He heard her voice a second time, calling him not by the name she knew, but by his real given name in all its complications.
Gwydion ap Llauron ap Gwylliam tuatha d’Anwynan o Manosse, come to me. His name had been the bane of his existence his entire life, as a child because of its ridiculous length and the associations with it, now because it might lead the demon to him. He had never considered it beautiful until he heard it on the wind, spoken by the voice that sang in his dreams.
Ashe was still unsure as to whether or not he was dreaming, but the voice kept calling, softly but insistently, moving farther away, leading him to somewhere he did not know. It could be a trick of the demon, he thought. Similar entrapments had been tried before. But unlike those snares, the voice did not coax or wheedle him, it merely called to him surely, with a gentle firmness.
Gwydion, come to me.
Where would she have gotten his name? In the eyes and mind of the world, in history itself he was dead, gone a score of years. Only his father knew he was alive; great care was taken when he visited to always enter through the secret door in the back of Llauron’s compound. His family and friends believed him dead as well. For all intents and purposes his life had effectively come to an end that night twenty years before. There was no one else who knew, no one except possibly the F’dor. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that what was calling him was demonic.
Gwydion.
Ashe stood up and shook off his slumber. The agony surged back, as it always did, but somehow his head was clearer than it usually was. He thought of his father, and the reconnaissance Llauron expected shortly; he thought of the latest border incursion, and how he would again find no explanation anyway. He closed his mind and sensed the voice; it sounded for all the world like Rhapsody. He knew her voice; he had memorized it with each word, each tune, each aubade, each vesper. He had to follow it, whatever the risk.
Rhapsody was sewing by the fire in the darkness that came with early afternoon when she felt a strange stirring within her. Ashe had come to Elysian, though she was uncertain how she knew. She was sitting in her bedroom and so leapt up and ran to the room with the turreted window, sitting on the window seat as her eyes scanned the dark water for the boat that was bringing him to her. It had been five days since her song went out; she was surprised he had come so quickly. He must have been very nearby when the song reached him.
Then her stomach knotted with the realization that she had no idea that this was, in fact, Ashe. She had hoped to ensure it by the way she had called, but, having seen the demonic powers of the Rakshas put to use, she was unwilling to assume anything. She went downstairs to wait.
On her way past the looking glass she checked herself to be sure she did not appear vulnerable, and winced at what she saw. She was dressed in a pleated white linen blouse, the pintucks lined in azure blue, the same color as the wool skirt she wore. Her hair ribbon matched her skirt; all in she looked like a schoolgirl. It couldn’t be helped, she decided. There was no time to change.
Rhapsody paced back and forth in front of the parlor fire, trying to calm her nerves. She went over all the things in her mind that she, Achmed and Grunthor had fought about.
They are all liars, too. At least in the old world you knew who sided with evil gods because they professed what they stood for. Here, in this new and twisted place, even the allegedly good ones are calculating users. The ancient evils could never wreak the level of havoc that the ‘good’ Lord and Lady Cymrian did. And you want to hand yourself over on a silver platter to the potentially biggest liar of all.
Well, if I do, it is my choice to do so. I will take the risk, and live or die by my own volition.
Wrong. We may all suffer that fate, because you aren’t just compromising yourself, you are throwing all of our neutrality into the pot, and if you overbet your hand, we all lose.
She fought the panic that was rising within her. Please let me be doing the right thing, she whispered. Please don’t let me be wrong. She owed Ashe nothing, no allegiance, no friendship, not like she owed Jo and the two Bolg.
Oi say we kill ’im. And if we’re wrong, and another one shows up, we kill ’im too.
You can’t go around killing people if you’re not sure whether you’re right.
And why not? Always worked for us before. Seriously, miss, this is too big to take chances with, if you’re not sure.
There was a knock on the front door of the house at Elysian.
37
From the moment he had entered the Bolglands, Ashe had felt a sense of awe. His amazement grew as he followed the voice, through the dark mountains and over the heath, into the depths of the Hidden Realm. He had stopped only long enough to hide from the sentries, then followed his beacon once more.
When he came into the meadow at Kraldurge the voice became clearer and stronger. He looked around at the rockwalls towering above him, knowing he never would have found this place, even with his dragon sense. And because of that, a feeling of safety was beginning to come to rest on him.
You would be safe in my house, too.
In the Cauldron? No, thank you.
My house is not in the Cauldron. And it is even harder to find than this place, I’ll wager.
As he descended into the cavern, his wonder began to grow beyond all bounds. The place was magical, with its crystalline lake, the splashing waterfall, and the gleaming stalactites and stalagmites that sprang from the earth within the grotto.
But what dazzled him the most was the song of the cave. It was joyful, unlike the feeling of the Bolglands; it rang through the air, touching the edges of his senses with a harmonious, peaceful tone. That could only be Rhapsody, he thought. If this was a place that had been here before the Bolg, had been inhabited at one time by Gwylliam and Anwyn, it would have been polluted by hate, the tangible, twisted anger that had laid waste to the old Cymrian lands, leaving them barren and lifeless. That it felt warm and easy was a sure sign she was here.
When the little house came into view, he knew she was. He could feel her within the structure, moving from room to room, carrying her heat with her. The lights of the cottage twinkled merrily in the dark of early afternoon, smoke curling up the stone chimney. With his dragon sense he noted and recorded every detail of the place, from the shimmering gazebo with the golden birdcage, where the song of his name still echoed, to the sweeping gardens bursting with the heady bloom of early summer. The beauty of it was almost enough to ease the pain he carried by itself.
He steeled his nerve. He had resolved to tell her of his feelings, to end the game of Cymrian silence. This, if anywhere, was the place to do it, and now was the right time if there was one.
Rhapsody opened the door. He was standing there, his cloak draped over his arm, smiling uncertainly at her as he had that first time in the forest when he revealed his face. Her eyes went immediately to his pupils; they were slit vertically, as before. Then she gasped. The scruffy beard was gone, the face clean-shaven, as it had been in Sepulvarta. His smile faded immediately.
“Is something wrong?”
Rhapsody stared for a moment longer, then shook her head. “No, sorry. No, nothing’s wrong. Please come in. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
Ashe came into the parlor and looked around. His eyes drank in the cozy sight, and he felt a longing that he could not have named as he looked about the room.
It had been lovingly furnished with a colorful rug of woven wool and a pair of matching chairs before the fireplace on one side of the room, a small sofa across from them. Vases of flowers were everywhere, and throughout the room simple but beautiful objects decorated the walls and tabletops. Musical instruments were closeted in a cabinet made of cherry wood and lined in cork. The scent of spicy herbs and fresh soap was in the air, along with a trace of vanilla. Ashe sighed as he breathed it in.
“Nice place.”
“Thank you.” Rhapsody reached automatically for his cloak; she realized her error just as he put it into h
er hands, dropping it inadvertently. She could not believe he had given it to her. It felt cool in her hands, radiating a fine mist, but otherwise it was not apparently different than any other garment. After she hung it on one of the pegs near the stairs, she turned and faced him.
“What happened to your beard?”
Ashe looked at the fire and smiled. “Someone whose opinion I respect seems to feel I look better without it.”
“Oh.” She fell awkwardly silent, not knowing what to say next.
Ashe turned and looked at her. “Well? You called?”
“Oh,” she said again, “Yes. I hope I didn’t drag you away from anything important.”
“What did you want?”
She leaned on the banister. “Two things, really. The first is upstairs in my bedroom. Do you mind coming up?”
Ashe swallowed hard, trying to beat back the arousal that had flared within him the moment she had opened the door. “No,” he said, his voice somewhat terse with the effort.
Rhapsody smiled at him, and he felt the surge that he always did upon receiving her beaming glance. He followed her up the stairs after hanging his swordbelt next to hers on a rack near the door.
Her bedroom was beautiful too, tastefully decorated and filled with things she loved. The open door of the cedar closet revealed a carefully organized wardrobe of tastefully colored dresses, none of which he had ever seen her in. A large dressing screen stood in one corner of the room, painted in the same sunset colors as the pitcher and basin on the washstand, brass andirons gleaming in front of the fireplace. Rhapsody went to the heavily carved mantel and picked up two small paintings that were displayed on it. She handed them to Ashe, who had joined her in front of the fire.
One painting was an oil of two human children, a boy entering adolescence, and a girl several years younger. They were both handsome, of obvious noble blood, the girl blond and fair, the boy darker. By contrast, the other picture was crowded with grinning faces, sketched in charcoal. The faces were coarse and hairy; in a moment Ashe recognized these children as Firbolg. He looked up at Rhapsody quizzically.
“These are my grandchildren,” she said, her emerald eyes searching his face.
Ashe still did not comprehend. “Oh. Yes. You did mention them. I remember now.”
“I thought you might like to see these especially,” she said, pointing to the oil painting. Her voice was gentle. “These are Lord Stephen’s children.”
As she expected, tears welled in Ashe’s eyes, and he sat down numbly on the sofa before the fire. She assumed he had never seen them, and may not have known of them at all; apparently Llauron had not bothered to keep his son abreast of the significant events in the life of his best friend. Rhapsody’s heart ached for him. She leaned over the back of the sofa, one hand coming to rest on his shoulder as she pointed with the other.
“The little one, Melisande, was born on the first day of spring; she’s a genuine sunbeam. Her brother is more solemn, more introspective, but when he smiles he can light a room. His birthday is the last day of autumn.” She paused, trying to avoid overwhelming him. “His name is Gwydion.”
Ashe looked up at her, his eyes suddenly full of an emotion Rhapsody did not recognize. He stared at her for a long moment, then looked back at the picture.
“Would you like to get a sense of what they’re like?” she asked. Ashe nodded distantly. She rested her other hand on his shoulder as well and began to sing the song she had written for them when she first met them, a song that described them perfectly. Melisande’s tune was a sprightly melody, airy and unpredictable, Gwydion’s a haunting song of deep and mellow tones, repeated in a more complicated pattern with each refrain. When she was finished she looked over the back of the sofa to find Ashe in tears. In great distress she ran around the loveseat and knelt down in front of him.
“Ashe, I’m so very sorry. I never meant to upset you.”
Ashe looked up at her hand and smiled awkwardly. “Don’t apologize; you didn’t. Thank you.”
“I suppose that leads into what I want to say to you,” Rhapsody went on as he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Obviously, I know who you are.” Ashe nodded warily. “I mean, I know exactly who you are.”
“And who is that?”
“Please don’t play games with me, Ashe,” she said, mildly annoyed. “Obviously I understand the connection between you and Lord Stephen. I knew your name enough to call you. I assume you know that means I knew it in all its implications.”
Ashe sighed. “I guess it does at that.”
“Does it bother you?”
He shook his head. “Not really. In a way, It’s a relief.”
“Well, before the night is gone I hope to provide more of that relief.”
“How so?”
“You’ll see in a moment. First, I have something important to tell you.”
Ashe nodded, and met her gaze with his own. “I’m listening.”
Rhapsody nodded as well. “Right. I’ve decided something, and, since it affects you, I thought you deserved to know about it.”
“Yes?”
She took a deep breath. “I’ve had enough of the Cymrian mystery. I have decided to trust you, and frankly, I don’t really care if I’m right or not. I hate being uncertain of my feelings, and refuse to be from here out. So, I have decided to be your friend, whether you ever are mine or not. As such, I will care about you, and will protect you with my life. I will fight the minions of the Underworld to keep you safe, just as I would for Achmed, or Grunthor, or Jo. And if you are leading me on, if you have nefarious plans for me, please don’t tell me. I would prefer it if you would kill me now, rather than betray me later, but either way, I’m taking a stand. You don’t need to reciprocate, you just need to cooperate. Please extend your ring finger.”
“Excuse me?”
She coughed in embarrassment. “I guess that was a little brash. I would appreciate it if you would put on this ring.” She held up the signet the Patriarch had given her, the ring that contained his holy office and all the wisdom and powers of healing associated with it.
Ashe’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. “Where on Earth did you get that?”
“Sepulvarta. I stood with the Patriarch and fought the Rakshas when he attacked—yes, I’m afraid that was me.” The news of the battle had spread like wildfire throughout Roland; she was sure it had caught up with him at some point. “No one knows it, but His Grace gave me his office that night. He asked me to keep it safe, to guard it with my life. Since I have issued the same pledge to you, and since I know it will heal you, I give it to you now. Put it on.” Ashe just stared at her.
“Oh, by the way,” Rhapsody continued, “I know all about the Rakshas, too. I will kill it for you, and get whatever piece of your soul it has back. Then you can go about the business of becoming Lord Cymrian. I will help you in any way I can to unite the realm.”
Ashe stood up suddenly and walked to the fireplace. He rested his hands on the mantel and took several deep breaths. Rhapsody watched in silence as he assimilated everything she had told him. Finally he turned to her.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Why do you have to say anything? All I asked you to do was put on the ring.”
“I don’t think you understand what you are giving me.”
Her brows drew together in annoyance. “You must really believe I’m stupid, Ashe.”
“I—I don’t think that at all. On the contrary, I—”
“I didn’t find the ring in the attic in a box of old undergarments, or on a table in the market, I got it from the Patriarch himself on the night of his High Holy Day ritual, a ritual I witnessed. What makes you think he would have given such a critical thing to me, the most precious thing he had, if I didn’t understand its significance?”
“Then perhaps you don’t understand about my father, that he—”
“—is the head of the opposing theology, and that one day you will likely be as well? Ye
s, I understand that, too. Are you aware that there was only one religion when the Cymrian arrived from Serendair, a combination of the practices of Gwynwood and Sepulvarta, and that it was the Cymrian split after the war that forced the schism? If you are planning to heal the rift in the governance of the Cymrian people, why not heal the religious rift as well? I’ve witnessed holy rites in both churches, and they are much closer to each other than you may believe. Who needs a Patriarch and an Invoker? Why can’t you be both? Or why can’t the Lord Cymrian be the unifying head of both sects, and leave the ecclesiastical rule to the leaders of each faction? Recognize the right for people to have different belief systems, but still be united as one monotheistic people.”
She stopped; Ashe was staring at her in disbelief.
“What?” she asked.
“You’re amazing.”
“Why?”
Ashe shook his head, smiling. “And scary. Amazing and scary.”
“Now I don’t understand.”
He held onto the mantel and put his head down again, the light from the fire gleaming off his metallic hair. He remained that way for a few moments, gathering his thoughts, breathing deeply; Rhapsody wondered if he was ill. Finally he stood up and turned to her.
“How did you find out all of this?”
“It wasn’t simple,” she said, crossing her arms. “You were no help, certainly. So, let me see if I do understand now, Ashe; or shall I call you Gwydion ap Llauron ap Gwylliam and so on?”
“No, thank you, Ashe will do.”
“You are the son of Llauron, the only grandchild of Gwylliam and Anwyn, and the Kirsdarkenvar, which you get from your mother’s side. You are also a Manossian noble, and chief of the house of Newland, not to mention the Heir Presumptive to the title of Lord Cymrian, should the Cymrians be reunited.”
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