The front door of the Invoker's keep was ancient and thick, with deeply carved designs that somehow reminded Rhapsody strongly of home.
It had at one time been gilded with a gold-leaf image, which had faded and peeled with age, in the vague shape of a dragon or other mythical beast. It bore the signs of salt spray that had worn some of the surface down to a smooth finish, made even balder by time. It was also marked in the upper right corner with a hex sign unlike any she had seen, a circle formed from a spiral.
Khaddyr rapped loudly on the door with his walking stick. He waited a moment and was about to knock again when suddenly the door opened.
In the entranceway stood a middle-aged woman of mixed blood, a half-caste Lirin like Rhapsody herself, though her coloring was more like that of the forest Lirin from the Island. Her skin was dark and sallow, and her eyes and hair the color of the bark of the chestnut tree. Her temples bore a touch of gray.
She wore a robe of undyed wool, similar to the others Rhapsody had seen, and nodded deferentially to Khaddyr, then turned to look at his guest. Her mouth fell open and she stared blankly. Rhapsody blushed. I must be a horrific sight, she thought, her throat tightening in embarrassment.
Khaddyr's eyes darkened in annoyance. "Ahem," he said, clearing his throat, "Good evening to you, too, Gwen. Is His Grace in?"
The woman blinked, then colored in abashment. "Forgive me, Father, and you as well, miss; I don't know what's come over me. Please come in." She stepped aside from the door and Khaddyr entered the house, taking Rhapsody by the elbow and leading her inside.
They followed Gwen through a hallway crafted from polished wood and adorned with carvings and variegated stone floors. At the last door before a spindled stairway Gwen stopped and knocked politely, then opened the door slightly and called inside.
"Your Grace?"
"Yes?" The voice that answered was a smooth, cultured baritone.
"You have guests, sir." Her eyes returned to Rhapsody.
"It's I, Your Grace," said Khaddyr. He glared at Gwen. "Stop gawking; you're being rude." The woman turned hastily away.
The door opened a moment later and Khaddyr led Rhapsody inside. She looked around at the cozy room, a surprisingly small study with a large, whole-wall hearth on which a fire was burning quietly. As she entered the room the flames blazed in greeting, then settled back down into a steady, insistent incandescence.
The room was filled with odd objects, maps and scrolls, and bookshelves that lined the three remaining walls. There were several comfortable chairs clustered around a low, round table made from a center slice of a wide tree that had been struck by lightning, a liquor chest, and other pieces of furniture that were hidden in the shadows of the firelight.
The door closed quietly behind them. Standing there was a thin, elderly man dressed in simple gray robes. His face was kind and wrinkled, with a good many lines around his eyes, his hair silver and white with heavy brows and a matching mustache, neatly trimmed. His build was tall and somewhat slight, though he appeared in good health. The old man's skin had the weathered look of someone who spent most of his time outdoors.
"Well, well," the man said softly. "What have we here?"
"Your Grace, this woman came to me from out of the forest of Tref-Y-Gwartheg," Khaddyr answered respectfully. "She doesn't speak the language, though she seems to understand it somewhat. She sings to the sunrise as well, though she has placed no words to these songs; her voice is otherworldly in its beauty. I thought perhaps she would interest you, as I am at a loss to define what she is. It occurred to me that she might be a dryad or sylph or some other nature spirit with whom you might be familiar, if anyone was."
Rhapsody stared at Khaddyr in surprise. Initially it was the name of the town that had caught her interest; Tref-Y-Gwartheg, in the tongue of the Island, meant simply Cattle-town.
It was his final comment, however, that caused her some shock. She had thought when the townspeople first started swarming about her that they had never seen a Lirin woman before, but Gwen was proof that her theory there was incorrect. Why would the priest think she was a nature spirit? Was it her wild appearance, or something more? She thought back to Achmed and Grunthor's awkward attempts to explain the way the fire had changed the way she looked. Apparently it made her look freakish.
The old man smiled in amusement. "Thank you, Khaddyr." He came a few steps closer to her and looked into her face. "My name is Llauron," he said, directly and pleasantly. "What may I call you, my dear?"
"Rhapsody," she answered. Khaddyr jumped at the sound of her voice.
"I didn't know she could speak," he said.
"Sometimes it's just a matter of asking questions that one can answer, isn't it, Rhapsody?" His voice, rich and distinguished, had a gentle, disarming tone to it. She couldn't help but smile in return.
"Yes."
"Where are you from?"
Rhapsody's brows drew together as she puzzled over how to answer him. She had agreed not to give much information away, and yet she didn't want to lie, on top of which she was uncertain of her ability to communicate accurately in the dialect. "I don't know what you would call it," she said carefully. "It is far away."
"Yes, I can imagine," the Invoker said. "Well, not to worry. Can I get you something to eat, or perhaps a bath?"
Her face lit up, and with it, the fire; the flames roared in delight. "Yes, a bath would be wonderful," she said slowly. The desire to be clean outweighed all caution.
Llauron opened the door of the study. "Gwen?"
The half-Lirin woman appeared again. "Yes, Your Grace?"
"This is Rhapsody. She is to be our guest, at least for this evening. Please draw her a nice, hot bath with plenty of soap, and set Vera to preparing a supper tray for her." The woman nodded and left. Llauron turned back to them again. "Now, while that is being undertaken, would the two of you like some tea?"
"Yes, thank you," Rhapsody said.
"I would as well, Your Grace."
Llauron gestured to the chairs while he prepared the tea, hanging a pot of water on the hearth. He took three cups out of a cabinet near one of the glass windows and set them before his guests. When the water had boiled he removed it from the fire and poured it into a china teapot with some tea leaves to steep. Then he sat in the chair opposite her.
"Well, Rhapsody, I do hope Khaddyr has been a good host, aside from failing to offer you a bath."
Khaddyr was mortified. "I am sorry, miss," he said to her in embarrassment, "but I didn't want to offend any custom your people might have."
Llauron looked amused. "Come now, Your Grace, surely you've met enough Lirin to know that they bathe." He poured the tea into the cups and offered them the small honey server.
"Lirin?" Khaddyr asked in astonishment.
"Half-Lirin, I would guess. Is that correct, my dear? One of your parents was Liringlas?"
Rhapsody nodded. "My mother." She sipped the tea, reveling in its warmth.
"I thought as much."
A knock sounded on the door, then it opened. "The bath is ready, Your Grace."
Llauron rose. "I imagine that's the thing you desire most in the world right now, isn't it, my dear?"
"Yes." The great exhale of breath in her answer made the Invoker chuckle.
"Well, enjoy your soak. Gwen, please get her anything she needs, and wash her clothes for her while she bathes. I'm sure you can come up with a new robe for her as well, yes?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Excellent."
Rhapsody followed Gwen from the room. As they stepped out into the hall and climbed the stairs she could hear the men continuing their conversation.
"A dryad?" Llauron's voice barely contained his mirth. "Really, now."
"I've never seen a Lirin like that," she heard Khaddyr say defensively.
"Apparently not, but I'm sorry to say there are no more nature spirits; the last of them perished with the Island centuries ago—"
The sound of his voice was cut off as Gwen closed the bathroom door.
The bathroom contained a great porcelain tub which had been filled with steaming water and scented with herbs; fennel and lemon verbena, Rhapsody thought with a sigh. She turned to see Gwen watching her, with no apparent intention of leaving.
Self-consciously Rhapsody removed her filthy clothing, leaving the locket around her neck, and eased herself into the tub, feeling an ecstatic rush as the heat of the water closed around her body. She looked up to see Gwen bundle her rags and leave the room, closing the door behind her.
With a deep sigh she slipped even further down into the water, feeling the blissful sensation of shedding the mud that had soaked into the pores of her skin, allowing it to breathe for the first time in as long as she could remember. As she scrubbed the muck from her hair and skin the water lost none of its heat, even as it turned a repulsive gray color. It was as if the tension of the endless time spent in travel was melting off her along with the dirt. She could not bring herself to imagine what the tub would look like when she was finished.
She was drying herself with one of the thick sheets of cloth that had been left beside the tub when Gwen came back, carrying a white wool robe similar to the ones she had seen among the Filids in the forest glen. The servant left the room, and Rhapsody donned the robe, enjoying the feel of a whole garment on her skin. Then she looked down at the sword; it seemed ludicrous to belt it onto the robe, so she decided to carry it in her hand. There was no place to hide it, anyway.
She waited for a few moments, but Gwen did not return. Rhapsody opened the door and peered down the corridor. There was no one in sight. She went down the stairs slowly, her eyes taking in all the angles and details of the marvelous house, from its glowing woodwork to the odd pieces of art that adorned the walls.
The door to the study was open, and she leaned into the doorway. "Hello?" she called.
Llauron's voice answered her, but seemed distant. "Ah, you're done. Come in, my dear."
Rhapsody walked into the study to find the room empty. On the wall that abutted the fireplace was a door she had not seen, standing open. She crossed the room, noting the embers on the hearth leaping in greeting as she walked past, and went into the adjoining room.
It was very similar to the study except for the central piece of furniture. A messy, ornate desk took up much of the room, covered with papers and scrolls that seemed piled randomly on it. Another hearth, a smaller one, was visible between two paned windows. Glass was a luxury that Rhapsody had seen only rarely in the old world and only in this house since arriving in the new one. Llauron rose from the large chair behind the desk and smiled at her.
"Well, now, are you feeling better?" She nodded. "Good, good. Did you recognize the herbs?"
Rhapsody thought for a moment. She did—lavender, fennel, rynlet, lemon verbena, and rosemary—but she was unsure how to say the words in this dialect, and didn't want to speak them in the old language. "Yes," she said.
The Invoker laughed. "Very good. You're something of an herbalist, then?"
She shook her head. "No, I know a little about plants, but not much."
"Well, if you are interested in learning more, this is the place to do it. Our chief herbalist, Lark, is Lirin also, though not Liringlas."
"Perhaps. I'm sure it would be very interesting."
"Indeed. Customarily I have Gwen put rock salt in the bath as well. It soothes sore muscles, or at least I hope it did."
Rhapsody smiled. "Yes, thank you. I feel worlds better."
Llauron opened his hand in the direction of a soft-looking chair. "Khaddyr made his apologies; he is needed at the hospice. Perhaps you'd like to ask me some of the thousand questions you must have, and I admit I have a few of my own. Have a seat by the fire, my dear, and help yourself to the supper tray."
Rhapsody complied, breathing deeply to keep the fire from reacting to her nervousness. It was of little use; the flames leapt to life as she sat in the chair. Llauron didn't seem to notice.
"What is this place?" she asked carefully, trying to keep within the dialect.
Llauron smiled. "You are in the home, the keep, of the Invoker—that's me, of course—of the Filids, the religious order that worships the One-God, the Life-Giver, by tending to the various aspects of nature. My home is at the crest of the Circle, the community where our order lives, trains, and tends the Great White Tree—I imagine you saw it on your way here, it's difficult to miss." Rhapsody nodded. "The name of the holy forest in which it grows, and we live, and you presently are, is Gwynwood."
Rhapsody sat back in her chair. She had never heard the names of any of those places or things before.
Llauron saw her disappointment. "Can you read maps?"
"Fairly well. Mostly sea charts."
"Excellent. Then come over here." The old man rose and led her to a strange orb in the corner suspended from a hinged floorstand. On the orb a map had been painted, showing the landmasses of the known world. He took the round map in his hands and spun it, locating a northern continent with a long, irregular western seacoast.
"This is where we are," Llauron said, pointing slightly inland from the coast. Rhapsody blinked but said nothing. She had seen this landmass before in her studies, but it was thought to be uninhabited.
The Island of Serendair was in the southern hemisphere on the other side of the world. Though she had anticipated this possibility, her throat tightened nonetheless. She was much farther from home than she had hoped.
"May I see the round map?" she asked hesitantly. Her vocabulary was failing her occasionally.
"Certainly. It's called a globe." Llauron swung it over to her on the stand.
Rhapsody turned the globe slowly, making note of some of the places she had seen before, and many more that she hadn't. Carefully she examined each part of the world, trying not to be obvious, her heart pounding. The language with which it was labeled was similar to that of her homeland, but with a few characters she didn't recognize. Finally she was able to turn it to the place where Serendair was, and found the Island in the correct place, on the opposite side of the Earth and sea. But instead of being labeled by its actual name, it was rendered in gray and annotated as The Lost Island.
Her hands grew cold. The Lost Island? It didn't surprise her that the mapmakers of this place were unfamiliar with the geography on the other side of the world, just as the Seren cartographers had been unaware that this place was inhabited. But why call it lost?
Her eyes scanned the globe quickly. She noticed that in addition to its strange appellation, Serendair was also the only landmass colored in gray. She swung the map back to the place Llauron had indicated they now were.
The Invoker was watching her in interest. "Here, let me show you a little of the geography." He went to the high pile of maps on the sideboard and rummaged through them until he came to the one he was looking for, unrolling it for her to see.
"The Tree is here, in the central forest region near the southeastern border of the forest. Gwynwood itself is a religious state, and as such is not aligned with Roland, our neighbor on the southern and eastern sides."
Rhapsody followed his finger, and saw that the seaside province to the south of the forest was labeled Avonderre, and the eastern one Navarne. Across the wide ocean to the left was an area depicted in green, as the areas he was now showing her all were. Part of the mainland across the sea, the other green area was labeled Manosse.
"Avonderre and Navarne are part of Roland?"
"Yes, as are the provinces of Canderre, to the northeast, Yarim, east of that, Bethany, due east of Navarne, which is the Regency seat, and Bethe Corbair, east of Bethany."
Rhapsody studied the map with interest. Avonderre, Navarne, Bethany, Canderre, Yarim, and Bethe Corbair were the provinces of the country of Roland, but were not the only lands depicted in green. The color was used only in the section of the world Llauron was indicating, and nowhere else on the globe.
From the map it appeared that Roland encompassed part of the western seacoast, great rolling hills to the south of Gwynwood, and spread eastward into a vast, wide plain that was labeled The Orlandan Plateau.
It stretched further eastward to the foothills of a sharply broken mountain range, cut by a deep valley. The mountain range was labeled The Manteids. At one time the land around the Manteids had been noted as Canrif, but that had been neatly crossed out and replaced by the hand-written word Firbolg. Rhapsody swallowed hard upon reading the word.
She pointed to a country to the south that bordered on Bethany and Bethe Corbair. It seemed to be mostly composed of the same mountain chain as the Manteids, stretching south into a wide, high desert. This land was also depicted in green. "Is this part of Roland, too?"
"That's Sorbold. It is not part of Roland, but a nation unto itself."
"And this?" She indicated the area labeled Firbolg.
Llauron laughed. "Goodness, no. Those are the Firbolg lands. That's a dark and treacherous place, if ever there was one."
Rhapsody nodded; she could believe that of a land occupied by Firbolg. Her finger traced along the southern edge of the country of Roland, the final area shaded green, unlabeled. "Why does this area seem to have no name?"
Llauron uncurled a corner of the map as it rolled closed. "These are the nonaligned states that were once part of the Cymrian lands." His voice was matter-of-fact, but he watched her intently as he said the word.
Rhapsody's face was blank. The word meant nothing to her. "Cymrian lands? The green ones?"
"Yes, all of Roland and Sorbold, as well as those states that are currently nonaligned, Manosse, on the other continent, and the Firbolg Waste were once part of the lands settled by the Cymrians, spelled with a 'y,' though pronounced as a 'u.'"
"Who were the Cymrians?"
A flicker of surprise crossed Llauron's face. "You've never heard of the Cymrians?"
"No." Her hands began to tremble slightly. Llauron noticed, and patted one comfortingly.
"The Cymrians were the refugees who fled the Island of Serendair prior to its destruction."
Rhapsody heard the words Llauron had spoken: the Island of Serendair prior to its destruction. They slowly took up residence in her brain, settling in her mind like music from a distant orchestra. Its destruction.
A sense of calm descended on her; it was the physical reaction that occurred in her in the advent of great danger or panic. She fought to keep her face placid as the blood rushed from her head, cramping her stomach and leaving her feeling mortally weak.
With a practiced hand she picked up the map and carried it over to the chair she had occupied, and sat down again, balancing the scabbard across her knees and letting the fire warm her suddenly pale face.
"I'd like to hear more about the Cymrians, but will you explain two more lands to me?" she asked, her voice sounding exaggerated in her own ears.
Llauron sat in the chair opposite her. "Of course."
She forced her eyes to focus on a land depicted in yellow to the south of Gwynwood and its southern neighbor, Avonderre. The land seemed to be part of the same enormous forest but, aside from being shown in a different color, was labeled Realmalir. "What is this?"
A smile flickered across the Invoker's elderly face. "Those are the Lirin lands, the Great Forest of Tyrian. The word is Old Cymrian for 'the Lirin kingdom.' The Lirin were indigenous to this land. They were here when the Cymrians landed, and they are here still."
"But not part of Roland?"
"No. During the Cymrian Age the Lirin were allies of the Cymrians, but the Great War changed that."
"Great War?"
Llauron took a deep breath. "When you say you are from far away, I see you are not exaggerating. What is the other land you wanted to ask about?"
Rhapsody pointed numbly to the white lands to the north of Gwynwood and Roland. "What is this?"
"That is the Hintervold. It comprises all the lands to the north and east past the old Cymrian realm. I have some maps if you'd like to see them."
She was beginning to grow nauseated. "Some other time, if you don't mind. Tell me more about the Cymrians, please."
Llauron glanced out the window into the darkness. "Well, I can tell you a little, but it's a rather long story."
"A very long time ago, the last of the Seren kings, whose name was Gwylliam, made the discovery that the island nation of which he was the rightful ruler was doomed to dissolve in fire. The ancient manuscripts I've studied are not clear on how he came to know this, but kings of Serendair were often gifted with foresight, and knew a great many things indisputably." Numbness tingled at Rhapsody's temples. She had never heard of Gwylliam.
"Centuries before, the Island had sustained widespread damage when a star fell from the sky into the sea," Llauron continued. "It caused a great deluge which split the island and buried much of it beneath the waves. It was not hard to believe that something such as that could happen again."
Rhapsody struggled to breathe normally. She was familiar with the legend of the Sleeping Child, the story Llauron was now telling her.
Her mother had told her the Lirin tale of two stars that were sisters, Melita and Oelendra; how Melita had fallen from the sky and into the sea at the land's edge, settling below the waves but still churning with unspent fire. Islands to the north of Serendair, formerly mountaintops, became tropical from the heat, and the seas between them raged, making it treacherous for ships to sail near them.
The star at the bottom of the sea became known as the Sleeping Child. The Lirin believed that one day it might awaken and rise again, taking the rest of the island to the depths with it when it did. The sister star, Oelendra, was said to have fallen in despair, leaving its light still burning in the sky even after its death. She had thought the stories to be myths.
Llauron's voice came back to her as if through a fog. "Gwylliam was, by nature and training, an architect, an engineer, a smith. He refused to accept his kingdom's death knell, and instead decided to find a way to preserve the culture that his royal line had fought so hard to protect."
"He undertook great plans to evacuate the Island, although some of his subjects, notably from the older races, such as the Liringlas, chose to stay behind rather than leave, even in the face of impending disaster. Others chose to travel to nearby landmasses within the shipping lanes that had been plied by Seren sailors for centuries."
"But Gwylliam was not satisfied with either of those alternatives. He wanted to find a place where the Seren culture of all its races could be preserved, a sanctuary for his subjects where they could rebuild their civilization. To that end he chose a sailor, a man of Ancient Seren stock, who was called Merithyn—the Explorer. He was sent out in a small ship, alone, to find a suitable place to relocate the Seren who wanted to flee."
"By the way, let me clarify the difference between Seren and Ancient Seren. Any citizen of what was at the time modern Serendair, regardless of race, was Seren, though since they came here they have been referred to exclusively as Cymrians. The Ancient Seren were a particular race, tall, gold-skinned people from long before the races of man colonized Serendair. They died out, for the most part, well prior to the era I am telling you about." Rhapsody, herself Seren, nodded numbly.
"Eventually Merithyn came to this place, which at the time was the impenetrable realm of a dragon named Elynsynos; that's much too long a story to get into tonight, but if you stay for a while, I will be more than happy to relate it to you."
"At any rate, Elynsynos took to him, and sympathized with the plight of his nation, so she invited them to come and live within her lands, the places you now see, for the most part, in green on the map. Merithyn returned with the news happily, and the Seren came to this land in three fleets of ships."
"Eight hundred and seventy-six ships set out, though considerably fewer landed, and they sailed in three Waves, which all left and landed at different times and in different places. It was harrowing, and difficult, but they survived, and eventually met up again, banding together to form the greatest nation this land has ever seen, and ushered in the most enlightened Age it has ever known. But that civilization has been gone for a very long time."
Rhapsody tried to maintain her composure. "I still don't understand why they were called Cymrians. Didn't you say they were from Serendair?"
The Invoker stood up again and stretched, then crossed the room to a case where a strange, rocklike object was displayed under glass. Rhapsody followed him, fighting rising hysteria. He pointed at the rock, into which runes had been carved. She stared down at the words through the glass.
Cyme we inne frit, fram the grip of deap to lifinne dis smylte land
"Can you read this, my dear?"
Rhapsody nodded. It was written in a combination of what Llauron had referred to as Old Cymrian, the language of her father, the common tongue of her homeland, and the strange language of sailors and merchants that was universally used in shipping trade.
"Come we in peace, from the grip of death to life in this fair land."
Llauron smiled approvingly. "Very good. This was Gwylliam's command to Merithyn, the salutation with which he was to greet anyone in the new land he might find."
"Gwylliam translated it into a universal tongue, to expand its chance of being recognized somewhere in the world. They were Merithyn's first words to Elynsynos, words he carved upon her lair, with her permission, of course, as a signpost to any who might come after him."
"When the Cymrians arrived, each fleet having landed in a different place, they left markers along the way as they traveled to find each other again and make their settlements. Those historical paths are called the Cymrian Trails, and they were the origin of the name Cymrian."
"The indigenous people of the land, like the Lirin of the Great Forest of Tyrian, saw the words on the signposts or were greeted with the words upon meeting these refugees, and began to refer to them as Cymrians, which is why their appellation sounds like 'come.' So it has come to mean the people of the Lost Island, and their descendants, without regard to race or class, for all were represented on the ships."
"I see," said Rhapsody politely, but inside she was feeling the world spin. "How long ago was this?"
"Well, the fleets departed just shy of fourteen centuries ago." Rhapsody gasped in spite of herself. "What?" Llauron smiled. "Yes, it may seem hard to believe, but fourteen centuries ago a civilization lived here that gave us many of our greatest inventions and contributions to our culture. They were, in some ways, even more advanced than we are now. It was the war that changed it, the war that ended the Cymrian Age and set us back many centuries. Are you all right, my dear? You look pale."
"I—I'm really very tired," Rhapsody said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Of course you are; how thoughtless of me." Llauron went to the door and called into the study. "Gwen? Is our guest's room ready?"
A moment later Gwen came into the office. "All ready, Your Grace. The bed has been turned down."
"Good, good," said the Invoker. "Why don't you head up with Gwen, my dear? Have a good night's rest and sleep in late. I'm sure you could use it after your long journey."
Rhapsody nodded as if in a trance. She made a slight bow in Llauron's direction. "Good night, and thank you."
"Not at all. Sleep well." His eyes twinkled merrily in the firelight as she left the room and followed Gwen up the stairs again, clutching the railing.
Her room was at the end of a long, crooked hallway. Gwen not only had turned down the blankets but had slid several warm stones under them to drive the chill from the sheets.
The room itself was simple and neat, with a chest, chair, and looking glass in addition to the bed, as well as a coat peg and sword rack. A small glass window looked out a different side of the house than she had seen, though nothing was visible in the dark. The woolen blankets on the bed had been woven with hex signs for protection from nightmares. Rhapsody wondered ruefully how potent they were. To spare her from her dreams would require nothing short of a miracle.
As the door closed behind her she sat down on the bed numbly, unable to allow the thoughts to come through sensibly. The Island of Serendnir prior to its destruction.
Llauron had said that Gwylliam had foreseen its ruin, but perhaps that had not occurred. Prophets made predictions all the time that never came to pass, like the soothsayer in the Thieves' Market in Easton. Then she thought back to her nightmare on the Root, the image of the star falling into the sea, the burning walls of water enveloping the land, and knew that it had come to pass. It was a premonition; Serendair was gone.
Even if they had survived the catastrophe, even if they had been among the refugees who survived the voyage, no one she had ever known or loved would still be alive. Her heart twisted in misery at the thought of her parents and her brothers. Her father was definitely gone, dead for centuries, more than a millennium, if Llauron was to be believed. Her mother was Lirin, and therefore by race blessed with a longer life span; some Lirin had been known to live as long as five hundred years. But almost three times that length of time had passed. She was gone as well, and her brothers, too. Rhapsody felt her heart shatter under the weight of the agony.
She crawled into the bed and curled up like a baby in the womb, trying to remember her life before the nightmare of the Root. It would be easy to curse Achmed now, but it was really her own fault.
She had been headstrong and thoughtless as a young girl, running away from home. Some of the price of her foolishness she had paid herself; life on the street had been unspeakable in its horror for a while. But the worst part was knowing the pain she had caused her family, the despair they must have felt, wondering what had happened to her. The only salvation from the crushing guilt had been the intention and the knowledge that someday she would find a way to go home. And now that was gone, too.
One by one her brothers' faces came into her memory, smiling and laughing. She could almost feel her father's strong embrace, her mother's gentle caress. All gone now. She'd never see any of them again, never fall asleep to the sound of her mother singing. Never feel truly safe again.
A lump of anguish took hold in her throat. The Past was too painful to contemplate, the Future more so. Exhausted and overwrought, Rhapsody fell into a troubled sleep.
Her dreams were even more terrifying than they normally were, visions of great walls of water crushing children beneath them as they consumed the land, tall golden people immolated by a bursting star, Sagia sinking slowly beneath the waves with the Lirin in its arms.
In the last of her dreams, she stood in a village consumed by black fire, while soldiers rode through the streets, slaying everyone in sight. In the distance at the edge of the horizon she saw eyes, tinged in red, laughing at her. And then, as a bloodstained warrior rode down on her like a man possessed, she was lifted up in the air in the claw of a great copper dragon.
Rhapsody woke, gasping for breath. She reached out for Grunthor, who had been her source of comfort from the nightmares, but the grinning green face was nowhere to be found. The room and the bed had grown cold while she slept, but as she came to consciousness her anguish roared back, and the fire within her raised the temperature of the air around her immediately.
It was almost morning. Gray light was filling the sky outside her window, signaling the approach of another dawn. Somehow the world seemed different today, although nothing had occurred in the night. The changes were centuries ago; the world had been inexorably altered while she was crawling within it. A great deal of time had passed. What she didn't understand was how it had managed to miss her. She looked into the mirror to find a face not vastly older from when she had left, at least to her view.
Rhapsody went to the window and looked out into the wakening sky. Dawn would be coming soon; she needed to sing her morning devotions, wanted the comfort of the memory of her mother teaching them to her beneath the sky half a world away. She was afraid of being alone with the knowledge of the Island's death, but had no one to share it with—no one living, at least.
Even if she could find Achmed and Grunthor, who were undoubtedly far away by now, neither of them would feel moved to any sadness at the loss. Achmed, in fact, having been hunted, would probably celebrate, and that would be more than she could bear. She made the bed, then walked to the coat peg and took down the hooded cape Khaddyr had given her.
Rhapsody made her way quietly down the stairs so as not to disturb the Invoker and his staff. She opened the heavy door slowly and nodded to the guards, who stared at her. They said nothing, so she passed between them, then through the snow-covered garden and over the fields to the Tree.
The dawn was just beginning to break as she arrived at the edge of the meadow. Rhapsody walked between a stately maple and a towering elm in the circle of guardian trees and came, for the first time, within clear sight of the trunk. The bark of the Great White Tree caught the first ray of the sun and glimmered in the morning air, heavy with fog. As the light touched it, the song of the Tree deepened, then soared, as if it too was greeting the dawn with music.
Rhapsody closed her eyes, feeling the tones of the Tree rumble through her. For the first time in as long as she could remember she felt small, insignificant in the presence of so much magnificence, of such inestimable power.
But there was also a familiarity to the lifesong that was humming within her. The melody of the Great White Tree was very much the same as the song of Sagia, a deep, abiding presence that spoke to her soul. It was a part of her; it would sustain her through her loss, even though her heart would never heal.
Softly she sang her morning aubade and, when the devotions were finished, whistled the all-clear, the signal for which Achmed was waiting. Then she left the ring of guardian trees and hurried back to the house.
She exited the tree-circle from a different place, taking the path between an enormous holly-berry bush and an engilder, a slender, silvery tree she had known from the old land. From where she now stood she could see a different side of Llauron's keep, a winding side garden that led around behind the house.
In the distance she could hear the sound of the Filids beginning their day, tending to their labors. Still seeing no one in the meadow, she walked around to the back of the keep and found herself in expansive gardens for as far as the eye could see.
Llauron's lands reached out to the forest again a mile or more away. In between the house and the woods were trees and ponds that dotted the landscape, around which beds of herbs and flowers had been built. Here and there marble benches stood where the leaves of the trees would cast shade in summer. The garden slept now in the depth of winter, the beds mulched and packed with snow.
Near the back of the house stood a young ash tree, tall and vigorous, beneath which grew a small sheltered herb garden. Llauron was sitting on the ground next to the tree, tending the plants in the beds, singing in a mellow baritone that sent shivers up her back. It was not the beauty of his voice that made her tremble, but the vibrations issuing forth from it.
He was using musical lore, the skills of a Singer, though it was clear from the occasional vocal wobble and the incorrect phrasing that he was not one himself. The song was a simple one, though she did not recognize the language. She opened her mouth to offer a few simple changes that would make the song work better; it was a song of warmth and healing, obviously meant to sustain the plants through the winter. She closed it again rapidly as Achmed's words came ringing back to her.
And when we do make contact, let's keep as much information as possible among ourselves until we agree to share any of it. It's safer for all of us that way.
As she approached, the Invoker stopped singing and turned to meet her. A smile lit up the wrinkled face.
"Well, well, good morning, my dear. I trust you slept well?"
Rhapsody thought back to the terrifying nightmares. "Thank you for the use of such a lovely room," she said.
"Not at all. I hope you will be staying for a while." He began to get up.
Rhapsody came to him, forestalling his attempt to stand, and sat on the bench beneath the ash tree. The stone was cold, causing a shiver to race through her. "What was the song you were singing?"
"Ah, that. It's a healing song intended for the plants, a piece of lore passed down from the Filids of Serendair. I use it to help some of my medicine garden through the nastier weather, keep it healthy. The more fragile plants I keep inside, of course, but there is only so much room, after all. Besides, Mahb here likes the music, too." He patted the ash tree beside him.
"Mahb?" It sounded like the Serenne word for son.
"Yes, yes, he looks after the garden, keeps away any man or beast or malevolent spirit that might bring it harm, don't you, old boy?" Llauron looked the young tree up and down, then leaned forward conspiratorially. "Confidentially, I don't think he likes Khaddyr much," he said, his eyes twinkling. Rhapsody smiled wanly. "Now, perhaps I could impose on you to add your lovely voice to my own, and do the plants some real benefit."
Rhapsody looked surprised. "Excuse me?"
"Now, my dear, don't be modest. I can tell you are a Singer of great skill, perhaps even a Namer, yes?" She blinked; the chilly wind blew over her body, suddenly moist with sweat, causing her to shiver. "When you speak, you make the day a little brighter by the sound of your voice. It's really quite beautiful, my dear. I can only imagine how you sound when you sing. I hope you will not leave me guessing much longer. Come, favor my plants with a song."
The dilemma of what to do next tied a substantial knot in her stomach. Llauron had already guessed something critically important about her. To deny it would be to lie, to dodge, to be rude. She sighed silently.
"If you'd like," she said at last. "But I don't know the song you were singing. Why don't you begin, and I'll join in when I have learned it."
"Fine." Llauron went back to his work, singing the odd song again. The pattern became obvious to her after a few bars, and tentatively she began to sing along, correcting the flaws in his musical line. As he noted the changes Llauron matched her, and when he was carrying the melody correctly, she threw in a harmonic line for good measure. When she looked back down at the medicine garden the plants appeared somewhat healthier, though the exact nature of the change was hard to detect.
Llauron nodded approvingly. "Excellent! I was right, wasn't I, my dear? You are a Namer."
Rhapsody looked off into the distance to avoid meeting his eyes. They were bright blue, with a sharp edge to them, and she knew if she wasn't careful he would size her up even further. "I did achieve that status, yes."
"I thought as much. Well, thank you. That should keep the garden quite nicely, at least until the end of this thaw. Come, let's go inside. You're cold, and I'm finished here anyway." He rose with more agility than his age suggested and led her into the house through a back door.
The door opened into a vast kitchen, with an enormous hearth and brick ovens enough to feed an entire farm's hands easily. A copper hook hung over the fire with a kettle steaming away. Llauron warmed his hands in the steam and then swung the kettle out, removing it from the hook with a thick, clean rag.
"I was expecting you might want some tea," he said, filling a china pot that had been left on a central table. "Are you still feeling worn out from your journey?"
"A little."
The Invoker smiled. "Well, then, we'll just mix you a tea with some properties to revive you a bit. Have you ever taken mim's lace internally?"
Rhapsody shook her head. "I've never heard of it."
Llauron turned away and walked to a large storage cabinet, pulling forth many small sacks of loosely woven burlap. "I'm not surprised; it's indigenous to this area. What about spring saffron?"
It suddenly occurred to her that Llauron might be using his tea inventory to isolate the place from which she had come by her knowledge of the herbs. "Whatever you're having is fine, I'm sure," she said hastily.
"Well, then, I think we shall mix some of that with dried orange blossoms, sweet fern, and raspberry leaves."
"You have raspberry leaves in winter?"
"Yes, in the glass garden. Would you like to see it?"
"Yes, indeed. This smells wonderful, by the way." She picked up the steaming cup Llauron set before her and followed him through a door in the kitchen into a structure that adjoined it.
Three walls of the room were made of glass, with a strange hearth in the center. The bottom of the hearth was filled with stones that glowed red with heat, over which two large copper kettles hung, filling the air with steam.
Between the kettles was a large iron brazier filled with granite-like stones, also heated red-hot. A metal cone hung from the ceiling above, dripping water slowly onto the coals, where it hissed into vapor. As a result, the room was heavy with warm moisture, which served to keep alive the thriving plants that filled the glass garden in rows, one on top of the other.
Rhapsody walked between the crowded banks of plants, enjoying the sense of false summer. She looked up at the dripping machine that was spattering droplets of moisture into the air. "What a fascinating device."
"Oh, you like that, do you? Rather ingenious, I would say. I wish I could take credit for it, but it was my father who designed and built it as a gift for my mother. She loved orchids and other hothouse flowers."
"You have some very interesting plants in here."
"Well, as I said before, you're more than welcome to stay here and learn the lore of the Filids, if you wish. There are many aspects of nature worship that I think you might enjoy, having a propensity for some of them already. I will tend to many of your lessons myself; it will be a nice break from my work."
"I don't want to take you away from your duties, Your Grace."
The Invoker smiled. "Nonsense, my dear. The nice thing about being in charge is that you get to say when you can leave. And do call me Llauron, you're making me feel old. So, what will it be? Can you stay? Or do you have somewhere else you need to be?"
Rhapsody looked up into the twinkling blue eyes that were watching her intently. An uneasy feeling came over her; it was as if Llauron could see inside her. Even the scholars at the music academy were not able to tell a Namer from his or her speaking voice. That this pleasant, elderly man seemed to know things about her that he shouldn't made her feel even more vulnerable than she had that morning under the Tree. Still, she was here to learn more. She might as well be gracious about it.
"No," she said finally. "There's nowhere else I need to be, not for a while, at least."
After breaking fast with the repast Vera had left out for them, Rhapsody and Llauron walked out through the gardens and across the wide field behind the keep to the stable where the Invoker kept his horses.
Gwen had arrived prior to their leaving the house, with a new pair of leather boots and soft woolen leggings for Rhapsody. They were a little large, but wrapped her feet in warmth and kept them dry, and she thanked the house servant gratefully.
As best as she could tell, despite the size of the house and the importance of his position, the Invoker only had the two women servants aside from the guards. Rhapsody had known minor nobles in Serendair who had kept far more than that, and it made her think well of him. Llauron looked after himself, for the most part, a unique and pleasing trait in the head of a religious order.
The stables were cleaner than most houses, with cobbled floors lined in thick straw and old rugs. It was easy to see why; Llauron's steeds were among the most magnificent she had ever seen. Some were warhorses, sleek and rippled in their musculature, while others had been bred according to their breed and their bloodlines, making fine riders and dray horses. Rhapsody walked up and down between the stalls, clicking to them the way her father had to his horses, and finding Llauron's steeds to be equally responsive to the soft sound.
"Do you see one you like, my dear?" Llauron asked with an approving smile. "I like them all."
"Yes, but you can only ride one of them. If you'd like to meet Lark, we'll have to travel a bit. The herbery is on the other side of the forest clearing, several leagues from here. What about the strawberry bay? He's gentle."
Rhapsody nodded, and Llauron signaled to the stablehand. "Saddle him up, please, Norma, and Eliseus as well; we'll be heading out shortly." He took Rhapsody by the elbow and led her back out of the stable into the biting wind.
While they waited for the horses, Llauron raised the hood on Rhapsody's cloak as if she were a child. "It's probably best for you to keep this up, my dear, the wind is brisk." He followed suit with his own, then turned as the door to the stable opened and Norma came out, leading the bay and a roan with glossy mane, neatly plaited.
"Ah, there's my boy now; good morning, Eliseus." The horse snorted as if in reply, thick vapor issuing forth from his nostrils in the cold wind. "Well, then, Rhapsody, let's be off to the herbery." They mounted and rode off, Rhapsody following him over the fields to the woodlands.
"This is where the herb gardens are maintained," Llauron said as they approached a wide meadow, visible past the glade through which they had ridden. "As nature-priests we practice a good deal of herb lore, both in medicinal and spiritual uses. Oh, and cooking; I despise bland food." Rhapsody chuckled and slowed the bay to a plodding walk next to Llauron. Riding through the forest had been pleasant, primarily owing to Llauron's knowledge of the terrain and the well-maintained forest paths that scored the ground, even in the snow. It seemed as if they had traveled the distance in no time.
The Invoker stopped before a large brick cottage with a thatched roof on the edge of the meadow. He dismounted and held out his hands to Rhapsody, but she shook her head politely and stepped down without help.
"This is where Lark lives, the herbalist who is responsible for maintaining the order's herb stores and gardens," Llauron said. He knocked briskly on the door. There was no answer. A moment later a voice called out from across the field near an area gated off with a large wooden fence.
"Your Grace! We're out here." Rhapsody turned to see a tall woman, dressed in thick trousers and a tunic-like shirt, waving to Llauron. Llauron raised his hand in acknowledgment.
"That's Ilyana. She's in charge of planting and training the acolytes in farm lore. Shall we go and meet them?"
"By all means."
They stepped carefully around the sleeping beds of herbs that lined the fields for miles around until they found the cobbled path, buried in the snow. As they approached the fenced area two women came around from behind it.
One was Ilyana, whom she had seen a moment before. The other was a slight woman, with a long dark braid down her back, held in place by a kerchief. Her face bore the signs of middle age and a life lived outdoors, and something else: she was Lirin.
Unlike Rhapsody's mother, who had been a Skysinger, of the Liringlas, a people noted for their blond or silvery hair and rosy complexions, Lark was Lirindarc, like those who had lived in Sagia's wood, a dark, leather-skinned people with the same slim build and angular faces as the Liringlas, but with black or brown eyes better suited to the filtered forest light.
Rhapsody's throat tightened at the sight of her, as it had earlier when she had seen Gwen. There were Lirin here; Llauron had made reference to their existence the night before in a place the Cymrians had called Realmalir, now known as Tyrian. She was not alone in her race.
Llauron stretched out his hand and brought it to rest on the woman's shoulder. "Lark, this is Rhapsody. She's my guest for a while, and a bit of an herbalist herself."
Rhapsody flushed at his words. "Oh, not really. I know a little bit about plants, that's all." Lark nodded, her face passive.
The tall human woman put out her hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm Ilyana." Rhapsody shook hands with her and smiled, noting that a moment later an odd look crossed the woman's face.
"I'd like Rhapsody to study a bit with both of you, primarily you, Lark," Llauron said. "She's interested in horticulture, and I plan to give her a few lessons myself."
"Is she an acolyte?" Lark asked, her face still unresponsive.
"No, just a visitor. I trust you will treat her with all due respect." Lark nodded again. "Good, good. Well, please find a place for her and some work clothes. You're not afraid to get your hands dirty, are you, my dear?"
"You did see me when I came in last night, didn't you?"
Llauron laughed. "Good point. Very well, if that's clear, I'll leave you in capable hands, Rhapsody. I'll be back for you at sunset."
"She is not staying in the barracks?" Lark asked.
"No. As I believe I've already noted, she is my guest." Llauron's voice was gentle, but his eyes glinted in a manner that made Rhapsody momentarily uneasy. "I expect you know that I would not waste your time with anyone who might not be a friend to our cause, Mother." Lark nodded again, stone-faced.
"Cause?" Rhapsody asked uneasily.
Llauron and Lark exchanged a glance; then the Invoker turned to Rhapsody and smiled.
"The preservation of the forest and the Earth, the care of the Great White Tree. I have not characterized you unfairly, have I, my dear? You do respect nature, do you not?"
"Yes, indeed."
"Good, then all is as it should be. Goodbye, Mother; you as well, Ilyana. Enjoy your studies, my dear." Llauron walked back down the path to his horse, mounted, and rode off, waving.
The three women watched him until he reached the forest and had ridden out of sight. Then Ilyana put an arm around Rhapsody.
"You came last night?"
"Yes."
The two Filids looked at each other. "Then it must have been you that all the commotion was about," Ilyana said. Lark turned around and headed back to the fenced area.
"Commotion?" Rhapsody asked, her stomach going suddenly cold.
"Yes, scores of villagers from the east showed up in a rabble at the foot of the holy forest last night. Llauron had to address them all in the middle of the night and send them home. I had no idea what to make of it. Apparently they were seeking the return of someone they felt had been taken from them."
Icy claws clutched Rhapsody's stomach. What did the villagers think she had done that made them chase her this way? She hadn't been there long enough to do anything but meet Khaddyr before he whisked her away. Surely they couldn't be blaming her for any crime that had occurred.
Then she remembered her horrific appearance when she had come out of the forest. Perhaps they thought she was some kind of evil spirit, responsible for someone's death or illness, or farming woes. She pulled her cloak a little tighter about herself.
Ilyana saw her nervousness and drew her closer to her side. "Don't worry, darling, they're gone. And they won't be back. It's clear Llauron plans to protect you, and if that's the case, you can be certain you'll be safe. Come on, you can help us rake over the compost heap."
For more than a week Rhapsody came each day to study with Lark. The herbalist rarely spoke, unless she was talking about plants. It took some time for Rhapsody to realize that she was innately shy.
When she was pointing out herbs or methods to care for them, however, Lark became animated, a growing excitement entering her voice. She was a wealth of knowledge on the subject, and Rhapsody took copious notes, scribing Lark's teachings onto parchment that Ilyana had provided.
They generally spent the hours when the sun was directly overhead, or days when the weather was too rough to brave the gardens, in Lark's cottage, drying herbs and blending them together for medicinal uses and sweet-smelling sachets. The scent of the cottage was heavenly, and Rhapsody did not mind the long hours of painstaking work, enjoying the opportunity to absorb the lore. Occasionally she sang for Lark, Lirin songs that her mother had taught her, though Lark did not understand the tongue.
After ten days, Ilyana had claimed her, taking her on long rides over the vast fields in which the Filids toiled, even in winter, preparing them for spring planting. The faithful to which the Filids ministered were largely farming communities, and Ilyana had told her that the religion encompassed more than half a million known followers in the western part of the continent, a number Rhapsody found staggering.
By far the most interesting were the planting and harvesting rituals, rites that blessed the newly tilled ground and the fruit of the farmers' labor prior to it being gathered. The ceremonies that the Filidic acolytes studied were in the language of her homeland, the tongue Rhapsody had spoken as a child. The Filids called the language Old Cymrian, a thought that filled her with ironic sadness. Did that make her, and Achmed and Grunthor, Old Cymrians?
The thought gave birth immediately to an even more desolate one. They were not, in fact, Old Cymrians, but their ancestors. Given how long ago in the history of this place the Cymrian Age had been, it seemed as if Time had forgotten all about the three of them. When it remembered, it would undoubtedly be back to claim them.
At the end of the first month Rhapsody was handed over to Khaddyr again. The priest was the master of the healing arts, a talent he seldom let anyone forget, and though he could be somewhat pompous, Rhapsody found him to be a clear and skillful teacher, imparting his wisdom in a way that she could assimilate easily and practice immediately.
After two weeks of tending to the patients in the hospices that Khaddyr managed, she went on to Brother Aldo, who was also a Filidic healer, but of animals. She enjoyed learning from him; he was gentle and soft-spoken, and had a manner that quieted even the wild animals in his care.
Finally, she was sent to Gavin, the somber, silent chief of the foresters and scouts, the armed men she had seen when Khaddyr first brought her to the Tree. These men traveled the wide land, sometimes serving as guides to the faithful along the Cymrian Trails, two series of markers that commemorated the journeys of the First and Third Cymrian Fleets after they landed, which Llauron had referred to on her first night with him. Apparently very few people followed the Trails now; instead, the pilgrims came to worship at the Tree.
Rhapsody could see that the majority of the scouts and foresters were not escorting pilgrims, but were traveling the lands of the holy forest, engaging occasionally in combat. Many of the patients in Khaddyr's hospice were men such as these, coming in haggard and worn, and often injured. Apparently this was not particularly unusual; Khaddyr and his acolytes tended to the men without any obvious surprise.
Late each afternoon Rhapsody returned to the Invoker's house. Llauron would be finishing up the duties of his office as leader of the Filids—a substantial job, from what Rhapsody could tell.
Each town had a Filid assigned to it to assist with crops and animals, and to help maintain a balance between nature and agriculture. In addition to providing guides to the religion's spiritual sites, it also fell to Llauron's office to maintain the hostels along the way. He did not object to these tasks, but early on he had confided to her how much he missed the days of his youth, when he had roamed the wild seas and wandered the forests of the world, free from administrative duties.
His way of recapturing those lost days was by taking her with him on long walks, where he would instruct her on the balance of nature and various aspects of the forest and the world around them. He knew every animal, and roughly how many of them lived in the wood, as well as each plant and tree, knowledge that he imparted to her in his light, pleasant voice.
It was almost like listening to a song, and she strolled with him, fascinated, as he told her of trees, how the oaks were strong and sacred, how ash trees were close to the spiritual world and so their branches were often used for wands and ritual magic. He said that willows were greedy, maples were leaders, and evergreens were adventurous. He told her of the woodland plants, of mistletoe and holly, which held spiritual properties of life, of ferns and mints and countless others. Occasionally he would sing sea chanteys for her as they walked.
Llauron walked with a young man's pace and a vigor in his step; Rhapsody had known men half his age whose pace was half that of the Invoker. On their outings he carried a staff made of white wood and topped with a gleaming golden oak leaf, which he swung to keep pace rather than to bear his weight.
It had been made from a branch of the Great White Tree that had fallen ages ago during a storm and had been given to Ulbren the Younger, the Invoker of the Filids who had come from Serendair, bringing with him the religion they now practiced. It was considered the symbol of his office, but Llauron carried it as if it were an ordinary stick, pointing out birds and rapping on the trunks of ancient trees to sound their health.
Each evening their walks would end at sundown beneath the branches of the Great Tree, in time for Rhapsody to sing her twilight vespers. She had determined that Llauron had known the customs of the Liringlas prior to her arrival, and would expect her to sing her salutations to the rising sun and the stars, and so she did not attempt to hide the ritual from him, though Achmed's voice nagged in her head. The Invoker always stood beneath the Tree with her as she sang, smiling to himself, but never sharing whatever thoughts occurred to him during these times.
They would share an evening meal together, often talking late into the night about the forest and its creatures, or the Cymrian Age and all its wonder. In particular they discussed the Cymrian Council, an annual meeting of all the refugees of Serendair, held in something called the Great Moot. It was the intent of the council to maintain peace among all the diverse races that had fled the doomed Island, to keep communication channels open, a worthy aspiration that had died on the battlefields of the Cymrian War.
Llauron was of the belief that the fragmented nations that had once been part of the Cymrian empire, Sorbold and Roland and the lands now occupied by the Firbolg, would only be able to maintain peace and resist war again if they were reunited into a common land. Rhapsody had noticed one realm missing in his discourse.
"What about the Lirin?" she asked, looking up over her sweet-fern tea.
"The Lirin were never part of the Cymrian realm. They were here first, after all, and resisted becoming part of it. But they were allies, and good friends to the First Generation, the refugees who had actually made the voyage and landed here. It was unfortunate that they ultimately got drawn into the war, which devastated much of Tyrian. And on top of that, it fragmented their society as well. Now even the Lirin are divided among themselves. A shame." Rhapsody nodded as Llauron fell silent.
"I will need to be going soon," she said as he stared into the fire. The Invoker's eyes turned back on her immediately, but she saw no sign of the glint that came into them occasionally when he was annoyed.
"Oh, dear, what a pity. I knew this day would come eventually, but I have to admit I've been dreading it, my dear. We've all grown to love you around here, Gwen and Vera and I. And I'm sure your instructors will be sorry to see you go."
"I'll be sorry to leave everyone as well," she replied sincerely. "And I've learned so much from all of you." A thought occurred to her when he mentioned the teachers. "May I ask you something about the Filidic instructors?"
"Certainly."
"The religion does not ascribe celibacy to its priests, does it?"
"No, we leave that unnatural state to the Patriarchal religion of Sepulvarta, to the Patriarch and his benisons—those are his version of our high priests, the next rank below him in the hierarchy of that faith. Benisons are sometimes also known as Blessers when it is a specific title, such as the Blesser of Avonderre. Why do you ask?"
"Well, I thought it interesting that none of the high priests of Gwynwood are married."
Llauron sat back in his chair and touched his fingertips together. "No, none of them are at that, are they?" he mused. "Well, Ilyana was married, but her husband was killed in a border incursion ten or so years back."
"Lark has never married, but then, as you know, she is very shy, as is Brother Aldo. He prefers the company of beasts to that of women, though I certainly could introduce him to some that qualify as both." Rhapsody laughed. "Gavin isn't here often or long enough to marry; he is constantly on the forest path somewhere. And Khaddyr, well, actually, he is proscribed from marriage and progeny as my Tanist."
Rhapsody blinked. "Your what?"
"The Filids now use the laws of Tanistry to select a successor to the Invoker instead of some of the uglier rituals they once practiced, which generally involved fighting to the death."
"Oh, yes, Khaddyr did tell me something about that, but he said those rituals had not been practiced in a very long time, and you had not ascended through them."
"That is correct," Llauron said. "Tanistry dictates that the religious order pick its successor, generally someone hale and hearty and likely to survive the leader." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Frankly, I think I am much younger in body than Khaddyr, poor fellow. I doubt he'll outlive me."
She laughed again, feeling a little guilty. "I agree."
"In fact, I think that when the Circle elders meet, it's possible they will remove the title from him and make Gavin my Tanist. He has a better chance of surviving me, and is a very wise man. Not that Khaddyr isn't as well, of course. Khaddyr is one of the kindest men I know, and I think that's what makes him such a singular healer." Rhapsody nodded.
"But a Tanist vows celibacy because the whole point of having one is to avoid the problems of succession and family lineage. If the Tanist were to have children before he or she became Invoker, it would complicate things, make him less likely to have a successor named. It's an awful system; it allows the Invoker to marry eventually if he so chooses, but usually by the time he takes the office he is a brittle old man like me, having waited for his predecessor to die. Silly, isn't it?"
Exhaustion was descending on Rhapsody. "I guess so. If you'll forgive me, Llauron, I think it's time for me to retire for the evening."
Llauron stood as she did and walked her to the door of the study. "Yes, my dear, get some sleep. You have a busy day ahead of you." He touched her arm. "And you're more than welcome to invite your two companions to come back here for a visit, too. I would most enjoy meeting them, I'm sure."
Rhapsody's arm trembled beneath his touch. She had never spoken of her Firbolg friends. She looked into the blue eyes and found them twinkling in the reflected firelight.
"Excuse me?"
"Come now, my dear. These are my lands. Did you think I wouldn't recognize something foreign when it came onto them? At first I believed it might have been a Firbolg incursion, but that is most unlikely. The Firbolg lands are very far away, and two of them traveling alone would doubtless have run into one of my scouts between here and Canrif."
"No, I assumed they were waiting for you, since they have been watching this place. I long to hear the story of how you ended up in their company, but that can wait until another time. Why don't you invite them back for a visit?"
Rhapsody's entire body was trembling. "I—I don't think that would be a good idea," she whispered, her voice betraying her. "They're a little—well, antisocial."
Llauron nodded. "Well, I don't blame them a bit. Firbolg are often treated as less than human. How about a compromise? I will come to them. Ask them if they're willing to meet me, how's that? I will come to their camp instead, and come alone. It would be most enlightening; I've never met a Firbolg before."
Rhapsody's head was spinning. "All right," she said finally. "I can ask them."
The elderly face broke into a broad smile. "Very good. I will look forward to the meeting. Good night, my dear."
"Good night." She left the study quickly and wandered, as if in a daze, up the stairs and to her room. She undressed quickly and slid beneath the covers, pondering how she was going to explain this to Achmed, given his dislike of strangers and priests. Every answer she came up with was inadequate, so she closed her eyes at last and fell into an anxious sleep. Her dreams of disaster shifted from the sinking of the Island to the reaction of her friends when they learned how many of their secrets were out.
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 frit, fram the grip of deap to lifinne dis 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."
"With child? The dragon was pregnant?"
Llauron laughed at the look on Rhapsody's face. "It does make a rather amusing mental picture, doesn't it?"
"Not to me," she said. "I find it very sad. I'm sure she was terrified, as well as lonely and devastated at what she thought was betrayal, especially if she was trapped in a form that was not her own." The Singer grew silent, and the firelight dimmed noticeably.
"Indeed, which is probably what led her to do what she did."
"Which was—?" Achmed prompted, annoyed at the storyteller's tactics.
"When she saw that Merithyn was not among the First Fleet, Elynsynos abandoned the children at the foot of the Tree and left."
"Children?" Grunthor asked. His voice caused Rhapsody to jump a little; he had been silent for almost the entire tale. "More than one?"
"Yes, she had given birth to three girls, triplets, though not identical. As she was an egg-layer in her natural form, a multiple birth was hardly unexpected. When the Cymrians came to the Tree they met the women there; they had grown quickly in the absence of a nurturing mother. Dragons are very resilient, I've been told."
"The women resembled their father, in that they were tall and golden-skinned, as he had been, though they all had features of their mother as well. Because they had the appearance of Ancient Seren, the First Fleet immediately felt a kinship with them."
"The women were blessed with unusual powers, as you can imagine would come from the union of two firstborn races. Because their father had sailed back and forth across the Prime Meridian, they were tied to Time as well as to the other elements. They were Seers, oracles who could look beyond the moment and into other places in Time. Unfortunately, as a result of this gift they were all insane, though to varying degrees."
"The youngest, Manwyn, was the Oracle of the Future. She was said to have been the most mad of the three, because the knowledge of the Future is the most powerful and the most threatening. The legends say she was often delusional and spent most of her time muttering to herself. And though her gift held great power, it was also, in a way, useless, for it was impossible to distinguish the true prophecies from the madwoman's ravings."
"The middle sister, Rhonwyn, was the Seer of the Present. It was said that she was kind and lucid, but only in the moment, having no memory of her thoughts a moment later when the Present became the Past."
"Of the three, only the eldest, Anwyn, was able to greet the refugees. She held the secrets of the Past, knowledge that was less volatile and dangerous to possess than that of her youngest sibling, and more coherent and meaningful than that of the middle child. As a result, she knew who the Cymrians were, and why they had come, and made them welcome in the lands that had belonged to her mother."
"So the Cymrians of the First Fleet, recognizing her as the living bond between the old world of her father and the new world which was her mother's, made her their lady, and settled into a harmonious union with these western lands and the Lirin of Realmalir."
"Now, to the Second Fleet. Unlike the First Fleet, who caught the brunt of the hurricane, the Second Fleet saw it approaching, being some distance behind the others. As a result they were able to avoid major damage from it, though a few ships were lost, but were instead blown off course by it."
"When the storm abated, they were too far from the course to correct it, especially since once they crossed the Prime Meridian they were forced back again. Land came in sight shortly thereafter, and rather than trying to find Merithyn's paradise, their leader, the great warrior MacQuieth, decided to land there, in the inhabited country of Manosse. They and their descendants are there to this day."
At the name, each of the three companions felt their palms go dry. Nearly everyone in Serendair had heard of MacQuieth, though the Firbolg knew more of him than Rhapsody did.
"MacQuieth was the Kirsdarkenvar, the bearer of Kirsdarke, the legendary sword of water. He was also said to be the master of that element; perhaps that is why his passage on the sea was safe. And of course he was a great hero, the king's champion, the man who slew Tsoltan, the enemy leader in the Great War. He—"
"Llauron, hold up a moment, please," Rhapsody interrupted nervously. Achmed's face twisted into a scowl, and he exhaled in quiet frustration.
She did not see his irritation. "Could you explain what you just said about Manosse?" she asked. "They and their descendants? I don't understand. You said that was fourteen centuries ago. Surely the First Generation Cymrians are all long dead."
Llauron laughed. "One might feel confident in such an assertion, but one might be wrong. Singers; the guardians of accurate details. All right, let me elaborate."
"The First Generation had come from one of the five places where time began, the Island of Serendair. They crossed the Prime Meridian, which is the place the Earth demarks Time, and came to another place, where Time began—this land, the birthplace of the race of dragons—although the Second Fleet landed elsewhere."
"As a result, Time seemed to have no hold on them, and they did not grow old as other mortals did, but remained at the physical age they had been at the time of crossing over the Meridian. The exceptions were the children. They slowly continued to grow and age until they reached adulthood, and then remained there eternally."
"Are you one of them?" asked Achmed bluntly.
Llauron laughed aloud. "Goodness, no, though I wish I could have the longevity and the power sometimes. You must think me very well preserved, young man. No, I'm afraid I'm not. Just an interested student of them."
"If you'll bear with me, I'm almost done with the Second Fleet. A few of the ships, most notably those whose passengers were Ancient Seren and other firstborn races, traveled farther east, not wishing to be part of the western landmass that MacQuieth had chosen. They found instead a small, uninhabited island between the two continents, blessed with fair weather and temperate breezes from the trade winds and a warm sea current. It was a true paradise, and they chose to stay there and make their colony alone, separated from their countrymen. Their land is Gaematria, generally called the Isle of the Sea Mages."
"That leaves only the Third Fleet. Gwylliam's Wave of ships waited until there was no one left on Serendair who was willing to be saved, then sailed into the east wind northward. But they landed well to the south of where Merithyn and the First Fleet had, along the southern coast of what are now the nonaligned states and the country of Sorbold."
"Unlike this rich and primeval forest, kept undisturbed from man for millennia by the dragon who ruled it, the places that the Third Fleet landed were hostile and unforgiving. Most of Sorbold is arid, and that which is not is mountainous or grassland steppes. In addition, those lands were inhabited by people who did not especially appreciate the presence of the Cymrians, and oftentimes sought to drive them back into the sea. The Third Fleet had to struggle to survive, always fighting for what they needed."
"They had two advantages, however. The first was Gwylliam himself. He was a practical man and a resourceful leader, skilled in the sciences, by nature and training a talented architect and engineer. Many of his clever inventions, coupled with his battle tactics, were the only things that allowed the outnumbered fleet to survive."
"The second was the choice Gwylliam had made to keep the army back until the last. This was fortuitous for several reasons: it had allowed the First Fleet to be seen by the dragon not as hostile invaders but as invited guests, it added to the security of the Island in its last days, and it gave Gwylliam a fighting force on the most difficult of the three Cymrian fronts. It was Gwylliam's responsibility to see to the safety of the fleets, and he did as well as any man could. If evil followed them, there was no way he could have prevented it."
"And did it?" Achmed sat forward in the firelight as he asked his question.
Llauron looked away for a moment. When he looked back his face was grave. "It may have; there was a prophecy to that effect."
"A prophecy?"
The old man smiled reassuringly at Rhapsody, whose brow was furrowed. "Yes, there was a time in the Cymrian Age, before the Great War, when Manwyn, the Oracle of the Future, would occasionally spout predictions, oftentimes at meetings of the Cymrian Council. One of them was recorded after a long argument at one such council. Of course, I can only read the history, so I don't know how accurate it is, but I memorized it long ago. Would you like to hear it?"
"Yes," Rhapsody answered.
[Garbled text -> Russian replacement]
— Да, — ответила Рапсодия, которой вдруг показалось, что налетел порыв ледяного ветра.
— Однако боюсь, я немного забегаю вперед. Позвольте мне сначала завершить рассказ. В конце концов представителям Третьего флота удалось пробиться в глубь континента. Победив своих врагов, они вышли к горам на северной границе Сорболдской пустыни. Огромный горный хребет и глубокий каньон отделяли от остального мира прекрасные плодородные земли. Места оказались необитаемыми, и по многим причинам, о которых я уже говорил, Гвиллиам решил, что Третий флот поселится именно там. Он назвал свою новую родину Канриф, что на намерьенском языке означало «век». Гвиллиам верил в то, что через сто лет здесь будет процветать величайшая цивилизация, какую только видел мир. Подземные жители, наины и гвадды, поселились в бесчисленных пещерах и горных туннелях. Люди строили свои дома среди лугов и полей, которые возделывали. Лирины ушли в леса.[/Russian replacement] In addition, Gwylliam built a vast and glorious city within the mountains themselves, devising great machines that filled the underground caverns with fresh air, as well as warmth in the winter. He and the Nain built giant forges that burned continuously, hammering out the steel for constructing his empire and the weapons to defend it."
"Where are these mountains?" Achmed asked. "What are they called?"
"They lie to the east of the province of Bethe Corbair, the easternmost border of Roland. They also border Sorbold's northern rim. The Cymrians called them the Manteids, but the Firbolg, who now live within them, call them the Teeth."
"The Teeth?" Rhapsody asked incredulously.
"Yes, and should you ever see them, you'll understand why. It is an accurate description. What was once the glory of Canrif is now the domain of the Firbolg; it is a dark and forbidding place."
[Garbled text-> Russian replacement]
На Грунтора его слова не произвели устрашающего впечатления.
— Ой очень на это надеется.
Ллаурон улыбнулся и сделал глоток из своего серебряного стаканчика:
— А потом, примерно через пятьдесят лет, наступил день, когда Первый и Третий флоты снова встретились. Все страшно радовались, но одновременно возникли и проблемы. Представители Первого флота, бывшие в прошлом намерьенскими подданными, присягнули на верность Энвин, которая правила ими вот уже полвека. Поскольку Второй флот оставался в Маноссе и никто не знал о его судьбе, возник вопрос — что делать дальше? Намерьены хотели снова стать единым народом. Гвиллиам и Энвин правили Роландом, Сорболдом и Канрифом. Лирины по-прежнему держались особняком, хотя являлись союзниками Энвин. К счастью, из сложившегося положения удалось найти мирный выход. Все намерьены встретились на первом Великом Собрании и решили, что Гвиллиам и Энвин будут править в новом королевстве вместе. С целью создания династии они посчитали необходимым заключить брачный союз.
— А они любили друг друга? — спросила Рапсодия. Главный Жрец несколько мгновений рассматривал ее со странным выражением лица, и ветер играл его седыми волосами. [/Russian replacement]...strands of his hair stiffly. "The writings do not mention that," he said finally. "But between them they ushered the Cymrian Age, the greatest time this land has ever known."
"And they reigned in peace and prosperity for more than three hundred years."
"What about the prophecy?" Achmed asked. "Oh, yes. I believe I've mentioned Oelendra to you. She had a tendency to be a bit paranoid, from what the writings say. Perhaps this was because she had not expected to shoulder the leadership of the First Fleet but was forced to do so when Merithyn died. She was convinced a great evil had followed on Gwylliam's ship, and at the council, when the lord and lady announced their engagement, she asked Manwyn before the assemblage if her suspicions were true. Manwyn's answer was this prophecy:
Silence fell as the four contemplated the augury. Finally Grunthor spoke.
"Oi've no idea what that means, Yer Excellency. Ya gonna give us a clue?"
Llauron smiled. "I have no idea either, my friend. As I said before, Manwyn was insane and sometimes muttered strange things. No one paid much attention to it at the time, but in hindsight, it may have been a prediction that an evil had come from the Island, one of ancient lineage—that's the 'among the first to come' part, I think—and, though powerless upon arrival, would grow in strength until it took over the land."
Rhapsody's hands went suddenly cold. "And did that happen?"
The elderly face grew sad. "That's hard to say, my dear. Ultimately it was Gwylliam and Anwyn themselves that brought an end to the Cymrian Age, raining death and devastation down on their own people."
"How?" Achmed asked.
"I don't know if there had been problems between them prior to the event which sparked it; I assume there were, as these things rarely come out of nowhere. Simply put, and without a lot of fanfare, Gwylliam struck her. History has never recorded why, but it is insignificant in the wake of the disaster that ensued. It has become known only as the Grievous Blow, more for the grief it brought to the Cymrian people than to either, the lord or lady."
"Anwyn, furious, returned to her lands in the west and rallied her original subjects, the members of the First Fleet, to defend her honor. This represented an irrevocable tear in the nation, because the First Generation Cymrians and generations of their descendants had come to see themselves as a united people, loyal to both the lord and lady. But Anwyn was wyrmkin, meaning there was dragon's blood in her veins, and she was not to be appeased by anything but Gwylliam's death."
"In turn, when Anwyn's army began attacking his strongholds, Gwylliam became blinded by hatred as well, and set out to destroy his estranged wife and her allies. It would be impossible to describe the seven hundred years of bloodshed that followed; you haven't the time, and I haven't the stomach. It would suffice to say that, as glorious as the birth and life of the Cymrian Age had been, its death was equally hideous."
"Gwylliam's general was a brilliant, sometimes cruel man named Anborn. Anborn's victories against the First Fleet and subsequently the Lirin, whom Anwyn had managed to convince to join her, made his name the most hated word in their language."
"And Anwyn's army was responsible for the deaths of countless members of the Third Fleet, though the lines had blurred to the point where no one could tell who was winning, just who was dying. It would suffice to say that it was no one's finest hour, and is why the distant descendants of the Cymrians who still live in these divided realms tend not to make their lineage public."
Achmed broke into a smile. "So you're saying that around here, the word Cymrian is synonymous with arse-rag ?"
Rhapsody jabbed him viciously in the ribs, but Llauron merely smiled.
"To many, yes. Time has a way of blurring the memory, however, and there are those who know mostly of the great power the Cymrians wielded, and little of the destruction they wreaked upon the land. In some ways they are revered, probably because most of the Orlandan provinces—the provinces of Roland—as well as Manosse, and the Isle of the Sea Mages, are all ruled by descendants of Cymrian stock."
"So 'oo won?" Grunthor asked.
"Well, no one, really. Anwyn killed Gwylliam, that much is known, or at least she claimed to have, and no one ever saw him again, so they tended to believe her. It would have taken someone of her power to do it, because of one important factor: Gwylliam was basically immortal, even more than the Cymrians themselves were."
"Unlike his subjects, who did not age or become ill, but could bleed as well as the next man, Gwylliam was impervious to damage in the new world. The writings speculate that this might have been because he had stayed to guard the retreat, had been the last to leave, the last to cross the Prime Meridian, and so the new world held no threat to him. The real reason is hard to say."
"Anwyn returned, triumphant, to the council, claiming victory and sole rulership of the Cymrians and their lands. To her shock the council cast her out and drove her from their realm. So, though she won the seven hundred years' war, and destroyed her hated husband, in the end she was left with nothing. A colossal waste, wouldn't you say?"
"Yes," said Rhapsody resoundingly. "What happened to her? Where is Anwyn now?"
Llauron drank the rest of his brandy and tossed the snifter back into the sack. "The writings say she retreated to a mountainous lair high in the crags of the White Peaks in the Hintervold, well beyond her former lands. Occasionally some poor unfortunate makes his way to see her, to gain knowledge of the Past; she was, after all, first and foremost gifted as a Seer. Whether they ever find her I do not know."
"So where do things stand now?" Achmed asked.
"Well, the Cymrians, even after the war was over, were so damaged by it that they never really healed. It has been almost four hundred years, and the rift was never mended. Instead, they assimilated into the lesser cultures around them; a pity, really."
"The ties they had to the elements and to Time were the secret to their tremendous advances as a civilization. Without that, the realm has become divided, uneasy, and has regressed from its days of splendor in science and scholarship, the arts and international trade, architecture and medicine. We are a more primitive people as a result."
"Even the religions are divided. Where once we were of one faith, now the areas that most commonly allied with the First Fleet are the faithful of my theology, the belief system of the Filids, the stewards of nature. Most of Roland, however, are adherents to the religion of the All-God, sometimes called the Creator. The head of that church is the Patriarch, whose basilica is in the holy city of Sepulvarta, to the south near Sorbold. Another pity. We both worship a single God; it seems a shame that even in this we are divided."
"And war will come again. Since the Great War ended there has been serious unrest, and though on the surface things are peaceful currently, that will eventually change. The last several decades have seen endless border skirmishes, incursions for no reason into villages and towns that result in horrendous destruction. Racial tensions are growing, and no one seems to know why these acts of terror occur, even, sometimes, those caught committing them. It's all quite frightening."
"What do you think can mend the rift, keep the war from escalating?" Rhapsody asked.
Llauron sighed. "I don't know if anything can, my dear. When all this was laid at Anwyn's feet, just before she was cast out of the council, her sister Manwyn tried to intervene, promising that there was hope for the eventual healing of the rift and for peace to come. But no one believed her; they knew she was trying to spare her sister from being disowned by her subjects."
"What was this prophecy?" Achmed asked. Llauron closed his eyes, thinking. Then he spoke.
The Invoker gathered the rest of his belongings and the remains of the meal. When he was finished he looked at them again.
"This made as little sense to the council as it does, no doubt, to you. It was clear that these three saviors were Anwyn and her sisters, which was why the council suspected that it was a ruse to spare the Lady Cymrian from being ousted. Anborn, Gwylliam's general, asked Manwyn in an ugly manner what it all meant, how the Three, as she called them, would be able to mend so great a rift. He got gibberish for an answer."
As each life begins, Blood is joined, but is spitted as well; it divides too easily to heal the rift. The Earth is shared by all, but it too is divided, generation into generation. Only the Sky encompasses all, and the sky cannot be divided;thus shall it be the means by which peace and unity will come. If you seek to mend the rift, General, guard the Sky, lest it fall.
"The great general cursed her then, shouting that she should keep her useless prophecies to herself. Manwyn left the council, to follow Anwyn, I suppose, but turned before she left and issued one last prophecy to Anborn."
"'General,' she said, 'first you must heal the rift within yourself. With Gwylliam's death you now are the king of soldiers, but until you find the slightest of your kinsmen and protect that helpless one, you are unworthy of forgiveness. And so it shall be until you either are redeemed, or die unabsolved.'"
"And did he?"
"I've no idea. That was between him and his Creator. Well, gentlemen, as I told your friend, you are more than welcome to stay at my home for a day or so, or more, if you're not headed anywhere. I can offer you a bed and a chance to bathe, as well as some new clothes; Gwen has already outfitted Rhapsody quite nicely."
Rhapsody and Grunthor both looked at Achmed, who nodded after a moment. Grunthor broke into a pleased grin.
"Well, that's mighty kind o' you, Yer Excellency."
Rhapsody tapped him on the arm as the three companions followed Llauron out of the glade.
"Grunthor, generally the title of address granted to Invokers, the Patriarch, benisons, the Filidic high priests and other high-ranking clergy is 'Your Grace,' not 'Your Excellency.'"
The giant Bolg grabbed her hand. "And if we don't 'urry and catch up to 'im, your title is gonna be 'You're Lost.'"
Unlike the first part of her visit with Llauron, the time Rhapsody spent in the house of the Invoker with the Firbolg bristled with uneasiness. Neither Achmed nor Grunthor wished to be seen by any of the faithful who were constantly in proximity to the Tree.
Gwen and Vera were terrified of the two men, particularly Gwen, who was given the unwelcome task of making their new clothes. After one fitting with Grunthor, Rhapsody was able to employ the new medical skills she had learned from Khaddyr to help Llauron's housekeeper over her palpitations.
As soon as they were outfitted and provisioned again, they made ready to take their leave. Llauron seemed genuinely sorry to see them go.
"Where will you be heading now, my dear?" he asked Rhapsody, who was watching the men pack the satchels for traveling.
"East," she said simply. She knew better than to tell him that Achmed and Grunthor wanted to find the Teeth and the realm of the Firbolg; the prospect was not one she relished.
The three companions had talked long into each night, discussing their next moves, though Achmed had refused to give her the reasons for his plans, saying that they would discuss it once they were off Llauron's lands.
They had agreed, after some hot debate, to stay together until they got a better feel for the lay of the land, at which time they would determine where Rhapsody would live. Having spent so long in the hope of returning to the Island, she had not yet fully absorbed the thought of staying permanently in the new world.
Llauron looked back over his shoulder at the Firbolg. "East, hmmm. Well, if that's the case, why don't I give you a letter of introduction to my dear friend, Lord Stephen Navarne. He is the regent of the province due east of here, the duke, actually; quite a nice chap. I think you'll like him. And I know he'll enjoy you as well."
His eyes glittered momentarily; there was a subtext to his statement that Rhapsody was not sure she liked, but decided to ignore. "All three of you," Llauron added, as if reading her mind.
Rhapsody looked uncomfortable. "A duke? You want me—us —to drop in on a duke?"
"Yes; why?"
A crimson glow crept through her cheeks. "Llauron, for what possible reason would a duke even allow a person of my station through the door? I'm not exactly royalty." Dread wound its way through her stomach much as the blood was making its way through her face. She hoped Llauron had not guessed her history as a former courtesan, though the restoration of her virginity from her walk through the fire might confuse him a bit. The Invoker seemed to know things about her that she barely knew herself.
Llauron's smile was fatherly. "Stephen's not concerned with the trappings of family lineage. In addition to being a pleasant fellow, he is also a bit of an historian. If you're interested in any more of the Cymrian history, he would be the man to see. In his keep is the Cymrian museum. I know he would be delighted to show it to you. I doubt he has many requests to do so anymore."
"Really?" Rhapsody asked absently. She was preoccupied watching her friends. While Achmed was making more disks for his cwellan, Grunthor had apparently obtained some new weapons from Gavin, most notably a long curved sword he called a snickersnee. He was busy adding his latest acquisitions to the array of blades that protruded from behind his pack, making him resemble an evil flower with deadly petals.
She turned her attention back to the Invoker and smiled.
"That would be very nice, I'm sure. How far is it from here?"
"Three to four days' walk." The elderly man took her by the shoulders. "Now, Rhapsody, I hope you have enjoyed your stay here. I've loved having you."
"It's been wonderful," she said sincerely, pulling up the wide hood of her new cloak, "and I've learned so much. Is there anything I can do to repay your kindness?"
"Actually, yes," the Invoker said, growing serious. "When you reach Lord Stephen's, give him my letter. In it I will ask him to lend you the manuscript on the Ancient Serenne language. As a Namer, you pick up foreign tongues easily, I'm sure, and its linguistic basis is musical. You should have no problem learning it."
"I want you to do so, my dear, that we might communicate in it. Now that you've learned about the Cymrians, and the growing unrest that threatens to sunder this land again, I hope you will agree to help me by being my eyes and ears out in the world, and report back what you see."
Rhapsody looked at him in surprise. Llauron had thousands of scouts and foresters in his service. She could not imagine what value her efforts might be.
"I'll be glad to help you, Llauron, but—"
"Good, good. And remember, Rhapsody, though you are a commoner, you can still be useful in a royal cause."
"That would be the preservation of nature and the Great White Tree?"
"Well, yes, and its political aspects."
"I don't understand."
Llauron's eyes glinted with impatience, though his voice was soothing. "The reunification of the Cymrians. I thought I had been clear. In my view, nothing is going to spare us from ultimate destruction, with these unexplained uprisings and acts of terror, except to reunite the Cymrian factions, Roland and Sorbold, and possibly even the Bolglands, again, under a new lord and lady of that lineage."
"The time is almost here. And though you are a peasant—please don't take offense, most of my following are peasants—you have a pretty face and a persuasive voice. You could be of great assistance to me in bringing this about."
Rhapsody was dumbfounded. "Me? I don't know anyone—I mean, as you know, we're not from this place. Who would listen to me? I'd never heard of the Cymrians until I met you, Llauron."
The Invoker took her hand and patted it comfortingly. "Anyone who looks at you will have no choice, my dear; you're pleasant to behold. Now, please, say you will do as I've asked. You do want to see peace come to this land, do you not?"
"Yes," she said, uncertain why she was suddenly trembling. "And the violence which is presently killing and maiming many innocent women and children—that is something you'd like to see ended?"
"Of course, I just don't—"
"All right, Yer Ladyship, we're ready," Grunthor called. Achmed gave her a curt nod as he shouldered his pack.
Rhapsody looked back to Llauron once more. "Who are you planning to install as lord?" she asked.
"No one; that's for the council to decide. Remember the tales I have told you of the Cymrian philosophy, of their way of life. The lord and lady were chosen for their ability to rule, and though that means a certain amount of nobility is necessary, it is not in the lineage of one particular family, as it is in other nations."
"Just remember what I told you about the negative feelings that some people have about the Cymrians, so be discreet in your inquiries. Those who are of Cymrian lineage rarely speak of it. And those who are not will see it as I do, a philosophical lifestyle that would well serve to bring the fragmented nations of this land back together again, now that Anwyn and Gwylliam are no more. Keep me informed of your progress."
"I'm still not sure exactly what it is you want me to do."
"We're leaving now," Achmed shouted.
Llauron smiled broadly. "Always the well-mannered guest, isn't he? Well, let us get you to him so I can say my goodbyes. Travel well, my dear; if you will give me a moment I will get you that letter."