Prophecy: Child of Earth

47

The Cauldron itself was unchanged. Death was no stranger to the mountain; Canrif, and then Ylorc, had been the site of many a deathwatch after bitter retreat, as well as the planning place for many a brutal killing. For Achmed, however, it was the first time he had found himself in the semi-dark, planning for someone to live.

Unconsciously he was going about it in much the same way that he planned a demise. He went endlessly over the facts of the case, the infinitesimal details of how this could have come to pass, the hunt, the melee, the sites of her wounds, the way the blood had escaped her body. He tried to put the pieces of Rhapsody’s survival into place, the way he would have arranged the sequence of an assassination.

He was not getting anywhere.

Grunthor approached the door as quietly as he could, then knocked softly. Hearing no response, he opened it and came in.

The room was dark but for the minimal light cast by a few scented candles in the corner, far from the bed, and the sporadic radiance of strangely glowing wine bottles positioned in various places about the room. Grunthor had one in his hand; he closed the door quietly behind him, looking for a moment at the flickering container before approaching Achmed who sat, as he had for the past four days and nights, in the chair beside the bed.

“Sir?”

“Hmm?”

“Oi brought you some fresh fireflies. Them must be gettin’ tired.”

Achmed said nothing.

“Any change?”

“No.”

Grunthor looked down at her; asleep or unconscious, it was hard to tell. It was impossible, in fact, to tell at the moment if she was even still alive. Her normally rosy skin was pale like the seashell he had once found at the oceanside, and she looked very tiny in the big bed. He had teased her at every opportunity about her petite stature, but somehow in motion she gave the impression of muscular strength and vitality. Now she appeared frail, childlike.

He looked down at his oldest friend and sovereign, whose lower face was hidden by folded hands. An ancient story occurred to Grunthor, the tale of a Bolg who had placed himself at the gates between Life and Death and would allow none to pass in order to forestall the demise of a comrade. It had a messy ending.

Achmed shifted in the chair. “Has there been any word from Ashe?”

“Not yet, sir.”

The Dhracian rested his chin on the heel of his hand and fell silent again.

Grunthor assumed parade rest.

“Would you like me to stay with ’er for a while, sir? Oi’d be glad to, and you could get some sleep.”

Achmed leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his waist. He said nothing.

Grunthor waited a few moments more. “Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes. Good night, Grunthor.”

Grunthor set the wine bottle down on the stone that served as a bedside table, then reached under the bed to turn over the heated rocks that functioned as the room’s source of warmth. Achmed had been insistent that the room be warmed and lit without using the fireplace for fear that the smoke or the acrid fumes from the burning peat would harm her.

It was Grunthor who came up with the idea of the fireflies and ordered the Firbolg army to set about gathering them. It was a dismal task in early autumn anyway, and the sight of monsters in mail clanking through the fields with wine bottles, desperately jumping after the hovering insects would have made Rhapsody laugh if she had been able to appreciate it. Grunthor gave her a kiss on the forehead as he rose, then left the room without another word.

Achmed continued to watch her in silence. After an hour or so the Firbolg medics came in with medicinal herbs and supplies, replacement hot rocks and clean piles of the muslin rags that served as bandages. They behaved quietly and respectfully, finishing with their tasks and leaving the room as quickly as possible. Achmed waited until they were gone, and then gently undressed Rhapsody and bathed her wounds, changing the bandages and her shirt. The irony of the situation made him grimace. He had been so annoyed with her spending time ministering to the Firbolg, soaking gauze bandages in herbs to cure infections, singing to ease their pain. Now the procedures she had taught them, and him, were quite possibly the only things keeping her alive.

He leaned forward in the chair, resting his forehead in his hands, and looked at the waves of golden hair lying around her pillow like a sunlit sea. Against his will, the memory came back to him, the first of their many exchanges about her healing efforts.

Well, that’s a useful investment of your evening, he had groused. I’m sure the Firbolg are very appreciative, and will certainly reciprocate your ministrations if you should ever need something.

What does that mean’?

I’m trying to tell you that you will never see any return for your efforts. When you are injured or in fain, who will sing for you, Rhapsody?

Why, Achmed, you will.

So many funny memories had lost their amusement value. He remembered the way her eyes had looked in the dark, how she had smiled as if she knew something. Tou will.

Achmed rested his fingers on her wrist, then her neck, sensing her pulse to see if the heartbeat had grown any stronger. It was there, fighting on, holding its own, though it still seemed weak to him.

He and Grunthor had braved the streets of Sepulvarta, the nearest place of healing to where they had fought the Rakshas, the place Rhapsody had fallen. Waves of panic had resonated through the city at the sight of the two Firbolg riders galloping up the hill to the rectory, the dying woman in the arms of the smaller one.

The priests in the manse had been unable to bring her around, and even the Patriarch, carried in from his cell in the hospice, had only been able to stabilize her. Achmed knew by the look of despair in the old man’s eyes that it was absence of his ring that prevented him from being able to heal her, and he cursed Ashe silently. All the skills the Patriarch’s clergyman brought to bear merely made it possible for them to take her back, still unconscious and deathly fragile, to Ylorc. The healers Achmed had sent for from the outlying areas had advised him politely to prepare for the worst, and had left hurriedly, without exception, in the face of his wrathful reaction.

“Come on, Rhapsody,” he muttered, frustration curling his face into a contorted knot. “Show them all, the imbeciles; show them you’re not the fragile harlot—show them what we both know you’re really made of.”

He ran a hand over his slippery hair and brought his head to rest in the crook of his elbow. As the dim light of the room receded even more, he saw her face, bruised and bleeding from her first combat on the Root, her eyes glittering in the fire-colored darklight of the path through the Earth, as she had applied the spiced bandage to his wrist, hesitantly singing her first song of healing.

Music is nothing more than the maps through the vibrations that make up all the world. If you have the right map, it will take you wherever you want to go.

Achmed moved to the bed, sitting as close to her as he could without causing her discomfort. He leaned his head down over her chest, feeling in his skin the beating of her heart, the tides of her breath. His eyes took in her face from different angles, searching for improvement in the pallor, places where the sunken flesh might have returned to its former shape. With infinite care his fingers traced the line of the blood loss under her eyes, and came to rest on the stray lock of hair curling down the edge of her cheek.

“Rhapsody,” he said in a voice of utter solemnity, “between two worlds I have had but two friends. I am not willing to let you alter this.” Who will sing for you, Rhapsody? Yon will.

The ritual he had used to paralyze and enthrall the Rakshas was the only song he had ever sung. It had come to him from deep within his belly, humming through the multiple chambers of his heart, throat, and sinuses until it transmitted out through his skull. The melody was not his own, but rather was written deep in the Before-Time as his race was conceived. The Grandmother had imparted to him the secrets of using it. It was not until he had done so that he had learned how it actually worked.

There was a duality to it. The ancient tune, the pattern of the notes, was the snare for the demon side of the F’dor, holding it against its will on the threshold between the Earth and the netherworld to which it sought to flee. But the human host was vulnerable to the sounds of the song as well; the vibrations called the blood to the brain and swelled it. The Rakshas was an artificial construct, and thus not really alive. But had it been the F’dor he was enthralling, the demon-spirit in the body of a human host, it would have been different. If he were alone with such a being, and able to sustain the Thrall ritual long enough, the rush of blood would cause his foe’s head to burst. This was the only song he knew, the healing act that Rhapsody needed. Achmed had no idea if it would kill her.

You know, Grunthor, you could help with the healing as well. You like to sing. Oi believe you’ve ’eard the content o’ my songs, miss. Generally they tend to be more on the threatnin’ side, if you get my drift. And Oi don’t think anyone’s ever gonna mistake me for a Singer. Oi certainly got no trainin’ in it.

The fondness in her eyes had gleamed with an intensity that matched her smile.

Content makes no difference at all. It can be any kind of song. What matters is their belief in you. The Bolg have given you their allegiance. You’re their version of “The Last Word, to Be Obeyed at All Costs.” In a way, they’ve named you. It doesn’t matter what you sing, just that you expect them to get well. And they will. I’ve always maintained that Achmed will do the same for me one day. Under his breath Achmed swore vile epithets in every tongue he knew. “You set this up, didn’t you? Was it really worth the risk for your entertainment? I should have left you out there to bleed to death. You deserve it for what you force me to do.” His hand trembled as he brushed the stray lock tenderly off her face. Tou will.

The wilted blossom had swelled with moisture, uncurling in his palm as she sang the notes, the wordless call to its name. It’s part of what a Namer can do; there is no thing, no concept, no law as strong as the power of a given thing’s name. Our identities are bound to it. It is the essence of what we are, and sometimes it can even make us what we are again, no matter how much we have been altered.

Achmed sighed. She had bound him to it, and he hadn’t even realized it when it happened. She had given him the key to help her, even as he mocked her. Like it or not, he had been named as her healer.

He glanced about the room furtively, then, reassured of their privacy, he cleared his throat and tried to summon forth a musical sound, but nothing came out. “Bloody hrekin; this was brilliant of you,” he muttered, scowling at her. “Require music of someone who has sung once in his entire life? Why not just ask the rocks to do it? You would have had better luck.” He tried to think of another song he knew.

The obscene marching song Grunthor had used to herd the new recruits came into his mind, bringing an unexpected smile to his face. Rhapsody and Jo had occasionally sung it in comic exaggerations of the Sergeant’s accented bass. His smile faded as quickly as it had come at the thought of Jo, now lying, pale and lifeless, in the silent chamber that had been the only real home the street child had ever known. There was little enough difference in the way Rhapsody looked now to make his hands grow clammy.

He had seen and dispensed enough death in his lifetime to be unmoved by it. In their time together he and Grunthor had both faced the potential demise of the other without panic, each possessing an understanding of the stakes of the game they played.

This was different. As each drop of blood had left her, draining bits of her life with it, he had wanted to scream, had held Rhapsody’s wounds together with his hands as they rode at full gallop toward Sepulvarta, guiding the horse with his knees alone. The terror he felt at the thought of losing her had surprised no one more than himself. A song seemed little enough to pay to keep her on this side of the gate of Life.

Achmed took a deep breath. In a halting voice that resonated with scratchy vibrato and clicked with a fricative percussion, he sang to her a song of his own making, a song that even he didn’t know the genesis or the meaning of. In a world where the grinding sound of a rockslide whispered lullabyes or cracking timbers soothed the angry, it might have been a lovely song. From one man came three voices, one sharp and rapid, one low, like the shadow of a note just missed in the distance, and this time, there were words.

Mo haale maar, my hero gone World of star become world of bone Grief and pain and loss I know My heart is sore, my blood-tears flow

To end my sorrow I must roam My terrors old, they lead me home.

Rhapsody stirred beneath the blankets, and Achmed could hear a painful sigh escape her. Then he felt small, soft fingers with callused tips brush his hand, and heard her inhale as though undertaking something very difficult.

“Achmed?”

“Yes?”

Her voice was a weak whisper. “Will you keep singing until I’m better?”

“Yes.”

“Achmed?”

“What?” He leaned forward to catch the soft words.

“I’m better.”

“Obviously you’re not much better if that’s the best you can do,” he said, smiling at the gentle insult. “But you’re still the same ungrateful brat you always were. That’s nice thanks for someone who just gave you back the will to live.”

“You’re right, you did,” she said slowly, and with great effort. “Now that you—have given me—a taste of—what the Underworld—is like—

Achmed laughed in relief. “You deserve it. Welcome back, Rhapsody.”

Jy hen night fell the following day, Grunthor carefully lifted Rhapsody from her bed and carried her to the heath. Achmed was waiting there, the pyre built and primed. The Sergeant helped her to stand while the Firbolg king drew her sword for her and helped her hold it aloft.

Rhapsody’s weak eyes came to rest for a moment on the white-shrouded figure that crowned the pile of frost-blistered wood, then searched the night sky for a star to call.

If you can find your guiding star, you will never be lost. Never.

She finally made one out that she knew, Prylla, an evening star revered by the Lirin of this land. It was named for a woodland goddess of ancient myth, the Windchild, reputed to have sung her songs into the north wind in the hope of finding the love she had lost. Only the wind had answered her; somehow Rhapsody found the legend poignantly appropriate for Jo. She cleared her mind as best she could, then pointed Daystar Clarion heavenward and spoke the name of the star.

The hillside was illuminated by a light brighter than any of them had ever seen, blinding them temporarily and radiating over the fields to the canyon. It touched the face of the mountains, making them shine with a splendor past that of the setting sun. Then with a roar, a searing flame descended, hotter than the fires of the Earth’s core. It ignited the pyre, causing the wood to explode with flames that danced skyward. The fire burned quickly, sending a rolling wave of smoke into the wind and up to the starry canopy above them.

Rhapsody sang, in a voice barely above a whisper, her sister’s name and the first few notes of the Lirin Song of Passage before she was too drained to continue; she had performed the rite already, she knew. Jo was already in the light.

The Three stood together, watching the flames take their friend. The ashes ascended into the air and the wind took them, whipping across the heath and over the mountains, twisting and swirling in beautiful patterns of white like rising snow in the darkness.

After that her strength returned quickly. She seemed a little more herself each day, though the light in her eyes was conspicuously absent. Grunthor sat on the edge of her bed and told her filthy jokes and bawdy stories of life among the Bolg as he had before, remembering how much they had made her laugh. The anecdotes still brought a smile, but somehow it was not the same. Her soul was not healing as quickly as her body.

Achmed worried visibly about her. His thinking was belabored and his mood worse than usual, as demonstrated by the circumspect manner that his soldiers and guards adopted when in the Cauldron. They spoke in whispers and refrained from any kind of fighting or loud arguments, having once experienced the wrath of the Warlord after their high-spirited bantering had woken the First Woman from a fitful sleep. There had been such suffering as a result that the word spread quickly throughout the Mountain, and Grunthor had many more volunteers for duty outside the Teeth than ever before.

Her two friends afforded Rhapsody her privacy, never prying into her feelings with questions about her state of well-being; they knew the source of her pain, and were at a loss to know what to do about it. Their presence was a wellspring of great comfort to her. Achmed took to reading his briefings or studying the infinite manuscripts of Gwylliam’s vaults in her room at night while she sorted herbs or wrote music, comfortable in their mutual silence.

Rhapsody had come upon Grunthor, quite by accident, when walking back to her room to replenish her supply of clean clothes. She was well enough to walk alone for short periods, and was in the process of fumbling for her key when she heard a noise in Jo’s room across the hall.

She went to the door and opened it quietly, peering into the darkness to find the giant Bolg sitting on Jo’s bed with his chin resting on his palms, a blank look of bewilderment on his face. The crates and sacks on the floor indicated he had come to clean out her belongings, probably with a mind to sparing Rhapsody the task, but instead he had found no clutter. None of Jo’s hoarded treasures were anywhere in her quarters. It was as if the street child had discarded every memento she had ever collected. He looked up at Rhapsody as she walked in and silently came into his arms, her head still barely reaching his shoulder even as he sat.

“Oi don’t know what ’appened, darlin’,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. “We musta lost ’er a long time ago, and we didn’t even know it.” Rhapsody just nodded and hugged him tighter.

Finally the awkward solitude came to an end in a queasy realization. Achmed had come in the night to check on Rhapsody to find her sitting in the corner of the room, her arms wrapped around herself, staring at the ceiling. He approached her slowly and slid down the wall next to her into a sitting position on the floor, where he waited in silence, watching her. Finally she turned to him and made eye contact. Their gaze locked, and then she closed her eyes and spoke.

“Do you think Jo was pregnant?”

Achmed shook his head. “I saw her the day before, and she seemed vibrationally the same. Of course, I can’t be sure, but I would guess not.”

Rhapsody nodded, then looked down at her drawn-up knees. “Oelendra once said the F’dor were masters of manipulation that spent eternity trying to figure out ways to get around the limits of their own power.”

“That’s accurate.”

“And the prophecy about the F’dor—the uninvited guest—says that it will ‘bind to no body that has borne or sired children, nor can it ever do so, lest its power be further dispersed’, right?”

“Yes.”

“Elynsynos said the Firstborn, the five oldest races, which included both dragons and F’dor, have control over their own procreation.” Achmed swallowed the ugly comment about Ashe that danced on his lips. “It’s a conscious decision for them to break their essence open in order to expand their power, because having progeny makes them immortal, in a way, but it can also weaken the parent.” Achmed nodded again. “So what if the F’dor wanted to expand its power, make itself immortal, but didn’t want to lessen its own strength? How would it do so?”

Achmed saw her point immediately. “It would find a way for its blood to reproduce without its body having to.”

Rhapsody nodded, her eyes glimmering. “The Rakshas. It wasn’t just using rape as a form of terror and a method for binding souls. It was breeding new hosts for the demon.” i don’t think you’re well enough, Duchess. You shouldn’t be ridin’ yet.” Rhapsody bent down and kissed the great green-gray cheek. “I’ll be fine. Achmed is here, and if I’m feeling weak I can ride with him.” The mare danced impatiently, held in place by the reins and bridle in Grunthor’s hand. The Singer spoke softly to her, gentling her down.

“We’ll be back shortly,” said Achmed, mounting the horse the quartermaster had brought and provisioned for him. “If this leads to a hunt, we’ll come back here first to make arrangements.” Grunthor and Achmed exchanged a look; keep her safe, the Sergeant was saying. The Firbolg king nodded in assent.

“Now, where actually is this Rhonwyn person, eh?”

“In an abbey in Sepulvarta,” Rhapsody said, watching the quartermaster check her saddle and cinch the girth. “It’s about ten days’ ride from here, north of Sorbold on the other side of Bethe Corbair. We should be back in three weeks easily.”

“Easy for you,” the Bolg grumbled. “Oi, on the other hand, never get to go nowhere fun no more. No, Oi get stuck baby-sittin’ the Bolglands.”

Achmed smiled. “Try not to break any treaties while I’m gone.” He clicked to his mount, and the two travelers set off across the Orlandan plain for Sepulvarta.