Rhapsody, Child of Blood (50 page)

'Perhaps. Perhaps not. Bear in mind she might not even know it. She was alone at Llauron's for a long time. But except for us, and possibly for her, there is nothing else we know for certain; am I right?"

Grunthor stared at him for a moment longer, then nodded reluctantly.

With a sigh, Achmed set the snifter down, empty.

'Look, how's this: we'll take her with us to Bethany. Once I've seen the basilica I should have a few more clues as to whether or not that bloody Seer was right. And then I'll tell her everything. If she wants to go back to Stephen, we'll make sure she gets here safely. Fair enough?"

Grunthor lay back and stretched out, pulling the covers up to his shoulder.

'One thing Oi've learned in my time with you, sir; Nothin' is ever fair enough."

Che following morning Rhapsody had breakfast with her new grandchildren and went for a long walk in the forest with them and their father while the two Firbolg packed and provisioned for their journey. She sang the children songs of the woodlands, some in Lirin, some that she had learned at Llauron's in the common vernacular known as Orlandan.

While they strolled along she composed a tune that described them both in music, and watched as both children recognized themselves in the song. Melisande hung on to her, refusing to release her hand for even a moment, while Gwydion ran ahead, eager to show off his forestry skills and emerging talent as an archer. Lord Stephen said little, but just listened, smiling.

In their short time together she had already learned much about the individual natures of her new grandchildren. The haunted loneliness in Melisande's eyes was gone, replaced by her father's mirth and zest for life. She sang along with Rhapsody as they walked, oblivious of any need to know the song, and danced through puddles of mud, splashing and squealing with joy. It was as if all she had needed was permission to be happy again.

Gwydion, on the other hand, though blessed with a confident bearing, was clearly more introspective. Every now and then when he didn't know she was watching, she would see his face turn melancholy, his eyes darkening, reflecting his cloud-filled soul.

There was a depth to him that his easy manner belied, but she could see it nonetheless.

Finally, when they returned to the courtyard of the keep, she bade the children goodbye so they could return to their lessons. She knelt and drew Melisande into her arms, holding her for a very long time, then released her gently and pulled back to look her in the face.

'I will think of you every day," she said, running her fingers through a twisted lock of curling gold hair, smoothing out the tangles. "You won't forget me, will you?"

'Of course not," said the little girl indignantly. Her heart-shaped face softened. "Will you ever come back?"

'Yes," said Rhapsody, brushing a kiss on her cheek, "if I can." As much as she knew the child was looking for assurance, she was unwilling to lie to her, especially given what had happened to her mother. With each passing day, she became more aware of her own vulnerability, and of the likelihood that she herself would meet a similar fate before the silent war was over. "I don't know when that will be. But I will write to you as soon as I come to a place I can write from."

'Are you still planning to head east?" asked Lord Stephen, looking at the ground with his hands on his hips.

She shaded her eyes from the glare of the winter sun. "I believe so; I'm not the navigator."

'Well, southeast of here a few days out is the House of Remembrance, an old Cymrian fortress and watchtower from the earliest days of the First Fleet. It's the oldest standing Cymrian site by far, and once held an impressive library.

'As a person of Lirin descent you might be interested in the tree there. A sapling of the mighty oak Sagia was brought by the First Fleet to plant in the new land, a blending of the sacred trees from both sides of the world. They planted it within the courtyard of the House of Remembrance.

'It's really a fascinating historical site, and I'm ashamed to say I haven't done much to keep it up; the building of Navarne's wall has kept me close to home this past year.

The ugly reality is that protection of the Future has to outweigh preservation of the Past sometimes."

'Indeed." She kissed Melisande again, then turned to her grandson. "Goodbye, Gwydion. I'll miss you, and will be thinking of you. If I find any interesting arrows or tools for woodcraft, I'll send them to you."

'Thank you," the boy said. "And maybe you can show me more of that lore about herbs and roots when you come back next time. I'll be taller than you then."

'You almost are now," she laughed.

'Next year, when I turn thirteen," Gwydion said. Rhapsody stood and opened her arms to him. He came into her embrace and lingered a moment, then pulled away. He took his sister's hand.

'Come on, Melly," he said. The little girl waved a last time, then went off with her brother into the keep.

Stephen watched his children walk away. When he had assured himself that they were within the walls of the keep and safely in the care of Rosella, he turned once more to Rhapsody.

'You're welcome to stay, you know. The children would love for you to visit longer."

She smiled, and Stephen's knees grew weak. "Thank you. I wish I could. In fact, I'm sure that would be a much more pleasant prospect than wherever it is we are going."

'Then don't go," he said abruptly; a moment later his face colored as if exerted from the speed of his reaction. He looked down at the ground awkwardly. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."

Rhapsody laid her hand on his arm, causing his heart to race faster and the floridity of his face to deepen. "How can an offer of welcome be rude?" She sighed deeply; it was as if the wind sighed with her. "The truth is, Lord Stephen, wherever I am for a while, I'll still be lost. With any luck, by the time I come back this way, I'll have found me."

'Well, just remember you always have a home here," Lord Stephen said. "After all, now you're part of the family, Grandma." They both laughed.

The duke took her hand and kissed it gently, then pulled it into the crook of his arm, walking her back to her two Firbolg friends.

'Besides," he whispered, "you must come back, if only to relate the tale of how you ended up with those two." 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.

Che 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.

cXhapsody 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."

*

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.

cAfter 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 -3*

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.