Rhapsody, Child of Blood (75 page)

'Once Grunthor has secured the lands past the Heath I'll go like I did after the canyon battles and gather the battle orphans, and while I'm there I'll say the Filidic blessing of the land and sing to the plants; it should help. The vines have been scavenged enough to keep the grapes healthy, and if they're left alone we should have a pressing with a high sugar content and a nice flavor. You can take a sample pressing this spring."

Achmed nodded, writing furiously. "What else?"

Rhapsody and Jo exchanged a glance. "We discovered something interesting about the wood from the tree limbs you brought me back from that dark forest beyond the Heath."

'What's that?"

Rhapsody nodded; Jo rose from the table and disappeared from the room.

"Something happens to it when it's cured, like it would be in making furniture."

A moment later the girl returned, bearing a beveled spindle, and handed it to Achmed. It had a dark, rich color with a distinct bluish sheen to it. The blue color gave it a magnificent, royal look, like the tables in the Great Hall that had once belonged to Gwylliam and Anwyn, as well as other pieces they had found.

'So that's how they did it," he murmured, turning the spindle around in his hand.

'Jo's the one who figured it out," said Rhapsody proudly.

'Nice work, Jo," Achmed said pleasantly. The girl flushed red to the roots of her pale blond hair and went back to eating in silence.

'And finally, my modest contribution. Do you remember those loathsome spiders that had filled six hallways with webs?"

'How could I forget? Your screams are still echoing in my ears."

Rhapsody snapped him with her napkin; it was made of heavy linen and had been found, along with intricately embroidered tablecloths, in a copper chest deep within the vault.

'Liar; I didn't scream. Anyway, their strands of gossamer, when blended with cotton fiber or wool, yield a stretchy, strong thread, suitable for weaving into lots of different items, particularly rope that is surprisingly light and tensile." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small braid, which she tossed to him. Achmed gave it a sturdy pull, then bounced it in his hand.

'Excellent," he said.

'Glad you like it. It's also pretty because of its shine. Well, that's the end of my report. Did the key open the inner vault you found?"

Achmed drained his glass. "No," he said flatly.

Rhapsody smiled. "Pity. Well, at least it wasn't for nothing; Grunthor got to rummage my undergarment drawer without retaliation."

'Right. It's getting late," Achmed said, putting down the glass and casting a sideways glance at Jo.

'I can take a hint," said Jo. "Good night, Rhaps." She rose from the table and left the room. The Singer watched her go.

'What was that all about?" Rhapsody asked.

'She's probably tired," Achmed answered. He went to the odious tapestry, reached behind it, and pulled out a small, ornate chest and a heavy manuscript wrapped in leather and velvet. Rhapsody made a gagging sound.

'I can't believe you put anything you ever wanted to touch again back there, after what you said earlier," she said.

Achmed came back to the table. "This from the woman who kept the key to Gwylliam's reliquary in her chamber pot. I got the idea from you."

She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it abruptly. "The key to the reliquary? I thought you said it didn't fit."

'Jo was here, and I didn't want to discuss it in front of her."

'And she knew it, too." Her stomach knotted in sadness. "I can't believe you don't trust her. Why don't you like her?"

'I do like her," said the Firbolg king. "I just don't trust her. It's nothing personal.

There are only two people in this world I do trust."

-

'Don't 'like' and'trust' go hand in hand?"

'No." Achmed began unwrapping the book. "We can discuss that in a moment. I thought you might be interested to see this." He opened the ancient book and slid it carefully across the tabletop to her.

'What is it?" Rhapsody asked, looking down at the feathery script on the cracked pages, dried and worn with time despite their careful storage.

'It's one of Gwylliam's most valued manuscripts, the documents he considered most sacred," Achmed said, smiling slightly. "You should see the second library within the hidden vault. There are plans for parts of Canrif he wanted to build, and a few that he did that we haven't seen. Books brought from Serendair—a whole race's history. This seems to be a family registry, the royal annals of births and deaths, and family trees. It appears to be written in the same language as that contract was."

Rhapsody studied the frail page. "Actually, this is real Ancient Serenne, not just the script like that was."

'Can you make anything out?"

She turned the pages carefully, feeling pieces of the paper crumble beneath her fingers. Tracing carefully, she found the line of the royal family that she had known.

Trinian, crown prince at the time of their leaving Serendair, had been four generations before Gwylliam. She passed this information on to Achmed, then turned the page, following the faded ink.

Suddenly her face went pale. Achmed noted the change in the light of the fire on the hearth, which suddenly leapt as if in panic.

'What's the matter?"

'Look where the line ends," she said, pointing to the last entries on the page.

"Gwylliam and Anwyn had two sons. The elder, and heir apparent, is listed as Edwyn Griffyth."

'And the younger?"

She looked up into his face, her emerald eyes wide in the light of the blazing fire.

'Llauron."

(2>ou know, it's possible the name is the same for two different people," Achmed said as Rhapsody stared into the fire and drank the rest of the wine in her goblet.

"What's the like lihood that either of Gwylliam's sons would have survived the war that killed their father, who was supposedly immortal?"

'Who knows?" Rhapsody said dully. "I suspect it is the Llauron we know, though."

'Any particular reason?"

'Little things. He had a fascinating device in his glass garden that provided the equivalent of summer rain indoors in the middle of winter. He said his father had built it for his mother."

'That would count against your theory, I would think; Gwylliam hated Anwyn."

Rhapsody opened the book again. "Not always. And stop it; you're baiting me. I know you think it's the same Llauron, too."

'You're right, I do. Gwylliam was, if nothing else, a visionary as an inventor; everything in Ylorc attests to that."

'And Llauron wants to see the Cymrians reunited. He said it was his hope for peace that made him believe in the need for the reunification, but now I wonder if it's just a lust for power."

The Warlord sat on the edge of the table. "This is the religious leader of more than half a million people, who lives like a well-paid gardener. Why would he be likely to want the trappings of royalty just because he was Gwylliam's heir, when he could have them now and doesn't bother?"

'I have no idea." She searched the book but could find no further entry. "It's hard for me to imagine this lovely man having any nefarious thoughts whatsoever. I mean, when I was brought to him I was totally at his mercy, and he showed me nothing but kindness. He reminds me of my grandfather. It turns out he is the son of this world's biggest bastard, with dragon blood to boot. Well, at least that explains how he knew things about me without asking; legends say dragons can sense things like that. I wonder what else he knows about us."

Achmed sighed and closed the book in front of her. "This dovetails nicely into our talk about Jo. By now you know Grunthor and I have both had some contact in the old world with demonic entities."

Rhapsody rolled her eyes. "Yes."

'Don't be rude to your sovereign; I'm not being sarcastic. Several types of demons—not just the ancient ones we have been discussing—are able to bind people to themselves, and their victims don't even know it. It's possible that anyone we meet here, if they have been in contact with such an entity, is working for an evil master, willingly or not. Trust me; I know what I am talking about here." He stared at her so intensely that she had to look away.

'And you think that's true of Jo?"

Achmed sighed. "No, not really. But I don't know that it isn't true, either. Rhapsody, you are too willing to trust, especially in the circumstances we find ourselves. You're busy adopting half the known world, trying to make up for what you've lost."

She looked back up at him and smiled, though her chin trembled slightly. "That may be true. But adopting one person as my brother saved my life."

It was Achmed's turn to look away to save her from seeing his own smile. "I know.

What are the odds of good coming out of it again? Look, I have nothing against Jo, and Grunthor seems to like her, too. I think it's just better not to trust anyone but the three of us among ourselves."

'Better, or safer?"

'Same thing."

'Not for me," she said vehemently. "I don't want to live like that."

The Warlord shrugged. "Suit yourself. Behave as you have been, and you may not live like that. But remember, there are worse things than dying. If you are bound to a demonic spirit, particularly the kind from the ancient era, the time you spent with Michael, the Wind of Death, will seem like paradise, and will last for eternity."

Rhapsody shoved the book away and rose from the table. "I've had enough of this.

I'm going to sing my patients to sleep."

Achmed swallowed his annoyance. If ever there was a waste of time, it was the hours she spent ministering to the wounds of the non-mortally injured Firbolg, dabbing them with herbal tonics for pain and singing to them to chase away their anxiety.

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

Rhapsody's brow furrowed, and she turned back to him. "What does that mean?"

The light of the flickering fire caught in her eyes and hair, making them gleam intensely in the dark.

Achmed sighed. "I'm trying to tell you that you will never —see any return for your efforts. When you are injured or in pain, who will sing for you, Rhapsody?"

She smiled knowingly. "Why, Achmed, you will."

The Firbolg king snorted. "Don't you want to see what's in the chest?"

She paused near the door. "Not particularly. And definitely not if it's going to make me find out that Lord Stephen is responsible for the sinking of the Island of Serendair and the Plague. A few more days like this and I'll be as paranoid as you."

Achmed ignored her words and opened the chest, pulling back the dry velvet covering. He lifted the contents aloft, and it caught the light of the fire; it was a horn.

Rhapsody stopped in spite of herself. "Is that the council horn? The instrument that calls the Cymrians together in council?"

'The very one."

She stared at it, dumbfounded, for a moment. Despite its centuries in the vault, the horn was shining as bright as a spring morning. There was good cheer in the air that clung to it, a sense of hope that only moments before had been driven utterly from the room.

'All right," she said at last, "so what are we going to do with it?"

Achmed shrugged. "Nothing at the moment. Maybe we'll fill it with wine to celebrate your successful trip to Roland next week. Or decorate your birthday cake with it. Or maybe Grunthor and I will get very drunk, use it to summon the surviving members of the council to the Moot outside the Teeth, and piss on them all. Who knows? I just thought you might want to know we have it."

Rhapsody laughed. "Thank you. Maybe you might learn how to play it, and then you can come accompany me on my nightly lullabye rounds."

Achmed set the horn back in the case. "Rhapsody, I can assure you, all of the things I just mentioned and more will happen before that does."

-

Tristan Steward, High Lord Regent of Roland and Prince of Bethany, stood at the window in his library, wondering if his counselors and his fellow regents, gathered in his keep for his annual meeting, had gone collectively mad.

From shortly after breakfast that morning to the present they had come, one by one, and had interrupted his work with insistent, if polite, suggestions that he entertain the uninvited guest that was waiting patiently in the foyer of his keep.

Tristan had refused each time, citing an overload of pressing grain treaties and a decided lack of protocol. Once he had been told the emissary was from the Bolglands he was even more unwilling to consider the possibility.

Yet here was Ivenstrand, Duke of Avonderre, second among his fellows only to Stephen Navarne, both in tide and in the Lord Regent's estimation, tapping like a timid woodpecker on his door and peeking in like a chambermaid.

The Lord Roland sighed. "Gods, not you, too, Martin. First the chamberlain, then the High Counselors, and the other dukes, and now you? What is so bloody pressing that you keep me from my work?"

Ivenstrand cleared his throat. "Ah, Your Highness, I think perhaps this is a visitor you will want to meet. I took the liberty of bringing her to your office in case you decided to do so." He looked nervously at the Regent.

The Lord Roland slammed shut the atlas that he had been trying to study. "Fine. I can see I'll have no peace unless I do." With a glare he strode to the door and past Ivenstrand, only to stop and turn back again. "Did you say 'her'?"

'Yes, m'lord."

Roland shuddered. It was bad enough that the Bolg had sent an emissary to his keep; undoubtedly the place would need to be aired afterward. But a female one—the thought staggered him and pushed his irritation into the level past full-blown. He marched to his office in fury.

The chamberlain was standing at the rightmost of the double doors, averting his eyes. He had caught the expression on Roland's face and tried to slide closer to the wall as the Lord Regent approached. He opened the door for him and announced the guest.