Suddenly Tristan’s words made sense. Looking into this woman’s face was much like staring into a crackling fire, hypnotic and compelling on a level she could feel in her soul.
“Hello,” said the golden-haired woman, smiling and extending a small hand. “My name is Rhapsody. Did you ask to see me?”
“Ye—yes,” stammered Prudence. She looked down at the woman’s open palm, then recovered her wits and shook hands. The woman’s hand was deliciously warm, and Prudence had to struggle to pull her own away. To cover the awkward jerking motion, she dug quickly within the pouch Tristan had given her and produced two vellum sheets folded neatly and sealed with gold. “His Highness, Lord Tristan Steward, Prince of Bethany, asked that I deliver these invitations to you personally.”
Rhapsody’s brow furrowed, and Prudence felt her heart sink suddenly.
“Invitations?”
“Yes,” Prudence said, her words falling over each other. “To his wedding, on the eve of the first day of Spring, this year to come.”
“There are two of them?”
“Yes. One for His—er, Majesty, the King of Ylorc, and one for you.”
The woman’s emerald eyes opened in astonishment. “For me?”
Hot blood rushed to Prudence’s cheeks. “Yes.” She watched nervously as Rhapsody turned the folded card over in her hand and stared down at it. “You seem surprised.”
The giant beside her let out a roaring laugh, causing Prudence to go pale in fright. “Well, well, Duchess, listen to that. The Prince wants you at ’is weddin’. Isn’t that lovely?”
Rhapsody handed one of the invitations back. “There must be a mistake. Why would the Lord Roland send me an invitation?”
Prudence ran her hand over her throat, and felt herself trembling. “Duchess? I do beg your pardon, I hadn’t realized. I hope you will forgive me any offense in addressing you improperly, m’lady.”
“No, no,” Rhapsody said hastily. “He’s just joking.”
The giant’s amber eyes twinkled merrily. “What are you talkin’ about? The Duchess of Elysian she is, miss. The ’ighest horn Lady in Ylorc.” Prudence nodded, the expression in her eyes changing.
“I don’t think you understand how little that means,” Rhapsody said, casting an annoyed glance at Grunthor. “To your Lord I am still a peasant. My role to his court has been that of messenger for the king of Ylorc. And while our last meeting was civil, on the whole our intercourse has been somewhat strained. So for all those reasons I am astonished that he would send me an invitation to such an auspicious event. I’m sure this was merely an error.”
“You been ‘avin’ intercourze with ‘im?” Grunthor gasped in mock horror. “You said he was a dolt!” Rhapsody elbowed him as subtly as she could, then looked back at Prudence, who now was trembling visibly. The look of irritation on her face melted into one of concern. She reached out and touched the servant woman’s arm.
“Are you unwell?” she asked.
Prudence looked up into the golden woman’s face and felt herself warmed by the worry she saw there. “No, I’m fine,” she said, awkwardly patting Rhapsody’s hand.
“Here, let’s get out of the sun,” Rhapsody said, pulling Prudence’s thin hand into the crook of her arm. “I’ve been a terrible host thus far—I haven’t even asked your name.”
“Prudence.”
“Well, please forgive my discourtesy, Prudence. Allow me to welcome you to Ylorc properly. Would you and your escort like something to—”
Suddenly the world shifted. Rhapsody’s ears filled with the pounding of her own blood, and her eyes clouded over. Grunthor’s hand shot out quickly as she pitched forward onto her face and grabbed her before she hit the ground. He turned her quickly over in his arms to see her face contorted in fear, and something more.
“Ya all right, Duchess?” he asked anxiously, patting her smooth cheek with an enormous hand.
Rhapsody blinked rapidly, trying to stave off the sensation that the sky was closing in on her. She looked up past Grunthor into the Orlandan messenger’s face. Prudence was a pretty woman with pale skin and strawberry-blond curls, Rhapsody noted absently. Something approaching panic was glittering in her dark-brown eyes.
Then, as Rhapsody watched Prudence’s face, it began to rip away, as if being torn by the claws of a brutal wind, leaving gouges of exposed bone and muscle. Her eyes vanished from the sockets, leaving dark holes filled with dried blood. Rhapsody gasped.
“M’lady?” Prudence voice was shaking.
Rhapsody blinked again. Prudence’s face was as it had been.
“I’m—I’m very sorry,” she said. Grunthor gently pulled her to a stand, and she brushed the dirt from her clothes. She gave the frightened messenger a weak smile. “Perhaps the sun is getting to me as well. Inside Grivven post there is a place we can sit and cool down. Would you come inside with us?”
Prudence glanced over at the guard post, where six Firbolg guards were watching her with interest. One of them smiled at her, a grisly expression that approximated a leer. She shuddered.
“I—I really must be getting back,” she stammered. “The mail caravan is three days ahead of us, and we should make haste to meet up with them.”
Rhapsody’s expression grew serious. “You did not come with the guarded caravan?”
Prudence swallowed. Tristan had been quite specific about the need for discretion and secrecy in her mission.
“No,” she said.
“Do you mean to tell me that the Lord Roland sent a civilian woman into Ylorc without the protection of the weekly armed caravan?”
“I have a guard, and the driver is an Orlandan soldier as well,” Prudence answered. Ironic, she thought. She and Tristan had had this same discussion. It was bitterly amusing to be defending the position now that she had objected to then.
Rhapsody’s expression grew thoughtful for a moment, then resolved suddenly. She put out her hand to Prudence. “Please come inside with me,” she said. “I promise you will be safe.”
The words had such a clear tone of truth to them the Prudence could feel their veracity in her soul. Almost involuntarily she took the woman’s hand, and allowed Rhapsody to lead her into the post.
Grivven post was a guard tower hollowed out of the mountainside that eventually culminated in one of Ylorc’s tallest peaks. Inside the rocky structure the walls were honed smooth and straight, with floors of polished stone. Above them stretched a many-tiered tower taller than Avonderre’s lighthouse, built into a low crag with inner rings of wood on three sides facing the west, north and south. These platforms were connected by ladders so tall she could not see their tops, cemented to the walls. Prudence looked around in amazement as she followed the giant Firbolg and the small woman through the outpost’s barricades scored with rows of hidden windows and lined with hundreds of mounted crossbows.
They passed offices and barracks and several large meeting halls, Prudence’s wonder growing by the moment. She had lived her entire life in Tristan’s keep, and knew the ramparts of his stronghold were only a fraction of the size of this. And this was just an outpost, not part of the main mountain fortress. She made note to tell Tristan how seriously he was outmatched.
Finally Rhapsody stopped before a heavy door, lacquered and bound in black iron. She swung the door open and gestured inside.
“Please come in,” she said.
Prudence obeyed, her eyes taking in the weapons racks that flanked the door. Inside the room was a long, heavy table of roughhewn pine surrounded by crude chairs. Rhapsody lingered in the hall long enough to exchange some words with the Firbolg giant, then came into the room as well. She gestured to the table.
“Please, Prudence, make yourself comfortable.”
Prudence complied as Rhapsody removed her long gray cloak and hung it on a peg near the door. She sat down in a chair facing Prudence.
“I’m sorry I didn’t have the opportunity to properly introduce Grunthor,” she said. “He’s gone to arrange some
refreshments for us.” Prudence nodded. “Now, then, while we’re alone, why don’t you tell me why you really came here?”
Prudence looked away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Forgive me, but I believe you do. Although the Lord Roland and I have had a few unpleasant exchanges, and despite the fact that he has made several serious errors in judgment, I can hardly believe he would be so foolish as a matter of routine to send a special messenger who is obviously not a soldier to deliver a wedding invitation, particularly when there is a weekly caravan that makes these sorts of deliveries, escorted by two score and ten armed guards. Why are you really here, Prudence?”
The tone in Rhapsody’s voice was gentle and filled with understanding. Prudence looked back into the woman’s eyes, and found a look of consummate sympathy there. She was beginning to understand what Tristan meant about being unable to break away from the thought of her. There was something compelling about this woman, whether in the music of her words or just in the warmth that exuded from her. Either way, Prudence found herself struggling to keep from being drawn in to it.
“The Lord Roland regrets his past transgressions with you,” she said haltingly. “He is, frankly, embarrassed by the way he has treated you.”
“He has no need to be.”
“Nonetheless, he wishes to make amends. To that end he asked me to invite you to Bethany for a visit, so that he might apologize in person, and further demonstrate his good intentions toward the kingdom of Ylorc. He also would like to show you the city, and promises a tour with all appropriate protocol and guard.”
Rhapsody hid a smile. The first time she had been to Bethany she had accidentally caused a riot in the street and had almost been seized by both Tristan’s soldiers and the town guard.
“That’s very kind, but I’m still not certain I understand. Why didn’t he send this invitation to me in writing, or at least have you travel with the caravan? These are unsafe times, not just in Ylorc, but everywhere.”
“I know.” Prudence sighed heavily. “I’m just doing my lord’s bidding, m’lady.”
The golden-haired woman considered for a moment, then nodded. “Please, just call me Rhapsody. I’m afraid I’ve just returned from a rather lengthy sojourn, and I need to spend some time tending to my duties here in Ylorc. So as much as I might like to accept your Lord’s invitation, I’m afraid I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Prudence’s throat went dry, envisioning Tristan’s disappointment. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you won’t be declining the wedding invitation as well.”
Rhapsody sat back in her chair. “I’m not sure what to say about that. It still seems very strange to me that the High Regent of Roland would want a commoner at his nuptials.”
“I assure you, he was most sincere.”
“Hmm. Well, do you need an answer at this moment?”
“No, not at all,” said Prudence in relief. “You can respond when the King of Ylorc does.”
The door opened. Grunthor came into the room, followed by a Bolg soldier bearing a tray with a pitcher, glasses, honey muffins, and fruit. The man quickly deposited the food on the table and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Rhapsody smiled at Grunthor, then turned back to Prudence and gasped again. Tristan’s messenger lay slumped crazily in her chair, her empty eye sockets staring hollowly at the ceiling. Her face was mangled, her nose gone; in the moment Rhapsody had looked away she appeared to have been savaged by wild dogs or other predatory animals.
Rhapsody closed her eyes against the vision, but the picture wouldn’t leave. Instead, the darkness framed the image of Prudence’s broken corpse, sprawled on a green hillside. She was recognizable only by the remains of her tattered hair, red-gold strands matted with black blood, blowing about in the wind.
Steeling herself, Rhapsody took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart and willing the vision to come forward. The picture expanded in her mind, pulling farther and farther away from her until Rhapsody recognized the place where the mutilated body lay.
It was Gwylliam’s Moot.
A huge, strong hand closed gently on her shoulder, and the vision vanished. Rhapsody opened her eyes. Prudence was staring at her again, the same look of fear on her face from before, now intensified.
“Prudence.” Her voice came out as only a whisper. “Prudence, you must stay here tonight. Please. I fear for your safety if you were to leave now.”
Prudence already feared for her safety if she didn’t. “Thank you, really,” she said, “but there’s no need for concern. I am well guarded, and will be meeting up with the second-week caravan less than halfway back.”
Rhapsody choked back the tears that had come suddenly into her eyes. “That would make for at least three days when you would be traveling alone. The next caravan, the third-week caravan, will be coming by in that time, three days hence. When they arrive you can join up with them, and return with them to Bethany, which is the first stop after Bethe Corbair. You can remain here in the meantime, safe, as our guest. Please, Prudence; a small carriage, unguarded, is vulnerable, and these are dangerous times.”
The desperation in Rhapsody’s voice frightened Prudence even more, and she rose from the table, trembling visibly. “No. I’m sorry, but I must return to Bethany at once. I have delivered the message I was sent to bring you; now, if you’ll excuse me, the guards are waiting for me.” She blinked, struggling to fight off the compelling effect the woman’s tears were having on her. Tristan was exactly right; it was as if she was lost in a world of endless snow, and Rhapsody the only source of warmth. Deep in her heart she wondered if there was not something demonic about her.
She pushed the chair away quickly, then bolted to the door, opened it and ran from the room.
Grunthor watched the reverberating door for a moment, then turned his gaze to Rhapsody, who was still sitting at the table, staring at the wall ahead of her.
“Ya all right, now, miss?”
She remained lost in thought for a moment. When she looked up, there was a resolute gleam in her eye.
“Grunthor, will you do something important for me?”
“Anything, darlin’. You know that by now.”
“Follow her, please. Now. Take as many troops as you would need to defend against something powerful, and follow that carriage until it is safely past the Moot and over the border into Roland. Make sure it is out of Ylorc and onto the Krevensfield Plain, well on its way to the second-week caravan and far from our lands before you turn back. Will you? Will you do this for me?”
Grunthor regarded her seriously. “O’ course, Duchess. We’ll take the field tunnels, and she won’t even know we’re there.”
Rhapsody nodded. The Cymrian breastworks was a labyrinth of disguised ditches, gullies, and tunnels mined into the fields at the base of the Teeth centuries before by Nain artisans loyal to Gwylliam. Grunthor had discovered them, ancient and abandoned, scoring the steppes in crumbling disuse. Achmed had made it a priority to recommission them, and now the Bolg traversed the wide fields before the mountains, silent and unseen. Prudence was already frightened enough. It would hardly improve the situation for her to discover that she was being followed by the giant sergeant and a sizable fragment of the Bolg army.
Grunthor gave Rhapsody a kiss on the cheek and left the room. She waited alone for a few moments longer, then went and climbed the high tower of Grivven post, staring out into the dusky light of the setting sun, watching as her giant friend and his regiment set off across the field after the distant coach, disappearing into the ground before her eyes.
32
Achmed checked the bindings on his gear, then looked out of the tunnel again.
“Grunthor’s coming,” he reported.
Rhapsody nodded. She gave Daystar Clarion one last cleansing wipe and sheathed it in the new scabbard lined with Black Ivory that the Bolg artisans had forged for her in her absence. A song drifted up over the rockledge, the ringing bass voice echoing off
the tunnel walls.
In love and in war
(Two things I adore)
They tell me that all things are fair,
So don’t be surprised
As I pluck out your eyes
While I bugger your fat derriere.
Your children and wife
will be put to the knife
When we’ve sated our carnal desire,
Though long after you’re cold
They may live to grow old
Because we don’t easily tire.
Rhapsody laughed. “Utterly charming,” she said to Achmed. “Is this a new one?”
The Firbolg king shrugged. “In all the years I’ve known him, he’s never been at a loss for a marching song,” he said. “I’m sure there are thousands more I’ve not heard yet.” A moment later the Sergeant emerged from the hidden crevasse and entered the tunnel.
“Is she gone, Grunthor? Did she make it out of the Bolglands safely?”
“Yeah,” the giant replied, sponging the sweat off his brow. “We followed ’er as far as the breastworks allowed, into the province o’ Bethe Corbair and onto the Krevensfield Plain before we turned back. She’s a good ways into Roland, miss, and many leagues past the Moot.”
Rhapsody sighed in relief. “Thank you,” she said earnestly. “I can’t tell you how grisly the vision was that accompanied her. Well, at least now she’s safe and on her way back to Tristan Steward, that imbecile. I can’t believe he sent her out here, unguarded like that.”
“Obviously she’s expendable, or whatever he wanted was too important to wait for the mail caravan,” Achmed said, pulling up his hood.
Rhapsody smiled slightly. “It’s the latter, though I can’t understand why. It’s a shame. She clearly loves him.”
Grunthor blinked. “Oi don’t remember ‘earing that part.”
“She didn’t say it, but it’s obvious.”
Achmed stood up and shook his cloak out, an air of irritation wrapped around him. “Well, maybe he’ll make it all worth her while when she gets back, then,” he grumbled. “Can we go now? I could scarcely give a damn as to whether or not Tristan Steward’s knobbing a servant girl.”
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