Anborn wiped the spillage off with the edge of his cloak. “Are you awake?” he demanded, grabbing her chin in a firm grip. “If you’re not, wake up now, or you will die. Do you hear me? You are closer than you may know. How long have you been out here, exposed like this?”
Rhapsody struggled to remember, fighting off the fuzzy edges of unconsciousness that were trying to close in. “Seven days, eight? Maybe more,” she whispered, the effort to speak threatening to shut her down.
Anborn said nothing, but the grim look on his face turned even more forbidding. He took a rope from the saddlebag and lashed her to the saddle, knowing she did not have the strength to hold herself up on the horse, and led the animal back to her mount. Rhapsody huddled under his cloak, motionless, as he examined the unconscious form of the gladiator.
She watched as he made a few adjustments and poured some of the liquid from the flask down the fighter’s throat, belting Constantin into senselessness again as he stirred with a single blow. Then he returned and mounted behind her, tying her horse’s bridle to the reins.
“You really are an idiot,” he said, scowling down at her. “The brute is warm, and wrapped, and you have been feeding him at your own expense. You are lucky you are not under my command—I would have you whipped for jeopardizing a valuable life in favor of rubbish.” He looked into her eyes and saw they were not responding, a glazed look within them, and took her face in his hands.
Anborn touched her lips with his own and began to breathe heat into her mouth. Passionlessly he exhaled, filling her lungs with warmth that spilled over onto her face. After a few breaths he waited, watching for signs of response. When he saw none he returned to the technique, trying to warm her internally.
After a moment Rhapsody’s eyes fluttered open, and Anborn watched in amusement as a look of surprise weakly crossed her face at finding herself lip to lip with him. “Now, stay awake or I shall have to do that again,” he said, pulling the cloak up over her head and holding her against his chest as he set out with both horses for shelter from the storm.
32
Many miserable hours’ riding later, the horses finally came to a stop, walking directionlessly in place as they came to rest. The night had come long ago, and each time Rhapsody had begun to feel sleep taking her she had been jolted painfully awake by Anborn’s fingers digging sharply into her ribs, ugly epithets snarled into her ringing ears. She settled into a semiconscious state, remaining able to respond most times to his inquiries about being awake.
At last they arrived at a dark cottage. Rhapsody could barely see its outline among the trees and still-falling snow, hidden in a forest glade as well as the houses of the Lirin border watchers.
The door and shutters of the cottage were thick and solid, with deep scars scoring their surfaces. Anborn dismounted and swung her down from the horse, throwing her like a sack of meal over one shoulder as he unpacked his saddlebag. Then he carried her into the cottage, depositing her in a large, musty chair as he moved about the room, opening the fireplace flue and building a fire.
Rhapsody lay still, unwilling to open even a little the cloak that had warmed her through the journey. Her bleary eyes scanned the room; its walls were bare and the freezing air within it was old and stale. In the darkness she could make out a single bed and a table, in addition to the chair she sat in, as well as doorways to the outside and to what was probably a closet.
A moment later the cottage filled with dim light as Anborn lit a lantern and the fire began to crackle. He left the cottage and was gone quite some time; Rhapsody took advantage of his absence to fall into a light slumber. She was jostled rudely awake when the door slammed; Anborn strode back into the room, carrying a large tub that looked as if it was used as a trough.
He set the tub in front of the fireplace after dumping some debris out of it onto the dirt floor, then left the room again, returning with a large black pot, which he hung over the fire. Once more he left the cottage, and as the strength of the fire began to grow Rhapsody felt pain in her limbs as they started to thaw. She tried to rub her arms and legs under the cloak but found her hands unresponsive. Panic was starting to set in when Anborn came back.
This time he had two enormous buckets, and he filled the tub in front of the fire. Then he went to the pot over the flames, removed it carefully with a piece of leather shielding his hand from the red-hot handle, and poured the water from it into the tub as well. Steam rose to the thatched roof, and Anborn came to her, stripped the cloak from her, lifted her out of the chair, and dumped her unceremoniously into the tub.
A choked gasp escaped her and she began to weep tearlessly as the hot water blasted her still-frozen body, returning feeling to her extremities and agony to her torso. She trembled uncontrollably as skin from her toes and fingers peeled off and rose to the surface, floating among the flimsy scarves that she still wore.
Anborn left the cottage again without a word or a backward glance. He returned again shortly with more water, with which he refilled the pot over the fire. Then he came to the tub and stood over her, watching her cry. He crouched down to her level and regarded her coolly, then reached out and pulled off the scarf that barely covered her breasts.
“Get that thing off,” he said, indicating the lower part of her costume, which was skimming the surface of the water along with leaves, twigs, and other forest debris. Rhapsody tried to slide out of it, but she couldn’t raise her hips high enough; Anborn reached into the tub impatiently and tore it loose, tossing it onto the floor behind him. His eyes ran over her body, the look on his face professional, as though he were sizing up an animal at a farm auction. Then he went back to the fire and stirred the water in the pot.
“Is the feeling coming back yet?” he asked, his back to her.
“Yes,” Rhapsody sobbed, trying to regain control of herself. She watched as black skin from her knees cracked and rubbed off into the water, leaving raw pink patches beneath. “Where is the gladiator?”
Anborn turned, a look of disgust on his face. “You certainly have your priorities backward,” he said, annoyance riddling his voice. “You should be wondering whether we can save the use of your hands and feet, not your toy.” He pulled the pot from the fireplace and poured more of the steaming water into the tub, watching with grim satisfaction as Rhapsody cried out in pain again.
“Well, that seems promising, at least,” he said, returning the pot to the fire again. “Now, what did you want to ask me?”
Rhapsody took shallow breaths, trying to control the agony that was coursing through her, making her arms and legs ache to the bone. “Please, Anborn,” she stammered, “where is he?”
Anborn looked at her again, his eyes dark and piercing. Finally he spoke. “He’s in the root cellar,” he said sharply, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Is he your lover?”
The scene in Sorbold came flooding back to her, and the sheer irony of his question caught her off guard. Revulsion that she had suppressed for survival purposes flooded her, and she began to convulse in pain and the memory of what had happened.
She had tried to hold it in, hoping that she could wait until she was in Oelendra’s strong arms to lay it down, but the trauma was too strong and her defenses were gone. She wept aloud, the terror she had felt in the gladiator’s grasp mixing with her agony. Anborn turned rapidly back to the fire. He brought the kettle forth again, this time pouring it slowly in the far end of the tub, disturbing the water as little as possible.
When he was finished he rested his hand on her shoulder. “All right,” he said, his voice gruff but not unkind, “that’s enough. You can cry later; it offends my ears. I’ll take that as a no. So why did you undertake this asinine kidnapping?” He reached into the water and began to cup it into his hand, pouring it over her shoulders and parts of her upper body that were above its surface.
Rhapsody’s eyes cleared a little, and went from the room around her to the man bathing her. They were both very rough, a wilderness cabin with mud-c
aulked walls and no ornamentation, much like Anborn himself. She watched, hiccoughing, as he skimmed the pieces of dead skin that floated on the muddy water’s surface, tossing them onto the dirt floor behind him. Then he took hold of her shoulders and raised her upper body farther out of the water to keep her head above it, much in the same way she had when bathing the children of the F’dor before Oelendra’s roaring hearth.
Rhapsody shivered, and when she calmed down she tried to explain the plan and what had happened. As she spoke her voice grew smoother, and soon the hiccoughing that had interrupted almost every word eased to an occasional vocal cough. When the feeling returned to her hands she ran them along her arms and legs, bathing them in the steaming water as Anborn was bathing her upper body, a look of dismay on her face as still more pieces of skin flaked off, leaving painful sores exposed to the heat of the dirty tub.
Finally, when she had finished, Anborn shook the water from his hands and regarded her seriously. “Are you sworn in allegiance to Llauron?” he asked.
“No,” Rhapsody said. “But he taught me a great many things about healing and horticulture. I try to follow the goal he outlined for me.”
Anborn snorted in contempt. “Listen to me. Here is the first rule: when your allegiance is sworn, you will follow that person’s instructions, unquestioningly, until death or later. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Rhapsody testily. “What’s your point?”
“The second rule,” Anborn continued, “is that when you are not sworn, you owe nothing to anyone, and you never put yourself into situations that can harm or kill you unless it benefits you personally. You have faced, and may still suffer, rape, injury, the loss of limbs, and death, for someone to whom you have no oath of loyalty. That is stupid, miss. You owe Llauron nothing.”
“You don’t understand,” she answered, shivering under his glower, either from the disdain in his eyes or the dropping temperature of the water. “Llauron did not direct me to get the gladiator. It is I that have been gathering the children of the F’dor.”
“And a good thing for them, too—had I known that was what they were I would have put them to the sword myself and been done with it. In fact, I think I still will.” He stood up and went to the corner where he had left his gear and brought forth from its scabbard an enormous bastard sword that glinted in the dim light. Rhapsody watched in horror as he strode to the door, murder on his face.
She tried to get out of the tub to stop him, but her legs betrayed her and refused to budge. In desperation she called his name, using her deepest powers of Naming.
“Anborn ap Gwylliam, stop,” she commanded. The air in the room became instantly warm and still, and Anborn froze in midstep, his back to her. She could see rage swim through the muscles of his shoulders and could hear him breathe in angrily. “You will not harm him, Anborn. He is under my protection.”
“Really?” Anborn sneered, still not able to turn to face her. “And who will protect you now, Rhapsody? You can’t even protect yourself; that’s a bad position to be in alone with someone like me.” His voice pulsed with the unspoken threat.
“You will protect me, Anborn,” Rhapsody answered, her voice filled with humility and respect. “You will because you have, and you are noble of spirit. You had no reason to answer the Kinsman call in the freezing night, either, but you came.”
His shoulders became less tense, but still he could not move. “That’s different,” he said tersely. “I am sworn as a Kinsman; I have no allegiance to this abomination. Or to you.”
“Kinsmen come in all shapes and sizes, Anborn,” she said gently. “They come in all walks of life—some of them even are Singers. And some of them aren’t very tall; slight, even, you might say.” With that, she released him. “You have honored MacQuieth and the ancient warriors, as well as those who serve now. Sometimes the greatest feat of a soldier is to aid the helpless, and you have; I give you respect, and I thank you.”
General, first you must heal the rift within yourself. With Gwylliam’s death you now are the king of soldiers, but until you find the slightest of your kinsmen and protect that helpless one, you are unworthy of forgiveness. And so it shall be until you either are redeemed, or die unabsolved.
Anborn turned slowly and regarded her with a look she had not seen before. He dropped his eyes as if aware of her nakedness for the first time, then slowly returned to the corner and resheathed his sword. “You are one of the Three,” he said, the question unasked but present nonetheless.
“Yes,” Rhapsody answered, “and you have fulfilled the prophecy. May grace come upon you for it.”
If you seek to mend the rift, General, guard the Sky, lest it fall.
Anborn looked at her once more, his eyes free of the anger she had heard in his voice a moment before. He walked behind her and went to the closet, returning with a rough blanket and a garment slung over his arm. Without a word he handed her the blanket and helped her to stand. She wrapped it around herself; he lifted her from the tepid water and shook her to dry her off. Then he gave her the garment; it was a soft wool tunic of fern green, long of sleeve, pointed at the wrist and clearly cut to fit a woman, though one considerably bigger than Rhapsody. As she dried herself with the blanket and prepared to don the garment, Anborn left the cottage.
When he returned Rhapsody was dressed and drying her hair before the fire, which was burning steadily, though quietly. He was carrying a lumpy burlap sack from which he drew forth a winter apple and offered it to her. She smiled and accepted with hands that only trembled slightly.
“I want to apologize,” he said, looking down at her seriously. “I hope you’ll forgive me for any offense I’ve committed.”
“Well, the only one I can think of was saving my life, which is offensive only to some people who know me,” Rhapsody said, smiling again. “Anborn, just because my arrival here was foretold doesn’t mean I’m some kind of mythic person. I’m just a commoner with an extremely checkered past, and I prefer that you be yourself with me rather than treating me like some legendary thing I’m not. If you recall, at our first meeting you referred to me as a ‘freak of nature,’ and I didn’t hold that against you. So insult me if you want to—I’ll get past it.”
Anborn smiled; it was the first time Rhapsody had seen him do so without a sarcastic smirk, and she liked the way it looked on his face. “There is nothing common about you, Rhapsody. It’s my honor to have been able to help you. I think you’re warm enough now; why don’t you lie down and get some sleep?” He gestured toward the bed.
“Only if you promise to keep your knuckles out of my ribs if I do,” she said, grinning. The fire sparked more now, the flames burning certainly and surely. She went over to the bed, which was a hay mattress covered in burlap with a woolen coverlet, and slowly eased herself down onto it. “And if you promise to waken me for my watch. After all, you should have a turn to sleep on the bed as well.”
“We’ll see,” said Anborn noncommittally as he pulled the flask out of his pack. He passed it to her and she took a deep draught, coughing as the liquid scorched down her throat.
“What the blazes is this hrekin?” She handed it back to him and dabbed the beads of perspiration that burst onto her forehead with the sleeve of the green tunic.
Anborn laughed. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
Rhapsody looked at the green sleeve with interest. “This doesn’t look like it would fit you too well, Anborn. To whom does it belong?”
“It belonged to my wife,” Anborn said, settling into the musty chair. “She won’t mind you wearing it—she’s been dead eleven years now.” His voice held no trace of regret. “It looks far better on you, by the way.”
Rhapsody blinked at the callousness of his statement. “I’m very sorry,” she said, searching his eyes in the dark for hints of deeper sorrow. There were none.
“No need to be,” he answered directly. “We didn’t like each other very much. We didn’t live together, and I rarely saw her.�
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Rhapsody took a bite of the apple; it was dry and withered, mealy with a heavy sweetness that hinted of riper, fairer days. The irony saddened her.
“But you must have loved her once,” she said, feeling like she was treading on sensitive ground but needing to nonetheless.
Anborn smiled at her, shaking his head. “No,” he said simply. “For such an intellectually gifted woman, Rhapsody, you can be charmingly naive.”
The shivers that had racked Rhapsody’s body had subsided to a mild occasional tremor, and she could feel her strength and heat begin to return. “Then why did you marry?”
Anborn took a deep sip from the flask. “She wasn’t an unattractive woman. Her family was an old one, and she was principled; if she ever cuckolded me, I never knew it, and I believe I would have. I was loyal to her as well, until she died.”
Rhapsody waited, but no more commentary was forthcoming. “That’s all?” she asked, amazed. “Why bother?”
“A fair question, to be sure,” Anborn answered, beginning to remove his boots. “I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for you.”
“Did you have children?”
“No,” he said; his expression and tone did not change. “I’m sorry to disillusion you, Rhapsody. You obviously know what my family is, and so know that we don’t have the most romantic history.
“All that fanciful hogwash about my grandparents is claptrap as well. Merithyn was seduced by Elynsynos because the human form she assumed was what she perceived in his heart was attractive, and the old boy had been at sea for years, anyway. She could have been a sheep, and he would still would have knobbed her.”
He looked over at Rhapsody, and the look on her face caused him to laugh out loud. “I’m sorry, dear, if I’m despoiling your fantasy. And if that’s not enough, I can assure you there was no love lost on Elynsynos’s part, either. He was the first Seren she had ever seen, and she wanted control over him.
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