Rhapsody: Child of Blood

30

“I’m very sorry,” Rhapsody said. “Was he another victim of these unexplained hostilities?”

Lord Stephen carefully brushed the dust off the display with the hand of one who had lovingly cared for many fragile exhibits. “I would venture to say that Gwydion was the first of them,” he said, putting the signet ring and the battered knife back on the cloth.

“Dead twenty years?” Achmed asked. “The incursions have been going on that long?”

Lord Stephen smiled and leaned on the wall next to the shrine. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that brigands and thugs have been killing innocent travelers and attacking and looting villages since well before recorded history,” he said. “But Gwydion’s murder was different. He was a man of superior strength and swiftness, and well armed. His wounds defied description. Whatever killed him must have been ferocious and powerful beyond imagination.”

“Was it a beast o’ some sort?” Grunthor asked.

Lord Stephen shrugged, then sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “Possibly, from the look of it. I was the one who found him first. I suppose I knew from the moment I saw him that he was dying; his heart was exposed and bleeding into the earth.” Rhapsody touched his arm, and he smiled briefly at her before his eyes clouded over with the memory again.

“I was afraid to move him. It was as if the ground was all that was keeping his organs from falling out of his chest. I bound him up and threw my cloak on him, then ran for his father. He knew from my description where to find Gwydion and ran to him, sending me off on horseback to fetch the great Filidic healer, Khaddyr.”

“By the time I returned with the priest, Gwydion had been dead for two days. He must have died just after I left him. I suppose I should be grateful that I had the chance to say goodbye to him as he left this Earth. Fate wasn’t as kind with Lydia.” He looked away, his jaw clenched. “I’m sorry. You would think by now I would have gotten better at this.”

Rhapsody ran her hand up and down his arm in a gesture of comfort. “There is no set time limit on grief, Lord Stephen. Healing takes as long as it takes; you can’t rush it.”

Lord Stephen covered her hand with his own and sighed again. “No, I suppose not,” he said. “In a way, I think the shock of Gwydion’s death made it easier for me to accept Lydia’s all those years later.”

“He and I had been friends since childhood, when we met in Manosse. He was living there—that was where his mother was from—and I was visiting with my father. Eventually we both came back here, he to live with his father, and I to assume the responsibilities of the duchy when mine passed away. We were closer than brothers. My son would have been his godchild; instead he’s his namesake. And his death served as a warning for what was coming, but we have been unable to stop it.”

“Only now you say the marauders seem to be concentrating on children,” Achmed said.

“Mostly, yes, at least here in Navarne and, from what I can glean, in the Lirin lands. My scouts tell me that there are incursions and raids from here to the Bolglands, south through Sorbold and the nonaligned states, north to the Hintervold. Whether the patterns in all those places match our own is impossible to say.”

He flipped the end of the lamplighter’s tool to the snuffer. “Well, unless there is something else you want to see, we should probably extinguish the lamps and go back now.”

While the men set about quenching the flames, Rhapsody lingered a moment longer at the display, running her fingers along the little altar cloth. Carefully she picked up the signet ring and turned it over in her palm, then held it to her cheek. There was something comforting about the feel of the cool metal on her face, something she had no explanation for. She looked down at the flat surface and examined the crest. It was a rendering of a tree with a dragon coiled around the base, a symbol common throughout this museum, though nowhere else she had seen since arriving in this strange land.

Memories are the first stories you learn. They are your own lore. Rhapsody blinked at the sound of the voice in her mind. A strange thought, she mused. Obviously there were no memories of her own here; she had never seen the ring, or even heard the name Gwydion of Manosse before. Perhaps the thought referred to the power of Stephen’s remembrances of his friend.

She hummed a soft note, a pitch that sometimes helped discern vibrations on objects, the signatures of their owners. Her mind filled for a split second with the hazy image of a man in darkness, drowning in unquenchable pain. It was a vision she had had on the Root. She dropped the ring.

The men had begun to troop down the stairs. Grunthor stopped at the top of stairwell and looked back at her. “Comin’, Duchess?”

Rhapsody nodded. She turned and came to the staircase, waiting until Grunthor had descended with the torch, watching the jeweled eyes of the dragon statue glitter ominously in the vanishing light. She looked back at the corner where the shrine was now enveloped in darkness.

“I wish I could have been there for you,” she whispered.

One by one the lights in the tower of the keep went out. The rosy glow of the stone settled back into the shadows of night, brown and flat in the dark.

Achmed watched from the window until the only light that remained was the flickering reflection of the torch flames. The lamplighters had finished their work long before; now the courtyard below was silent, filling with mist.

He crossed to the door and listened for a moment, then opened it slowly, taking great pains to be quiet about it. Satisfied the hall was empty, he returned and sat down in the chair next to Grunthor’s bed.

“This was a lot easier when I still had a million heartbeats in my head,” he said wryly, pouring himself a snifter of Stephen’s best brandy. “Now I never know who’s lurking about.”

Grunthor untied the legging cords and unwrapped the cloth that served as his inner boot. When he looked up the expression in his eyes was direct, intense. “It’s ’ere, ain’t it?”

Achmed swallowed and leaned forward, cradling the glass in both hands. When he spoke his words were soft.

“I don’t know. I suspect something’s here, at least in this part of the world. I don’t know if it’s the same or not.”

A massive boot dropped to the polished floor. “Oi assume you saw the amulet?”

Achmed nodded. “It was very similar, yes. But Llauron said that MacQuieth killed Tsoltan. Anyone else might have botched it, might have killed the human and left the demon loose, looking for another host. But not MacQuieth—at least I’d like to hope not.”

“So what next?”

The Dhracian leaned so close that even someone standing in the room next to him would not have overheard.

“Nothing changes. We still need to go to Canrif; that’s where it would have gone. That’s where the power was, where the Cymrians were. Where the Bolg are now. If there are any answers to be had, I’m betting we’ll find them there. But we need to go by way of Bethany. That’s where the basilica dedicated to fire is. Perhaps there’s something to be gleaned there as well.”

Grunthor nodded. “And the Duchess?” Achmed looked away. The Sergeant sat up straighter and took hold of the Dhracian’s shoulder. “Oi say we leave ’er ’ere. There’s no need to be draggin’ ’er into this anymore.”

“She’s safer with us. Trust me about this.”

The Sergeant released his shoulder with a curt shove. “Says ’oo? ’Ad it occurred to you that maybe she’s better off with someone like ol’ Lord Steve? ’E seems smitten with the Duchess; ’e’d look after ’er. She likes ’is kids. Oi say we let ’er stay ’ere with ’im.”

Sparks shot from Achmed’s eyes like disks from the cwellan.

“And what if it is him? What kind of perversions do you think he’ll subject her to if we leave her in his care? You want to be responsible for making her wish she was back in the clutches of the Waste of Breath? It’d be kinder if you just make good on all your threats and eat her for breakfast, alive. She’d suffer less.”

Grunthor sat back, stung. Achmed sighed, and when he spoke again his voice was gentle.

“I know only a few things for certain anymore, Grunthor. It’s not you; it’s not me. After that things become cloudy. I’m fairly sure it isn’t Rhapsody, but not entirely. Wouldn’t that have been rich? For all I know she was bait waiting for us in the backstreets of Easton.”

“That’s loony.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Bear in mind she might not even know it. She was alone at Llauron’s for a long time. But except for us, and possibly for her, there is nothing else we know for certain; am I right?”

Grunthor stared at him for a moment longer, then nodded reluctantly.

With a sigh, Achmed set the snifter down, empty.

“Look, how’s this: we’ll take her with us to Bethany. Once I’ve seen the basilica I should have a few more clues as to whether or not that bloody Seer was right. And then I’ll tell her everything. If she wants to go back to Stephen, we’ll make sure she gets here safely. Fair enough?”

Grunthor lay back and stretched out, pulling the covers up to his shoulder.

“One thing Oi’ve learned in my time with you, sir; Nothin’ is ever fair enough.”

The following morning Rhapsody had breakfast with her new grandchildren and went for a long walk in the forest with them and their father while the two Firbolg packed and provisioned for their journey. She sang the children songs of the woodlands, some in Lirin, some that she had learned at Llauron’s in the common vernacular known as Orlandan.

While they strolled along she composed a tune that described them both in music, and watched as both children recognized themselves in the song. Melisande hung on to her, refusing to release her hand for even a moment, while Gwydion ran ahead, eager to show off his forestry skills and emerging talent as an archer. Lord Stephen said little, but just listened, smiling.

In their short time together she had already learned much about the individual natures of her new grandchildren. The haunted loneliness in Melisande’s eyes was gone, replaced by her father’s mirth and zest for life. She sang along with Rhapsody as they walked, oblivious of any need to know the song, and danced through puddles of mud, splashing and squealing with joy. It was as if all she had needed was permission to be happy again.

Gwydion, on the other hand, though blessed with a confident bearing, was clearly more introspective. Every now and then when he didn’t know she was watching, she would see his face turn melancholy, his eyes darkening, reflecting his cloud-filled soul. There was a depth to him that his easy manner belied, but she could see it nonetheless.

Finally, when they returned to the courtyard of the keep, she bade the children goodbye so they could return to their lessons. She knelt and drew Melisande into her arms, holding her for a very long time, then released her gently and pulled back to look her in the face.

“I will think of you every day,” she said, running her fingers through a twisted lock of curling gold hair, smoothing out the tangles. “You won’t forget me, will you?”

“Of course not,” said the little girl indignantly. Her heart-shaped face softened. “Will you ever come back?”

“Yes,” said Rhapsody, brushing a kiss on her cheek, “if I can.” As much as she knew the child was looking for assurance, she was unwilling to lie to her, especially given what had happened to her mother. With each passing day, she became more aware of her own vulnerability, and of the likelihood that she herself would meet a similar fate before the silent war was over. “I don’t know when that will be. But I will write to you as soon as I come to a place I can write from.”

“Are you still planning to head east?” asked Lord Stephen, looking at the ground with his hands on his hips.

She shaded her eyes from the glare of the winter sun. “I believe so; I’m not the navigator.”

“Well, southeast of here a few days out is the House of Remembrance, an old Cymrian fortress and watchtower from the earliest days of the First Fleet. It’s the oldest standing Cymrian site by far, and once held an impressive library.”

“As a person of Lirin descent you might be interested in the tree there. A sapling of the mighty oak Sagia was brought by the First Fleet to plant in the new land, a blending of the sacred trees from both sides of the world. They planted it within the courtyard of the House of Remembrance.”

“It’s really a fascinating historical site, and I’m ashamed to say I haven’t done much to keep it up; the building of Navarne’s wall has kept me close to home this past year. The ugly reality is that protection of the Future has to outweigh preservation of the Past sometimes.”

“Indeed.” She kissed Melisande again, then turned to her grandson. “Goodbye, Gwydion. I’ll miss you, and will be thinking of you. If I find any interesting arrows or tools for woodcraft, I’ll send them to you.”

“Thank you,” the boy said. “And maybe you can show me more of that lore about herbs and roots when you come back next time. I’ll be taller than you then.”

“You almost are now,” she laughed.

“Next year, when I turn thirteen,” Gwydion said. Rhapsody stood and opened her arms to him. He came into her embrace and lingered a moment, then pulled away. He took his sister’s hand.

“Come on, Melly,” he said. The little girl waved a last time, then went off with her brother into the keep.

Stephen watched his children walk away. When he had assured himself that they were within the walls of the keep and safely in the care of Rosella, he turned once more to Rhapsody.

“You’re welcome to stay, you know. The children would love for you to visit longer.”

She smiled, and Stephen’s knees grew weak. “Thank you. I wish I could. In fact, I’m sure that would be a much more pleasant prospect than wherever it is we are going.”

“Then don’t go,” he said abruptly; a moment later his face colored as if exerted from the speed of his reaction. He looked down at the ground awkwardly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

Rhapsody laid her hand on his arm, causing his heart to race faster and the floridity of his face to deepen. “How can an offer of welcome be rude?” She sighed deeply; it was as if the wind sighed with her. “The truth is, Lord Stephen, wherever I am for a while, I’ll still be lost. With any luck, by the time I come back this way, I’ll have found me.”

“Well, just remember you always have a home here,” Lord Stephen said. “After all, now you’re part of the family, Grandma.” They both laughed.

The duke took her hand and kissed it gently, then pulled it into the crook of his arm, walking her back to her two Firbolg friends.

“Besides,” he whispered, “you must come back, if only to relate the tale of how you ended up with those two.”