Rhapsody

by Elizabeth Haydon

  In the late afternoon she heard it, a song deeper and richer than any but one she had ever heard. It was the song of the Tree, Sagia’s Root Twin. They must be coming closer to it.

  As the sun was beginning to set they came to a vast meadow in the forest and she saw it, its trunk whiter than the snow, with great ivory branches that spread like immense fingers to the darkening sky.

  Rhapsody stopped and stared in wonder. The Tree was easily fifty feet across at the base, and the first major limb was more than a hundred feet from the ground, leading up to more branches that formed a expansive canopy she wished she could see in leaf. The last rays of the winter sun glimmered on its bark, giving it an almost ethereal glow.

  Around its base, set back a hundred yards from where its great roots pierced the earth, had been planted a ring of trees, one of each species Rhapsody had ever heard of, and many she had not. It resonated a song of ancient power, different from Sagia’s but with the same depth and magic. Rhapsody’s eyes glistened with tears that did not fall.

  Khaddyr was watching her face carefully. He stared at her silently for a long time, then seemed to shake his head as if waking. Finally he spoke to her.

  “You respect the Tree?” he asked. Rhapsody nodded, still not taking her eyes off it. Khaddyr smiled. “Well, then, you will be welcome here. Llauron will be very interested to meet you. Come; we are almost to his house.” He led her through the meadow, past the outside of the tree ring and beneath the outstretched branches that blocked the sky above them.

  On the other side of the meadow stood a great copse of ancient trees, vastly tall and broad, though no match for the Great White Tree in height or breadth. Built throughout and around this grove of trees was a large, beautiful house, simple yet breathtaking in design.

  It was set at many odd angles, with sections placed high in the trees or on stilts with windows that faced the Tree. Intricate woodwork dressed the exterior, in particular the large section with a tower that reached high above the forest canopy.

  A great stone wall, lined with sleeping gardens, led up to a section on the side of the smaller wing, where a heavy wooden door was guarded by soldiers similar to the ones she had seen before. She turned to Khaddyr and pointed at the house questioningly. The hawk-nosed man smiled.

  “This is Llauron’s keep, where the Invoker lives. Not much of a rectory for someone of his religious and family stature, but he’s comfortable here. Come; I will bring you to him.” He led her through the winding gardens and up to the door, nodding to the staring guards, who moved aside as they passed.

  From within the branches of their hiding place Achmed and Grunthor watched as the man knocked and a woman opened the door. After a moment’s discussion with the priest she stepped aside and he led Rhapsody into the strange, angular house. The servant shut the door behind them.

  Achmed closed his eyes and leaned back against the trunk of a white alder. The taste of the wind was thin and sweet, the silence deafening. The rhythm of Rhapsody’s heart was becoming softer the farther into the house she went, leaving only Grunthor’s and his own resonating in his skin. This must be what peace feels like, he thought. He was not sure he liked it.

  Then, at the edge of his consciousness, he felt another rhythm, and then another, pulsing in the distance, unfamiliar, but not unknown. There were other heartbeats that he could still feel on the wind, but they were very far away. A vague thudding here, a whispering flicker there; somewhere out in the wide world there were still a few hearts whose rhythms registered on his skin, in his blood. Perhaps he was not as severed from his gift as he had believed. He had no idea how this could be, and whether is was a blessing or a curse. He shook off the thought and concentrated on Rhapsody. The other heartbeats fell silent.

  They waited longer than planned, wanting to be assured that whoever lived in the strange, angular house would not harm her. Achmed had tracked her heartbeat from the moment she had left; it had been clear and strong in his ears until she entered the woodland keep with the nature priest. Though it was muted, he could still feel it distantly, could still read what it was telling him.

  She was nervous, anxious even. After a few moments he felt her initial unease flare into something approaching panic, but it did not seem in response to an attack. Had it been, they would have found a way to intervene, but such action did not prove necessary.

  “’Ow long ya want to wait, sir?”

  “One more night. Then we’ll go.”

  Her nightmares must have been especially intense. During the night he could feel her pulse begin to quicken from its slow, steady sleeping rhythm, the pattern he had learned over the vast amount of time they had spent in the Root. He was used to the crescendo that her heartbeat reached in the throes of her bad dreams, but this was worse by half again.

  When dawn came he felt her leave the keep and walk to the base of the Great White Tree, where she sang her morning devotions. The wind carried the gentle vibrations across the wide field to where they washed over him, soothing his skin. The song was as it always was, though there was a melancholy air he had not heard since the Root, a deep sadness in the tone he could not fathom. But she was not hurt, or in danger. She was all right.

  A moment later, he heard the whistled song, the all-clear sign. The tune was shaky, indicating that she was still upset from whatever had distressed her before, but confident enough to let them go. Achmed smiled.

  He opened his mouth and let the frosty air whistle in and through it. There was no hideous taste of the demon on the wind, no odious smell; it was one of the first things he had looked for. In the silence all around him was the feel of absolution, of a new beginning, free from the old life and its horrors. They had made it. They had successfully managed to escape. The new challenge of survival paled in the face of what they had left behind.

  The sting of the snow on his raggedly soled feet roused him from his musings. He caught Grunthor’s eye, now almost open as he woke.

  “We’d better find some clothing, then food. Can’t eat the Root anymore; need to reprovision. After that, we’ll scout around, see where the wind takes us. Maybe we can find Rhapsody her path to the sea.”

  20

  By nightfall the two Firbolg had found their way out of the thickest part of the forest and were heading west to the sea. Achmed could taste the salt in the air, though it was still many miles away, like distant tears on the wind.

  They found an abandoned barn not far from a small farming settlement and made camp there. Despite being a roof over their heads, the ramshackle shelter provided little comfort, as they decided they couldn’t risk a fire. The floor was strewn with hay, packed and moldy, lying undisturbed for years, and they burrowed beneath it, seeking warmth and finding very little.

  Grunthor had gathered fallen branches of cherry and black fritten wood and spent the better part of the evening sharpening them into arrows to replace the ones he had spent in the fields so long ago and during his time within the Earth. More than once Achmed caught him humming one of the melodies Rhapsody sang to herself while they traveled, gruesomely off-key.

  The next morning they set off to scout the village and outlying farmhouses, returning with a handful of eggs and winter roots from a variety of storage sheds, several horse blankets, and some clothes that looked as if they would fit Achmed. They had ranged far and wide, trying to steal only a little in each place to avoid being noticed.

  “My, you look lovely, sir,” Grunthor joked, watching Achmed’s face as he discovered that the tunic he had stolen was actually a dress. He slashed a hole in one of the horse blankets to fashion himself a rough vest. “But you won’t be givin’ ’Er Ladyship any competition with the young bucks any time soon, Oi’m afraid.”

  Achmed ripped the bottom of the skirt off, shortening the garment to the length of a long shirt.

  “Unless I miss my guess, I doubt the collective charm of every occupant of Madame Parri’s Pleasure Palace could compete with her now,” he said, donning his new clothes. �
��Whatever that fire did to her has had a powerful effect; it may prove a valuable tool one day. I was initially concerned that the priest would attempt to compromise her, but he was too intimidated to try anything.”

  “Ah, yes, Ol’ Madame Parri’s. Oi ain’t thought about them in years. Wonder ’ow ol’ Brenda and Suzie are doin’.”

  Achmed chuckled. “Grunthor, I’m sure they miss you still. I doubt anyone they’ve come across since has measured up.” He tossed the giant a winter apple. “Come on. Let’s have a look around.”

  The makeshift clothes, added to the tatters of their original garments, provided some protection against the frosty air. They had also stolen a few discarded reins and harnesses and had used the leather to patch their boots the best they could, though in this effort they were less successful. The snow still crept into their footgear, making their toes sting and cramp with cold.

  A few miles to the west the settlement grew denser and the forest thinner until it could almost be seen as a village. Achmed and Grunthor found thickets to hide in, heavy with blackthorn brambles and scrub, and watched the comings and goings of the villagers, listening as best they could from far away.

  Though not as proficient with the language as Rhapsody had been, they could understand enough of it to catch the occasional word or phrase. One word, Avonderre, seemed to be repeated often, usually with some sort of southwesterly directional reference. The Bolg decided that this must be the name of the neighboring area, though whether it was a village, a city, a province, or a nation all its own was unclear.

  They had circled the whole of the settlement by midafternoon, and were preparing to move on, when a distant vibration on the forest road caught Achmed’s attention.

  From his hiding place in a copse of silver-barked trees not found on Serendair he closed his eyes and concentrated on the road out of the village. It was no more than a beaten path, scarred with the ruts of wagons and hoofprints, muddy from the mild weather and melting snow. Rhapsody’s voice spoke softly in his memory.

  Unerring tracker. The pathfinder.

  He swallowed and held on to the nearest tree trunk, then loosed his mind. His vision of the road surged, then sped forward, following the sloppy path into the distance at a sickening rate.

  Racing over the lightly forested path, his mind’s eye hurried along until it came upon the sight of horsemen, armed and drawn, galloping toward the village. There were a dozen or so of them, clad in greenish-black leather and riding roans, red-brown forest horses.

  With a lurch the vision came to an end, but not before Achmed had a chance to make note of two things. First: even more noticeable than the strange armor and horses were the shape and coloring of the riders’ faces. High cheekbones below large, wide eyes, tapering to chins as severe as their blank expressions. Tones of skin and hair the color of the earth and its flora. Lirin.

  Second: they were carrying torches.

  Achmed uttered a Bolgish curse and turned to Grunthor.

  “Lirin soldiers, armed with fire, heading this way.”

  Grunthor stared at him blankly.

  “Lirin? With fire? Are you sure, sir?”

  Achmed nodded as he extricated himself from the underbrush, understanding the Sergeant’s bewilderment. Lirin had a natural aversion to fire, particularly the Liringlas, owing to the hazard it posed to their lands. With the exception of Lirinpan, the strain of the race that were city dwellers, Lirin tended to reside in places of forest brush and open field, where wildfires could easily destroy their settlements. Seeing a troop of them wielding fire as a weapon was a disturbing contradiction. But there was no time to ponder it now.

  “Come on,” he whispered.

  Hurriedly they moved through the bracken, taking care to remain hidden, in an arc to the southwest. When they came to a place where the woods were thick with evergreen growth, Achmed scaled a tall pine and hid within its branches, ten or so feet off the ground. Grunthor settled into the underbrush. When Achmed looked down again, he could barely see him.

  They had just enough time to settle out of sight when the troop came riding into view. Screams rent the air as farmers and townspeople panicked, scurrying out of the road, dragging children with them. They scattered like a flock of birds before the oncoming mayhem.

  Achmed watched, sickened, as the first few soldiers rode past the villagers still within reach, leaving them to their companions in the ranks behind, who clubbed them where they stood. The men in the forefront rode instead to the nearest buildings and torched them, setting the village ablaze within moments.

  A few of the farmers fought back with whatever tools or weapons they had been able to lay hands on, but they had no chance against the horsemen. One of the men-at-arms bringing up the rear rode mercilessly down on a villager, the impact sending the child fleeing with him flying onto the roadside near their hiding place where she lay, limp and not moving.

  Achmed was staring as the soldier stopped and turned, then started for the child when an arrow whistled near his ear, piercing the Lirin’s neck. The horse rode out from under the man as he fell, lifeless, to the ground.

  He turned to Grunthor to find the giant nocking two more arrows, the Sergeant’s face as grim and resolute as he had ever seen it. Grunthor drew back and let fly again, and another soldier fell into the burning thatch of the roof he was igniting.

  A birdcall went up from one of the remaining men-at-arms, and the horsemen stopped in the road. Words were shouted in the calm voice of command, and the soldiers turned and left the village, riding over the body of one of their fallen comrades as they went, without stopping.

  Silence fell over the tiny hamlet. Then, as if something shattered, cries and moans rent the air. A sobbing woman ran to the child in the brush and gathered her up, laughing and crying in relief as the little girl opened her eyes, too distracted to notice the face of the Firbolg giant a few inches from her.

  When she was gone, Grunthor lowered his bow and leaned forward to get a better look through the thick black smoke that was now beginning to waft their way. He shook his head in amazement.

  “What in the name of all that is good was that?” he asked, incredulous.

  Achmed shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe all those stories they told us as children about people on the other side of the world walking upside down on their heads were true. If you had told me when we got up this morning that we would witness a Lirindarc slaying party, armed with fire, torching a village in a forest, and leaving behind the bodies of their fallen in the process, I would have told you your brain had curdled.” Grunthor nodded in agreement.

  They climbed down amid the acrid stench of burning thatch and the sounds of wailing from the village behind them, then carefully made their way through the patchy woods to the west. The smoke billowed over their heads in the wind, covering their exit as they left the scene of the carnage behind.

  By the end of the eighth day of their scouting mission, they were all but certain their brains had not only curdled, but had fermented. In place after place, senseless and inexplicable violence erupted.

  Sometimes the participants were Lirin, but more often it was humans savaging their fellow humans. The Firbolg were beginning to wonder if they had lost their place as monsters in common belief, to be replaced by those who used to relegate them there.

  Equally inexplicable was the aftermath of some of the attacks. In one town on the border of the forest and the open lands beyond it they observed in amazement the pillagers of the town return to their barracks just around the bend of the road, half a league away. A few of the soldiers from the same quarters even came to help tend to the wounded.

  “What is goin’ on in this place?” Grunthor asked indignantly as they watched the cleanup from their hiding place behind the granary. “Don’t make no sense a’tall.”

  Achmed shook his head but remained silent. He could handle war as long as he could tell what the sides, the motives, and the players would be. Here he knew none of these things.<
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  21

  As they came closer to the sea, the thinning snowpack disappeared altogether, leaving brown grass and bare trees in the grip of an icy wind that showed less mercy than the soldiers did. Achmed and Grunthor kept a wider barrier between themselves and any sign of civilization in order to be able to sleep near a sheltered campfire without fear of being spotted. They only approached empty houses or barns when they were acquiring supplies.

  They were in Avonderre now. They had overheard enough conversation to deduce that it was the name of the province, and that it bordered the sea. The scent of salt in the air was now strong enough for Grunthor to detect it, and they followed their noses, moving closer to the ocean day by day, week after week, remaining always at the outskirts, avoiding any contact with the inhabitants of this new land.

  The settlements and towns had become larger and closer as they approached the port city, eventually beginning to blend in with the wide expanse of buildings that lined the horizon. Where huts and kraals had once housed the populace, now homes fashioned of mud- or fire-formed brick appeared, with doors carved from heavy wood and roofs of clay or sealed thatch.

  The roadways widened into roads, and eventually streets, lined with ancient stone and cobbled. Grunthor had whistled at the expense that must have been incurred; back home cobblestone streets were only seen in the wealthiest sections of the largest cities, and then only in front of public buildings and temples. Here it appeared that each street of this sprawling city, at least three times the size of Easton, was paved.

  Avonderre’s wharf was even bigger, stretching north-south along the coastline for as far as the eye could see. Fishing villages made up the extreme edges. Closer in were the docks, designed and built from gleaming stone and wood, with slips and moorings of shining metal. And in the dead center was the sheltered harbor, a colossal port with more ships than Achmed or Grunthor could count.