Prophecy: Child of Earth

26

The ride to Sepulvarta proved to be invigorating. Summer was preceding her by a day like an elusive quarry as she rode northeast, following its trail of new grass and reborn needles on the evergreen trees that lined the forest. Each day the air grew warmer, the leaves fuller, the meadow grass higher, and Rhapsody felt the fire in her soul growing stronger in the flourishing heat. The blossoms and pale leaves of spring had given way to rich green foliage that shaded the ground, ground that grew drier and firmer in the advent of the season of the sun.

The rush of the wind, the pounding of the horse’s hooves, the speed of her desperate journey loosed a wildness in Rhapsody that had been held in check for too long. She had pulled the ribbon from her hair the first day she left the forest and entered the wide plains of Roland; her tresses streamed behind her as she and her mount flew over the ground. She turned her face to the sun and drank in its warmth, letting the burning rays of midday shine down on her countenance, turning her rosy skin a golden pink. By the time she had crossed the fields of Bethany and Navarne she felt healthier and stronger than she ever remembered being.

It took eleven days of furious travel to reach the outskirts of the city of Sepulvarta. The star-topped spire had been in view for three days before that. Rhapsody had first seen it at night, glowing dimly in the distance. It looked exactly as it had in her vision, and the sight of it caused her dreams that night to be especially intense. The nightmare that had made her undertake this journey had returned to her almost every night, a nagging reminder of her need to press on with all possible speed.

The road to the city was teeming with people, pilgrims on their way to the holy shrines, clergy traveling to and from assignments, as well as the typical humanity that wandered the thoroughfares from province to province, looking for commerce or other interaction, some honorable, some nefarious. It was fairly easy to blend in with the crowd and wend her way past the gates of the city proper, winding up eventually at the rectory of Lianta’ar, the Great Basilica of Sepulvarta, high on the hill at the outskirts of the city. It was a beautiful marble building attached to the basilica itself, its engraved brass doors guarded by soldiers in bright uniforms. Rhapsody tied her horse to the hitching area, tended to the mare’s needs with water and oats, and approached the guards directly.

She had not gotten within ten feet of them when their spears crossed, one in front of the other.

“What do you want?”

Rhapsody stood up as straight as she could. “I need to see His Grace.”

“Days of Pleas are in the winter; you’re too late.”

She felt the fear she had carried since the first nightmare had come dissolve into irritation. “I have to see him anyway. Please.”

“No one sees the Patriarch, even on Days of Pleas. Go away.”

Impatience was threatening to take over. Rhapsody kept her voice as calm as she could. “Please tell His Grace that the Iliachenva’ar has come to stand as his champion. Please.” The guards said nothing. “All right,” she said, attempting to control her rage, “until you take my message to the Patriarch you will be unable to deliver any other.” She spoke the name of silence.

The guards looked at each other, then began to laugh. Pity crossed Rhapsody’s face as they found themselves utterly without sound, and their faces contorted in confusion and fear. The younger of the two men clutched at his unresponsive throat, while the more experienced guard leveled his spear at her.

“Now, now, don’t get testy,” she said, looking unimpressed. “If you really want to set to it here in the street, I’d be glad to oblige, but I’m afraid my weapon is far better than yours; it really would be unfair. Now, please, gentlemen, I’ve been traveling for a long time and I really have no more patience left. Either take my message to the Patriarch, or get ready to defend yourselves.” She gave them her warmest smile to take the threat out of her words.

The younger of the two guards blinked, and his face went slack. He looked at the other guard, then back at Rhapsody, before turning and entering the rectory. The other guard kept his spear leveled at her. She, in turn, sat down on the stone steps of the manse to wait.

The view of the city from the steps of the rectory was majestic, sweeping from one edge of the hill to the other. Many of the buildings of Sepulvarta were constructed of white stone or marble, and the resulting effect was a city that glinted in sunlight, appearing somehow otherworldly, like a disappointing vision of the afterlife. Some of the ethereal light was doubtless imparted by the enormous pinnacle in the center of the city. The Spire was so tall that it looked down on the top of the basilica, despite the church being set on the hilltop hundreds of feet above the city itself. When the sun caught a facet of the star a broad slash of light flashed through the air, making the rooftops gleam in momentary glory.

The guard returned just as Rhapsody had decided to stand and stretch her legs.

“Please come with me.”

She followed him up the stone steps and through the heavy brass doors.

The bright sun of the city disappeared the moment Rhapsody entered the rectory. There were few windows, and the marble walls blotted out the light completely, leaving a dark and dismal feel to the interior of the beautiful building. Heavy tapestries hung on the walls and ornate brass candlesticks held large wax cylinders that provided the only light. The pungent scent of incense did little to mask the sharp odor of mildew and stale air.

She was led down several long hallways, past sallow-faced men in clerical black who stared at her as she walked by. Finally the guard stopped before a large carved door of black walnut and opened it slowly for her. He gestured with his hand, and Rhapsody went into the room.

It was approximately the same size as the meeting room behind the Great Hall in the Cauldron, with a large gilt star embossed on the floor. Other than that it was without ornament, and unfurnished except for a heavy black walnut chair sitting atop a rise of marble stairs, similar to a throne but without the grandeur customarily associated with one. In the chair sat a tall, thin man in richly embroidered robes of golden silk patterned with a silver star. He regarded her sternly as she stopped before him; he was no one she had ever seen before, not even in her dreams. She waited for him to speak.

He continued to watch her for a long moment, then his brow darkened. “Well? What did you want to see me about?”

Rhapsody let her breath out slowly. “Nothing.”

The stern face molded into an expression of anger. “Nothing? Then why were you so insistent? Don’t toy with me, young woman.”

“I believe you are the one who is toying with me,” answered Rhapsody as politely as she could, though a hint of her anger did creep into her tone. “I need to see the real Patriarch. Misrepresentation of this nature hardly becomes him, or you.”

The anger vanished from his face in the flood of bewilderment that followed her statement. “Who are you?”

“As I told the guards, I’m the Iliachenva’ar. It’s all right if you don’t understand what that means; I’m not here to see you. But the Patriarch does understand, or will, if you haven’t seen fit to tell him I’m here yet. Now, with all due respect, sir, please take me to see him. There isn’t much time.”

The man stared at her for a moment, then rose. “His Grace is in preparation for the High Holy Day celebration. No one can see him.”

“Why don’t you let him make that decision?” Rhapsody asked, folding her arms. “Really, I think you will find he wants to see me.”

He considered her words. “I will ask him.”

“Thank you. I am grateful.”

The man nodded and came down the stairs. He paused as he came past her, looking her up and down, and then left the room. Rhapsody sighed and glanced up at the ceiling. It was constructed of marble as well; the unrelenting solidity made her feel entombed. She itched to get back outside into the air again.

After what seemed like an eternity the door opened once more, and the man she had spoken with returned, attired in simple clerical black this time. He gestured for her to follow him, and she did, down more endless corridors until she was so deep within the building that she had totally lost her bearings.

Finally they entered a long hall of simple cells, many with open doors, that looked like a hospice. As they walked past she could see that each room contained a single bed, or occasionally two, with reclining figures beneath white linen sheets, sometimes moaning in pain or muttering in dementia. The man stopped before a closed door near the end of the hallway, knocked, and opened it. He gestured for her to enter.

Rhapsody came into the room, vaguely aware of the door closing behind her. In the bed rested an elderly man, frail of body, with a fringe of snow-white hair and bright blue eyes that twinkled merrily in the prison of his fragile physical form. He was dressed in the same white linen bedsmock as the other patients she had seen on the hall, and Rhapsody recognized him instantly as the cleric in her dreams. A look of awe came over his face as she came to him, and he held a shaking hand out to her.

“Oelendra?” His voice was a thin croak. “You have come?”

Rhapsody took his hand gently and sat down on the stool beside the bed so he would not have to crane his neck to see her. “No, Your Grace,” she said softly. “My name is Rhapsody. I am the Iliachenva’ar now. Oelendra trained me. In fact, I just came from training with her.”

The elderly priest nodded. “Of course, you are far too young to be her. I should have realized it when you came in. But when they told me a Liringlas woman who said she was the Iliachenva’ar had come—”

“I’m honored by the error, Your Grace,” Rhapsody said, smiling. “I hope to be worthy of the comparison one day.”

The Patriarch’s face broke into a wide smile. “My, you are lovely, child.” His voice dropped to an impish whisper. “Do you think it would be a sin for me just to lie here and look at you for a moment?”

Rhapsody laughed. “Well, you would know better than I, Your Grace, but I doubt it.”

He sighed. “The All-God is kind, sending me such consolation in my last days.”

Rhapsody’s brow furrowed. “Your last days? Have you had a vision, Your Grace?”

The Patriarch nodded slightly. “Yes, child. This celebration of the High Holy Day will be my last; within the year I will go to be with the All-God.” He saw the consternation in her eyes. “Don’t pity me, child, I’m not afraid; in fact, I am eager to go, when the time comes. What matters now is to complete the High Holy Day ceremony tomorrow night. Once that is done the year is assured.”

“I don’t understand. What does that mean?”

“You are not of the faith, then?”

“No, Your Grace, I’m not. I’m sorry.”

The blue eyes twinkled. “Don’t apologize, child; the All-God calls each person to his or her own discernment. If you believe differently, perhaps you are here to teach me something as I prepare to go to meet Him.”

Rhapsody looked uncomfortable. “I hardly think I could teach you anything about matters of faith, Your Grace.”

“Don’t be so certain, child. Faith is a curious thing, and it is not always greatest in those who are the most schooled in it. But we will return to this thought, yes? Let me tell you about the High Holy Day.

“Each year, on the eve of the first day of the season consecrated to the sun, I perform a sacred ritual, alone in the basilica. Throughout the year other celebrations take place, but none of them are as important, because the High Holy Day ceremony recommits the faithful to the All-God, and the Patriarch to His service. The sacred words are part of a holy bond with the Creator, the fulfillment of a promise that each year the Patriarch, on behalf of all the faithful, dedicates the collective soul of the people to the All-God. In return, we are granted His divine safekeeping for another year.” Rhapsody nodded in understanding; the ritual he described was a form of Naming.

“Thus, since an entire year of the All-God’s protection is assured by this holy ritual; there is nothing that can be allowed to delay or interrupt it,” the frail old man continued. “The populace of Sepulvarta retires for the night early and remains indoors to ensure there are no distractions to me. In fact, they are encouraged to pray for me at this time, so that I may be diligent in my duties, though I’m sure most of them are sleeping, rather than sitting vigil.” The old man stopped and took several rasping breaths from the exertion of his discourse.

Rhapsody poured a cup of water from the pitcher on the bedside table and handed it to him. “Are you in pain, Your Grace?” She steadied the trembling glass for him.

The Patriarch drank deeply, then nodded to indicate he was finished. Rhapsody set the glass back down. “Only a little, child. Growing old is a painful process, but the pain helps us to focus on leaving our bodies behind and strengthening our spirits for the journey. There are so many others here who suffer so much more. I wish my strength were not failing me so. I would tend to them as I usually do, but if I do, I fear I will not be able to complete my service tomorrow night.”

“I will tend to them for you, Your Grace,” Rhapsody said, patting his hand.

“You’re a healer, then?”

“A little,” she answered, rising and removing her cloak and pack. She draped her cloak over back of a chair on the other side of the room, and began to rummage through the satchel. “I also sing a bit. Would you like to hear a song?”

The pale face lit up. “Nothing would please me more. I should have known you were a musician with a name like that.”

“I’m afraid the only instrument I have with me is my lark’s flute,” said Rhapsody regretfully. “My lute met with an unfortunate accident recently, and I left my traveling harp in the House of Remembrance to guard the tree there.”

“Harp? You play the harp? Oh, how I would dearly love to hear that. There is no more beautiful sound in all the world than a harp played well.”

“I didn’t say I played well,” Rhapsody said, smiling. “But I do play enthusiastically. Perhaps someday I’ll return and bring my new harp, if you’d like.”

“We’ll see,” said the Patriarch noncommittally. Rhapsody knew that his eyes were already looking into the next world. She put the tiny flute to her lips and began to play an ethereal melody, light and breezy, the song of the wind in the trees of Tyrian.

The Patriarch’s face relaxed, and the muscles of his forehead went slack as the pain he carried eased with the sound of the instrument. Working with the Bolg as she had, Rhapsody had become accustomed to watching the face for signs of relief, and could tell when the music had alleviated suffering to a degree that would last for a while. When she saw that stage occur in the Patriarch, she brought the song to an end.

The old man sighed deeply. “Truly the All-God sent you to ease my passage, child. If only I could keep you here with me for the rest of my days.”

“There is a song of passage the Lirin sing when a soul prepares to travel to the light,” Rhapsody said. She saw the Patriarch’s eyes spark with interest. “It is said to loose the bonds of the Earth that keep the soul in the body so that it doesn’t have to struggle through them. That way the soul feels nothing but joy in its journey.”

“How I wish I was Lirin,” said the Patriarch. “That sounds wonderful.”

“You don’t have to be Lirin to have it sung for you, Your Grace. Surely there must be many Lirin in your fold.”

“Yes, perhaps one could be found who knows it when the time comes,” he said. “Your song has relieved my pain, child. You have a rare gift.” A knock sounded on the door. After a pause it opened, and the man who had impersonated the Patriarch came in, carrying a set of pristine white robes on a hanging rope.

“Are these satisfactory for tomorrow night, Your Grace, or shall I have the sexton unpack the Sorboldian linen set?”

“No, Gregory, those will be fine,” the Patriarch replied. The man bowed and disappeared through the door again. He turned back to Rhapsody. Her face was as white as the robes. “Child, what’s the matter?”

“Those are the robes for your ceremony tomorrow?”

“Yes; on the High Holy Day the ceremonial vestments are of the purest white. It is the only celebration for which I wear white; all others are of some color, generally silver or gold. Why do you ask?”

Rhapsody took his hand; hers was trembling more than his. “I have to tell you why I came, Your Grace,” she said. Slowly and carefully she related the details of her vision, trying to describe the people she saw as accurately as possible. The elderly priest seemed alarmed initially, but as she continued he became thoughtful, nodding at intervals and listening attentively. Finally when she finished he took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

“How very distressing. Not only the possibility that the High Holy Day ceremony might be compromised by my death, but the behavior of my beni-sons as well. I think your vision accurately portrays what will happen after my demise, Rhapsody. I had hoped they would rise above it, but I fear I was too optimistic.”

“What do you mean, Your Grace?”

“Well, the first two men you saw, the young man and the old one, are the Blessers of Canderre-Yarim and the Nonaligned States, respectively, Ian Steward and Colin Abernathy. Ian is wise for his years, but green, inexperienced. His appointment to the benisonric had more to do with the fact that his brother is Tristan Steward, the Lord Regent of Roland and Prince of Bethany than his own worthiness, though in time I believe Ian will make a fine benison. Colin is older than I, and in almost as poor health. Neither is suited to carry on in my stead, and in fact will undoubtedly panic when faced with the situation.

“The gentleman you saw making tea is most likely Lanacan Orlando, the Blesser of Bethe Corbair. His actions in your dream bespeak his personality perfectly. He is an unassuming chap, always looking to facilitate things and fix uncomfortable situations. Lanacan is my chief healer and minister; it is him I send to bless the troops or to comfort the dying. He’s not much of a leader, but he is a wonderful priest.

“And the other two, well, therein lies the difficulty. Those are the Blessers of Avonderre-Navarne and Sorbold, bitter rivals and both in contention for the Patriarchy when I die.

“Philabet Griswold, the Blesser of Avonderre-Navarne, is internationally influential due to Avonderre’s proximity to the shipping lanes and the wealth of the provinces in his See. Nielash Mousa, the Blesser of Sorbold, is the religious leader of an entire country, not just an Orlandan province, and is not from the traditional Cymrian lineage, which more and more is falling out of favor in Roland. They hate each other, I’m afraid, and though I’ve tried to ameliorate their differences in the Past, I fear the power struggle that will ensue after I’m gone. I’m not sure any of them are worthy of being the Patriarch, especially if the year is not assured.” He bit his lip; Rhapsody could see that his trembling had increased.

“Tell me what I can do to help you,” Rhapsody said, squeezing his hand. “Whatever it is, you can depend on me.”

The Patriarch looked at her sharply, as though assessing her soul. Rhapsody held his gaze, letting his fading eyes wander over her face unrestricted. Finally he looked at their joined hands.

“I believe I can at that,” he said, more to himself than to her. He removed a ring from his finger; she had barely noticed it before. It was a clear, smooth stone set in a simple platinum setting. He opened her hand gently and put it into her outstretched palm.

Rhapsody examined it more closely. Inside the stone, as though internally inscribed, were two symbols on opposite sides of the oval gemstone. They looked like a plus and a minus. She looked inquisitively at the Patriarch.

He touched the stone and spoke the word for containment in Old Cymrian; Rhapsody’s eyes opened wide. He was using the ability of Naming again. “There,” he said, a small smile of satisfaction coming over his face. His eyes met hers again. “Child, you now have the office of the Patriarchy in your hand. As long as it is present tomorrow night in the basilica, I will still officially be the Patriarch for purposes of performing the ritual. After that, it doesn’t matter if there is an official Patriarch, as I will have no more celebrations to offer. I know I will be gone within the year in any case. Keep it safe for me, will you? It contains the wisdom of my office, and the deep powers of healing that go with it.”

“How can your office be in the ring? Isn’t it inherent in you, Your Grace?”

The Patriarch smiled. “Actually, child, crowns of kings and rings or staves of holy men are often repositories for the wisdom of their offices; otherwise, that wisdom would die when the person holding the office does. That is why a crown, or a ring, is passed from king to king, Patriarch to Patriarch; it contains the wisdom of many kings, of many Patriarchs, not just the current wearer. That is also why a king is coronated with a crown, a Patriarch invested with a ring. It is not just a symbol; it holds the actual office, and its powers, safe. The collective wisdom gives each king, each Patriarch, the additional wisdom he needs to rule or to lead, rather than just having to rely on his own.” His hand trembled as he squeezed hers. “I know you will protect it.”

“I’m honored by your trust, Your Grace,” Rhapsody said haltingly. “But wouldn’t it be better left with one of your order?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said the Patriarch with a smile. “My wisdom, informed by the ring, says you are the one to entrust it to; you will know the right thing to do with it. It is an ancient relic from the Lost Island, brought by the Cymrians when they came. It holds many secrets that I have never been able to gain access to; perhaps you will, or the one you to whom you give it. If a peaceful and righteous solution to the ascendancy of this office is reached after I die, you will come to Sepulvarta to help invest the new Patriarch, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you would agree. That’s good, since they can’t really do it without the ring.” He laughed conspiratorially.

“Let me stand with you tomorrow night, Your Grace,” Rhapsody said seriously. “If the vision I saw foretold your death at the hands of an assassin, rather than at the All-God’s choosing, I should be there as your champion to defend you. The ritual can be completed, and the year assured. Then your days will be easy and peaceful until the All-God calls you.”

“I was hoping you would say that,” he whispered gleefully. “A named champion is the only escort the Patriarch can have present during the ritual. I think you’ll find it rather dull, but it still will be good to have you there.”

“Are you sure, Your Grace? I can wait outside the basilica and guard the entrance, if you wish. Since I am not of the religion, I wouldn’t want to—

“Do you believe in a God?”

“Yes, most definitely.”

“Then it isn’t a concern.” The old man shifted in his bed. “My child, will you tell me something?”

“Certainly.”

“What is it you do believe, if you don’t adhere to our religion? Are you a follower of Llauron?”

“No,” Rhapsody said, “although I have studied a bit with him. His interpretation is a little closer to what I believe than yours, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, but it’s not exactly the same as mine, either.”

The Patriarch’s eyes brightened in interest. “Please tell me what you do believe.”

Rhapsody thought for a moment. “I’m not sure I can articulate it exactly. The Lirin use the name ‘One-God,’ just as you do ‘All-God,’ but the concept is the same. I believe God is the combination of all things, that each thing, and each person, is a part of God, not just something God created, but an actual part of God. I think the reason people convene to worship is that there are more parts of God present, and God’s presence is more easily felt and celebrated.”

“That is similar to one of the tenets of our faith. Our religion believes that all people belong to the All-God, and their prayers combine to reach him.”

“So why, if your God is the God of all, are you the only one allowed to pray to him?”

The Patriarch blinked. “I am merely the channel of their prayers. Anyone can pray.”

“Yes, but they pray to you. Prayer, to me, which usually takes the form of song, is my way of communing directly with God. I need that to feel close to him.”

“Don’t you believe the All-God would want to have as many of his faithful’s prayers combined, so that the glory and honor we give Him is that much greater?”

“I don’t know. I suppose if I were a God of many people, I would want each of them to be as close to me as possible. Otherwise, what’s the point? I don’t think he created us to give him glory, I think he made us because he loves us. I don’t think he expects to have that love returned through a channel. Essentially, I see God as Life. It’s an easy concept to ascribe to, but a hard one to live.”

“Why?”

She thought for a moment. “Liringlas have an expression—Kyle him: Life is what it is. I used to think that was inane, a useless truism. Then I lived a little more, and came to understand the wisdom of those words. The Lirin see God as all of life, too; that each individual, each thing in the universe is but an infinitesimal part of God. So life, whatever it hands you, is to be revered, because it is as it should be, even if you don’t understand it at the time. I guess that comes from them living so long, and watching so much come and pass away in their time. Probably the reason it is hard for me to understand is that I’m only half-Linn, so I don’t have the natural long-term view.

“So I try to accept that all things are part of God, even the ones I don’t understand. In the meantime, while accepting life as it is, I think my part as a piece of it is to try to make it better in any way I am able, even though I recognize that my contribution is very minor, since I am such a small part of the whole. I’m afraid I am stubborn and impatient, and I want things my own way. I don’t make a very good Lirin, when it comes right down to it. I may look like my mother, but I guess I’m really more my father’s child.”

“You have gained wisdom from both of them,” said the Patriarch fondly. “If I had a daughter, I would want her to be just as stubborn and impatient, and wonderful, as you.” His face grew slightly paler.

“Why don’t you lie down, Your Grace?” Rhapsody said, taking his arm and helping him recline. “I have tired you too much. You rest, and I’ll go tend to the others. I have some medicines with me, and I can sing or play for them if they’d like. When you wake you can tell me more about what I need to do tomorrow night.”

The old man nodded. Rhapsody rose and went to the door. He called to her as she opened it.

“You’ll be back?”

“I will.”

“And tomorrow?”

“I’ll stand by you, Your Grace,” she said. “It will be my honor to do so.”