Tristan Steward, High Lord Regent of Roland and Prince of Bethany, stood at the window in his library, wondering if his counselors and his fellow regents, gathered in his keep for his annual meeting, had gone collectively mad.
From shortly after breakfast that morning to the present they had come, one by one, and had interrupted his work with insistent, if polite, suggestions that he entertain the uninvited guest that was waiting patiently in the foyer of his keep.
Tristan had refused each time, citing an overload of pressing grain treaties and a decided lack of protocol. Once he had been told the emissary was from the Bolglands he was even more unwilling to consider the possibility.
Yet here was Ivenstrand, Duke of Avonderre, second among his fellows only to Stephen Navarne, both in title and in the Lord Regent's estimation, tapping like a timid woodpecker on his door and peeking in like a chambermaid.
The Lord Roland sighed. "Gods, not you, too, Martin. First the chamberlain, then the High Counselors, and the other dukes, and now you? What is so bloody pressing that you keep me from my work?"
Ivenstrand cleared his throat. "Ah, Your Highness, I think perhaps this is a visitor you will want to meet. I took the liberty of bringing her to your office in case you decided to do so." He looked nervously at the Regent.
The Lord Roland slammed shut the atlas that he had been trying to study. "Fine. I can see I'll have no peace unless I do." With a glare he strode to the door and past Ivenstrand, only to stop and turn back again. "Did you say 'her'?"
"Yes, m'lord."
Roland shuddered. It was bad enough that the Bolg had sent an emissary to his keep; undoubtedly the place would need to be aired afterward. But a female one—the thought staggered him and pushed his irritation into the level past full-blown. He marched to his office in fury.
The chamberlain was standing at the rightmost of the double doors, averting his eyes. He had caught the expression on Roland's face and tried to slide closer to the wall as the Lord Regent approached. He opened the door for him and announced the guest.
"M'lord, the Lady Rhapsody, out of the lands of Ylorc."
"What? What nonsense is this?" demanded Roland of the chamberlain. "I've never heard of any such place. Stand aside."
He stalked into the library, bracing himself for the sight of the monstrous emissary. The new Firbolg warlord was either a coward or a genius for sending a Bolg female in the hopes that she would not be put to the sword immediately.
She was small for a Bolg. Her back was turned to the door as she stared up at the arched ceiling above her, admiring the ornate carving. The emissary was attired in a plain, unremarkable winter cape and hood, and appeared to be wearing trousers. Somehow the Lord Regent wasn't surprised by the lack of court clothing. As soon as she heard him enter the library she wheeled and dropped a low, elegant curtsy. Roland was taken aback, as he had not expected her to do much more than soil the floor with spittle.
"What is it? What do you want?"
The female looked up, and Roland was caught off-guard by the correction of his many wrong assumptions. That she was not Firbolg was surprise enough; her other attributes were cause for astonishment that he could not overcome.
Rhapsody smiled at the Lord Roland. "I'm here with a message from His Majesty, King Achmed of Ylorc." Her smiled broadened as she thought of the official Firbolg appellations she had left off—the Glowering Eye, the Earth-Swallower, the Merciless. "He has asked that I deliver it to you on his behalf, as you have not yet sent official ambassadors to his court."
Roland closed his mouth; he was unsure how long it had been hanging open. "You are not Firbolg."
"No. Should I be?"
Tristan Steward shook his head numbly. "Definitely not. I mean, no. No, you don't have to be." He cringed inwardly at how stupid he knew he sounded.
"Thank you." Rhapsody smiled respectfully, but Roland could see amusement glitter in her amazing green eyes. He took a deep breath and tried to recover his composure.
"Sit down. Please. Chamberlain, take this lady's cloak for her. Would you care for some refreshment?"
"Thank you. And no, thank you." Rhapsody sat in the curved walnut chair he pointed to after removing her cloak and handing it to the chamberlain, causing another moment of awkward silence. Finally, as though shaking off sleep, the chamberlain shook his head, took her cloak, and left, with a bow to the Regent.
The Lord Roland walked hurriedly behind his desk and sat down himself, hoping it would shield him somewhat from the pleasant effect she was having on his physiology. He was, after all, publicly betrothed.
"So, before you tell me your message, indulge me, if you will: where or what is Ylorc, and why do you come on behalf of the Firbolg warlord?"
Rhapsody folded her hands patiently. "Ylorc is the Firbolg name for the old Cymrian lands that were once called Canrif. I am here as his messenger, on behalf of my sovereign."
The Lord Roland swallowed, and Rhapsody tried not to laugh. She could read his thoughts plainly on his face: the idea of her being subservient to a Firbolg ruler was clearly disgusting to him. She decided not to let his prejudice bother her. Unconsciously she crossed her legs, and watched as his face turned magenta. When he came back to at least partial lucidity, he addressed her sternly.
"What is the message?"
"It involves the annual custom of Roland that your soldiers call 'Spring Cleaning,' the practice of ransacking Firbolg border villages and encampments."
"I know the practice; what of it?"
"It needs to cease, immediately and in perpetuity, beginning this year."
The Lord Roland snapped out of his reverie. "Really? That's interesting. And who does this warlord believe he is that he would make such a brash dictate to me?"
Rhapsody's voice was calm. "He knows who he is; if you had been listening, m'lord, you would know as well. He is the king and singular ruler of the Firbolg lands, and, as such, objects, along with his counselors, including myself, to the unwarranted and heinous slaughter of innocent Firbolg citizens."
The Regent looked at her as if she were insane. "Citizens? Are you daft? The Firbolg are monsters, and aggressive ones at that. The Spring Cleaning ritual is a defensive maneuver that has been practiced for centuries, ever since the mudspawn took over the old Cymrian lands. It eliminates the potential for the brutal raids and other border incursions that they are well known for."
The light in Rhapsody's eyes began to burn a little brighter, and the color of the irises began to kindle. "Really? When was the last of these brutal raids?"
Roland stared at her in silence; she met his gaze unblinkingly. Finally, he glanced about the room and looked back to her. Her eyes had not moved.
"Well, it would be difficult to cite you a specific raid. As I told you, the Spring Cleaning custom has been practiced for centuries, and has been very effective in keeping the violence at a minimum."
Rhapsody's face lost the last vestige of its smile. "Oh, I see. Now I understand. Violence is only violence if it is against your citizens, Lord Roland; the slaughter of the people of Ylorc doesn't matter."
The Regent's mouth fell open. "People? What people? The Firbolg are monsters."
"That's right, you did say that earlier, didn't you? Aggressive monsters, I believe. So, the army of Roland, under your direction, is responsible for a yearly raid that routinely destroys towns and shelters, leaving children dead and homeless. You cannot, on the other hand, name me one single example of a similar, even retaliatory raid on their part, in your lifetime, and probably not the lifetime of your grandfather. I am moved to ask, Lord Roland, since this is the case, who is it that qualifies as the aggressive monsters?"
Roland leapt to his feet. "How dare you? Who do you think you are, young woman, to address me in such an insolent manner?"
Rhapsody sighed. "Once again, my name is Rhapsody. I am an emissary from the court of Ylorc. I believe my answers have been consistent, and therefore bear out the fact that I do know who I am. I must say, m'lord, I'm not sure you can say the same thing."
His eyes began to smolder with rage. "Meaning what, exactly?"
"You see yourself as lord of a civilized and noble people, and, for the most part, you are probably right. But when a people such as yours deny the humanity of a race of individuals that builds homes and villages, makes tools and forms family groups, you are doing a far greater disservice to yourselves than you are to the innocents you kill; you become far worse monsters than you accuse them of being."
The Lord Roland slammed his hand down on his desk. "Enough! Get out. I cannot believe I have wasted my time being insulted by the likes of you. You are a very disturbed young woman. You may look more like the previous inhabitants of the Cymrian lands, but you have the manners and attitudes of the current population."
Rhapsody stood and stared him down. "Thank you. From what I understand of the Cymrians and their history, you have just delivered me a great compliment, however unintentional. I will leave posthaste, with two final comments."
"Make them quickly, before I call the chamberlain."
"That won't be necessary; as I said, I am going. First, the other part of the message. King Achmed says to tell you that if you abide by his wishes and cease hostilities this year, he will guarantee no incursions into Roland by the Bolg."
"The Bolg are a loose collection of brainless beasts that know only animal instinct, and could not organize an official incursion any more than they could fly. In addition, I doubt that this warlord, if he is still alive when you return with my scoffing message of refusal to him, has any control or jurisdiction over what they do."
"Well, m'lord, you are certainly entitled to your opinion, however misinformed that may be. Allow me to pass on a bit of intelligence you might not have: the Bolg are now united, for the first time in their history, under their king. We are training them, and educating them, in many things, including the production of salable material goods for which we hope to have Roland as a trading partner."
"You are a very sick girl."
"Be that as it may, their first vintage will be available in the autumn, along with some credible weapons of a design I guarantee you have never seen before. In addition, if you are unwise enough to doubt what I've said about the king's resolve, your aggression will prove costly to you and your soldiers, mark my words."
"Get out."
Rhapsody turned her back on him and went to the door as he called for the chamberlain. She took her cloak from the man and turned to face the Regent again.
"Thank you for seeing me, Your Highness; I'm sorry what I had to say wasn't better received. If you wish to meet with me again I will be happy to do so, despite this conversation."
"Have no fear of that," the Lord Roland replied, his eyes glinting with anger. "You are a very beautiful woman, madam, but you haven't the sense the All-God gave a grasshopper. Please do not trouble me again. I will be instructing my counselors to turn you away if you should ever return to my domain."
Rhapsody smiled as she put on her cloak. "As you wish, m'lord. I hope you realize that this means when you want to meet with me you shall have to travel to the edge of my realm yourself now. Happy New Year." She nodded pleasantly at the chamberlain and left the hall, escorted by the guards outside the door. The High Lord Regent watched her go, then turned to the chamberlain himself.
"Get my counselors in here immediately."
"Yes, m'lord."
Stephen Navarne listened as patiently as he could while the Lord Regent berated the other dukes. He had not been there that morning, had no hand in the matter of the ambassador about whom his cousin was bellowing, because he was attending to the return of those of Tristan's soldiers who had helped put down Navarne's most recent uprising. He had answered the Lord Regent's angry summons anyway; now he was especially glad he had come.
After the tirade was over, and the other dukes had been dismissed, Stephen hung back, seeking a private word with his cousin.
"There is something I'm not certain you're aware of, Tristan," he said pleasantly, trying to mask the concern he felt knotting his stomach. "The woman you are snarling about, and her Bolg companions, are the ones who rescued the House of Remembrance some time back."
The Lord Roland stared at him blankly. "Oh?"
"Yes, I'm afraid so. And, in fact, they are seen as local heroes of somewhat mammoth proportion in Navarne, as they also managed to return a sizable number of the missing children I had mentioned to you at our last session. They apparently took on the forces of a demon or something like it in doing so."
Tristan Steward said nothing for a moment and walked back to the window of his library as he had that morning. He poured himself a glass of port. "Interesting," he said.
When Rhapsody returned to the Cauldron, Grunthor swept her into an enthusiastic embrace.
"Oi was worried," he said, looking into her face with relief.
Rhapsody smiled. She knew he meant it.
"I'm fine," she said, giving the enormous shoulder a pat, and turning to Jo.
"How'd it go?" asked Achmed, watching the girl run to her and hug her. His eyes met Rhapsody's and a smile passed between them. This was a first.
Rhapsody put an arm around Jo and followed her Bolg friends into the dreary hall, where a crude breakfast had been laid for her.
"Well, I have two observations."
"Yes?" Achmed crossed his arms and leaned against the wall as Grunthor held her chair for her.
"Well, are you sure you aren't the one who's prescient, Achmed? Everything went almost exactly as you said it would, word for word."
Achmed smirked. "That's not prescience, it's predictability."
"And two, given the reaction they had to me, you might as well have gone yourself; it couldn't have been any worse. Now I understand why you're so cranky all the time."
Within the old Cymrian lands, past the wide heath beyond the canyon and sheltered by a high inner ring of rock formations, was Kraldurge, the Realm of Ghosts. It was the only place the Bolg, without exception, did not go, a desolate, forbidding place from the look of its exterior structures.
What heinous tragedy had occurred here was unclear in the legends, but it had been devastating enough to scar the psyche of the Firbolg who lived in the mountains permanently. They spoke in reluctant whispers of fields of bones and wandering demons that consumed any creature unfortunate enough to cross their paths, of blood that seeped up from the ground and winds that ignited anyone caught on the plain.
Rhapsody had come upon the guardian hills quite by accident while scouting for battle orphans, and now she and Achmed made their way arduously back through the edge of the inner Teeth, trying to find the place again.
They had been searching for a time before Achmed's impatience got the better of him. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the hidden pass he had located in the rock wall. He loosed the lore he had gained in the Root and let his sight speed along the path, a narrow, overgrown hall in the mountain that had clearly seen no traffic in centuries.
At its terminus the pass opened into an uncovered meadow, thick and overgrown in high weeds from years of isolation. A hill-like mound rose in the center of the meadow; otherwise there was nothing remarkable in the hidden canyon-dell.
"Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I don't see a single demon, and there are no gushing geysers of blood."
Rhapsody sighed. "Good. I had more than enough of that at the House of Remembrance, thank you. But I'd still like to see this place; there must have been something there to inspire such hideous fear, even if it has been gone for centuries. Besides, I brought all these seeds; it would be a shame to have to cart them back to the Cauldron."
"Very well."
Achmed pulled his cwellan out and slipped between the rock-walls. Rhapsody never ceased to be amazed at the speed and silence with which he wielded the bulky weapon. She followed closely behind him, her bow out with an arrow on the string.
As they crept through the pass their footfalls sounded up the canyon walls, echoing at an enormous amplification, so that anything that might have been waiting for them would have had ample warning. Despite the noise they made, on entering the hidden meadow they found nothing different from what Achmed had described.
The canyon that hid the field was so tall that the wind rarely reached down into it; it howled around the top of the surrounding crags, creating a mournful wail. Achmed and Rhapsody smiled at each other. Even the bravest Bolg could mistake the noise for demonic shrieking. Despite the natural explanation for the sound, Rhapsody could sense an innate sadness to the place, a feeling of overwhelming grief and anger.
She bent and touched the earth but could discern nothing unusual; perhaps this was a forgotten burial ground from the earliest conflicts of the Cymrian War. There was no mention of it in the manuscripts they had found within Gwylliam's library, but there probably wouldn't have been, anyway.
Achmed began to scout the perimeter of the internal canyon. The field was small enough to be seen in its entirety from the top of the mound, and it seemed completely enclosed, with the only egress being the pass through which they had come.
He gave Rhapsody a nod, by which she knew he meant for her to go about her business while he surveyed the terrain. When she reached the gentle summit of the central hill Rhapsody took from her pack a burlap sack full of seeds and her hand tools, as well as her flute. A harp would have served her purposes better, but she had left hers at the House of Remembrance in the crotch of the oak tree, playing its song of healing, protecting it from the corruption that had almost killed it.
She cast a glance over at Achmed, reassuring herself that she could still see him, then set about digging in the earth, taking a sample to determine the type of soil that lay beneath the grass. To her surprise the newly thawed ground, warm in the light of almost-spring, was loam-like and fertile beneath a thin layer of rocks, rich with nutrients. She had guessed the shelter from the wind and elements would have left it more barren. She was glad to be wrong.
Rhapsody touched a small patch of highgrass and called forth the fire she could feel in her soul. Instantly the brown weeds burst into flame at the base, burning out quickly under her hand.
She pulled the now-dead scrub out by the roots and dug into the earth, turning it to the depths the seeds would need for best planting. They were hearsease, a flower she had loved in the old land that had been brought by the Cymrians to this one, its blossoms often given as a sign of condolence and planted on graves or battlefields in memory of loss. It had seemed the obvious choice. The plantings would grow to cover the mound by midsummer, and come back each spring until the whole of the canyon bloomed with it in a year or two.
The wind moaned again high above her as she opened the burlap sack and drew forth a handful of seeds. She sang along in tune with the wind as she planted them, a song of atonement and comfort, seeking to bring consolation to the wounded land.
When the earth was back in place she took the highgrass and covered the area to hold in the moisture from the rain and protect it from the wind. Then she moved a few feet away and repeated the process up and down the sides of the hill.
She had planted most of the mound when the trowel slipped from her hand and disappeared into the earth. Rhapsody was astonished; the hole she had dug was no deeper than her hand, and certainly could not have held the tool. Perhaps she had hit another hole or pit of some kind.
She called to Achmed and began moving more of the dirt away. By the time he had crested the hill she had located a small crack, about as wide as a string, with a larger hole in the middle big enough to have held the tool, but not deep enough to have swallowed it.
"Look at this," she said to Achmed as he put his weapon down. "It ate my trowel."
"It's been undisturbed for centuries; perhaps it's hungry."
Rhapsody peered down into the crack. "It looks hollow down here, but I can't see the bottom."
"Let me look." Achmed moved above the crack and stared down into the tiny hole. She was right; there was a depth past the surface of the soil. He closed his eyes again and made use of his path lore once more.
His mind raced through the hole and down through the crack in the earth. It was enormously deep and regular, almost cylindrical past the layer of rocks, becoming a tube of sorts in the ground.
A hundred or more feet down the tube widened out and emptied into a vast underground cavern, the firmament of which they were standing above. The dome of the firmament was several hundred feet above the bottom of the cavern, and the grotto was filled with water.
"It's an underground lake of sorts," Achmed said, standing erect again. "Shall we go exploring?"
"Yes, of course," Rhapsody answered excitedly. "Just let me finish up here; I'm almost done. Why don't you get out our noon meal while I put these last few seeds in the ground?"
Achmed nodded and opened his pack, noticing that the song of consolation she was singing had changed in tone to far more cheerful than it had been before.
When she finished she picked up her flute and sat down on top of the hill in a shaft of sunlight. She began to play the song she had sung; it blended with the wind and softened a little the discordant wail bellowing down from the peaks above. It had all the sorrow of a maypole dance; she was having a hard time containing her excitement at the thought of the upcoming adventure. He shook his head and smiled to himself as he began to eat.
After a brief search of the meadow they located the passage down. It was cleverly hidden in the darkest part of the canyon, in an alcove that always seemed touched by shadow. Achmed had not seen it when he was canvassing the place.
He led the way, while Rhapsody concentrated on not slipping on the lichenous path, overgrown with slime. She shuddered; the dank air reminded her of being on the Root, and it was all she could do to keep going as the tunnel turned and she could no longer see the light of the meadow.
"How deep do you think it is?"
"Three, four hundred feet, taller at the center. Maybe a thousand at the highest point."
They followed the path down for a long time. Just as Rhapsody's stomach had had all it could take, they came out into a huge grotto, a cavern that stretched out into seemingly endless darkness.
It was lighted from above by a series of tiny holes in the firmament like the one that had swallowed her tool, and the light was strong enough to have produced plant life all along the shores of the massive lake that filled the base of the cavern. The scent here was less dank and more fetid, like stagnant water from a swamp, even though there was a current in the lake.
Down at the water's edge was a copper structure, rectangular in shape and sealed with wax, its sides ornately engraved with intertwining patterns. Buried just beneath the surface of the sand before it lay the remains of a series of metal rollers, once held in place by an iron trackway. Time and water had fused this system into a mass of rust.
The front wall of the copper structure was hinged on the bottom. After careful examination they determined it was a storage place for a rowboat that had once been moored nearby. The rusty iron mooring still stood in the sand, fragile and encrusted with algae.
Achmed pried the copper structure open and found the row-boat and a metal oar still inside, resting on a bed of rice. Rhapsody had initially thought the rice grains were vermin larvae and leapt away as they spilled out onto her feet. Achmed had taken great pleasure in her embarrassment and laughed for several minutes while he pulled the rowboat out of its drydock to examine it.
It was made from wood covered with thin hammered sheets of copper, which had turned green but had managed to preserve the boat's integrity over time. The vessel was free from holes, though the wood showed signs of dry rot, and he knocked on it several times to check the soundness of the floorboards. He must have deemed it seaworthy, because he turned it over again and shoved it into the lake.
"Can you swim?"
"Yes," Rhapsody answered. She glanced across the lake. In the distance she could see something, a structure of some sort, on the far shore. "Can you?"
"Somewhat. Enough, I suppose; it doesn't appear very deep." Rhapsody eyed him doubtfully. She would guess it to be at least seventy feet in the middle. "Are you game?"
"Of course," she retorted indignantly. "I'm the one who can swim. Let's go."
She climbed into the boat, and Achmed followed her after locating the other oar. It, like its twin, was made of a metal neither of them recognized, and was surprisingly light and free of rust or tarnish.
They rowed across the lake, taking turns at the oars. While Achmed rowed, Rhapsody looked all around her in amazement. The dome above her was higher than she could see in the light that flooded down from it, much like looking up into a cloudy sky. The lake was clear and pure a few yards from shore, so that they could almost see the bottom, even in the middle. They were able to discern the movement of fish, and a wind was noticeable on the water, though nowhere near as strong as it would have been aboveground.
Stalactites and stalagmites protruded from the ceiling and the floor of the cavern on the outskirts of the lake, glistening in crystal iridescence. Now and then one of the toothlike structures would catch a stray sunbeam and flash it over the surrounding walls and water, leaving gleaming patches of light that glittered for a moment, then were gone.
A waterfall was visible when they were almost over to the far shore, tumbling from a rock ledge that jutted near the top of the cavern where the grotto wall met the dome. It was roaring, swollen with the spring rains, and Rhapsody was enchanted with the music that it made as it fell into the lake and echoed in the cavern all around them.
"This place is beautiful," she said to Achmed. He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Finally, as they approached the shore, the structure they had seen from across the lake came into view. It was a small cottage, centuries old, standing not far from the shore of what appeared to be an island. An equal expanse of water was visible behind the island, setting it almost exactly in the center of the lake. The house was dark, and stained by dusky patterns where ivy or something like it had once grown. It seemed structurally sound, but it was impossible to be sure from the boat.
Rhapsody wriggled with impatience as Achmed maneuvered the boat into its ancient dock; it was all she could do to keep from leaping from the craft and wading to shore. He had probably not had much experience piloting boats before, she realized in amusement. This was the first time she had seen him not the master of the task he was undertaking, and she was enjoying it. Apparently he was not.
"Make yourself useful—tie off the rope," he instructed through his teeth. Rhapsody hid her smile and complied. She climbed out of the boat after him and followed him up the shore.
At the top of the shoreline where the sand met dry grass they could see the whole of the island. In addition to the small cottage they found what once had been flowerbeds, now long dead, and a marble gazebo set a considerable way back from the house. The marble structure was solidly encrusted with centuries of grime, like the house, but also bore the ancient marks of fire damage, black stains that spread irregularly across one side of the gazebo.
From the moment they set foot on the island they could both feel it, a mournful, pulsing anger inherent in the place. It did not scream of evil, but rather of rage, and sorrow beyond measure. Rhapsody shuddered and moved closer to Achmed, but he seemed oblivious of the feeling. He had seen birthplaces of hatred before.
They did a quick reconnaissance of the island, but it was hardly necessary; the utter absence of any other living presence was obvious. Achmed looked carefully at the chimney, examining the bricks, which were still held in place by the ancient, crumbling mortar. He nodded toward the door of the cottage, and Rhapsody followed him inside.
The odor of lost time was heavy inside the place, the scent of mold and musty fabric, stale air and decay. Rhapsody drew her sword and held it like a torch in front of her, her eyes sparkling in wonder.
The parlor opened to the right, with a small staircase leading upstairs on the left across from the front door. Achmed let her pass ahead of him with the glowing sword, his eyes scanning the architecture. It bore many of the hallmarks of the Lost Island, as did some of the furniture. It was from the Cymrian era, though that had been obvious from the beginning—the Bolg certainly had never set foot here. He opened the front door as wide as it could be opened and added stale air to the dank place. The parlor contained a fireplace on its outside wall, a beautifully carved mantel above it thick with dust. It probably had once been a cozy room, and it led into a kitchen area that spanned the entire back of the house.
Achmed examined the enormous hearth and food-storage areas with interest. The sophistication of the design was higher than was commonly in use in this land now, indeed, even more than in Canrif, with multiple depths in the hearth for different kinds of food preparation, and a dredge dug from the lake to cool the brick storage areas and pump water into the house. Pipes fashioned from copper ran through the ceiling into the area upstairs.
Rhapsody had circled around the back of the staircase and found herself in the dining room, furnished with a small oak table, still in beautiful condition, and four chairs. A huge window wall was fashioned out of blocks of glass, clear in the central panes, but the exterior ones had been carved like prisms.
This side of the house faced the waterfall, and doubtless the view was the reason for the window wall. It was also a western exposure, and Rhapsody speculated that light must come through at the junction of the rock crag and the dome of the firmament. No doubt the filtered light of the setting sun added to the atmosphere of an evening meal here, accentuated by the rainbows that the prisms must have cast around the room. She wished she could have seen it in its glory.
She walked through the doorway that led back into the front hall to find Achmed there, starting up the stairs. Rhapsody followed carefully, pulling the cobwebs away from the ceiling above the steps.
Once upstairs he had gone to the left and she stood in the doorway behind him. It was a small empty room, its only interesting feature the turret from a small tower she had failed to notice from outside, with a curved bank of windows and window seat. The fabric on the window seat had rotted beyond recognition, but the glass of the windows was intact. It was Rhapsody's impression that it had been a study, though there was no furnishing to confirm that belief.
Across the hall on the other side of the staircase was a larger room, its nature made obvious by the large bed against the staircase wall. The headboard was carved in dark wood, and even the years of dust could not obscure the masterly craftsmanship and beauty of it.
A fireplace took up the wall opposite it, sharing a chimney with the hearth in the parlor, the mantel a smaller version of the one downstairs. It had a window that looked out onto the lake, caked with grime and mildew. The floorboards had begun to rot, and Rhapsody walked carefully, fearful of crashing through the ceiling of the room below.
There were two additional doors in this room, one on the same wall as the headboard, leading to an area over the stairs, the other over the kitchen. The area over the stairs turned out to be a cedar closet with nothing in it but a small chest of carved mahogany. In it Rhapsody found a tiny gown of white lace and colorful embroidery, sized to fit a very young infant. She returned it carefully to the chest and left the closet.
Achmed had already opened the other door and was leaning on the frame. She came up behind him and peeked into the room beyond.
It was an indoor bathroom like the ones in the Cauldron, with a large tub, beautiful despite its centuries of tarnish and dust. The floor was made of marble tiles, and the copper pipes she had seen downstairs ran to the privy and the sink as well. Both the tub and sink had pumps beside them, and the basin and tub floor had discolored where the water had dripped for years.
"Seen enough?" Achmed's voice broke the age-old stillness, causing Rhapsody to jump.
"I guess so," she answered, reluctant to leave the fascinating house. She followed him down the stairs and out the front door, casting one last wistful glance around before closing the door again.
The small gardens had apparently gone largely untended even before they had been allowed to die, Rhapsody determined. The stains on the house and the ground suggested climbing roses in at least two places, vines that had been allowed to spread, unchecked and unpruned.
It seemed a shame to her; in her mind she was already imagining what the place could look like, covered in plantings, tended lovingly, with an eye toward balance and the strange light conditions beneath the ground. But even as she fantasized about the quintessential gardens, she knew that nothing could grow here now, anyway. There was something fundamentally wrong with the place, a disturbance in the very nature of it that would counteract anything growing or blooming, an anger that had penetrated the soil.
Achmed was already approaching the gazebo. It was situated on a small rise on the other end of the island, strategically placed, no doubt, but for what strategy he could not tell.
He walked around it, examining its placement on the ground. He determined it was probably carved on the spot where it stood, a fact that fascinated him. Its sculptor had been a master, with an eye for stone. Even an untrained eye could see that the original marble block had been positioned perfectly to allow for the accentuation of the stone's best features. It was smoothly hewn and polished, with delicate engravings along its roof and six columns supporting the dome.
Rhapsody wandered up one of the two sets of marble steps leading into the gazebo. Within it there were two semicircular benches facing one another in opposition, forming an S shape in the center of the rotunda. They were carved from the same stone as the gazebo itself; in fact, she thought perhaps they had been carved as part of it.
At the far end of the building was a battered birdcage lying on the gazebo floor, its door broken off, next to what must have been its stand. Both pieces were remarkable in design, and wrought from what looked like gold.
The stand was taller than Rhapsody herself, and the birdcage was big enough to hold a small child. It was black with tarnish and soot from whatever fire had coated the gazebo itself, but seemed more or less intact. She marveled at the craftsmanship of the cage, so strangely out of place in the Bolglands. Rhapsody reached over and touched the tiny door.
As she did she was blown backward by the force of the vision that overtook her. Time slowed to a torturous pace, and she saw the gazebo as it had been long ago, its columns gleaming white in the darkness of the garden.
Before her stood a man, human and full-bodied, with a thick gray beard and heavy, dark eyebrows. He wore robes of linen painted with gold, and his face was contorted with a rage that made his eyes smoke.
Slowly, second by second, she watched as he drew his arm back and swung, a powerful, grievous blow aimed squarely at her face. She felt the air around her shatter and pain wash over her, the force of which left her face stinging, as the columns of the gazebo swirled around her and tilted. And then the darkness of the vision dissipated and she was staring up at the cloudy firmament, her head in Achmed's hands.
A deep groan escaped her as Achmed helped her stand. He led her to one of the stone benches and she sat down, trying to make her world stop spinning. It took a long time for that to happen. Finally she spoke.
"Well, now I know why this place feels so angry."
"What did you see?"
She rubbed her temples. "I got the wonderful opportunity to see Gwylliam through what must have been Anwyn's eyes at the moment he struck her. Remember how Llauron said he had hit her?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's putting it nicely. He must have done some serious damage; my ears are still ringing."
"No wonder she tried to destroy him."
"Well, as bad as it was, I still think her reaction was a little extreme. I mean, I'd be furious too, but I don't think I'd lead an army of tens of thousands to their deaths over it. I probably would have just poisoned his porridge."
"Well, from what I've read, the First and Third Fleet Cymrians were looking for an excuse to beat on each other anyway. The Third Wave had the attitude that they had sacrificed the most, had stayed behind and held the beachhead while the others made a speedy retreat. They had a rough time when they landed, had to fight their way in while the First Fleet found no resistance and an easy life in the woods. Of course, what I've been reading is from his point of view. I'd say Gwylliam and Anwyn's little sparring match was just the spark that lit the conflict."
Rhapsody stood and looked around. "So this is where the war began. Right here on this island, in this gazebo. No wonder the place is haunted."
Achmed chuckled; it was a strange sound, and her eyes went immediately to his face. "Are you afraid of ghosts, too, Rhapsody?"
"Certainly not," she said, offended. "If anything, I'll bet they're afraid of me."
"Well, I can certainly see why they would be," the Firbolg king said sarcastically. "You are so very frightening, after all."
Rhapsody smiled knowingly and took out her flute again. She sat back on one of the benches and closed her eyes, listening to the listless wind over water.
She took in the sounds and vibrations of the grotto, searching for the discordant notes, and found them almost immediately. Rhapsody raised her flute to her lips and played a sweet note. It filled the air at once and amplified forth from the gazebo, echoing off the walls of the grotto and filling the cavern with its sound, hanging in the slow air until it dissipated a few moments later. She turned to Achmed in excitement.
"It all makes sense now!" she exclaimed, leaping to her feet. "The reason we couldn't find this place is that it is naturally hidden by layers of vibrations—the bowl of the canyon that the field lies within and the wind that rips around it, the water beneath the ground and the churning of the waterfall make a rising mist that shields the cavern."
"And the gazebo is like a megaphone of sorts. Sounds here are amplified because of where it is placed and what it is made from; it's like a natural podium if you want to have what you say heard everywhere. So the hatred that is ingrained in this place is being transmitted out through those layers, which is what scares the Firbolg, and why the ground feels so awful in the glen."
Achmed nodded but said nothing. It was also the reason he disliked the place. Water had always been his enemy when trying to find a vibrational path. The only place anyone had been able to hide from him in the old world was on, in, or near the sea.
"Well, now that your mystery is solved, let's go back."
"Wait; I have to try something else." Rhapsody ignored the ugly look he gave her and began to play the flute again. She concentrated on the painful notes, the dirge that the cavern contained, and matched each sorrowful tone with a brighter one, weaving a song of atonement and peace. The effect was not permanent, but she could feel a slight improvement when she was finished.
"Can I have this place for my own? Please?" She ignored his incredulous stare and pushed on. "I can restore the house; it just needs a little carpentry and a lot of cleaning. And I can work on the song of the place, make it healthy again, drive away the memories that Gwylliam and Anwyn left here to fester. Can this be my, well, my—"
"Your duchy?"
"My what?"
"Your duchy. Grunthor's always calling you Duchess or Your Ladyship; it seems appropriate that we make you one. Congratulations. You will be Firbolg royalty."
Rhapsody ignored the sarcasm. "Well, good. That way I can act as your ambassador and have a title to make me legitimate." She laughed as Achmed smirked. "Be that way. I've never had a place that was all mine; it was always owned by someone else."
"I will deed it to you in perpetuity, as long as we can leave now."
"Bargain." They shook hands, and Rhapsody ran for the boat.
"So what are you going to call this place?" Achmed asked as he rowed back across the lake. Her excitement had sustained itself; they were moving much faster than they had on the voyage across.
"I've been thinking about that," she said, her eyes sparkling. "Let's name it something from the old world, something powerful and royal, so it takes on some of the traits. That seems appropriate, doesn't it?"
He sighed. "Whatever you want. It's your duchy. You will owe me taxes, by the way, on whatever goods you produce."
She knew he was joking, but she regarded him seriously. "Fair enough. I think you will have to take it in trade, however. I don't intend to sell it, it's better if it's just given to someone you love."
Achmed's eyebrows shot into his hairline. "Excuse me? I thought you had decided to be celibate."
Rhapsody glared at him. "Not that. Spices, herbs; maybe flowers. You can be a real pig, you know."
"It was a joke."
"I know. It's always a joke." She stared off into the distance at the disappearing waterfall, its music ebbing with her spirits.
Achmed regarded her sharply. "I'm sorry." She waved a dismissive hand at him. "Rhapsody, what's the matter?"
She didn't look at him, but continued to watch the island as it faded into the mists of the cave. "I don't know. Jealousy, probably. That's not exactly it, but I don't have a word that describes it better."
"You're jealous?" Achmed's brows furrowed. "Why?"
Finally the green eyes turned on him, absent their former sparkle. "All right, I'm not jealous, I'm lost. You have no regrets that keep you awake at night, Achmed, no losses in the old world to mourn. Here you have a reason for being, a place that needs you, and people who do, too; an opportunity to do something good on a historic scale. You have a new life."
He swallowed; he was not good at this. "You're a part of that life. You have a contribution to make to the same goal; it's your opportunity as well."
She shook her head. "Don't misunderstand, please. I want to help you, to help the Bolg, especially the children. But it's not my reason for being."
"So what is?"
Rhapsody shook her head sadly. "If I knew, I wouldn't feel lost." She took the oar from him and began to row.
"You know, my mother was always chiding me about leaving the door open. We lived on a wide-open plain, and the winds that tore through the rolling hills could beviolent. i can still hear her: 'please close the door.' I never learned. And it's ironic; my past is a corridor of doors I left open, never meaning to close them. Except now, the house is gone, too, blown away by the wind."
"I guess I've never really accepted what I've lost. I don't know why; I try, but it keeps coming back to me, night after night, even after all this time. So now I have to come to terms with my loss and figure out what to do next."
"I need the things you have—a home, and a goal, and a chance to do something good of my own. And someone who needs me—Jo, my grandchildren, the Bolg, to a small degree, and maybe even you and Grunthor. Maybe having this place, this duchy of my own, is a start toward finding those things."
Achmed exhaled. The light was returning to her eyes a little, banishing the desolation he had felt a moment before, against his will, on her behalf. What is this strange power the fire gave her? he mused. It was even beginning to affect him.
"So what is the name of this new farm?" he asked.
She thought of the castle of the Seren high king, perched on a rocky face above the crashing sea.
"I think I'll call it Elysian," she said. It was a place she had never seen.
Three weeks later it was announced throughout the Bolglands that the new warlord king was making a trip to the demons in Kraldurge to offer sacrifice. An enormous wagon was loaded with gifts to the evil gods, tied with cloth to keep the sacrifice from the prying eyes of the Bolg, though none showed up to wish the king well. The gifts had been bought in Bethe Corbair and Sorbold from a list carefully prepared by the Singer, known throughout the Bolglands to be the king's First Woman.
Rhapsody had grown used to the necessity of the reference, though it still amused and annoyed her. Anything to keep us safe here, she had told Jo, herself known as the king's Second Woman. The Bolg would only bother those women who belonged to leaders they wanted to challenge, and thus far that meant no one came near either of them. She did not tell Jo about Elysian, keeping it a surprise for when the renovations were finished.
The enormous Cart of the Sacrifice set forth in the night toward the Inner Teeth, where it was swallowed up by darkness. The king and the Sergeant Major returned the next day, slightly tired from their meeting with the demons but none the worse for wear.
The demons had acknowledged the rulership of the king, the Sergeant had announced. They would not eat any more of his people on the condition that the Bolg continue to keep away from their lands. If the Bolg violated the agreement, however, the horrors of the tales of old would seem as nothing compared to the fate the intruders would suffer. Achmed smiled as he detected the collective shiver that ran through the assemblage as Grunthor finished.
Rhapsody remained in Elysian, delighted by her new furnishings. She had been thrilled when Achmed and Grunthor delivered her furniture and the material for her to make drapes and bedspreads, serving them dinner to express her thanks from the stores they had laid in the freshly scrubbed kitchen.
As they sat in the dining room enjoying the beauty of the sunset through the wavy panes, rainbows from the prismatic glass fell over each of them, illuminating their faces with colored light. She smiled; the song of peace was taking hold, her plantings were beginning to grow, and she had a place of her own to share with her friends.
She walked them down to the water's edge and waved as they climbed aboard one of her two new boats. Rhapsody watched until they had passed from her sight, then turned back to her house, where the smoke curled contentedly up from the chimney and the lights burned in the windows, a growing warmth in the darkness of the grotto.
Once inside, she gently closed the door.
Rosentharn, Knight Marshal of Bethany, cleared his throat and knocked nervously on the door.
After what seemed an eternity, the Lord Roland's voice answered.
"What? Who's there?"
"Rosentharn, m'lord." Even through the door he could hear the stream of muttered curses.
"What do you want? If it's another of those blasted border raids, I don't want to know about it unless they're sacking my own keep."
Rosentharn loosened his collar. "Nothing like that, sir. I just came from the northern gate, where news has come in that Lady Madeleine Canderre is on her way to Bethany."
The door opened a crack, and the Lord Roland's head emerged, his hair wildly tousled. "When?"
"She arrives sometime after dawn, m'lord."
Tristan Steward ran a hand over his unkempt locks. "Ahem, yes. Well, thank you, Rosentharn."
"My pleasure, m'lord." Rosentharn waited for the door to close before giving in to a wide smile. Then he turned on his heel and returned to his post.
[Russian]"Поблудим еще!"
A throaty chuckle came from across the room.
"As you wish, m'lord. That's what I'm here for."
Tristan smiled and retied the belt of his dressing gown.
"Sorry, Pru; my fiance's coming."
Prudence laughed. "If you get over here quickly, perhaps Madeleine might be able to make the same statement."
"You're so naughty. It's one of the things I like best about you."
Tristan turned to the mahogany sideboard, poured two glasses of port from a crystal decanter, and carried them back to the bed. He handed one to Prudence and raised the other to his lips, allowing his gaze to roam over her body. The rim of the glass hid the melancholy look brought to his face by what he saw.
Each time he looked at her it grew harder to believe that they had been born on the same day, minutes apart. Despite the difference in their social classes they had always been together as children, growing through each awkward stage as a pair, almost as if they shared a single soul. And while time had not yet ravaged his flesh, still bequeathing him the muscularity of youth for the moment, Prudence was beginning to show the signs of age, inevitable in those not born from the bloodline of the Cymrians.
It was something he had always known, but had never thought about until recently. Perhaps his own impending marriage had made him take stock, caused him to try to account for the years that had flown by, leaving him unscathed, for now. Perhaps it was the fact that, when he was alone, lost in the solitude of his thoughts, he was not certain if there was anything to show for all that time.
Either way, it had made him look at her with new eyes, eyes that now saw the slight slackening of the dewy skin, the whisper-thin lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth, the faint spots that dotted her hands, once as smooth and clear as alabaster. He swallowed, feeling the burn down his gullet.
Prudence pulled the comb from her hair and tossed her head, the long strawberry ringlets catching the light of the blazing fire on the hearth. In the fireshadows any hint of gray that Tristan thought he might have seen earlier was gone. She smiled knowingly at him and drew the satin counterpane up under her arms.
"What are you thinking, Tristan?"
The Lord Roland set his empty glass on the bedside table, and took back the one he had handed her a moment before. He sat down on the bed, facing her, and gently slid his hand up to the top edge of the counterpane, winding his fingers slowly over it, bringing them to rest at the base of her throat.
"I'm thinking that I hate her, Pru."
Prudence leaned back against the pillows, her smile fading to a serious expression. "I know; I know you do. I still don't understand why you chose Madeleine. I always thought you should propose to that nice girl from Yarim—what was her name?"
"Lydia."
"Yes, that's it. She was a pretty thing, and charming in a quiet way. Her father was well landed. Whatever happened to her?"
"She married Stephen; died a few years back in a Lirin raid."
"Oh yes, of course. I remember now." Prudence reached out and gently stroked the side of his face, his whiskers rough beneath her fingers.
Tristan's eyes met her gaze and held it while he pulled the counterpane back. There was an understanding in her eyes, a depth that he could not even fathom, and it felt warm, surrounding him completely, like the hot spring they had once coupled in so many years ago. Their honesty was the only truly pure thing in his life. Prudence turned her face to the fire and closed her eyes.
From the crystal glass Tristan drew out a drop of the port, and dabbed it gently on her nipple. He felt the air come into her as she inhaled beneath his touch, the same way she had in their youth, on the night she deflowered him, and the arousal that had been eluding him began to build.
The skin of her breast had eased noticeably from the time he had first touched it thus. He closed his eyes and thought back to his first sight of it, firm with anticipation, warming to a deep rose color beneath his trembling hand. Now it was slack, loose, her breasts flecked with the same brown patches that marred the skin of her hands. Tristan lowered his lips and drank in the drop of port, trying to keep her from seeing the pain he knew was flickering across his face. He tugged the counterpane off her completely and dropped it to the floor.
Now laid bare, Prudence drew one knee up and began to untie his dressing gown. Her hands slid into his lap, stroking him gently.
"Why don't you tell me what's really bothering you, Tristan?"
His lips left her breast and slowly began to trace down to her abdomen.
"What makes you think anything is bothering me?"
Firmly she pushed him back and sat up against the headboard, pulling a pillow in front of her chest. Her eyes were angry.
"I was your father's courtesan, Tristan; I always thought that I was your friend."
The shock of her reaction snapped over him, shattering what little excitement he had felt. "Of course you are."
"Then don't play games with me. I'm too old for this nonsense. I can tell when something's on your mind—I know your moods better than you do. Usually you tell me everything. Why are you playing coy tonight? It's not very stimulating."
Tristan sighed; she had caught him. It was more than the melancholy he was battling, watching the unfair ravages of time on her, more than the sickening sense that the woman he loved, and bedded regularly, was beginning to resemble his mother. It was even more than the horrific reminder of what that aging would eventually lead to, a loss he was not willing to contemplate.
He was struggling with the memory of Rhapsody.
He had not been able to get her out of his thoughts since the moment she had walked out of the keep. And more than that, it was the thought of her, subservient by choice to a Bolg warlord, that had made his skin burn with frustration. The image of her in the arms of a subhuman mongrel had been almost as upsetting as the strength of his own reaction to her; for the few moments they had spent together, he should hardly have even remembered her name.
He looked back at Prudence and smiled, seeing the intensity of the look in her eyes.
"All right," he said. "I'll tell you, as long as you don't allow anything I say to interrupt our lovemaking. Madeleine will be here soon, and I want to have you as many times as I can before she arrives."
Prudence exhaled happily, and her hands returned to his lap.
"As you wish, Your Highness."
Tristan looked up at the ceiling, waiting for the stimulation of her hands and his hidden thoughts to return him to his former state of arousal. It happened quickly.
"You know the lands where the Cymrians once ruled, Canrif?"
"Vaguely," Prudence said, massaging enthusiastically. "Somewhere in the mountains that lie to the east?"
"Yes, that's right. It's been overrun by Firbolg for four hundred years or so now."
Satisfied with the results of her efforts, Prudence released him and ran her hand up his chest to his dressing gown. She slid both hands beneath it and onto his shoulders. "Who is Firbolg?"
Tristan chuckled. "Not who, what. They're monsters, humanoid beasts that eat rats and each other. And any human they can catch as well, by the way."
Prudence shuddered comically and pulled the dressing gown off him, exposing his chest to the light of the fire. Her smile of amusement resolved into something more real at the sight of the fireshadows licking his muscular arms and shoulders. He looked the same as he had so long ago, on the first night he had come to her. "Sounds awful."
"They are, believe me. Every year I have to deal with them; the army goes and rounds up any we find marauding near Bethe Corbair. The time is approaching to do it again this year."
Prudence drew up her knees and rested the soles of both her feet against his chest. With a gentle shove she pushed him off the foot of the bed and onto his knees on the floor.
"So if you do this every year, and have been for the last ten or so—"
"Almost twenty now. It was Father's responsibility before that."
"—all right, twenty; if you've been doing this for so long, why is it troubling you tonight?"
Tristan reached out and grabbed both of her thighs, and dragged her on her back, laughing, to the edge of the bed. He parted her legs and leaned between them, his hands cradling her hips, made rounder than he remembered by the passage of time.
"They have a new warlord, apparently, though what that really means I have no idea. A while back he sent an emissary, a woman, who came and told me in a most rude and insubordinate way that we were to desist the centuries-old tradition of Spring Cleaning."
"That being the annual roundup of the marauders near Bethe Corbair?"
"Yes." Tristan ran his hands up her abdomen, over her waist, until they came to rest on her breasts. He closed his eyes and imagined them smaller, firmer, more perfectly shaped, above a slender waist, a small gold locket dangling between them. The image made the arousal he had attained more intense, and he leaned into the edge of the bed below Prudence, his hands gently cupping her flaccid breasts, caressing her.
Prudence arched into his palms, running her feet over the back of his legs. "So why is this a problem for them? If they want to avoid the soldiers, all they have to do is desist attacking Bethe Corbair, right?"
"Right."
"And you told the emissary this?"
"Yes—well, actually, I just sent her back to her warlord master, with a jeering message spurning his demands." Tristan's palms began to moisten as he remembered Rhapsody's face, the shining tendrils of golden hair framing her smooth, rosy skin, her eyes kindling to an even deeper green as she listened to him.
Prudence took hold of one of his hands and placed it between her legs. "Then why are you so upset, Tristan?"
Rhapsody's legs were impossibly beautiful, even swathed modestly in woolen trousers. He remembered the way she had crossed them, and his breathing became shallower. Tristan could feel his skin begin to burn and his hand trembled as he explored Prudence, guilt flashing intermittently for imagining her to be someone else.
"Because I don't trust the warlord. I—I think he's planning to attack this year, now that—now that the Bolg are—supposedly united."
Prudence sat up to meet him, pressing her sweat-shiny chest against his, and wound her arms around his torso. The moves she was making were all the ones she knew he liked; a lifetime's worth of practice and comfortable familiarity had made the act almost automatic. For some reason it was different tonight, more strained, with a darker passion bubbling beneath the surface.
Tristan's hands moved to her hair, something he rarely touched during lovemaking. His fingers entwined in her curls, running the length of the strands and wrapping them around his palms.
Like liquid sunlight, he was thinking. Bound in a simple ribbon, black velvet of modest manufacture. His fury at her words had been the only thing that kept him from vaulting across his desk and tearing it from Rhapsody's locks, pulling her golden tresses down with it.
"What are you going to do about it, then, Tristan?" The Lord Roland couldn't stand it anymore. He grabbed Prudence's hips and pulled her onto him, shuddering as she wrapped her legs around his waist. In the heat that enclosed him he felt the fire he had seen in Rhapsody's eyes, her internal warmth, the warmth he had imagined in his hottest dreams.
"I'm going to rout them," he gasped. "I'm going to—send—every soldier I can spare and—and—destroy the bastard, and every—last—one of his—miserable kind." His mouth closed on hers, ardently, vehemently, stealing her breath.
As he plunged desperately, repeatedly into her, Prudence's lips broke with his, and went to his ear. She ran her hands through his glistening hair, damp with exertion and fury, then whispered as she clung to him as if for her life. "Tristan?"
He could barely force the word out. "Mhhnmm—yes?"
"What is this woman's name?"
"Pru—" he panted.
"Her name, Tristan."
"Rhapsody," he moaned, the fire exploding inside him. "Rhapsody," he whispered again, as the thunder rose up and consumed him. He fell across Prudence, spent and ashamed.
He lay there until he returned to his senses, until he felt her body cool beneath him. When he couldn't avoid facing her any longer he pushed himself up on his arms, suspending himself over her, and looked down.
The expression on her face was not at all what he had expected. Where he had feared he might see rejection, and embarrassment, and hurt, there was calm understanding, and nothing more.
"I'm so sorry, Pru," he said softly, his face flushing.
Prudence kissed his cheek, then slid out from underneath him. "No need to be, dear," she said, picking her dressing gown up off the floor and wrapping it around herself.
"You're not angry?"
"Why would I be?"
Tristan ran a hand through his soggy hair. "How did you know?"
Prudence walked to the absurdly tall windows in the sitting area, and pulled back the drape, looking into the vast, starry sky beyond. After a long moment she turned back to him, the expression on her face solemn.
"I've known you all my life, Tristan. That was me, if you recall, that urchin daughter of your scullery maid, hiding from your father with you in the pantry. I've had your hand up my skirt for almost forty years; I can tell when it's me you're groping, and when your mind is elsewhere."
"I know you love me, and you know I love you, too; I always will. You don't have to want me, Tristan; loving me is more than enough. In fact, these last few times when you've made love to me out of pity—"
"I have never done that, never!" he interrupted angrily.
"All right; lie to yourself if you have to, but I won't. These last few times I've known there was someone else on your mind, and at least one other of your organs. You're more aroused in your sleep lately than you have been for the last ten years during sex. I'm just grateful to know it wasn't Madeleine you were dreaming about; I was beginning to think you'd lost your mind. She's a hag, by the way." Prudence smiled, and Tristan smiled with her in spite of himself.
At last she came away from the window and went to the dressing table, where she picked up her dress, and donned it quickly while he watched. She ran his platinum comb perfunctorily through her tangled locks, then turned and regarded him seriously.
"If you don't hear anything else I've said tonight, Tristan, hear this: whatever obsession you feel for this woman, whatever she makes your body long for, don't lose your head, or the hand that holds your scepter. I sense you are considering this escalation in violence out of lust, or anger, out of something that comes from between your legs, not out of anything from your brain. Forbear, Tristan. Wars started over women only lead to disaster."
Tristan's face fell. "I'm astounded that you would say that to me," he said in an injured tone. "Any commitment I make of Roland's soldiers is purely out of concern for the safety of the provinces and our subjects. I can't believe you think I would escalate a war to impress a woman."
"No? Perhaps it is to pay back her master, then, for winning, for being her choice over you. Even if it is neither of those things, if it is your pride that's injured, don't fall prey to it."
Tristan turned away, awash in angry emotions. It was painful to hear her say such demeaning things, and even more so to know she might be right.
"Prudence?"
When he looked back, she was gone.
The end of winter brought dread to the Bolglands each year, for a short time anyway. The annual thaw was the time of the Lottery, the means by which the most expendable citizens were chosen to be positioned in the artificial villages that were hastily constructed at the outskirts of the Teeth.
This yearly sacrifice to the bloodthirsty men of Roland, probably more than any other single factor, had convinced Achmed of the Bolg's sophistication when he initially assessed their development. That this cunning, if grisly, program could be designed and executed for centuries without the invaders catching on was impressive enough, he reasoned, but the weighing of impact, of loss versus gain, proved to him beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were a force to be reckoned with. Even the system's corruption by which it was regularly rigged pleased him.
All had been summoned to the canyon beyond the Teeth on the day following the first thaw. The Bolg were unusually silent when Achmed appeared on the heath above to address them; generally the strong and the influential were excused from the Lottery, and to have been called together without regard to crude social position was disturbing and insulting to the powerful among them. Their attitude changed quickly when he began to speak, however.
The Lottery had been abolished, he said; no more would they offer themselves as lambs for the slaughter to Roland. This year the ritual would be very different, and open to all who wanted to take part. When he explained the plan, there was none among them who would have sent his regrets had he known of the custom.
Tristan Steward watched the troops assemble from the window of his study. Generally the recruits and noncommissioned forces assigned to the Spring Cleaning ritual met in the stable area; his Knight Marshal never sent more than three or four hundred. But since he himself had decreed that all available soldiers would take part this year, that place was far too small to assemble, so they were quartering here in the courtyard, making a tremendous racket. They numbered almost two thousand.
Stephen Navarne looked down into the throng uneasily. He had endeavored to persuade his cousin that this was inadvisable, but had been scoffed at, not only by Roland but by Quentin Baldasarre, the Regent of Bethe Corbair, as well. Ihrman Karsric, the Duke of Yarim, had kept his opinion to himself.
There was a knock on the study door, and Rosentharn, the Knight Marshal, entered the room.
"M'lord?"
"Yes?" The Lord Roland turned and eyed him in surprise; generally the soldier stayed with the troops until after the men had returned, and only came into the keep if there was something extraordinary to report, which there rarely was.
"If you would be so disposed, would you consider addressing the men, sir? There is some belief that this is a pejorative assignment, and morale is quite low; so low, in fact, I believe the success of the mission is in doubt."
"Really? And why would that be?"
The Knight Marshal coughed. "Well, sir, cleanup duty in the Bolglands is generally a task assigned to trainees and people under disciplinary action, so the other men, who have served this duty before, are wondering if they are being disciplined."
"Well, if they aren't, perhaps they should be," said the Duke of Bethe Corbair. "My army never feels the need to question the orders of its commander."
"Oh, shut up, Quentin," the Lord Roland snapped. "I'll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself. You haven't seen fit to commit any of your soldiers to this little undertaking, a rather strange position given that the monstrosity borders your lands. This is a nuisance for me; my soldiers are seven days' ride from the Bolglands. In fact, I am thinking of assessing you taxes annually from now on to help pay for this action which we have been undertaking on your behalf for centuries."
"Our taxes maintain that army of yours now," interjected the Duke of Yarim. "If you are going to assess on a mission basis, I say we look at the need to continue supporting it at all. My troops can easily take this task on if it proves to be necessary, or additionally costly."
"Perhaps we should be looking at the necessity angle, Tristan," said Stephen Navarne. "I have told you, the people you are going up against are not the Bolg leaders of old. They are exceptionally well trained, and very powerful. I again advise you against this invasion. Why would you not want to pursue a peace treaty instead? Perhaps it will open a new trading partnership."
The Lord Roland looked at his cousin incredulously. "Are you insane?" he asked, his voice indicating he had already determined the answer. "Trade with the Bolg? Sign a peace treaty? No wonder I had to bail you out of your own peasant revolt. Get out of my way." He swept his subregents aside and strode out of the room with the Knight Marshal.
Achmed watched them come—two thousand, by his guess, confirmed a moment later by Grunthor.
"'E's sent a full brigade, three, maybe four cohorts, sir," the Bolg commander reported from the Cauldron lookout. "Oi think we ought to take it as a compliment."
"We must think of a very special way to say thank you, then," the king said. "Rhapsody, perhaps you and Jo had best stay out of this one."
"Not me," said Jo indignantly. "I've been practicing all week with boiling pitch. I'm really good at it now; don't you dare make me waste all that smelly training."
"Suit yourself," replied Achmed.
"Atta girl," Grunthor whispered approvingly.
Rhapsody sighed. "Gods, Roland, you fool. Well, I warned him. I had the feeling he was none too bright when we met. It seems a shame all his soldiers are going to pay for his stupidity."
"It's an age-old shame," said Achmed. "Well, look on the bright side. If we're really convincing, perhaps he won't try next year, though that is probably giving him too much credit."
"And besides, it'll be great fun," added Grunthor. "My troops can't wait."
"Well, then, let's have at it," said Achmed. He spurred his horse and the others followed him over the battlements and down to the crags above the outer Firbolg villages.
The rout took less than an hour. Instead of the weak, infirm, and incompetent losers of the annual Lottery, the soldiers of Roland were greeted by the elite forces of the Bolg mountain guard, personally trained by Grunthor, lying in wait inside the empty huts.
The reckless soldiers had beheaded two mannequins and lost one horse and rider to a sinkhole of boiling pitch before the realization took hold that they had ridden into a trap. Retreat was not an option either, owing to the sudden, mammoth eruption of armed Bolg from beneath and behind every crag and rock formation. Like an avalanche they appeared on the ledges and hills above, grinning down into the canyon defiantly, then swarmed over the crags and onto the terrified army below them.
It began with a rain of fist– to head-sized stones, hurled from the mountaintops by the Ylorc army, which outnumbered the unfortunate Orlandan brigade almost five to one. In the chaos that ensued from the deadly hailstorm, the Bolg mountain guard, hiding within the makeshift huts of the sacrificial village, grabbed and pulled the trip wires that had been wound through the dust of the valley floor. Horses lurched and fell, or stumbled, throwing riders into the fray.
By then the tide of Bolg had reached that part of the army still standing amid the rubble and screaming horseflesh. The soldiers of Roland had frozen in place. A few scrambled to draw forth their bows, but most had come armed only with swords, clubs, and torches, weapons that were swept away from them in the initial moments of the Bolg flood.
A few at the outskirts sought to flee and were consumed in the inferno of boiling pitch, hurled by the four barrel-throwing catapults that had been erected at the mouth of the canyon to cover any attempt at retreat. Rhapsody stood with her arms wrapped around herself, shuddering at the sound of Jo's maniacal laugh blending with Grunthor's as she sliced through the trigger cords of the wooden launchers with her bronze-backed dirk.
She looked back at the Bolg, for centuries the victims in the annual sacrifice, moving quickly amid the turmoil, dispatching what remained of the Spring Cleaning force. They seemed infinite in number and intense in their concentration. Grunthor later observed he would be hard-pressed to recall a more efficient slaughter.
Rhapsody stared down at the desolate sight, the gruesome aftermath of the battle turning her stomach. She had not participated in the fighting, either with sword or musical accompaniment, and watched as Achmed's ragtag army methodically stripped the dead of their weapons and armor, then stacked the bodies near the pit of pitch.
"What an unholy mess," she said.
"Not to worry, Duchess; we always cleans up our messes," said Grunthor cheerfully. He was sparring with Jo, preventing her from joining in the looting.
"Yes; now that you mention it, perhaps this would be a good time for you and Jo to go back to the Cauldron," said Achmed. He was counting the casualties, making sure none had been dragged off as personal coup.
"What, no booty?" Jo demanded.
"Later, lit'le miss," said Grunthor affectionately. "We gets the pick o' the lot, and we'll share."
"Right. Come on, Jo," said Rhapsody, taking her elbow and leading her away. Something in Achmed's expression convinced her of the wisdom of a hasty return to the Teeth.
When the women were out of sight, Achmed turned to Grunthor and the generals, waiting at the scene below. "The army will now feed," he said.
Late in the night a week later, the Lord Regent of Roland was in the midst of a nightmare when he awoke to strange clicking sound.
"Tsk, tsk." A dark figure stood near his bed, slowly turning Tristan's crown in its thin fingers. The light from the solitary candle on the bedside table caught the gold filigree and sent it intermittently around the room, flashing in spurts like blood from a pulsating wound.
Tristan Steward sat upright in bed, but the nightmare image did not fade into the darkness. Instead it tossed the crown to him, striking him lightly in the chest.
"If you cry out, it will be the last utterance of your life," said the cloaked figure. The Lord Roland could not have cried out, even if he had wanted to.
From within the shadow a tiny flame emerged. Aside from the fire and the darkness the only thing the prince could see were pale, thin hands as they set about lighting a few of the lamps in his chambers. He struggled to return to his wakening senses.
When the room began to take on more light, Achmed pulled back his hood and smiled in amusement as a look of fright came over the prince's face. He came closer and sat on the edge of the Lord Roland's massive bed, running his long fingers over the satin counterpane.
"Get up," he said absently. He pointed to the chairs in the small sitting area near the window.
Tristan Steward rose, shaking, and complied. Neither his bare feet nor the well-made boots of the hideous man made more than a whisper of sound as they crossed the stone floor to the dark seats with the starry night rising in the glass behind them.
As he took his chair the Lord Roland gripped the arms tightly, hoping the move would minimize the trembling in his hands. From the moment of his awakening, with the clarification of his senses had come the growing realization that he had more to fear with each passing second. He was grateful in the back reaches of his mind for the darkness, believing that the nightmarish visage of the man who sat across from him would be unbearable in full sun. He summoned his courage and concentrated on keeping his voice steady.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
"I'm the Eye, the Claw, the Heel, and the Stomach of the Mountain. I have come to tell you that your army is gone."
A gurgle of confusion issued forth from the prince in lieu of words that would not come.
"You sent two thousand men, but this is the only report you will ever get."
Disbelief, then panic took hold. "Where are the survivors? What have you done with them?"
"The Mountain fell on them. Now listen carefully. Assuming you live long enough to keep this meeting a secret, you have ten days to draft a trade agreement and to sue for peace. You will attend personally, since this parlay will be your idea."
"My emissary will be waiting at the present border of my realm and Bethe Corbair on the tenth day. On the eleventh day the border will begin to move closer, so as to facilitate our meeting. If the inclement weather discourages you from traveling, you can wait a fortnight and hold the meeting right here at the new border."
The Regent's eyes widened, but he said nothing.
"This is the only offer you will receive, king to king, people to people. Ignore it, and you will see what monsters are made of. We have been getting lessons every spring." Achmed stood up to go.
"Oh, by the way," he said, "if it's any comfort to you, your men were sung an exquisite dirge by my Lirin Singer. It was really very touching. Rhapsody has grown quite proficient in requiems and laments, living in the Bolglands."
He smirked as the Regent's face turned scarlet at the mention of her name, and leaned forward conspiratorially. "Don't worry; she has no idea that she was the one who inspired their massacre. Of course, I do. Why do you think I sent her to you?"
Bile rose in Tristan Steward's throat. "It was a trap."
"Come now, Lord Regent, don't underestimate your part in it all. You are a man of free will. If you had genuinely desired peace, you would have greeted my offer, and my emissary, with open arms, no doubt."
His smile dwindled into a direct stare. "Any man, especially one who is betrothed, with less-than-honorable intentions toward a woman, would be untrustworthy as a neighbor as well. It's just as well that you threw two thousand lives away trying to win her attention now. You learned your lesson early. The cost would have been far greater later on." He turned and walked toward the door into the shadows.
"I'll leave you now to get ready," he said over his shoulder.
"Get ready for what?"
The Firbolg king looked back at the Lord of Roland and smiled. "The vigil you will no doubt want to hold for your men." The shadows of the room shifted and he was gone.
At dawn on the tenth day the party from Roland rode into sight on the steppes. Rhapsody and her honor guard were waiting. She had made sure that none of their horses had come from the Orlandan raiding party; taste has its limits, after all, she had told Achmed. She smiled as she recognized the Lord Roland himself and remembered their unpleasant exchange some weeks before.
The five men in the Regent's party were clad in plain garments and woolen cloaks, probably for the purposes of remaining as anonymous as possible. Rhapsody was attired similarly. She had debated the wisdom of Achmed's suggestion that she deck herself in her grandest finery, fearing that it would be unseemly. She had sighed when dressing simply in the early morning hours. After all, she thought, how many chances do I get to dress nicely these days?
Riding with Tristan Steward, in addition to two heavily armed guards, were his cousin, Stephen Navarne, who exchanged a smile with her as their eyes met, and another man who favored the Lord Regent facially, though was somewhat younger. He wore a horned helmet and a heavy gold amulet wrought in the image of the sun, with a gleaming ruby spiral in the center. It was the symbol of the benisonric of Bethany. This must be the benison whose See was the northern provinces of Canderre and Yarim, whose portrait graced the wall of the basilica of fire.
The Lord Roland pulled his chestnut gelding to a stop and dismounted quickly, eager to get this distasteful duty over with. He had considered every other possible option and had come to the distressing conclusion that this treaty was unavoidable, mostly from assessing the cool reaction his proposal of invasion had received from the other dukes.
The country of Sorbold, a peaceful rival and ally in trade and conflict had politely declined as well, citing their preexisting intentions of establishing trade with Ylorc and plans to offer the new warlord a place in their benison's See. The cords in Roland's neck had extended several inches outside his body at the ambassador's words; the news of the Orlandan army's defeat had convinced most of his allies that trade with the Bolg was an idea they had actually been toying with for centuries.
He watched the Bolg emissary dismount and approach. As he feared, and hoped, it was the woman he had banished from his keep some weeks back, whom he had not been able to banish from his thoughts. He steeled himself for what he knew would be a well-deserved jeer, but her face held no gloat, just a welcoming smile. He found himself staring at her, his thoughts not totally honorable.
"Welcome, m'lord," Rhapsody said, bowing to him. "We are honored by your presence." There was no sarcasm in her tone, and the Lord Roland found himself swimming in warm and lascivious feelings in spite of all that had happened; he shook himself roughly to bring his mind back to the task at hand.
"M'Lady Rhapsody, allow me to present my brother, His Grace, Ian Steward, the Blesser of Canderre-Yarim."
Rhapsody bowed over the ring he extended. "Your Grace."
"And I believe you know my cousin, Lord Stephen of Navarne."
"Yes. How are you, m'lord?"
"Very well, thank you, m'lady. Thank you for seeing us."
Rhapsody smiled. "My pleasure."
She nodded to her honor guard, and two of the dozen soldiers dragged a wooden table forth and set up chairs around it. The Bolg guards smiled pleasantly at the Orlandan lords, causing a collective shudder to rumble through the men. Their reaction delighted the Bolg, who hurried back into position with the others.
Tristan Steward cleared his throat. "Well, now, here we have documents for your examination. First, an interprovince trade agreement sanctioned by the dynastic seat of Roland—Bethany—which allows for and encourages similar subagreements for the exterior provinces. In it you will find generous terms with the same tariffs we assess on our historic trading partners, and, in fact, each other interprovincially."
"I'm afraid that is not satisfactory," Rhapsody said mildly. "We ask a waiver of all tariffs for the first ten years, as a sign of goodwill that Roland seeks to encourage the fledgling Firbolg economy, as well as in restitution for the centuries of gratuitous destruction visited upon Ylorc by Roland under the hand of Bethany."
Three mouths dropped open. Stephen's closed first into a hidden smile, while the expression of the Regent and the benison curled into something less pleasant.
"Surely you are joking," said the Lord Roland. "Waiver of tariff? What is the point in trade without tariff?"
"Trade without tariff is called commerce, m'lord," Rhapsody answered gently. "It is the fair exchange of goods for other goods, services, or currency. It is the practice in its true form before the tax collector became involved. King Achmed refuses to pay the tariff that supports the armies which have long abused his subjects. He would, however, see it as a gesture of real intention for peace should you agree to the waiver."
"I, for one, would be willing to waive the tariff for Navarne," Lord Stephen added, ignoring vicious looks from the two Orlandan brothers. "First, I think each province would be free to set its tax rate as it is now, would it not, Tristan?"
"That is the current practice," said the Lord Roland.
"Well, Navarne owes the King of Ylorc a debt of gratitude stemming from his participation in the rescue of the children of its province. In addition, one would say that the Cymrian line of Roland might have similar appreciation regarding the liberation of the House of Remembrance, as well as the restoration of the Tree there." He winked surreptitiously at Rhapsody.
"So why don't you agree to the tax waiver for Bethany, Tristan, and let the others do as they like? I would hazard a guess that the other provinces would be willing to trade an initial tariff just for a look at Firbolg-crafted weapons."
"Indeed. Well, I suppose there is no harm in that," said the Lord Roland testily.
"Excellent. Thank you," said Rhapsody. She smiled brightly, and bent to amend and sign the document, unaware of the stares of longing that entered the eyes of the men sitting opposite her. "Now, what's next?"
The Lord Regent unrolled another scroll. "In exchange for the promise of non-aggression and the return of the bodies of the casualties in the last raid, Roland agrees, as a united kingdom, to refrain from any unwarranted hostility against the lands of Ylorc."
Rhapsody shook her head, maintaining her pleasant expression.
"No, I can't agree to that," she said reluctantly. "First, there are no bodies to return. It is as if your army sank at sea without a trace, m'lord; commit their memory to history and forget about the mortal remains."
She leaned forward and spoke in a confidential whisper. "Between us, the battle was over in less than a quarter hour, although some residual action went on for a few more minutes. After that, it was as if nothing had ever happened."
"In addition, I'm afraid I don't like the term 'unwarranted.' What Roland had considered warranted for centuries is what brings us here today. No, I think this should be a standard non-aggression pact, signed between both rulers."
"King Achmed guarantees his citizens will not invade or aggress on the people of Roland, in exchange for which the Lord Roland will guarantee the same thing reciprocally. Any violation of the treaty is the breaking of the sovereign's oath, and will be considered an act of war, assuageable only by immediate deeding of land in the amount of ten percent of the aggressor's realm. How's that?" She stifled a laugh at the three shocked faces in front of her.
"Isn't that excessive?" asked the young benison of Canderre-Yarim. "Who would want ten percent of Ylorc?"
Rhapsody laughed merrily. Her mirth had the tone of chiming church bells.
"Why, Your Grace, how refreshing. An honest question, to be sure, but certainly not the proper and holy way to look at it. You see, if Roland's intentions are strictly honorable, as I'm sure they are, and the oath of the Lord Regent is as ironclad as I believe it to be, you could guarantee any price, because your honor as a people is at stake."
"And as to the value of Ylorc, I don't need to remind you that this was once the Cymrian seat of power, the place where your ancestors chose to rule. Don't judge things at their surface value, Your Grace. There are as many children of the All-God within those mountains as in all of your See, probably more. I'm sure to you that alone makes it worth protecting, am I right?"
"Ye-yes," the benison stuttered, withering under the thunderous look directed his way from the Lord Regent. "Well, she's right, Tristan. That seems a fair compromise, to be sure."
The Lord Roland seized the quill and scratched the terms into the parchment, quivering with rage. When he finished, Rhapsody took the pen from him to sign as well; her hand rested lightly on his for a moment. When it moved away, his fingers betrayed only the slightest tremor, the floridity of his face cooling immediately.
"That brings up my part," said the benison. He unrolled the last scroll and held the corners down for her examination.
"Bethe Corbair has always been the See within which the Bolglands belonged. This document is the inscription of the Blesser of Bethe Corbair, Lanacan Orlando, offering religious solace and membership within his See, at our request, for the—er—citizenry of Ylorc."
"The benison of Bethe Corbair has agreed to provide you with clergy, religious rites, and pilgrimage escort, as well as sanctuary and healing, with appropriate tithing, of course."
He looked nervously at the dukes; this was the most risky proposition. The Bolglands bordered on Sorbold as well, another benison's See loyal to the Patriarch. Should Ylorc choose Sorbold instead, it would be vastly unbalancing to the theocratic power of Roland.
Rhapsody smiled again. "Thank you, Your Grace. That is a matter I had not anticipated. The religious loyalty of the Firbolg is not something to which I feel qualified to speak. They have their own shamen, and their own theology. Perhaps there is interest in your church, or the religion of Gwynwood. Either way, I cannot speak to it today."
"It would be best if you or the Blesser of Bethe Corbair himself sent an emissary to discuss this in depth with the king. He told me to relay to you that he will be receiving ambassadors after the first of the month."
The benison nodded numbly.
"Well, then, gentlemen, if that is all, I thank you most sincerely and bid you good morning." Rhapsody rose and motioned to the guards, who collected the table and the chairs before the Orlandan nobles were even fully standing. She tucked her copies of the documents into the pocket of her cloak.
"Wait," said Lord Stephen as she turned to go. "We have a few gifts for you. Mine are both tokens of appreciation from the people of Navarne and mementos from your grandchildren, including a small portrait of them."
Rhapsody grinned in delight. "My! Thank you! How are Gwydion and Melisande?"
"Very well, thank you. They send their love, and wish to express their gratitude for the flute and harp you sent them. They hope you will be by soon to see them."
"I hope so as well. Kiss them for me, will you, and tell them I think of them daily, as I promised? Perhaps they can come and visit me here one day."
"Perhaps," Stephen said, avoiding the incredulous glances of his cousins. "Stay well."
He stepped back to allow the guards to transfer the chests that the other two nobles had brought to Rhapsody's horses, then kissed her hand and took to the saddle. The others followed suit, and she waved as they rode off toward the west.
The Lord Roland paused at the edge of the field, a strange look on his face, then raised his hand. Rhapsody smiled and dropped him a deep, respectful curtsy as she had the first time they met. A broad smile broke over his face. He spurred his horse and galloped out of sight.
"Not bad for a peasant, eh, Llauron?" she said to herself as she returned to her mare. She slapped away the hands of the Bolg guard who was examining the gift chest. "Hey, keep your mitts off. That's my present."