Rhapsody: Child of Blood

59

“Yer Ladyship?”

Throbbing pain across her eyes, a familiar voice in her ears. Swimming white circles in the blackness.

Rhapsody struggled to waken, but slipped instead back into the dream, a place where she could believe Grunthor was not dead. He smiled down at her, jostling her into awareness after a nightmare on the Root, comforting her as he had so many times.

“Take your time, darlin’.” The gray-green face in her memory, grinning down at her. How many times had he said that to her, wanting her to be sure of her footing, not to fall? He had been so patient.

The voices seemed distant, hovering over her head.

“’Ow long she been down?”

“Since dawn. She sang through the night until the sun came up; then she collapsed.” Achmed’s sandy voice was more brittle than last she had heard.

Her throat was full of pain. Grunthor, she whispered. The word was spoken in another’s voice, the voice of an ancient man, a withered crone, a Firbolg.

“Oi’m ’ere, miss. Good as new.”

Rhapsody fought to open her eyes, and succeeded with one. Swimming above her was the gray-green face, and it was grinning. She tried to speak, but only managed to move her lips soundlessly.

“Don’t talk, Duchess. You fixed me up right nice, you did. Oi look a lot better than you do, you can be sure.”

She swiveled her head to see what the pressure was beside her. Achmed sat next to her, bandaged and patched, but whole. From what little she could see, there was not a scratch on Grunthor.

From across the room she could hear Jo exhale in relief.

“She’s awake? She’s all right? Let me see her.”

A moment later the teenager’s tearstained face appeared, hovering above her, her expression giddy and furious at the same time.

“Listen, you little runt—next time you go off on a fun expedition and leave me behind with your little brat grandchildren, I can guarantee you a severe thrashing when you get back. The little bastards tied me up and stole my stuff. If you hadn’t come back when you did, I would have been the first human to practice cannibalism on a Bolg.”

Rhapsody loosed a deep sigh, feeling the painful tightness in her chest ease a little.

“You’re really—all right—Grun—”

“Stop,” the Bolg commanded in a tone charged with ringing authority. “Don’t speak, miss. Oi told you, Oi’m just ducky. Oi am most assuredly grateful, Oi ’ope you know. Oi guess you must know me pretty well, bringin’ me back with a song, and me in such bad shape.” A smile cracked his otherwise solemn expression.

“Well, I should hope I do, we been sleeping together and all,” she rasped, then fell back into sleep to the sound of their laughter.

The wind whistled over the Blasted Heath, snapping their cloaks and hoods like sails on the high seas. Achmed and Grunthor were standing vigil in the wide field, waiting for Rhapsody to finish her study of the amulet. She had burned off an area of highgrass in a sheltered place, a rocky dell in which no wind was noticeable. The golden symbol lay on a slab of shale, its eye staring toward the dark sky.

The music she was humming had a high-pitched, fluctuating melody, a sound that set Achmed’s teeth on edge.

“Grunthor, I’ve found a new method of torture,” he said through gritted teeth. “No one could withstand that noise without cracking under the pressure. They’d tell even their deepest secret just to make her stop.”

The giant Bolg laughed. “Oi think that’s the idea, sir. She’s gettin’ the amulet to cough up its story.”

The golden hair caught the light of the moon, turning it a pale silver. She had been at the task now for more than an hour, approaching two, singing into the windless dell. Finally she stood up, brushing her skirts clean, and returned to them, taking Achmed’s arm as she walked.

“All right, this is the best I can determine. I’ve gleaned as many images as I can, using the musical vibrations of the amulet’s lore, its story. It has seen some grisly things, believe me, and I have chosen not to go too far back into the Past. Aside from the time that I don’t want to spend witnessing hideous memories, I’m not sure it wouldn’t eventually have a detrimental effect on me.”

“The amulet itself has no life of its own. It’s just an object that once belonged to someone very powerful, with ties to the spirit world, so some vestigial power remains, linked to his memory, nothing more.”

“Apparently what the Shing said was true. Tsoltan summoned the Thousand Eyes, a tremendous undertaking, and, in doing so, divided his demonic life force among them. They each took a little of his power, of his soul, if you will, with them. It was the energy that sustained them as they set out with one unwavering mission: to find the Brother, and bring him back.”

“Because you had successfully escaped, the Shing continued to roam the world, searching for you. The one we encountered was the only survivor because, unlike the others, it left the Island and crossed the sea to find you. The others never returned to Tsoltan, still obsessed with their directive. They combed the world, looking for someone who was no longer there, at least not on its surface. Even if they had found you, they would not have recognized you any more than the one we met did, because you were renamed.”

“So Tsoltan didn’t have you captured and returned, and he couldn’t recall the Shing. He lost the gamble. It left him weak, his demon side dissipated and committed elsewhere.”

“When MacQuieth finally met up with him, it was really only the human side that remained. The power of the F’dor had been split up into a thousand pieces, all of them gone. So when MacQuieth killed the human host, there was nothing much left of the demon. It died with its host.”

She began to shiver in the stiff wind, and Grunthor opened his greatcoat, wrapping it around her. Rhapsody chuckled from inside the deep garment.

“It’s very strange to be interviewing a piece of jewelry; its perspective on life is a little skewed, to say the least. At any rate, it seems MacQuieth tore the amulet from the dying priest’s neck and took it back to Elysian—the real one, the palace—with him, and presented it to the king as a trophy. I don’t know which king that was, the amulet can’t understand such things.”

“For generations it hung on display in the royal museum. And like many relics and artifacts put on display, gradually people forgot its origin and its meaning, until it was just another gallery piece.”

“Eventually the evacuation came, and when the Cymrians left, they packed the amulet in a box with other decorative treasures and carried it with them, as part of their cultural heritage. The box made it safely to Canrif, but never really was unpacked, its items left undisplayed. I guess there was more than enough grandeur and challenge in Gwylliam’s life and the lives of his subjects not to need a forgotten symbol of a forgotten lore. And a rather ugly one at that, if I do say so; it didn’t even have decorative value.”

“So it lay in a box, gathering dust. Eventually the war began, and when Gwylliam died, the Bolg overran the mountain. They found the amulet in the ruins of a village, probably Lirin or Gwadd, deep within the Hidden Realm. But they were afraid of it, and left it to rot in the box until Saltar, or whatever his name was before he touched it, came along.”

“Once the shaman worked up the courage to wear it, he found that it gave him power. I think initially that power was merely the fear the ‘fire-eye’ inspired in the other Bolg clans, and even among the Fist-and-Fire.”

“But not long after he began wearing it, the Shing showed up. It had been searching for the Brother, but once the call of the amulet from which it had been originally summoned was on the wind, it came looking for Tsoltan, or whoever had replaced him. The Shing told Saltar how to use the eye to see at great distances, and how to foresee another’s actions, like he did with you, Grunthor.”

“Puny lit’le shit,” the Sergeant muttered. “Oi would o’ cleaved ’im right down the middle if he’d been without it.”

“Undoubtedly. The amulet imparted that gift of sight, which caused the red eyes that Saltar had when he wore it, and I experienced when I was holding it. Anyway, I think that’s the entire story, or at least as much of it as I was able to discern. There is one more interesting aspect, however, and it has to do with your name, Achmed—your old one, that is.”

“Oh?”

Rhapsody fumbled in her pack and dug out a scrap of oilcloth with a smudged charcoal rubbing.

“Do you remember this?”

“Indeed.” His strange eyes gleamed with intensity in the dark.

“You said the plaque you took this off of was adhered to a block of obsidian.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Grunthor interjected.

“And we postulated that it might be the altar stone of the All-God’s temple that the inscription refers to.”

“Yes.”

“The altar stone was captured when Tsoltan destroyed that temple in the name of his goddess, the Devourer, the deity of Void, long before he captured your name. He used the stone as an altar of blood sacrifice.” Rhapsody examined his face, looking for indications of emotion, but none were apparent. “I believe it was within that stone that your name was once imprisoned.”

“Makes sense.”

“I assume this means that the victorious forces in the Seren War reclaimed the stone, and rededicated it to the God of Life, which I think was an earlier name of the All-God, though of course the amulet has no recollection of that. I did get a clear image of Tsoltan’s panic when he discovered you had slipped the lead. I’m sorry I couldn’t have shown it to you; it would have been a source of great amusement for you, I’m sure. Maybe someday I will write a comic ode about it. So, are we ready, then?”

The king and the Sergeant looked at each other, then nodded. Together the three walked back to the windy meadow where the amulet lay, staring blindly at the stars.

“Do you know what you’re doin’, Duchess?” Grunthor asked.

“Nope.”

The giant Bolg blinked. “All right; Oi suppose there’s somethin’ to be said for wingin’ it.”

The Singer smiled. “I thought you might see it that way.” As the wind settled on her she closed her eyes, then drew the sword from her belted scabbard, a steel sheath wrought in Achmed’s forges and lined with the black stone stalactite in which she had found it. As Daystar Clarion came forth it sang with life, a sound that sent silver chills down each of their spines.

Rhapsody stood in the reflection of the flames licking the blade, gleaming below the fire with an ethereal light. She let its heat wash over her face, illuminating her hair until she glowed like a beacon in the dark meadow, shining at the crest of the mountains.

She matched her Naming note to the song of the sword and felt its power fill her, rumbling through her soul like a glorious symphony. As the power of the fire rose in crescendo, she opened her eyes and searched the sky for the star she had found. It was the sailor’s star, Maurinia, small and intensely blue, hovering above the Prime Meridian.

Once again as she had in her dream, she heard her mother’s voice in her mind.

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.

Rhapsody took a deep breath and raised her sword to the stars. She felt its music surge, ringing through her soul. She pointed the sword at Maurinia, and felt the voice of the star answer back, singing in exquisite harmony. She closed her eyes once more and called its name.

The crags of the mountains above and around them were suddenly illuminated by an ethereal light. It bathed the fields and canyon with silver splendor, making the darkness of night appear as bright as midday. Their three tiny shadows flickered black in the brilliance, then were utterly swallowed, making their bodies shine with a translucent radiance.

With an earsplitting roar, a searing flame descended, hotter than the fires from the Earth’s core. It struck the golden amulet and the slab it lay upon, blasting the enormous rock into fragments of molten dust. The three shielded their eyes from the blinding light as it consumed the dell and everything within it.

A moment later, it was gone, leaving nothing but the finest ash on the ground in the hidden place where the symbol had been.

Grunthor took hold of Rhapsody’s shoulders.

“Ya all right, darlin’?”

She nodded imperceptibly. She was staring intently ahead, trying to capture the voice in her mind. It wafted on the wind, traveling away from her, whispering as it left.

Then I will rest in peace until you see me again.

“Rhapsody?”

She continued to watch, to listen with every fiber of her soul, until she could hear the voice no longer.

Grunthor’s massive arms pulled her against him, wrapping comfortingly around her shoulders. Rhapsody blinked. It was as if she was saying goodbye to the last vestige of her dead family in the presence of the living one she still was part of. In the aftermath of the star-fire she felt morose, lost, as if the grief she was now left with was threatening to consume her. And it was held at bay only by the strong arms, and the comforting words, of her friends, these two she had adopted as brothers in a back alley a lifetime ago.

Rhapsody cleared her lungs with a deep, cleansing breath. Then she turned to the two Bolg, who were watching her with varying degrees of anxiety.

“Well, that’s done. Now what?”

Beneath his hood, Achmed smiled.

“Back to work. Grunthor and I have a lot of clean-up in the wake of our little excursion to the Hidden Realm. With the exception of the Hill-Eye, all the mountain clans, the clans of the Heath, and everyone throughout the Outer Teeth is united. Now it’s just a matter of implementing the plan. Oh, and a rather large funeral.”

She nodded. “Have you dug the graves?”

The king blinked. “I assumed we were going to commit them to the forge.” He flinched at the look of revulsion that swept over her face.

“No. Definitely not,” she said, shuddering. “With the exception of the Nain that died there, the bodies we found when we first discovered the forges, it’s not suitable for any future cremations to take place there.”

“Why not?”

“First, it’s a place of building and creation now, and that would be an act of destruction, however necessary an act it may be. Second, and far more important, whereas Lirin commit the bodies of their race to the wind and stars through the fire of the funeral pyre, the Bolg are children of the Earth, not the sky. It is proper to bury them within the Earth that was their home in their lifetimes.”

Achmed shrugged. “All right, I’ll yield to your vastly superior knowledge of death rituals. The Bolg are lucky to have a Singer of their own to sing their dirges.” He watched the clouds come back into her eyes again. “What’s the matter?”

When she didn’t answer, he took her by the arm.

“We’re safe, Rhapsody. The amulet’s gone, along with the last of the Shing. We know that Tsoltan is dead, and it seems certain the F’dor spirit died with him after all. We can now go about the process of building up Ylorc without delay. The challenge stretches out before us, well within our grasp. We don’t have to hide anymore, don’t need to mourn. It’s time to move on.”

She looked up at him and smiled, a shadow of sadness unmistakable in her eyes.

“Perhaps for you,” she said.