Rhapsody: Child of Blood tsoa-1

by Elizabeth Haydon

  "The very one."

  She stared at it, dumbfounded, for a moment. Despite its centuries in the vault, the horn was shining as bright as a spring morning. There was good cheer in the air that clung to it, a sense of hope that only moments before had been driven utterly from the room.

  "All right," she said at last, "so what are we going to do with it?"

  Achmed shrugged. "Nothing at the moment. Maybe we'll fill it with wine to celebrate your successful trip to Roland next week. Or decorate your birthday cake with it. Or maybe Grunthor and I will get very drunk, use it to summon the surviving members of the council to the Moot outside the Teeth, and piss on them all. Who knows? I just thought you might want to know we have it."

  Rhapsody laughed. "Thank you. Maybe you might learn how to play it, and then you can come accompany me on my nightly lullaby rounds."

  Achmed set the horn back in the case. "Rhapsody, I can assure you, all of the things I just mentioned and more will happen before that does."

  * * *

  Tristan Steward, High Lord Regent of Roland and Prince of Bethany, stood at the window in his library, wondering if his counselors and his fellow regents, gathered in his keep for his annual meeting, had gone collectively mad.

  From shortly after breakfast that morning to the present they had come, one by one, and had interrupted his work with insistent, if polite, suggestions that he entertain the uninvited guest that was waiting patiently in the foyer of his keep.

  Tristan had refused each time, citing an overload of pressing grain treaties and a decided lack of protocol. Once he had been told the emissary was from the Bolglands he was even more unwilling to consider the possibility.

  Yet here was Ivenstrand, Duke of Avonderre, second among his fellows only to Stephen Navarne, both in title and in the Lord Regent's estimation, tapping like a timid woodpecker on his door and peeking in like a chambermaid.

  The Lord Roland sighed. "Gods, not you, too, Martin. First the chamberlain, then the High Counselors, and the other dukes, and now you? What is so bloody pressing that you keep me from my work?"

  Ivenstrand cleared his throat. "Ah, Your Highness, I think perhaps this is a visitor you will want to meet. I took the liberty of bringing her to your office in case you decided to do so." He looked nervously at the Regent.

  The Lord Roland slammed shut the atlas that he had been trying to study. "Fine. I can see I'll have no peace unless I do." With a glare he strode to the door and past Ivenstrand, only to stop and turn back again. "Did you say 'her'?"

  "Yes, m'lord."

  Roland shuddered. It was bad enough that the Bolg had sent an emissary to his keep; undoubtedly the place would need to be aired afterward. But a female one—the thought staggered him and pushed his irritation into the level past full-blown. He marched to his office in fury.

  The chamberlain was standing at the rightmost of the double doors, averting his eyes. He had caught the expression on Roland's face and tried to slide closer to the wall as the Lord Regent approached. He opened the door for him and announced the guest.

  "M'lord, the Lady Rhapsody, out of the lands of Ylorc."

  "What? What nonsense is this?" demanded Roland of the chamberlain. "I've never heard of any such place. Stand aside."

  He stalked into the library, bracing himself for the sight of the monstrous emissary. The new Firbolg warlord was either a coward or a genius for sending a Bolg female in the hopes that she would not be put to the sword immediately.

  She was small for a Bolg. Her back was turned to the door as she stared up at the arched ceiling above her, admiring the ornate carving. The emissary was attired in a plain, unremarkable winter cape and hood, and appeared to be wearing trousers. Somehow the Lord Regent wasn't surprised by the lack of court clothing. As soon as she heard him enter the library she wheeled and dropped a low, elegant curtsy. Roland was taken aback, as he had not expected her to do much more than soil the floor with spittle.

  "What is it? What do you want?"

  The female looked up, and Roland was caught off-guard by the correction of his many wrong assumptions. That she was not Firbolg was surprise enough; her other attributes were cause for astonishment that he could not overcome.

  Rhapsody smiled at the Lord Roland. "I'm here with a message from His Majesty, King Achmed of Ylorc." Her smiled broadened as she thought of the official Firbolg appellations she had left off—the Glowering Eye, the Earth-Swallower, the Merciless. "He has asked that I deliver it to you on his behalf, as you have not yet sent official ambassadors to his court."

  Roland closed his mouth; he was unsure how long it had been hanging open. "You are not Firbolg."

  "No. Should I be?"

  Tristan Steward shook his head numbly. "Definitely not. I mean, no. No, you don't have to be." He cringed inwardly at how stupid he knew he sounded.

  "Thank you." Rhapsody smiled respectfully, but Roland could see amusement glitter in her amazing green eyes. He took a deep breath and tried to recover his composure.

  "Sit down. Please. Chamberlain, take this lady's cloak for her. Would you care for some refreshment?"

  "Thank you. And no, thank you." Rhapsody sat in the curved walnut chair he pointed to after removing her cloak and handing it to the chamberlain, causing another moment of awkward silence. Finally, as though shaking off sleep, the chamberlain shook his head, took her cloak, and left, with a bow to the Regent.

  The Lord Roland walked hurriedly behind his desk and sat down himself, hoping it would shield him somewhat from the pleasant effect she was having on his physiology. He was, after all, publicly betrothed.

  "So, before you tell me your message, indulge me, if you will: where or what is Ylorc, and why do you come on behalf of the Firbolg warlord?"

  Rhapsody folded her hands patiently. "Ylorc is the Firbolg name for the old Cymrian lands that were once called Canrif. I am here as his messenger, on behalf of my sovereign."

  The Lord Roland swallowed, and Rhapsody tried not to laugh. She could read his thoughts plainly on his face: the idea of her being subservient to a Firbolg ruler was clearly disgusting to him. She decided not to let his prejudice bother her. Unconsciously she crossed her legs, and watched as his face turned magenta. When he came back to at least partial lucidity, he addressed her sternly.

  "What is the message?"

  "It involves the annual custom of Roland that your soldiers call 'Spring Cleaning,' the practice of ransacking Firbolg border villages and encampments."

  "I know the practice; what of it?"

  "It needs to cease, immediately and in perpetuity, beginning this year."

  The Lord Roland snapped out of his reverie. "Really? That's interesting. And who does this warlord believe he is that he would make such a brash dictate to me?"

  Rhapsody's voice was calm. "He knows who he is; if you had been listening, m'lord, you would know as well. He is the king and singular ruler of the Firbolg lands, and, as such, objects, along with his counselors, including myself, to the unwarranted and heinous slaughter of innocent Firbolg citizens."

  The Regent looked at her as if she were insane. "Citizens? Are you daft? The Firbolg are monsters, and aggressive ones at that. The Spring Cleaning ritual is a defensive maneuver that has been practiced for centuries, ever since the mudspawn took over the old Cymrian lands. It eliminates the potential for the brutal raids and other border incursions that they are well known for."

  The light in Rhapsody's eyes began to burn a little brighter, and the color of the irises began to kindle. "Really? When was the last of these brutal raids?"

  Roland stared at her in silence; she met his gaze unblinkingly. Finally, he glanced about the room and looked back to her. Her eyes had not moved.

  "Well, it would be difficult to cite you a specific raid. As I told you, the Spring Cleaning custom has been practiced for centuries, and has been very effective in keeping the violence at a minimum."

  Rhapsody's face lost the last vestige of its smile. "Oh, I see. Now I understand. Vi
olence is only violence if it is against your citizens, Lord Roland; the slaughter of the people of Ylorc doesn't matter."

  The Regent's mouth fell open. "People? What people? The Firbolg are monsters."

  "That's right, you did say that earlier, didn't you? Aggressive monsters, I believe. So, the army of Roland, under your direction, is responsible for a yearly raid that routinely destroys towns and shelters, leaving children dead and homeless. You cannot, on the other hand, name me one single example of a similar, even retaliatory raid on their part, in your lifetime, and probably not the lifetime of your grandfather. I am moved to ask, Lord Roland, since this is the case, who is it that qualifies as the aggressive monsters?"

  Roland leapt to his feet. "How dare you? Who do you think you are, young woman, to address me in such an insolent manner?"

  Rhapsody sighed. "Once again, my name is Rhapsody. I am an emissary from the court of Ylorc. I believe my answers have been consistent, and therefore bear out the fact that I do know who I am. I must say, m'lord, I'm not sure you can say the same thing."

  His eyes began to smolder with rage. "Meaning what, exactly?"

  "You see yourself as lord of a civilized and noble people, and, for the most part, you are probably right. But when a people such as yours deny the humanity of a race of individuals that builds homes and villages, makes tools and forms family groups, you are doing a far greater disservice to yourselves than you are to the innocents you kill; you become far worse monsters than you accuse them of being."

  The Lord Roland slammed his hand down on his desk. "Enough! Get out. I cannot believe I have wasted my time being insulted by the likes of you. You are a very disturbed young woman. You may look more like the previous inhabitants of the Cymrian lands, but you have the manners and attitudes of the current population."

  Rhapsody stood and stared him down. "Thank you. From what I understand of the Cymrians and their history, you have just delivered me a great compliment, however unintentional. I will leave posthaste, with two final comments."

  "Make them quickly, before I call the chamberlain."

  "That won't be necessary; as I said, I am going. First, the other part of the message. King Achmed says to tell you that if you abide by his wishes and cease hostilities this year, he will guarantee no incursions into Roland by the Bolg."

  "The Bolg are a loose collection of brainless beasts that know only animal instinct, and could not organize an official incursion any more than they could fly. In addition, I doubt that this warlord, if he is still alive when you return with my scoffing message of refusal to him, has any control or jurisdiction over what they do."

  "Well, m'lord, you are certainly entitled to your opinion, however misinformed that may be. Allow me to pass on a bit of intelligence you might not have: the Bolg are now united, for the first time in their history, under their king. We are training them, and educating them, in many things, including the production of salable material goods for which we hope to have Roland as a trading partner."

  "You are a very sick girl."

  "Be that as it may, their first vintage will be available in the autumn, along with some credible weapons of a design I guarantee you have never seen before. In addition, if you are unwise enough to doubt what I've said about the king's resolve, your aggression will prove costly to you and your soldiers, mark my words."

  "Get out."

  Rhapsody turned her back on him and went to the door as he called for the chamberlain. She took her cloak from the man and turned to face the Regent again.

  "Thank you for seeing me, Your Highness; I'm sorry what I had to say wasn't better received. If you wish to meet with me again I will be happy to do so, despite this conversation."

  "Have no fear of that," the Lord Roland replied, his eyes glinting with anger. "You are a very beautiful woman, madam, but you haven't the sense the All-God gave a grasshopper. Please do not trouble me again. I will be instructing my counselors to turn you away if you should ever return to my domain."

  Rhapsody smiled as she put on her cloak. "As you wish, m'lord. I hope you realize that this means when you want to meet with me you shall have to travel to the edge of my realm yourself now. Happy New Year." She nodded pleasantly at the chamberlain and left the hall, escorted by the guards outside the door. The High Lord Regent watched her go, then turned to the chamberlain himself.

  "Get my counselors in here immediately."

  "Yes, m'lord."

  * * *

  Stephen Navarne listened as patiently as he could while the Lord Regent berated the other dukes. He had not been there that morning, had no hand in the matter of the ambassador about whom his cousin was bellowing, because he was attending to the return of those of Tristan's soldiers who had helped put down Navarne's most recent uprising. He had answered the Lord Regent's angry summons anyway; now he was especially glad he had come.

  After the tirade was over, and the other dukes had been dismissed, Stephen hung back, seeking a private word with his cousin.

  "There is something I'm not certain you're aware of, Tristan," he said pleasantly, trying to mask the concern he felt knotting his stomach. "The woman you are snarling about, and her Bolg companions, are the ones who rescued the House of Remembrance some time back."

  The Lord Roland stared at him blankly. "Oh?"

  "Yes, I'm afraid so. And, in fact, they are seen as local heroes of somewhat mammoth proportion in Navarne, as they also managed to return a sizable number of the missing children I had mentioned to you at our last session. They apparently took on the forces of a demon or something like it in doing so."

  Tristan Steward said nothing for a moment and walked back to the window of his library as he had that morning. He poured himself a glass of port. "Interesting," he said.

  * * *

  When Rhapsody returned to the Cauldron, Grunthor swept her into an enthusiastic embrace.

  "Oi was worried," he said, looking into her face with relief.

  Rhapsody smiled. She knew he meant it.

  "I'm fine," she said, giving the enormous shoulder a pat, and turning to Jo.

  "How'd it go?" asked Achmed, watching the girl run to her and hug her. His eyes met Rhapsody's and a smile passed between them. This was a first.

  Rhapsody put an arm around Jo and followed her Bolg friends into the dreary hall, where a crude breakfast had been laid for her.

  "Well, I have two observations."

  "Yes?" Achmed crossed his arms and leaned against the wall as Grunthor held her chair for her.

  "Well, are you sure you aren't the one who's prescient, Achmed? Everything went almost exactly as you said it would, word for word."

  Achmed smirked. "That's not prescience, it's predictability."

  "And two, given the reaction they had to me, you might as well have gone yourself; it couldn't have been any worse. Now I understand why you're so cranky all the time."

  * * *

  Within the old Cymrian lands, past the wide heath beyond the canyon and sheltered by a high inner ring of rock formations, was Kraldurge, the Realm of Ghosts. It was the only place the Bolg, without exception, did not go, a desolate, forbidding place from the look of its exterior structures.

  What heinous tragedy had occurred here was unclear in the legends, but it had been devastating enough to scar the psyche of the Firbolg who lived in the mountains permanently. They spoke in reluctant whispers of fields of bones and wandering demons that consumed any creature unfortunate enough to cross their paths, of blood that seeped up from the ground and winds that ignited anyone caught on the plain.

  Rhapsody had come upon the guardian hills quite by accident while scouting for battle orphans, and now she and Achmed made their way arduously back through the edge of the inner Teeth, trying to find the place again.

  They had been searching for a time before Achmed's impatience got the better of him. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the hidden pass he had located in the rock wall. He loosed the lore he had gained in the Root and let his sight
speed along the path, a narrow, overgrown hall in the mountain that had clearly seen no traffic in centuries.

  At its terminus the pass opened into an uncovered meadow, thick and overgrown in high weeds from years of isolation. A hill-like mound rose in the center of the meadow; otherwise there was nothing remarkable in the hidden canyon-dell.

  "Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I don't see a single demon, and there are no gushing geysers of blood."

  Rhapsody sighed. "Good. I had more than enough of that at the House of Remembrance, thank you. But I'd still like to see this place; there must have been something there to inspire such hideous fear, even if it has been gone for centuries. Besides, I brought all these seeds; it would be a shame to have to cart them back to the Cauldron."

  "Very well."

  Achmed pulled his cwellan out and slipped between the rock-walls. Rhapsody never ceased to be amazed at the speed and silence with which he wielded the bulky weapon. She followed closely behind him, her bow out with an arrow on the string.

  As they crept through the pass their footfalls sounded up the canyon walls, echoing at an enormous amplification, so that anything that might have been waiting for them would have had ample warning. Despite the noise they made, on entering the hidden meadow they found nothing different from what Achmed had described.

  The canyon that hid the field was so tall that the wind rarely reached down into it; it howled around the top of the surrounding crags, creating a mournful wail. Achmed and Rhapsody smiled at each other. Even the bravest Bolg could mistake the noise for demonic shrieking. Despite the natural explanation for the sound, Rhapsody could sense an innate sadness to the place, a feeling of overwhelming grief and anger.

  She bent and touched the earth but could discern nothing unusual; perhaps this was a forgotten burial ground from the earliest conflicts of the Cymrian War. There was no mention of it in the manuscripts they had found within Gwylliam's library, but there probably wouldn't have been, anyway.

  Achmed began to scout the perimeter of the internal canyon. The field was small enough to be seen in its entirety from the top of the mound, and it seemed completely enclosed, with the only egress being the pass through which they had come.