“Well?” she asked politely. “Last chance.”
The beast’s eyelids fluttered weakly. Her claws still clutched at the air, trying to find Rhapsody, who stood now on her abdomen, bent over with exertion and in the attempt to hear what the dragon might say. The waning voice of air gurgled horribly, then spat out a curse Rhapsody recognized, having once heard it spoken by her own husband in livid anger in the language of dragons, an obscenity of mammoth proportions.
Rhapsody exhaled deeply.
“Bad answer,” she said. “A waste of breath. Oh well.” She leaned close one last time.
“In the name of Anborn ap Gwylliam,” she said.
With a savage twist, she pierced the beast’s beating heart with her sword and tore it from her sundered chest, closing her eyes against the cyclone of acidic blood that sprayed her face and upper body. With her eyes still closed, she saw that heart through her connection with the sword, no longer beating, but quivering menacingly. She set it ablaze, watching it burn to ashes, which she then tossed into the broken bed of the ancient bath where it hissed, then burned out dully.
When she opened her eyes, she beheld those of the dragon, open and staring lifelessly at the broken vault of Kurimah Milani above them.
The beast’s great maw was open, her gleaming teeth spotted with drops of her own blood. Rhapsody stood silently, breathing heavily, waiting, but there was no movement, no sign of life, just the hideous sound of rancid air escaping the dragon’s tattered lungs.
Rhapsody waited in the ebbing light, standing a vigil of sorts, emotionless. Finally she set about harvesting a few pieces of evidence, dipping her last clean handkerchiefs in the beast’s blood, draining in a quiet river from her now-still chest cavity, removing her claws, especially the enormous thumb talon, the mate of the one Achmed had shot off with his cwellan when she was in Anwyn’s grasp at the battle of the Fallen.
She wrapped the coup in burlap from her pack, then raised Daystar Clarion. The elemental blade of starlight and fire, pulsing in time with her heartbeat, filled the cavern with oscillating light.
She thought about offering a prayer of some sort, but her soul was void of any words that would be holy. So instead she spoke the word for ignition as she touched the dragon’s body with the sword one final time, and then sang a word in the tongue of the ancient Lirin Namers.
Ethnegl. Consume.
As if racing, the flames leapt from the elemental blade and roared over the surface of the dragon’s body. They burned intensely, filling the cavern with black smoke mingled with the occasional glimpse of copper.
As the fire consumed the beast, crackling the skin from the skeleton, Rhapsody stood, numb, pained by no regret, nor comforted with satisfaction. As the carcass’s head ripped into flame, she noted that she could not even summon up the energy to make careful note for history of the death of one of the Manteids, the Seers, sometimes known as the Fates, the triplet daughters of Elynsynos, the matriarchal wyrm that had long held the continent as her own lands, and Merithyn the Explorer, her Seren lover. In the back of her mind, the significance of the moment was not lost on her.
In her heart, she could not find the strength to care.
When the fire was finally done, having burned the massive body to ash, Rhapsody sheathed her sword, gathered her pack, and left the ruins of the ancient place of healing without a backward glance.
50
YLORC
Anborn’s arrival had been reported while he was still half a league away. The lookout from the top of Grivven Peak had called down his approach to Achmed and Grunthor, who by happenchance were reviewing the breastworks on the steppes leading up to the foothills of the Teeth, and so were in place when the Lord Marshal arrived, a small retinue of armsmen behind him.
Achmed shielded his eyes from the hazy sun which had just begun to slide down the firmament of the sky to the west as the horsemen approached from that direction. He had been tracking a different arrival for the last several days, the light, steady heartbeat traveling from the north, a rhythm he had known well for more than a millennium.
While his ability to gauge Rhapsody’s distance from Ylorc was minimal, he could tell that she was nearing the mountain; the song of the music within her, a pleasant vibration that soothed his angry skin and took the edge off his teeth, was beginning to quiet the veins and nerves that scored his body, however far away she was. There was something different about the song, however.
The Bolg king shook his head and refocused his attention on the Lord Marshal, who had reined his black barded warhouse to a halt at the checkpoint and was dismounting as easily as a youthful man who had never been injured.
With him Achmed recognized two of Anborn’s longtime men-at-arms, Solarrs and Knapp, who remained mounted with four other unknown soldiers as Anborn approached the Bolg king and Grunthor. There was vigor in the Lord Marshal’s step as he hurried toward them, the black and silver rings of his armor glinting in the afternoon sun, his flowing black cloak snapping in the wind behind him.
“Majesty, Sergeant,” he greeted them, calling into the crosswind blasting the highgrass of the steppes.
“’Ow ’olds the line?” Grunthor called back. “The, er, Thres’old o’ Death?”
“Strong, though dented,” the Lord Marshal said, clapping the Sergeant’s shoulder with his extended arm, and receiving a return salute in welcome. “Has Rhapsody returned?”
“Not yet, but she’s on her way,” Achmed said.
Anborn nodded, then signaled to his companions. “With your permission, my men-at-arms have a manifest for needed supplies.” Achmed assented; Solarrs and Knapp dismounted and followed the Bolg soldiers to the quartermaster’s tent. The Lord Marshal’s gaze returned to Achmed; he looked over the king’s shoulder, squinted for a moment, then broke into a wide grin.
“Well,” he said, pointing north, “at least there’s one woman in this world with whom I have impeccable timing.”
The two Bolg turned and followed his finger.
The general’s azure eyes were trained on the distant piedmont, where a moment later Achmed and Grunthor also caught sight of the silver-gray horse, atop which they could see a slight rider, still too far off to be recognizable except for a tiny shining crown of golden hair, glinting in the afternoon light.
Grunthor grinned as well.
“Well, well! This is shapin’ up to be a regular party, it is. Will be good to ’ave ’er back.”
“While we’re awaiting her arrival, tell me of the outposts to the south,” Achmed said to Anborn. “I’m worried that the redeployment of the northern regiments to them is leaving the border with the Hintervold vulnerable.”
The general clicked to the barded horse and the animal came over to him, circumventing Grunthor and taking its place on the far side of Anborn, to the Sergeant’s great amusement. Anborn pulled a sheaf of oilcloth maps from his saddlebags and unrolled them in front of the Bolg.
They had just finished conferring when Rhapsody finally arrived at the checkpoint down the hill from them.
As she drew her mount to a halt, Achmed noticed a severe change in her appearance, or her demeanor, or both. Her dragonscale armor, normally shining with the color of copper coins, was glazed in black blood, as was the better part of her shirt and cloak, while her trousers had been spattered with gore as well. Achmed could not tell from a distance if the blood was her own, but the diminution of the natural light that had always shone in her face and eyes, in addition to the stern look on a sallow face he barely recognized, made him fear a grievous injury. And her hair had been shorn to the base of her neck.
He swallowed heavily, trying to keep down his rising gorge.
But if she had, in fact, been badly hurt, she did not move as if she had. Her heartbeat was strong and regular, the Bolg king noted, somewhat relieved.
She dismounted quickly and smoothly, tossing the reins of her horse to the Bolg deputy quartermaster without looking back, and made her way to where the three men were
standing beside Anborn’s warhorse, walking with her usual ease, a large leather satchel on her shoulder.
As she came within range, she stopped.
“Well met,” she said in greeting to the three men.
“Well met?” Grunthor demanded, disdain dripping from his words. “Well met? What the—? Get over ’ere, miss!”
Rhapsody’s brows furrowed, but she obeyed, walking closer until she was within the circle, nearest to the warhorse. She came to a halt.
“Are you all right?” Achmed demanded. “What happened to you? Where’s your hair?”
The Lady Cymrian’s eyes met his, then followed his gaze to her chest. She looked up and exhaled. Anborn, watching the two of them intently, blinked in surprise at the utter lack of emotion in her eyes, the solemn mien on her face.
“I am not injured, at least not enough to notice if I am. My hair was the price of what I went to do in the Nain kingdom. I left the other horses at the northern outpost; they will be returned in the rotation later this month. I do, however, have something to herald, officially, Namer to king, Lord Marshal, and Sergeant-Major.”
The three men exchanged a glance.
“What is it?” the Bolg king asked, his mismatched eyes watching her carefully.
Rhapsody turned to Anborn, her gaze steady.
“Your mother is dead, Lord Marshal, by my hand.”
Achmed blinked. “You killed Anwyn?”
“Yes.” The word was spoken without any feeling whatsoever.
“Ya sure?” Grunthor demanded. “We thought the bitch was dead three years ago.”
“I’m certain of the finality of it this time. She died with your name being the last word that rang in her ears, Lord Marshal. Her last memory.”
Anborn’s eyes widened even more. “My name, Lady?”
The Lady Cymrian nodded.
“Forgive me—I chose to take her life in your name, for whatever atrocity, whatever it was she did to kill your valor, your idealism, your belief in the honorable tenets of selfless military service in the time of the Cymrian War. By protocol I should offer you an apology with my sympathy, but I know you wouldn’t want it, nor would I mean it, so I believe my task as herald is now at its end.”
The Lord Marshal stared at her for a moment longer, as did the Bolg. Then, against his will, a gurgling sound of mirth emerged from his throat. He bent his head, and as he raised it again, a chuckle of deeper origin escaped him. At last he threw back his head and roared with laughter, an almost ugly sound, full of relief. It echoed off the Teeth above them, causing small rocks to fall in a trail of dust, making the mountains ring.
The sound of victory, long denied, finally achieved.
Achmed and Grunthor looked from the laughing general to the sober face of the Lady Cymrian, then back at each other.
“Well, that’s certainly good to ’ear, Duchess,” Grunthor said finally. “One less random factor to ’ave to account for in all this mess.”
“So that’s her blood, then, not yours?” Achmed noted, pointing to her chest and cloak.
Rhapsody nodded again. She took two stiffly folded handkerchiefs from her pocket, both soaked in the same dried gore that had turned her clothing scarlet-black, and handed one each to Achmed and Anborn.
“I did not know if having this was significant to either of you, but these are the only trophies I brought back. I burned her body, all except the claws; I thought they might make good souvenirs and weapons for my Firbolg grandchildren. And, of course, her only remaining thumb-talon for you, Grunthor, for your weapons collection.” She rifled quickly through her leather pack and pulled forth the enormous, gory claw wrapped in burlap, then offered it to the Sergeant, who took it doubtfully.
“Er—thanks, Yer Ladyship.”
Rhapsody nodded a third time, but said nothing more.
“When you told her you were taking her life in my name, did she say anything?” Anborn asked, still chuckling, as he examined the bloodstained handkerchief.
“Not that I understood. But I was busy gouging out her heart at that point and setting it on fire, so I wasn’t really listening.” She looked at Achmed. “Unless you require something of me, I would like to bathe and reprovision. Assuming you haven’t given away my quarters and clothes.”
The Bolg king nodded slightly. “Go—but plan to join us for supper to confer and make plans, and stay this night in Ylorc.”
“I had hoped to leave before nightfall. I need to meet up with Gwydion Navarne in Bethany three days hence. Ashe is leaving soon for Manosse and Gaematria, if he hasn’t already.”
“A few hours one way or the other won’t be a significant delay.” He winced at the quiet annoyance in Rhapsody’s eyes on an otherwise expressionless face, so unlike anything he had ever seen there. “Humor me.”
“All right.” She bowed slightly to Anborn. “Deploy me as you will, where I will be of the most use, Lord Marshal. I’m ready.” She turned and started toward the pathway that led up to the nearest rise in the rockface.
“Wait a bloody minute, ’ere,” Grunthor said angrily as he seized her sleeve and dragged her to a stop. “What’s gotten into you, miss? No ’ug, no smile? Ya kill that un’oly bitch, Anwyn, by yerself, it would seem, then come all this way, after all this time, and all we get is a bland report an’ a bloody snot-rag? What ’appened?”
“I just told you what happened.”
“Let her go,” Achmed said quietly.
The giant stared at her a moment longer, then exhaled. He stepped aside, allowing her to pass. She patted his arm as she did, then made her way toward the passways into the Cauldron without a backward glance.
“Oi do believe Oi’m gonna be sick,” said Grunthor after she was out of earshot, having reached the towering edifice of the ancient Cymrian stronghold. “Where’s my girl, and ’oo the blazes is that?”
“That’s Rhapsody as she is now,” Anborn noted quietly. “We’re going to have to get accustomed to it, I would guess.”
Grunthor shook his head vigorously.
“Naw. Not acceptable. Oi don’t even recognize ’er. The biggest, softest ’eart in the world, and now she’s reportin’ killing a dragon like she’s commentin’ on the weather? Tearin’ off claws? Countin’ coup? Since when?”
The Bolg king’s eyes were following her as she disappeared from the rock ledge above into the passageways of the Cauldron.
“Since she parted with her baby.”
51
Achmed’s head was throbbing still at supper that night. As she silently passed him the roasted potatoes, he made note of the musical vibration that was still emanating from Rhapsody. It had changed; the soothing quality he had always appreciated was still there, but it was no longer as pleasant. She had eaten her supper more or less in silence until a word in Grunthor’s report caught her ear.
It was a briefing that Ashe had sent before he left Highmeadow about the holdings that had been identified as belonging to Talquist. Grunthor was reading it aloud undisturbed until he came to the part referencing the port of Argaut, a massive shipbuilding and maritime capital on the other side of the world.
Rhapsody sat up suddenly as if she had been shot by an arrow.
“Argaut? Talquist has holdings in Argaut?”
Achmed shrugged as Grunthor showed her the map he had been reading from. “So says the briefing. Why, does this surprise you?”
“Surprise, no. Concern, yes. Michael, the Wind of Death, when he fled Serendair, went to Argaut as well, and established himself there for centuries. He was apparently a seneschal, some sort of judicial figure. Do you think Talquist had commerce with him?”
The Bolg king’s mismatched eyes darkened.
“It’s certainly possible. The implications are fairly disturbing, if it’s true.”
“Perhaps not,” Rhapsody said, bringing the map closer. “The demon that possessed Michael died when Macquieth took him, and it, into the sea. Whatever possessions or thralls it had bound would have been released upo
n his death. Even if he had some sort of control of Talquist in life, it would have shattered upon his death. Not that Talquist needs any help with evil intent. But if Talquist was involved in commerce with Michael voluntarily, there may be some residual alliances, or darker plans, than we even know of or can guess at.”
“So perhaps we are just going about the prosecution of this war incorrectly,” Achmed said sourly. “If Talquist and the Waste of Breath had similar proclivities, maybe all we need to do is offer him a few nights with you in return for peace.”
Rhapsody and Grunthor both blinked in unison.
“Excuse me?”
The headache pounding behind Achmed’s eyes was making him especially surly.
“You and the memory of your—charms was Michael’s sole obsession, if I remember correctly. He sailed halfway around the world for a chance to knob you again. Perhaps you can return to your old line of work long enough to satisfy Talquist—”
“That’s quite enough, sir,” interjected Grunthor, his eyes narrowing. His tone was deadly.
Both Rhapsody and Achmed looked at their friend, Achmed falling into immediate silence. Neither of them had ever heard Grunthor speak to the Bolg king in such a tone of voice.
“You’re right,” he said finally. “I stand corrected. This war will be far too much fun to waste the opportunity.”
“That’s more like it, sir.”
Rhapsody exhaled evenly. Then she looked them both in the eyes.
The Merchant Emperor (The Symphony of Ages) Page 41