Rhapsody’s fingers were beginning to cramp slightly; it had taken him a while to fall asleep. The smell of the dream-inducing herbs she had brought in, cinquefoil, agrimony, angelica, and star anise, was beginning to make her head swim. All in all she had been playing for more than two hours, and was beginning to wonder if this was a good time to stop.
She had her answer within a moment. Through the haze of the candlelight and the soft smoke in the room she thought she saw the door open. Standing in the doorway was a tall, broad-shouldered woman with gray-blond hair touched with white. Her face was handsome, and she had the same intense blue eyes as her son, who sat up in his sleep as she entered.
Rhapsody watched, entranced, as the dream-woman embraced Constantin, sitting beside him on the bed, and cradling him in her arms like a lost treasure. The gladiator wept in his sleep. Rhapsody continued the lutesong, playing softly. As the aroma from the candles reached her she struggled to keep from falling under its spell herself.
For a long time the two sat, speaking in a language she recognized as the tongue of Sorbold, though she could not make out what they said over the sound of the lute. She didn’t want to intrude in any way on their conversation, but was having trouble keeping her eyes open and her hands moving over the strings.
Finally the woman rose, kissed her smiling son on the cheek, and whispered final words in his ear. Then she left the room and Constantin lay down, falling back into his sleep, still smiling.
Rhapsody was bringing the song to an end when Constantin turned over, still in the throes of slumber. The door opened again; this time she saw a dream image of herself enter the room, closing it softly behind it. Rhapsody’s heart skipped a beat; it was all she could do to keep the song going.
In the darkness of his dream she was dressed in the same white robe they all wore in the realm of the Rowans, which the dream-image dropped to the floor as she stood beside his bed. Rhapsody saw the look in his eyes as he stared at the image, more real than it must usually have appeared to him owing to the candles, now short in their remaining life, and the song she had played to extend them.
Her stomach twisted as he drew the image of herself closer, resting his hands on her waist. She knew what was about to happen, and did not want to watch it; her skin burned as Constantin set about enacting his fantasy. Rhapsody would have closed her eyes, but felt compelled to observe one interesting thing about his actions: they were tender, gentle, without the brutal fervor she remembered from Sorbold. He was making love to what he thought was her, not ravaging her as he said he would have in the bedchamber of the gladiatorial arena. The knowledge that what she had viewed as a dangerous predator was capable of such mild and affectionate actions brought a lump to her throat; she had been right about his familiarity with kindness. She closed her eyes, leaving him to his privacy, and plucked the strings of her lute a little more firmly to cover any sounds that might issue forth.
When she was sure the dream was truly over, she went to the bed and stood over him, looking down at him tenderly in the shadowlight of the two remaining candles that burned low in their stands now. His immense size and the scars he bore belied his age; he was like her, seemingly young, but bent under the weight of the experience he carried. With his eyes closed and a content look on his face he seemed vulnerable.
You promised me a, night with you in my bed. Surely you will not go back on your word.
Rhapsody extinguished the candles and pulled back the covers slowly, as if in a trance. She crept into the bed and between the sheets, careful not to waken him, then slid through the rough fabric until she felt him beside her. She lowered her head gently onto his shoulder, and wrapped her arm around his waist, settling in next to him as she had with Grunthor when they traveled along the Root.
In his sleep Constantin pulled her closer and sighed; the sound went to Rhapsody’s heart. Ryle hira, she thought. Life is what it is. She just wished it weren’t so damned sad sometimes.
She rose just before the sun did, timing her exit to coincide with its first rays touching the floor of his room. As the first shaft of light fell across the blankets on the bed, she rested her hands on his shoulders and leaned over him, as she had seen the image of herself do in his dream. She gave him a long, warm kiss on the forehead, allowing her hair to brush against his chest, as he inhaled the scent of her skin with his first waking breath.
His eyes were just beginning to open when she took both his hands in hers and kissed them, too.
“Now the scales are balanced between us,” she said softly.
She walked to the chair where her white robe lay. She slipped it on, smiling at him as he watched in amazement; then she opened the door and left, closing it behind her softly.
Rhapsody slept beneath the warm glow of one of the Lady’s candles herself that night, a sweet pillar of rose-colored beeswax perfumed with lilabelle, a flower known for its calmative properties and ability to promote clarity. The spicy smoke seeped into her mind, clearing away much of the confusion, leaving her head aching from its effect. Pooling tufts of misty vapor gathered, then dispersed in her dreams as if blown away by a cold, cleansing wind.
In the haze of painful sleep Rhapsody opened her eyes. Standing before her was the Lord Rowan, garbed in forest green, leaning upon a staff of winter wood.
Do you understand now what you are fighting for? The words filled her mind, though they did not fall from his lips.
Her answer came like a song she didn’t remember but had known once, long ago.
Life itself, she replied. The F’dor hate life, seek to snuff it out. We are fighting for Life itself.
Yes, and more. The Lord Rowan began to walk away into the misty forest of her dream, then turned for a moment and looked back at her. You are fighting for the Afterlife as well.
I don’t understand.
The battle that is being waged is not just for this life, but for the Afterlife. There is Life and there is Void. Void is the enemy of Life, and will swallow it into oblivion if it can. Life is strong, but Void grows stronger.
The Lord Rowan faded into the mist, leaving only his words hanging in the foggy air of her dream.
In this you must not fail.
42
The pace of the time that was passing refused to be hurried. Fresh mornings melded into warm afternoons of slanted sunlight that wended their way toward sweet, lazy evenings and into the deep darkness of night, only to begin anew again with the rising sun. It was the same cycle as everywhere, but for some reason the days seemed longer to Rhapsody, though she had no need for them to be shortened. The realm of the Rowans was a peaceful, drowsy place, even though the children seemed largely invulnerable to its sleepy call. The children were happy here, growing stronger and healthier beneath the watchful eyes of the Lord and Lady, and the comforting love of their beautiful young grandmother.
The seasons in the glade did not change; it was always spring-approaching-summer; though autumn was Rhapsody’s favorite time of year, she barely missed it. That was part of the enchantment of the place as well; beloved friends and familiar things faded into memory, unaccompanied by a notice of their absence. Time just moved on, oblivious of it all.
The only difficulty was the night. As the sun was setting Rhapsody would look over her shoulder to see the Lord or Lady nodding, indicating it was time. She had chosen the schedule herself; it allowed her the chance to sing her evening vespers, and she knew that the Lady, hovering in robes of sky-blue, kissed each child to sleep at the ending of the procedure, so it made sense to her to do it then. Her nights had long been haunted by disturbing dreams, anyway; they could hardly be made worse by this, she had reasoned.
She was wrong.
There was no becoming accustomed to it. The pain was excruciating, causing her to scream in agony, crying out freely in the knowledge that she could not be heard in the round building that swallowed all sound.
In the beginning she had clung to the edges of the cot, grasping until her fingers bled, desperat
ely seeking some way to lessen the suffering. It was no use. Each jab of the needle felt as if it tore a piece of the flesh from her chest, searing her heart and sending it into spasms of pain the likes of which she had never imagined, let alone felt. It was a final communion with Ashe, in a way; at last she understood fully the agony he had carried.
She tried to concentrate on the children, on the knowledge that, because of her agony, they felt nothing, but that only worked for a moment once the procedure had begun. Finally she gave in to the futility of it all and accepted that she could not be stoic or brave; she was meant to suffer this in their stead. She had agreed to willingly. As she lay on the floor between each procedure, having convulsed off the cot in her misery, she comforted herself with the awareness that each child was sleeping in peace because of this. It gave her what little will she could muster to go on.
After one particularly brutal session, when she lay sobbing on the floor, trying to catch her breath, the Lady Rowan entered the room and drew Rhapsody into her arms. She ran her warm hands over the golden hair and as she did, the pain subsided along with the sobs. She turned the Singer’s tearstained face up to her own and looked deeply into her eyes.
“They are stronger now, and older. Aria is no longer a baby, and Quan Li is almost a woman. Some of them can bear this on their own. Why don’t you let them?”
Rhapsody shook her head. “No,” she said, her voice catching in the back of her throat. “I’m all right.”
The Lady regarded her seriously. “You are holding something back from me. What is it?”
Rhapsody looked away, only to have the warm fingers turn her face back again.
“Tell me,” the Lady said. Rhapsody knew the Lady already had the answer, and was waiting for her to admit it to herself. She met the Lady’s eyes.
“My mother,” she said quietly.
“What of her?”
“I know now what she felt, how she suffered when I left. It was like a piece of her heart had been taken; in a way I believe I am atoning for it.”
The Lady touched her face tenderly. “You are carrying great pain about your mother in your heart, are you not?”
Rhapsody looked down. “Yes.” She could feel the warmth of the smile above her.
“For the equivalent of three years now you have borne the physical pain for these children as a mother would because the thought of them in pain was worse for you. How do you think your own mother feels, knowing her child carries so much unnecessary pain on her behalf?”
Rhapsody’s eyes met the sky-blue ones instantly; realization came more slowly. When it did, the Lady Rowan took her hand.
“My guilt about her is hurting her more.”
The Lady smiled. “Let yourself heal, child; otherwise your mother never will.”
That night, as she slept in the solid darkness of her room, the Lady opened her door and came in, carrying a small scented candle wound with fragrant wood. Rhapsody opened her eyes, but the Lady merely shook her head and placed the candle holder on the table beside her bed. She bent over the sleeping Singer and kissed her forehead gently, then left as quietly as she came.
After a moment the door opened again. Rhapsody sat up in surprise as the young woman came in, smiling, and sat down in the chair, putting her feet up on the bed. She pulled out a long, thin knife and began a game of mumblety-peg, stabbing agilely between her fingers with it as they rested on her knee.
“Hi, Rhaps,” Jo said.
For a moment Rhapsody could only clutch at the bedclothes, struggling to awaken but finding that the sweet, fragrant smoke of the candle weighed heavily on her eyelids. Finally she mustered enough strength to rise and reach out toward her sister’s knee.
“Don’t,” Jo said pleasantly, not looking up from her game of mumblety-peg. Rhapsody sat quickly back on the bed, her head suddenly light and a queasy sensation of mixed joy and shock filling her stomach.
“Is it really you, Jo?” she asked. Her voice trembled; she didn’t recognize the sound of it through the thickness of the haze.
“Of course not,” Jo replied, still intent on her game. “What you see is only what your memory tells you.” She looked up and met Rhapsody’s eyes for the first time. “But my love is with you. You needed to see me, so I came, at least a little.”
Rhapsody nodded as if she understood, but she didn’t. “You’re here, then? In the realm of the Rowans? Between the worlds?”
Jo shook her head. “No. I’m in the Afterlife. But I’ll be here when you need me to be, Rhaps. It’s the least I can do, after all you did for me.”
Rhapsody rubbed her head foggily. “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t.” Jo slid the dirk back into her boot, leaned back in the chair, and crossed her arms over her chest. “You won’t. And I can’t explain it to you, either. It’s beyond your comprehension now.” A wry smile played on her lips. “Funny, isn’t that? In life it was always you that tried to explain things I didn’t understand to me.”
“Tell me of the Afterlife, Jo,” Rhapsody said, choking on the words.
“I can’t. Well, I can, but you won’t understand. You can’t. You have to have passed through the Gate of Life to know. Here, in this place, you can only see a little of what has passed through, because this is a place of transition. Now you can only know the things you knew on your side of the Veil of Joy. Once you pass through the Gate, you’ll know everything. I’m sorry, Rhaps. I wish I could make you understand.”
“Are you happy, Jo?”
Her sister smiled. “I’m content.”
“But not happy?”
“‘Happy’ is a word from your side of the gate. It is only part of contentment. You can’t understand, so if it makes you feel better, believe that I am happy. It’s as true as anything else.”
“I want you to be happy, Jo. I’m so sorry for what I did to you.”
The image of her sister laid the dirk aside and regarded her thoughtfully.
“Now, if you want me to be happy, you can’t feel guilty; that is something I can feel as well. What you did to me, Rhaps, was give me a chance to live forever.
“You are the first person that I ever knew that loved me. That’s the key, you know—it’s the connections that we make in life that allow us to know love in the Afterlife. You told me my mother loved me, and you were right; she does. You helped me to find her beyond the Gate because of it.”
Jo slid the knife back into her boot and stood.
“I have to go. Don’t,” she said as Rhapsody struggled to sit up again. “Keep working with those kids, Rhaps. You joke about being their grandmother, but the ties on them in the Afterlife go both ways, if you know what I mean. What you’re doing is cutting the chains that could drag them in death to the Vault of the Underworld. You know I have no great fondness for kids, but nobody deserves that. Bye.”
The door closed behind her, leaving Rhapsody both blissful and bereft.
For the next few nights her sister came to visit. The dream only lasted for a few moments, so Rhapsody became adept at saying whatever was most in need in her heart as soon as her sister came in the door; she was still trying to learn to say goodbye as easily when Jo told her she could not be coming again.
“You know the answers you needed most,” she said as Rhapsody fought back the tears. “I love you; there is nothing to forgive. And, by your definition, I am happy; may you be, too, Rhaps.” She rose, ignoring the Singer’s pleas to stay, and left by the door she had come in.
In spite of the comforting scents from the candles, Rhapsody bowed her head and gave in to grief. It was then that she felt the soft hand on her forehead. Rhapsody looked up in her sleep to see the face so like her own smiling down at her.
“Don’t cry, Emmy.” Her mother’s hands were gentle, caressing the tears from her face.
Finally it was done. One clear day, no different seemingly than any of the others, the Lady met Rhapsody in the forest and extended her hand. In it was a vial of liquid, black a
s pitch, slender as an arrow shaft, no longer than her palm. When Rhapsody looked at her in confusion the Lady smiled.
“After all you have suffered for it, I would think you would recognize it.”
Rhapsody’s eyes opened wide. “This is it? This is seven years’ worth, from all ten of them?”
“This is all that remains. It has been clarified down to the essence of its demonic nature, evil in pure form.”
A shudder rumbled through the Singer. “Is it safe to carry?”
“For a while. Not for long. I suggest you put it in the hands of the Dhracian as soon as you can.” She opened her palm; in it was another vial, this one made of silvery hematite, a mineral the Lirin called bloodstone. It was shaped like a chevron, an angled rafter of a roof, and the bottom was lined with cork. The Lady Rowan uncorked the hematite vial and gently slid the glass one inside it, then sealed it shut. She extended her hand to Rhapsody.
“This should fit within Daystar Clarion’s sheath at the tip where the sword does not reach. The elemental power of fire and the stars will hold it in stasis until you can give it to the one who will seek the F’dor.”
Rhapsody nodded, still afraid to touch the vial. “I’m to go now, then?”
“Yes.”
“And the children?”
“Any that wish to return with you may go. Those who do not may remain here, if they wish; they have earned the right to eternal peace if they so choose.”
Rhapsody nodded and mustered a smile. “I am forever grateful for your kindness, and that of the Lord.” She reluctantly took the vial.
The Lady looked at her seriously. “Don’t be, Rhapsody. Favors generally come with sacrifice; I don’t think I need to remind you of that.”
She was about to ask if any more was owed on this one when the children spilled out of one of the huts, laughing and calling as they ran to her. The Lady smiled at her once more, growing fainter as the air grew cloudier around her. Rhapsody looked around her anxiously and saw Constantin standing some distance away. She put out her hand to him and he came to her.
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