“I did not,” Rhapsody replied. “But I did bring my husband and child.”
The dragon reared up in surprise, then settled back to the wet ground of the cavern, a mixture of amusement and annoyance evident on his massive face.
“That cloak of yours is truly an irritation,” he said. “The water interferes with reasonable dragon sense and makes it impossible to correctly assess one’s surroundings. I am insulted that you chose to bring it into my lair again.”
“Oh. Well, if you are offended, you will have to take that up with my husband. Ashe, this is Witheragh, from the second Clutch of Mylinmacr, son of Ylsgraith. Witheragh, may I present my husband, who has a very long and arduous name that would require me to take a nap if I had to intone it all, but who is, for your information, the only great-grandson of Elynsynos.”
The great beast blinked as Ashe took down his hood.
“Well, well,” Witheragh murmured. He rattled off a long train of words and sounds which Rhapsody found familiar but could not translate, to Ashe’s amusement and response in exaggerated squeaks and hisses that she had never heard him utter before.
A giggle emerged from beneath the cloak of mist.
The beast’s head ascended toward the ceiling of the cave.
“What an utterly charming sound,” he murmured after his surprise had passed. “I want to see it. Please.”
Ashe looked at his wife.
“What do you think, Aria? Can he be trusted?”
Rhapsody’s face took on a considered mien.
“Witheragh? I believe so. He has guarded the Nain kingdom vigilantly while our son has been here—”
“Son?” The dragon’s voice was almost giddy. “It’s a boy? I was right, you know—I said it was a boy and you told me that perhaps it wasn’t and—”
“I wasn’t asking whether you could be trusted,” Ashe said. “I am wondering what mischief my son might make with you, given that you are entirely too excited at this point, Witheragh. He is wyrmkin, you know, and his mother’s boy; he has a level of grace, guile, and roguery similar to her own. He would have you helpless and at his mercy within a moment if he wanted to—”
Let me see him.
The words echoed through the cave in the multiple tones of soprano, alto, tenor, and bass, rattling the vault and causing the Molten River to flow momentarily faster.
Rhapsody laughed and walked back to her husband, who was the only other entity in the cave chuckling at the moment. She peeled aside the drapes of fabric coated in vapor to reveal a tiny glowing face wreathed in a wide grin.
Sporting a tiny tooth on the bottom gum.
“Oh, goodness!” Rhapsody exclaimed. “That’s new. Thank you for waiting to cut that until after I returned.” Realization came over her face. “Oh. Oh dear. That’s going to hurt.”
Ashe laughed, pulled the cloak away, and extended his arms, holding the baby out for the dragon to see.
The look of fond enchantment on the wyrm’s face caused even the three women cowering out of the way to chuckle as well.
“It is my hope and expectation that when he is older, we might bring him back to this place,” Rhapsody said as the dragon swayed his head back and forth over the Molten River, making his gemstones glitter for the baby’s entertainment. Meridion’s eyes brightened and followed the waves of colorful light intently. “Between the lessons in smithing and engineering he could learn from Faedryth, and the dragon lore he might be able to cadge from you—”
“Don’t make promises you cannot or will not keep,” said the dragon, still distracted by the little boy. “You absolutely should plan to bring him here. There are few enough of us left in the world. It would be uncommon wisdom to make a point of undertaking that sort of education.”
“We will consider it seriously,” said Ashe. He kissed Meridion on the glossy curls of his head, then tucked him under the cape again. “We must be heading out, so as to make the most of daylight. Rhapsody—”
“Say no more.” The Lady Cymrian took the canvas sack she had been carrying and opened it. She pulled from it the coiled tongue whip that Witheragh had loaned her when she left Meridion, her heart, and her name behind in the Nain kingdom.
“I have tried to honor it as best I could,” she said to the dragon across the Molten River. “It was invaluable in battle, allowing me to take beasts of monstrous strength and tainted power from the sky, and beating back charges in which we were gravely outnumbered.” She fell silent suddenly. “And it snapped the life out of hundreds of crows.”
The dragon nodded thoughtfully. “Always a good thing.”
“I thank you for the loan of it,” Rhapsody said. “Where would you like it?”
In the hands of those that care for the child, in safekeeping until he is old enough to wield it himself.
The words seemed to echo from the very air around them.
“Are you certain, Witheragh?” Rhapsody asked. “We agreed that I would return it to your hoard if it survived.”
Witheragh was not moving.
“Those words were not uttered by me,” he said quietly. “I believe, for the first time since it has been in my keeping, that we have heard the tongue of Mylinmacr. I told you my grandmother was a lore-tender, like you. There can be no doubt to the wisdom of its speech. You must take it with you and put it in safekeeping for your son when he is older.”
“Thank you,” Ashe said. “For this, and for everything else you have done for my son. Now, with our thanks, we must go. May the Earth guard what you love; guard the Shield while it does.”
“You as well. Goodbye, Your Majesty. Do bring back the boy—and the crown. I have a great desire to see them both again one day.”
“May it be so,” Rhapsody said. “Goodbye, and thank you again.”
She and Ashe headed up the tunnel, past the Molten River, to the air of the upworld again.
The three women less than a full step behind them.
67
ENTRANCE TO THE BOLGLANDS
The fields leading to the steppes of Ylorc had been meticulously cleared of the refuse of battle, Rhapsody noted as the armored caravan approached the checkpoint at Grivven Peak. Had it not been for the presence of ruts and divots pockmarking the ground and wide swaths of burned and fire-brutalized grass, black and crisp, there would be no sign whatsoever that an attack had been launched and repelled here.
“I’m glad to see that Achmed has chosen the higher path,” she said, reaching over to adjust Meridion’s blankets as he stretched, his hunger sated, and yawned in his sleep in Ashe’s arms. “I did not know what to expect upon returning to the Bolglands; it would not have surprised me to see bodies strung from every peak and skulls on spikes set up as fence posts.”
Ashe looked out the carriage window. “Achmed has worked diligently to build the Firbolg realm into what it is,” he said, his eyes scanning the peaks. “Allowing it to devolve into what it was before would be self-defeating; once one has successfully undertaken to divert the sea, it is far more difficult to do it a second time. Additionally, he must know that he is not going to be around forever; it’s best that he seek to make the Bolg forget those times past as much as he can, lest they revert to what they once were, without the guidance of a visionary after him to maintain the humanity they have achieved.”
Rhapsody sat back against the cushion of the carriage seat and finished lacing her blouse.
“I’m not certain that Achmed has decided he is not going to be around forever,” she said humorously. “He’s fairly convinced that he, Grunthor, and I achieved the same immortality as the First Generation seems to have. When I met up with him in Tyrian, though, he did actually consider the possibility that the Three might someday become Two, or even One. I’m fairly convinced he was not talking about himself, however. He never mentioned it ever being Nil.”
“Well, I am very glad that Fate has allowed it to be Three still,” said Ashe, smiling. He took her hand with his free one and squeezed it gently. “Thank you for
coming back to me, in all senses of the words.”
Rhapsody’s eyes sparkled; she opened her mouth to respond, but was cut short by the ragged blare of horns. She pushed the heavy velvet curtain at the exterior window aside to get a better view.
From around the back of Grivven Tower, a pair of horses emerged, galloping full out under the colors of the Bolg kingdom. One was riderless; the other was ridden by a Bolg Rhapsody recognized after a moment as Kubila, the Archon who was responsible for maintaining Achmed’s livery and stables. The Firbolg army had a minimal cavalry—horses tended to be uncomfortable near members of the race—but what it had was well bred and trained by handlers from the province of Bethe Corbair, where stood the best horse breeders in the Alliance.
“Slow to a stop,” she called to the driver through the carriage’s interior window.
“Stay in the coach, Aria,” Ashe said seriously. His wife considered, then assented, waiting inside the armored carriage until the Archon had brought the two horses to a halt a hundred paces from them. From every angle of the caravan she could hear the squeak of bending wood as scores of bowstrings were drawn.
“First Woman!”
The words in the harsh Bolgish tongue scratched in familiarity against Rhapsody’s ears. She rolled her eyes in amusement, only to catch her husband’s placid gaze hardening into fury. The title had been given to her by the Firbolg when the Three had first taken the mountains, indicating that they believed her to be Achmed’s preferred courtesan. She smiled at him warmly, then pushed the curtain all the way open.
“Yes, Kubila?”
“Come with,” the Archon said haltingly in the Orlandan tongue. “Please.”
“What’s the matter?”
“King—said. Please.”
Rhapsody looked at Ashe. His face was expressionless but his eyes gleamed like the blue rippling waves of Kirsdarke.
“I will tell the sentries to speed the caravan through to the Cauldron,” she said quietly. “You and Meridion can catch up with me there.” Her husband exhaled but said nothing.
The Lady Cymrian rose and bent to kiss her sleeping son’s head, then raised her face to Ashe and pressed a kiss onto his lips. His hand came to rest on her cheek and lingered there as she stood straight again.
“Promise me that when this is done, you will finally allow me to take you home to Highmeadow. I have already sent orders for the troops and all the infrastructure to be relocated to the provincial garrisons, so that it can at last be the home I’ve always intended it to be for you and Meridion.”
Rhapsody took his hand from her face and kissed it. “There is nothing I could imagine that would make me happier.” She released his hand, turned, and exited the carriage, trying to block the light that blasted through the doorway from falling on the sleeping infant.
“All is well,” she called to Analise and Melisande, who were peering out the window of the carriage behind hers. “I’m just going on ahead.” Analise nodded, Melisande smiled warily, and the two heads disappeared back into the darkness of their carriage.
The Archon began to dismount as she approached, but she waved him away and pulled herself easily into the saddle. “What’s the matter?” she asked as he turned the horses in the direction of the main gate.
The Archon shrugged and urged his mount forward at an increasing rate of speed, Rhapsody barely keeping up, as they thundered across the battle-torn plain toward the entrance to Ylorc.
* * *
Harran the Loremistress met the Lady Cymrian in the corridor outside the Great Hall and indicated that Rhapsody should follow her, so she did, anxiety beginning to take hold.
She hurried along the dark stone tunnels of what had been her home upon first coming to this land, her eyes adjusting to the darkness and sporadic dim illumination that had been the standard until she had reworked the lighting plan; clearly the Bolg had reverted to the level of brightness they had been more comfortable with before her.
She thought back to the day in spring, a lifetime before, it seemed, when Anborn had first come to Ylorc to set up defenses and arrange for Bolg supply lines. Her jaw tightened as she hurried after Harran, recalling the breakfast that morning on the balcony overlooking the Bolg mess hall before he set out to ride the Threshold of Death, the good-natured bantering of her Firbolg friends, the Lord Marshal laughing unabashedly, her son cradled in her arms, wide-eyed and gleefully observing it all.
She could almost hear their voices echoing in the halls of Ylorc now.
I’m actually shocked at the decorum of the troops, Anborn had joked. It certainly is nothing like what passes for behavior in the mess tents of the army of Roland. Or a Cymrian wedding—this is a formal dining experience by comparison. I don’t know if I can stand it, frankly.
Achmed had turned a sour gaze on her in response.
Rhapsody insists on civility in all parts of Ylorc, even the privies. And, unfortunately for all of us, she generally gets it. At least when she’s here she does. Everyone is painfully polite, refrains from public urination, and puts the seat down. Are you certain you don’t want to take her with you, Anborn? She’s a tremendous pain in the arse.
I guess they weren’t joking, she thought as she struggled to keep up with the Loremistress, who was leading her through the barracks toward the hospice now. I knew they had rescinded some of the programs I put in place, had furloughed the school programs and the like with the buildup to the war, but it seems they have completely eradicated much of what I undertook in this place.
She was not certain why the thought made her so sad.
Anborn’s voice echoed in her ears.
While your influence is evident in the more social aspects of the mountain, the hospitals and hospices, the schools and agricultural programs and whatnot, it is clear that military might and manufacturing are the priorities of the Firbolg king, and all resources are directed to those priorities. This cheers me more than I can say.
Rhapsody swallowed hard as Harran came to a stop before a wooden door with a barred window in the center of it.
She opened it and stepped aside.
Rhapsody walked slowly into the dark room where but one candle burned.
The Firbolg king was sitting in a chair at the foot of an enormous bed, his elbows on his knees, his fingers interlaced and resting on his lips. He did not look up as she entered, his gaze remaining on the figure in the bed.
Rhapsody looked to her left, dread taking root in her heart.
The figure in the bed was blanketed in shadow, tall and thin, it appeared, by the hills and hollows its body made in the blankets that covered it, with gray hair and wide shoulders evident on the pillows. Rhapsody had never seen a being like it before, its long limbs thin beneath the covers. She looked back at Achmed, waiting for him to speak, but he did not acknowledge her presence. Finally, as the silence grew too heavy to bear, she spoke in a whisper.
“Achmed?”
The Bolg king said nothing, but turned his head toward her, his mismatched eyes glittering at her in the light of the candle.
“You sent for me?”
Achmed inhaled, then let his breath out evenly.
“Is this someone who is in need of a healer?”
The Bolg king’s eyes narrowed, his gaze unrelenting. He shook his head.
“What—what do you need, then?”
For a long moment, the Firbolg king merely stared at her. Then, when he spoke, his voice was toneless.
“I felt you should have time with him, undisturbed by your husband and son. For his sake, as well as yours.”
“Him?” Rhapsody asked, her brows drawing together. “Who is this?”
“You don’t recognize him?”
The Lady Cymrian looked at the figure in the bed again. Then she went to the table next to Achmed’s chair where the solitary candle burned and picked it up. She held it aloft, then slowly made her way across the room.
The tall man’s wide face was sculpted with great hollows along the cheekbones and
chin, the eye sockets deep and dark. His skin was the color of parchment in the inconstant light, his hair coarse and almost white in the glow of the candle, his great jaw jutting forth beneath an enormous nose that looked strangely too large for the face. Wide, thin lips stretched across his mouth from side to side, from which a polished tusk protruded.
Rhapsody’s eyes widened, and her hand went to her mouth.
“It—it isn’t possible,” she whispered. “Grunthor?”
The Firbolg king’s interlaced fingers returned to rest against his lips again.
Rhapsody’s stomach dropped into her feet, making them heavy as lead. She moved slowly to the bed and shielded the light with her hand as she held it up to illuminate her beloved friend’s face.
The man in the bed bore little resemblance to the affable Sergeant-Major, the giant soldier who had offered himself as her first protector outside of her family from the moment she had met him, the man within whose greatcloak and upon whose chest she had slept through the endless, excruciating trek through the Earth they had undertaken to come to this world.
She had not recognized him with the loss of color to his skin and hair, skin that had always had a greenish tone, the color of old bruises, that reminded her of the clay of the Earth, hair that had been a mossy red-brown and coarse like straw, wrapping around his jaw in the fulsome beard that Meridion had loved to sleep beneath.
That beard was gray now as well, thinner and damp, it seemed.
Numbly, Rhapsody sat down on the edge of the bed and set the candle down on the table beside it.
Gently she brought her shaking hand to rest on the long, bony one that rested on top of the covers. It was cool and damp, unlike the warm, wide paw it had always been, its carefully maintained claws dull and papery like his skin. She could feel his great heartbeat thudding in the vein that ran, elevated, from his wrist up his thumb; it seemed regular, at least, though diminished from the ringing tone that used to echo brazenly in his chest beneath her ear in the dark.