Rhapsody, Child of Blood (92 page)

'Oi'm gonna lose the Duchess and the lit'le miss, too? Naw. 'Ave an 'eart, Jo. Oi'll be so lonely Oi'll just curl up and die." The women had broken into laughter at the image.

'How could you possibly resist that plea?" said Rhapsody, hugging her sister. She pulled her closer, so only Jo could hear her whisper. "And look after the other one as well; he needs it even more." Jo had just nodded.

Jo's reluctant agreement had brought to light something odd, Rhapsody had noticed. It had been necessary for her to use many of the same arguments to dissuade Jo that the other two had tried, without success, on her. As a result, by the time Jo had finally acquiesced, Rhapsody was feeling far less certain of the wisdom of the undertaking than she had been, and more than a touch hypocritical.

The last day before their departure she spent with Achmed alone, going over plans and sitting in comfortable silence.

'Is there anything you especially want me not to tell him?" Rhapsody asked over the quiet dinner they shared in his chambers.

Achmed leveled a glance at her. "Everything." A smile crept over his face. "Tell him whatever you want."

Rhapsody was surprised. "Are you sure?"

'Yes. I expect you will be judicious and keep our shared information to yourself unless you need to do otherwise."

'Yes, I will. I'll also keep an eye out for those strange incursions and record what I find."

Achmed agreed. "Just be sure you stay out of harm's way. And you might want to watch for any link between those raids and Ashe; I have long suspected that they might be in some way connected."

Rhapsody looked startled. "What do you mean?"

'The Hill-Eye attacked just as he showed up. The last two incursions we've heard of from Roland were outside Bethe Corbair, just prior to us meeting him in the city, and shortly thereafter. Perhaps there's a tie."

She shuddered. "I hope you're wrong."

'So do I. It isn't too late to change your mind."

Rhapsody thought for a moment. "Better to take the risk now and influence the outcome than to hide and have it visited upon us," she said simply. Achmed nodded; he understood.

The three that remained behind had come to bid her farewell as she and Ashe left before dawn on the fifth day. She embraced and kissed each of them, her eyes dry, reassuring them as best she could that she would be back, well and safe. And then they were gone.

'She's never coming back, is she?" Jo asked tearfully as the two shadows disappeared over the far edge of the Teeth, too upset to maintain her normal disinterested demeanor.

'Now, there, lit'le miss, don't think that way," Grunthor said, draping an enormous arm around her thin shoulders. "The Duchess is much tougher than she looks. You ought to know that by now."

Jo wiped her eyes fiercely. "She's gonna die, and then I'll be stuck here alone with you two. Wonderful."

Achmed smiled slightly. "Well, it will certainly improve your social position among the Bolg; you'll move up to First Woman, you can be the new Duchess of Elysian and take over the court role of Extraneous Blond Female, unless you have a better offer somewhere else. Then I suppose we can hold auditions."

'Bugger yourself," Jo scowled, and strode off.

Grunthor shielded his eyes from the rising morning sun, his expression dancing between thoughtful and worried. "Suppo-sin' she does die, sir? 'Ow'll we know?"

Achmed shrugged, his hunter's eyes scanning the western horizon for a vestige of her shadow and not finding one. "We won't, though I suspect we might hear her last song on the wind; Lirin Namers have strange connections to music and death." He sighed silently. Or he might hear her heartbeat, a rhythmic, reassuring sound that soothed his sensitive skin, wink out like a candleflame in the distance. He shook off the thought. "Her work here is started and well in place. We'll live without her as best we can. Did you notice when she said she'd be fine her voice didn't have that Namer's ring to it?"

Grunthor nodded. "That's because she can only do it when she's sure she's tellin'

the truth." cAs she and Ashe reached the summit of the last of the crags before the foothills, Rhapsody turned and stared east into the rising sun, which had just begun to crest the horizon. She shaded her eyes, wondering if the long shadows were really the silhouettes of the three people she loved most dearly in the world, or only the hollow reflections of rock and chasm, reaching ominously skyward. She decided after a moment she had seen one of them wave. Whether or not she was right didn't matter, anyway.

There was something deeply poignant about looking back on the mountains as they receded into the distance, fissured crags pointing, fanglike, to the brightening sky.

Rhapsody struggled to quell the sense of loss welling within her, her throat and chest tightening as it had one night long ago. My family, she thought miserably. I'm leaving my family again.

Somewhere within the multicolored mountains greatness was being born, a history was beginning. The people she had once thought of as monsters were rising out of the darkness as they had once crawled forth from the caves in ages past, coming together to forge a new era. Only this time the mountain would serve them; they would become sharp, honed by the grindstone, under the hand of a master swordsmith who was one of their own.

She no longer feared the Firbolg. She feared for them. It was not just the bloodthirsty dragon lurking somewhere in the mists on the edge of the world that posed a threat to the primitive people under Achmed's hand. As different as the humans of this new land were from the ones she had lived among in Serendair, in one frightening way they were the same: they thought of the Bolg as monsters, just as she had. And they sought to destroy monsters.

The wind whipped through the Teeth and whirled up to the summit of the last crag, cold and sweet, clearing the morning mist from her eyes and the doubt from her mind.

A fondness beyond all reason surged through her, looking back at this place where her friends remained, where the Bolg were just beginning to awake.

Once she had hidden in the highgrass, not knowing with which of two sides to ally herself—the men who had pul ed her out of harm's way, or the people of her mother's blood. There was no longer a dilemma.

Her father's voice whispered in her ear, carried by the morning wind.

When you find the one thing in your life you believe in above anything else, you owe it to yourself to stand by it—it will never come again, child. And if you believe in it unwaveringly, the world has no other choice but to see it as you do, eventually. For who knows it better than you? Don't be afraid to take a difficult stand, darling. Find the one thing that matters—everything else will resolve itself.

Wherever she might eventually come to live one day, the Bolg, and those that ruled them, would always have her al e glance. Any risk, any loss was worth the undertaking to keep them safe.

'Look," said Ashe, his pleasant baritone shattering her reverie. Rhapsody turned and let her gaze follow his outstretched finger in the direction of another line of shadows, miles off, at the edge of the steppes where the lowlands and the rockier plains met.

'What are they?"

'Looks like a convocation of some sort, humans, undoubtedly," he said after a moment.

Rhapsody nodded. "Ambassadors," she said softly. "They're coming to pay court to Achmed."

Ashe shuddered; the tremor was visible, even beneath his cloak of mist. "I don't envy them," he said humorously. "That ought to shake up their notions of protocol."

Rhapsody looked up into the darkness of his hood, seeing nothing but a thin trace of vapor. The edges of her scalp hummed for a moment as she sought in vain for eyes in which to gauge an expression. Ashe had seemed at ease among the Bolg, a polite, nonjudgmental visitor, but that was only the most ephemeral of indicators. The hood could be hiding something far more sinister. And even if she could see his face, she would not be able to look into his heart.

He was her guide, the one who might be able to lead her to the dragon's lair, a necessary undertaking if she was to ensure the safety of the Bolglands. Whether or not she would make it there remained to be seen. But in any case, she would have to be wary of Ashe, for the sake of the ones she was leaving behind.

Ashe took up his walking stick again.

'Shall we?"

He looked off to the west, over the thawing valley and the wide plain past the foothills below them.

Rhapsody looked back at the panorama of the Teeth for a moment longer, then turned her eyes toward the west as well. A slice of the sun had risen behind them, casting a shaft of golden light into the gray mist of the world that stretched out below them. By contrast, the distant line of black figures moved through a jagged shadow.

'Yes," she said, shifting her pack. "I'm ready." Without looking back she followed him down the western side of the last crag, beginning the long journey to the dragon's lair.

In the distance, a figure of a man touched by a darker, unseen shadow stopped for a moment, gazed up into the hills, then continued on its way to the realm of the Firbolg.

(">Vith a smoldering screech, the Time-strand broke and ignited, snapping off the spool. The projection on the viewing screen went blank as smoke began to rise from the lamp. A burning length of fragile film fell to the floor.

Meridion bolted forward and seized the spinning reel, patting out the gleaming sparks that clung to its broken edge. Quickly he passed a hand over the instrument panel of the Time Editor, and exhaled as it went dark, idle for the moment. Then he scooped up the strand of film from the floor and turned it over in his hands in dismay.

Without even looking he knew the thread was irretrievably broken.

He sat back in the chair again, disconsolate, staring at the film fragment. Then he lifted it to the light.

He could almost make them out, tiny images of the small, slender woman with the gleaming hair tied back in a black ribbon, the hooded man in the gray mantle. Facing each other on the summit of the last of the crags before the foothills, illuminated by the rays of the rising sun.

Meridion sighed. How painfully ironic it was to leave them, frozen at the crest of a breathtaking valley, much as he had seen them that night in the Patchworks. At least he had brought them together again, on the same side of Time. Their souls were so scarred by its ravages that they didn't recognize each other. But they would. They had to.

Meridion waved his hand over the instrument panel again, and the Editor roared with light once more. Gently he slid the burnt edge under the lens. He patiently adjusted the eyepiece, moving it up and down, trying to bring the crisp cinder where the film had snapped into focus.

Finally he gave up, exhausted and distressed. The image was now permanently shrouded in darkness, burnt beyond recognition. He hoped fervently there wasn't something on those frames he had needed to see, an image that would have provided a clue to the F'dor's identity. Without it, he wouldn't be able to intervene again. They would be as much in the dark as the charred film of their lore-strand. Their story had been tragic enough. Without the clue he had been seeking, it was bound to only get worse.

He turned off the Editor again and sat back in the darkness to think.

The image within the burnt edge of the film, crisp with carbon ash, was shrouded in darkness as well.

Night was falling, but it didn't matter. Darkness was a friend to him, his eyes accustomed to the absence of light, having come long ago from the realm of black fire.

The rims of the whites of those eyes, indistinguishable from any other man's by day, now began to gleam with the tinge of blood. Had anyone been there to observe, they would have seen them darken at the edges to a scarlet hue. But, of course, no one was there. He was careful to hide his other side; it would not do to be unmasked now that he was so close to his goal.

In the distance he could see the ambassador coming, and he settled back in his chair and sighed. Finally, after all this time, the Three had come, he was certain of it.

The strange rumblings in Canrif, the whispered tales of the new Firbolg king and the advances of the monstrous population there, could only be evidence that his assessment was correct. Even the mighty Gwylliam had not been able to tame the Bolg.

The question that now remained was what to do about it.

Things were going well, too well to be allowed to go awry now. Enough of the seeds of discord had been sewn to ensure the uprising at hand. The loss of the House of Remembrance had been a serious blow, but nothing that couldn't be dealt with.

More critical to his plan was the upcoming interruption of the Patriarchal rite.

Whether this new power in the land posed a threat to that or not was uncertain. If that power was ensconced in Canrif now, concerning itself with greedy conquest and the militarization of monsters, it would be too far away to intervene. This was important; too much depended on the assassination in Sepulvarta to allow it to fail.

He closed his eyes and tasted the death that hung, heavy with ripe anticipation, on the wind. The time was coming, and with it the sickening, thudding excitement that built, like a marching cadence, into the frenzy of war. It was the rhythm of growing hatred, determined and unstoppable, sounding in the distance as it came. It would be here soon, all in good time.

The knock on the door shattered his pleasant musings. He rose slowly and went to admit the ambassador, one of only two —in the world he could entrust with the most critical tasks. This first task was assessing Canrif and its new sovereign. The second was assuring that the Three remained in the Hidden Realm of the Bolg and out of his way while he tended to more important matters.

After his emissary had left for the court of the Firbolg king, he settled back into his chair again.

'We shall soon see who really deserves to be called the Child of Blood," he said, smiling to himself.

Only the darkness heard him.

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