Rhapsody: Child of Blood tsoa-1

by Elizabeth Haydon

  "Gods, Jo, what if that's all of him there is?" Rhapsody said in mock concern. "I mean, what if that's all there is under there—hair and eyes and nothing else? Bbbrrrrrr. Not a pleasant thought. Don't you think you ought to at least see all of him before you pick out your wedding china?"

  Jo crossed her arms in annoyance and fell into a petulant silence. Rhapsody hastened to make peace.

  "I'm sorry, Jo; I'm being ridiculous. I'm glad you met someone you like. But if I recall, wasn't he trying to cut your hand off?"

  "No, you were trying to cut his hand off," Jo said, still annoyed. "He was nice to me, that's all. Let's just forget it, all right?"

  Rhapsody sighed. "You really have been ill-used, my girl, if that's what you call someone being nice to you. But who knows; sometimes first impressions are the most accurate. So what do you think your chances are of ever meeting up with him again?"

  "Probably none," said Jo, uncrossing her legs and putting her feet on the floor. "He did say he'd come to visit, though." She reached under the bed for the chamber pot.

  Rhapsody took her cue. "We'll see," she said, rising from the bed and heading for the door. "You never know, Jo; stranger things have happened. In the meantime, get some sleep. Maybe this time if you're more rested you can actually pick his pocket successfully." She gave Jo a playful wink and opened the door.

  "Good night, sis," Jo answered, laughing.

  Rhapsody smiled and Jo felt warmth surround her, like an embrace. "Good night, Jo." She closed the door quietly, and leaned up against the wall, hugging herself with joy. After a moment, she returned to the darkness of her own chamber, made somehow brighter now.

  * * *

  They're coming.

  "I know."

  Saltar rose from his stone chair, running his fingers over the granite arms, worn smooth by centuries of hands other than his own gripping them. It was one of the treasures from the old time, grabbed when the great Willum village-beneath-the-ground had been conquered, along with other relics that remained locked within the depths of the Hidden Realm. But it was not the most significant one.

  His army comes, but the one I seek is not with them.

  Fire-Eye swallowed but said nothing. The Spirit had been of great assistance, had given him a terrifying invulnerability, an invaluable asset in his rise to power, but it was obsessed, not easily distracted.

  He took the chain from around his neck, staring absently into the eye amid the golden fire, the symbol that had given him his shaman name. Fire-Eye. It was the name by which the Bolg called him, generally whispered when spoken.

  The fire-eye had lain in the bottom of a great chest for centuries before him, the Bolg of the Hidden Realm too frightened to touch it, let alone put it on. Even the fiercest hunters in the Fist-and-Fire, his own clan, had shied away from it. Only he had been able to summon the courage to lift the golden symbol from its casket, to wear it on his chest. He reveled in watching the other Bolg of his clan recoil in abject fear.

  It had never occurred to him to wonder why the Willums would have buried such a powerful item away, had left it under a pile of rags along with a small pair of alabaster lions and a brooch made of mother-of-pearl, baubles that no one had wanted to touch but that had instantly disappeared once he took the fire-eye out of the crate. Twenty season-cycles had passed since that day.

  The Spirit had made itself known to him almost immediately. It had come to him in darkness, reflecting his own image back to him, frightening him into shaking fits. When it spoke its words were hard to hear clearly, though he had gotten more used to the silent voice over time. It had given him his name, Saltar.

  Saltar?

  Fire-Eye looked up again, searching the darkness for the all-but-invisible Ghost. That was what the other clans called the Spirit. They were almost as terrified of it as he was. It spoke to him now, just as it had then. A thought occurred to him.

  "I know how to draw him out," he said to the air around him.

  Silence.

  "You must fight this time," Saltar said, fingering the fire-eye, then slipping the chain around his neck again. "Then he will come."

  The air bristled, a whiff of heat rising in Saltar's dismal chamber.

  Yes.

  * * *

  Emmy.

  Tears welled beneath Rhapsody's eyelids at the sound of her mother's voice, a voice she heard in her heart. Dreaming, but still clinging to the last fragments of awareness, she struggled to keep the vision at bay. Too often the nightmares began like this, catching her off-guard and vulnerable.

  "No," she whispered in her sleep. "Please."

  A gentle hand came to rest on her head.

  Don't cry, Emmy. Her mother's smiling face, swimming before her, blurred by her own tears.

  She surrendered to sleep with one last sigh. "Mama."

  I like your house, Emmy, especially the candles. Her mother's eyes cast an appreciative glance around at the tiny glimmering lights that appeared, as she spoke, in the darkness. Even the simplest house is a palace in candlelight. "Mama—"

  Come over here and let me brush your hair by the fire the way we once did.

  Rhapsody felt the heat radiate over her face. She rose and followed her mother to the hearth. Flames twisted and danced, burning insistently.

  The caress of smooth hands running down her hair, the bite of the comb.

  Do you remember this, child?

  "Yes," she whispered, choking on the tears. "Mama—" Shhh. Her mother reached into the fire. Here, child, put your hand in; I can't get it for you. It won't let me pick it up. You'll have to do it.

  She reached into the roaring flames, feeling their heat but no pain. Her hand grasped something smooth and cold, and she drew it forth from the fire. Instantly all the flames died away except for the ones licking up the blade of the sword in her hand.

  "Daystar Clarion," she murmured.

  As it was in the Past, before it was taken from our land, away from the light of Seren. See how it looked then.

  Rhapsody turned the weapon over in her hands, running her fingers along the silvery blade. "It looks the same." Look harder.

  She turned it over again. In the hilt, just above the tang, a small light burned blue-white, more brilliant than the sun, held in place by silvery prongs.

  "This light isn't there anymore," Rhapsody said. "The prongs are empty now. What was it?"

  It was a piece of the star, of Seren. A source of great power, of elemental magic, from the Before-Time. Your star, Emmy.

  "Aria, " she whispered. My guiding star. Yes, her mother said. She pointed into the darkness above, where Seren gleamed, as it once had. I told you this long ago, child: if you can find your guiding star, you will never be lost. You have forgotten this.

  "No, Mama, no. I remember." It was becoming difficult to breathe.

  Then why are you lost?

  "I—I lost the star, Mama. I lost Seren; Serendair is gone, dead a thousand years."

  The land is gone, the star remains.

  "Mama—"

  Watch, child. Her mother pointed skyward. From Seren, high in the darkness above, a tiny piece broke off and streaked across the sky, an infinitesimal falling star. In her hand, the light in the sword's hilt winked out, its prongs empty once more.

  Rhapsody followed her mother's finger; it almost seemed to be guiding the star in its descent.

  In the darkness ahead of her she could see a table, or an altar of some kind, on which the body of a man rested. The figure was wreathed in darkness; she could see nothing but his outline. The tiny star fell onto the body, causing it to shine incandescently. The intense brightness gleamed for a moment, then resolved into a dim glow. Rhapsody went cold, remembering the vision from the House of Remembrance.

  That is where the piece of your star went, child, for good, or ill. If you can find your guiding star, you will never be lost. Never.

  Even in her sleep, Rhapsody could tell that something about the vision was not right. Generally the lore related to he
r in her dreams by her parents or people from her past were tied to her memories, things that had happened while they were still alive. Visions of the Future were usually unconnected to anyone she loved who had died in the cataclysm. But here her mother was, imparting things that she could not possibly have known in her lifetime.

  "How can you tell me these things, Mama?"

  She felt the warmth of her mother's arms encircle her.

  I can tell you because, just as I am, these are memories of yours. You just don't know them yet. If you can find your guiding star, you will never be lost. Never.

  The glowing body on the altar faded into darkness and disappeared.

  "I can't see him anymore, Mama. Why can't I see him?"

  It's not what he is, it's what he wears.

  Rhapsody turned over, tangling herself in the blankets. "I don't understand."

  Look over your shoulder.

  Rhapsody turned. Hovering in the darkness were three eyes. Two were placed in an otherwise dark face, their edges rimmed in the color of blood. The third hung suspended below them, set in the center of a blazing ball of flame. She began to tremble.

  "Mama?"

  Remember what I said, Emmy: It's not what he is, it's what he wears.

  The flames from the ball began to expand until they filled all of her view. She looked back to see her mother, engulfed in the inferno. Rhapsody reached out her arms as horror swept through her.

  "Mama!"

  Her mother continued to smile as she withered to a dark ember, then was swallowed up in the flames.

  Your family was destroyed in fire, Emmy.

  "Mama!"

  Fire is strong. But starfire was born first; it is the more powerful element. Use the fire of the stars to cleanse yourself, and the world of the hatred that took us. Then I will rest in peace until you see me again.

  "Mama, no! Please come back!"

  It's not what he is, it's what he wears. The voice echoed softly as it died away.

  "Rhaps?"

  "No," Rhapsody moaned, reaching into the darkness, clawing desperately as the dream evaporated. Mama.

  "Rhaps, are you all right?"

  She sat up in bed, wiping away the tears that were pouring down her face with the sleeve of her nightgown. Jo's silhouette lingered in the doorway, casting a long shadow.

  "Yes," she said quickly. "I'm sorry, honey; did I wake you?"

  Jo came into the room and sat on her bed, giving her a quick hug.

  "No, Grunthor did. They need you down at the hospital."

  * * *

  The Bolg medics were still bringing in the wounded when Rhapsody arrived with her medical bag, still in her dressing gown, her hair loose and wild around her shoulders. She ran to Grunthor, who was carrying one of his soldiers to a cot.

  "Grunthor, are you all right? What happened?"

  The Sergeant stripped off the leather breastplate, exposing a gruesome chest wound that bisected the man from his throat to his waist.

  "Oi'm fine, darlin', but ol' Warty 'ere is in bad shape." The Sergeant's voice was anxious.

  They switched places smoothly as Rhapsody opened her bag. This drill was becoming routine. There had never been such a tremendous number of casualties at once, however. Something must have gone terribly wrong.

  "Clean compresses and pipsissewa, please," she said to Krinsel, a midwife hovering nearby, who nodded and disappeared.

  Grunthor's face fell at her words. He recognized the herb she had asked for, used to ease the pain of the dying.

  "'E's a goner, then, Duchess?"

  Rhapsody smiled at her friend sadly. "I'm afraid so, Grunthor, he's taken damage to his heart." She took the cloths the midwife handed her and tried to stanch the bleeding. "We'll try to make him comfortable while we're tending to the others."

  "First Woman?" the Bolg lieutenant whispered.

  Rhapsody ran her hand gently down the side of his face. "Yes?"

  "Fire-Eye and his clan it was."

  Rhapsody's eyes filled with sympathy, though she didn't comprehend what he meant. "Rest now," she said gently.

  The dying Bolg blinked rapidly, trying to focus on her face. "Fire-Eye—Bolg—call him, but—Saltar his—name is."

  She took the pipsissewa from the midwife. "I'll tell the king."

  "First—Woman?"

  She applied the herb. "Yes?" she said softly, watching the life begin to leave his face.

  "Like—the sunrise—are you." The lieutenant's eyes went glassy.

  Rhapsody's throat tightened. She leaned forward and kissed the sweaty forehead, feeling the contorted wrinkles ease a little. In his ear she softly sang the beginning of the Lirin Song of Passage, the traditional dirge sung at a funeral pyre, meant to loose the bonds of Earth and ease the journey of a soul to the light.

  A violent swell of noise and screaming broke off her song in mid-note. The hospital corridor burst into chaos as soldiers and medics swarmed in, dragging the wounded in a seemingly endless caravan, a ghastly parade of the dead and dying.

  "Dear gods," Rhapsody gasped. There were hundreds, their life's blood gushing onto the floor, the hideous smell of burning flesh fouling the air. She leapt from the cot and ran into the center of the fray.

  Achmed stood in the hallway, directing the still-ambulatory soldiers into the areas where the medics were caring for the worst injuries, checking each injured Bolg they carried to ascertain if he was still alive or not, and sending those with corpses out of the hospital area. The expression on his face was grim; he had not been at the scene of the battle.

  Rhapsody took a badly injured Claw soldier out of the shaking grasp of another, also wounded, and pulled his arm around her neck. She dragged him to a clear area of the floor, out of the way of the roiling cacophony, signaling Grunthor to help his companion.

  "What happened?" she asked the Sergeant again as she removed the Bolg's armor, wincing at the sight of what remained beneath it.

  "We was on peaceful maneuvers," the giant Firbolg said, tying a tourniquet around his patient's leg.

  "So I see."

  "Oi'm serious, Duchess," the Sergeant snapped. "Standard procedure: recruit first, sack second. We was deep in the Hidden Realm. Warty and Ringram took a party and went on ahead. You should o' seen the ones we couldn't get out o' there; this is just a few by comparison."

  Rhapsody shuddered as she tied off the bandages.

  "Rapzdee?"

  She looked up to see Krinsel standing over her, trembling. The sight caused her to go numb; Krinsel was one of the most stern-faced and unflappable of the midwives. Rhapsody had never seen a flicker of emotion on her face before. Now she was struggling to keep from dissolving into panic.

  "Krinsel?" she asked, standing quickly, and taking her arm.

  "Come."

  Rhapsody and Grunthor followed her through the windstorm of casualties, stepping gingerly over the bodies of the wounded and the dead.

  Krinsel led them to another group of bodies tucked away in a corner of the hospital. The reek of burning flesh was overpowering, and Rhapsody covered her face to shield her lungs from the stench.

  Each victim had slashes, deep as sword wounds, scarring their torsos and abdomens, and occasionally their faces. Rhapsody eyes opened wide as she saw them.

  "Achmed!" she shouted as she bent down, checking for heartbeats. Only one was alive, clinging to consciousness by a thread.

  A moment later the king was beside her, watching as Grunthor turned the victims over, examining their injuries.

  "Look at this," Rhapsody said, pointing to a gruesome gash across the back of the last living victim. Gently she traced the wound with a healing solution of thyme and clarified water. It was deep and wide, but limited by bloodless edges, as if it had been cauterized with a sharp branding iron. The wound was still smoldering.

  Achmed bent down beside her. "What do you think did this?"

  "I don't know, but this is what the wounds made by Daystar Clarion look like," she said, applying pressure
elsewhere as the man began to gasp.

  "Only deeper, and not as narrow," Achmed agreed.

  "Looks like claws ta me," said Grunthor.

  Rhapsody glanced up at Krinsel, who looked as if she was about to faint.

  "Krinsel, what did this? Do you recognize what made these wounds?"

  The Bolg woman nodded, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

  "Ghost it was. Fire-Eye's Ghost."

  Rhapsody finally left the hospital at sunset the following day. By then the bodies had been removed and taken to the crypt near the great forges, beds found for the wounded, all their injuries treated and bound at last. The Firbolg medics and the midwives moved silently among the victims, tending to them as ably as the Filids in Khaddyr's hospice at the Circle.

  She had left Jo with Grunthor, who had lapsed into silence, refusing to leave his injured men. There was a look in the Sergeant's eye that she had seen before, although never so intensely, an expression that crept over his face when he used to speak of his troops long ago in the old world. She had tried to comfort him to no avail; the giant Bolg had only grown more somber and distant beneath her ministrations. At last she determined what he needed most was to be allowed to sit vigil, and so she gave him his solitude after asking Jo to keep an eye on him.

  Though what she longed for more than anything was an extended soak in Anwyn's bathtub, she cinched the tie of her gore-soiled dressing gown tighter and headed for the tunnel that led to the Blasted Heath.

  The night was coming. Darkness was encroaching on the pale sky, stained with fingers of red and crimson. The clouds swirled in a deepening spiral toward the horizon, mirroring the topsy-turvy angle that the world had assumed since she last slept. She sang her vespers woodenly, finding no solace in the ritual, trying to keep the anguish that she felt at bay. The Bolg had suffered so terribly.

  Achmed was sitting exactly where she had expected to find him, at the mouth of the tunnel that overlooked the canyon and the heath beyond, the place he had first stood to face his subjects, where he had claimed dominion over them. His legs hung off the edge, dangling above the vast crevice a thousand feet below, his eyes fixed across the canyon and beyond the Blasted Heath.