The forest to the east of Llauron's was thinner and younger than the deep primeval woods that surrounded the Great White Tree. For a while they were retracing their steps, traveling down the forest roadway past the village of Tref-Y-Gwartheg and turning northeast in the attempt to avoid contact with the inhabitants as much as possible.
Rhapsody had discovered in her time at Llauron's, particularly on her sojourns with Gavin, that the forest was the size of the eastern half of the Island of her homeland, and that the Lirin woods to the south were three times the size of this one.
Though she had heard tales in her youth about forests the size of nations, she had never been within one until now. Somehow it seemed ironic that she be surrounded eternally by trees, since it was a Root that had brought her here in the first place.
It took them the better part of two days to locate the north forest road that ran from the upper part of Gwynwood to the province of Navarne, a partially wooded land with sparser forest than she was used to.
Soon the unrelenting grip of the woods gave way to patches of rolling farmland and small towns, built with the same ingenuity and frugality of material that was the hallmark of the subsistence farms in Gwynwood. Navarne was a more densely populated area, and the road was far more heavily used, with foot traffic interspersed with oxcarts and the occasional hay-wagon pulled by dray horses.
As the woods thinned out, it became increasingly difficult for the companions to remain hidden. Finally they decided to walk where possible in the disappearing brush and occasional copse of trees, and take to the road when no cover was present.
A few miles into Navarne, while they were still within the cover of the meager woods along the roadside, they came upon a group of peasant children playing on the forest road.
Rhapsody moved closer, watching intently, while Grunthor and Achmed receded into the underbrush.
The children, oblivious of their observers, laughed and ran about in the road, playing a game that seemed to be a form of tag. Around them farmers and carts passed through the mud of the forest road, occasionally spraying the children with filth, making them screech gleefully.
A smile spread slowly over Rhapsody's face as she watched the farm children playing in the winter sun. There was something in their merriment that reached down into her atrophied heart and loosed it a little, making it ache and breathe easier at the same time.
There was an innocence to them, a carefree celebration of the ordinary occurrence of the thaw, that rang in her memory. As they scooped the mud from the quagmire that the road had become and pelted each other with it, she longed to run and join them. The grief that had been stifled so long ago by Achmed's order squeezed her heart, then dissipated on the warm, sweet wind.
At the edge of her consciousness and vision to the west she heard the sound of a horse's hooves, their thunder muted by the soggy earth. Rhapsody looked in the direction of the commotion to see the few travelers on the road staring in the same direction at the oncoming stallion, a black-barded warhorse that was galloping down the forest road.
The children did not notice immediately, so intent were they at their game, until a gasp of horror erupted from two of the women who were riding in a haywagon. The man who was leading the dray team gestured frantically to the children, who stood, statue-still, in the middle of the road. The rider of the charger showed no sign of slowing.
Before Grunthor could restrain her, Rhapsody bolted from her hiding place into the muddy roadway, scattering the children like pinecones and interposing herself in the path of the oncoming steed. An equine scream and the rumbling of horseflesh roared over her, and instinctively she covered her head and neck, anticipating the impact.
In a swirl of violent motion the rider brought the panicked animal under control, muttering foul curses. When the horse came to a dancing halt, he glared down at her with azure eyes that burned like a raging fire.
"Bloody shit, woman!" he bellowed at her from above. "I'd run you down right now if I knew it wouldn't lame the horse." Slowly Rhapsody rose to a stand and looked up at the horse's rider. The eyes beneath her own hood were scorching with a similar fire, turning them green as meadow grass in the height of summer. For a moment it seemed that the rider's face, contorted in anger, slackened a moment, as if he was surprised by the intensity of her reaction. Ugly words from her days on the street spilled out of her mouth.
"If buggering you twice a day hasn't killed that horse, it can take anything," she snarled, glaring back at him.
The man's face registered shock, then, slowly, amusement. The visor of his helmet was up, but he removed it anyway, and stared down at the small woman before him in the road.
His face was one of a middle-aged man, though his muscular body belied it; his hair and beard, black as night with streaks of silver, seemed undecided. His forehead and facial structure were broad, with features that seemed oddly familiar, despite the fact that Rhapsody was certain she had never seen him before. He wore a black mail shirt, its dark rings interlaced with bands of gleaming silver, and beautifully crafted steel epaulets from which a heavy black cloak flowed behind him.
"Tsk, tsk, such language from a 'arfy," he said in a tone of condescending sarcasm. "I, madam, am appalled."
"No. You, sir, are appalling," Rhapsody retorted, straightening her shoulders. "Apparently you are also blind; didn't you see that there were children in the road?"
"I did." The soldier sat back a bit in his saddle, his smile widening. It did not appear to be an expression he wore very often.
Rhapsody's anger burned into a deeper rage. "And I don't suppose it occurred to you to slow down, or perhaps try to avoid them?"
"Actually, no, it didn't. In my experience they generally move out of the way of a charging horse. It's a good lesson to instill early."
"And what if they didn't, or couldn't?" she shouted. "What if you trampled them?"
The soldier shrugged. "Obstacles that s
mall generally won't harm the horse if it rides over them. I should have kept that in mind for you; you don't seem too big yourself."
A screech of wrath preceded the handful of mud that spattered across his face and chest. "Come down here and I'll correct your impression," she bellowed, her hand on her sword.
"Yeah, and if there's anythin' left when you're through with 'im, Duchess, we can 'ave supper," came an angry rumble from the forest's edge.
The soldier turned and looked to see the giant Firbolg rise out of the brush, his hands clenched at his sides. The dray horses attached to the haywagon screamed in panic, as did one of the women, and the farmer hurried off in a dead run with them down the muddy road; the children had fled long before.
The soldier threw back his head and laughed. "Well, well, look at this, Paradise and Perdition, traveling companions. Fascinating. The least you could do is take down your hood, madam; I have. Or are you afraid to show your face?" He wiped the mud from his own.
With an angry tug Rhapsody pulled the hood off her head. The rider's eyes widened almost imperceptibly.
"Ah, now I know who you are; you're Rhapsody, aren't you?"
Her rage dimmed in the shock that followed his words. "How did you know that?"
The soldier shook his helmet and smoothed out the flaps, brushing the mess from them in preparation for putting it back on. "You've been studying with Gavin, and word of you has spread. From the descriptions of the foresters, you could only be the one of which they spoke."
Rhapsody felt a shuddering cold run through her as her body cooled from the fire that had blazed within her a moment before. "Why is that?"
He put his helmet back on, ignoring Grunthor. "There could only be one such freak of nature. Move out of the way, unless you want to see my horse's new shoes close up."
"Really? And just who are you? I don't know your name."
The soldier took hold of the reins again. "No, you don't," he said flatly. He clicked to the horse and then rode off in a wild gallop. She had just enough time to leap out of the way, and was spattered by the mud from the horse's wake.
"Well, that was amusin', miss," said Grunthor in annoyance. "Come on, now, we need to be on our way."
Rhapsody wiped the mud from her cloak and nodded. As she crossed the road, following him back into the brush, she heard a small voice in the scrub at her feet.
"Miss?"
Rhapsody caught her breath and looked down to see a young boy, perhaps seven, hiding in the dead weeds at the edge of the road. She bent down to him and touched his face in alarm.
"Are you all right? Are you hurt?"
"Yes, miss, I mean, no, miss; I'm fine."
She helped the child to stand. "What's your name?"
The boy looked up at Grunthor and grinned. "Robin." The giant grinned back.
Rhapsody felt a lump rise in her throat. That had been the name of one of her brothers. The boy looked back at her.
"An' I know that man's name too."
"Really? What is it?"
The child smiled with an air of importance. "Why, miss, that's Anborn."
The head guard at the gate of Haguefort, Lord Stephen Navarne's keep, had called the chamberlain to make a judgment. Gerald Owen had served the duke for over twenty years, coming into his employ when Lord Stephen was still just a young man, and had seen many strange sights in his time on the job. Nothing could have prepared him for what stood before him now, he was certain.
Two of the three travelers, a small woman of elegant build with enchanting green eyes, and a wiry man a head taller than she, were cloaked and hooded. In her case, it gave him cause for some disappointment; on a deep level he longed to see her unveiled. In the instance of the man, however, he believed the concealment to be a blessing.
Standing with them was a monster of grotesque proportions, well over seven feet tall and on his way to eight. The sight of the tusklike teeth that protruded from his jutting jaw had set Owen's heart to pounding wildly.
"Uh, yes, well, everything does seem to be in order," he stammered, examining the letter from Llauron the Invoker once again; this made the fifth time he had read it. "Uh, please come in." He opened the gate and nodded to the guards, who left their posts and followed the strange retinue into the keep.
The castle itself was a beautiful one, of classic design with touches of artistry, crafted from a rosy brown stone. Climbing ivy, brown and dead in grip of winter, scaled the walls, undoubtedly making for a verdant tapestry in summer. Around the perimeter of the courtyard stood high-edged gardens, pooling with water from the melting snow.
When they reached the large front door, heavily carved in black mahogany, Gerald Owen paused. "If you'll wait here, I'll tell Lord Stephen of your arrival." He bowed, then opened the door and hurried inside, closing it behind him.
While they waited, Rhapsody turned in a circle, taking in the sights around her. Stephen Navarne's keep was situated on a gently sloping hill, with a wide view of the rolling countryside that surrounded it on three sides and the forest behind it. Grunthor had commented on their way up to the gate about the many hidden defenses the keep employed. Despite its beautiful architecture and peaceful appearance, in his assessment the castle was well fortified in the event of attack. Rhapsody could see that the intelligence of the fortifications had impressed both of her friends, at least a little.
The chamberlain had left the heavy door slightly ajar, undoubtedly to avoid insulting them completely by shutting it in their faces. Achmed now leaned back against it casually, nodding politely to the guards. The door swung open a little, as was his intent. Within the echoing foyer of the keep a rich tenor voice could be heard.
"And she's in the company of a giant what, did you say?"
Gerald Owen's uncomfortable reply was clearly audible.
"I believe it's a Firbolg, m'lord."
"A Firbolg? Splendid! I imagine I'll be the only one at the Lord Regent's meeting next month who has ever lunched with a Firbolg. Show them in, with full hospitality."
There was a pause. "Yes, m'lord."
"Oh, move out of the way, Owen. I'll greet them myself."
Footsteps could be heard approaching, and a moment later the heavy mahogany door swung open. Behind it stood a smiling man about Achmed's height. He was young and seemed full of energy, with just the beginning touches of white creeping into his otherwise blond hair.
As with Anborn a few days before, the occasional line or wrinkle on his face seemed in opposition to the youth apparent in his physique. Rhapsody wondered if this could be a Cymrian trait, an indication of the great longevity their voyage across Time had granted them and their progeny. As Lord Stephen was the Cymrian historian, it made sense that he might be one.
The young duke bowed politely. "Welcome! I am Stephen Navarne; please, come in." He looked at his chamberlain, who still seemed in a mild state of shock, and nodded curtly. Gerald Owen blinked, and then swung the great door open wider.
Rhapsody and Grunthor bowed politely; Achmed nodded slightly.
"Thank you, m'lord," Rhapsody said, and came into the keep, followed by the two Firbolg a moment later. "I hope we didn't come at a bad time."
"Certainly not," said Stephen. His eyes, blue-green as highland cornflowers, smiled as he did. "And please, call me Stephen. I'm delighted you came. I will have to thank Llauron for thinking of sending you to see me. Was your journey uneventful?" As he spoke he took Rhapsody's hand and bowed over it.
The three looked at each other. "For the most part," Achmed said, forestalling Rhapsody's more candid answer. Lord Stephen looked over at him in surprise at the sound of the fricative voice. He turned and began walking away, gesturing for them to follow.
"Are you hungry? We'll be having lunch shortly, but I could scare up something for you in the meantime."
"No, thank you, that won't be necessary," Rhapsody said, hurrying to keep up with him in his excitement.
The noontime meal was served in a stately dining room at a table long enough to accommodate a legion of guests. At the southern end of the room was an enormous leaded-glass window, flanked by two banks of rectangular panes, that looked out over Lord Stephen's lands and the courtyard below. The opposite wall held a hearth wide enough, Grunthor observed aloud, to roast an ox whole, a comment that drew a gale of agreeable laughter from master of the house.
"What a marvelous thought! We shall have to try it at Melly's birthday; it coincides with the first day of spring, so we customarily celebrate with a big feast."
"Who's Melly?"
The duke rubbed his hands together, then pointed to a large portrait, done in oils and bordered in an ornate gilt frame, hanging over the fireplace. It held the likenesses of a woman and two children, a boy and an infant girl. The woman was slender and dark, with rich brown eyes and a shy smile.
By her side stood a lad of about seven, with his father's snapping blue-green eyes and his mother's mahogany-colored hair. His baby sister, perched on the woman's lap, was his opposite, crowned with a sunshower of yellow curls above eyes as black as midnight.
"Melly—Melisande, actually—is my daughter. That's her as an infant, with my wife, Lydia, and Gwydion, our son."
Rhapsody was looking out the bank of windows with Achmed. At Lord Stephen's words she turned and smiled.
"And might we meet your family later?"
The duke returned her smile. "My children will be delighted to meet all of you. As for my wife, I'm afraid that I am a widower."
Grunthor watched the smile melt from Rhapsody's face. "Sorry to 'ear that, guv," he said, clapping Lord Stephen roughly on the back. The duke lurched forward under the well-meaning blow, then stood straight with a laugh.
"Thank you," he said, noticing that the door to the kitchen had opened and the cooks were carrying in the luncheon trays. "It's been four years now. Gwydion seems to have adjusted, and of course Melisande doesn't remember her mother at all. Come, I see Hilde bringing our meal. Gentlemen, if you'll have a seat, I'll assist the lady."
It took four more trays of additional helpings before Grunthor had eaten his fill of ham and roasted grouse. The china bowls that held the sweet yams and braised potatoes were emptied two or three times more than necessary to mortify Rhapsody completely.
Lord Stephen ignored her embarrassment and called for more food each time, seeming to delight in watching the giant enjoy his kitchen's hospitality. Finally, after consuming enough food to feed most of Lord Stephen's army, Grunthor declared himself full.
"Couldn't eat another bite, guv; delicious," he said, wiping his gargantuan maw with a dainty linen napkin. "Nice meal." Achmed nodded in agreement while Rhapsody covered her face with her hand and smiled.
Stephen rose from the table with a bounce. "Good! I'm so glad you liked it. Now, can I interest you all in a small glass of Canderian brandy in my study? Llauron's letter says you're interested in the museum, and it's a bit of a walk in the frigid air, so a little fortification might be in order, eh?"
"By all means," said Achmed.
Rhapsody looked up in surprise; the Dhracian rarely spoke around people he had just met. And for him, the comment seemed almost jovial. She could tell that he liked Lord Stephen better than any of the people she had seen him meet thus far in the new world.
She agreed with his assessment. There was an openness to the young duke that she had not seen up to now, and, despite some sad events in his life, he seemed full of energy and vigor. There was an excitement in just being around him, an intensity in virtually everything he said, as if he found life profoundly interesting all the time.
Lord Stephen helped her with the chair and offered her his arm. Then he looked to the Firbolg. "It's this way," he said, turning and walking toward the door on the other side of the hearth from the kitchen. The leather soles of his boots clacked resoundingly on the polished marble floor as he led them from the dining room.
"Llauron says you are aware of the border incursions and attacks we have been suffering," Stephen said as he handed Achmed a snifter of brandy.
As before, the Dhracian was standing at the largest window in the room, this one on the eastern end of the keep, also overlooking the rolling hills of Navarne and the courtyard below. In the cobbled area two children chased each other, laughing. A broad smile crossed the duke's face when he saw them.
"Gwydion and Melisande," he said to Rhapsody as he nodded downward. She came to the window as well.
"He told us a little, nothing substantial," replied Achmed casually. He pointed over the farmlands to a thick, high stone wall, partially finished, that stretched to the north for as far as he could see. He did not mention his and Grunthor's firsthand observations. "Is that the reason for the ramparts being built?"
Stephen gave Grunthor, who had stretched out on a large leather covered couch with his feet on the table in front of him, a glass of the rich-colored liquid as well, then joined the other two at the window.
"Yes, in a word," he said matter-of-factly. "Navarne has the disadvantage of being settled primarily in small villages and communities of two or three large farms together, and it is several days' ride from my holdings to the capital city. As a result, its inhabitants are more vulnerable than most to these kinds of attacks. When the nearest military post is at least two days away, a small village or farming community can be devastated, and no one even hears of it for weeks. We've had our share of brutal raids and incursions."
"At first I tried posting scouts and soldiers in or near as many settlements as I could, but it was to no avail. So I decided to enclose as much of the local acreage within a walled fortress as possible, in the hope that it will better protect the people and their land. I've invited as many as are willing to come and live within the new fortress, and some have agreed."
"Some would rather take their chances and keep the lands that are their legacy, and I can respect that. Eventually the land within the wall will become a heavily populated village, which will destroy the tranquillity of my holdings and the keep, but it's a small price to pay if it keeps more of them safe. Truthfully, I have no idea if even that will help, but while I am still breathing I have to try every option open to me."
"That's the sign of a good leader," said Rhapsody, watching the workmen in the distance as they mortared stones into the wall. Gauging from their height as they stood near it, she estimated the wall to be more than twelve feet high. Whatever Lord Stephen sought to keep out must have made a serious impression.
Lord Stephen's face grew grave for the first time since they had met him. "I have a personal reason in addition to that duty. You see, two of the casualties of these raids were my wife and her sister." He looked out into the courtyard where the children were playing in the frosty air, the snow gone with the thaw. Their shrieks of merry laughter rang suddenly hollow.
Rhapsody's heart filled with pain at his words, but they were spoken simply, without regret, and carried only a wistful sense of loss.
"I'm very sorry," she said.
Lord Stephen took a deep swallow from his glass.
"Thank you. It was four years ago. Melisande had just begun to walk, and Lydia had traveled into the city of Navarne to purchase some shoes for her, sturdy enough to support her little feet. She and my sister-in-law enjoyed traveling into the city; it gave them time to visit together and talk."
"The baby had come down with a cold. I suppose we were lucky she had taken ill, or else she'd have likely been with her mother. On the way home they and the rest of their caravan were accosted by a raiding party of Lirin soldiers. I'll spare you the details except to tell you that when I found her she was still clutching the shoes. Of course, we couldn't use them. The bloodstains didn't come out."
His words turned Rhapsody's stomach, but Achmed and Grunthor merely nodded politely. This was certainly not the worst they had ever heard.
"The strange part of it all is that, to a man, the Lirin raiders captured at the scene denied being involved in the massacre. There could be no doubt as to their guilt; they were caught in the act. Yet each man went to his death swearing that he knew nothing of the raid."
"It was extremely odd. I have known Lirin all my life, living so close to their lands, and they tend to be one of the more honorable races, in my experience. It is out of character for them not to take responsibility for their actions. I think watching the executions took some of the hate out of me; they seemed, more than anything else, perplexed, each one of them. Very strange."
The Bolg exchanged a look. "Indeed. Is it only Lirin that have attacked your villages and towns?" Achmed asked.
"No, that's also part of the peculiar nature of these incursions. There have been incidents involving other men from Roland. In fact, even soldiers from Navarne have been caught in other provinces and Tyrian, committing similar atrocities. I swear on the lives of my children that I have ordered no such raids. I have no idea where this is coming from."
"Worst of all, the new target seems to be the children of Navarne." He opened the window and leaned out, calling to his son and daughter in the courtyard below.
"Gwydion, Melisande, come in now, please."
The children looked up from their game, and exchanged a glance and sighed before complying. Stephen waited until they had reached the door, held open by the chamberlain who had been watching them, and then turned to his guests again. "I'm sorry. These are days of paranoia and little restful sleep."
"Almost a score of the children of our province are missing, some taken in raids, others stolen from their own backyards. Their bodies are not found at the sites of the fighting, so we can only assume they have been kidnapped or taken to be sold."
"Only one has been recovered, when the child's father and uncle rode down the abductors, who were also from Navarne. The same strange circumstances; the captors swore they had no idea where the children had been taken from, despite having them in their custody. It's like the entire continent is suffering from collective amnesia."
His tale at an end, Lord Stephen drained his glass and set it down on his desk, then walked past the fireplace to the door, where he pulled a bellcord. A moment later the door opened, and a woman entered.
"Yes, m'lord?"
"Rosella, please get the children bathed and changed, and give them their tea, then bring them to meet our guests." The woman nodded and left, casting a look askance at the giant monster with his feet on her master's table.
An hour or so later the door burst open and the children ran in, dashing to their father. Stephen bent down on one knee and opened his arms, hugging the two of them together and rocking them wildly, causing them to giggle ridiculously.
In the midst of the laughter the little girl caught sight of Rhapsody. She stopped laughing during her father's rough-housing and stared. Rhapsody smiled, hoping to put her at ease, but the child broke free from her father's embrace and pointed at her.
"Daddy, who's that?"
Stephen and his son stopped their play and looked to where she was indicating. He took his daughter's arm and pushed it down.
"Well, that was rude," he said. His tone was exactly like the one Rhapsody's own father had used, and she covered her smile; some things apparently transcended social status. "These are our guests. I invited you in here to meet them. This lady's name is Rhapsody, and I expect you have something you want to say to her now."
The child continued to stare, as did her brother. Stephen's face clouded with mild paternal chagrin. "Well, Melly? What do you say?"
"You're beautiful," the child said, her voice filled with awe. Stephen flushed in embarrassment.
"Well, that's certainly true, but it's not exactly what I had in mind," he said.
"But it will do nicely," Rhapsody said breezily. Grunthor and Achmed exchanged a glance; perhaps she would believe it now that she had heard it from a child. A moment's further study indicated that the hope was unrealistic.
She came to where the children stood and smiled at them, first down at Melisande, then on eye level with Gwydion, who was almost as tall as she was.
"It's very nice to meet you both, Melisande and Gwydion. May I present my two friends, Achmed and Grunthor?" Melisande's gaze remained fixed on Rhapsody's face, but Gwydion looked over at the two Firbolg and broke into a wide grin.
"Hello," he said, extending a hand and walking to where Grunthor stood. The giant Firbolg clicked his heels, shaking the young man's hand with his enormous one, taking care to avoid scratching him with his claws. Gwydion then proceeded to the window, where he bowed slightly and extended his hand to Achmed as well.
"Are you going to be my new mother?" the little girl asked Rhapsody. This time the Singer's face matched Lord Stephen's, which had turned crimson to the scalp.
Across the room Grunthor laughed out loud. "There ya go, guv; my ol' man always said that children are the only thing that keeps a man from livin' forever, because they make 'im want to die o' mortification at least once a day."
"Well, if that were the case you could be visiting me in the cemetery about now," said the duke with a laugh. "I apologize for my daughter, m'lady."
Rhapsody crouched down in front of the child. "Please don't," she said to Stephen, never taking her eyes off Melisande. "She's lovely. How old are you, Melisande?"
"Five," Melisande said. "Wouldn't you like to have a little girl?"
Lord Stephen reached for the child's shoulders, but Rhapsody waved him away and took Melisande's tiny hands in her own. There was a loneliness in the black eyes, deep as the sea, and it reached down in Rhapsody's heart, choking it. She knew exactly how the motherless child felt.
"Yes," she said simply. "But only if that little girl was as special as you."
"Don't you like boys?" Gwydion asked from across the room. Achmed grinned in spite of himself.
"If anyone needs me, I'll be in the Great Hall, jumping off the balcony," Lord Stephen said.
Rhapsody swiveled to look at the boy, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Yes, I like boys very much," she said seriously.
"Made a lot o' money provin' it, too," muttered Grunthor merrily under his breath.
Her common status notwithstanding, Rhapsody felt the need to soothe the pain in the lonely royal children. "In fact, if your father would agree, I would like to adopt you both," she said, flashing Grunthor an ugly look.
Stephen opened his mouth to speak, but Rhapsody rushed ahead before he could. She turned back to Melisande.
"You see, I'm traveling quite a bit, and I'm never in one place very long, so it's not a very good idea for me to be anyone's mother right now. But I could be your honorary grandmother."
"Grandmother?" said Gwydion doubtfully. "You're not old enough."
Rhapsody smiled ruefully. "Oh, yes I am," she said. "You see, I'm part Lirin, and we age differently than other people. Trust me, I am sufficiently old enough."
"What would it entail?" Gwydion asked, rubbing his hairless chin with his thumb and forefinger in the exact manner Lord Stephen did when considering something.
Rhapsody stood and let one of Melisande's hands drop, retaining hold of the other as she walked across the room to meet him. She sat in Lord Stephen's desk chair and pulled the little girl into her lap, reaching out her hand to Gwydion. He came over to her and took it. Rhapsody seemed to be considering the question solemnly.
"Well, first and foremost, I would never adopt any grandchild that I didn't think was special in a way that no one else in the world was, so it would mean that you would be dear to me in a way that no one else in the world is," she said.
"Next, each night when I say my prayers, I would think of you, and it would be like you were with me. I do that every evening when the stars come out, and each morning as the sun rises, so every day you would know that I was thinking about you at those times. I sing my prayers to the sky, so maybe you would even hear me, since we'd be under the same one; who knows?"
"Whenever you're feeling lonely, you'd know that you only have to wait for the sun to come up or the stars to come out to have someone who loves you thinking about you, and maybe it might make you feel a little better."
"You would love us?" Melisande asked, tears glittering in her eyes.
Rhapsody fought back the ones forming in her own. "Yes," she said softly. "I already do."
"You do?" asked Gwydion incredulously.
She looked him deep in the eyes, and drew on her lore as a Namer, speaking truly. "Yes," she said again. She shifted her gaze to the little girl. "Yes, I do. Who wouldn't? I would never lie to you, especially about that."
She looked up at Stephen, who was staring at her in wonder, then quickly back at the children, the sin of overstepping her position beginning to twist her stomach.
"I will try to visit you if I can, and send you gifts and letters from time to time, but mostly it would be in here." She tapped her heart, then each of their chests. "So, how about it? Would you like to be my very first grandchildren?"
"Yes!" said Gwydion. Melisande nodded, too excited to speak.
Rhapsody looked up at Lord Stephen, who still looked amazed. She felt suddenly awkward, knowing she had not only overstepped the boundaries of social status, but of politeness and good manners.
"That is, if your father agrees."
"Of course," Lord Stephen said quickly, forestalling his children's clamoring. "Thank you." He allowed himself to look her over once more, wishing she would consider Melisande's first request, before turning to Achmed.
"Well, it's time for these two to be heading to bed. Shall we go have a look at the museum?"
The Cymrian museum was housed in a small building crafted of the same rosy-brown stone as the rest of Lord Stephen's keep. Unlike the other buildings on the castle's grounds, it had no torches burning in the exterior holders and sat, unnoticed, in the dark, locked and bolted.
Twilight was descending, wrapped in flurries of snow as they left the castle and crossed the courtyard toward the tiny, dark building.
Rhapsody had stopped long enough to sing her vespers, with the undesired result of causing everyone else in the keep to cease whatever they were doing to listen to her. Melisande and Gwydion, who had been watching them from the balcony, broke into applause when she finished, which made her laugh and turn red with embarrassment at the same time.
Lord Stephen smiled. "Go to bed!" he shouted gruffly up at the balcony, then chuckled as the two figures dashed indoors. He offered Rhapsody his arm, holding a torch to light their way in his other hand.
When they came to the brass-bound door he let her hand go with a small sigh and reached into the pocket of his cloak, pulling forth an enormous brass key with odd scrolling on it. He fitted it to the lock and turned it with some difficulty; it was apparent that the museum had not been visited recently. Grunthor helped him pull the door open with a grinding screech, and they went inside.
In the light of the single torch, the stone depository more closely resembled a mausoleum, with frowning statues and exhibits that had been lovingly displayed for no one to see. Lord Stephen's face glowed ghostly white in the light of the torch as he went about the small room, lighting a series of curved glass sconces with a long wick held by a brass lamplighter's stem. Once he was finished, the museum brightened noticeably, the light being enough to read comfortably by.
"That's impressive," Rhapsody noted. "Those sconces certainly give off a lot of light."
"An invention of the leader of the Cymrians, Lord Gwylliam ap Rendlar ap Evander tuatha Gwylliam, sometimes called Gwylliam the Visionary. He was an inventor and engineer, among other things, and is credited with many fascinating designs," said Lord Stephen. "These sconces are made from convex glass that was heated and then twisted along a curved piece of metal, so that the light reflects off the shiny surface and is magnified by the glass."
"I've heard of Lord Gwylliam," Rhapsody said as Achmed and Grunthor strolled about the room, examining the exhibits, paintings, and statuary. Grunthor stopped before a narrow stone stairway and looked up into the stairwell, as if gauging his ability to fit through, before continuing on his tour. "But those other words are unfamiliar. Was that part of his name?"
"Yes," Stephen said, warming to the subject excitedly. "When the First and Third Fleets met up after fifty years of separate existence, and then decided, with the Second Fleet, to become a united people, it caused no end of problems denoting lineage, particularly since many of the Cymrian races each had a separate genealogy practice and nomenclature."
"Simply put, they didn't know what to call themselves, or whether they should be known by the fleet they traveled with, or their family, or their race. So they devised a simple system they could all use."
"Each person's first name was stated, then the next two ancestors back of the same gender, followed by the name of the First Generationer from whom they had descended. Lord Gwylliam's father was King Rendlar, his grandfather, King Evander, and he himself was the First Generationer."
"I see," said Rhapsody, feeling a chill in her bones suddenly. Lord Stephen had just answered a part of another question that Achmed had been asking—how long had it been between their exodus through the Root and the sailing of the fleets. Although the historian had not quoted a number of years, it was apparent now that there had been at least several generations of kings between Trinian, the monarch-to-be at the time they had left, and Gwylliam. They had been gone even longer than they had thought.
Rhapsody turned to see if Achmed was listening. She was sure he had been, but he gave no sign of it as he examined a thick volume of Gwylliam's drawings and intricately rendered architectural plans.
"That's a reproduction, by the way," Lord Stephen told him as he leafed gently through the pages. "Obviously the actual ones decayed and crumbled long ago. Each successive generation has had an historian whose job includes recopying them to preserve them. Naturally, something gets lost in the translation, I'm afraid."
"How many generations have there been since they landed?" Achmed asked absently, studying a drawing of a ventilation system.
Lord Stephen was looking through a series of manuscripts neatly shelved on one of the bookcases. "Fifty-three," he said.
He pulled out a thin manuscript bound in leather, blew the dust off it, and handed it to Rhapsody.
"Here is that text Llauron asked about, the Ancient Serenne linguistics chart and dictionary."
"Thank you," Rhapsody said, coughing. "This is it?"
"Yes. I'm afraid it's not complete; not very much is known about the tongue."
"I see. Well, thank you."
"'Oo are these ugly people?" Grunthor asked, pointing at the small statues.
Lord Stephen chuckled and came over beside him.
"These three are the Manteids, the Seers, Manwyn, Rhonwyn, and Anwyn, who you also see in this sculpture with her husband, Gwylliam. They were an odd blend of bloodlines. Their father was an Ancient Seren, who were tall, thin, gold-skinned people. Their mother was a copper dragon. You should see the paintings; they're even uglier. Manwyn's hair is flaming red, and her eyes are like mirrors."
"Are?" Rhapsody asked. "She's still alive?"
"Yes, she's the Oracle in the city of Yarim. Her temple is there, unless it has crumbled around her."
"'Ow old are you?" asked Grunthor bluntly. "Are you one o' them First Generationers?"
Stephen laughed. "Hardly. I'm fifty-six years old, and a third of the way through my life, by my reckoning, a relative baby compared to those people."
His face grew somber. "By the way, I'd be happy to answer any question you might have, but please be aware that almost no other Cymrian or Cymrian descendant would. They're a secretive people, in many ways ashamed of their heritage. I suppose that's not surprising, given the history, and despite the fact that each of the dukes of Roland and many of the benisons are of that line. We're a strange, confused lot."
"What's upstairs?" Achmed asked.
Stephen walked to the stairs; his natural exuberance coupled with his interest in the topic made him seem as if he were running. "Come, and I'll show you." At the top of the small stairway was a sizable statue of a great copper dragon rendered in jewels and giltwork, tarnished from neglect. Rhapsody eased by it carefully; the dragon seemed very lifelike, with cruel-looking claws and fangs, and rippling muscles. The expression in its eyes was fierce, and it was coiled to strike.
"This is the mighty wyrm Elynsynos, who held all these lands before the Cymrians came," Stephen said as he passed the statue. "She was apparently quite ferocious, and had successfully kept the humans from her lands from the beginning of Time, until Merithyn the Explorer came."
He led them to the back wall, where a series of portraits hung in pairs or triads, one on the end having been painted a long time before the others. An oil rendering of himself, somewhat younger, was displayed below one of them, another painting which depicted a sharp-faced man in a miter, wearing an amulet around his neck.
Rhapsody and the Firbolg examined the pictures. Each of the men in the upper row was wearing a similar headpiece with robes that resembled those of the first man. She turned to Lord Stephen.
"Who are these?"
"The men in the top row are the Patriarch—he's the one on the end, alone—and the five benisons who serve him. At least that's what he looked like as a young man; he's quite aged now, I understand."
"In the bottom row, roughly corresponding, are the various dukes who rule the lands in which the benisons have their Sees. Except for him." He pointed to an auburn-haired man somewhat older than himself, with the same blue eyes. "That's Tristan Steward, who is not only the Lord Regent of Roland, but also the Prince of Bethany, which is the capital seat."
"Although each of our states is technically sovereign, he controls the central army and the largest area of land, and makes laws the rest of us abide by. There isn't usually a problem; most of us are related. Tristan and I are cousins."
Rhapsody nodded. "Why are the royalty displayed below the clergy?"
Lord Stephen laughed. "An astute question. Well, it's a traditional conflict, you know, the struggle between the church and the state. Ultimately, it puts the poor citizen in the middle, having to choose loyalty to the All-God or to his sovereign. Of course, only Cymrian royalty would have the temerity to think there should be a choice."
Rhapsody laughed. There was an irreverent twinkle in Lord Stephen's eye that was reinforced by the amusement in his voice.
"This, of course, is not true in my case, as the benison of this province is also the Blesser of Avonderre. His See is arguably the most powerful, certainly within Roland, but potentially on the continent as well."
"His only rival, and it is an active rivalry, is the Blesser of Sorbold, as he is the head of the Church for an entire country, not just a pair of provincial states like Avonderre-Navarne. They hate each other with a fury. Only the All-God knows what will happen when the current Patriarch dies."
"As a result, the Blesser of Avonderre-Navarne doesn't interfere too much with politics here, for which I am eternally grateful. He's after bigger quarry. There are renderings under glass over here of their respective basilicas. Have a look; the basilicas are the best examples of Cymrian architecture still standing."
"The mountain city of Canrif was far more impressive, but of course that was destroyed when the Bolg took over Gwylliam's lands—no offense meant, Grunthor."
"None taken," said the huge Firbolg absently; he was studying the dragon sculpture. Rhapsody thought it was interesting that Lord Stephen seemed unaware that Achmed was Firbolg as well, but was not surprised. She, after all, had not realized it either. She followed Stephen to the display he was indicating.
"This is a good example of Cymrian ingenuity and culture meeting up with a deep religious philosophy. The ancient Cymrians believed that the five elements of nature were sacred, the source of all power in the universe, and so each of the basilicas that they built in some way honors a specific element and makes use of that element to sanctify its ground."
Rhapsody looked with interest at the pen-and-ink etchings. They were all drawn by the same artist, and showed in minute detail the architectural features of the basilicas, some of them down to the individual stones from which they were built.
Most fascinating was one labeled Avonderre. It was an apparently immense structure fashioned in the shape of the prow of a great ship breaking forth from enormous rocks at the shore of the ocean. A second rendering showed more of the basilica, that part which apparently was only visible at low tide. Achmed had mentioned seeing something like this, and surely there could only be one.
Lord Stephen noticed her interest and smiled.
"That is the basilica our citizens attend services in, the great seaside church of Lord All-God, Master of the Sea. In the ancient language it is called Abbat Mythlinis."
Rhapsody returned his smile. Lord Stephen's grasp of the language was marginal. Abbat Mythlinis meant Father of the Ocean-born, a primordial race of people known in the old world as Mythlin. She glanced back at Achmed and Grunthor, hoping they would not correct him, but they were examining other exhibits, betraying no trace of amusement.
"This basilica was built largely from the wood of the great ships that carried the Cymrians from the Island before it sank," Stephen continued. "It was dedicated to the element of water, obviously, and the constant churning of the ocean waves reblesses it with each tide, keeping its ground holy."
"Finding holy ground was important to the Cymrians. As strangers in this land they needed a place for sanctuary at each of their outposts, where evil could not enter. That's why the basilicas were the first permanent structures that they built, after their guard towers. Avonderre is the coastal province where the first of the Cymrian waves landed. Except where Merithyn came ashore, we guard the oldest landfall of the Cymrian migration."
Rhapsody nodded and looked back to the gallery of paintings, her eyes scanning the portraits of the five benisons again. The Blesser of Avonderre was depicted in robes of green-blue silk, and the talisman around his neck was shaped like a drop of water.
The vestry pattern was repeated in the other portraits, with robes and talismans evoking the other four elements. The Patriarch was robed in gold, an amulet shaped like a silver star hanging from a chain around his neck.
It was easy to discern the benisons whose basilicas were dedicated to fire and earth, as well. The first was robed in flame-colored vestments and a matching horned miter. A golden talisman hung around his neck in the shape the sun with a spiral of red jewels in the center. The second wore robes in the colors of earth, with an amulet that resembled the globe Llauron had shown her. The last two benisons, however, were robed in white, and only one wore a neck chain, with no amulet on the end.
"What are the others? What about this one?" Rhapsody pointed to a rendering that was shown from two perspectives, straight on and from above.
This basilica, labeled Bethany,was round in shape, fashioned from what appeared to be marble, and consisted of several levels of circular outer walls that held seating for the faithful around the central core. Within the courtyard that surrounded the basilica were inlaid great flame-shaped mosaics, giving the impression when viewed from above of the sun in full splendor.
"That is the church of Lord All-God, Fire of the Universe, or, in Old Cymrian, Vrackna."
Rhapsody blanched; in Old Cymrian, that word was actually the name of the evil fire god from the days of polytheism. Lord Stephen didn't seem to notice.
"It is, of course, also consecrated to the All-God, but is dedicated to the element of fire. An eternal flame burns at the very center, powered by a deep well of fire that comes from the very heart of the Earth, which, of course, keeps the ground holy."
"And is this the Patriarch's basilica, since it's in Bethany, the, ah, capital seat?"
"No, Bethany is the political capital of Roland, but the religious capital is the sovereign city-state of Sepulvarta. That is where the Patriarch lives, and where the Citadel of the Star is. Only the Patriarch worships in that basilica, although the faithful come to attend services."
"I don't understand. What's the difference between worship and attending services?"
"Direct prayer. In our religion, only the Patriarch prays directly to the All-God."
"Why?"
"He is the only one deemed worthy to communicate directly with the Creator."
Rhapsody's brows drew together, but she did not give voice to her first thought. "To whom do the rest of you pray?"
"To the Patriarch. We celebrate the rituals of the faith, and pose our petitions to the lesser clergy, known collectively as the Ordinate, who pray for us. The Patriarch receives our intentions from the clergy and poses them to the All-God. By the time each prayer is elevated to the level of the Patriarch, it has the power of all the souls of the faith behind it."
"I see," said Rhapsody pleasantly. Nothing could be further from her own belief system, so she turned to the rendering of the Patriarch's basilica at Sepulvarta. "This is interesting."
Stephen beamed with obvious pride. "This is the Citadel of the Star, which I was just mentioning to you. The basilica itself is the church of Lord All-God, Light of the World, Lianta'ar in Old Cymrian."
He's closer, thought Rhapsody. Lianta'ar meant bearer of light.
"It sits outside the holy city-state of Sepulvarta, high on a hill. It's quite beautiful, as you can see; the rotunda of the basilica is the largest known structure of its kind, and it is beautifully appointed inside, being the seat of the Patriarch. But I'm more fond of this aspect of Sepulvarta."
He pointed to a separate part of the drawing, a rendering of an enormous pointed minaret that towered high in the air from the middle of the city.
"This is the Spire, a true architectural miracle, if I do say so myself. It is immodest to do so, as my great-grandfather was the architect and builder of it." Rhapsody made the appropriate noises to show she was impressed.
"The Spire reaches a thousand feet in the air, and can be seen from miles around. It is crowned with a single glowing star, the symbol of the Patriarchy. It is said that the Spire is the Patriarch's direct channel of communication with the All-God. The light that shines from the Spire is directed from the stars themselves, thus reconsecrating the ground each night."
"What about on nights when the sky isn't clear?" asked Achmed from across the room, still examining other museum pieces. Rhapsody started; she hadn't realized he was listening.
"Just because one can't see the stars doesn't mean they're not there," said Stephen simply. "And the Spire itself is illuminated by a piece of an actual star, the element known as ether."
"Fascinating," said Rhapsody. "And the others?"
"The basilica in Bethe Corbair is dedicated to the wind, the church of Lord All-God, Spirit of the Air, or Ryles Cedelian." Breath of life, thought Rhapsody, and looked at Achmed. He was examining a piece of driftwood under glass.
"The special attribute of that basilica is a central bell tower with eight hundred and seventy-six bells hung within it, one for each of the ships that left Serendair, carrying the Cymrians to safety. It is set on a rise in the center of the capital city where it catches the west wind, and the breeze blows through the hollow tower, acting as a sort of carillon. The music is exquisite; you really must go and hear it, Rhapsody, being a Skysinger."
"As a part of the consecration of the basilica, the bells were rung for the same number of days as ships that set sail. Their ringing is what keeps the ground of the basilica holy, and makes the city of Bethe Corbair such a pleasant one; everywhere you go you can hear the sweet music of the bells."
"I shall make a point of visiting there," she said, smiling. "Which benison is the Blesser of Bethe Corbair?"
Lord Stephen pointed to one of the two men in white, with the silver chain around his neck.
"Lanacan Orlando. The other benison is Colin Abernathy, whose See is in the nonaligned states to the south. As with Sorbold, that area is not part of Roland, and of course there is no basilica as a result."
"And the last basilica?"
Stephen pointed to a somber structure which appeared to be hewn from the side of a mountain. "This is the only non-Orlandan basilica, the church of Lord All-God, King of the Earth, or Terreanfor." Rhapsody nodded. This was the only completely literal translation of the lot.
"The basilica is carved into the face of the Night Mountain, making it a place where no light touches, even in the middle of the day. Sorbold is an arid, dusty place, a realm of sun, and so the Night Mountain is a place of deep reverence."
"There is a hint of the old pagan days in Sorboldian religion, even though they worship the All-God and are a See of our religion. They believe that parts of the earth, the ground itself, that is, are still alive from when the world was made, and the Night Mountain is one of these places of Living Stone. So the turning of the Earth itself resanctifies the ground within the basilica. Having been there, I think the people of Sorbold are right. It is a deeply magical place."
"Well, thank you very much for the wonderful explanation," Rhapsody said. "I must visit each of these places now."
"What's this?" Grunthor asked from across the room. He was standing in front of a small alcove in the corner, with a rack of votive candles in front of it.
Rhapsody came to where he stood and examined the display. The table that formed the base of it was covered with a lovingly embroidered cloth, much like she had seen on temple altars.
On the table lay a gold signet ring, a battered dagger, and a bracelet of interwoven leather braids, torn open on one side. Attached to the wall behind the display was a brass plate, intricately carved and inscribed.
She leaned forward to read it, but the tarnish that had developed in the tomblike museum was too heavy. Unlike the scholarly exhibits of jeweled circlets and ancient artifacts, this display seemed more suitable to a church than to a historical depository.
She reached into her pack and pulled out her handkerchief and a small flask, then held it up for Stephen. "Witch hazel and extract of lime," she said. "It should clear the tarnish. May I?" Stephen nodded, the look on his face becoming somber.
Rhapsody uncorked the flask and poured its pungent-smelling contents onto the center of the cloth, then stood on her toes to reach over the display and wipe the plaque clean. The tarnish rubbed off onto the handkerchief, leaving the few engraved words visible.
Gwydion of Manosse, it said.
Rhapsody turned back to Lord Stephen, whose face was now masklike. "What is this?" she asked.
Stephen looked away. "It's all that remains of my best friend, dead these last twenty years," he said.
"I'm very sorry," Rhapsody said. "Was he another victim of these unexplained hostilities?"
Lord Stephen carefully brushed the dust off the display with the hand of one who had lovingly cared for many fragile exhibits. "I would venture to say that Gwydion was the first of them," he said, putting the signet ring and the battered knife back on the cloth.
"Dead twenty years?" Achmed asked. "The incursions have been going on that long?"
Lord Stephen smiled and leaned on the wall next to the shrine. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you that brigands and thugs have been killing innocent travelers and attacking and looting villages since well before recorded history," he said. "But Gwydion's murder was different. He was a man of superior strength and swiftness, and well armed. His wounds defied description. Whatever killed him must have been ferocious and powerful beyond imagination."
"Was it a beast o' some sort?" Grunthor asked.
Lord Stephen shrugged, then sighed. "I don't know," he said. "Possibly, from the look of it. I was the one who found him first. I suppose I knew from the moment I saw him that he was dying; his heart was exposed and bleeding into the earth." Rhapsody touched his arm, and he smiled briefly at her before his eyes clouded over with the memory again.
"I was afraid to move him. It was as if the ground was all that was keeping his organs from falling out of his chest. I bound him up and threw my cloak on him, then ran for his father. He knew from my description where to find Gwydion and ran to him, sending me off on horseback to fetch the great Filidic healer, Khaddyr."
"By the time I returned with the priest, Gwydion had been dead for two days. He must have died just after I left him. I suppose I should be grateful that I had the chance to say goodbye to him as he left this Earth. Fate wasn't as kind with Lydia." He looked away, his jaw clenched. "I'm sorry. You would think by now I would have gotten better at this."
Rhapsody ran her hand up and down his arm in a gesture of comfort. "There is no set time limit on grief, Lord Stephen. Healing takes as long as it takes; you can't rush it."
Lord Stephen covered her hand with his own and sighed again. "No, I suppose not," he said. "In a way, I think the shock of Gwydion's death made it easier for me to accept Lydia's all those years later."
"He and I had been friends since childhood, when we met in Manosse. He was living there—that was where his mother was from—and I was visiting with my father. Eventually we both came back here, he to live with his father, and I to assume the responsibilities of the duchy when mine passed away. We were closer than brothers. My son would have been his godchild; instead he's his namesake. And his death served as a warning for what was coming, but we have been unable to stop it."
"Only now you say the marauders seem to be concentrating on children," Achmed said.
"Mostly, yes, at least here in Navarne and, from what I can glean, in the Lirin lands. My scouts tell me that there are incursions and raids from here to the Bolglands, south through Sorbold and the nonaligned states, north to the Hintervold. Whether the patterns in all those places match our own is impossible to say."
He flipped the end of the lamplighter's tool to the snuffer. "Well, unless there is something else you want to see, we should probably extinguish the lamps and go back now."
While the men set about quenching the flames, Rhapsody lingered a moment longer at the display, running her fingers along the little altar cloth. Carefully she picked up the signet ring and turned it over in her palm, then held it to her cheek. There was something comforting about the feel of the cool metal on her face, something she had no explanation for. She looked down at the flat surface and examined the crest. It was a rendering of a tree with a dragon coiled around the base, a symbol common throughout this museum, though nowhere else she had seen since arriving in this strange land.
Memories are the first stories you learn. They are your own lore. Rhapsody blinked at the sound of the voice in her mind. A strange thought, she mused. Obviously there were no memories of her own here; she had never seen the ring, or even heard the name Gwydion of Manosse before. Perhaps the thought referred to the power of Stephen's remembrances of his friend.
She hummed a soft note, a pitch that sometimes helped discern vibrations on objects, the signatures of their owners. Her mind filled for a split second with the hazy image of a man in darkness, drowning in unquenchable pain. It was a vision she had had on the Root. She dropped the ring.
The men had begun to troop down the stairs. Grunthor stopped at the top of stairwell and looked back at her. "Comin', Duchess?"
Rhapsody nodded. She turned and came to the staircase, waiting until Grunthor had descended with the torch, watching the jeweled eyes of the dragon statue glitter ominously in the vanishing light. She looked back at the corner where the shrine was now enveloped in darkness.
"I wish I could have been there for you," she whispered.
One by one the lights in the tower of the keep went out. The rosy glow of the stone settled back into the shadows of night, brown and flat in the dark.
Achmed watched from the window until the only light that remained was the flickering reflection of the torch flames. The lamplighters had finished their work long before; now the courtyard below was silent, filling with mist.
He crossed to the door and listened for a moment, then opened it slowly, taking great pains to be quiet about it. Satisfied the hall was empty, he returned and sat down in the chair next to Grunthor's bed.
"This was a lot easier when I still had a million heartbeats in my head," he said wryly, pouring himself a snifter of Stephen's best brandy. "Now I never know who's lurking about."
Grunthor untied the legging cords and unwrapped the cloth that served as his inner boot. When he looked up the expression in his eyes was direct, intense. "It's 'ere, ain't it?"
Achmed swallowed and leaned forward, cradling the glass in both hands. When he spoke his words were soft.
"I don't know. I suspect something's here, at least in this part of the world. I don't know if it's the same or not."
A massive boot dropped to the polished floor. "Oi assume you saw the amulet?"
Achmed nodded. "It was very similar, yes. But Llauron said that MacQuieth killed Tsoltan. Anyone else might have botched it, might have killed the human and left the demon loose, looking for another host. But not MacQuieth—at least I'd like to hope not."
"So what next?"
The Dhracian leaned so close that even someone standing in the room next to him would not have overheard.
"Nothing changes. We still need to go to Canrif; that's where it would have gone. That's where the power was, where the Cymrians were. Where the Bolg are now. If there are any answers to be had, I'm betting we'll find them there. But we need to go by way of Bethany. That's where the basilica dedicated to fire is. Perhaps there's something to be gleaned there as well."
Grunthor nodded. "And the Duchess?" Achmed looked away. The Sergeant sat up straighter and took hold of the Dhracian's shoulder. "Oi say we leave 'er 'ere. There's no need to be draggin' 'er into this anymore."
"She's safer with us. Trust me about this."
The Sergeant released his shoulder with a curt shove. "Says 'oo? 'Ad it occurred to you that maybe she's better off with someone like ol' Lord Steve? 'E seems smitten with the Duchess; 'e'd look after 'er. She likes 'is kids. Oi say we let 'er stay 'ere with 'im."
Sparks shot from Achmed's eyes like disks from the cwellan.
"And what if it is him? What kind of perversions do you think he'll subject her to if we leave her in his care? You want to be responsible for making her wish she was back in the clutches of the Waste of Breath? It'd be kinder if you just make good on all your threats and eat her for breakfast, alive. She'd suffer less."
Grunthor sat back, stung. Achmed sighed, and when he spoke again his voice was gentle.
"I know only a few things for certain anymore, Grunthor. It's not you; it's not me. After that things become cloudy. I'm fairly sure it isn't Rhapsody, but not entirely. Wouldn't that have been rich? For all I know she was bait waiting for us in the backstreets of Easton."
"That's loony."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Bear in mind she might not even know it. She was alone at Llauron's for a long time. But except for us, and possibly for her, there is nothing else we know for certain; am I right?"
Grunthor stared at him for a moment longer, then nodded reluctantly.
With a sigh, Achmed set the snifter down, empty.
"Look, how's this: we'll take her with us to Bethany. Once I've seen the basilica I should have a few more clues as to whether or not that bloody Seer was right. And then I'll tell her everything. If she wants to go back to Stephen, we'll make sure she gets here safely. Fair enough?"
Grunthor lay back and stretched out, pulling the covers up to his shoulder.
"One thing Oi've learned in my time with you, sir; Nothin' is ever fair enough."
The following morning Rhapsody had breakfast with her new grandchildren and went for a long walk in the forest with them and their father while the two Firbolg packed and provisioned for their journey. She sang the children songs of the woodlands, some in Lirin, some that she had learned at Llauron's in the common vernacular known as Orlandan.
While they strolled along she composed a tune that described them both in music, and watched as both children recognized themselves in the song. Melisande hung on to her, refusing to release her hand for even a moment, while Gwydion ran ahead, eager to show off his forestry skills and emerging talent as an archer. Lord Stephen said little, but just listened, smiling.
In their short time together she had already learned much about the individual natures of her new grandchildren. The haunted loneliness in Melisande's eyes was gone, replaced by her father's mirth and zest for life. She sang along with Rhapsody as they walked, oblivious of any need to know the song, and danced through puddles of mud, splashing and squealing with joy. It was as if all she had needed was permission to be happy again.
Gwydion, on the other hand, though blessed with a confident bearing, was clearly more introspective. Every now and then when he didn't know she was watching, she would see his face turn melancholy, his eyes darkening, reflecting his cloud-filled soul. There was a depth to him that his easy manner belied, but she could see it nonetheless.
Finally, when they returned to the courtyard of the keep, she bade the children goodbye so they could return to their lessons. She knelt and drew Melisande into her arms, holding her for a very long time, then released her gently and pulled back to look her in the face.
"I will think of you every day," she said, running her fingers through a twisted lock of curling gold hair, smoothing out the tangles. "You won't forget me, will you?"
"Of course not," said the little girl indignantly. Her heart-shaped face softened. "Will you ever come back?"
"Yes," said Rhapsody, brushing a kiss on her cheek, "if I can." As much as she knew the child was looking for assurance, she was unwilling to lie to her, especially given what had happened to her mother. With each passing day, she became more aware of her own vulnerability, and of the likelihood that she herself would meet a similar fate before the silent war was over. "I don't know when that will be. But I will write to you as soon as I come to a place I can write from."
"Are you still planning to head east?" asked Lord Stephen, looking at the ground with his hands on his hips.
She shaded her eyes from the glare of the winter sun. "I believe so; I'm not the navigator."
"Well, southeast of here a few days out is the House of Remembrance, an old Cymrian fortress and watchtower from the earliest days of the First Fleet. It's the oldest standing Cymrian site by far, and once held an impressive library."
"As a person of Lirin descent you might be interested in the tree there. A sapling of the mighty oak Sagia was brought by the First Fleet to plant in the new land, a blending of the sacred trees from both sides of the world. They planted it within the courtyard of the House of Remembrance."
"It's really a fascinating historical site, and I'm ashamed to say I haven't done much to keep it up; the building of Navarne's wall has kept me close to home this past year. The ugly reality is that protection of the Future has to outweigh preservation of the Past sometimes."
"Indeed." She kissed Melisande again, then turned to her grandson. "Goodbye, Gwydion. I'll miss you, and will be thinking of you. If I find any interesting arrows or tools for woodcraft, I'll send them to you."
"Thank you," the boy said. "And maybe you can show me more of that lore about herbs and roots when you come back next time. I'll be taller than you then."
"You almost are now," she laughed.
"Next year, when I turn thirteen," Gwydion said. Rhapsody stood and opened her arms to him. He came into her embrace and lingered a moment, then pulled away. He took his sister's hand.
"Come on, Melly," he said. The little girl waved a last time, then went off with her brother into the keep.
Stephen watched his children walk away. When he had assured himself that they were within the walls of the keep and safely in the care of Rosella, he turned once more to Rhapsody.
"You're welcome to stay, you know. The children would love for you to visit longer."
She smiled, and Stephen's knees grew weak. "Thank you. I wish I could. In fact, I'm sure that would be a much more pleasant prospect than wherever it is we are going."
"Then don't go," he said abruptly; a moment later his face colored as if exerted from the speed of his reaction. He looked down at the ground awkwardly. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."
Rhapsody laid her hand on his arm, causing his heart to race faster and the floridity of his face to deepen. "How can an offer of welcome be rude?" She sighed deeply; it was as if the wind sighed with her. "The truth is, Lord Stephen, wherever I am for a while, I'll still be lost. With any luck, by the time I come back this way, I'll have found me."
"Well, just remember you always have a home here," Lord Stephen said. "After all, now you're part of the family, Grandma." They both laughed.
The duke took her hand and kissed it gently, then pulled it into the crook of his arm, walking her back to her two Firbolg friends.
"Besides," he whispered, "you must come back, if only to relate the tale of how you ended up with those two."