His living shroud obscured him from the eyes of the rest of the world as well. He was only here now, in the realm of the Bolg, on orders to observe the three who ruled the monsters of Ylorc and report back. Ashe hated being used in this way, but had no power to do otherwise. It was one of the drawbacks of his life not being his own, his fate and destiny in the dark hands of another.
The one pleasant thing about this assignment was that it allowed him to be with Rhapsody. From the moment the dragon in his blood had felt her presence for the first time on the Krevensfield Plain he had been involuntarily fascinated with her, drawn like a moth to a flame as intense as the fire that burned in the belly of the world. Upon actually meeting her, both sides of his nature, the dragon and the man, had fallen deeply under her spell. Had he been more a living man than the shell of a man that he was, Ashe might have been able to resist whatever charms she had bound him with. As it was, he feared her almost as much as he was enchanted by her.
Sam. The word echoed in his memory, Emily’s soft voice bringing water to the edges of his eyes, even in sleep. She had called him Sam, and he had loved the sound of it. They had parted far too soon; he had not had the chance to correct her.
I can’t believe you really came, she had whispered on that night, that one night, so long ago beneath an endless blanket of stars. Her voice still whispered to him now, in his dreams. Where are you from? You were my wish, weren’t you? Have you come to save me from the lottery, to take me away? I wished for you to come last night on my star, right after midnight, and here you are. You don’t know where you are, do you? Did I bring you from a long way off? There was magic in her, he had decided then, and still believed now. It was magic strong enough to have brought him over the waves of Time, back into the Past to find her waiting there for him in Serendair, a land that had disappeared into the sea fourteen centuries before he had been born.
All a dream, his father had insisted, trying to comfort him when he found himself back in his own time, alone, without her. The sun was bright, and you must have been overcome with the heat.
Ashe turned on his side and groaned, overcome with heat now. The fire in the small grate twisted and pulsed, casting its warmth over him in waves. The image of Rhapsody rose up in his mind again. It was never far from the edge of his consciousness anyway; the dragon’s obsession with her was strong. His fingertips and lips still stung with the unspent desire to touch her that had pooled like acid there since he first beheld her, the consequences of the dragon’s unsatisfied longing. Bitterly, he struggled to put her out of his mind, reaching back blindly to the sweetness of the memory he had been reliving only a moment before.
“Emily,” he called brokenly, but the dream eluded him, dissipating at the edge of the room beyond his reach.
In his sleep he fumbled in a small pocket of the mist cloak until his fingers brushed it, tiny and hard in its pouch of velvet, worn thin from years of serving as his touchstone. A tiny silver button, heart-shaped, of modest manufacture, given to him by the one woman he had ever loved. It was the only thing he had left of her, that and his memories, each one cherished with the ferocity of a dragon guarding its greatest treasure.
Touching the button worked; it brought her near to him again, if only for a moment. He could still feel the ripping of the lace as he inadvertently tore it from her bodice, his hand trembling with fear and excitement. He could still see the smile in her eyes.
Keep it, Sam, as a memento of the night when I gave you my heart. He had complied, had carried the tiny button heart next to his own scarred one, clinging to the memory of what he had lost.
He had searched for her endlessly, in the museums and the history vaults, in the House of Remembrance, in the face of every woman, young and old, that had hair the color of pale flax on a summer’s day, as Emily’s hair had seemed in the dark. He had carefully examined any female wrist, looking for the tiny scar that was burned into his memory. Of course, he had never found her; the Seer of the Past had assured him that she had not come on any of the ships that escaped Serendair before it was consumed in volcanic fire.
Well, child, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but no one by that name or description was among those to leave on the ships from the Island before its destruction. She did not land; she did not come.
The Seer was his grandmother, and would never have lied to him, both for that reason and because she was unable to do so at the risk of losing her powers. Anwyn would never have hazarded such a loss.
Nor would Rhonwyn, Anwyn’s sister, the Seer of the Present. He had begged her to use the compass, one of three ancient artifacts with which Merithyn, her Cymrian explorer father, had first found this land. His hand had trembled as he gave her the copper threepenny piece, a valueless, thirteen-sided coin, which was the mate to the one he had given Emily. These coins are unique in all the world, he had told the Seer, his then-young voice wavering, betraying his agony. If you can find the one that matches this one, you’ll have found her.
The Seer of the Present had held the compass in her fragile hands. He recalled how it had begun to glow, then resonate in a humming echo that stung behind his eyes. Finally Rhonwyn had shaken her head sadly.
Your coin is unlike any in the wide world, child; I am sorry. None other like it exists, except perhaps beneath the waves of the sea. Even I cannot see what treasures are held in the Ocean-Father’s vaults. Ashe could not possibly have known that the Seer’s powers also did not reach into the Earth itself, where Time had no dominion.
He had given up then, had come to almost believe the awful truth, though he still sought her in the face of anyone he came across who could have even possibly been Emily. She had lingered in his every thought, smiled at him in his dreams, had fulfilled the promise he had unwittingly made in his last words to her.
I’ll be thinking about you every moment until I see you again.
It was not until many years that her image deserted him, had left in the face of the horror his life had become. Where once his heart was a holy shrine to her memory, now it was a dark and twisted place, touched by the hand of evil. Emily’s memory could no longer remain in such a charnel house. He had no idea why she had been able to return this night, lingering lightly on the smoke that had risen up from the firegrate and wrapped itself behind his eyes.
I’ll be thinking about you every moment until I see you again.
The image in the distance grew dimmer. Ashe roiled, grasping again at the mist in his memory as she began to disperse, calling to him as she left.
I love you, Sam. I’ve been waiting for you for so long. I always knew you would come to me if I wished for you.
Ashe sat up, sweat pouring from his clammy skin, wrapped in the cool vapor of the mist cloak, shaking. If only the same magic had worked for him.
The Firbolg guard standing watch at the hallway’s end nodded deferentially to Achmed as he emerged from his chamber and made his way down the corridor to Rhapsody’s room. He knocked loudly and swung the door open, part of the morning charade performed for the benefit of the Bolg populace, who believed Rhapsody and Jo to be the king’s courtesans and therefore left the women alone. Both Achmed and Grunthor derived great amusement from the smoldering resentment they knew this survival game stoked in Rhapsody’s soul, but she had adopted a practical attitude about it, mostly for Jo’s sake.
The fire on her hearth was flickering uncertainly, mirroring the look on her face. She did not look up from the scroll she was poring over as he entered.
“Well, good morning to you, too, First Woman. You’re going to have to work a little harder at this if you’re going to convince the Bolg you’re the royal harlot.”
“Shut up,” Rhapsody said automatically, continuing to read.
Achmed smirked. He picked up the teapot from her untouched breakfast tray and poured himself a cup; it was cold. She must have been up even earlier than usual.
“What Scum-rian manuscript are you reading this time?” he asked, holding the tepid tea out to her
. Without looking up, Rhapsody touched the cup. A moment later, Achmed felt the heat from the liquid permeate the smooth clay sides of the mug, and took a sip, making sure to blow the steam off first.
“The Rampage of the Wyrm. Amazing; it just appeared out of thin air under my door last night. What an extraordinary coincidence.”
Achmed sat down on her neatly made bed, hiding his grin. “Indeed. Learn anything interesting about Elynsynos?”
Finally a small smile crossed Rhapsody’s face, and she looked up at him. “Well, let’s see.” She sat back in the chair, holding the ancient scroll of parchment up to the candlelight.
“Elynsynos was said to be between one and five hundred feet long, with teeth as long and as sharp as finely honed bastard swords,” she read. “She could assume any form at will, including that of a force of nature, like a tornado, an earthquake, a flood, or the wind. Within her belly were gems of brimstone born in the fires of the Underworld, which allowed her to immolate anything that she breathed on. She was wicked and cruel, and when Merithyn, her sailor lover, didn’t come back, she went on a rampage that decimated the western half of the continent up to and including the central province of Bethany. The devastating fire she caused lighted the eternal flame in the basilica that burns there to this day.”
“I detect a note of sarcasm in your voice. Do you reject this historical account?”
“Much of it. You forget, Achmed, I’m a Singer. We’re the ones who write these ballads and this legend lore. I’m a little more versed in how it can be exaggerated than you are.”
“Having done so yourself?”
Rhapsody sighed. “You know better than that. Singers, and especially Namers, can’t make up a lie without losing their status and abilities, although we can repeat tales that are apocryphal or outright fiction as long as we present them that way, as stories.”
Achmed nodded. “So if you reject this story out of hand, why are you worried?”
“Who said I was worried?”
The Firbolg king grinned repulsively. “The fire,” he said smugly, nodding at the hearth. Rhapsody turned toward the thin flames; they were lapping unsteadily around a heavy log which refused to ignite. She laughed in spite of herself.
“All right, you caught me. And, by the way, I don’t reject the story out of hand. I just said there are some parts that I think are exaggerated. Some of it may very well be right.”
“Such as?”
Rhapsody put the manuscript back down on the table and folded her arms. “Well, despite the disparity in the reports of her actual size, I have no doubt that she was—is—immense.” Achmed thought he detected a slight shudder run through her. “She may actually have the ability to assume those fire, wind, water, and earth forms; dragons are said to be tied to each of the five elements. And though she may, in fact, be evil and vicious, I don’t believe the story about the devastation of the western continent.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, the forests there are virgin in most of the parts we passed through, and the trees are the wrong kind to have sprung up after a fire.”
“I see. Well, I don’t doubt your knowledge of forests, or virgins—after all, you’ve been one twice—”
“Shut up,” Rhapsody said again. This time the fire reacted; the weak flames sprang to violent life, roaring angrily. She pushed her chair back, rose and walked purposely to the coat peg near the door. She snatched down her cape. “Get out of my room. I have to go meet Jo.” With a savage shrug she donned the garment, then rerolled the scroll and slapped it into Achmed’s hand.
“Thanks for the bedtime reading,” she said sarcastically, opening her door. “I assume I don’t need to give you specific anatomical directions as to where you should store it.” Achmed chuckled as the door slammed shut behind her.
Winter was beginning to abate, or so it seemed. It had been hovering indecisively on the threshold of leaving for some time, reluctant to release its icy grip entirely while giving way grudgingly to a fairer wind and sky. The air of early spring was clear and cold, but held the scent of the earth again, a promise of warmth to come.
Rhapsody climbed carefully up the rocky face of the crags that led to the heath at the top of the world, a wide, expansive meadow beyond the canyon that a long-dead river had carved many millennia before. The basket she was lugging had almost spilled twice by the time she reached the flat land; she was off-balance, weighed down by the additional burden of the gear for her impending journey.
Waiting above in the dark meadow, Jo watched in amusement as the basket appeared at the crest of the heath, wobbled a moment, then righted itself. It slid forward a few inches as if under its own power, then finally a golden head surfaced, followed by intense green eyes. A second later Rhapsody’s smile emerged over the edge; it was a smaller version of the sunrise that would come in an hour or so.
“Good morning,” she said. Only her head was visible.
Jo rose and came to help her, laughing. “What’s taking you so long? Usually you can make this climb in a dead run. You must be getting old.” She offered her elder, smaller sister a hand and hauled her up over the edge.
“Be nice, or you don’t get any breakfast.” Rhapsody smiled as she laid her pack on the ground. Jo had no idea how right she was. By her own calculations, she was somewhere in the neighborhood of sixteen hundred twenty years old, in actual time, though all but two decades of that had passed while she and the two Bolg were within the Earth, crawling along the Root.
Jo grabbed the basket and unhooked the catch, then dumped its contents unceremoniously onto the frozen meadow grass, ignoring Rhapsody’s dismayed expression. “Did you bring any of those honey muffins?”
“Yes.”
The teenager had already located one and stuffed it into her mouth, then pulled out the sticky mass and looked at it in annoyance. “Ick. I told you not to put currants in them; it ruins the flavor.”
“I didn’t. That must be something from the ground, a beetle, perhaps.” Rhapsody laughed as Jo spat, then hurled the partially masticated muffin into the canyon below.
“So where’s Ashe?” Jo asked as she sat cross-legged on the ground, picking up another muffin and brushing it off carefully.
“He should be here in half an hour or so,” Rhapsody answered, sorting through her satchel. “I wanted to see you alone for a little while before we leave.”
Jo nodded, her mouth full. “Grnmuthor um Achmmegd are commiddg, too?”
“Yes, I expect them shortly, although I had a hostile exchange with Achmed earlier, so perhaps he won’t bother.”
“Why would that stop him? That’s normal conversation for Achmed. What was his problem this morning?”
“Oh, we just had an argument over a Cymrian manuscript he slipped under my door last night.”
Jo swallowed and poured herself a mug of tea. “No wonder; you know how much he hates the Dum-rians.”
Rhapsody hid her smile. Since the Cymrians had come from Serendair, their homeland, she, Grunthor, and even Achmed were technically Cymrians themselves, a fact she had not been allowed to share with Jo. “Why do you think that?”
“I heard him talking to Grunthor a few nights back.”
“Oh?”
Jo leaned back importantly. “He said that you had your head wedged up your arse.”
Rhapsody grinned. “Really?”
“Yes. He said the dragon probably had a Cymrian agenda, because she was the one who invited the arse-rags here in the first place to please her lover—that’s what he called them: arse-rags.”
“Yes, I believe I’ve heard him use that word about them myself.”
“He also said that you were trying to find out more about the Cymrians, to help bring them back into power, and that it was stupid. He thinks the Bolg are much more worthy of your time and attention, not to mention your loyalty. Is that true?”
“About the Bolg?”
“No, about the Cymrians.”
Rhapsody looked off at the eastern horiz
on. The sky at the very edge of the land was beginning to lighten to the faintest shade of cobalt blue; otherwise the coming of foredawn was still indiscernible. Her face flushed in the darkness as she thought back to Llauron, the gentle, elderly Invoker of the Filids, the religious order of the western forest lands and some of the provinces of Roland.
Llauron had taken her in not long after the three of them had arrived, had made her welcome. He had taught her the history of the land, as well as many useful things that were now helping Achmed build his empire, among them planting lore, herbalism, and the healing of men and animals. His voice nagged in her head now, expecting information and solutions to problems she didn’t understand.
Now that you’ve learned about the Cymrians, and the growing unrest that threatens to sunder this land again, I hope you will agree to help me by being my eyes and ears out in the world, and report back what you see.
I’ll be glad to help you, Llauron, but—
Good, good. And remember, Rhapsody, though you are a commoner, you can still be useful in a royal cause.
I don’t understand.
Llauron’s eyes had glinted with impatience, though his voice was soothing. The reunification of the Cymrains. I thought I had been clear. In my view, nothing is going to spare us from ultimate destruction, with these unexplained uprisings and acts of terror, except to reunite the Cymrian factions, Roland and Sorbold, and possibly even the Bolglands, again, under a new Lord and Lady. The time is almost here. And though you are a peasant—please don’t take offense, most of my following are peasants—you have a pretty face and a persuasive voice. You could be of great assistance to me in bringing this about. Now, please, say you will do as I’ve asked. You do want to see peace come to this land, do you not? And the violence which is presently killing and maiming many innocent women and children; that is something you’d like to see ended?
Jo was staring at her intently. Rhapsody shook off the memory. “I’m going to find the dragon to give her back the claw dagger, in the hope she won’t come and lay waste to Ylorc, and all the Bolg in the bargain,” she said simply. “This journey has nothing to do with the Cymrians.”
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