Rhapsody: Child of Blood

56

They’re coming.

“I know.”

Saltar rose from his stone chair, running his fingers over the granite arms, worn smooth by centuries of hands other than his own gripping them. It was one of the treasures from the old time, grabbed when the great Willum village-beneath-the-ground had been conquered, along with other relics that remained locked within the depths of the Hidden Realm. But it was not the most significant one.

His army comes, but the one I seek is not with them.

Fire-Eye swallowed but said nothing. The Spirit had been of great assistance, had given him a terrifying invulnerability, an invaluable asset in his rise to power, but it was obsessed, not easily distracted.

He took the chain from around his neck, staring absently into the eye amid the golden fire, the symbol that had given him his shaman name. Fire-Eye. It was the name by which the Bolg called him, generally whispered when spoken.

The fire-eye had lain in the bottom of a great chest for centuries before him, the Bolg of the Hidden Realm too frightened to touch it, let alone put it on. Even the fiercest hunters in the Fist-and-Fire, his own clan, had shied away from it. Only he had been able to summon the courage to lift the golden symbol from its casket, to wear it on his chest. He reveled in watching the other Bolg of his clan recoil in abject fear.

It had never occurred to him to wonder why the Willums would have buried such a powerful item away, had left it under a pile of rags along with a small pair of alabaster lions and a brooch made of mother-of-pearl, baubles that no one had wanted to touch but that had instantly disappeared once he took the fire-eye out of the crate. Twenty season-cycles had passed since that day.

The Spirit had made itself known to him almost immediately. It had come to him in darkness, reflecting his own image back to him, frightening him into shaking fits. When it spoke its words were hard to hear clearly, though he had gotten more used to the silent voice over time. It had given him his name, Saltar.

Saltar?

Fire-Eye looked up again, searching the darkness for the all-but-invisible Ghost. That was what the other clans called the Spirit. They were almost as terrified of it as he was. It spoke to him now, just as it had then. A thought occurred to him.

“I know how to draw him out,” he said to the air around him.

Silence.

“You must fight this time,” Saltar said, fingering the fire-eye, then slipping the chain around his neck again. “Then he will come.”

The air bristled, a whiff of heat rising in Saltar’s dismal chamber.

Yes.

Emmy.

Tears welled beneath Rhapsody’s eyelids at the sound of her mother’s voice, a voice she heard in her heart. Dreaming, but still clinging to the last fragments of awareness, she struggled to keep the vision at bay. Too often the nightmares began like this, catching her off-guard and vulnerable.

“No,” she whispered in her sleep. “Please.”

A gentle hand came to rest on her head.

Don’t cry, Emmy. Her mother’s smiling face, swimming before her, blurred by her own tears.

She surrendered to sleep with one last sigh. “Mama.”

I like your house, Emmy, especially the candles. Her mother’s eyes cast an appreciative glance around at the tiny glimmering lights that appeared, as she spoke, in the darkness. Even the simplest house is a palace in candlelight. “Mama—”

Come over here and let me brush your hair by the fire the way we once did.

Rhapsody felt the heat radiate over her face. She rose and followed her mother to the hearth. Flames twisted and danced, burning insistently.

The caress of smooth hands running down her hair, the bite of the comb.

Do you remember this, child?

“Yes,” she whispered, choking on the tears. “Mama—” Shhh. Her mother reached into the fire. Here, child, put your hand in; I can’t get it for you. It won’t let me pick it up. You’ll have to do it.

She reached into the roaring flames, feeling their heat but no pain. Her hand grasped something smooth and cold, and she drew it forth from the fire. Instantly all the flames died away except for the ones licking up the blade of the sword in her hand.

“Daystar Clarion,” she murmured.

As it was in the Past, before it was taken from our land, away from the light of Seren. See how it looked then.

Rhapsody turned the weapon over in her hands, running her fingers along the silvery blade. “It looks the same.” Look harder.

She turned it over again. In the hilt, just above the tang, a small light burned blue-white, more brilliant than the sun, held in place by silvery prongs.

“This light isn’t there anymore,” Rhapsody said. “The prongs are empty now. What was it?”

It was a piece of the star, of Seren. A source of great power, of elemental magic, from the Before-Time. Your star, Emmy.

“Aria, ” she whispered. My guiding star. Yes, her mother said. She pointed into the darkness above, where Seren gleamed, as it once had. I told you this long ago, child: if you can find your guiding star, you will never be lost. You have forgotten this.

“No, Mama, no. I remember.” It was becoming difficult to breathe.

Then why are you lost?

“I—I lost the star, Mama. I lost Seren; Serendair is gone, dead a thousand years.”

The land is gone, the star remains.

“Mama—”

Watch, child. Her mother pointed skyward. From Seren, high in the darkness above, a tiny piece broke off and streaked across the sky, an infinitesimal falling star. In her hand, the light in the sword’s hilt winked out, its prongs empty once more.

Rhapsody followed her mother’s finger; it almost seemed to be guiding the star in its descent.

In the darkness ahead of her she could see a table, or an altar of some kind, on which the body of a man rested. The figure was wreathed in darkness; she could see nothing but his outline. The tiny star fell onto the body, causing it to shine incandescently. The intense brightness gleamed for a moment, then resolved into a dim glow. Rhapsody went cold, remembering the vision from the House of Remembrance.

That is where the piece of your star went, child, for good, or ill. If you can find your guiding star, you will never be lost. Never.

Even in her sleep, Rhapsody could tell that something about the vision was not right. Generally the lore related to her in her dreams by her parents or people from her past were tied to her memories, things that had happened while they were still alive. Visions of the Future were usually unconnected to anyone she loved who had died in the cataclysm. But here her mother was, imparting things that she could not possibly have known in her lifetime.

“How can you tell me these things, Mama?”

She felt the warmth of her mother’s arms encircle her.

I can tell you because, just as I am, these are memories of yours. You just don’t know them yet. If you can find your guiding star, you will never be lost. Never.

The glowing body on the altar faded into darkness and disappeared.

“I can’t see him anymore, Mama. Why can’t I see him?”

It’s not what he is, it’s what he wears.

Rhapsody turned over, tangling herself in the blankets. “I don’t understand.”

Look over your shoulder.

Rhapsody turned. Hovering in the darkness were three eyes. Two were placed in an otherwise dark face, their edges rimmed in the color of blood. The third hung suspended below them, set in the center of a blazing ball of flame. She began to tremble.

“Mama?”

Remember what I said, Emmy: It’s not what he is, it’s what he wears.

The flames from the ball began to expand until they filled all of her view. She looked back to see her mother, engulfed in the inferno. Rhapsody reached out her arms as horror swept through her.

“Mama!”

Her mother continued to smile as she withered to a dark ember, then was swallowed up in the flames.

Your family was destroyed in fire, Emmy.

“Mama!”

Fire is strong. But starfire was born first; it is the more powerful element. Use the fire of the stars to cleanse yourself, and the world of the hatred that took us. Then I will rest in peace until you see me again.

“Mama, no! Please come back!”

It’s not what he is, it’s what he wears. The voice echoed softly as it died away.

“Rhaps?”

“No,” Rhapsody moaned, reaching into the darkness, clawing desperately as the dream evaporated. Mama.

“Rhaps, are you all right?”

She sat up in bed, wiping away the tears that were pouring down her face with the sleeve of her nightgown. Jo’s silhouette lingered in the doorway, casting a long shadow.

“Yes,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry, honey; did I wake you?”

Jo came into the room and sat on her bed, giving her a quick hug.

“No, Grunthor did. They need you down at the hospital.”