"What do you mean, I can't go into the city? I've ridden this bloody horse for a week, and now I can't go into the city? You're a fornicating pig, Achmed. I hope you get the pox. It couldn't make your face any uglier than it is."
Achmed cast a glance at Rhapsody, who had turned away quickly, trying to contain her laughter. Then he dismounted with an annoyed sigh.
"Remind me again why I allow you to share our food with her," he asked, tossing the reins over the horse's back, ignoring Jo utterly.
"Because you like her," Rhapsody answered, her green eyes twinkling affectionately.
"Hmmm. Well, perhaps you had best go over the plan with her again. Explain to her that we can't risk her walking the streets of Bethany lest she be snapped up by the local charm school as an etiquette instructor."
Rhapsody pulled her saddlebag down and carried it to the copse of trees where Grunthor had laid camp. Jo trailed behind her, arguing the entire way. Finally she turned back to the whining teenager.
"All right, look. Achmed and I are making a quick foray into Bethany. Bethany is the capital seat of Roland, and there are three times the number of soldiers and guards as there are in Navarne." She chuckled silently as the color drained from Jo's face.
"We need to be in and out as rapidly as possible. But our next stop is the province of Bethe Corbair's capital city. We're going to do some provision shopping there, and some scouting. You'll get a chance to go into the city then, if you behave yourself."
"All right," Jo said sullenly.
"Look, I'm sorry this isn't as exciting as your life on the streets, but it's safer, believe me," Rhapsody said, untangling a snarl in Jo's stringy blond hair.
"Not necessarily," said Grunthor. He was stretched out under a leaf-bare tree, hands behind his head. "If you want the lit'le miss to still be 'ere when you get back, make sure to leave the food behind when you go."
"You always say that, but when was the last time you actually ate someone?" asked Jo, still not mollified.
"Dead or alive?"
Rhapsody shuddered. "All right, we're going now. Goodbye, Jo." She held out her arms, but Jo just nodded. The Singer turned instead to the Firbolg giant, who leapt to his feet and swept her up in a warm embrace.
"You be careful," he warned as he put her back down.
"We expect to be back by morning," Achmed said to Grunthor under his breath. Frost hung in the air between them, like frozen words hovering for effect. "Give us a day or two slip factor. After that, you and Jo are on your own." He signaled to Rhapsody and shouldered his pack. A hint of a smile crossed his face.
"And for that possibility I apologize most sincerely."
Bethany was a round city, two or three times the size of Easton by Rhapsody's estimate, with a wide ring of settlements and villages outside its ramparts. From a distance it appeared to be almost dome-shaped, with the tallest buildings in the center, tapering down to those of lesser heights at the perimeter walls. The battlements within the circular walls looked out in all directions, the sweeping panoramic defense of a spherical city, in the middle of the province, at approximately the midpoint of the nation of Roland.
Their initial reconnaissance of Bethany had included a ride around the entire perimeter, keeping a respectable distance, back before they parted company with Jo and Grunthor. Achmed had determined early on that the number of soldiers and defenses, visible and otherwise, made anything but entering on foot in the guise of humble peasants impossible.
So now Rhapsody and Achmed stood, robed and hooded in the simple garments they had been given at Llauron's, outside Bethany's southeastern gate, one of only eight entrances they had seen during their scouting.
While Navarne had been a province primarily of scattered farms and villages broken by the large landholdings of its nobles and a small, charming capital city, Bethany appeared to have been designed from the very beginning to be a cultural center, the epitome of an Age now long gone.
Even at the city's outskirts the streets were paved, with small shops, inns, and taverns interspersed with rows of buildings that each seemed to house several families. Within the city proper every street was lined with more lanternposts than Rhapsody had ever seen, glass domes covering the wicks atop gleaming brass poles. Watering troughs for horses as well as hitching racks appeared at the same place in each street.
By law all cattle and other animals of trade could only enter the city by certain gates, demarking Bethany into different districts. Markets and mercantile areas were limited to the eastern and western sections, while museums and the public gardens were located to the north and south. The basilica of fire and the castle of Tristan Steward, the Lord Regent and Prince of Bethany, the two most elevated of Bethany's structures, stood near each other in the heart of the city. Only the barracks of Bethany's soldiers could be found in all directions.
It seemed appropriate that the basilica dedicated to the element of fire had been built in the direct center of the city, an echo of the fire at the heart of the Earth. From far away Rhapsody had been able to feel the wellspring, a pulsing flame that called to the fire within her. Even though the fire source was just a shadow of the real conflagration through which the three of them had walked, there was an authenticity to it that told her its genesis was the same inferno; it was genuine, a pure elemental fountainhead.
"Keep your hood up and your head down," Achmed advised softly as yet another troop of guards passed, prodding the occasional citizen to move along. "Just keep walking toward the fire. I'll be right behind you. You don't need to look back."
Rhapsody nodded and concentrated on the song of the flame in the distance, pushing her feelings of unease into the corners of her mind. For all its beauty, Bethany seemed a town without mercy or a sense of humor. The neatly manicured gardens appeared almost too perfect, the buildings too elegant, too architecturally commanding. There was a decided absence of poor people or beggars. And the soldiers were everywhere. But, she reminded herself, it is the capital, after all. Some higher level of security was to be expected.
After almost two hours they finally located the basilica. Long before it had come into view they had seen evidence of its proximity in the street below their feet.
Rhapsody had noticed that the cobblestones in one roadway had been gilded in gold leaf and positioned in the pattern of a flame, stretching outward toward the east. The closer they came to the temple, the more ray-like patterns appeared in the streets. She stopped and waited for Achmed to follow her lead.
"Remember those etchings in Lord Stephen's museum?" she whispered. A hand came to rest gently on her upper arm, moving her forward; a town guard had made note of her coming to a halt, and Achmed wanted her to keep walking. When the guard's attention was drawn elsewhere, he released his hold on her.
"Yes."
"The exterior of the basilica was a courtyard inlaid with flame-colored mosaics. They would look something like this up close. We must be in the outer courtyard."
A moment's walking proved her correct. As they came around the corner the enormous basilica came into view. It was a circular structure, grand and imposing, rising to a great height above the other buildings and built of polished white marble with gold flecks running through it in veins.
The inner courtyard was a great mosaic, neatly bordered by topiary hedges in the shape of tongues of flame. The floor of the courtyard was inlaid with stones the color of fire in patterns that suggested the sun's rays. The rays were trimmed with lapis and other precious gems, which evoked an incandescent glimmer when the sunlight hit them. Vast gardens stretched out to the foot of the elevated palace to the north, brown and dry in the death grip of winter.
The structure of the basilica itself was composed of several huge concentric circles, each a layer of elevated hewn-marble seating, all facing toward the center, where a wide golden brazier could be seen. A few faithful sat or knelt in the various levels of seating, praying or meditating silently while two robed ordinates walked about, tending to the basilica.
Leaping from the brazier was a flame of intense light, crimson and orange with twisting ribbons of blue, burning intensely, silently. The same power, the same pure light and heat, it evoked deep memories of the wall of flame they had passed through so long ago, back on the other side of Time. It was all Rhapsody could do to keep back tears at the recollection of the fire's embrace, the all-consuming acceptance she had felt at the Earth's heart as it surrounded her.
She could have stayed for a long time, staring rapturously at the brazier, but her reverie was interrupted by the thin, strong fingers encircling her upper arm again.
"Come on," Achmed whispered, shattering her trance of memory. "He looks like a good candidate."
He nodded slightly toward a nearby ordinate, a man of late middle years with a shiny bald head. The man was wearing a brown robe with a stylized image of the sun emblazoned on the chest, its center a curling red spiral. It was similar to the amulet they had seen in the portrait of the Blesser of Canderre-Yarim, Bethany's benison, in the Cymrian museum.
Rhapsody flexed the muscle in her upper arm to signal her understanding. It had been decided beforehand that she would seek to learn as much of the basilica's lore, and the stories that those who tended it imparted to the faithful, as she could while Achmed sought out the less public aspects.
When the grip released she made her way to the clergyman and stopped at a respectful distance. The ordinate was crouched over, polishing a brass railing that separated the first layer of seating from the one after it. Without looking up he waved a dismissive hand at her.
"Peasantry in the last Ring only."
When he went back to his task, puffing slightly, Rhapsody looked back to Achmed, already a fair distance away. He touched his hood, signaling for her to remove her own. She did, then turned back to the ordinate.
"Ordinate?"
The bald man sat back on his haunches and glared up at her. Then, an instant later, his face slackened and his mouth fell open, a look approximating horror filling his now-round eyes.
"Sweet Creator. Now?" he whispered, dropping the polishing cloth.
Simon had been cleaning the basilica all morning, preparing for the benison's service on the high day of the week. Despite the winter chill, the work was exhausting, and he had been sweating for the better part of an hour.
Humility, he kept reminding himself, one of the seven vows of the ordinariate. Again, for the fourth time that morning, he began to recite his prayer. But despite his rote repetition of the rite of humility, jealousy bordering on anger still permeated his pores, oozing out with the sweat, leaving him nauseous with it. He had, in fact, been feeling sick and weak all day.
Once again Dartralen had been given hospice duty by the Abbot when the wounded soldiers arrived. And once again, despite his seniority, and his age, and his skill at healing, Simon had been relegated to the rites of preparation—also known as housecleaning—while Dartralen smugly tended to the injured, that clumsy butcher.
He was struggling to put the malicious thought out of his mind when the peasant woman approached him. Simon pointed the way to her proper place, the outer Ring, but she had apparently not heard him.
"Ordinate?" The voice was soft and warm, like the breath of the fire itself.
When he looked up his heart lurched into his throat.
Standing before him, clothed in the brown sackcloth of a peasant, was Beauty itself, a woman with eyes as deep and green as the emerald depths of the sea, and hair the color of the sun, glistening in the winter wind. A warmth radiated from her; he had been around the Holy Brazier long enough to recognize its source. This must be the Fire Spirit, the harbinger of death in the Ancient Lores, now come for him. The exertion of cleaning must have been greater than he thought.
And when this angelic escort had come for him, he was thinking jealous thoughts, arrogant thoughts. His heart sank into the Earth. He was damned.
"Sweet Creator. Now?" he asked, his voice tremulous.
The beautiful apparition blinked. "Are you unwell?"
Simon struggled to rise. "Ah, forgive me. I—I mistook you for someone else." He closed his eyes, praying that mistaking her for a peasant would not make his punishment in the Afterlife even more painful.
The vision bowed respectfully. "I was wondering if I might impose upon you to instruct me in the lore of this basilica? I am from far away."
Simon's trembling grew more violent. Ah, that's it, he thought, his eyes casting about wildly to see if anyone else was witnessing his imminent demise. I'm being tested. Only a few of the faithful were scattered in the Rings, lost in prayer or meditation. Another hooded peasant was wandering the basilica, making note of the frescoes and mosaics on the walls and floor.
Well, he thought grimly, my place in the Afterlife depends on this moment. I am being judged on my priestly comportment, and how well I am versed in religious ritual and rite. I may as well expend every effort of which I'm capable.
"It would be my pleasure," he said, making the attempt to smile benevolently, choking back his fluttering heart as it tried to escape through his throat. "This way."
"Thank you," Rhapsody said, folding her hands inside the sleeves of her robes as the ordinate did. This was much easier than she had expected, especially after his initial reaction.
The look of utter terror on the ordinate's face when he first looked up had made her stomach clench in cold nausea. It was a reaction she had seen a few times before, in Stephen's servants, in the guards at the House of Remembrance, among Llauron's followers. It was Anborn, the great Cymrian general, who had summed it up most succinctly.
Ah, now I know who you are; you're Rhapsody, aren't you?
How did you know that?
There could only be one such freak of nature.
Even Khaddyr, who as a healer had seen people in all degrees of illness and decay, had stared at her.
I thought perhaps she would interest you, as I am at a loss to define what she is. I've never seen a Lirin like that.
Whether it was her Liringlas appearance, or something that had happened to her in her walk through the fire that had made her appear freakish, she seemed to evoke responses that she did not recognize.
Occasionally she saw something that almost resembled awe, an emotion she had seen in another form back in the brothel. Either way, she would need to learn to live with it, probably much the way Achmed did—by remaining hidden. Rhapsody pulled her hood back up and followed the sweating ordinate.
He began by leading her directly to the brazier.
"This is the holy flame-well of Vrackna, Lord All-God, Fire of the Universe," he said carefully.
Against her will Rhapsody went pale, then swallowed, an action that caused the nervous ordinate even more consternation. She had forgotten the misuse the Cymrians had made of the ancient evil fire god's name. The ordinate struggled to regain his composure.
"The—the basilica—is, of course, consecrated to the Creator. It is unique in that it is dedicated to one of His five children, the element of fire. The flame within this Brazier comes directly from the heart of the Earth, the fire at the core of the world."
Rhapsody smiled but did not look at the fire for fear she would begin to weep or stare, entranced by the leaping colors. Instead she nodded to Achmed, who hovered nearby.
"This is my associate," she said, gesturing to the Dhracian to join them. "I believe he is interested in what you have to say as well."
A beneficent smile now frozen firmly in place, the ordinate turned to greet Achmed, who dropped the veil from in front of his face and grinned. Rhapsody had just enough time to grab the cleric's arm as his eyes rolled back and he lurched forward.
Death's angel had apparently not come alone.
"This is my associate," the apparition said softly. "I believe he is interested in what you have to say as well."
Simon had steeled himself, expecting another vision of supernatural countenance, perhaps a lesser spirit of the fire. Instead the face that stared back at him, silhouetted against the Brazier's leaping flames, was a face born of nightmares. The eyes, piercing with the look of the Soul-stealer, stared into his own. The mouth, a twisted line in the pocked skin's surface, contorted into a leer in greeting.
As the world grew dark around him, Simon knew that this was his fate if he failed, the demonic other side of the angelic coin. Instead of ascending to the Afterlife in the arms of the Fire Spirit, he would be choked in the clutches of this denizen of the Underworld who laughed at him now. Good and evil, battling for his soul where he stood.
With his last clear thought, he wished desperately that he had paid more attention to the lessons of the Ancient Lore, now no longer part of the dogma. Simon began to tremble violently, then pitched forward as the blood rushed from his head.
A strong, warm hand gripped his forearm, and he was uplifted again. As Simon raised his head he inhaled the fragrant scent of the Fire Spirit's hair, and found himself staring into the hypnotic eyes, green and verdant with life.
"Ordinate?" The smile she gave him had a ring of encouragement to it, and he took heart. Perhaps she was not dissatisfied with his answers after all.
She leaned closer, the sweet scent of her skin making his head feel light again. "You needn't fear him," she whispered. A blessing, Simon thought gratefully. My faith, and the All-God's harbinger, will protect me.
He struggled to a stand. "I'm fine. I'm sorry. Now, where was I? Yes, of course. The faithful of the See of Bethany attend services here, using this gift of the Creator to center their thoughts, to purify them, to make their prayers worthy of offering up to the Patriarch."
The Fire Spirit nodded. "And these?" She extended a graceful arm and pointed to the frescoes and mosaics that decorated the basilica's walls.
Simon summoned the strength to stand alone. He pointed to the fresco of a young man in red robes and a horned miter painted on the northern wall of the innermost Ring.
"That is a portrait of His Grace, Ian Steward, the Blesser of Canderre-Yarim. He is the benison of the See for which this is the basilica."
"Tristan's brother?" asked the demon. His voice was as dry as black fire, with a haughty undertone to it.
Simon shuddered. He did not want to be responsible for aiding in the damnation of his sovereign in any way, though it was of little surprise to him that the demon was intimately acquainted with the prince.
Simon cast a glance around for Brentel, the other ordinate assigned to preparation duty, but he had disappeared, probably into the reliquary or the vestry. He looked backed to the Fire Spirit, who was, by her expression, also anticipating his reply.
"Ye—yes," he stammered. The angel nodded, as if pleased; it gave him a sudden jolt of courage. He turned to the other mosaics.
"These are artistic representations of the birth of Fire," the ordinate said, nervously wiping the sweat from his shining pate.
Rhapsody followed his outstretched arm. A series of mosaic images graced the other three walls of the basilica's Innermost Ring. In the first, on the eastern wall, an image of the sun appeared in the distance behind a shooting star, blazing across the black tiles that represented the void of the universe. The globe burned brightly, flames dancing across its surface.
"The Earth was formed when a piece of the star that is our sun broke off and streaked across the void, coming to rest in orbit about its mother," the ordinate intoned. His eyes sought hers anxiously, and though she had no idea why he was seeking her validation, she smiled and nodded. He relaxed visibly and turned to the south.
"Fire burned, unchecked, on the Earth's surface. In the absence of ethereal fuel, however, Fire could not sustain itself and sank into the Earth, forming its core, where it burns to this day in the purest of its forms." The mosaic captured, in tens of thousands of tiny tiles, the image of the Earth, now dark at the surface, a red spiral leading down to the center, where it glowed intensely.
Achmed and Rhapsody followed the ordinate to the last of the picture-walls, the stylized image of the sun with the coiled red center from the amulet, the image he himself wore on his chest.
"This is the symbol of the F'dor, the primordial race that existed long before the birth of mankind. They were the children of fire, the ancient culture that it originated, that sprang from it."
"It was the F'dor that tamed fire, at least a little, and gave it to mankind for its use in protection, in the warming of homes in winter, in the forging of weapons. The F'dor, now long deceased, were the forefathers of steel, of hearths, of every way in which we now make use of this holy and powerful element, one of the original gifts of the All-God."
The ordinate's words ground to a halt as he caught the expression on Achmed's face. He quickly looked back at Rhapsody, who smiled again.
She extended a hand to the cleric, who took it, still shaking.
"Thank you. I think we should be going now."
The ordinate collapsed in a faint. Rhapsody barely had time to stop him from slamming his head into the paved mosaic of the basilica floor.
"What on Earth is the matter with this man?" she asked as they propped him against the inner wall of the basilica beneath the F'dor symbol.
"Nothing," Achmed answered, casting a glance above him at the mosaic. It's something within the Earth, he thought.
Rhapsody was uncorking her flask of brandy. She held it to the unconscious man's lips and poured a little down his throat. The ordinate sputtered, spilling a little of the flask's contents down the front of his robe, but did not regain consciousness. She gave him a little more, then recapped the flask.
"There; I hope that helps," she said.
"Well, it might temporarily," Achmed said with a smirk. "Clerics who tend shrines of fire are generally forsworn from alcohol, for obvious reasons. I imagine he will have a hard time explaining the reek of brandy on his clothes when he wakes up."
He saw concern cloud her eyes, darkening them. "Let's go," he said impatiently, forestalling Rhapsody from any further attempt to wake him. "Don't worry about him, he'll come up with something. These people are almost as good at self-delusion as you are." He pulled her to a stand.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.
"Come with me now, and I'll tell you once we're outside the city walls," he said. He gave her hand another tug, and together they bolted from the basilica, walking quickly away and blending into the crowded streets.
Simon fought to waken, and lost. In his few fragmented moments of awareness he could recall the scent of the Fire Spirit's sweet skin, and the warmth of her hands as she tilted his head back.
He had seen the moment of his own death. The Fire Spirit had taken his hand. Thank you, she had said. I think we should be going now. At least she had chosen him; he had won salvation, not the damnation of the demon with the nightmare face. The world had gone dark.
Then his head was in her hands, and the burning liquid ripped down his throat, searing him with molten fire. He had gasped, had tried to fight it, only to find that her ministrations had filled him with a sense of well-being, a warmth that lulled him to sleep, easing his fear and his distress. At least it had until the Abbot found him.
"Hurry up," Achmed muttered. He was standing beneath the eaves of a harper's shop at the edge of town, waiting for Rhapsody to return.
The sound of delight she had made when she first sighted the shop could have come from a two-year-old, it was so full of childlike joy. The sound had a music that stopped him in his tracks, had made her pleading impossible to resist. It was a dangerous sound, one that he would be wary of from now on.
I want to send some gifts to my grandchildren, and I deserve a new harp, she had said, I keep leaving all my stringed instruments behind.
It had taken an inordinately long period of time for her to choose another, however. The noise of the street, and the vibrations that the foot and cart traffic were generating, made his head throb. He was preparing to go into the shop himself to drag her out when she appeared at the door, disheveled and flustered, a decided look of anger in her eye.
"Bastard," she muttered, handing him the three-stringed instrument she was lugging.
"Excuse me?"
"Not you, him," she spat, gesturing at the shop door, then smoothing her hair back under the hood again.
"What happened?"
"Apparently harps aren't the only things his fingers want to pluck," she said angrily as they walked away from shop, joining the flow of human traffic again.
Achmed snickered as he passed the instrument back to her. "How did you react?"
"I tried to think about what Grunthor would do, and did my best imitation of it," she said, slinging the package back under her robe. "Only I used the blunt end of my dagger; Grunthor wouldn't have. So the arse-rag's singing a soprano accompaniment to the organ, rather than missing one."
"Must be descended from the Cymrians," Achmed said wryly.
Rhapsody's mood lifted a little with the joke. "Well, I certainly knew a lot of them in the old land who qualified as arse-rags. I can't believe you said that to Llauron, though."
"What did you buy?" Achmed asked.
"It's a physician's lyre; it's supposed to help in songs of healing. Khaddyr had one, but he didn't know how to play it very well. It only has three strings, and I've never actually used one before, so it may take a while to pick up. The instruments of this land are very different from home."
He took her shoulder to navigate her away from a passel of soldiers standing on a street corner near the southeastern gate, laughing amongst themselves.
"Rhapsody, I hate to keep breaking it to you, but this is home now."
He watched as she continued to walk, staring at the ground as though lost in thought. When they had exited the gate, she looked up at him.
"Perhaps for you," she said. She looked back at the ground and kept walking.
Deep in the village at the outskirts of the city Rhapsody turned suddenly and grabbed Achmed's arm.
"Are we being followed?"
The Dhracian nodded and continued to walk, dodging a stream of scurrying children and circumventing the acrid smoke of a barrel fire outside a shack where haunches of meat were being dried. He almost had to shout to be heard above the din of the crowd milling around them, the people who would never be allowed to walk the pristine streets of the city proper in Bethany.
"It's Grunthor. He's been shadowing us for a while."
"Why? And where's Jo?" Rhapsody craned her neck to see if she could catch sight of the large shadow again, but it was gone.
"Because I asked him to. Probably with him; we're not far from camp."
A piercing shriek rose over the cacophony; it carried with it the pain of a child in distress. Rhapsody turned to see a small boy on the ground, cowering, with his hands over his head. He was curled into a ball, trying to shield himself from the savage kick being aimed at him by a man with a grizzled black beard.
Rhapsody bolted forward, only to be hauled back by a tug on her arm born of Achmed's superior speed.
"Don't intervene," he warned, watching the black fury on her face fade to gray shock at his words. "This is the way these people live, the way most people live. Look around you."
Indeed, the passers-by were milling past the child and his attacker, avoiding the scene or even oblivious of it. Rhapsody struggled to break away again. Achmed tightened his grip.
"Think about the beating that child will get later on if you get involved in this, Rhapsody. And you can't adopt another one; if you try, I'll abandon you and Jo here, in Bethany." The child cried out again as another kick connected.
"Let go," she snarled. The black fury had returned.
Reluctantly Achmed released her arm and faded back angrily. She charged across the street, head down, crouched in the position Grunthor had taught her called the Battering Ram. The situation was unspooling wildly; there was nothing he could do now but watch.
She connected just below the chest of the furious man as his leg was on the upswing. Caught off guard by the momentum of her attack, he reeled backward, both of them toppling into a row of barrels and small logs.
As the man's head struck the ground Rhapsody drove the heel of her palm upward, breaking his nose. Blood sprayed the dirt of the roadway, leaving small dark stains on the cobblestones, now wide-spread and farther between as the street led away from the city.
The initial shock past, the man's eyes cleared, and he made a grab for her throat.
"Bitch," he panted, swinging his arm wildly at her. "What—"
Achmed sighed as he saw Rhapsody, now astride the peasant, pull back for her famous right cross, the blow Grunthor had commented on admiringly. She connected impressively, a direct impact to the man's bloody nose, snapping his head back with a resounding crack.
As the man lay sprawled on the street Rhapsody rose and wiped the spatters of his blood off her forehead. The passers-by who had not stopped to notice the child being kicked were beginning to slow now, staring at the scene.
"Why were you kicking that child?" she demanded, panting.
The man blinked and squinted into the fading sun above him, then grimaced.
"He's—my son," he muttered, his words choked.
"Really?" Rhapsody asked sarcastically. "That's why? Glad you told me." She gave his testicles a savage stomp, causing him to curl into the same position his child had been in the moment before. A man watching nearby recoiled in horror.
"There; hopefully you won't have any more, then. You're obviously not fit to." She turned to the little boy, who was still curled up on the ground, and bent down to him.
Achmed's attention was drawn up the roadway to where another commotion was occurring. A team of soldiers on horseback had stopped in the midst of the traffic. One was bent forward, listening to a man who was gesticulating wildly, pointing in Rhapsody's direction. He looked back at her.
She was soothing the ragged child now, touching his face comfortingly, asking him if he was all right. The little boy was nodding, staring up into her hood, slack-jawed. Rhapsody turned back to his father.
"What's your name?" she demanded.
The man leaned up on one elbow, trying to stanch his bleeding nose.
"Styles Nielsen." The words were a whisper.
Rhapsody bent close to him. "Hear me, Styles Nielsen," she said, her voice low and musical. Even across the roadway Achmed recognized the tone; she was using her Naming lore.
"It is your life's mission from this moment on to protect this child, to raise him lovingly, to tend to his needs. When your actions are in keeping with that mission, you will feel pleasure. If you violate this edict in any way, if you hurt him, you will feel his pain tenfold. If you abuse him with words, it will feel like your skin is on fire; do you understand me?" The man nodded, staring into her hood the way his son had a moment before.
Achmed saw the guards move in a second too late, his attention diverted by the soldiers up the roadway. The first grabbed her by the arm and hauled her into the street, while the other pulled her hood down with a vicious tug. Achmed ran across the road.
Pandemonium broke loose. From up the street the soldiers were riding in, toppling the citizenry right and left before their horses. The crowd that had been hovering, watching the assault in horror, swelled forward, grabbing at Rhapsody, trying to touch her, hold on to her. Achmed pushed forward with them. He was almost within reach.
Her shining hair, once bound by its standard black ribbon, came billowing loose, streaming in the winter wind. The crowd gasped, then began grabbing for it. Achmed saw Rhapsody disappear beneath a sea of humanity, a multitude of hands and arms flailing around her. He ducked as another swell of people rushed in, trying to get nearer to the strange, compelling creature in their midst. The population of the village swirled in blind commotion like waves in the sea.
The soldiers on horseback rode into the throng, stopping next to the thickest part of the mayhem. One shoved a woman aside and began to dismount, a club in his hand.
Achmed struggled to remain upright. He reached through the morass of limbs, following the sound of Rhapsody's racing heart, the only pulse he could hear other than his own. He seized the tiny wrist just as the soldier was upon her.
Then the air and the frenzy around them was shattered by a familiar roar. An ear-rending scream of fury, it rumbled through the street, sending waves of panic through the crowd, beginning with the horses, both of which bolted in terror.
As the crowd swirled in fright, Achmed dragged Rhapsody through the chaos and ran, head down, toward the edge of town, shoving aside anything that got in his way. When he hit the first clear patch he stopped long enough to pull her hood up, then cast a glance behind them.
The hubbub was beginning to slow, as the villagers looked around them, trying to find the woman with the shining hair. The soldiers were still working to quiet their mounts, at the same time attempting to keep them from trampling anyone.
Achmed looked into Rhapsody's face. She was staring blindly ahead, looking back over her shoulder.
"Come on," he said, pulling her forward. Without another word they walked as quickly and inconspicuously as possible out of the roadway and away from the frenzy she had caused in the streets of Bethany.
Twilight came and settled over the fields of the Orlandan Plateau long before they stopped walking. Achmed had paused long enough for Rhapsody to sing her devotions, noting the same melancholy tone that had been present the morning after he had left her at Llauron's. There was pain in the music, deep as the sea, and it clarified many of the fragmented assumptions that had been running loose in his mind. He heard her whisper the names of Stephen's children into the darkness.
As the shadows grew longer they came to a sheltered knoll, where a deep swale in the field had been overgrown with trees and brush. Grunthor had suggested this area as one that was hidden largely from the paths of the wind. Now, upon seeing it for himself, and feeling the vibrations of the air abate a little around it, he concurred. This was the place.
He led Rhapsody inside the tree-shelter and brushed a pool of melting snow off an enormous fallen log.
"Have a seat," he said. "We need to talk."
Rhapsody sighed, a look of utter desolation in her eyes. "Please don't berate me now, Achmed. I know it was a stupid thing to do, but I didn't have an alternative. I just couldn't stand there while that man—"
"This is not the topic of the conversation I want to have now," Achmed said quietly. Rhapsody dissolved into astonished silence. "You were given a piece of false lore today, a polluted story of ancient origin. I want to help you purify the lore."
Her eyes opened wide. "What?"
Achmed sat down across from her and rested his elbows in his knees, his folded hands in front of his lips.
"Wait for the onset of night," he said, looking into the dusk at the last vestiges of day disappearing beyond the horizon. "It will be easier if we hold off until dark."
Gerald Owen burst through the door of Haguefort's library.
"M'lord—"
"I see them, Owen." Stephen Navarne was standing at the eastern window, staring ruefully out at the panoramic view of his lands coming to light with the dawn.
The newly built rampart was swarming with moving bodies, men locked in deadly conflict, under a banner of black smoke that rose eerily from behind the great stone wall.
From the shells of each guard tower, recently erected and not yet complete, hung at least one body, sometimes more, twisting endlessly in the wind generated by the attack. Lord Stephen watched, stone-faced, as a falling victim slammed into one of the hanged men, sending the corpse spinning into the wall.
"What in the name of the Creator is happening?"
Owen bent over at the waist, his hands on his knees, red-faced from the exertion of running.
"They attacked just—before dawn," he gasped. "Burned three closest villages, and the eastern guard post. Got the—stables, too."
"And the soldiers? What happened to the eastern barracks?"
Owen's red face paled. "In flames, m'lord. No one—got out, best as we can tell."
"Sweet All-God." Lord Stephen strode out of the study and into the dining room, stopping before the southern window. The scene was much the same, though the wall seemed to have held better on this front. He glanced over his shoulder at the portrait of his family, then turned to Gerald Owen again.
"All right, Owen, pay close attention. I want you to take my entire personal guard retinue and get Melisande and Gwydion out of here. Go through the tunnels to the wine cellar and out through the western stables. Take Rosella with you, and try not to alarm them all unduly. Head for Llauron's; send word to Anborn on your way." Owen nodded and started for the door.
Lord Stephen leaned his head on his forearm, unable to look away from the scene of carnage.
"Owen?"
"Yes, m'lord?"
"One last thing before you go: summon the quartermaster and tell him to bring my gelding 'round. In the absence of the soldiers from the eastern barracks, I'm going to have to rally the villagers to their own defense."
Owen's words were filled with pain. "M'lord, the attackers are the villagers."
"Well, you've finally seen fit to come and report, have you?" Gittleson sat back, fascinated at the upcoming exchange, but afraid to draw undue attention to himself. It was dangerous enough being the only witness.
The man beneath the gray mantled cloak bowed stiffly, then took down his hood. A cocky smile wreathed the handsome face, blue eyes twinkling merrily.
"We've lost the House," he said cheerfully.
The air in the small room became suddenly warmer, and Gittleson found himself breathing shallowly, trying to escape notice.
The red-rimmed eyes of his master were firmly fixed on the smirking Rakshas, however. When he spoke, a moment later, his voice was measured, with a hint of threat below the surface.
"Despite your limited capacity to reason, I assume you know that this is a very bad setback," he said dryly. The Rakshas nodded, his red-gold curls catching the light. "Then why are you grinning like an idiot?"
The Rakshas dropped into a chair and swung his legs up over the arm. "Because of who we lost it to."
"Don't play games with me, toy. Who was it?"
"I have no idea." The Rakshas sat forward suddenly, a wild look in the crystalline blue eyes. "But there were three of them."
Gittleson recoiled as his master rose.
"What are you babbling about?" The cultured voice dropped to a menacing whisper.
The Rakshas's voice was warm and rich as honey. "Look, I may not be the most acute thinker, but even I can count. There were three of them, a woman and two men, I think, though I only got a glimpse of one close up. Ugly as sin. They drove us out of the House, took down my troops around me. And at least one of them seemed to have as much control over fire as I do."
"Impossible."
The Rakshas shrugged. "Suit yourself."
"Where are these three now?"
"Couldn't say exactly." The Rakshas stretched out, hands behind his head. "They were headed east last time I knew, towards the Krevensfield Plain."
"Canrif." The word was a whispered hiss. Gittleson, in his corner, shuddered at the sound. "They're heading to Canrif."
"Perhaps."
The red-rimmed eyes turned suddenly, fixing their gaze on Gittleson. He could feel the blood drain from his face.
"Gittleson, I may have need of your services shortly."