Rhapsody: Child of Blood

29

The Cymrian museum was housed in a small building crafted of the same rosy-brown stone as the rest of Lord Stephen’s keep. Unlike the other buildings on the castle’s grounds, it had no torches burning in the exterior holders and sat, unnoticed, in the dark, locked and bolted.

Twilight was descending, wrapped in flurries of snow as they left the castle and crossed the courtyard toward the tiny, dark building.

Rhapsody had stopped long enough to sing her vespers, with the undesired result of causing everyone else in the keep to cease whatever they were doing to listen to her. Melisande and Gwydion, who had been watching them from the balcony, broke into applause when she finished, which made her laugh and turn red with embarrassment at the same time.

Lord Stephen smiled. “Go to bed!” he shouted gruffly up at the balcony, then chuckled as the two figures dashed indoors. He offered Rhapsody his arm, holding a torch to light their way in his other hand.

When they came to the brass-bound door he let her hand go with a small sigh and reached into the pocket of his cloak, pulling forth an enormous brass key with odd scrolling on it. He fitted it to the lock and turned it with some difficulty; it was apparent that the museum had not been visited recently. Grunthor helped him pull the door open with a grinding screech, and they went inside.

In the light of the single torch, the stone depository more closely resembled a mausoleum, with frowning statues and exhibits that had been lovingly displayed for no one to see. Lord Stephen’s face glowed ghostly white in the light of the torch as he went about the small room, lighting a series of curved glass sconces with a long wick held by a brass lamplighter’s stem. Once he was finished, the museum brightened noticeably, the light being enough to read comfortably by.

“That’s impressive,” Rhapsody noted. “Those sconces certainly give off a lot of light.”

“An invention of the leader of the Cymrians, Lord Gwylliam ap Rendlar ap Evander tuatha Gwylliam, sometimes called Gwylliam the Visionary. He was an inventor and engineer, among other things, and is credited with many fascinating designs,” said Lord Stephen. “These sconces are made from convex glass that was heated and then twisted along a curved piece of metal, so that the light reflects off the shiny surface and is magnified by the glass.”

“I’ve heard of Lord Gwylliam,” Rhapsody said as Achmed and Grunthor strolled about the room, examining the exhibits, paintings, and statuary. Grunthor stopped before a narrow stone stairway and looked up into the stairwell, as if gauging his ability to fit through, before continuing on his tour. “But those other words are unfamiliar. Was that part of his name?”

“Yes,” Stephen said, warming to the subject excitedly. “When the First and Third Fleets met up after fifty years of separate existence, and then decided, with the Second Fleet, to become a united people, it caused no end of problems denoting lineage, particularly since many of the Cymrian races each had a separate genealogy practice and nomenclature.”

“Simply put, they didn’t know what to call themselves, or whether they should be known by the fleet they traveled with, or their family, or their race. So they devised a simple system they could all use.”

“Each person’s first name was stated, then the next two ancestors back of the same gender, followed by the name of the First Generationer from whom they had descended. Lord Gwylliam’s father was King Rendlar, his grandfather, King Evander, and he himself was the First Generationer.”

“I see,” said Rhapsody, feeling a chill in her bones suddenly. Lord Stephen had just answered a part of another question that Achmed had been asking—how long had it been between their exodus through the Root and the sailing of the fleets. Although the historian had not quoted a number of years, it was apparent now that there had been at least several generations of kings between Trinian, the monarch-to-be at the time they had left, and Gwylliam. They had been gone even longer than they had thought.

Rhapsody turned to see if Achmed was listening. She was sure he had been, but he gave no sign of it as he examined a thick volume of Gwylliam’s drawings and intricately rendered architectural plans.

“That’s a reproduction, by the way,” Lord Stephen told him as he leafed gently through the pages. “Obviously the actual ones decayed and crumbled long ago. Each successive generation has had an historian whose job includes recopying them to preserve them. Naturally, something gets lost in the translation, I’m afraid.”

“How many generations have there been since they landed?” Achmed asked absently, studying a drawing of a ventilation system.

Lord Stephen was looking through a series of manuscripts neatly shelved on one of the bookcases. “Fifty-three,” he said.

He pulled out a thin manuscript bound in leather, blew the dust off it, and handed it to Rhapsody.

“Here is that text Llauron asked about, the Ancient Serenne linguistics chart and dictionary.”

“Thank you,” Rhapsody said, coughing. “This is it?”

“Yes. I’m afraid it’s not complete; not very much is known about the tongue.”

“I see. Well, thank you.”

“’Oo are these ugly people?” Grunthor asked, pointing at the small statues.

Lord Stephen chuckled and came over beside him.

“These three are the Manteids, the Seers, Manwyn, Rhonwyn, and Anwyn, who you also see in this sculpture with her husband, Gwylliam. They were an odd blend of bloodlines. Their father was an Ancient Seren, who were tall, thin, gold-skinned people. Their mother was a copper dragon. You should see the paintings; they’re even uglier. Manwyn’s hair is flaming red, and her eyes are like mirrors.”

“Are?” Rhapsody asked. “She’s still alive?”

“Yes, she’s the Oracle in the city of Yarim. Her temple is there, unless it has crumbled around her.”

“’Ow old are you?” asked Grunthor bluntly. “Are you one o’ them First Generationers?”

Stephen laughed. “Hardly. I’m fifty-six years old, and a third of the way through my life, by my reckoning, a relative baby compared to those people.”

His face grew somber. “By the way, I’d be happy to answer any question you might have, but please be aware that almost no other Cymrian or Cymrian descendant would. They’re a secretive people, in many ways ashamed of their heritage. I suppose that’s not surprising, given the history, and despite the fact that each of the dukes of Roland and many of the benisons are of that line. We’re a strange, confused lot.”

“What’s upstairs?” Achmed asked.

Stephen walked to the stairs; his natural exuberance coupled with his interest in the topic made him seem as if he were running. “Come, and I’ll show you.” At the top of the small stairway was a sizable statue of a great copper dragon rendered in jewels and giltwork, tarnished from neglect. Rhapsody eased by it carefully; the dragon seemed very lifelike, with cruel-looking claws and fangs, and rippling muscles. The expression in its eyes was fierce, and it was coiled to strike.

“This is the mighty wyrm Elynsynos, who held all these lands before the Cymrians came,” Stephen said as he passed the statue. “She was apparently quite ferocious, and had successfully kept the humans from her lands from the beginning of Time, until Merithyn the Explorer came.”

He led them to the back wall, where a series of portraits hung in pairs or triads, one on the end having been painted a long time before the others. An oil rendering of himself, somewhat younger, was displayed below one of them, another painting which depicted a sharp-faced man in a miter, wearing an amulet around his neck.

Rhapsody and the Firbolg examined the pictures. Each of the men in the upper row was wearing a similar headpiece with robes that resembled those of the first man. She turned to Lord Stephen.

“Who are these?”

“The men in the top row are the Patriarch—he’s the one on the end, alone—and the five benisons who serve him. At least that’s what he looked like as a young man; he’s quite aged now, I understand.”

“In the bottom row, roughly corresponding, are the various dukes who rule the lands in which the benisons have their Sees. Except for him.” He pointed to an auburn-haired man somewhat older than himself, with the same blue eyes. “That’s Tristan Steward, who is not only the Lord Regent of Roland, but also the Prince of Bethany, which is the capital seat.”

“Although each of our states is technically sovereign, he controls the central army and the largest area of land, and makes laws the rest of us abide by. There isn’t usually a problem; most of us are related. Tristan and I are cousins.”

Rhapsody nodded. “Why are the royalty displayed below the clergy?”

Lord Stephen laughed. “An astute question. Well, it’s a traditional conflict, you know, the struggle between the church and the state. Ultimately, it puts the poor citizen in the middle, having to choose loyalty to the All-God or to his sovereign. Of course, only Cymrian royalty would have the temerity to think there should be a choice.”

Rhapsody laughed. There was an irreverent twinkle in Lord Stephen’s eye that was reinforced by the amusement in his voice.

“This, of course, is not true in my case, as the benison of this province is also the Blesser of Avonderre. His See is arguably the most powerful, certainly within Roland, but potentially on the continent as well.”

“His only rival, and it is an active rivalry, is the Blesser of Sorbold, as he is the head of the Church for an entire country, not just a pair of provincial states like Avonderre-Navarne. They hate each other with a fury. Only the All-God knows what will happen when the current Patriarch dies.”

“As a result, the Blesser of Avonderre-Navarne doesn’t interfere too much with politics here, for which I am eternally grateful. He’s after bigger quarry. There are renderings under glass over here of their respective basilicas. Have a look; the basilicas are the best examples of Cymrian architecture still standing.”

“The mountain city of Canrif was far more impressive, but of course that was destroyed when the Bolg took over Gwylliam’s lands—no offense meant, Grunthor.”

“None taken,” said the huge Firbolg absently; he was studying the dragon sculpture. Rhapsody thought it was interesting that Lord Stephen seemed unaware that Achmed was Firbolg as well, but was not surprised. She, after all, had not realized it either. She followed Stephen to the display he was indicating.

“This is a good example of Cymrian ingenuity and culture meeting up with a deep religious philosophy. The ancient Cymrians believed that the five elements of nature were sacred, the source of all power in the universe, and so each of the basilicas that they built in some way honors a specific element and makes use of that element to sanctify its ground.”

Rhapsody looked with interest at the pen-and-ink etchings. They were all drawn by the same artist, and showed in minute detail the architectural features of the basilicas, some of them down to the individual stones from which they were built.

Most fascinating was one labeled Avonderre. It was an apparently immense structure fashioned in the shape of the prow of a great ship breaking forth from enormous rocks at the shore of the ocean. A second rendering showed more of the basilica, that part which apparently was only visible at low tide. Achmed had mentioned seeing something like this, and surely there could only be one.

Lord Stephen noticed her interest and smiled.

“That is the basilica our citizens attend services in, the great seaside church of Lord All-God, Master of the Sea. In the ancient language it is called Abbat Mythlinis.”

Rhapsody returned his smile. Lord Stephen’s grasp of the language was marginal. Abbat Mythlinis meant Father of the Ocean-born, a primordial race of people known in the old world as Mythlin. She glanced back at Achmed and Grunthor, hoping they would not correct him, but they were examining other exhibits, betraying no trace of amusement.

“This basilica was built largely from the wood of the great ships that carried the Cymrians from the Island before it sank,” Stephen continued. “It was dedicated to the element of water, obviously, and the constant churning of the ocean waves reblesses it with each tide, keeping its ground holy.”

“Finding holy ground was important to the Cymrians. As strangers in this land they needed a place for sanctuary at each of their outposts, where evil could not enter. That’s why the basilicas were the first permanent structures that they built, after their guard towers. Avonderre is the coastal province where the first of the Cymrian waves landed. Except where Merithyn came ashore, we guard the oldest landfall of the Cymrian migration.”

Rhapsody nodded and looked back to the gallery of paintings, her eyes scanning the portraits of the five benisons again. The Blesser of Avonderre was depicted in robes of green-blue silk, and the talisman around his neck was shaped like a drop of water.

The vestry pattern was repeated in the other portraits, with robes and talismans evoking the other four elements. The Patriarch was robed in gold, an amulet shaped like a silver star hanging from a chain around his neck.

It was easy to discern the benisons whose basilicas were dedicated to fire and earth, as well. The first was robed in flame-colored vestments and a matching horned miter. A golden talisman hung around his neck in the shape the sun with a spiral of red jewels in the center. The second wore robes in the colors of earth, with an amulet that resembled the globe Llauron had shown her. The last two benisons, however, were robed in white, and only one wore a neck chain, with no amulet on the end.

“What are the others? What about this one?” Rhapsody pointed to a rendering that was shown from two perspectives, straight on and from above.

This basilica, labeled Bethany,was round in shape, fashioned from what appeared to be marble, and consisted of several levels of circular outer walls that held seating for the faithful around the central core. Within the courtyard that surrounded the basilica were inlaid great flame-shaped mosaics, giving the impression when viewed from above of the sun in full splendor.

“That is the church of Lord All-God, Fire of the Universe, or, in Old Cymrian, Vrackna.”

Rhapsody blanched; in Old Cymrian, that word was actually the name of the evil fire god from the days of polytheism. Lord Stephen didn’t seem to notice.

“It is, of course, also consecrated to the All-God, but is dedicated to the element of fire. An eternal flame burns at the very center, powered by a deep well of fire that comes from the very heart of the Earth, which, of course, keeps the ground holy.”

“And is this the Patriarch’s basilica, since it’s in Bethany, the, ah, capital seat?”

“No, Bethany is the political capital of Roland, but the religious capital is the sovereign city-state of Sepulvarta. That is where the Patriarch lives, and where the Citadel of the Star is. Only the Patriarch worships in that basilica, although the faithful come to attend services.”

“I don’t understand. What’s the difference between worship and attending services?”

“Direct prayer. In our religion, only the Patriarch prays directly to the All-God.”

“Why?”

“He is the only one deemed worthy to communicate directly with the Creator.”

Rhapsody’s brows drew together, but she did not give voice to her first thought. “To whom do the rest of you pray?”

“To the Patriarch. We celebrate the rituals of the faith, and pose our petitions to the lesser clergy, known collectively as the Ordinate, who pray for us. The Patriarch receives our intentions from the clergy and poses them to the All-God. By the time each prayer is elevated to the level of the Patriarch, it has the power of all the souls of the faith behind it.”

“I see,” said Rhapsody pleasantly. Nothing could be further from her own belief system, so she turned to the rendering of the Patriarch’s basilica at Sepulvarta. “This is interesting.”

Stephen beamed with obvious pride. “This is the Citadel of the Star, which I was just mentioning to you. The basilica itself is the church of Lord All-God, Light of the World, Lianta’ar in Old Cymrian.”

He’s closer, thought Rhapsody. Lianta’ar meant bearer of light.

“It sits outside the holy city-state of Sepulvarta, high on a hill. It’s quite beautiful, as you can see; the rotunda of the basilica is the largest known structure of its kind, and it is beautifully appointed inside, being the seat of the Patriarch. But I’m more fond of this aspect of Sepulvarta.”

He pointed to a separate part of the drawing, a rendering of an enormous pointed minaret that towered high in the air from the middle of the city.

“This is the Spire, a true architectural miracle, if I do say so myself. It is immodest to do so, as my great-grandfather was the architect and builder of it.” Rhapsody made the appropriate noises to show she was impressed.

“The Spire reaches a thousand feet in the air, and can be seen from miles around. It is crowned with a single glowing star, the symbol of the Patriarchy. It is said that the Spire is the Patriarch’s direct channel of communication with the All-God. The light that shines from the Spire is directed from the stars themselves, thus reconsecrating the ground each night.”

“What about on nights when the sky isn’t clear?” asked Achmed from across the room, still examining other museum pieces. Rhapsody started; she hadn’t realized he was listening.

“Just because one can’t see the stars doesn’t mean they’re not there,” said Stephen simply. “And the Spire itself is illuminated by a piece of an actual star, the element known as ether.”

“Fascinating,” said Rhapsody. “And the others?”

“The basilica in Bethe Corbair is dedicated to the wind, the church of Lord All-God, Spirit of the Air, or Ryles Cedelian.” Breath of life, thought Rhapsody, and looked at Achmed. He was examining a piece of driftwood under glass.

“The special attribute of that basilica is a central bell tower with eight hundred and seventy-six bells hung within it, one for each of the ships that left Serendair, carrying the Cymrians to safety. It is set on a rise in the center of the capital city where it catches the west wind, and the breeze blows through the hollow tower, acting as a sort of carillon. The music is exquisite; you really must go and hear it, Rhapsody, being a Skysinger.”

“As a part of the consecration of the basilica, the bells were rung for the same number of days as ships that set sail. Their ringing is what keeps the ground of the basilica holy, and makes the city of Bethe Corbair such a pleasant one; everywhere you go you can hear the sweet music of the bells.”

“I shall make a point of visiting there,” she said, smiling. “Which benison is the Blesser of Bethe Corbair?”

Lord Stephen pointed to one of the two men in white, with the silver chain around his neck.

“Lanacan Orlando. The other benison is Colin Abernathy, whose See is in the nonaligned states to the south. As with Sorbold, that area is not part of Roland, and of course there is no basilica as a result.”

“And the last basilica?”

Stephen pointed to a somber structure which appeared to be hewn from the side of a mountain. “This is the only non-Orlandan basilica, the church of Lord All-God, King of the Earth, or Terreanfor.” Rhapsody nodded. This was the only completely literal translation of the lot.

“The basilica is carved into the face of the Night Mountain, making it a place where no light touches, even in the middle of the day. Sorbold is an arid, dusty place, a realm of sun, and so the Night Mountain is a place of deep reverence.”

“There is a hint of the old pagan days in Sorboldian religion, even though they worship the All-God and are a See of our religion. They believe that parts of the earth, the ground itself, that is, are still alive from when the world was made, and the Night Mountain is one of these places of Living Stone. So the turning of the Earth itself resanctifies the ground within the basilica. Having been there, I think the people of Sorbold are right. It is a deeply magical place.”

“Well, thank you very much for the wonderful explanation,” Rhapsody said. “I must visit each of these places now.”

“What’s this?” Grunthor asked from across the room. He was standing in front of a small alcove in the corner, with a rack of votive candles in front of it.

Rhapsody came to where he stood and examined the display. The table that formed the base of it was covered with a lovingly embroidered cloth, much like she had seen on temple altars.

On the table lay a gold signet ring, a battered dagger, and a bracelet of interwoven leather braids, torn open on one side. Attached to the wall behind the display was a brass plate, intricately carved and inscribed.

She leaned forward to read it, but the tarnish that had developed in the tomblike museum was too heavy. Unlike the scholarly exhibits of jeweled circlets and ancient artifacts, this display seemed more suitable to a church than to a historical depository.

She reached into her pack and pulled out her handkerchief and a small flask, then held it up for Stephen. “Witch hazel and extract of lime,” she said. “It should clear the tarnish. May I?” Stephen nodded, the look on his face becoming somber.

Rhapsody uncorked the flask and poured its pungent-smelling contents onto the center of the cloth, then stood on her toes to reach over the display and wipe the plaque clean. The tarnish rubbed off onto the handkerchief, leaving the few engraved words visible.

Gwydion of Manosse, it said.

Rhapsody turned back to Lord Stephen, whose face was now masklike. “What is this?” she asked.

Stephen looked away. “It’s all that remains of my best friend, dead these last twenty years,” he said.