They walked up the great stair and through the large open portal that served as the entrance. The inside of the temple was dark, lit only by dim torches and candles. It took a moment for Rhapsody’s eyes to adjust to the half-light.
The interior of the temple appeared to be better maintained, though Ashe had said in the course of their long journey that the rooms in the maze-like annexes were musty and neglected. Yet as she looked at the beautifully crafted foyer, it seemed hard to believe.
In the center of the vast room was a large fountain that blasted a thin stream of water twenty feet into the air, where it splashed down into a pool lined with shimmering lapis lazuli. The floor was polished marble, the walls adorned with intricately decorated tile, the sconces shining brass.
To either side of this room were small antechambers where guards stood, armed with long, thin swords. A large door of intricately carved cedar stood across from them, behind the fountain and its pool, also guarded.
Rhapsody and Ashe circled around the fountain and stopped before the guards of the great door. After they had made a substantial donation the door was opened and they were allowed to enter the inner sanctum. The fee, they were informed, was to help maintain the Oracle. Ashe wondered aloud to Rhapsody if Manwyn knew about this practice.
The room beyond the cedar door was immense, illuminated by a series of small windows in the dome of the rotunda and countless candles. In the center of the room was a dais which was suspended precariously above a large open well.
Sitting cross-legged in the center of this dais was a woman who could only have been Manwyn. She was tall and thin with rosy gold skin and fiery red hair streaked with silver. Her face bore the lines of middle age, and she wore a strange, and somewhat disturbing smile. In her left hand she held an ornate sextant, and she was dressed in green silk.
But it was the eyes of the Seer that drew Rhapsody’s attention. They were even less human than Ashe’s. As Rhapsody gazed up into them, she was greeted with her own reflection. The Seer’s eyes were mirrors, perfect silver mirrors, with no pupil, iris, or sclera to delineate them. It was as if Rhapsody was looking into two orbs of quicksilver. She tried not to stare. Manwyn smiled.
“Gaze into the well,” she said. Her voice was a raspy croak that scratched at the edges of Rhapsody’s skull. She looked to Ashe and he nodded. They began walking to the dais.
“Not you,” Manwyn snarled, glaring at Ashe. “You must wait. The Future hides from he who is invisible to the Present.” She spat in his direction.
Rhapsody swallowed and walked to the well. She remembered what Llauron had said about Manwyn, that she was the most unstable of the three Seers, the maddest of the group. She was unable to lie, but it was sometimes difficult to tell what were genuine prophecies and what were the ravings of an unhinged mind. In addition, the prophecies sometimes had two meanings, or hidden ones, so as to render her an unreliable source, albeit the best one, for information about the Future. Still, she was the last resort for those who came to her temple, and Rhapsody hoped, as did the others who sought her guidance, that this would be a rational and stable day for her.
When she came to the edge of the well Rhapsody steeled herself and looked down. There was no boundary to it, just a yawning hole in the floor with no apparent bottom. In the dark it was a treacherous thing to approach, its edges uneven and hard to see in the dim light. The Seer cackled wildly and pointed to the dark ceiling.
Rhapsody looked up for the first time at the dome to see it was as black as night, whether by craftsmanship or some kind of eerie magic. The dome was studded with stars, or their images, twinkling as hazy wisps of cloud passed in front of them. She could feel the wind tug at the corners of her cape, and knew somehow that she was not within the Temple, she was outside in a vast field at the loneliest point of night, with nothing and no one but the Seer present. A falling star streaked across the sky and the wind grew stronger, buffeting her cheeks.
“Rhapsody.” Ashe’s voice broke the reverie; she looked behind her to see the vague outline of his cloak in the half-light of the Temple. When she turned back to Manwyn, all was as it had been when they entered, except the Prophetess now looked annoyed. She held the sextant to her eye, pointing into the dark night-dome, then gestured at the well.
“Look within to find the appointed time and place,” she said. Rhapsody took a breath; she had not even asked her question yet. She stared down into the well where a picture was forming. When it became clear she could see a Lirin woman, gray of face and in obvious pain, great with child. The woman stopped in her path for a moment to rest, her hand clutching her enormous abdomen.
A scraping noise sounded in the dome above her, and Rhapsody looked up. The stars had shifted to a different longitude and latitude; she made note of the position. Undoubtedly this was Manwyn’s way of indicating the place where she would find the woman.
“When, Grandmother?” she asked the Seer deferentially. Manwyn laughed, a wild, frightening chortle that made Rhapsody’s skin rise into gooseflesh.
“One soul departs as another arrives, eleven weeks hence this night,” she answered as the image in the well vanished. Manwyn stared behind her, and Rhapsody turned to see Ashe approaching, his hood down for the first time. A triumphant smile crawled over the Seer’s face; it held a hint of cruelty in it. She looked directly at him, but when she spoke her words were still directed at Rhapsody.
“I see an unnatural child born of an unnatural act. Rhapsody, you should beware of childbirth: the mother shall die, but the child shall live.”
Rhapsody began to tremble. She now understood what Ashe had meant about vague prophecies. Was Manwyn referring to the Lirin woman, or to Rhapsody herself? Though the context would suggest the first, there was a clarity in the tone of her voice that indicated otherwise. She wanted to ask, but could not get her mouth to form the words.
“Exactly what does that mean?” demanded Ashe. He sounded angrier than she had ever heard him. “What kind of games are you playing, Manwyn?”
Manwyn’s hands went to her blazing red hair. Slowly her fingers entwined themselves into the unkempt locks, twisting them into long knotted snarls. She stared at the ceiling, smiling and crooning a wordless melody, then shot Ashe as direct a look as Rhapsody had ever seen with her monochromatic eyes.
“Gwydion ap Llauron, thy mother died in giving birth to thee, but thy children’s mother shall not die giving birth to them.” She burst into insane laughter.
Ashe touched her shoulder. “Let’s get out of here,” he said in a low voice. “Did she tell you what you need to know?”
“I’m not sure,” Rhapsody said. Her voice was shaking, even though she did not feel the fear that she could hear in it.
“Gwydion, have you bade your father farewell? He dies in the eyes of all to live in the sight of none; you are duplicitous, though you will both suffer and benefit from his living death. Woe unto him who lies for the man who taught him the value of truth, Gwydion; it is you who will pay the price for his newfound power.”
“S!KLERIV!” Ashe snarled in a multitoned voice she had never heard before; the word sliced through Rhapsody like a knife. Innately she knew the word meant silence, and in its own language it teetered close to a deplorable obscenity. She guessed the language was dragon.
Ashe had grown flushed. Rhapsody saw the vein in his forehead begin to pulse and his skin grew angry and red.
“Not another word, you wyrm-tongued maniac!” he screamed.
Rhapsody felt cold at the edges of her skin, the bristling, calculating ire of the dragon, in him beginning to coil. There was a frightening calm to it, and twisted, manipulative energy that made her feet and hands turn to ice. The realization that Manwyn, too, was wyrmkin, the daughter of the dragon, made her heart begin to palpitate. She took Ashe’s hand.
“Let’s go,” she whispered urgently and pulled on his arm. He resisted, drawn to the edge of a ferocious battle of wills. Rhapsody felt panic wash over her at that prospect. Manwyn
rose to her knees and begin to keen, a modulating wail that shook the foundations of the rotunda, causing fragments of stone and dust to fall from the ceiling above.
Ashe’s hand clenched hers tighter, his eyes focused on the shrieking Oracle. Bit by bit she could feel him slip away, his concentration locked on the dais and the opponent sitting on it, now swinging wildly over the bottomless well. The air was becoming difficult to breathe, full of dust arid static. The earth trembled beneath their feet, and the firmament of the dome felt as though it were about to burst into flames.
Rhapsody gave Ashe another violent tug, but his resistance was even greater this time. She took a deep breath and sang his name in a deep, low tone, punctuating it with the discordant note to Manwyn’s ear-piercing screech. The sound rolled throughout the rotunda, shattering the wail and driving Manwyn momentarily into shocked silence. Ashe blinked, and in the moment that he did Rhapsody dragged him from the room, Manwyn’s hysterical laughter ringing in their ears.
They were halfway to the city gates before they stopped running. Ashe was swearing to himself under his breath, weaving a vile tapestry of obscenity in a vast number of languages and dialects. Rhapsody tried to ignore him, but the imagery of his foul speech was fascinating in an offensive way.
At the edge of a large dry well they came to a halt and sat, breathing deeply in the humid heat of the last vestiges of the dying summer. Rhapsody was burning beneath her cloak, shaking from exertion. Finally she looked up and glared at him.
“Was that really necessary?”
“She began it. I didn’t antagonize her.”
“No,” Rhapsody admitted, “you really didn’t. Why did she attack you like that?”
“I don’t know,” said Ashe, pulling out his waterskin and offering it to her. “Maybe she felt threatened; dragons are unpredictable like that.”
“I’ve noticed,” she said, and took a deep drink. She passed the skin back to him. “Well, that’s over. I have to say, the more I get to know your family, the less I like them.”
“And you haven’t even met my grandmother yet,” said Ashe, smiling for the first time. “That’s an unparalleled treat. Let’s hope she doesn’t show up at the Cymrian Council.”
Rhapsody shuddered. “Yes, let’s hope. Well, now what?”
Ashe leaned over and kissed her, drawing an amused look from a pair of passing beggar women. “Let’s go shopping.”
“Shopping? You’re joking.”
“No. Yarim has some wonderful bazaars and a spice merchant you will definitely want to see, given your proclivity for that sort of thing. I want to pick up something to wear to our farewell supper, and perhaps some interesting things to cook for it. Besides, I’ve never heard of you passing up the opportunity to shop.”
Rhapsody laughed. “Well, that’s true,” she admitted. “I was hoping to find some things for my grandchildren, and perhaps a birthday gift for Grunthor. What do you think he might like?”
Ashe stood and offered her his hand, pulling her to a stand. “I think he’d like to see you in a low-cut, backless red dress.” Rhapsody gave him a strange look. “Oh, right, sorry; that’s me. Grunthor, hmmm. Does he count coup?”
Rhapsody shuddered. She had always found the practice of saving body parts of fallen enemies disgusting. “Sometimes.”
“Well, how about a nice receptacle to keep his trophies in?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, come on, be creative. What sort of cabinet shape would he need? I mean, does he save heads? Get him an armoire with hat stands.”
Rhapsody considered. “That’s not what he saves; too much work to slice off. I think a cigar box would be more the right shape.” She watched as a look of amused disgust came to rest on his face. “Well, it was your idea.”
“That it was.” Ashe began walking toward the noisy part of town, the direction in which most of the people passing in the streets were headed. “Rhapsody, I have to ask a favor of you.”
“Anything.”
“Don’t say that yet,” he said seriously. “You are going to hate hearing this as much as I am going to hate asking, I’ll wager.”
She sighed. “Undoubtedly. What is it?”
He stopped and faced her. “This may not make any sense to you. Manwyn said something back there that you shouldn’t have heard, not because I would want to keep it from you, but because your knowledge of it poses a threat to your own safety, as well as the safety of others.” He took her hands. “Will you trust me to take the memory of it from you, just for a little while? Until it’s safe.”
“You are blithering at me,” she said, annoyed. “Is this more Cymrian mumbo-jumbo?”
“In a way, I’m afraid it is. But it is more for the danger it puts you in than any other reason that I ask this of you, because I don’t want you to be hurt. Do you believe me?”
She sighed. “I suppose.”
Ashe laughed sharply. “That’s a ringing endorsement.”
“Well, what do you expect, Ashe?” Rhapsody said, her irritation growing. “First I have to face a bizarre prophetess who talks in riddles, then I have to hear you do the same? What is it you want? What do you mean, will I let you take the memory?”
“You’re right,” he said, his voice softening. “I know this has been unbearable for you, Rhapsody. Your memories are a form of treasure. As such, I can collect them, but I would only do it with your permission. They can be stored in a pure vessel, much like you stored my soul, until such a time as it is safe for you to have them.”
“Like you offered to do with my nightmare? Store it in a pearl?”
“Yes. Exactly like that. You will name the vessel, telling it to hold the memory for you, and it will leave your conscious thought and reside in the vessel until you take it back.”
Rhapsody rubbed her temples. “How will I know to take it back, if I don’t remember it in the first place?”
“I will remind you. And I will leave you a sign in case something happens to me. What I propose is this: on the night of our parting, I will explain everything to you that you don’t currently understand. I will hold nothing back. We’ll sit in the gazebo—we can talk freely in Elysian, and I will make sure there is a vessel there to hold the memory of that night and the one you have of this conversation with Manwyn.”
“I can’t do that,” she said. “I’m sorry. I need the information she gave me.”
“I’m referring to what she said after she gave you that information,” Ashe said. “You can keep the rest. Please, Rhapsody, understand that I would not ask this of you if I didn’t have to. Hear what I have to say when we get back. Then, if you choose to withdraw your permission, I will yield to your decision. But please consider it.”
“All right,” she agreed reluctantly. “Now, let’s go shopping.” She breathed deeply as the part of his face she could see relaxed into a smile. She was not sure which was worse—the prospect of him leaving after they got back, or having to live through any more of the deception that seemed to be inherent to the Cymrian people. Either way, it didn’t matter. Both situations would be over soon.
51
Rhapsody finished shaking the crumbs from the linens off the table, folding them neatly and setting them on the chair she had occupied. Ashe was still inside the cottage, having cleared the table and carried the dishes in. She put the small vase of winter flowers back in the center, smiling as she caressed the stiff petals, admiring their beauty and their resolve. Long after the more fragile blossoms of summer and early autumn had withered and died, they continued to bloom, even through the first snows, defying the unrelenting grip of the whiteness of the winter, bringing fresh color to a frozen world.
She was lost in thought when Ashe returned and found her there, running one of the bloodred flowers absently along her cheek. He stopped a few yards away and watched her, his eyes reveling in the magnificence of the picture she unconsciously made.
Her golden hair had been swept up in a shining coil and fastened with
tiny white dried blossoms that resembled diminutive stars, a few soft tendrils falling next to her face and at the nape of her neck. She wore a graceful gown of ivory Canderian watered silk with a high collar and a full skirt, edged with a thin band of delicate lace that brushed her wrists and her neck, and though little of her rosy skin showed save on her hands and face, the splendor of her body was made apparent by the artistry of the dress.
Ashe felt his breath return after a moment; he hadn’t missed it. He thought back over their time together and realized that this was the first time he had ever seen her deliberately set about highlighting her features, adorning herself in a way that accentuated her natural beauty. The result was astonishing. As the dragon calculated the untapped power to manipulate and beguile entire populations that was lying dormant within her, the man was treasuring the understanding that she had dressed up for him, wanting his memory of her on their last night alone together in this place to be a pretty one.
After a moment her mind returned from its wanderings and she turned to him and gave him a knee-weakening smile. With an unconscious grace she lifted her sweeping skirts and stepped over the stones, coming to him eagerly with her hands outstretched. He took them both in his own and kissed them gently, then drew her into his arms, enjoying the freshness of her fragrance and the warmth of her body within the silky-stiff material of the dress. She was a treasure trove of sensations the dragon could luxuriate in, and it was no easy task to break free of the desire to do so.
“Thank you for a wonderful supper,” she said, pulling back from his embrace and smiling up at him. “If I had known you could do such a marvelous job cooking by yourself, I would have let you do it more often.”