Rhapsody: Child of Blood tsoa-1

by Elizabeth Haydon

  A deep groan escaped her as Achmed helped her stand. He led her to one of the stone benches and she sat down, trying to make her world stop spinning. It took a long time for that to happen. Finally she spoke.

  "Well, now I know why this place feels so angry."

  "What did you see?"

  She rubbed her temples. "I got the wonderful opportunity to see Gwylliam through what must have been Anwyn's eyes at the moment he struck her. Remember how Llauron said he had hit her?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, that's putting it nicely. He must have done some serious damage; my ears are still ringing."

  "No wonder she tried to destroy him."

  "Well, as bad as it was, I still think her reaction was a little extreme. I mean, I'd be furious too, but I don't think I'd lead an army of tens of thousands to their deaths over it. I probably would have just poisoned his porridge."

  "Well, from what I've read, the First and Third Fleet Cymrians were looking for an excuse to beat on each other anyway. The Third Wave had the attitude that they had sacrificed the most, had stayed behind and held the beachhead while the others made a speedy retreat. They had a rough time when they landed, had to fight their way in while the First Fleet found no resistance and an easy life in the woods. Of course, what I've been reading is from his point of view. I'd say Gwylliam and Anwyn's little sparring match was just the spark that lit the conflict."

  Rhapsody stood and looked around. "So this is where the war began. Right here on this island, in this gazebo. No wonder the place is haunted."

  Achmed chuckled; it was a strange sound, and her eyes went immediately to his face. "Are you afraid of ghosts, too, Rhapsody?"

  "Certainly not," she said, offended. "If anything, I'll bet they're afraid of me."

  "Well, I can certainly see why they would be," the Firbolg king said sarcastically. "You are so very frightening, after all."

  Rhapsody smiled knowingly and took out her flute again. She sat back on one of the benches and closed her eyes, listening to the listless wind over water.

  She took in the sounds and vibrations of the grotto, searching for the discordant notes, and found them almost immediately. Rhapsody raised her flute to her lips and played a sweet note. It filled the air at once and amplified forth from the gazebo, echoing off the walls of the grotto and filling the cavern with its sound, hanging in the slow air until it dissipated a few moments later. She turned to Achmed in excitement.

  "It all makes sense now!" she exclaimed, leaping to her feet. "The reason we couldn't find this place is that it is naturally hidden by layers of vibrations—the bowl of the canyon that the field lies within and the wind that rips around it, the water beneath the ground and the churning of the waterfall make a rising mist that shields the cavern."

  "And the gazebo is like a megaphone of sorts. Sounds here are amplified because of where it is placed and what it is made from; it's like a natural podium if you want to have what you say heard everywhere. So the hatred that is ingrained in this place is being transmitted out through those layers, which is what scares the Firbolg, and why the ground feels so awful in the glen."

  Achmed nodded but said nothing. It was also the reason he disliked the place. Water had always been his enemy when trying to find a vibrational path. The only place anyone had been able to hide from him in the old world was on, in, or near the sea.

  "Well, now that your mystery is solved, let's go back."

  "Wait; I have to try something else." Rhapsody ignored the ugly look he gave her and began to play the flute again. She concentrated on the painful notes, the dirge that the cavern contained, and matched each sorrowful tone with a brighter one, weaving a song of atonement and peace. The effect was not permanent, but she could feel a slight improvement when she was finished.

  "Can I have this place for my own? Please?" She ignored his incredulous stare and pushed on. "I can restore the house; it just needs a little carpentry and a lot of cleaning. And I can work on the song of the place, make it healthy again, drive away the memories that Gwylliam and Anwyn left here to fester. Can this be my, well, my—"

  "Your duchy?"

  "My what?"

  "Your duchy. Grunthor's always calling you Duchess or Your Ladyship; it seems appropriate that we make you one. Congratulations. You will be Firbolg royalty."

  Rhapsody ignored the sarcasm. "Well, good. That way I can act as your ambassador and have a title to make me legitimate." She laughed as Achmed smirked. "Be that way. I've never had a place that was all mine; it was always owned by someone else."

  "I will deed it to you in perpetuity, as long as we can leave now."

  "Bargain." They shook hands, and Rhapsody ran for the boat.

  * * *

  "So what are you going to call this place?" Achmed asked as he rowed back across the lake. Her excitement had sustained itself; they were moving much faster than they had on the voyage across.

  "I've been thinking about that," she said, her eyes sparkling. "Let's name it something from the old world, something powerful and royal, so it takes on some of the traits. That seems appropriate, doesn't it?"

  He sighed. "Whatever you want. It's your duchy. You will owe me taxes, by the way, on whatever goods you produce."

  She knew he was joking, but she regarded him seriously. "Fair enough. I think you will have to take it in trade, however. I don't intend to sell it, it's better if it's just given to someone you love."

  Achmed's eyebrows shot into his hairline. "Excuse me? I thought you had decided to be celibate."

  Rhapsody glared at him. "Not that. Spices, herbs; maybe flowers. You can be a real pig, you know."

  "It was a joke."

  "I know. It's always a joke." She stared off into the distance at the disappearing waterfall, its music ebbing with her spirits.

  Achmed regarded her sharply. "I'm sorry." She waved a dismissive hand at him. "Rhapsody, what's the matter?"

  She didn't look at him, but continued to watch the island as it faded into the mists of the cave. "I don't know. Jealousy, probably. That's not exactly it, but I don't have a word that describes it better."

  "You're jealous?" Achmed's brows furrowed. "Why?"

  Finally the green eyes turned on him, absent their former sparkle. "All right, I'm not jealous, I'm lost. You have no regrets that keep you awake at night, Achmed, no losses in the old world to mourn. Here you have a reason for being, a place that needs you, and people who do, too; an opportunity to do something good on a historic scale. You have a new life."

  He swallowed; he was not good at this. "You're a part of that life. You have a contribution to make to the same goal; it's your opportunity as well."

  She shook her head. "Don't misunderstand, please. I want to help you, to help the Bolg, especially the children. But it's not my reason for being."

  "So what is?"

  Rhapsody shook her head sadly. "If I knew, I wouldn't feel lost." She took the oar from him and began to row.

  "You know, my mother was always chiding me about leaving the door open. We lived on a wide-open plain, and the winds that tore through the rolling hills could beviolent. i can still hear her: 'please close the door.' I never learned. And it's ironic; my past is a corridor of doors I left open, never meaning to close them. Except now, the house is gone, too, blown away by the wind."

  "I guess I've never really accepted what I've lost. I don't know why; I try, but it keeps coming back to me, night after night, even after all this time. So now I have to come to terms with my loss and figure out what to do next."

  "I need the things you have—a home, and a goal, and a chance to do something good of my own. And someone who needs me—Jo, my grandchildren, the Bolg, to a small degree, and maybe even you and Grunthor. Maybe having this place, this duchy of my own, is a start toward finding those things."

  Achmed exhaled. The light was returning to her eyes a little, banishing the desolation he had felt a moment before, against his will, on her behalf. What is this strange power the fir
e gave her? he mused. It was even beginning to affect him.

  "So what is the name of this new farm?" he asked.

  She thought of the castle of the Seren high king, perched on a rocky face above the crashing sea.

  "I think I'll call it Elysian," she said. It was a place she had never seen.

  * * *

  Three weeks later it was announced throughout the Bolglands that the new warlord king was making a trip to the demons in Kraldurge to offer sacrifice. An enormous wagon was loaded with gifts to the evil gods, tied with cloth to keep the sacrifice from the prying eyes of the Bolg, though none showed up to wish the king well. The gifts had been bought in Bethe Corbair and Sorbold from a list carefully prepared by the Singer, known throughout the Bolglands to be the king's First Woman.

  Rhapsody had grown used to the necessity of the reference, though it still amused and annoyed her. Anything to keep us safe here, she had told Jo, herself known as the king's Second Woman. The Bolg would only bother those women who belonged to leaders they wanted to challenge, and thus far that meant no one came near either of them. She did not tell Jo about Elysian, keeping it a surprise for when the renovations were finished.

  The enormous Cart of the Sacrifice set forth in the night toward the Inner Teeth, where it was swallowed up by darkness. The king and the Sergeant Major returned the next day, slightly tired from their meeting with the demons but none the worse for wear.

  The demons had acknowledged the rulership of the king, the Sergeant had announced. They would not eat any more of his people on the condition that the Bolg continue to keep away from their lands. If the Bolg violated the agreement, however, the horrors of the tales of old would seem as nothing compared to the fate the intruders would suffer. Achmed smiled as he detected the collective shiver that ran through the assemblage as Grunthor finished.

  * * *

  Rhapsody remained in Elysian, delighted by her new furnishings. She had been thrilled when Achmed and Grunthor delivered her furniture and the material for her to make drapes and bedspreads, serving them dinner to express her thanks from the stores they had laid in the freshly scrubbed kitchen.

  As they sat in the dining room enjoying the beauty of the sunset through the wavy panes, rainbows from the prismatic glass fell over each of them, illuminating their faces with colored light. She smiled; the song of peace was taking hold, her plantings were beginning to grow, and she had a place of her own to share with her friends.

  She walked them down to the water's edge and waved as they climbed aboard one of her two new boats. Rhapsody watched until they had passed from her sight, then turned back to her house, where the smoke curled contentedly up from the chimney and the lights burned in the windows, a growing warmth in the darkness of the grotto.

  Once inside, she gently closed the door.

  * * *

  Rosentharn, Knight Marshal of Bethany, cleared his throat and knocked nervously on the door.

  After what seemed an eternity, the Lord Roland's voice answered.

  "What? Who's there?"

  "Rosentharn, m'lord." Even through the door he could hear the stream of muttered curses.

  "What do you want? If it's another of those blasted border raids, I don't want to know about it unless they're sacking my own keep."

  Rosentharn loosened his collar. "Nothing like that, sir. I just came from the northern gate, where news has come in that Lady Madeleine Canderre is on her way to Bethany."

  The door opened a crack, and the Lord Roland's head emerged, his hair wildly tousled. "When?"

  "She arrives sometime after dawn, m'lord."

  Tristan Steward ran a hand over his unkempt locks. "Ahem, yes. Well, thank you, Rosentharn."

  "My pleasure, m'lord." Rosentharn waited for the door to close before giving in to a wide smile. Then he turned on his heel and returned to his post.

  * * *

  ......fornication!" [Russian]"Поблудим еще!"

  A throaty chuckle came from across the room.

  "As you wish, m'lord. That's what I'm here for."

  Tristan smiled and retied the belt of his dressing gown.

  "Sorry, Pru; my fiance's coming."

  Prudence laughed. "If you get over here quickly, perhaps Madeleine might be able to make the same statement."

  "You're so naughty. It's one of the things I like best about you."

  Tristan turned to the mahogany sideboard, poured two glasses of port from a crystal decanter, and carried them back to the bed. He handed one to Prudence and raised the other to his lips, allowing his gaze to roam over her body. The rim of the glass hid the melancholy look brought to his face by what he saw.

  Each time he looked at her it grew harder to believe that they had been born on the same day, minutes apart. Despite the difference in their social classes they had always been together as children, growing through each awkward stage as a pair, almost as if they shared a single soul. And while time had not yet ravaged his flesh, still bequeathing him the muscularity of youth for the moment, Prudence was beginning to show the signs of age, inevitable in those not born from the bloodline of the Cymrians.

  It was something he had always known, but had never thought about until recently. Perhaps his own impending marriage had made him take stock, caused him to try to account for the years that had flown by, leaving him unscathed, for now. Perhaps it was the fact that, when he was alone, lost in the solitude of his thoughts, he was not certain if there was anything to show for all that time.

  Either way, it had made him look at her with new eyes, eyes that now saw the slight slackening of the dewy skin, the whisper-thin lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth, the faint spots that dotted her hands, once as smooth and clear as alabaster. He swallowed, feeling the burn down his gullet.

  Prudence pulled the comb from her hair and tossed her head, the long strawberry ringlets catching the light of the blazing fire on the hearth. In the fireshadows any hint of gray that Tristan thought he might have seen earlier was gone. She smiled knowingly at him and drew the satin counterpane up under her arms.

  "What are you thinking, Tristan?"

  The Lord Roland set his empty glass on the bedside table, and took back the one he had handed her a moment before. He sat down on the bed, facing her, and gently slid his hand up to the top edge of the counterpane, winding his fingers slowly over it, bringing them to rest at the base of her throat.

  "I'm thinking that I hate her, Pru."

  Prudence leaned back against the pillows, her smile fading to a serious expression. "I know; I know you do. I still don't understand why you chose Madeleine. I always thought you should propose to that nice girl from Yarim—what was her name?"

  "Lydia."

  "Yes, that's it. She was a pretty thing, and charming in a quiet way. Her father was well landed. Whatever happened to her?"

  "She married Stephen; died a few years back in a Lirin raid."

  "Oh yes, of course. I remember now." Prudence reached out and gently stroked the side of his face, his whiskers rough beneath her fingers.

  Tristan's eyes met her gaze and held it while he pulled the counterpane back. There was an understanding in her eyes, a depth that he could not even fathom, and it felt warm, surrounding him completely, like the hot spring they had once coupled in so many years ago. Their honesty was the only truly pure thing in his life. Prudence turned her face to the fire and closed her eyes.

  From the crystal glass Tristan drew out a drop of the port, and dabbed it gently on her nipple. He felt the air come into her as she inhaled beneath his touch, the same way she had in their youth, on the night she deflowered him, and the arousal that had been eluding him began to build.

  The skin of her breast had eased noticeably from the time he had first touched it thus. He closed his eyes and thought back to his first sight of it, firm with anticipation, warming to a deep rose color beneath his trembling hand. Now it was slack, loose, her breasts flecked with the same brown patches that marred the skin of her h
ands. Tristan lowered his lips and drank in the drop of port, trying to keep her from seeing the pain he knew was flickering across his face. He tugged the counterpane off her completely and dropped it to the floor.

  Now laid bare, Prudence drew one knee up and began to untie his dressing gown. Her hands slid into his lap, stroking him gently.

  "Why don't you tell me what's really bothering you, Tristan?"

  His lips left her breast and slowly began to trace down to her abdomen.

  "What makes you think anything is bothering me?"

  Firmly she pushed him back and sat up against the headboard, pulling a pillow in front of her chest. Her eyes were angry.

  "I was your father's courtesan, Tristan; I always thought that I was your friend."

  The shock of her reaction snapped over him, shattering what little excitement he had felt. "Of course you are."

  "Then don't play games with me. I'm too old for this nonsense. I can tell when something's on your mind—I know your moods better than you do. Usually you tell me everything. Why are you playing coy tonight? It's not very stimulating."

  Tristan sighed; she had caught him. It was more than the melancholy he was battling, watching the unfair ravages of time on her, more than the sickening sense that the woman he loved, and bedded regularly, was beginning to resemble his mother. It was even more than the horrific reminder of what that aging would eventually lead to, a loss he was not willing to contemplate.

  He was struggling with the memory of Rhapsody.

  He had not been able to get her out of his thoughts since the moment she had walked out of the keep. And more than that, it was the thought of her, subservient by choice to a Bolg warlord, that had made his skin burn with frustration. The image of her in the arms of a subhuman mongrel had been almost as upsetting as the strength of his own reaction to her; for the few moments they had spent together, he should hardly have even remembered her name.

  He looked back at Prudence and smiled, seeing the intensity of the look in her eyes.