Rhapsody: Child of Blood

25

The light of the full moon overhead cast strange white shadows on the melting snow. The winter wind was high, and blew the cloak Rhapsody wore behind her as she rode the strawberry bay into the darkness of the forest road.

Once she came to the spot where she and the Firbolg had parted, near Tref-Y-Gwartheg, Rhapsody tied the horse to a bare-branched sycamore tree, leaving him with a feed bag of oats. Then she struggled through the mud of the forest floor to the clearing where she had agreed to meet Achmed and Grunthor.

It was easy to find the spot for two reasons, the first being that she had trained with Gavin. He had taken her through this area several times, and each time it had been effortless for her to find the spot Achmed had blazed as a waymarker.

The second reason for her ready location of the meeting place was that two shadows, one enormous, were already waiting for her there.

Until she saw her two Firbolg companions in the glen, she had not realized the depths to which she had missed both of them. The feeling was not a surprising one where Grunthor was concerned. What did cause her a moment’s astonishment was that she found herself feeling the same way about Achmed. For a considerable amount of time along the Root she had hated him, blamed him for bringing this nightmare on her. Even after the passage of endless time it had not been an easy relationship to convert to the status of friendship.

But now, seeing his shadow in the moonlight beneath the branches of the forest canopy, she realized he was far more dear to her than she ever would have believed. Perhaps it was the passage of time and the natural outcome of growing accustomed to him. Perhaps it was more that he was one of only two people in the entire world who had known her in her other life. She threw herself into Grunthor’s waiting arms, struggling to ignore the hideous odor that had remained on his body from the Root. Unlike herself, the two Firbolg had not found the opportunity to wash well in the intervening two months; it was amazing that they had remained undetected all this time. She could smell them from a good distance away.

“Oi was worried, Duchess, but you’re a sight for sore eyes,” the Sergeant said, a slight catch in his voice.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you,” she said, hugging him tightly. When he put her down she turned to Achmed and opened her arms as well. She thought she saw a flicker of a smile cross his face in the moonlit shadow; then he returned her embrace quickly and led her over to a sheltered copse of trees where they could confer out of the wind.

Once they had reached the hidden glen they sat on a frozen log facing each other, to keep the distance between their spoken words short.

“Did they treat you well? Were you abused in any way?” Achmed asked, tapping his gloved fingers together.

“No, not at all. Did you find out anything interesting?”

“Quite a bit. Most important where you’re concerned, we explored the principality to the south of here, a place called Avonderre, and found the main trade route to the seaport. It shouldn’t be too difficult to get you there undetected, and then you can secure passage home.”

Rhapsody’s mouth went dry, and she fought back the tears the Dhracian had forbidden so long ago. “No point in that now,” she said, her voice breaking.

A look of puzzlement came into the mismatched eyes. “What? Why not?”

“Because home has been gone fourteen hundred years now.”

After she regained her composure, the two Firbolg questioned Rhapsody intently about what she had learned during her time at Llauron’s, particularly the information that had pertained to Serendair.

She went over everything she knew, in some cases several times, outlining Llauron’s story of Gwylliam, the last of the Seren high kings, and his forewarning of the Island’s doom. She explained the arrival of the Cymrians and their assimilation into the culture of this land, and how the Age they had brought and the realm they had founded had disappeared in the smoke and devastation of a great war centuries ago.

Achmed had asked her many questions she had been unable to answer, notably exactly how the Island had really met its doom, and how long it had been between their leaving the Island through the Root, and when the Cymrian ships had sailed. Rhapsody found the questions tiresome.

“Look, I didn’t think it was wise to ask that,” she said, somewhat testily. “What did you expect me to say—‘Hey, Llauron, I’ve never heard of Gwylliam before, he must have come after Trinian, who was the crown prince when I lived there. How many years or kings after him was Gwylliam?’”

Beneath his tattered hood Achmed smiled slightly. “I suppose you have a point. I was just hoping to know how things worked out there, if anything that was being planned when we left came to pass.”

“I have no idea. I don’t even know if Gwylliam was of Trinian’s line, or if Trinian even ascended the throne. For all I know, Gwylliam or one of his predecessors usurped the throne from the rightful heirs.”

“You have no idea what a real possibility that is.”

“And I don’t care!” she shouted. Grunthor quickly put his hand to her lips, covering much of her face.

She lowered her voice, but the anger was still there. “Don’t you see? It doesn’t make a damned bit of difference. Everyone and everything I’ve ever loved is dead, and has been for more than a millennium; do you think I care what the lineage of the king was? Whether your hunters lived a year, or ten, or a hundred? They’re dead, too. So celebrate; you’ve lost your enemies. Just don’t expect me to join you.”

Achmed and Grunthor exchanged a glance. “Oi ’ope you’re right, miss,” Grunthor said at last.

“Of course I’m right. Didn’t you hear what I said? Fourteen centuries.”

“It’s not a given, Rhapsody,” Achmed said tersely. “There are some evils for which time is not a barrier or a limitation.”

“Well, Achmed, you can have a go at asking Llauron yourself. He wants to meet you both.”

Achmed recoiled like the spring of his cwellan. “What?”

Rhapsody withered under the icy stare. “He knows you’re here; he told me so last night. I didn’t give you away; I swear. He is the supreme head of his religion, the Filids; each of them knows the forest intimately, and these are his lands. He could feel you on them. He said he would like to meet you, and would come to you, if you were uncomfortable coming to him.”

Grunthor looked dismayed, and Achmed buried his head in his hands. “Gods. Well, I suppose it was to be expected. This is a very strange place; what we saw made no sense, wherever we went.”

“How so?”

“Everywhere we scouted there seemed to be peculiar border incursions, and random raids on villages that were totally unarmed and unprepared, though it is obvious the people of this region have come to expect this, in a way.”

“At first we thought the Lirin lands to the south and this area were at war, but there are no other signs of it. Just pointless pillaging and looting, destruction of property and slaughter for no apparent reason.”

“The raiders are from different places each time, and they don’t seem to be after anything but destruction and terror. We watched huge stacks of valuables seized in one of the attacks piled into a village square and burned, instead of being taken and sold.”

“Once we tracked a raiding party that had destroyed a town in Avonderre and saw it return to the guard barracks of the very town it had attacked. We could have written it off to treachery, but then within a few days the town came under attack again, and this time the same guards defended it with their lives.”

“Something evil, diabolical even, is going on in this place. War is the end result of actions like this, particularly when racial hatred is involved. It’s only a matter of time before the Lirin lands and some of the central principalities of Roland are in all-out combat.”

Rhapsody sighed. “Wonderful. Is it too late to go back and live on the Root?”

Grunthor chuckled. “Sorry, Yer Ladyship, the tavern is closed.”

“Perhaps meeting this priest might give us some answers at that,” Achmed said as if musing aloud. He grimaced. “I hate the clergy, but I suppose I could hold my nose long enough to talk to him for a few hours.”

Rhapsody laughed. “No offense, brother dear, but I don’t think you’re the one who will be needing to hold his nose.”

Despite the distance Grunthor was maintaining, Rhapsody could tell the strawberry bay was nervous. She could feel the trembling muscles of its flanks beneath her legs.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” she said, running her hand comfortingly down the animal’s neck. “Once I’ve given Llauron the message I’ll come back and stay with you until he comes.” She took the reins in hand.

“Hold up,” Achmed said. He reached into the pocket of his makeshift cloak and pulled out the oilcloth rubbing. “Can you read this?”

Rhapsody took it and held it up to her face in the darkness, trying to illuminate it with the moonlight. A moment later a tiny flame sparked, and Achmed held a wick from the tinderbox over it.

Her brow furrowed. “What is this?”

“It’s a rubbing we took off the plaque we told you about in that ship-temple.”

“Hmmm. It’s not very clear. These symbols on the top spell out Kirsdirke —no, Kirsdarke. There are too many parts down below it that are smudged or missing to get a real sense of what the text says. Something about Kirsdarke being committed unto the sea and the hand of All-God, probably ‘the Creator,’ Abbat—Father—something that begins with ‘M’; I can’t tell. This part says something about the altar stone of the All-God’s temple.”

“The plaque was on the front of an obsidian block.”

“Maybe that was the altar stone. It mentions Serendair here, I think, at least I can make out several letters in the right places to spell Serendair. It could be something else. It also mentions something about Kirsdarke being borne by someone named Ma—gint, maybe, Monodiere.”

“MacQuieth? MacQuieth Monodiere?”

Rhapsody nodded. “Perhaps. It could be, I can’t tell. Was that the MacQuieth? The hero from home?”

“Yes. We thought perhaps this place was Monodiere, but I guess we’re farther away from Serendair even than that.”

“You’re right,” Rhapsody agreed. “Monodiere was on the mainland of a landmass that Serendair traded with, and was commonly known to cartographers. This place was uncharted, at least in detail, thought to be uninhabited when we—” Her voice broke.

“It must have been difficult trying to adjust to the knowledge of how far out of time we are, all alone these past few months,” Achmed said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “It will get easier.”

Rhapsody tried to smile, but the attempt was feeble. “Perhaps for you,” she said. “I’ll be back.” She clicked to the horse and rode off into the night.

She came to the clearing in the woods two nights later. A fire had been laid, and logs set around it to sit on, better to facilitate what Rhapsody expected to be a difficult conversation. Achmed was fully robed and hooded, with only his eyes showing. Grunthor, on the other hand, had opted to be comfortable and had removed his spiked helmet, under the assumption that he would be rather discernible no matter what he did.

The Invoker came dressed as he usually was, in the plain gray robes of his order, a simple hemp rope tied as a belt around the waist. He maintained a respectful distance from the fire until invited nearer, and then sat and chatted pleasantly while he opened the sack he had brought with him and offered the others fruit, bread and cheese, and a stout bottle of brandy, for which he had brought silver snifters.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both at last,” he said as he poured a generous splash into Grunthor’s glass. “Any friend of this lady is welcome in these woods and in my home. Perhaps after we’ve had a chance to get to know one another a bit, you might do me the favor of taking advantage of my hospitality for a while. The house is simple, but the beds are comfortable and the food is wholesome. And we can see about reoutfitting you.” A shower of sparks from the fire broke into the air and was extinguished on the wind.

“We’ll see,” said Achmed noncommittally.

“I was hoping you might tell us a story, Llauron, perhaps of the history of this place. I’ve told Grunthor and Achmed what a wonderful storyteller you are,” Rhapsody said.

The blazing firelight reflected off the kindly face. “Of course; I’d be delighted.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and touched the fingertips of his folded hands to his lips for a moment. His eyes glittered in the dark.

“Long ago, more years than even He-Who-Counts can remember, an ancient copper dragon lived at the foot of the Great White Tree, though it was but a sapling in those days of the Earth’s childhood. These were her lands, from the northern fringe of the Lirin realm in the south to the edge of the Hintervold in the north, and she lived here alone, for she was suspicious of outsiders, and humans in particular.”

“Because her power over the Earth was so great, no human was able to broach her domain, and so this place was one of mystery to the world of men. The Lirin she trusted, for though their race was not as ancient as her own, they were one with the land, much as she was, and they lived peaceably as neighbors. The dragon’s name was Elynsynos.”

“One day the dragon looked out over the sea and saw a light on the waves unlike any she had ever seen before. It was a fire burning within water, and held within a tiny crystal globe, serving as a candle on the water, a mariner’s marker in times of darkness or shipwreck, a beacon in the dark. The melding of the two opposing elements, fire and water, fascinated Elynsynos, and she took it as a sign that change was in the wind.”

“Not long afterward a sailor touched the shore of her realm. He was a tall man, golden of skin, one of the race known as the Ancient Seren, the indigenous people of the Island of Serendair, the land on the other side of the world from which he had come. The dragon grew even more excited, because she recognized his race as one of the Firstborn, the five strains of beings that were created first when the world was new. She knew this because, like the Ancient Seren, dragons are also a firstborn race.”

“What are the others?” Grunthor asked. “Each of the five elements, ether, water, wind, earth, and fire, was the parent of a race. The Seren were the oldest, born of ether, the matter that makes up the stars. The children of water were called Mythlin. Those born of the wind were known as the Kith. The dragons were the offspring of the Earth itself. Lastly, the race given birth to by the rashest of all the elements, fire, was called F’dor. But that’s a different story, one better suited to the light of day.”

“The sailor’s name was Merithyn. He was an explorer, sent out in the service of his sovereign, Gwylliam, the last of the Seren high kings, to find a suitable place for his people to colonize. Gwylliam knew that their homeland was about to be destroyed in fire, and he wanted to save his people and their culture, though I suspect there might also have been the desire to maintain his rulership as well. He had sent Merithyn forth to find that suitable place.”

“Eventually Merithyn came to the borders of Elynsynos’s realm but, unlike the other men, he was able to cross them without trouble. Perhaps this is because, as a member of a firstborn race older than Elynsynos herself, his bond to the elements was stronger than hers. Or, more likely, it was because she wanted him to come to her. In her fascination she had assumed a human form, one like that of his own race, designing it to be what she perceived he would find attractive. Apparently she chose well, for, upon seeing her, Merithyn fell in love with her. Elynsynos lost her heart to the wayfarer as well. When he explained his mission she decided the best way to solve his dilemma and to keep him with her always was to offer his people haven within her lands.”

“Merithyn was overjoyed, and returned to Serendair to issue the invitation to Gwylliam and prepare the refugees for the voyage. He promised to return and, as a token of his pledge, he gave her the gift of Crynella’s candle, the distress beacon of melded fire and water she had first seen him by, named for the Seren queen who made it for her own seafaring lover.”

“Gwylliam was delighted with the news. In Merithyn’s absence he had been preparing for the evacuation, and so now three fleets of vessels, almost a thousand in total, were being readied. Gwylliam had waited until he had word of their destination before choosing the final makeup of the fleets, whom he planned to send in three waves to ensure the greatest possibility of survival.”

“Upon discovering that the new land was uninhabited, he determined that the army did not need to be in the First Wave. Instead, he sent the people who would design and build the new world, the engineers and the architects, the healers and the farmers, the masons and the carpenters, the physicians, the scholars, and the Filids. While all races were represented, about half of the First Fleet were Lirin, because of the presence of that race in the new world. To protect the First Fleet he sent the Lirin champion, a Lirin woman named Oelendra, who was the Iliachenva’ar, and a few of her retinue.”

“The what?” Rhapsody interjected.

“Iliachenva’ar. The word, loosely translated, means ‘bearer of the sword of light,’ a weapon known as Daystar Clarion. It was a fiery blade, consecrated to the elements of fire and the stars, known as ether, or seren, in their language.”

Achmed nodded, but said nothing. So that was how the Seren sword had come to this place.

“At any rate,” Llauron continued, “with Merithyn to guide them to the new land, and Oelendra to protect them, the First Fleet was well prepared to sail across the world and survive in the dragon’s lands.”

“The Second Fleet, made up largely of the same types of people, but with more military might, would set sail a few weeks behind them.”

“The Third, and final, Fleet would be delayed until the very end. It was the last chance for people to evacuate, and the army would travel in that Wave to guard their exit. It was with this fleet that Gwylliam himself sailed, having remained behind to encourage as many stragglers to leave as he could. He stayed until the last ship of the last fleet was ready to sail, and then boarded, watching the Island that had been his birthright disappear over the horizon for the last time.”

“They say the voyage was dangerous and difficult. Halfway across the ocean a great storm came up, a hurricane the like of which had never been seen before. The legends say that at its eye was a demon of supreme evil, a monster who had caused the storm for the purpose of destroying the fleets.” Llauron’s face lost for a moment the rapt expression it had held since the tale had begun, and a mischievous look twinkled in his eye. “Of course, if you learn more about the Cymrians, you will see that they suffered from an inflated idea of self-importance. A natural disaster could only have been meant for them, despite all the other innocents who suffered because of it.”

“Back to the tale. Merithyn’s ship went down. There are accounts that say he died sacrificing himself to the demon at the center of the storm, saving the First Fleet in the process, but more likely he was merely a victim of the hurricane, since his ship broke apart in the storm and went to the bottom with all hands. A few other ships were lost as well.”

“Without Merithyn to guide them, the task fell to Oelendra, the Iliachenva’ar, to lead these refugees onward to a place she had never been before. The flaming sword of the stars served as a beacon in the raging tempest, keeping the flotilla together, until they finally made it out of the storm’s clutches and to shore.”

“The First Fleet landed on the coast of Avonderre, miraculously near where Merithyn himself had dropped anchor. Once they had regrouped, and determined that no other ships from their Wave were coming, Oelendra led them into the lands of the dragon, their host, who had invited them to come. There were two problems, however.”

The story, one which Llauron had never related before, had intrigued Rhapsody. “And what were they?” she asked, trying not to seem overly interested.

“Well, obviously, Elynsynos was extremely upset that Merithyn had not returned. It was her interest in him personally that had led her to open her lands for the first time to men other than the indigenous Lirin. To say that she was disappointed in his absence is a bit of an understatement.”

“In addition, she did not know what had happened to him, and felt betrayed. She went on a terrible rampage, abandoned the Tree and her lands and retreated to her cave in the northern wastes, the place where Merithyn had carved Gwylliam’s missive: Cyme we inne frið, fram the grip of deaþ to lif inne ðis smylte land.”

“Meaning what?” Achmed asked. His tone was surly.

Llauron smiled. “Of course, how rude of me not to translate. In the Old Cymrian and Universal Ship’s Cant it meant ‘Come we in peace, from the grip of death to life in this fair land.’ Perhaps a better translation of smylte would be serene. It was this phrase that earned the refugees of Serendair the name ‘Cymrians’ with the people they eventually met here, since that was the first thing the refugees always said upon meeting someone.”

“One of the tragedies of this tale, of which there are many, of course, is that if Merithyn had not loved Elynsynos as well, she would have known what befell him. He had given her Crynella’s candle, his distress beacon. It was a small item, but a powerful one, because it contained the blending of two opposing elements, fire and water. Had it been with him when his ship went down, she would have seen him, and perhaps might even have been able to rescue him. But he had left it with her to comfort her, as a sign of his commitment. Alas, such it is with many good intentions. And now it only serves as the key ring of an old man.”

With that he reached into the pocket of his robe and drew forth a small crystal globe the size of a chestnut. The tiny glowing light inside it pierced the darkness, illuminating the Invoker in a circle of radiance that outshone the fire at his feet.

Rhapsody’s mouth opened in awe, despite her best efforts to remain disinterested. “That’s it? That’s Crynella’s candle?”

Llauron chuckled. “Yes, or a good copy. You can never trust antiquities merchants entirely, after all.”

“You bought it? An ancient artifact?”

“Yes; paid quite a sum for it, actually.”

“You said there were two problems.” Achmed’s distinctive voice cut through the reverie that the glow of the candle seemed to have caused. “What was the other?”

Llauron’s wrinkled face lost its smile. “What Merithyn did not know was that, when he left, Elynsynos was with child.”