At the mention of her name, his face changed, twisting into fear again. “Rhapsody. She’s probably fighting the F’dor now; gods, she may be dying, and I can do nothing to help her.” He began to tremble again.
Oelendra wiped her eyes. “ ’Tis difficult, is it not?” she said, resting her hand on his shoulder. “ ’Twas far easier facing my own death than to sit helplessly while someone I love faces hers. I wish I could go and do it for her, make certain she is safe. You have no idea how many men and women I have seen march off to meet their fate, Gwydion. One would think that after a time you would get used to it, but you never do. Not when ’tis someone you love.”
His voice was full of pain. “How do you bear it?”
“The best way is to sit vigil with someone else who loves her. You can carry the burden together.”
Ashe looked up and Oelendra met his gaze. They took one another’s hands and sat together, waiting. After a while they began to tell each other stories of Rhapsody, sharing their love for her, their memories of her. Eventually the worry became too strong, and they grew silent.
Finally Ashe looked at the sky; dawn was coming, the stars beginning to fade in the lightening horizon. “Gods, it’s over, don’t you think?”
“ ’Tis done.” Oelendra sighed, her eyes still on the darkness of the sky above her.
“It must be.”
They stood. Oelendra did so slowly, feeling the great aching pain in her knees. Ashe pulled up the hood of his cloak.
“I will go to Elysian and wait.”
“Do that,” Oelendra said, picking up her small pack. “She will be happy to see you. And please, send word.”
“I will.” A grisly thought occurred to him. “One way or another. If they didn’t make it—”
“If they didn’t, we will think of a way to lure the benison here, and then we will kill him.”
Ashe nodded silently and turned away.
“Gwydion,” Oelendra said as he stood at the edge of the clearing, “you remind me more of the Kings of Serendair than you resemble the Lord of the Cymrians. I am glad to see that the star was well placed.”
Ashe smiled at the ancient woman. “Thank you.” He took a step, then looked back again. “And I am glad Rhapsody asked me to guide her to you. She is lucky to have you for a friend.”
Oelendra smiled. “I suppose that makes me your friend-in-law.”
Ashe returned her smile, then walked away silently into the woods. Oelendra went back to the dying fire and absently kicked dirt over the remaining coals. She looked once more at the shell of the House of Remembrance and walked off into the forest.
65
South of Bethe Corbair
The wind over the Krevensfield Plain dipped low into the swale, causing the hidden fire to crackle and leap for a moment, sparks flying skyward, only to settle into a sullen smolder once more. The Three glanced around automatically, scanning the horizon for eyes that might have seen the embers. The two smaller travelers turned to the giant, who shook his head, then settled back and exhaled softly. Grunthor knew the earth; if there had been anyone upon it within sight, he would have felt him.
Rhapsody reached into the coals. “Slypka,” she said. Extinguish. The flames sank immediately into the ashes, taking the light with them.
“Get some sleep,” Achmed said to her, drawing the hooded cloak over his shoulders. “You look tired.”
Grunthor put his arm around her and drew her against his chest. “Nothin’ to worry about, darlin’. We can take ’im. Rest ’ere now. It’ll be like old times.” He grinned at her, tusks protruding from his jaw in a manner Rhapsody had come to find consummately endearing, though she knew a stranger would find the sight paralyzing.
He was reading her mind. The killing of the demon was ultimately to be her task; in the darkness in the middle of the open night, nothing but stars to witness the plans they had laid, she was feeling suddenly small and vulnerable. She did not fear her own death. It was the prospect of failure that had her shaking now from more than the cold.
Gratefully she came into the greatcoat that the Sergeant held open for her, closing warmth around her as he had within the Root long ago. She let loose a sigh full of memory. Aside from the dragons she had slept beside, Grunthor was the only one in the world that could keep her safe from her own dreams. She laid an arm across the broad waist, hoping desperately he would be alive to repeat the sleeping arrangement the next night. The knowledge that she had never been in a fight like the one they were facing on the morrow was terrifying to her.
The huge hand patted her head awkwardly and Rhapsody relaxed into sleep. Grunthor waited until the rhythmic pattern of her breathing indicated that the depth of her slumber was such that they could speak without fear of her hearing. Then he looked at Achmed.
“What’s the fallback, sir?”
Achmed looked up into the sky, remembering a night beneath different stars long ago, broken by a summer rain. They were on the other side of the world now, seeking out a demon like the one they had run from then. His name was his own, no longer an invisible collar around his neck. And they were three, not two; an unluckier number according to the soothsayers, though it was hard to believe, given the addition to their team curled up in Grunthor’s arms.
“Once it begins, it’s her fight—and yours. I can only concentrate on the Thrall ritual,” he said softly, the natural sand in his voice growing even drier. “As long as the Thrall ritual is intact, I will maintain it to the exclusion of all else. If she becomes unable to fight, take her sword and kill it if you can.” The Bolg nodded. “If the Thrall ritual stops, the demon will have fled its present host. Kill whoever is still breathing.” Grunthor nodded again.
“She’s up to the task, ain’t ya, Yer Ladyship?” he said softly, rubbing his hand over her back. Rhapsody nodded in her sleep, whispering words that even she did not hear.
Achmed looked back up at the sky. “I hope you’re right.”
“Your Grace?”
Within the darkness of his study, the benison turned toward the solitary rectangle of light, shining through the open doorway.
“Yes?”
“Word has come from Sorbold that the Lirin queen has left Tyrian. She was seen ten days ago, riding alone across the bordering plains of their northern city-states.”
“Where was she headed?”
“They tracked her as far as the outer reaches of the Teeth, then lost her.”
From the doorway Gittleson could see nothing but the benison’s silhouette in the chair. Then Lanacan Orlando opened his eyes, two points of white in the dim outline, rimmed in the color of blood. He smiled, causing a third patch of light to appear in the shadow, gleaming with amusement.
“Perhaps the bitch is in heat,” the specter said, his voice warm and sweet. “Her stud of choice is chasing down poor Khaddyr’s followers; perhaps she wants the Firbolg king to tumble her, eh?”
“Perhaps, Your Grace.”
The chair turned slowly away from him again. “Don’t be a fool, Gittleson. She is coming here.”
The food in this place was wretched; why do you want to go back here?”
Rhapsody cuffed the Firbolg king affectionately. “There was nothing wrong with this tavern’s food,” she said sensibly. “It was the company you objected to. This was where you first met Ashe.”
“That would explain it. Small wonder my stomach was writhing.” Achmed glanced around the street, but he didn’t see Grunthor. The noon sun was casting shadows of unimpressive length; the Sergeant was probably still lurking in back alley doorways, waiting for more hospitable shade. He held a chair out for Rhapsody, watching her pull her hood more tightly around her face as she sat down. The wind was high and cold; they were the only customers of the pub who were sitting outdoors, the others taking comfort inside nearer to the fire and the ale.
The bells of the basilica were ringing wildly in the wind, sweet random music sweeping through the streets and over the buildings of Bethe Corbair. It w
as a sound that resonated in Rhapsody’s soul, but the knowledge that somewhere beneath that bell tower lurked an unimaginable evil made the music in it feel off somehow. She bowed her head and averted her eyes as Achmed ordered rum and lamb for himself and soup for her, then looked over her shoulder at the church once more as the tavern-keeper hurried back inside.
Achmed closed his eyes. On his first scouting of the area near the basilica he had picked up nothing unusual in the vibrations around it, though the smell of the demon was unmistakable. Grunthor had immediately located the boundaries of the tainted ground. Their suspicions were right; the basilica had been desecrated in a way that was invisible to the eye and other regular senses, the contamination stretching several yards into the street around it. Thousands of unknowing churchgoers walked over the defiled earth every day, oblivious of its demonic possession. Achmed winced in the memory of his first sight of Ashe in the basilica’s shadow. He had felt the taint then for a split second, and assumed Llauron’s son to be its source; it was a mistaken association.
Rhapsody was listening intently to the music of the carillon. Her soup was delivered; it was left untouched as she sat, deep in thought, and absently watched it grow cold. Finally she looked up at him; unnatural light was gleaming in the emerald eyes, her face glowing.
“Ela,” she whispered. Excitement snapped in her eyes, and she reached out and took his hand in hers; it was trembling. “Ela,” she said again.
“What are you babbling about? I don’t understand Ancient Lirin.”
“It’s not Ancient Lirin, it’s a musical term,” Rhapsody said softly. “It’s the last note in the old six-note scale, the way music was notated at the time the basilica was built centuries ago. Ut, re, mi, fa, sol, and la, or ela; it wasn’t until hundreds of years later that they began using ti, the seventh note of the octave, and do, which is the same as ut but one scale higher. It also happens to be my Naming note, the note to which I am attuned.”
“Rhapsody, stop babbling at me. What has you so excited?”
“It’s missing.”
“What’s missing?”
“Ela. The last tone in the scale is missing from the carillon; it’s only ringing five of the notes.”
“And how many bells does that affect?”
“Well, Lord Stephen said there were eight hundred seventy-six bells in the bell tower, one for every Cymrian ship that left the old world. If that’s the case, and if they had set the bells up in equal sets, since they must have been using the six-note scale, then one hundred and forty or so of them would have been that one.”
“One hundred forty-six.”
“Right. I can discern the other groupings, and that many are missing. It’s very subtle, and if the bells have been playing that way for a long time, no one except a Singer would even notice it, and then only if listening for it. Lanacan must have taken the clappers out of those bells, since removing the bells themselves would have been more than obvious, it would have been impossible to do without notice. The biggest one must weigh several tons.”
Achmed downed the last of his rum. “He’s a clever bastard; F’dor always are. So that’s how he circumvented the wind sanctifying the ground. How can we fix it?”
Rhapsody smiled. “I think I know. We had best find Grunthor; we have plans to make.”
She was alone in the marketplace buying arrows from the fletcher when Gittleson spotted her. She was hard to miss despite being disguised in the plain brown traveling clothes of a peasant; the smooth golden fall of her hair was neatly tied back in a simple black ribbon, and the afternoon sun reflected off it, drawing the eyes of the handful of townspeople braving the freezing wind of the square. She was lucky; it was only the weather that prevented her from being mobbed by the merchants who instead gazed at her from inside shops and from behind barrel fires next to their wares. Gittleson made careful note of the number and types of arrows she bought, primarily those with silvered points and made to hold flame, taking care not to let her see him.
Her next stop was the spice merchant, whose tents stretched half a city block and were open in the front. Huge burlap sacks of pods, roots, beans, peppercorns, and grains were set out along the street, along with bags of herbs and jars of spicy flakes. Rhapsody spent a great deal of time carefully examining the contents of each bag. Finally she bought several large heads of pungent garlic, two bunches each of horehound, mugwort, and datura, and three dozen long, fat vanilla beans, stuffing her purchases quickly into her sack and looking around hastily. Not satisfied, she gave a final glance to the bell tower rising above the rooftops before heading off into the shadows of the back alleys, losing her human shadow, who slunk off, back to the dark basilica, as dusk began to fall.
“How disappointing.” The robed figure in the vestry paused in front of a silvered mirror and checked his face. The countenance of an older man, a kindly man with sparse white hair and laugh lines around his eyes, looked back at him. It was the face of the quintessential grandfather, or the beloved village priest. “What does she think I am, Gittleson, a nosferatu? Look in the glass; can you see my reflection?”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“Yes, of course. And if you, Gittleson, even you know that, one would have hoped for more from the Iliachenva’ar. Garlic, mugwort, and silver arrows; really. Oh well, I guess I just expect too much. After two decades one would have thought that Oelendra could have come up with a brighter one, a better trained one, than the last, but alas, it is not to be. This will be far too easy. Are those the only things she acquired?”
Gittleson looked back down at the list he had made in the marketplace. Everything Rhapsody had bought he had already enumerated.
“Yes, Your Grace. Then she left the market and went off to the back alleys.”
“Ah, well. At least our little meeting will be brief, and then we can get down to the business of playing with her. Obviously I can’t enjoy the full benefit of her—charms, but there’s nothing to stop you, now is there, Gittleson? The Rakshas said she was lightning in a bottle, the eighth wonder of the world. Once she has her instructions, she’s yours for the night.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
The benison turned in the vestry and put on his shawl. “Don’t drool, Gittleson; it’s unbecoming.”
The giant Bolg shook his head vigorously. “Oi still don’t like it.”
Rhapsody patted his arm reassuringly. “I know, I know you don’t, Grunthor, but it’s for the best. Tell him, Achmed.”
The mismatched eyes looked at her coolly. “I never tell Grunthor what to think. You should know that by now.”
They had been arguing for the past ten minutes, the Sergeant objecting strenuously to the concept of Rhapsody going in first, alone. She sighed deeply. “You’ll be right there, outside the northern door, and Achmed will be right outside the vestry entrance on the south. I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll be alone too long in there—”
“What choice do we have?” she interrupted desperately. “If you don’t follow the plan, he’ll know you’re both here, and he’ll put two and two together and get Three, if you take my meaning. I’ll tell you what, Grunthor; I will stay on the floor of the nave until you get there. I won’t even go near the stairs of the sanctuary until you have him. All right?”
The Bolg regarded her seriously. “Ya promise?”
“I promise.”
“Nowhere near ’im? You’ll stay far enough away that ’c won’t be able to look in your pretty li’le face an’ turn you against us?”
Rhapsody stood on her toes while pulling his head down to her. She kissed the great green face. “Nowhere near. I told you, I’ll wait until you have him. I’m sure he can’t possess me from across the basilica.”
Achmed smiled sourly. “I had no idea you were such an expert on demons and their range of possession, Rhapsody. Let’s hope your knowledge is more accurate than those arrows will be.” The two Bolg stepped into the shadows that had swallowed the cobbled alleys,
checking the direction of the wind before heading up the streets to the center of the city, where the basilica stood, waiting for them in the night.
“Why? What’s wrong with my arrows?” Rhapsody hurried to catch up, but her friends did not answer; they were as silent as the darkness into which they had melted.
66
When they reached the northern side of the basilica where the sexton routinely dumped the rubbish for the ashman, Rhapsody reached out and grabbed Grunthor by the elbow.
“There’s something I have to tell you, Grunthor.”
The Sergeant looked down into the diminutive face and smiled broadly. He could tell what she was going to say by the look in her eyes; Rhapsody was as transparent to him as Canderian crystal.
“Nope,” he said gruffly, pulling his arm away. “Ya ’ad your chance; it’ll ’ave to wait till afterwards.”
“It can’t,” she said anxiously. “It’s important, Grunthor.”
He smirked. “Oi guess you’ll just have to live through this, then, and tell me when we’re done, eh, miss?” He ignored her tug on his sleeve and walked away, pausing long enough next to Achmed to allow a look to pass between them. As always, their communication transcended the spoken word. Then he strode away into the shadows that surrounded the pile of sand and ashes.
Rhapsody stared after him in dismay. For a moment she could pick him out, standing in front of the enormous mound of waste from the fires of the basilica. Then she was no longer sure she could discern in the dark what was earth and what was Grunthor. She blinked, and any vestige of differentiation was lost. He had blended into the dirt and ash as easily as he had into the darkness a moment before.