Rhapsody: Child of Blood

26

“With child? The dragon was pregnant?”

Llauron laughed at the look on Rhapsody’s face. “It does make a rather amusing mental picture, doesn’t it?”

“Not to me,” she said. “I find it very sad. I’m sure she was terrified, as well as lonely and devastated at what she thought was betrayal, especially if she was trapped in a form that was not her own.” The Singer grew silent, and the firelight dimmed noticeably.

“Indeed, which is probably what led her to do what she did.”

“Which was—?” Achmed prompted, annoyed at the storyteller’s tactics.

“When she saw that Merithyn was not among the First Fleet, Elynsynos abandoned the children at the foot of the Tree and left.”

“Children?” Grunthor asked. His voice caused Rhapsody to jump a little; he had been silent for almost the entire tale. “More than one?”

“Yes, she had given birth to three girls, triplets, though not identical. As she was an egg-layer in her natural form, a multiple birth was hardly unexpected. When the Cymrians came to the Tree they met the women there; they had grown quickly in the absence of a nurturing mother. Dragons are very resilient, I’ve been told.”

“The women resembled their father, in that they were tall and golden-skinned, as he had been, though they all had features of their mother as well. Because they had the appearance of Ancient Seren, the First Fleet immediately felt a kinship with them.”

“The women were blessed with unusual powers, as you can imagine would come from the union of two firstborn races. Because their father had sailed back and forth across the Prime Meridian, they were tied to Time as well as to the other elements. They were Seers, oracles who could look beyond the moment and into other places in Time. Unfortunately, as a result of this gift they were all insane, though to varying degrees.”

“The youngest, Manwyn, was the Oracle of the Future. She was said to have been the most mad of the three, because the knowledge of the Future is the most powerful and the most threatening. The legends say she was often delusional and spent most of her time muttering to herself. And though her gift held great power, it was also, in a way, useless, for it was impossible to distinguish the true prophecies from the madwoman’s ravings.”

“The middle sister, Rhonwyn, was the Seer of the Present. It was said that she was kind and lucid, but only in the moment, having no memory of her thoughts a moment later when the Present became the Past.”

“Of the three, only the eldest, Anwyn, was able to greet the refugees. She held the secrets of the Past, knowledge that was less volatile and dangerous to possess than that of her youngest sibling, and more coherent and meaningful than that of the middle child. As a result, she knew who the Cymrians were, and why they had come, and made them welcome in the lands that had belonged to her mother.”

“So the Cymrians of the First Fleet, recognizing her as the living bond between the old world of her father and the new world which was her mother’s, made her their lady, and settled into a harmonious union with these western lands and the Lirin of Realmalir.”

“Now, to the Second Fleet. Unlike the First Fleet, who caught the brunt of the hurricane, the Second Fleet saw it approaching, being some distance behind the others. As a result they were able to avoid major damage from it, though a few ships were lost, but were instead blown off course by it.”

“When the storm abated, they were too far from the course to correct it, especially since once they crossed the Prime Meridian they were forced back again. Land came in sight shortly thereafter, and rather than trying to find Merithyn’s paradise, their leader, the great warrior MacQuieth, decided to land there, in the inhabited country of Manosse. They and their descendants are there to this day.”

At the name, each of the three companions felt their palms go dry. Nearly everyone in Serendair had heard of MacQuieth, though the Firbolg knew more of him than Rhapsody did.

“MacQuieth was the Kirsdarkenvar, the bearer of Kirsdarke, the legendary sword of water. He was also said to be the master of that element; perhaps that is why his passage on the sea was safe. And of course he was a great hero, the king’s champion, the man who slew Tsoltan, the enemy leader in the Great War. He—”

“Llauron, hold up a moment, please,” Rhapsody interrupted nervously. Achmed’s face twisted into a scowl, and he exhaled in quiet frustration.

She did not see his irritation. “Could you explain what you just said about Manosse?” she asked. “They and their descendants? I don’t understand. You said that was fourteen centuries ago. Surely the First Generation Cymrians are all long dead.”

Llauron laughed. “One might feel confident in such an assertion, but one might be wrong. Singers; the guardians of accurate details. All right, let me elaborate.”

“The First Generation had come from one of the five places where time began, the Island of Serendair. They crossed the Prime Meridian, which is the place the Earth demarks Time, and came to another place, where Time began—this land, the birthplace of the race of dragons—although the Second Fleet landed elsewhere.”

“As a result, Time seemed to have no hold on them, and they did not grow old as other mortals did, but remained at the physical age they had been at the time of crossing over the Meridian. The exceptions were the children. They slowly continued to grow and age until they reached adulthood, and then remained there eternally.”

“Are you one of them?” asked Achmed bluntly.

Llauron laughed aloud. “Goodness, no, though I wish I could have the longevity and the power sometimes. You must think me very well preserved, young man. No, I’m afraid I’m not. Just an interested student of them.”

“If you’ll bear with me, I’m almost done with the Second Fleet. A few of the ships, most notably those whose passengers were Ancient Seren and other firstborn races, traveled farther east, not wishing to be part of the western landmass that MacQuieth had chosen. They found instead a small, uninhabited island between the two continents, blessed with fair weather and temperate breezes from the trade winds and a warm sea current. It was a true paradise, and they chose to stay there and make their colony alone, separated from their countrymen. Their land is Gaematria, generally called the Isle of the Sea Mages.”

“That leaves only the Third Fleet. Gwylliam’s Wave of ships waited until there was no one left on Serendair who was willing to be saved, then sailed into the east wind northward. But they landed well to the south of where Merithyn and the First Fleet had, along the southern coast of what are now the nonaligned states and the country of Sorbold.”

“Unlike this rich and primeval forest, kept undisturbed from man for millennia by the dragon who ruled it, the places that the Third Fleet landed were hostile and unforgiving. Most of Sorbold is arid, and that which is not is mountainous or grassland steppes. In addition, those lands were inhabited by people who did not especially appreciate the presence of the Cymrians, and oftentimes sought to drive them back into the sea. The Third Fleet had to struggle to survive, always fighting for what they needed.”

“They had two advantages, however. The first was Gwylliam himself. He was a practical man and a resourceful leader, skilled in the sciences, by nature and training a talented architect and engineer. Many of his clever inventions, coupled with his battle tactics, were the only things that allowed the outnumbered fleet to survive.”

“The second was the choice Gwylliam had made to keep the army back until the last. This was fortuitous for several reasons: it had allowed the First Fleet to be seen by the dragon not as hostile invaders but as invited guests, it added to the security of the Island in its last days, and it gave Gwylliam a fighting force on the most difficult of the three Cymrian fronts. It was Gwylliam’s responsibility to see to the safety of the fleets, and he did as well as any man could. If evil followed them, there was no way he could have prevented it.”

“And did it?” Achmed sat forward in the firelight as he asked his question.

Llauron looked away for a moment. When he looked back his face was grave. “It may have; there was a prophecy to that effect.”

“A prophecy?”

The old man smiled reassuringly at Rhapsody, whose brow was furrowed. “Yes, there was a time in the Cymrian Age, before the Great War, when Manwyn, the Oracle of the Future, would occasionally spout predictions, oftentimes at meetings of the Cymrian Council. One of them was recorded after a long argument at one such council. Of course, I can only read the history, so I don’t know how accurate it is, but I memorized it long ago. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes,” Rhapsody answered. [Garbled text -> Russian replacement] которой вдруг показалось, что налетел порыв ледяного ветра.

“Well, I’m afraid I’ve gotten a retrench for a moment. Позвольте мне сначала завершить рассказ. В конце концов представителям Третьего флота удалось пробиться в глубь континента. Победив своих врагов, они вышли к горам на северной границе Сорболдской пустыни. Огромный горный хребет и глубокий каньон отделяли от остального мира прекрасные плодородные земли. Места оказались необитаемыми, и по многим причинам, о которых я уже говорил, Гвиллиам решил, что Третий флот поселится именно там. [/Russian replacement] He named it Canrif, the Cymrian word for “age”, because it was said that within one hundred years it would become greatest civilization the world had ever seen. And, arguably, he accomplished the task. The fleet had contained immigrants of many different races, with many different needs, and Gwylliam met them all. The earth dwellers, the Nain and the Gwadd, made their homes within the endless tunnels of the mountains. Men found fields and meadows to live within and to farm on the Blasted Heath, and deeper within the Hidden Realm. The Lirin who had traveled with him set up villages within a dark forest they had discovered. In addition, Gwylliam built a vast and glorious city within the mountains themselves, devising great machines that filled the underground caverns with fresh air, as well as warmth in the winter. He and the Nain built giant forges that burned continuously, hammering out the steel for constructing his empire and the weapons to defend it.”

“Where are these mountains?” Achmed asked. “What are they called?”

“They lie to the east of the province of Bethe Corbair, the easternmost border of Roland. They also border Sorbold’s northern rim. The Cymrians called them the Manteids, but the Firbolg, who now live within them, call them the Teeth.”

“The Teeth?” Rhapsody asked incredulously.

“Yes, and should you ever see them, you’ll understand why. It is an accurate description. What was once the glory of Canrif is now the domain of the Firbolg; it is a dark and forbidding place.”

[Garbled text-> Russian replacement]

На Грунтора его слова не произвели устрашающего впечатления.

— Ой очень на это надеется.

Ллаурон улыбнулся и сделал глоток из своего серебряного стаканчика:

— А потом, примерно через пятьдесят лет, наступил день, когда Первый и Третий флоты снова встретились. Все страшно радовались, но одновременно возникли и проблемы. Представители Первого флота, бывшие в прошлом намерьенскими подданными, присягнули на верность Энвин, которая правила ими вот уже полвека. Поскольку Второй флот оставался в Маноссе и никто не знал о его судьбе, возник вопрос — что делать дальше? Намерьены хотели снова стать единым народом. Гвиллиам и Энвин правили Роландом, Сорболдом и Канрифом. Лирины по-прежнему держались особняком, хотя являлись союзниками Энвин. К счастью, из сложившегося положения удалось найти мирный выход. Все намерьены встретились на первом Великом Собрании и решили, что Гвиллиам и Энвин будут править в новом королевстве вместе. С целью создания династии они посчитали необходимым заключить брачный союз.

— А они любили друг друга? — спросила Рапсодия. Главный Жрец несколько мгновений рассматривал ее со странным выражением лица, и ветер играл его седыми волосами. [/Russian replacement]...strands of his hair stiffly. “The writings do not mention that,” he said finally. “But between them they ushered the Cymrian Age, the greatest time this land has ever known.”

“And they reigned in peace and prosperity for more than three hundred years.”

“What about the prophecy?” Achmed asked. “Oh, yes. I believe I’ve mentioned Oelendra to you. She had a tendency to be a bit paranoid, from what the writings say. Perhaps this was because she had not expected to shoulder the leadership of the First Fleet but was forced to do so when Merithyn died. She was convinced a great evil had followed on Gwylliam’s ship, and at the council, when the lord and lady announced their engagement, she asked Manwyn before the assemblage if her suspicions were true. Manwyn’s answer was this prophecy:

Silence fell as the four contemplated the augury. Finally Grunthor spoke.

“Oi’ve no idea what that means, Yer Excellency. Ya gonna give us a clue?”

Llauron smiled. “I have no idea either, my friend. As I said before, Manwyn was insane and sometimes muttered strange things. No one paid much attention to it at the time, but in hindsight, it may have been a prediction that an evil had come from the Island, one of ancient lineage—that’s the ‘among the first to come’ part, I think—and, though powerless upon arrival, would grow in strength until it took over the land.”

Rhapsody’s hands went suddenly cold. “And did that happen?”

The elderly face grew sad. “That’s hard to say, my dear. Ultimately it was Gwylliam and Anwyn themselves that brought an end to the Cymrian Age, raining death and devastation down on their own people.”

“How?” Achmed asked.

“I don’t know if there had been problems between them prior to the event which sparked it; I assume there were, as these things rarely come out of nowhere. Simply put, and without a lot of fanfare, Gwylliam struck her. History has never recorded why, but it is insignificant in the wake of the disaster that ensued. It has become known only as the Grievous Blow, more for the grief it brought to the Cymrian people than to either, the lord or lady.”

“Anwyn, furious, returned to her lands in the west and rallied her original subjects, the members of the First Fleet, to defend her honor. This represented an irrevocable tear in the nation, because the First Generation Cymrians and generations of their descendants had come to see themselves as a united people, loyal to both the lord and lady. But Anwyn was wyrmkin, meaning there was dragon’s blood in her veins, and she was not to be appeased by anything but Gwylliam’s death.”

“In turn, when Anwyn’s army began attacking his strongholds, Gwylliam became blinded by hatred as well, and set out to destroy his estranged wife and her allies. It would be impossible to describe the seven hundred years of bloodshed that followed; you haven’t the time, and I haven’t the stomach. It would suffice to say that, as glorious as the birth and life of the Cymrian Age had been, its death was equally hideous.”

“Gwylliam’s general was a brilliant, sometimes cruel man named Anborn. Anborn’s victories against the First Fleet and subsequently the Lirin, whom Anwyn had managed to convince to join her, made his name the most hated word in their language.”

“And Anwyn’s army was responsible for the deaths of countless members of the Third Fleet, though the lines had blurred to the point where no one could tell who was winning, just who was dying. It would suffice to say that it was no one’s finest hour, and is why the distant descendants of the Cymrians who still live in these divided realms tend not to make their lineage public.”

Achmed broke into a smile. “So you’re saying that around here, the word Cymrian is synonymous with arse-rag ?”

Rhapsody jabbed him viciously in the ribs, but Llauron merely smiled.

“To many, yes. Time has a way of blurring the memory, however, and there are those who know mostly of the great power the Cymrians wielded, and little of the destruction they wreaked upon the land. In some ways they are revered, probably because most of the Orlandan provinces—the provinces of Roland—as well as Manosse, and the Isle of the Sea Mages, are all ruled by descendants of Cymrian stock.”

“So ’oo won?” Grunthor asked.

“Well, no one, really. Anwyn killed Gwylliam, that much is known, or at least she claimed to have, and no one ever saw him again, so they tended to believe her. It would have taken someone of her power to do it, because of one important factor: Gwylliam was basically immortal, even more than the Cymrians themselves were.”

“Unlike his subjects, who did not age or become ill, but could bleed as well as the next man, Gwylliam was impervious to damage in the new world. The writings speculate that this might have been because he had stayed to guard the retreat, had been the last to leave, the last to cross the Prime Meridian, and so the new world held no threat to him. The real reason is hard to say.”

“Anwyn returned, triumphant, to the council, claiming victory and sole rulership of the Cymrians and their lands. To her shock the council cast her out and drove her from their realm. So, though she won the seven hundred years’ war, and destroyed her hated husband, in the end she was left with nothing. A colossal waste, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes,” said Rhapsody resoundingly. “What happened to her? Where is Anwyn now?”

Llauron drank the rest of his brandy and tossed the snifter back into the sack. “The writings say she retreated to a mountainous lair high in the crags of the White Peaks in the Hintervold, well beyond her former lands. Occasionally some poor unfortunate makes his way to see her, to gain knowledge of the Past; she was, after all, first and foremost gifted as a Seer. Whether they ever find her I do not know.”

“So where do things stand now?” Achmed asked.

“Well, the Cymrians, even after the war was over, were so damaged by it that they never really healed. It has been almost four hundred years, and the rift was never mended. Instead, they assimilated into the lesser cultures around them; a pity, really.”

“The ties they had to the elements and to Time were the secret to their tremendous advances as a civilization. Without that, the realm has become divided, uneasy, and has regressed from its days of splendor in science and scholarship, the arts and international trade, architecture and medicine. We are a more primitive people as a result.”

“Even the religions are divided. Where once we were of one faith, now the areas that most commonly allied with the First Fleet are the faithful of my theology, the belief system of the Filids, the stewards of nature. Most of Roland, however, are adherents to the religion of the All-God, sometimes called the Creator. The head of that church is the Patriarch, whose basilica is in the holy city of Sepulvarta, to the south near Sorbold. Another pity. We both worship a single God; it seems a shame that even in this we are divided.”

“And war will come again. Since the Great War ended there has been serious unrest, and though on the surface things are peaceful currently, that will eventually change. The last several decades have seen endless border skirmishes, incursions for no reason into villages and towns that result in horrendous destruction. Racial tensions are growing, and no one seems to know why these acts of terror occur, even, sometimes, those caught committing them. It’s all quite frightening.”

“What do you think can mend the rift, keep the war from escalating?” Rhapsody asked.

Llauron sighed. “I don’t know if anything can, my dear. When all this was laid at Anwyn’s feet, just before she was cast out of the council, her sister Manwyn tried to intervene, promising that there was hope for the eventual healing of the rift and for peace to come. But no one believed her; they knew she was trying to spare her sister from being disowned by her subjects.”

“What was this prophecy?” Achmed asked. Llauron closed his eyes, thinking. Then he spoke.

The Invoker gathered the rest of his belongings and the remains of the meal. When he was finished he looked at them again.

“This made as little sense to the council as it does, no doubt, to you. It was clear that these three saviors were Anwyn and her sisters, which was why the council suspected that it was a ruse to spare the Lady Cymrian from being ousted. Anborn, Gwylliam’s general, asked Manwyn in an ugly manner what it all meant, how the Three, as she called them, would be able to mend so great a rift. He got gibberish for an answer.”

As each life begins, Blood is joined, but is spitted as well; it divides too easily to heal the rift. The Earth is shared by all, but it too is divided, generation into generation. Only the Sky encompasses all, and the sky cannot be divided;thus shall it be the means by which peace and unity will come. If you seek to mend the rift, General, guard the Sky, lest it fall.

“The great general cursed her then, shouting that she should keep her useless prophecies to herself. Manwyn left the council, to follow Anwyn, I suppose, but turned before she left and issued one last prophecy to Anborn.”

“‘General,’ she said, ‘first you must heal the rift within yourself. With Gwylliam’s death you now are the king of soldiers, but until you find the slightest of your kinsmen and protect that helpless one, you are unworthy of forgiveness. And so it shall be until you either are redeemed, or die unabsolved.’”

“And did he?”

“I’ve no idea. That was between him and his Creator. Well, gentlemen, as I told your friend, you are more than welcome to stay at my home for a day or so, or more, if you’re not headed anywhere. I can offer you a bed and a chance to bathe, as well as some new clothes; Gwen has already outfitted Rhapsody quite nicely.”

Rhapsody and Grunthor both looked at Achmed, who nodded after a moment. Grunthor broke into a pleased grin.

“Well, that’s mighty kind o’ you, Yer Excellency.”

Rhapsody tapped him on the arm as the three companions followed Llauron out of the glade.

“Grunthor, generally the title of address granted to Invokers, the Patriarch, benisons, the Filidic high priests and other high-ranking clergy is ‘Your Grace,’ not ‘Your Excellency.’”

The giant Bolg grabbed her hand. “And if we don’t ’urry and catch up to ’im, your title is gonna be ‘You’re Lost.’”