Rhapsody: Child of Blood

31

In their conversations with Stephen Navarne the companions had gleaned that they had exited from the Root more or less immediately after the onset of real winter.

In western Roland traditionally the snow came almost immediately at the turning of the season, accompanied by a startling drop in temperature, then began an irritating dance of thawing and storming over its first two months, returning with a vengeance during its second half. By their calculations they were nearing the end of the thaw. There were signs that winter would take back its dominion soon.

Those signs were not in evidence as they set forth from Haguefort and followed the precise directions Stephen had given them to intersect with the House of Remembrance. The day was cold and clear, with a bright sun stinging their eyes and the occasional fall of melting snow from the bare tree branches as they passed beneath.

At first the Firbolg had little interest in going to the House, but had changed their minds when told that it had been the first military outpost of the First Wave. Achmed was certain he could analyze the construction and installation of the fort to determine some of the conditions that had been in place at the time right after the Cymrians landed.

“What’s the need in that?” Rhapsody asked sullenly. She was feeling the emptiness of her palm where a small hand had clung all morning.

“It might give us a better idea of what, if anything, followed them,” Achmed said.

The Singer stopped abruptly in her tracks and grabbed him by the elbow. “Are you saying you think something did?”

Achmed turned to face her. The expression on his face was even, measured.

“Sounds like a possibility, especially after the story of Stephen’s dead friend.”

Rhapsody looked around her. The silent wood, which just a moment before had seemed utterly peaceful, now held a threat, a feeling of dread. She looked back to find two sets of piercing eyes watching her from the faces of her friends.

“What is it, Duchess? What’s the matter?”

She took a deep breath. “Is it possible that Lord Stephen’s friend isn’t dead?”

Both of the Firbolg blinked. “Anything’s possible, but it sounds rather unlikely,” Achmed said. “Why? Did you hear something I missed?”

“No,” she admitted. “It’s just a feeling, and not a clear one, as if perhaps only part of him is alive. I can’t really explain it.”

“Well, I’m unlikely to discount your feeling out of hand, as you have exhibited some signs of prescience, but I would think that both Stephen and Khaddyr are familiar enough with death to be able to diagnose it properly.”

“I suppose,” she said, and returned to walking. Sometimes it seemed as if she was to spend her life traveling endlessly, reaching each destination, only to be told that it was time to move on. In a way, this new land, the deep, silent forest, was just the Root in disguise.

The stars above her seemed so close she could almost touch them. Gladly reaching her hands skyward.

The brightest star trembling, shivering in the wind as if cold. Then, one by one, each star falling, not streaking blindly through the sky, but gently, wafting down on the warm night wind like shiny snowflakes.

Catch them! Hold them fast.

The wind whispering across her open hands. The electric thrill of the tiny stars touching her fingers, her palms. Her fingers closing.

I’ve got them. I’ve got them!

Radiant light pulsing from between her fingers. Her skin, translucent in the glow. The ecstasy.

Then the burning in her palms, the sudden darkness between her fingers.

Opening her hands. The scorching holes in the palms, the smell of withering flesh.

No. No, gods, no. Please.

A glimmer of light below. The undulating surface of the water. The stars shining up at her in a circle around a long, dark crevasse. The sizzle of the embers burning out in the meadow stream. Then darkness again.

Rhapsody woke in the night, sobbing. It was an old dream, from the sad time; she had almost forgotten it. Why now ? she thought miserably, hiccoughing as quietly as she could in an attempt not to disturb the men. She rolled onto her stomach, burying her face in her bedroll.

A moment later she felt thick fingers brushing back her hair, surprisingly gentle for their size.

“Duchess? Ya ’wake?”

She nodded, still facedown. Once Grunthor had ascertained that she was all right, perhaps he would leave her alone and go back to sleep.

“Oi got somethin’ for you. Sit up, now.”

Rhapsody let loose a weary sigh and turned her tearstained face to see the Sergeant smiling down at her in the dark. The grin was infectious and irresistible now, though it had taken some getting used to. She smiled wanly in return.

“Sorry, Grunthor.”

He snorted. “No need to be, miss; Oi thought you knew that by now. Give me your ’and.”

Reluctantly she obeyed, wishing as he pulled her up that she could just go back to sleep. She ran her fingers through the hair that hung in front of her face and pulled it back absently as Grunthor put something in her lap.

It was oddly shaped and hard, but smooth as silk. She lifted it up to look at it; it was a seashell.

“They say them things sing, but Oi don’t ’ear it. Just sounds ’ollow to me. Put it to your ear.”

“Where ever did you get this?” Rhapsody asked, wonder in her voice as she turned it over repeatedly, examining it from every side.

The giant Bolg settled back again. “By the sea. ’Twas jammed in the sand between them shipwrecks we told you about. Thought o’ you and that you might like it, ’specially when the dreams are too strong.”

Tears glinted in her eyes again. “You are the most wonderful Bolg that ever lived, did you know that?”

You are the most wonderful girl in the world.

“Damn right,” said Grunthor smugly. Rhapsody laughed, blinking away the tears. “Now, put your ’ead back down and cover your up-ear with it. Maybe it’ll sing you to sleep.”

“Thank you; I’ll do that. Good night.”

“Good night, miss. Oi’d wish you pleasant dreams, but—”

Rhapsody laughed again, then settled back to sleep, listening to the shell’s roar. Her dreams were filled with the sound of the waves crashing over the shore, the crying of seagulls, and the distant image of a long, dark crevasse, the serpentine pupil of one solitary eye.

After three days they began to come across more of the landmarks that Stephen had mentioned, confirming that they were indeed heading in the direction of the House of Remembrance. The woods themselves seemed somehow different, the trees cleared along old pathways which gave no sign of recent travel.

Gradually the ancient forest began to give way to younger trees. Poplars, pines, and birches sprang up, choking out the older oaks, ashes, and maples. The patches of white snow seemed to match the patterns of peeling bark on the white birches, adding a hollow, haunted feel to the air.

The melted snow had frozen in the night, forming a glossy layer of ice on the top. With each step Rhapsody and Grunthor broke through the thin crust of the snow, their footsteps crunching in marked contrast to Achmed’s all-but-silent passage. The air grew colder the farther they traveled along the path, and soon Rhapsody could see the mist of her breath forming before her. It was as if the thaw that blanketed the rest of the land had yet to come to the deep forest around the House.

Rhapsody whistled softly as they walked, the rhythm of her tune matching the pace they set. Dawn had come up on the wings of a brisk wind, and she matched her melody to it, trying to dispel the gloom of the overcast sky.

The striking contrast of the white snow and the dark trees gave her the feeling of stark but ominous beauty, one that held something hidden within itself. She cursed herself for asking her friends about Gwydion; their obsessive caution was spoiling an otherwise peaceful walk.

Every now and then Grunthor slowed his pace and looked around, tilting his head as if hearing distant noises. He nodded to Achmed, who listened as well, then shrugged. The giant sighed, then quickened his pace again. Each time they stopped Rhapsody ceased her whistling. And each time she resumed it, the tune lost a little more of its sprightly tone, settling into a slower, more haunting melody.

Finally Grunthor came to a dead stop. He looked around the woods, and then glared directly ahead.

“Somethin’s wrong ’ere.”

“What do you mean?” Rhapsody asked. Achmed’s cwellan was already in his hands.

The giant squinted in the sun. “Oi don’t know, miss, but somethin’s wrong. It feels tainted, and it’s worse up there.” He nodded down the path they were following. All three looked in that direction.

“What is it—men? Animals?” Achmed looked over his shoulder.

“Oi don’t know,” Grunthor replied. “It’s like the ground is sick.”

“Bend down here a minute.” Rhapsody ran her hand over the giant’s brow. It was hot and moist with fever. “It’s not the earth that’s sick, Grunthor, it’s you.”

“Perhaps it’s both,” Achmed said, swiveling around and listening again. Nothing but the silence of the forest answered him. “Grunthor is tied to the earth; we’ve seen it, remember? And if there’s something here that’s poisoning the ground, it’s not surprising that it’s affecting him. Get that steel torch of yours ready.”

Rhapsody nodded and loosed the tie to the scabbard, but did not draw the sword. Grunthor shifted his grip on the poleax he was carrying.

Achmed closed his eyes and concentrated, focusing his thoughts on the road as once he had focused on human targets.

In his mind’s eye he could see the three of them, as if from above, and the world around them, tipping at an odd angle.

The path stretched before them, choked with branches and brambles hanging amid the shadows cast by the forest light. Then, as he had on the Root, he loosed the lore he had gained in the Earth’s belly. His vision raced along with the speed of one of his cwellan’s projectiles, the trees becoming a blur of motion as the image passed them.

His course zigzagged with dizzying speed as his second sight raced along every turn of the road, under one fallen tree, and over another. Suddenly the picture turned to a clearing where a large house with a tower in one corner stood. On either side of its doors was a heavily armed and well-armored man. The vision stopped, but the image did not fade. Instead as he watched the picture it became awash in red light, and the guards that he had seen seemed to wither into nothing more than shadows.

Achmed felt his pulse increase as his own heart began to match the beating of another. In his ears he could feel the pressure of his blood rise, hearing the rhythm of this alien pulse. For most of his life he had known this feeling, and long before his name had been taken he made his trade by it. He was sensing his bond to blood, the bond he had lost when passing through the fires of their rebirth along the Root. It was not quite the same as it had been, but similar; the bond was coming alive again. As the vision drowned in the dark red that filled his mind, his head began to ache and his stomach to knot in fear.

Grunthor was right; whatever lay beyond the door was twisted, evil. With some effort he drove the image from his mind and ripped his senses back into his own body. Suddenly disoriented, he stumbled, feeling the bile rise in his throat. He fell to the earth, retching.

At once Rhapsody was by his side, her hands on his shoulders. She gasped as the first splattering stained the pristine snow blood-red. Achmed coughed, then breathed heavily, shaking the last vestiges of the vision from his head. He looked up into the Singer’s worried face. “Are you all right?”

“I think I’ll live,” he said, swallowing hard “What happened? What did you see?”

“Well, the House is indeed in that direction, and Grunthor is right, something’s fundamentally wrong there.” Grunthor offered his hand to Achmed, pulling him to his feet. The Dhracian bent over from the waist and took several deep breaths, then stood up again. “Everything along the path seemed normal, but when I saw the House, my vision was clouded with blood, and a pulse. Almost like what I used to sense back on the Island.”

“But I thought you said you had lost your contact with blood,” Rhapsody said.

“I did. I had. This wasn’t the same.”

“Maybe this is the way you sense things through blood in the new world,” Grunthor suggested.

“Because it’s the new world, I shouldn’t be able to sense anything through blood. Do you ever remember me vomiting before?” The Sergeant shook his head.

A cold wind whipped a spray of ice crystals into Rhapsody’s eyes. There was something deeply frightening about seeing the two Bolg, who had seemed indestructible for so long, trembling and sick. She took a few measured breaths in the hope that the thunderous pounding of her heart would slow at least a little. Still, deep within her she knew they had to go forward, to discover what lay within the ancient house.

“Perhaps once we get closer we’ll be able to tell what’s going on,” she said.

Grunthor wiped the sweat from his forehead and fixed his gaze on her. “Excuse me, Yer Ladyship, but why would we want to? Oi mean, after all, Oi don’t mind a bit o’ trouble, but Oi don’t see no reason to go lookin’ for it.”

“No, she’s right,” Achmed said. He ran a thin, trembling hand through his unkempt hair.

“I never expected to hear you say that,” Rhapsody admitted.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Achmed said. “We need to know why I suddenly was drawn back into my blood lore, and what made you sick, Grunthor. We need to be certain that it isn’t an old problem, come back to haunt us in a new place. The only way to find out is to investigate.”

Rhapsody was rummaging through her pack. “I have some wintergreen leaves; they might settle your stomachs. And if you’ll wait a moment, I’ll give you each a wet handkerchief to sponge off with.” She dipped two linen squares into the snow, then held them in her hands, concentrating on the fire within herself. An instant later the snow had melted, soaking the cloths, which she then handed to the two Bolg.

Even in the grip of nausea, Achmed forced a smile. “I see you’re getting a little more comfortable with the idea of your new lore,” he said. “I knew you’d see it eventually.”

Rhapsody smiled back at him and handed him a wintergreen leaf. “Suck on this. You were right. Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Right then, let’s get goin’,” Grunthor said, wiping his forehead and cheeks.

“There are two guards at the gate who will need to be dealt with,” Achmed added.

“Wait; what does that mean?” Rhapsody asked nervously. Grunthor and Achmed looked at her incredulously. “What if they’re not responsible for the taint, haven’t done anything wrong?” The two continued to stare at her. “We can’t go killing innocent people just because they’re in the way.”

“Well, miss, that never sto—” Grunthor started, but stopped with a quick look from Achmed.

“Listen,” Achmed said impatiently, “you seemed to like Stephen. He didn’t mention any guards at this memorial, did he?”

“No.” The hand that rested on the hilt of her sword began to tremble.

“What does that tell you?”

“Nothing conclusive,” she said quickly. “They could be investigating the place, just like we are. What if they serve someone important? Do you really want to have gone through everything we have just to end up being hunted again?”

Achmed sighed in annoyance. “What do you suggest, then, O Wise One?”

“We could try talking to them.”

Grunthor opened his mouth to object, but Achmed forestalled him.

He studied her face for a moment, the green eyes matching the boughs of the evergreen trees, glistening like the branches heavy with ice crystals. The rose-petal upper lip was set bravely, but the flawless forehead gave away the anxiety within her in each of its furrows. Normally it was an enchanting countenance, but with the added attraction of worry bubbling below the smooth surface, it was absolutely hypnotic. This would be a good test of its power.

“Are you willing to be the one doing the talking?” he asked at last. “Grunthor and I don’t generally get the best of receptions when we knock on doors.”

“Yes.”

The Dhracian looked back at Grunthor once more. The Sergeant wore a decided look of disapproval, but said nothing.

“Very well, we’ll try it your way,” Achmed finally muttered. “We’ll stand in the brush and cover you.”

Rhapsody smiled unconvincingly.

“Fair enough,” she said.