He took her into his arms, but she pushed away quickly, her eyes still scanning the sky for the dragon. She could see Anwyn, circling in the distance, raining fiery death down on the fields at the Bolg, searching for her, and anger began to burn furiously behind her eyes.
She drew Daystar Clarion, its flame burning bright as a brand in a black night, roaring with righteous fury, ringing like a chime, swallowing all other sound.
“Anwyn!” she shouted. Her voice rocked the earth, causing shale to slide and the echo to rumble over the Teeth and the plain below them. “Anwyn, you coward! Here I am!”
In the distant sky the dragon turned, hovering in a haze of bloody fire for a moment, then streaked toward the Moot.
Rhapsody held the sword aloft; Grunthor and Achmed grasped the hilt together, helping her hold it even higher. She searched the sky for a star, finding after a moment Carendrill, the tiny, blue-white star beneath which the Lirin signed peace accords.
“Are you ready?” she asked, struggling to keep the sword steady. “This is the moment that has been awaited since the end of the First Age. Our words will carry power—we must use them carefully.” The two Bolg looked off into the sky at the approaching dragon and nodded.
Over the billowing flames of the sword Achmed could hear silence fall, and the beating of his heart begin to echo, thudding heavily in his ears. Within his veins his blood ran hot, humming with life, with portent, the blood that had been tied in the old life to that of his kinsmen, the refugees of Serendair. All of those kinsmen that remained in this world huddled on the fields below, seeking shelter from the dragon’s wrath. He could feel their terror in his veins, their blood united in common history, in hope for the future. The closest thing to a prayer he had ever uttered came forth from his lips.
“Not one more drop of blood will be shed here,” he said simply.
Child of Blood.
The amber eyes of the giant who stood silently beside him were filled with tears of sorrow. Those eyes were no stranger to the tragedies of war or mass destruction; they had looked unblinkingly on the death of nations, on the ravages of the deepest depravity without flinching, but this moment was somehow different. From deep within his soul, through the bond that had formed long ago as he traveled along the Axis Mundi, Grunthor felt the pain of the Earth, the abject horror that so many fallen had been dragged from the peace they had found within Her arms, ripped from their rest, unwillingly rallied by a soulless woman to the madness that was now rending fallow fields asunder. Tears streamed down his cheeks, not for those who were cowering from death, but for those who had embraced it centuries ago, and now, through no fault of their own, were being forced to brave the agony of the sun, of battle, after so long at rest in the peaceful darkness of their Mother’s embrace.
“Open, Earth, an’ take back your children,” he said.
Child of Earth.
Alone among the Three, Rhapsody was fighting back anger. Her body, aching a moment before from the shock of falling, of the injuries she had sustained, was whole again for the time being, sustained by the power of the sword, the fire and the stars to which it was tied. Enough, she thought bitterly, trying to rein in her hatred as the beast roared closer. You despoil the Sky. It is meant to shelter the world, not to rain destruction down upon it. The Sky is the collective soul of the universe, and, as you’ve said, you have no soul. She inhaled and let her breath out slowly, watching the dragon’s approach.
“If there is to be fire from the Sky, it shall not serve your hateful will, Anwyn. Let any fire that would rain down from the Sky bring the end of strife, and seal the beginning of a new era of peace.”
Child of the Sky.
Below them, in the Bowl of the Moot, the enormous rift in the ground rumbled and widened, splitting deeply. The bodies of the Fallen crumbled and rolled into the opening grave like pebbles rolling down a hillside.
The light from the dragon’s fiery breath splashed over the four standing on the Summoner’s Rise. The sound of rage, ancient, more powerful than the ages, screamed in the air around them. The beast, bleeding from one eye and the severed claw, surged through the air, soaring over the Moot; she inhaled, drawing in breath like the wind of a hurricane, preparing to discharge her fire in the direction of the Summoner’s Rise.
At that moment, Rhapsody spoke the name of the star.
The blast that descended shook the Rise, and the Moot itself. With an unearthly roar the fire of the star, the pure, unbridled element of ether that preceded the birth of all other elements, rained down from the sky and struck the dragon as she hovered in the air, poised to strike. The beast arched, illuminated by a light brighter than the sun, then fell, spiraling, into the rift of earth in the Moot floor, the grave that had erupted like a spider pustule with the Disinterred and which Grunthor had widened.
As Anwyn sank beneath the crust of earth Grunthor closed his eyes and shrugged, pushing his hands together as though molding ethereal clay. The floor of the Moot shuddered, then closed rapidly, filling in the place where Anwyn had fallen. The crumbled sides of the Moot gave way, tumbling in upon themselves, forming a great mound of earth and rock in the middle of the floor of the Bowl.
Rhapsody spoke the name of the star again; this time light, clear and pure, descended from the star, washing over the Moot, sealing the ground beneath which the dragon lay.
In the distance she was aware of the thundering noise of war dimming to silence. As the starlight faded she looked across the dusky sky and saw that the Fallen had slipped, tumbling back into the Earth, back to the Past, leaving behind confusion but no more battle.
She turned to Gwydion and threw her arms around him, holding tight as he returned her embrace, then in turn embraced both of her companions, two men who shared her history, her life, and her future.
“It’s over,” she said simply. “Now the work begins.”
As the night passed Achmed and Grunthor sorted through the rubble of the fields with Rhapsody and Ashe, reassigning troops, destroying ghoulish remains that still quivered with malice, assigning healing units, working to calm the populace that was still in shock.
In the glow of the thousands of campfires now burning amid the devastation, Achmed came upon Tristan Steward. The Lord Roland was uninjured but silent, gazing into the distance at the Moot, his sobbing wife leaning on his arm for support.
The Firbolg king stared down at the regent, an expression close to pity in his eyes. Tristan Steward finally looked up at him.
“Do either of you require medical assistance?” Achmed asked. The Lord Roland shook his head. The Firbolg nodded, then turned to leave.
“Wait,” Tristan Steward said. His voice came out in a weak whisper. Achmed stood silently as the regent rose shakily, then brushed the grime from his hands. He stared at the Firbolg king without speaking. Finally Achmed grew impatient.
“Well?”
“The—the army—my army—”
“Yes?”
The Lord Roland lapsed into silence.
“It was inspired that you brought them here in a gesture of goodwill,” Achmed said as pleasantly as he could. “Now that, like my army, their allegiance is to Rhapsody, it was good that they were here to witness her investiture. Is that what you were trying to say?”
Tristan Steward’s mouth dropped open, then shut resolutely.
“Yes,” he said.
“I thought so. Excuse me,” Achmed said. He turned and walked off into the night with Grunthor and his aides-de-camp.
Rhapsody moved among the injured with Krinsel, the Finder midwife, tending to the wounds of both human and Bolg alike. The Cymrians had largely been spared, thanks to the armies of Roland and Ylorc, and the work of Ashe and the soldiers he had enlisted to hold back the Fallen while the rest escaped.
She was tying up the broken arm of a dark Cymrian, a man of the race known as Kith, when Rial appeared at her side, a somber expression on his face.
“M’lady?”
Rhapsody glanced up at
her viceroy and smiled, the expression draining from her face at the look in his eyes.
“What is it?”
Rial extended his hand. “Come, please, m’lady.”
She took his hand and followed him in the dark over the broken field to a place where the body of a beautiful black stallion lay, twisted back upon itself. At the stallion’s side bent Faedryth, the Nain king, beside Oelendra, also crouched on the ground. Rhapsody stared at the dead horse and began to tremble.
“No,” she whispered. “Oh, gods, no. Anborn.”
The king of the Nain looked up at her, blood oozing from a gash to his forehead. “He’s alive still, barely,” Faedryth said sadly. “His back is broken.”
“No,” she said again as she stepped over Faedryth’s legs and bent between him and Oelendra. “Anborn? Gods, what have I done to you?”
The Cymrian general was propped up against the chest of his friend, the Nain king, covered with Rial’s red cloak. His face was ghostly white beneath the dark hair of his beard, but he managed to feebly strain his arm toward her. She reached to take his hand.
“You’ve—redeemed me,” he said, his voice soft and ragged. “Through you Manwyn’s prophecy has—been fulfilled. I have found the—slightest of my kinsmen. I caught the sky when it fell. You have helped me—mend both the rift within—myself, and the one I caused—so long—ago—among my fellow Cymrians. See? I am tended by both Lirin and Nain; who—would have thought it possible?”
Tears streamed down her face as she tenderly took the rugged hand between her own and rested her cheek on it. Anborn reached out with some pain and stroked her hair.
“I would gladly give my life—or my legs—in your service, m’lady,” he said with great effort. “It is my honor to be—sworn to you.”
“Rhapsody! Rhapsody!”
Ashe’s voice sounded over the crackle of the fire, the whine of the wind, carrying with it the sound of desperation and fear.
Anborn patted the side of her face.
“Go—to him,” he said.
“When I come back I will tend to you,” she said, rising. “I will employ every skill I have as a Singer to heal you.”
Anborn smiled and waved her off.
“Go,” he said.
Rhapsody looked over the fields of injured and dying, great splits of earth where the field had once been fallow. She followed Ashe’s voice on the wind, back toward the doors of the Moot where only a day before the Cymrians had processed in with so much hope.
Lying beyond the doors, in a place where many had fallen, Ashe was bent over the broken body of Lord Stephen Navarne, his best friend. Rhapsody hurried to his side.
“Help him—Aria, please; don’t let me lose him again,” Ashe choked. He patted Stephen’s face, trying to revive the duke, whose blue-green eyes stared into the next world.
Rhapsody sank to her knees on the gory earth next to the men. Her eyes went from Lord Stephen’s pale face to the hill above where he lay. Gwydion Navarne, her oldest grandchild, stood, a look of forced bravery on his face, his arms around his sister, Melisande, who wept as if her heart would break. Rosella stood with her arms around both of them, a look of terror in her eyes.
Rhapsody laid a hand on the duke’s chest, feeling for the beating of his heart.
“M’lord?”
There was no response; the skin beneath her hand was cold. Her fingers went to his throat.
“M’lord?”
The pulse was as weak as she had ever felt on a living man, in his eyes she could see the distant reflection of the mist from the Veil of Hoen.
“Aria—please—”
“Daddy?”
The sound of Melisande’s voice brought a memory back to Rhapsody. The last time she had spoken with Lord Stephen was outside of Haguefort, in the arms of a bitter wind, as she heralded Llauron’s supposed death. He had smiled in the way he always did, causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle affectionately.
You know, Rhapsody, we’re practically family. Do you think there will ever be a time when you might address me just by my first name?
No, m’lord.
Rhapsody sat up straighter, thinking. She had once sung Grunthor back from the brink of death, though as far as she could see Stephen was even more grievously injured.
“Stephen,” she sang, leaving her hand over his heart. “Stephen; stay here, with us.” She turned to Ashe, whose eyes were gleaming. “What is his name, Sam? His full name?”
“Stephen ap Wayan ap Hague, thuatha Judyth.”
She repeated the name, singing in tune with the fragile beating of the duke’s heart. Stay your hand from him, m’Lord Rowan, she thought, singing with all the powers of her Naming ability. Leave him here, in this place, just a little while longer.
She chanted his name over and over again, singing until the sun rose, her voice hoarse and tattered. As the sword tip of dawn pricked the horizon, she focused straight into it, trying to draw the warmth of the sun into Stephen to keep his body from cooling, to keep his brightness with her in the world she knew. In that sliver of blindness Rhapsody caught the silhouette of the Lord Rowan. For her, he might wait, stay his hand, however broken and torn Stephen was, commute the death sentence of any of the Cymrians who had traveled from their lives in the present to face the resurrected feud. She could mend them, repair, rename, and spare them all. And she turned away in relief, to see still scattered among the wounded, being carried off like bits of firewood, the thousands that had been pulled from rest by Anwyn.
Her ministrations would be wholly different, could raise them to life for peace, resurrect them to higher service. She imagined them smiling, imagined Stephen at the door of the museum.
And wept at the temptation, and at the incalculable loss.
“No,” she said between her tears. “I can’t do it, Sam. I can’t. He will have to cast his own lot, make his own passage through the Gate, or choose to stay on this side of it. I can sing him to the path, but he has to choose it. If Death has decided to take him, I have no more right to try and dissuade it than Anwyn did.”
“Aria—”
“No,” she said, her voice stronger. “I can’t call him back through the Gate. He has those he loves on both sides of it. If he chooses to slip away to that rest, who am I to force him to remain? He has reason to stay, and reason to go. We must be humble and reverent in the face of whatever choice he and Death make between them.”
She took Ashe’s hand, and he bowed his head over it in grief. They stood watch, hoping that Stephen would begin to breathe again, to inhale the color of the sunrise into his cheeks. But as each moment passed, his skin grew more alabaster, his hands colder.
As dawn crested the clouds, the light left the duke’s eyes. Rhapsody looked to the horizon, and thought she saw a brief glint of a smile within the shadow from beyond the Veil of Hoen.
“Receive him kindly, m’Lord Rowan,” she whispered into the morning wind. Beside her Ashe began to weep.
Rhapsody looked over her shoulder at the white faces of Rosella and the children. She put her hands out to them.
“Quick! Come quickly!”
Gwydion Navarne’s hand was icy as she grasped it and pulled him and Melisande in front of her, wrapping her arms around them, pointing off into the rising sun.
In the shadow of golden light edging over the horizon they could see the outline of their friend, their lord, their father, standing straight again, broken no more. His shadow, long and black before the sunrise, stretched out to them. The radiance of the morning light caused his hair to shine, golden.
Beside him was another shadow, slighter, darker, backlit by daybreak.
“Who is that?” Melisande asked, shielding her eyes.
Rhapsody pulled her closer, smiling through her tears. “Your mother.”
Softy she began to sing the Lirin Song of Passage, weaving his name—Stephen—into the ancient dirge. The growing light of dawn seemed to stop brightening, holding steady for a moment.
As
he recognized what she was doing. He reached out and touched Melisande’s face, then rested his hand on Gwydion Navarne’s shoulder.
“Bid him farewell,” he said to the children. His voice had regained its strength; there was wisdom in its tone. Gwydion Navarne raised his head and stared off at the horizon.
“Goodbye, Father,” the boy said softly. Melisande waved, unable to speak. Behind them, Rosella dissolved into grief.
In the depths of memory Gwydion recalled his father’s words at the passing of Talthea, the Gracious One.
Time holds on to us all, Gwydion. Like all mortal men subject to the whims of Time, he struggles to stave off death as long as possible, because he does not know it for the blessing it sometimes can be. For you, and for me, Time goes on.
Gwydion raised his hand to the rising sun.
Numbly Rhapsody sang, light spilling into her eyes now, her head buzzing, her heart frozen, a dam against the pain she knew was to come. She wondered if the wisdom that the Moot had granted her was giving her the strength to maintain calm for the sake of Stephen’s children, for the sake of the Cymrian people. For Ashe’s sake.
For her own sake.
Behind the fading shadow in the sun she could see others, scores of them, standing in the distant light of a glade, peaceful and green, behind the Veil of Hoen.
She brought the dirge to its end.
“Goodbye, Stephen,” she said. “I’ll take care of them for you.”
In a burst of glory, the sun crested the horizon fully, illuminating the sky to a brilliant blue. The wind came up, the wind of morning, dispersing the smoke from the smoldering ashes.
Rhapsody looked around at the dawn shining hazily through the desolation and smoke of the fields around the ruin of the Great Moot. The soldiers of Roland and of Ylorc were moving among the Cymrians like living men among sleepwalkers.