked up at him and smiled slightly. “Well, that’s good, anyway. It gives you a group to choose from, so you should have no trouble picking someone you’ll be happy with.”
“Not really,” Ashe answered. “There is only one obvious choice, someone of a nobility that would be unquestioned among the Cymrians. She’s also someone of great wisdom and accomplishment; both the Cymrians and I would be lucky to have her as our Lady.”
“Well, that sounds promising,” Rhapsody said, smiling. “I’m glad to know you will be happy in your choice of wife.”
“First of all, the Lady Cymrian doesn’t have to be my wife. And even if it makes sense to do it that way, just because I choose her, and ask her, doesn’t mean she’ll have me, Rhapsody. Cymrians are strange like that. She may be reluctant; in fact, I know she is. If she had wanted to, she could have taken the title on her own. She’s had the power at her disposal to do so for some time.”
Rhapsody leaned over and kissed him. “I have no doubt that she will accept you, Ashe. You said she was someone of great wisdom. Anyone who would turn you down would have to be a fool.”
“I hope you’re right.” He felt her grow colder beside him, as if her internal fire was burning down a little, and he drew her back into his arms to warm her. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said shortly. “But I’m cold; who would have believed it on Midsummer’s Night? Can we go in now?”
“Of course,” Ashe said. He stood as she did and offered her his hand. “There’s a fireplace wait
ing for us back in Elysian that holds a special place in my heart. Since this is a night of reflection and remembrance, why don’t we go relive the first memory we made there?”
She nodded and took his hand, and together they made their way back underground to Elysian in the dark.
41
There was a coldness to the stone within the corridors of the Cauldron that the torches, spaced in wall sconces every ten feet, could not dispel. It was an old chill, one that had been in the granite since before the Firbolg had taken the mountain, one that suited the history made here. It was a negative place, and dreary. Footsteps echoed for a fragment of a second and then were swallowed up by the inert stone. It was somewhat like walking inside a coffin.
Ashe could not remember the last time he had been in such a bad mood. For close to three weeks he had lived in unfettered bliss, alone and undisturbed with Rhapsody in the paradise she had made in Elysian just by being there. He had never known such simple joys—cooking inventive meals for each other, swimming by filtered moonlight in the crystalline lake, watching her sew or mend weapons in the firelight, helping her hang laundry, singing with her, brushing her hair, making love, making memories—and he deeply resented being snapped back to the reality that deprived him of even a moment alone with her. His clear understanding of the long-term need of this visit to the Cauldron did nothing to assuage this annoyance.
By mutual unspoken agreement they had not discussed the Past—both of them knew it was painful ground for the other and risked breaking the spell of their magical hideaway. For the same reason they had not discussed the Future, either. But they had agreed to this being the day that their request would be put before Achmed, and so here he was, with a headache throbbing behind his eyes, striding down the dingy corridors of the Firbolg seat of power, to the council room behind the Great Hall where Rhapsody’s odious companions would meet them.
Rhapsody, walking beside him, sensed his frame of mind and gave his hand a supportive squeeze. She was dressed for work again in her traveling outfit—the plain white linen shirt, the soft brown pants tucked into high, sturdy bootleggings tied with rawhide—and, of course, the infernal cloak. He had found good reasons to get her to undress twice already that morning, but still the black ribbon had made its way back into her hair, neatly binding the shining waterfall into a demure fall. The exquisite colorful clothes had been returned to the cedar closet in favor of the disguise she wore to hide herself from the world.
This was the way he had first seen her, and he had lost his heart to her utterly, despite her being camouflaged by the plain costume. But now, having seen her true self revealed, he could barely stand to see her forced back into hiding. The jubilance she exhibited in being allowed to walk around in Elysian, free of obscurement, hair flowing without restrictions, in any garment of her choosing made his heart glad in many ways, and he hurt for her to see that freedom taken away.
But she seemed to be taking it all in stride, smiling at him, clasping his hand, hurrying him along to a meeting with the last people in the world he wanted to see.
The council room behind the Great Hall held a large, roughhewn wooden table made smooth by centuries of use. On the walls hung a few ancient tapestries, smelling of rot and darkened beyond recognition by smoke and time. There was a firepit taking up most of the far wall, ablaze with a foul-smelling inferno that cast the only light in the room; despite the lack of ambient illumination, the lanterns would not be lit until nightfall.
As they entered the room, Grunthor hopped up from his massive chair, clicked his heels and made a gracious bow in Rhapsody’s direction. She ran to him and embraced him while Ashe stood in amazement that something that big could move so gracefully. Then his eyes scanned the rest of the room.
Achmed remained seated, one foot propped on the table, reading from a sheaf of bound yellowed vellum. He did not look up as they came in.
Rhapsody walked behind the Firbolg king and bent down to kiss the top of his cloaked head. Then she glanced around the room, a look of displeasure taking hold. Her nose wrinkled up and she shook her head in disgust.
“Gods, Achmed, what are you burning? Never mind—I don’t want to know.” She set her pack on the table and rifled through it, pulling out an amber glass bottle of sweet flag boiled in vanilla-anise oil and a chamois pouch folded into several different compartments. From one of the middle folds she extracted some dried spices mixed with flakes of cedarwood and, squinting to avoid the rancid smoke, tossed them on the fire, followed by a hefty splash from the bottle. Instantly the putrid smell dispersed and was replaced by a fresh, sweet odor that dissipated into neutrality within a moment.
“Oh, ’ow lovely,” said Grunthor. “Now we can all smell like a field o’ daisies. Oi’m sure the troops will love it. Thank you, my dear.”
Rhapsody’s expression was growing more pained as she turned in a circle, surveying the room with distaste.
“You didn’t do anything to redecorate, did you? What happened to the silk tapestries I had sent from Bethe Corbair?”
“We used them to make the floor of the stable quieter,” said Achmed, still reading. “The horses thank you.”
“Oh, and Oi buried one of my favorite lieutenants in one,” added Grunthor helpfully. “’Is widow was genuinely touched.”
Ashe struggled to contain his amusement. Whatever problems Rhapsody’s friends posed, it could not be denied that the relationship between the three of them certainly made for good entertainment. Still, his head ached and he couldn’t wait to get back to Elysian with her, alone. He coughed politely.
“Oh, ’allo, Ashe,” said Grunthor. “You’re ’ere too?”
“It apparently couldn’t be helped,” Achmed said to Grunthor. “If you’re ill, Ashe, I can get you a leech.”
“That won’t be necessary, thank you,” said Ashe.
“Well, there’s the lit’le miss,” said Grunthor in a jolly tone as Jo came into the council room. “Gives us a kiss, darlin’.”
Jo complied, then she and Rhapsody hurried to each other and embraced warmly.
“What’s been going on?” Jo asked as Rhapsody put an arm around her waist and walked to the table. “Where have you been?”
Rhapsody looked puzzled. “What do you mean? Didn’t you get my letter?”
“Letter?”
For the first time Achmed looked up, in the direction of Grunthor. “Uhhhhrrrumph.” Grunthor cleared his throat awkwardly, his bruise-colored skin flushing suddenly.
Rhapsody turned to Grunthor with an incredulous look. “Uhhhhrrrumph? What do you mean, uhhhhrrrumph? You didn’t give her my letter?”
“Let’s just say Oi’ve been keepin’ it next to my ’eart,” the giant Firbolg replied sheepishly as he removed the folded parchment from his breast pocket.
“I’m so sorry, Jo,” Rhapsody said, looking daggers at Grunthor. “No wonder you’re confused.”
She glanced at Ashe, and her look spoke volumes. They had worked on the letter together endlessly, trying to explain their new relationship in a way that Jo could accept, in language simple enough for her to read, endeavoring not to hurt her feelings. The intervening weeks had been carefully timed to allow her adequate opportunity to adjust. All their good intentions had obviously just gone to smash.
Jo took the letter and began to read it. Her brows furrowed together after a moment, and Rhapsody tried to intervene.
“Here, Jo, why don’t you give that to me? There’s really no need for a letter now that I’m here; we can just go and talk. Gentlemen, we’ll be back in a—”
Jo held up her hand suddenly and Rhapsody fell silent. The girl’s sallow countenance grew florid and she looked around the room wildly. Realization, then humiliation, crawled over her face as she absorbed the first blow, then the understanding that her friends had all known about it and had been worried about her reaction. The second embarrassment seemed much greater.
Rhapsody could see that she was mortified, and tried to put her arm around her
again. With a violence that almost knocked her down, Jo broke free and ran from the council room in tears.
The four stared at each other in helpless silence. Then Rhapsody spoke, a stricken look on her face.
“I have to go after her.”
“No, let me,” said Ashe gently. “It’s my fault for not talking to her sooner; besides, you three will probably be better off meeting without me anyway.”
“You’re a wise man,” said Grunthor.
“Let’s not get carried away,” said Achmed.
Ashe kissed Rhapsody’s hand, and she touched his shoulder in a final thought. “Don’t pursue her too excessively,” she said, looking up into his hood. “She might not want to be found, and she may need her privacy right now. And please—don’t use your dragon senses or anything that might upset Achmed. He’s sensitive to that sort of thing.”
“As you wish,” he answered, and was gone.
Grunthor took one look at Rhapsody’s scowl as she turned from the door. “It’s probably best if you talk for both of us, sir,” he said nervously. “Oi’d agree to about anythin’ she wants just to get that look off ’er face.”
42
Highgrass and heather bent low in supplication before the twisting wind that seared the steppes and moaned through the canyons of the Teeth. It laid low the brushy scrub that clung to the desolate bluff, desperately trying but failing to infuse the jagged land with life. The late afternoon sun was baptizing the rocky crags of Ylorc in a blood-red light, casting inverted mountains of shadow onto the valley ridges and moraines.
Jo was oblivious to the anguished dance of the landscape, immune to the buffeting of the wind, as she made her way, stumbling, crawling, to the open plain at the top of the world. When she reached the apex of the ravine she stopped to catch her breath, resting her perspiring head on raw hands that held fast to the rocky outcroppings of the cliff. Then she pulled herself up over the precipice and staggered forward until she reached the first place on the heath where the ground felt solid. Still panting, she put her hands on her hips and turned in a circle, surveying the wasteland behind her and the beginning of the moor that led to the deeper, hidden realm of the Firbolg.