“Such as?”
“Well, I’m fairly certain the second assassin in the basilica that night was the F’dor. I got the same vibrational reading from it that I did from the Rakshas. I assume that was a factor of them having the same blood.”
Achmed nodded. “Sounds right. Did you see any distinguishing marks?”
“I didn’t see his face, he was wearing a helmet. But I had seen the helmet itself, or one like it, before. It had horns on it. Do you remember when I rode out to meet the Lord Roland to sign the peace treaty?”
“Yes.”
“There was a benison there, the Blesser of Canderre-Yarim. He wore a horned helmet, and a sun symbol like the F’dor in the old world wore, although I couldn’t see the stone in the amulet up close.”
“That’s the uniform of the officers and nobility in Yarim. The ambassador wore the same type of thing when their delegation visited.”
“Hmmm. I haven’t been to Yarim yet, but it’s got a reputation as a decadent place. That’s where Manwyn the Oracle, the Seer of the Future, lives.”
“Tell me about the benison,” said Achmed.
“He’s Tristan Steward’s younger brother, the newest of the five Orlandan benisons, and the weakest. I doubt he has much of a chance at the Patriarchy, given his ties to Bethany and his lack of experience.”
“Perhaps killing the old goat was the only way he could assure the title. If that ring contains the office, maybe Ian Steward’s plan was to take it from the Patriarch when he was vulnerable in the midst of his religious rite.”
“Maybe,” said Rhapsody uncertainly. “You know, it’s hard for me to imagine that a clergyman of that visibility could be the demon’s host. They spend so much of their time in the basilicas, on holy ground, that it seems impossible for them to be both demon and benison. The power of those sacred places would certainly thwart a demon, even an old-world one. The F’dor, if that’s what it was, couldn’t enter the basilica at Sepulvarta. It had to stop in the nave. The best it could do was throw a fiery shield to let the Rakshas escape.”
“Then maybe it’s one of the Orlandan nobles that the benisons share power with,” Achmed said, resting his hand on his chin. “If there was a tug of war between the clergy and the state, who would have been on the other end of the rope from the Patriarch?”
“That would be our old friend, the Lord Roland, Tristan Steward.”
“Ah, yes,” said Achmed, smiling. “Well, we can hope it’s him.”
“Why?”
“I hardly need to remind you what a dolt he is.”
“True.”
“But that could also be an act. F’dor are particularly good at deception. They can be as convincing as a Namer speaking truly, but their medium is the combination of lies, half-lies and a judiciously rare usage of the absolute truth.”
Rhapsody shuddered. “No wonder it felt at home among the Cymrians.”
“What makes you think it’s got to be someone powerful?” asked Grunthor finally. “Why wouldn’t it just stay out of sight?”
“It could be someone who is not in the public eye, but is still very powerful,” agreed Rhapsody. “The way the thing works is to bind itself to someone who is as powerful as it is or less; it can’t possess a soul of greater strength than its own. It uses that lifetime to grow in capacity, then takes over a newer, younger life of equal vitality. Given that it almost destroyed Ashe without breathing hard, I would say it’s a fair guess that it is almost at the apex of its power. Whatever else you think of Ashe, Achmed, you have to admit he’s someone to be reckoned with.”
“Yes, he is.” Achmed leaned against the wall. “I still think it’s Llauron.”
“Llauron is Ashe’s father.”
“So? If it’s the demon, it wouldn’t care who was standing in the way, even his son.”
“That’s not the point. Because Llauron has a son, it can’t be him, remember? ‘It shall bind to no body that has borne or sired children, nor can it ever do so, lest its power be further dispersed.’”
Achmed sighed. “You are assuming that what you think you know is true. Perhaps Ashe is a bastard; I’d lay a wager on that one. Believe me, Rhapsody, the depths of deception possible are beyond your comprehension. It’s probably better if you don’t even try to understand it.”
Rhapsody rose and gathered her things. “You’re probably right,” she said, kissing Achmed on the cheek. “I think it’s better for me to just decide how things are going to work out, and then they will. In a day or two I’ll go with you to the Loritorium, and to the Colony, to see if I can help with the Sleeping Child. Then I’ll let you know what comes to pass with Ashe. Now, if we’re finished, I think I’ll look in on the hospice. Is there anyone in pain who needs to be sung to?”
Achmed rolled his eyes. “As far as I’m concerned, there never is anyone who needs that,” he muttered.
Grunthor looked at him seriously. “Oi’d ’ave to take exception to that, sir,” he said. Rhapsody had once sung him back from the brink of death.
“That’s different,” the king scowled. “No one’s dying currently. She’s talking about easing the pain of Bolg with minor injuries. It’s a waste of time, and it makes them feel awkward.”
Rhapsody chuckled as she gathered the debris. “You know, Grunthor, you could help with the healing as well. You like to sing.”
The Sergeant’s expression was both amused and doubtful. “Oi believe you’ve ’eard the content o’ my songs, miss,” he said, scratching his head. “Generally they tend to be more on the threatnin’ side. And Oi don’t think anyone’s ever gonna mistake me for a Singer. Oi certainly got no trainin’ in it.”
“Content makes no difference at all,” Rhapsody said seriously. “It can be any kind of song. What matters is their belief in you. The Bolg have given you their allegiance. You’re their version of ‘The Last Word, to Be Obeyed at All Costs.’ In a way, they’ve named you. It doesn’t matter what you sing, just that you expect them to get well. And they will. I’ve always maintained the Achmed will do the same for me one day.” The Firbolg king rolled his eyes.
The giant rose. “All right, then, Yer Ladyship, Oi’ll go with you,” he said. “I can treat the troops to a few choruses of ‘Leave No Limb Unbroken.’”
The ambassador blinked nervously. The voice that spoke was light and pleasant, in marked contrast to the look in the red-rimmed eyes.
“Well, that was an unpleasant surprise; I do loathe surprises. But I’m sure there is a very reasonable explanation. Perhaps you’d like to enlighten me, Gittleson. Now, if I remember correctly, in the report of your ambassadorial call to the court of Ylorc you said that each of the Three was there when you visited, is that not so?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And when I quizzed you on what constituted the Three, you told me that it was the Firbolg king, his giant guard, and a young blond woman, am I right? That’s what you saw in Canrif?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Gittleson repeated apprehensively. “That was my report.”
“Well, that is the correct answer. It seems you did in fact meet the Three. And yet when we arrived in Sepulvarta, one of them was there waiting for us in the basilica. Now, Gittleson, how could that be?”
“I don’t know, Your Grace.”
“Did she fly there, do you suppose? Hmmm?” The red tinge at the edge of his eyes darkened to the color of blood.
“I—I—I can’t explain that, Your Grace. I’m sorry.”
“And you positioned your escort so that they were watching the mountain pass, and the road out of Ylorc, as I instructed?”
“Yes, Your Grace. She did not leave the Firbolg realm alone or with the mail caravan. I don’t understand how she could have gotten to Sepulvarta before you. It seems—quite—impossible.” His words ground to an impotent halt under the withering stare from the icy blue eyes.
“And yet, Gittleson, she was there, wasn’t she, my son?”
A third voice spoke, a pleasant baritone, wa
rm as honey. “Yes, indeed.”
“Your Grace, I—” A hand raised, and Gittleson fell silent, his protest choked off in mid-word.
“Do you have any idea what this setback has cost us?” The voice had lost its cultured edge, and now had grown icy, a cold, threatening whisper.
“She—she seemed as if she could pose no threat to anyone, Your Grace,” the ambassador stammered. Two sets of Cymrian-blue eyes stared at him, then looked to one another in silence. After what seemed like forever, the holy man spoke.
“You are an even bigger fool than I imagined, Gittleson,” he said, the aristocratic tone returning to his voice. “A blind man couldn’t miss the immense innate power in that woman. How could you possibly misjudge her so badly?”
“Perhaps he hasn’t,” said the Rakshas thoughtfully. “I would think that even Gittleson could not have been this wrong about her. In fact, I tend to think he would have stood, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, abusing himself if he had gotten within sight of her.” Gittleson swallowed the insult, grateful for the possible salvation that lay behind it. “Besides, if you had thought to ask me, I could have told you that she was in Tyrian not all that long ago.”
The reddened eyes narrowed. “Go on.”
“How old was the woman you saw?” the Rakshas asked the ambassador.
“Quite young,” Gittleson said hesitantly. “A girl, really. Perhaps fifteen or sixteen.”
The elder man sat forward. “Describe her further.”
“Thin, with pale blond hair. Sallow skin. Unremarkable in all ways, except for a quick touch with a dagger—she was playing mumblety-peg with one.”
Across from him the two faces contorted, one in a scowl, the other in a smirk. After a moment the holy man sat back in his desk chair.
“And if I were to tell you, Gittleson, that the woman in the basilica was painfully beautiful with a soul of elemental fire—”
“She isn’t the one I saw in Ylorc, Your Grace.”
“Now, you see, Gittleson, you are already ahead of me. You have reached the same conclusion I was about to put forward.” The holy man poured himself a snifter of brandy.
“The Three rescued a girl from the House of Remembrance that fits your description,” said the Rakshas. “That’s probably who you saw.” He turned to his master. “Perhaps I should pay her a visit. We spent some time together; I think she was somewhat enamored of me, actually.”
“Has she seen your face?”
“Not fully. She might have caught a glimpse. I would be happy to look into it, Father, if you’d like. She’s undoubtedly our best chance to get back into the mountain.”
“Do that, but be careful. The Firbolg king is wily, and he may sense you far better than you think. Oh, and while you’re at it, I think it’s time to move our plan into its next phase. Take care of that while you’re there as well.”
31
The snowcaps of the high crags in the Teeth caught the late morning sun and turned the color of fire against the clear sky. Prudence pulled the coach’s window curtain further aside to take in the view, closing her eyes for a moment and letting the warmth of the wind ripple across her face. Then she rose slightly from the cushioned seat and leaned out of the window.
For the fourth time that morning the coachman and the guard were showing the traveling papers under Tristan’s seal to yet another set of Firbolg soldiers who had stopped them. Prudence’s gaze returned to the mountains. This land was so strangely beautiful and threatening, dusky, multicolored peaks scratching the sky at the horizon like the fangs of a great beast that lay in the near distance. Having never before left the wide plains of Bethany, she was mesmerized by the dark magic she felt in this place, Ylorc, the mountainous land of monsters.
She felt eyes upon her, and turned inadvertently to meet the gaze of one of those monsters. Like the other Firbolg soldiers she had seen since they had crossed the border at Bethe Corbair, his face was dark and hirsute, his build wiry, but not particularly grotesque. The man was studying her with an expression that was direct but not insolent. Embarrassment crept into Prudence’s cheeks as she realized his expression must mirror the one she wore herself.
They’re monsters, humanoid beasts that eat rats and each other, Tristan had said. And any human they can catch as well, by the way. And yet now, seeing them up close, it seemed an exaggeration worthy of a child’s tale. The Bolg had appeared each time as if from thin air, stopping the carriage silently, crossbow-like weapons trained on the horses. Once satisfied with the intent of the mission they motioned wordlessly for the coach to continue on its way, then disappeared again. Prudence couldn’t help but wonder if the Bolg were only humoring them.
The carriage shuddered and began to roll again. Prudence settled back against the cushioned seat, the place where she and Tristan had made secretive love on numerous occasions. After a moment the tiny slat door in the wall across from her slid open, and the upper part of the guard’s face appeared.
“Not too much longer, miss. We’re within an hour of the main outpost, the place where the mail caravans enter.”
Prudence nodded, and the small door slid shut again. She glanced out the window one last time and saw the Firbolg scout still staring at her as the carriage rolled away. There was a look in his eyes that worried her.
After a time the road beneath the carriage wheels seemed to smooth out somewhat, offering her a less bumpy ride. Prudence pulled the curtain aside, then reached forward quickly and banged on the little slat door.
“Stop, please.”
The carriage rolled to a slow halt, and Prudence opened the outside door, rising as she did. The coachman was still descending from his perch and was not quick enough to offer her his assistance in alighting from the step. She gathered her skirts and jumped down to the road, then crossed to the wide meadow beyond.
Before her stretched a great bowl-like amphitheater, cut into the earth by time and nature, though it seemed to have been enhanced by the work of men. Now forgotten by all but history, the structure seemed to have at one time been a gathering place for an enormous number of people. A twisting rock formation in the dead center of the far slanted wall looked for all the world like a speaker’s podium. The amphitheater was vast in size and breadth, surrounded by rocky ledges and rimmed internally in gradated rings that leveled out onto a wide, flat floor, all overgrown with highgrass and brushy scrub. Prudence recognized it from the descriptions Tristan had read her once from a Cymrian history text.
“The Moot,” she murmured to herself. It was the place that Tristan’s strange, all-but-immortal ancestors had once convened their meetings, intending to keep peace within the Cymrian realm. The failed intention had been a good one, at least.
“Excuse me, miss?” the coachman asked.
Prudence turned to him. “Gwylliam’s Moot,” she repeated, excitement creeping into her voice. The natural wonder was bigger than the Fire basilica and Tristan’s palace together.
The coachman and the guard exchanged a smirk, then the coachman opened the door again.
“Yes, miss, whatever you say. Please, now, make haste and come back inside. We need to be at the post in no more than an hour so we can leave before dark, or we won’t meet up with the second-week caravan three days hence.”
Prudence took the man’s outstretched hand and climbed back into the carriage, a look of displeasure darkening her features. She had seen that smirk several times since she had left Bethany, and knew its genesis. The coachman and the guard thought of her as Tristan’s peasant whore, and it amused them to be driving her about alone in splendor generally reserved for royalty, or at least nobility. She heard the coachman chuckle as he closed the door behind her.
With a jolt the carriage lurched forward again. Prudence cast one last look back at the ancient marvel, lying forgotten in the endless rich green of the foothills. Then she took out her looking glass and began to polish her face, preparing to do yet one more ridiculous favor for the man she loved.
“First
Woman?”
The midwives and Rhapsody looked up simultaneously. The guard took an involuntary step back at the expressions on the faces of the Bolg women at his interruption.
“Yes?”
“Messenger here for you. Woman. From Bethany.”
“Really?” Rhapsody handed one of the midwives an herb they had been examining together. “What does she want?”
“Talk with you.”
“Hmm. Where is she?”
“Grivven post.”
“Very well. Thank you, Jurt. Please tell her I’ll be down directly.” Rhapsody gathered the remaining herbs and medicines and passed them to each of the thirteen midwives, some of the most powerful Bolg in all of Ylorc. “Are we finished, then?” she asked. The broad-shouldered women nodded and Rhapsody rose. “Thank you for coming. I’ll check in with you at week’s end to see how those tonics are working. Please excuse me.”
Prudence waited in the shadow of the bay geldings, feeling safer next to the enormous horses than inside the guard quarters where she had been offered shelter. She swallowed hard. While she was waiting she had been steeling herself for the meeting, and she had been waiting for quite some time, but was still unprepared for the sight of what was approaching.
A giant Firbolg dressed in battle armor walked beside a much smaller figure, cloaked from head to mid-shin in a gray hooded cape, despite the blistering heat of summer. From behind the giant’s back a plethora of blade hilts protruded, making him appear to have a mane of thorns.
The smaller figure remained hooded until it had reached her, then took down its mantle. The face that emerged from the hood was the most singularly beautiful Prudence had ever seen, crowned with shining golden hair pulled loosely back in a black ribbon. The woman was attired in a simple shirt of white linen and soft brown trousers, and it was all Prudence could do to keep from bursting into tears at the sight of her.
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