Rhapsody

by Elizabeth Haydon

  “They really need a more thorough examination.”

  The beautiful woman laughed, and her laughter had the ring of wind chimes to it. The dragon’s interest piqued again, and it fought to emerge.

  Let me touch this. I want to touch this.

  He struggled to hold it down, but for the first time since he had entered the bazaar the dragon wanted the same thing he did.

  A cold sweat broke over him as he had a dual realization. First, he knew that the dragon’s unpredictability and voracious appetite for whatever it desired made him dangerous at the moment. Before he might stop himself it was possible that he would take her right there in the street, which would surely be the death of both of them.

  Second, and far more disturbing, he knew that he didn’t care. He wanted to let his senses run rampant over her, learning, in the time it would take for her heart to beat twice, every intimate detail about her. It was becoming more clear that he was going to. He fought it, but his twin nature defeated him before he even put forth a half-hearted effort.

  I want to touch this. I want this; so do you.

  The magnificent face broke into a dazzling smile. “Well, I’m glad to see you’ve recovered your sense of humor, at least. With any luck the rest will return momentarily. I apologize to you, sir, on behalf of my sister, and ask your pardon. We’ll be on our way and out of yours now. Come along, Jo.” She wrapped a protective arm around the shoulders of the younger, taller girl and began to lead her away.

  “Wait,” he said. The word tore forth from his throat before he could stop it. She turned back to him.

  As she turned her hair caught the light; even under the hooded cloak she wore the glint of gold was obvious. She blinked, and as the long black lashes touched the bottom of her deep green eyes, the dragon rushed forward again, straining against his will.

  I want to touch this.

  She could be a servant of the demon, Ashe thought, his resistance crumbling.

  I want to touch this.

  Yes, he thought silently, succumbing.

  It began like a rapid boiling in the pit of his stomach, awareness rising with the temperature of his skin and the frequency of his respiration. Then, like the repercussion of a bowl of finest crystal falling onto cobbled stone, shattering in a final, terminal puff, clarity of sight and sound and mind followed, dilating his pupils and making his skin conduct electrical impulses of the tiniest frequency. His blood surged, primed for discovery, and his muscles knotted throughout his body to withstand the rush of his newly dominant nature.

  The dragon roared forth, consuming him internally, taking the reins of control away. With a mind and sense born of the elements that made up the fabric of the universe, it expanded its awareness to the outward limits of its reach, making note of all things within a five-mile radius down to the most infinitesimal detail. The total number of lenses in the eyes of the ants within the cracks of the city streets was as evident to him as the state of the weather. That awareness then centered on the woman before him, to the exclusion of everything else.

  First the dragon sought to find and define the source of the odd magic that emanated from her. It was singular, different from the two other sources, which were also unrecognized, and unique.

  There was a music to her that touched every nerve in the dragon’s mammoth network of senses, a song that came forth from her and was tied to the world around her; she must be a Singer of great power or potential, she might possibly even have attained Namer status. Though he himself knew nothing of the art of music and its use in other forms, he was fully cognizant of what power lay in it, and it made him crave to touch her more deeply, to learn this lore, to take it, even.

  There was more to it, an exquisite blend of other elements. He could sense she was out of time and space, but wasn’t sure what that added up to. The concept excited him greatly; possibly she was only prescient, with the ability to see into the Future, but more than likely she was in fact Cymrian. There was a strong air of it about her, but that could be deceptive as well. There was more, but it was unknown to him; he assumed she was somehow tied to fire, the one element he couldn’t recognize, being void of it himself.

  Her physical form was a jubilee of observations. The outer edges of his senses swept over her, unabashedly drinking in all the information he could receive about her physical makeup. The heavy cloak by which she shielded her body from the eyes of the public was irrelevant to him, as were her clothes.

  She was robustly healthy; the signature from her physical form swelled with life and energy and a surprising muscularity, given her size and stature. She was very small, even for a woman with Lirin blood, but her body was long and willowy, giving her a sense of height she did not merit. The lines of her figure were lithe; she was perfectly apportioned, with narrow shoulders, long arms, and longer, exquisite legs, the incredible beauty of which even the casual wool pants could not contain.

  In addition to the sleek, long legs, her torso was long and slender, as was her beautiful neck. He found himself staring at the curving indentation at the hollow of her throat, imagining caressing it with lazy, warm kisses, breathing her in there.

  That neck tapered down to a bosom that was in keeping with the rest of her, with breasts that were graceful and small, but perfectly formed. It was a good thing he could only sense their shape; he knew that the sight would reduce him to a quivering mass, mist cloak or no.

  Her abdomen was slender and flat, and Ashe knew he could easily span her waist with both of his hands. She had the slim hips typical of the Lirin build. With great difficulty he stopped his physical assessment of her before his senses swung around behind her; he was afraid of what might happen if he allowed himself to continue.

  Besides, the unpleasant side effect of such a search was that the longing welled up in the corresponding places to those he had concentrated on; his lips were beginning to burn when he imagined kissing the hollow of her throat, his fingers stung at the thought of caressing her waist. Since the dragon required satisfaction to calm itself completely, he was buying a lifetime of permanent, though minor, discomfort if he never had the opportunity to touch her as he imagined. Given how well he was doing with her so far, he was unwilling to risk it, despite the fact it could never compare to the agony he carried anyway. For that reason, he forced the examination to stop here, before he turned to the shining hair that peeked out from under the hood. From what little he had seen already, he knew he would be helpless if he let himself think about it at all.

  To keep himself from becoming even more entranced with her than he already was, the dragon searched for flaws, any imperfection that would prove she was real. Ashe found it on her fingers. They were well formed and soft, but the tips were hardened with dry calluses, owing to years of playing at least one stringed instrument. It was the only imperfection he could find.

  The man, subservient by choice to his own dragon sense, shivered as the dragon’s senses explored her more.

  Her face was crafted as though by an expert sculptor lovingly working a lifetime on a masterpiece he would one day finish and commit to humankind. The features were all in perfect harmony with the possible exception of the large, deep-green eyes. They were fringed with thick black lashes and were intense in their colors, the whites very white against the dark green contrast. They sparkled with a light of their own; they were hypnotic, and even the dragon had a difficult time pulling away from them.

  She’s perfect, it said in ringing tones, inaudible to all but Ashe. I want her.

  But behind the fascination of the dragon was the interest of the man. What appealed to him about her was altogether different. He could see that she was comfortable in her own skin, and confident, but if she had any idea as to the staggering nature of her own beauty it wasn’t apparent in any of her outward signs.

  She had a gentleness in her eyes that pulled him in, but only so far; there was pain there, too, pain the depth of which he could not even see a bottom to. He found himself wishing he knew
what it was that troubled her so greatly, and knew he would go, without request, to the end of the Earth to find her the solution to it. When she laughed her eyes laughed first, and when she was angry, they were the bellwether of that emotion, too. Everything he was—secretive, solitary, hidden from sight—she was not. There was an openness to her that he envied, that he wanted to touch.

  She is untouched, a virgin, whispered the dragon excitedly. Perfect. But within his subjugated awareness the man knew something more. There was a sensuality about her, too, an obvious knowledge of the charms of the flesh that bewildered him utterly. A virgin with the enchantments of a courtesan. It was too fascinating; she was a true paradox. He wanted to know more. His mind reached out to the Future.

  As clearly as he saw her now, attired in traveling clothes and a soft gray hooded cloak and mantle, he could see her in her wedding gown, smiling at him, flowers in her hair. He allowed the fantasy to run further and pictured her in her wedding night peignoir, and could feel the heat rise to his face. He saw her cradling their child, and their grandchild. He could imagine her bent with age but unbowed, still beautiful; his throat tightened as he saw her in her shroud, white film netting covering the amazing eyes, closed now eternally.

  The eyelashes returned to their open position.

  “Yes?” she said. His dragon sense abated; his research was all accomplished in the blink of an eye, a verdant green eye.

  “Why don’t the two of you join me for lunch?” he said lightly. “Just to show there are no hard feelings.”

  The woman’s eyes sparkled wickedly. “If there are no hard feelings, either I didn’t do it right, or you are more grievously injured than I thought.”

  He laughed. “Maybe it’s just because I didn’t pay first.”

  The beautiful eyes opened in shock, then narrowed in anger. “Excuse me? What are you implying?”

  Ashe knew immediately he had made a huge tactical error. “Nothing—I’m sorry, I was only kidding. I just think you’re lovely enough to turn quite a profit as a courtesan.” He winced; now the hole he was digging for himself was even bigger.

  “You think I’m a courtesan?”

  “No, not at all, I—”

  “How dare you. Come along, Jo.”

  “Wait—I’m very sorry, please; don’t stalk off.”

  “Stand aside.”

  “Look, really, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Get out of the way.” The woman glared daggers at him, and guided the girl away and back toward the town square, keeping herself between them. He felt a wave of deep despair wash over him as they walked away, and whatever fear that she was a demonic minion that had remained vanished. He remembered that she had responded to humor, so he made a last-ditch effort.

  “Does this mean we won’t be having lunch?”

  She whirled in the street. “Given the size of your coin purse, I doubt you would be able to treat both of us. In fact, you would be lucky to pay for yourself.” She turned, and she and the girl disappeared into the crowd.

  Ashe laughed aloud, causing a number of people around him to start in surprise; until they heard him, they had had no idea he was there.

  42

  “Don’t say it; I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you insane? Losing your hand is looking more like a lucky option for you. You could have been killed.”

  Jo sighed. “I know.”

  Rhapsody came to an abrupt halt in the alley. “Why, Jo? I gave you money. Did you need more?”

  “No.” Jo reached into her pocket and drew forth the coins Rhapsody had given her. She held them out, as if to return them, but Rhapsody just stared at her hand. When she spoke again her tone was gentle.

  “Tell me why, Jo.”

  Jo looked away. “I don’t know.”

  Rhapsody reached up, grasped her face and turned it toward herself. Jo’s expression was defiant, but in her eyes Rhapsody could see deep fear, and it went to her heart. It was a look she recognized, the street child’s worry that she had alienated the only person in the world who cared about her. She loosened her grip on Jo’s face, and caressed it gently.

  “Well, at least you’re all right. Let’s go meet Achmed for lunch.”

  Jo’s expression melted into astonishment. “That’s it? You’re not going to yell at me more than that?”

  Rhapsody smiled. “Do you want me to? I’m not your mother, I’m your sister, and I’ve done more than my share of stupid things.”

  “Yeah? What kind of stupid things?”

  “Didn’t Achmed tell you anything about what happened in Bethany? Come on.” She took Jo’s hand and led her off through the streets toward the town square.

  Achmed waited impatiently in front of the basilica at Bethe Corbair. It was noon; the sun had been directly overhead for a few minutes, and there was no sign of either of them. In the old world he could have sought their heartbeats to locate them and reassure himself of their safety, but things were different here; he had no power to find them.

  Then he thought again. He had no power to find Jo, but Rhapsody was from the old world; he could still hear the sound of her heart. He would need a sheltered place to sit and concentrate.

  Glancing around, Achmed located a small tavern with a few pine tables outside in the area near the street; the wood was wet from its covering of snow that had evidently melted with the thaw. He pulled out one of the benches under the table and brushed the pool of water off it, then sat down, grimacing.

  He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind of the noises around him in the street, in particular the bells of the basilica. Their sound was subject to the wind, and was unpredictable; they cluttered the vibrational landscape with inconsistent clamor.

  Achmed opened his mouth slightly, allowing the icy wind to fill it and whistle out again, as it would through a cave. His hands rested on the table in front of him; he raised one finger slightly, as if surreptitiously testing the breeze. This was the miniature version of his Hunting ritual, the means by which he had successfully plied his trade of assassination in the old land.

  His Dhracian physiology blessed him with a skull structure of complex sinus cavities and long glands in the throat that vibrated with the rhythm of a particular pulse. He knew Rhapsody’s heartbeat instinctively; he had walked, rested, crawled, fought, and slept beside it for what may have been centuries, if any of the history was to be believed. He could taste it on the wind.

  She was nearby. He had found her heartbeat and now felt her approach. He started to close down his sensing when a foul taste filled his mouth, more sour than bile, more repulsive than vomit. It was a putrid taste with a stench of the grave to it; the taste of evil. And this time he was all but certain it had the stench of F’dor.

  Rapidly he opened his eyes. Rhapsody and Jo were walking toward him on his left, coming from the southwest side of town. Achmed looked away from them for a moment, tracking the evil taint. It was coming from the north.

  He turned to look as the sun crept behind the spire of the basilica with the passing of the hour of noon. In the momentary darkness that fell he saw a shadow in front of the basilica, but could place no pulse to it; it blended into the larger silhouette of the basilica itself. The air whistled through his mouth and nose again, taking the odor of evil with it as it left, cleansing his senses of the taint.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Rhapsody said, shattering his concentration. She pulled out the bench opposite him. “Here, Jo, sit down. Have you been served yet, Achmed?”

  Achmed looked back at her, swallowing his irritation. The sun crept out from behind the basilica, though it was behind him and he couldn’t see it; he knew because a shaft of light fell on a lock Rhapsody’s hair, making it gleam within her hood.

  He turned around again to look for the shadow, but it was no longer in the same place. Instead he saw a man, someone it took several glances to discern, standing in the street before the basilica, looking their way.

  Instantly his hackles went up; this was pr
obably the shadow he had seen, but it gave off no signature that he could pick up on. The figure was cloaked and hooded, with his face completely hidden from view, and the sun as it appeared caught a thin veil of mist around him, almost as if steam was rising from him. Then, to his surprise and annoyance, the man began to walk toward them.

  The tavernkeeper had opened the door and was carrying a rough-hewn tray of food to the customers who occupied another outside table. Achmed recognized the smell instantly: mutton. He hated mutton. His mood blackened visibly, causing the smile on Rhapsody’s face to vanish abruptly, to be replaced with a look of concern.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Jo leaned closer. “It’s him. He’s coming.”

  “Who?” Rhapsody craned her neck to look behind Achmed’s shoulder.

  “That man from the market.” Jo flushed red, either from embarrassment or excitement; it was difficult to tell.

  Rhapsody rose from the bench, looking annoyed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Achmed return to his position facing her with his back to the approaching man; she saw him draw a dagger. The fact that she was able to see him do it was his way of telling her that he was armed and ready; she nodded imperceptibly as Grunthor would have. She was becoming accustomed to the silent language.

  “What do you want?” she demanded. The man stopped in his tracks.

  “Sorry,” said the voice from within the hood. It was a pleasant baritone, with an interesting dryness to it. There also was a sweetness to the voice. “I came to apologize for my earlier rudeness.”

  “You did already; now please go away.”

  “I was hoping you would allow me to make up for my offensive comment by buying you both lunch.” There was a pause as the man looked down at Achmed. “And your friend as well, of course.”