Prophecy

by Elizabeth Haydon

  “I was on the coast.” Even under the hood, Grunthor would hear the self-recrimination in his voice. “What happened? Is she all right?”

  Grunthor nodded toward one of the chairs. Ashe sat and dropped his pack to the floor as the Sergeant filled a flagon from the pitcher next to him. “She was injured while savin’ the lit’le miss’s soul.”

  “Jo? Jo was hurt too?”

  “Yeah, you might say that. She’s dead.” Grunthor’s face was emotionless, his tone noncommittal, but the dragon could sense a sudden skip of his heartbeat, the increase of liquid in the giant’s tear ducts, the tiny twitching of muscles in his great protruding jaw as it tightened. The silent responses said all that Ashe needed to know.

  “Gods, Grunthor; I’m sorry.” Ashe’s thoughts shot to Rhapsody; she must be devastated. “What happened?”

  “The bastard F’dor got to ’er. She must of followed us, even though we went out of our way to avoid it; we didn’t even know she was there. And just as Uchmed was draggin’ your sorry soul out of the burning refuse, she attacked. Oi never in all my time with ’im ever seen no one get close enough to touch ’im, but the king was a bit, well, distracted, shall we say? ’E would of taken one in the ’eart for you, sonny. Ironic, ain’t it?” Grunthor took a deep drink from his flagon.

  “O’ course, the Duchess couldn’t let that come to pass. She was next to ’im, and she tried to block with ’er body, but Jo was too fast. So she did what she should of; she parried. And she slashed Jo open; taught ’er well, Oi must say.” He took another drink. Ashe’s hands reached for the flagon Grunthor had set in front of him, trembling slightly.

  “Then a bloody tree started growing from Jo’s guts, and we was forced to cut it out, but you see, this vinething didn’t want to be cut out, so it sort of attacked us back. It would of killed the Duchess too if it weren’t for the king. You sure weren’t nowhere to be found when we were trying to fix ’er. She still ain’t gotten over killing Jo.”

  Ashe stared into the immense firepit in silence. He tried to imagine what Rhapsody must be feeling, but he couldn’t get past his own mountain of guilt. She was out of the range of his senses, and that bothered him more than anything else.

  “I’m very sorry,” he said at last. “I’m sorry about Jo, Grunthor. How is Rhapsody? Is she all right?”

  Grunthor put his feet up on the table, the thud of the gigantic boots shaking the chairs in the room. “Well, Oi suppose that depends on ’ow you define ‘all right.’ She’s alive.”

  “That’s a start.”

  “She’s awful weak, if you ask me, which nobody did; Oi wouldn’t let ’er go out riding across the countryside in ’er current state, looking pale as a ghost. But whatever she needed to do was too important to the Duchess to get ’er to listen, and you can’t argue with ’er when she’s like that.”

  Ashe sighed. “I know.”

  Grunthor chuckled. “She’s a lit’le slip of a thing, but she’s tough. Oi’d rather have ’er watch my back as anyone.”

  “I agree. And she credits you with a lot of that, you know. She said even Oelendra admired the training you had given her.”

  The giant smiled. “Yeah, she told me. But Oi think it’s more a matter of the fact that the Duchess’s ’eart is bigger than ’er body.”

  Ashe smiled to himself. “It certainly is.”

  Grunthor leaned across the table. “And to that end, Oi’m warning you, waterboy, you better not do nothing to break it, ’cause if you do, Oi’ll snap you like a twig.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Tankards clinked together, and then were emptied.

  Achmed took Rhapsody by the waist and lifted her down from the horse. He could see she was grateful to be on ground that was not moving for the first time in a while. Generally when they rode together, Achmed left her on her own to mount and dismount, but he had noticed the way her face turned white with each of these actions now, and so made an exception to his general rule of benign neglect.

  They made their way through the Square of the Spire, the vast, cobbled courtyard of the walled part of the city of Sepulvarta. The courtyard stretched to the edges of the inner rim of the mercantile district.

  In the center of the square stood the mammoth structure that Rhapsody had seen from the Great Basilica when she had stood with the Patriarch on the Holy Night. It was massive at the bottom, spanning the width of a city block, tapering upward a thousand feet in the air to its point, crowned by a radiant silver star. The star was visible for a hundred miles on a clear day, more at night, and was reputed to contain a piece of the Sleeping Child, the star in Seren myth that had fallen into the sea, causing the first Great Cataclysm. The impact of the star’s entry into the sea, said the legend, had caused earthquakes and subsequent tidal waves that split the land and swamped the Island, leaving it half its previous size. It had lain beneath the waves for four millennia, boiling the ocean above it, until at last it had risen and claimed the rest of the Island, along with whatever had remained of Rhapsody’s family and the two Bolgs’ problems.

  The people who traversed the streets of Sepulvarta, in addition to the same kind of travelers that were apparent in every inland city, were in many cases members of the clergy and their families. Sepulvarta was the theological seat of Roland and Sorbold, as well as the nonallied outlying states, and many priests of the religion lived there, studying in the vast library and the depositories of liturgical writings, training in the central seminaries. Holy symbols and sacred signs of the order were as apparent in the shops and homes as hex signs and runic symbols were in Gwynwood. It was, as a result, not easy to find the Abbey of the Sun, a tiny cloister in the outer ecclesiastical district, where Rhonwyn the Seer was reputed to live.

  Not much was known about the middle child of Elynsynos and Merithyn. She was said to be insane, as her sisters were, bent by the knowledge that was her gift and her curse, but frail, like the realm she was given sight into. As she could only see the Present, she was considered the least useful as a Seer, for, after all, it was believed, anyone could see the Present. Any given point in time a moment later became the Past, and was therefore beyond her sight. So Achmed and Rhapsody were not particularly surprised to find the abbey rundown and neglected, visited by none but themselves.

  After passing through the wrought-iron gates and past the tiny garden, they found themselves on crumbling stone steps in front of an ancient wooden door, bound in brass, with a large ringed door knocker. Rhapsody knocked, and after some time the abbess answered. She ushered them both in rapidly and looked into the street behind them before shutting the door. Achmed recognized the behavior; he had seen people in hiding before.

  After their request was made they were led to a tiny, dark parlor and left waiting for a long time. While they waited Rhapsody dropped several gold coins in the slotted box left conspicuously on a table. Finally the abbess returned and led them out through a curtained rear door into a quiet courtyard, thick with the dust of a walled city enclosure and the undisturbed passage of time. She pointed skyward.

  From there they made a long and arduous climb up an external stairway hewn into the stone from which the abbey was built. The building itself, while but a few stories in height, reached up above the silent street below with a steepled tower and balcony. Inside they could see the out line of a robed figure, sitting and looking up into the sky above her.

  When they reached the balcony of the tower, Rhapsody took from her pack the gift she had brought. It was the sack in which she had carried the loaf of bread that Pilam the baker had given her that afternoon, all those centuries before, in Easton. While traveling along the Root Rhapsody had blessed each meal it had made by singing the name of the bread. As a result the bread had never gone stale or grown mold, even within the dank earth. Time still seemed to have no domain within the sack; the bread within it now was as fresh as it had been the morning it was baked in Ylorc ten days before. It seemed an appropriate gift. She laid it gently in the Seer’s hands.
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  The woman turned to her and smiled, and Rhapsody gasped. Her eyes were blind, totally without a colored iris, reflecting Rhapsody’s face, like the dream she’d had in Ashe’s hut. The Seer’s face was smooth, in the bloom of youth, her hair red-gold like Ashe’s at the crown of her head, but as it tapered down the long braid bound in leather thongs it passed into dimmer stages, darkening and turning gray until it reached the snow-white tip. She was clothed in the same robes as the abbess had worn, and in her lap rested a nautical instrument. Rhapsody had seen one before as a child; it was a compass. Rhonwyn seemed frail and lost in a dream.

  “God give you good day, Grandmother,” Rhapsody said. She touched the woman’s hand gently. The Seer nodded, then looked back up at the sky again. “I am called Rhapsody.”

  “Yes,” the woman answered distantly, as if considering something puzzling. She touched the compass. “You are called Rhapsody. What do you ask?”

  Achmed sighed; he knew he was going to hate this. He walked over to the corner of the tower and looked out over the street.

  “Do you know the name of the F’dor?”

  The woman shook her head. Rhapsody had expected this. She had once asked Ashe why consulting with this Seer would not be the easiest way to yield its name. He had told her that Rhonwyn could not even see into the Past enough to name something ancient that had originated in a land that no longer existed. Serendair had no present, so the F’dor would not be visible to Rhonwyn. Rhapsody smiled as the woman reached into the bag and drew forth some bread, raising it to her lips. She waited for Rhonwyn to swallow before asking her next question.

  “Does the Rakshas have any children?”

  “There is no Rakshas.”

  Rhapsody sighed. “Are there now children with the blood of the F’dor?”

  The Seer nodded.

  “How many are there now?”

  “How many what?”

  “How many children are there born of the blood of the F’dor?”

  “Nine now live.”

  Rhapsody nodded again. She reached back into her pack and pulled out a scrap of vellum and a piece of charcoal. “What are their names, how old are they, and where are they today?” she asked.

  “Who?”

  “What are the names of the demon-spawn, how old are they, and where are they today?”

  “A child named Mikita lives in the Hintervold. She has seen two summers,” said Rhonwyn.

  “Where in the Hintervold?”

  The Seer turned to her with blind eyes. “What about the Hintervold?”

  “Where is the child in the Hintervold?”

  “What child?”

  Rhapsody could feel Achmed’s shoulders tense from across the tower. She lowered her voice, making it as soothing as she could to avoid upsetting the fragile Seer.

  “Where is the demon-spawn, Mikita, in the Hintervold?”

  “In Vindlanfia, across the Edelsak River in the town of Carle.”

  Rhapsody caressed her shoulder gently. “Is Mikita the youngest of the demon-spawn children?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is the name of the second-youngest demonspawn child?”

  “Jecen.”

  “How old is Jecen?”

  “Jecen who?”

  Rhapsody sighed. “How old is Jecen, the child of the demon?”

  “Today he has seen three summers.”

  Slowly Rhapsody led Rhonwyn through the agonizing ritual of uncovering the information she needed. The Seer began to recite a litany of names, places, and ages, her voice a soft monotone droning in the wind of the tower, broken intermittently by Rhapsody’s gentle questions. The list they compiled together ranged from a child of two to a gladiator in the country of Sorbold, who that day was nineteen years old. Rhapsody looked at Achmed and shuddered. That one would be difficult.

  When the Seer was finished, Rhapsody thanked her and stood. She bent to give her a kiss, but stopped when she saw Achmed hold up a finger.

  “Are there any unborn children with the blood of the F’dor?” he asked. Rhapsody shuddered again; this thought had not occurred to her.

  “Yes.”

  “Who is the mother?”

  “The mother of whom?”

  “Of the child about to be born?” The Seer looked blank. Rhapsody exhaled. “I’m sorry; I suppose that she isn’t a mother yet, so you can’t see her. When will the baby be born, and where?” The woman stared off into the distance.

  “A question for Manwyn, perhaps,” noted Achmed. Rhapsody nodded.

  “Thank you, Grandmother,” she said softly, and kissed her cheek. The woman turned to her and smiled again. “Rest now.”

  “You are called Rhapsody,” Rhonwyn said dreamily. “What do you ask?”

  Eleven days later, as soon as Rhapsody set foot on the island of Elysian, Ashe knew she was there. The water had transmitted the news of her approach in the boat, but she had arrived at night, so he had been sleeping, instead of at his usual post waiting impatiently. In his half-sleep he had believed he was dreaming of her arrival, as he had each night, to wake up, alone and disappointed. He sat upright in bed, then leapt out of it, running down the stairs to greet her.

  She had felt him, too, felt the worry and fear he had brought into the grotto, and came to him, letting him sweep her into his arms and carry her inside. She stroked his hair as his tears washed over her, clutching her as tightly as he dared in light of the wounds he could sense beneath her clothes. Ashe laid her down gently on the bed and sat next to her, allowing his eyes and senses to run over her, his hands following suit.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could she laid a finger on his lips to silence him.

  “Don’t,” she said gently. “I’m fine; I’m so happy to see you. Please hold me.” He complied, drawing her back into his arms and hugging her as tightly as he dared.

  After a long time had passed, he released her reluctantly and looked at her again. He began to undress her, to look at the wounds with his eyes rather than his senses, but she stopped him.

  “Please, Ashe, don’t.”

  “Maybe I can help heal you, Aria.”

  Rhapsody smiled. “You are. And you already have.” She looked around the room. “And you will even more if you get off your behind and get me some tea.” She laughed as he dashed down the stairs.

  As she sipped her tea, Ashe sat on the edge of her bed and removed her boots.

  “Where on Earth did you go?”

  “I went to see Rhonwyn,” she said, her enormous eyes blinking at him from behind her cup.

  “So I heard. Are you out of your mind?”

  “Yes. But you knew that before you became my lover.”

  “What could possibly be so important that you had to rush off there while you’re still so weak? Grunthor said it had something to do with your grandchildren—are Stephen’s children all right?”

  “As far as I know,” she said. “I was inquiring about some other children that I hope to be able to help, not the ones who are currently my grandchildren.”

  “I see. And do you want to tell me about it?”

  “No,” she said, setting down her teacup and putting her arms around his neck. “I have a gift for you, and I want you to open it.”

  “You brought me a gift? You shouldn’t—”

  Rhapsody glared at him in amusement. “Shut up, dear,” she said, leaning forward to kiss him. Ashe complied, returning the kiss as gently as he could, fighting the passion that had swarmed through his soul along with overwhelming relief. She slid his nightshirt over his shoulders and gave him a sympathetic look.

  “Please don’t worry about hurting me, Ashe,” she said, anticipating his worries exactly. He shuddered as the memory of another woman’s voice flooded his heart.

  It’s all right, Sam. You won’t hurt me. Really. It will be all right.

  Tears touched the corners of his eyes as he closed them and leaned his head against her shoulder, running his hands gently up her back. He undress
ed her carefully, wincing at the sight of the bandages, and drew the covers over them both.

  Rhapsody reached behind her head with some difficulty and unbound the black velvet ribbon, allowing her hair to tumble over both of their shoulders. Ashe sighed and drew her onto his chest, cradling her in the crook of his arm. With some impatience she pulled free of the sleeping position, sat up and caressed his chest, her hands moving lower as his heart began to race beneath her touch. He grabbed her hands and held them in his own.

  “Aria, please, perhaps we had best just sleep.”

  Shock, then disappointment came over Rhapsody’s face. Ashe’s heart twisted as he saw the rejection he had never intended in her eyes.

  “Is it the bandages? Or do you just not want me?”

  Excitement was coursing through his blood, leaving his skin on fire and making his head pound. “How can you ask me that?” he said incredulously, moving her hands to the best indicator of her misjudgment. “I don’t want to hurt you, and I know you’re exhausted.”

  “I need you to make love to me,” she said patiently. “Please.”

  Ashe began to shake. “Gods, you’re cruel. Aria, I want to be inside you more than you could ever believe, but—”

  “Ashe, you are inside me, and I want you to leave,” she said, exasperation entering her voice. “Now, please, are you going to make me beg you?”

  The wall of his resistance shattered. “No,” he said, breathing deeply. “No, and I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.” He pulled her to him and kissed her with all the longing in his soul.

  He made love to her gently, fighting the fierce desire that had risen as a result of the overwhelming emotions of the night: fear, longing, relief, and joy in being reunited with her again. She returned his passion eagerly, moving slowly and building in him a towering pleasure that threatened to consume him. As a cold rush began to creep over him, starting at his toes and moving upward, she took his hand and put it on her heart.

  “Take it back,” she urged, resting her hand over his. “Take your soul back; it’s waiting for you here.” His eyes opened in surprise, but he was too far gone to stop the rush from taking him over. He began to gasp, and as he did Rhapsody spoke the word to release the piece of his soul she had carried.