Rhapsody: Child of Blood

49

“I need to speak with you immediately.”

From around the large circular table in the meeting room behind the Great Hall a dozen female faces looked up in surprise, all but one of them dark and hairy. The exception to the rule blinked in shock, then turned to the other women as she rose from her chair.

“Excuse me,” Rhapsody said to the group, and hurried to the door that had only a moment before been flung open. Achmed suppressed a laugh; her use of idioms in the Bolgish language was still sporadically rough. She had just asked the group to spare her life.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, her face filled with worry as she came alongside him.

“I need the brass key we found in the House of Remembrance. You had it last, I believe.”

“Why? What’s the emergency?”

“We just found an inner vault within the library.” Achmed’s strange eyes sparked with excitement. “I believe the key will open it.”

Rhapsody’s mouth dropped open in amazement. “That’s it? You came roaring into my meeting with the midwives for that?”

Achmed’s gaze returned to the group. The women, for the most part, were thin and wiry, with broad, masculine shoulders. They stared at him evenly, with no hint of the deference the other Bolg granted him as their new king.

Rhapsody had been amazed to discover these practitioners existed, and was delighted with what the fact indicated about the Bolg as a race. The warriors were expendable, given little care, even in the approach of death, even the most prized ones.

The race’s infants and the mothers giving birth to them, however, had the best care the crude talents of the healers could give. The midwives were revered above even tribal leaders, and wielded a good deal of influence. Perhaps Rhapsody’s idiom was not entirely misplaced.

“I need the key,” he repeated impatiently.

Rhapsody took hold of the collar of his shirt and pulled his ear down to her lips.

“Listen to me,” she said in a deadly tone, “do not speak to me like that again, ever. Especially not in front of the midwives. You lose nothing by being respectful to me; you are at the summit. But your rudeness puts me in a very precarious position. And yourself as well, because even if I don’t lose face with these women, I may rip yours off just for good measure. Now try again, or go away.” She pushed him back and glared at him, smoke rising from her green eyes.

Achmed smiled; she was learning the culture. In the weeks since the arrival of the first recruits she had come to understand virtually every aspect of Firbolg protocol, such as it was. He bowed deferentially from the waist.

“If it would not be too much trouble, would you please grant me this favor?” he asked loudly.

Rhapsody’s face lost a little of its anger. “It’s in my chamber.”

“No, it’s not.”

She blinked again. “How do you know?”

“Because I’ve checked there already.”

The facial thunderclouds rolled back in. “I beg your pardon? You ransacked my room?”

“I didn’t want to disturb your meeting with the midwives,” he said hastily.

“I don’t suppose the concept of waiting ever occurred to you? Gwylliam’s vault has been undisturbed for four centuries. You couldn’t wait another half-hour?” She sighed in irritation. “It’s in the chamber pot under the bed.”

A look of disgust came over Achmed’s face, making it comically hideous. “You have definitely been here too long already. That sounds like something Grunthor or I would do.”

“I don’t use it, you idiot; there’s a privy in the room attached to mine. Next time, ask before you rifle my lingerie drawer.”

“And deny Grunthor one of the few small pleasures in life? Selfish thing.” Achmed turned to the midwives. “I apologize to all for disrupting your meeting with this urgent matter. Thank you for allowing me to consult my wise counselor.” He turned away, rolled his eyes, and left the room.

“Any word from Grunthor?” Rhapsody asked at supper that night, at the same table where she had met with the midwives.

Achmed shook his head, twisting a hard roll as he broke it in two. “He’s left on maneuvers in the highlands past the Heath, the place we think is the abandoned vineyard. I don’t expect to hear from him for at least four more days.”

“And who are the lucky recipients of his attentions this time?”

“The Rippers. They’re a Claw tribe that claims Gwylliam never died, and lives among their ranks.”

“Maybe he does, and was just making a trip to the library to return a book when we found him,” Jo suggested, picking her teeth with her dirk. “I guess the service is a little slow. Grunthor said I can go with him next time if you don’t object, Rhaps. I assume you won’t, will you?”

“No,” said Rhapsody, laughing. “If anything, Grunthor is even more protective of you than I am. If he thinks it’s safe enough to take you, I won’t stand in your way.”

“So what came out of your meeting?” Achmed asked, filling her glass and his own, then passing the pitcher to Jo.

“Quite a bit.” The Singer sat forward, excitement lighting her face, and rose from the table. “Here, let me get the notes.” She went over to the old sideboard near the wall below an ancient tapestry and shuffled through a pile of papers, finally finding what she sought. Her nose wrinkled in disgust as she returned to the table.

“Achmed, this place is a disgrace. Now that you’re King of the Hill, how about getting rid of some of this garbage and redecorating? The tapestries stink.”

“That’s because they urinated and defecated behind them,” said the Dhracian, taking a sip from his tankard. Rhapsody’s face contorted in revulsion, and he laughed. “The Bolg and the Cymrians, both; I guess it took a while for the indoor privies to be built. Llauron may think they were a race of demi-gods, but you’d be surprised at the revolting things we’ve discovered about them.”

“Unless it’s critical to our survival, please spare me,” Rhapsody said.

She unrolled the parchment pages. “All right, the midwives have agreed to take the medicinal skills I’ve taught them back to the various clans and train the most promising candidates, mostly female, so the next generation of midwives is taught at the same time. Then those medics will come back and staff the hospital and the hospice until the land is totally united.”

Achmed nodded. “Good.”

“In addition, we’ve laid out plans for the care of children which I’d like you to codify into law, making it a criminal offense to abuse or molest a child. The Bolg have an enlightened attitude about children already; this will be easier to peddle to them than it would be to some of the ‘men’ in Roland, who think children can be used as footstools and hitching posts.”

Achmed smiled but said nothing. He thought about having to bail her out of the situation in Bethany where she had intervened on behalf of the boy who had been kicked several times in the marketplace by his father.

When she had attacked the man in the street, the crowd that formed was not trying to stop her, but had wanted to touch her and keep her for themselves, much the way the peasants of Gwynwood had. Rhapsody had not understood this, any more than she did all the other incidents of overwhelming attraction she had experienced.

What bothered him, then and now, was his uncertainty that he would have been able to save her alone. It was only by means of a diversionary roar from Grunthor that they had managed to escape. And shortly he would be sending her back to Bethany by herself. He shook his head to drive the prospect out of his mind.

“What about the products?” he asked.

“Wait a minute; I’ll get to that. In addition to the child-protection law, we want you to mandate fair treatment of captives, healing of the injured when possible, and management of pain and death.”

The new Firbolg king rolled his eyes. “The examination of laws and codes will happen after the word of the new order has reached Roland and Sorbold. I want to have conferred with whatever emissaries, if any, come, though I will be very surprised if anyone sends an ambassador before you have visited Roland about ending the Spring Cleaning ritual. Can we table this until then?”

“Yes, I’m just telling you now because you asked for an update. We also started planning for the school. The children you requested at the meeting are the first class, with eventual enrollment for all. By the way, you owe their parents armor, weapons, and food as a gift. That should be everything about the school—oh, and I have twelve new grandchildren.”

“Ick,” said Jo, picking up a hambone and biting on it with the same gusto Grunthor would.

“Is that in response to my grandchildren, or the meat?” Rhapsody asked humorously.

Jo chewed loudly and swallowed. “The meat’s fine. I’m not crazy about kids. If you remember, I spent a good deal of time locked up with a bunch of them.”

“That would make anyone crazy,” Rhapsody agreed.

“They’re Firbolg?” Achmed bit into the other half of the roll.

Rhapsody nodded. “Orphans. I really like them. They’re a little rambunctious, but so was I when I was a kid.”

“But I doubt you made a game out of catching rats and eating them alive, like they do.”

“No, I’ll give you that,” said Rhapsody, smiling and shuddering at the same time. “But I love them anyway.”

“If you’re done waxing poetic about your new brats, can we discuss the plans for what we will be producing aside from weapons?”

“Certainly.” Rhapsody drew forth a second large sheet of paper. “In addition to whatever weapons and armor the smiths turn out, by the end of the growing season we should have a pressing from the vineyard. It won’t be spectacular, but I learned enough at Llauron’s from Ilyana to produce a decent harvest.”

“Once Grunthor has secured the lands past the Heath I’ll go like I did after the canyon battles and gather the battle orphans, and while I’m there I’ll say the Filidic blessing of the land and sing to the plants; it should help. The vines have been scavenged enough to keep the grapes healthy, and if they’re left alone we should have a pressing with a high sugar content and a nice flavor. You can take a sample pressing this spring.”

Achmed nodded, writing furiously. “What else?”

Rhapsody and Jo exchanged a glance. “We discovered something interesting about the wood from the tree limbs you brought me back from that dark forest beyond the Heath.”

“What’s that?”

Rhapsody nodded; Jo rose from the table and disappeared from the room. “Something happens to it when it’s cured, like it would be in making furniture.”

A moment later the girl returned, bearing a beveled spindle, and handed it to Achmed. It had a dark, rich color with a distinct bluish sheen to it. The blue color gave it a magnificent, royal look, like the tables in the Great Hall that had once belonged to Gwylliam and Anwyn, as well as other pieces they had found.

“So that’s how they did it,” he murmured, turning the spindle around in his hand.

“Jo’s the one who figured it out,” said Rhapsody proudly.

“Nice work, Jo,” Achmed said pleasantly. The girl flushed red to the roots of her pale blond hair and went back to eating in silence.

“And finally, my modest contribution. Do you remember those loathsome spiders that had filled six hallways with webs?”

“How could I forget? Your screams are still echoing in my ears.”

Rhapsody snapped him with her napkin; it was made of heavy linen and had been found, along with intricately embroidered tablecloths, in a copper chest deep within the vault.

“Liar; I didn’t scream. Anyway, their strands of gossamer, when blended with cotton fiber or wool, yield a stretchy, strong thread, suitable for weaving into lots of different items, particularly rope that is surprisingly light and tensile.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small braid, which she tossed to him. Achmed gave it a sturdy pull, then bounced it in his hand.

“Excellent,” he said.

“Glad you like it. It’s also pretty because of its shine. Well, that’s the end of my report. Did the key open the inner vault you found?”

Achmed drained his glass. “No,” he said flatly.

Rhapsody smiled. “Pity. Well, at least it wasn’t for nothing; Grunthor got to rummage my undergarment drawer without retaliation.”

“Right. It’s getting late,” Achmed said, putting down the glass and casting a sideways glance at Jo.

“I can take a hint,” said Jo. “Good night, Rhaps.” She rose from the table and left the room. The Singer watched her go.

“What was that all about?” Rhapsody asked.

“She’s probably tired,” Achmed answered. He went to the odious tapestry, reached behind it, and pulled out a small, ornate chest and a heavy manuscript wrapped in leather and velvet. Rhapsody made a gagging sound.

“I can’t believe you put anything you ever wanted to touch again back there, after what you said earlier,” she said.

Achmed came back to the table. “This from the woman who kept the key to Gwylliam’s reliquary in her chamber pot. I got the idea from you.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it abruptly. “The key to the reliquary? I thought you said it didn’t fit.”

“Jo was here, and I didn’t want to discuss it in front of her.”

“And she knew it, too.” Her stomach knotted in sadness. “I can’t believe you don’t trust her. Why don’t you like her?”

“I do like her,” said the Firbolg king. “I just don’t trust her. It’s nothing personal. There are only two people in this world I do trust.”

“Don’t ‘like’ and ‘trust’ go hand in hand?”

“No.” Achmed began unwrapping the book. “We can discuss that in a moment. I thought you might be interested to see this.” He opened the ancient book and slid it carefully across the tabletop to her.

“What is it?” Rhapsody asked, looking down at the feathery script on the cracked pages, dried and worn with time despite their careful storage.

“It’s one of Gwylliam’s most valued manuscripts, the documents he considered most sacred,” Achmed said, smiling slightly. “You should see the second library within the hidden vault. There are plans for parts of Canrif he wanted to build, and a few that he did that we haven’t seen. Books brought from Serendair—a whole race’s history. This seems to be a family registry, the royal annals of births and deaths, and family trees. It appears to be written in the same language as that contract was.”

Rhapsody studied the frail page. “Actually, this is real Ancient Serenne, not just the script like that was.”

“Can you make anything out?”

She turned the pages carefully, feeling pieces of the paper crumble beneath her fingers. Tracing carefully, she found the line of the royal family that she had known. Trinian, crown prince at the time of their leaving Serendair, had been four generations before Gwylliam. She passed this information on to Achmed, then turned the page, following the faded ink.

Suddenly her face went pale. Achmed noted the change in the light of the fire on the hearth, which suddenly leapt as if in panic.

“What’s the matter?”

“Look where the line ends,” she said, pointing to the last entries on the page. “Gwylliam and Anwyn had two sons. The elder, and heir apparent, is listed as Edwyn Griffyth.”

“And the younger?”

She looked up into his face, her emerald eyes wide in the light of the blazing fire.

“Llauron.”

“You know, it’s possible the name is the same for two different people,” Achmed said as Rhapsody stared into the fire and drank the rest of the wine in her goblet. “What’s the likelihood that either of Gwylliam’s sons would have survived the war that killed their father, who was supposedly immortal?”

“Who knows?” Rhapsody said dully. “I suspect it is the Llauron we know, though.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Little things. He had a fascinating device in his glass garden that provided the equivalent of summer rain indoors in the middle of winter. He said his father had built it for his mother.”

“That would count against your theory, I would think; Gwylliam hated Anwyn.”

Rhapsody opened the book again. “Not always. And stop it; you’re baiting me. I know you think it’s the same Llauron, too.”

“You’re right, I do. Gwylliam was, if nothing else, a visionary as an inventor; everything in Ylorc attests to that.”

“And Llauron wants to see the Cymrians reunited. He said it was his hope for peace that made him believe in the need for the reunification, but now I wonder if it’s just a lust for power.”

The Warlord sat on the edge of the table. “This is the religious leader of more than half a million people, who lives like a well-paid gardener. Why would he be likely to want the trappings of royalty just because he was Gwylliam’s heir, when he could have them now and doesn’t bother?”

“I have no idea.” She searched the book but could find no further entry. “It’s hard for me to imagine this lovely man having any nefarious thoughts whatsoever. I mean, when I was brought to him I was totally at his mercy, and he showed me nothing but kindness. He reminds me of my grandfather. It turns out he is the son of this world’s biggest bastard, with dragon blood to boot. Well, at least that explains how he knew things about me without asking; legends say dragons can sense things like that. I wonder what else he knows about us.”

Achmed sighed and closed the book in front of her. “This dovetails nicely into our talk about Jo. By now you know Grunthor and I have both had some contact in the old world with demonic entities.”

Rhapsody rolled her eyes. “Yes.”

“Don’t be rude to your sovereign; I’m not being sarcastic. Several types of demons—not just the ancient ones we have been discussing—are able to bind people to themselves, and their victims don’t even know it. It’s possible that anyone we meet here, if they have been in contact with such an entity, is working for an evil master, willingly or not. Trust me; I know what I am talking about here.” He stared at her so intensely that she had to look away.

“And you think that’s true of Jo?”

Achmed sighed. “No, not really. But I don’t know that it isn’t true, either. Rhapsody, you are too willing to trust, especially in the circumstances we find ourselves. You’re busy adopting half the known world, trying to make up for what you’ve lost.”

She looked back up at him and smiled, though her chin trembled slightly. “That may be true. But adopting one person as my brother saved my life.”

It was Achmed’s turn to look away to save her from seeing his own smile. “I know. What are the odds of good coming out of it again? Look, I have nothing against Jo, and Grunthor seems to like her, too. I think it’s just better not to trust anyone but the three of us among ourselves.”

“Better, or safer?”

“Same thing.”

“Not for me,” she said vehemently. “I don’t want to live like that.”

The Warlord shrugged. “Suit yourself. Behave as you have been, and you may not live like that. But remember, there are worse things than dying. If you are bound to a demonic spirit, particularly the kind from the ancient era, the time you spent with Michael, the Wind of Death, will seem like paradise, and will last for eternity.”

Rhapsody shoved the book away and rose from the table. “I’ve had enough of this. I’m going to sing my patients to sleep.”

Achmed swallowed his annoyance. If ever there was a waste of time, it was the hours she spent ministering to the wounds of the non-mortally injured Firbolg, dabbing them with herbal tonics for pain and singing to them to chase away their anxiety.

“Well, that’s a useful investment of your evening. I’m sure the Firbolg are very appreciative, and will certainly reciprocate your ministrations if you should ever need something.”

Rhapsody’s brow furrowed, and she turned back to him. “What does that mean?” The light of the flickering fire caught in her eyes and hair, making them gleam intensely in the dark.

Achmed sighed. “I’m trying to tell you that you will never see any return for your efforts. When you are injured or in pain, who will sing for you, Rhapsody?”

She smiled knowingly. “Why, Achmed, you will.”

The Firbolg king snorted. “Don’t you want to see what’s in the chest?”

She paused near the door. “Not particularly. And definitely not if it’s going to make me find out that Lord Stephen is responsible for the sinking of the Island of Serendair and the Plague. A few more days like this and I’ll be as paranoid as you.”

Achmed ignored her words and opened the chest, pulling back the dry velvet covering. He lifted the contents aloft, and it caught the light of the fire; it was a horn.

Rhapsody stopped in spite of herself. “Is that the council horn? The instrument that calls the Cymrians together in council?”

“The very one.”

She stared at it, dumbfounded, for a moment. Despite its centuries in the vault, the horn was shining as bright as a spring morning. There was good cheer in the air that clung to it, a sense of hope that only moments before had been driven utterly from the room.

“All right,” she said at last, “so what are we going to do with it?”

Achmed shrugged. “Nothing at the moment. Maybe we’ll fill it with wine to celebrate your successful trip to Roland next week. Or decorate your birthday cake with it. Or maybe Grunthor and I will get very drunk, use it to summon the surviving members of the council to the Moot outside the Teeth, and piss on them all. Who knows? I just thought you might want to know we have it.”

Rhapsody laughed. “Thank you. Maybe you might learn how to play it, and then you can come accompany me on my nightly lullaby rounds.”

Achmed set the horn back in the case. “Rhapsody, I can assure you, all of the things I just mentioned and more will happen before that does.”