Prophecy

  Rhapsody thought about it, then shook her head. “I don’t think that would be wise, but thank you.”

  “Have you ever felt safe?” He took a sip from the mug.

  “Yes, but not for a long time.”

  Ashe thought about asking her what he wanted to know directly, but decided against it. “When?”

  Rhapsody inched a little closer to the fire. She was feeling chilled suddenly and pulled her cloak around her shoulders.

  “When I was still a young girl, I guess, before I ran away from home.”

  Ashe nodded. “Why did you run away?”

  She looked up at him sharply. “Why does anyone run away? I was stupid and thoughtless and selfish; especially selfish.”

  He knew of other reasons people did. “And were you beautiful as a young girl?”

  Rhapsody laughed. “Gods, no. And my brothers told me so constantly.”

  Ashe laughed too, in spite of himself. “That’s a brother’s main job, keeping his sister in line.”

  “Do you have sisters?”

  There was a long silence. “No,” he finally answered. “So you were a late bloomer?”

  She blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Isn’t that the term for a girl who was, well, not beautiful as a child but becomes beautiful as a woman?”

  Rhapsody looked at him strangely. “You think I’m beautiful?”

  Beneath his hood Ashe smiled. “Of course. Don’t you?”

  She shrugged. “Beauty is a matter of opinion. I suppose I like the way I look, or at least I’m comfortable with it. It never really mattered to me whether other people did or not.”

  “That’s a very Lirin attitude.”

  “Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m Lirin.”

  Ashe let loose a humorous sigh. “I suppose this means that telling you you’re beautiful is not a way to get into your good graces.”

  She ran a hand absently over her hair. “No, not really. It makes me uncomfortable, especially if you don’t mean it.”

  “Why would you think I don’t mean it?”

  “There seem to be quite a few people in these parts that think I’m odd-looking or freakish, but that doesn’t really bother me most of the time.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous.” Ashe put down his empty mug.

  “It is not ridiculous. I have to endure strange glances and curious looks more often than you might think. If you saw me walk down a street, you’d see what I mean.”

  Ashe wasn’t sure whether to be amused or annoyed at her lack of grasp of the obvious. “Rhapsody, haven’t you noticed that men follow you when you’re walking down that street?”

  “Yes, but that’s because I’m a woman.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Well, men do that—follow women, I mean. It’s their nature. They live constantly primed to mate, and they are almost always, well, ready for it. They can’t help it. It must be a very uncomfortable way to live.”

  Ashe swallowed his amusement. “And you think any woman has this effect on any man?”

  Rhapsody blinked again. “Well, yes. It’s part of nature, the cycle of propagation, of attraction and mating.”

  Ashe couldn’t refrain from laughing. “You are sadly misinformed.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I do, if you are under the impression that every woman affects men the way you do. You are judging by your own experience, and it is very different from the way it is for most people.”

  The conversation was making her uncomfortable; Ashe could tell because Rhapsody reached for her pack and rummaged until she found her lark’s flute. She occasionally played the tiny instrument in the woods, as it had a sound that blended into the forest air, complementing the birdsong. That was by day; now the birds were silent, and the only music in the forest now was that of the wind. She settled back against a tree and regarded him with a wry look.

  “And you think you have a better perspective on men and women?”

  Ashe laughed again. “Well, not than most, but better than yours.”

  Rhapsody began to play, a tripping series of notes that tickled the hairs on the back of his neck. She pulled the flute away from her lips and smiled.

  “I think you are as unqualified to judge as I am, maybe more so.”

  Ashe sat up in interest. “Really? Why?”

  “Because you’re a wanderer.”

  “And what does that have to do with anything?”

  “In my experience, foresters and other wanderers are very different from the majority of men,” she said lightly. Twilight had faded completely into night; her eyes scanned the sky, but she did not seem to find what she sought.

  “How so?”

  “They seek different things from women, for one. Women they would have on a temporary basis, that is.”

  She couldn’t tell if Ashe really was smiling or if she just imagined she heard it in his voice. “And what might that be?”

  Rhapsody returned to playing her lark’s flute, lost in thought. The melody was airy but melancholy, and Ashe imagined he could see the colors and textures she was weaving with her notes, patterns of deep, soft swirls in shades of blue and purple, like ocean waves against the darkening sky before a storm. Then the song changed into brighter, longer measures, and the colors lightened and stretched until they wafted like clouds on a warm wind at sunset. Ashe listened, enthralled, until she was done, but held onto the thought she had left unanswered.

  “Well?”

  She jumped a little. It was obvious her mind was far away. “Yes?”

  “Sorry. What do most men seek from temporary interaction with women?”

  Rhapsody smiled. “Release.”

  Ashe nodded. “And wanderers?”

  She thought for a moment. “Contact.”

  “Contact?”

  “Yes. People who walk alone in the wide world all their lives sometimes lose perspective on what is real and what is not, what still remains and what is only memory. What men who wander most of their lives want, when they come upon a woman for a short time, is contact, reaffirmation that they really do exist. At least in my experience, anyway.”

  Ashe was silent for a moment. When he finally spoke his voice was soft. “And do they instead find sometimes that they do not exist?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m not a wanderer, at least not by choice. I hope only to be one for a short while. It’s not a life I find suits me, and I am growing tired of it.”

  They sat in silence until her watch began. Ashe rose slowly and made his gear ready for the night, then slipped into the shadows, disappearing on the other side of the fire. Rhapsody watched him lie down, and thought she heard him sigh deeply. Perhaps she was reading her own feelings into the sound, but she felt its music speak of deep loneliness, not unlike her own. She had been wrong about his feelings before and had been taken aback when she tried to comfort or reassure him, only to find he felt no need for it, and was annoyed by her attempt. Rhapsody weighed her options for a moment, then decided to err on the side of being too kind.

  “Ashe?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “You do exist, even if you are hard to see sometimes.”

  The voice from the shadows was noncommittal. “Thank you so very much for telling me.”

  Rhapsody cringed. She had chosen wrong again. She sat her watch, scanning the horizon for signs of life, but saw none. The night was quiet except for the crackling of the flames and the occasional sound of the wind. In the silence she heard him speak softly, as if to himself.

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  At midnight she woke him for his watch and crawled gratefully into her bedroll, settling down to sleep almost before she was fully reclining. The nightmares came an hour or so later, taking her so violently that Ashe forgot his resolve to stay out of it and shook her awake gently. She sat up abruptly in tears. It took her more than an hour to become calm again.

  It was an old dream, a dream that had come to her when she first
learned that Serendair was gone, destroyed fourteen centuries before while she and the two Bolg were crawling through the belly of the Earth. In her dream she stood in a village consumed by black fire, while soldiers rode through the streets, slaying everyone in sight. In the distance at the edge of the horizon she saw eyes, tinged in red, laughing at her. And then, as a bloodstained warrior on a black charger with fire in its eyes rode down on her like a man possessed, she was lifted up in the air in the claw of a great copper dragon.

  She drew her camp blanket around her shoulders, glancing occasionally out into the darkness beyond the glowing circle of campfire light. Ashe had given her a mug of tea and watched as she held it in both her hands until it was undoubtedly cold, staring into the flames. They sat together in the shadows of the fire, silently. Finally he spoke.

  “If the memory of the dream is disturbing to you, I can help you be rid of it.”

  Rhapsody barely seemed to hear him. “Hmmm?”

  Ashe rose and dug in the folds of his cloak, a moment later pulling out the coin purse Jo had once tried to steal from him on the street in Bethe Corbair. He untied the drawstring and drew forth a small gleaming sphere which he then put in Rhapsody’s hand. Her brows drew together.

  “A pearl?”

  “Yes. A pearl is layer upon layer of tears from the sea. It is a natural vault of sorts that can hold such ephemeral things as vows and memories—traditionally deals of state or important bargains are sealed in the presence of a large pearl of great value.” Rhapsody nodded vaguely; she knew that brides in the old land wove pearls into their hair or wore them set in jewelry for the same reason. “You’re a Canwr,” Ashe continued. “If you want to be free of the nightmare, speak the true name of the pearl and will it to hold the memory. When the thought has left your memory and is captured in the pearl, crush the pearl under your heel. It will be gone forever then.”

  Rhapsody’s eyes narrowed. Canwr was the Lirin word for Namer. “How do you know that I’m a Canwr?”

  Ashe laughed and crossed his arms. “Are you saying you’re not?”

  She swallowed hard. Even his question proved he already knew the answer, since it was phrased in a way that would require her to lie if she were to deny it. “No,” she answered angrily. “Actually, I believe I am not saying anything from this moment forward, except to thank you for your offer of the pearl and to decline it.” She lapsed back into silence, staring out into the night once more.

  Ashe sat back down by the fire’s edge and poured himself more tea. “Well, my intention was to divert your thoughts from your nightmare. This isn’t exactly the way I had hoped to do it, but at least my attempt was successful. I’m not certain why you are angry. I was trying to help you.”

  Rhapsody looked up at the sky. The stars were shrouded in mist from the smoke of the fire.

  “Perhaps it is because, while I respect your desire not to share details about your life and your past, you seem to be insistent on worming very personal and meaningful information out of me,” she said. “To Lirin, Naming is not a casual topic of discussion, it is a religious belief.”

  There was silence for a moment. When Ashe spoke again, his tone was soft. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “You are also relentless about determining whether or not I’m Cymrian. From what Lord Stephen tells me, in many places the fact that you think I am Cymrian would be considered a grave insult.”

  “Right again.” He watched for a long while as she stared into the night at nothing in particular. Finally, unwilling to be the cause of her silent consternation, he made one more attempt at friendly conversation. “Maybe it’s best if we try to avoid talking about the Past. Bargain?”

  “Agreed,” she said, her eyes still searching for something in the darkness.

  “Then why don’t we talk about something you enjoy instead. Perhaps that will help drive the memory of the dreams away. You choose the topic, and I may even answer questions.”

  Rhapsody snapped out of her reverie. She looked over to him and smiled.

  “All right.” She thought for a moment until her mind settled on her adopted grandchildren, Gwydion and Melisande, and the dozen little Firbolg. They were her touchstone, the things she thought about when she was brooding, when her mind was filled with unpleasant thoughts.

  “Do you have any children?” she asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “Well, I am always looking for grandchildren to adopt.”

  “Grandchildren?”

  “Yes,” Rhapsody answered, ignoring the almost-rude tone in his voice. “Grandchildren. You see, you can spoil an adopted grandchild while you’re around, but you don’t have the responsibility of raising it all the time. This works for me because it gives me children to love, even though I don’t have the time to be with them always. I have twelve Firbolg grandchildren, and two human, and they are very dear to me.”

  “Well, I don’t have any children. I’m sorry I couldn’t accommodate you. Perhaps we could work something out. How important is it to you, and how long are you willing to wait?” She could almost hear him smirk.

  Rhapsody ignored the odd flirtation. “Are you married?”

  Laughter.

  “I’m sorry—why is that a funny question?”

  “Most women don’t like me. In fact, most people don’t like me; but that’s fine—the feeling’s mutual.”

  “My, what a cranky attitude. Well, I can tell you confidentially but with absolute certainty that you are not without feminine admirers in Ylorc.”

  “You are not talking about one of the Firbolg midwives, are you?”

  “Goodness, no. Bbbrrrr.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  “No; my sister is somewhat enamored of you.”

  Ashe nodded awkwardly. “Oh. Yes.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No. But it won’t come to anything.”

  Rhapsody felt a twinge of sadness. “Really? I certainly believe you, but do you mind if I ask why?”

  “Well, for one thing, I happen to be in love with someone else, if that’s all right with you.” His tone was annoyed.

  Rhapsody turned crimson with embarrassment. “I’m very sorry,” she said sheepishly. “How stupid of me. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  Ashe poured himself more tea. “Why not? I am, and I offer no apologies for it. Another prominent reason is that she is a child.”

  “Yes. You’re right.”

  “She is also a human.”

  “Is there something wrong with that?”

  “No. But the racial makeup of my blood is much longer lived than that, like your own.”

  “You’re Lirin, then?” The thought had never occurred to her.

  “Partly, like you.”

  “I see. Well, that makes sense. But is it really all that important? My parents were Lirin and human, as some in your family obviously were as well. It didn’t stop them.”

  “Some diverse life expectancies are closer than others. For instance, if you really are Cymrian, as I believe you are but won’t admit, you will have a major problem facing you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because even the extended life span of the Lirin will still be no match for yours.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Ashe got up and threw another handful of twigs on the fire, then looked over at her. Rhapsody caught a glimpse of what she thought was a scruffily bearded chin, but in the flickering shadows it was impossible to tell.

  “When the First Generation Cymrians came, it was as if time had stopped for them,” he said. “I’m not sure what caused it to happen. Perhaps it had something to do with completing an arc across the world, across the Prime Meridian; I have no idea. But for whatever reason, the Cymrians did not seem to be affected by the ravages of time. They didn’t age, and as years, then centuries, passed, it became evident that they weren’t going to. They had essentially become immortal. And as they reproduced, their offspring, while not completely immo
rtal, were extraordinarily long-lived. Of course, the farther the generations move away from the first, the shorter the life span becomes until it will finally blend into the way it should be. But that doesn’t affect the immortals. There are still First Generation Cymrians alive today; mostly in hiding.”

  “Why? Why do they hide?”

  “Many of them are insane; driven mad by the ‘blessing’ of immortality. You see, Rhapsody, if they had been immortal from the beginning, it probably wouldn’t have affected them so much, but they were humans and Lirin and Nain and the like, extraordinary only in the journey they made. They had already embarked on a life cycle that had a certain course, and it was interrupted, wherever they were in it, and frozen there.

  “So imagine being a human who had lived seventy or eighty years, and had passed through all the stages of infancy, childhood, youth, adulthood, middle age, and then finally old age, preparing to meet death soon, to discover that you were going to live forever that way, elderly and infirm.” He poured yet another cup of tea and offered the pot to Rhapsody, who had grown quiet in the firelight. She shook her head, lost in thought.

  “Children continued to grow and mature, until they reached adulthood, but they never got any older. Some of them are alive still, looking no older than you do. But far more of them died in the war, or at their own hands, just to avoid facing an eternity they couldn’t accept, sometimes with powers they didn’t understand. Virtually every First Generation Cymrian took at least a small piece of elemental lore away from the Island with him, whether he knew it or not.

  “So that’s why I say you may have a problem. If you are a later-generation Cymrian, you will be extraordinarily long-lived, and you will undoubtedly face what others did: the prospect of watching those you love grow old and die in what seems like a brief moment in your life. And if you are a First Generation Cymrian, it will be even worse, because unless you are killed outright you will never die. Imagine losing people over and over, your lovers, your spouse, your children—”

  “Stop it,” Rhapsody said. Her voice was terse. She rose from the ground and walked to the edge of the firelight, then tossed the remainder of her cold tea out into the darkness. When she came back she took a different seat, farther away from him, so that he did not have as good a view of her face.