Rhapsody Read online

  One of the Best Novels of 1999:

  Best Fiction: Borders.com

  (Top Ten Fiction Titles of 1999)

  Best Book/Editor’s Pick: Amazon.com

  (Top Ten SF/Fantasy Titles of 1999)

  A Best Book of the Year in SF/Fantasy:

  BarnesandNoble.com

  The Readers’ Choice List: SF Site

  (Top Ten SF/Fantasy Titles of 1999)

  “In Rhapsody, Elizabeth Haydon gives us strong, compelling characters in a world both mysterious and familiar. Drawn through wonders of the fantastic and of the human soul, we, the readers, are always moving forward, never sure of where the plot, with its surprising twists and turns, is taking us.”

  —J. Gregory Keyes

  “Distinguished by superior wit and intelligence, this fantasy debut opens what looks to be an outstanding saga…. This is one of the finest high fantasy debuts in years.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Rhapsody is movingly written, epic fantasy that works on many levels. I read this book with a growing sense of pleasure, impressed not only with the author’s deft plotting but also with her use of language. Haydon is a writer.”

  —Morgan Llewelyn

  “A very moving book, quite intriguing.”

  —San José Mercury News

  “Elizabeth Haydon makes a magnificent fantasy debut. Her voice is warm, often humorous, and sure, her world a richly realized place of myth and magic, and her characters complex and utterly compelling.”

  —Mary Jo Putney

  “A well-worked out backdrop of impressive depth and appeal.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A powerful novel. It is lucid, interesting, well paced, well organized, adventurous, magical, and with characters who are original yet consistent to themselves. There are sequences of considerable power. This author will surely go far.

  “I am amazed by the growing number of strong new voices in fantasy, hitherto mostly male. Elizabeth Haydon is sure to change that.”

  —Piers Anthony

  “Combine the witty banter of Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew with the star-crossed soulmates of his Romeo and Juliet, add a little dash of modern fairy tale à la Star Wars, and you’ll get a hint of the fantastic new world created by first-time novelist Elizabeth Haydon.”

  —Romantic Times (4½ stars out of 5)

  “In a genre choking with predictable worlds and characters, Haydon blows in on the fresh air of new insights and talents. A very auspicious beginning!”

  —Jennifer Roberson

  “Rhapsody provides readers with a different heroine and the kind of action and interplay that proves the art of storytelling is alive and well.”

  —L. E. Modesitt, Jr.

  “Prepare to lose a weekend. Elizabeth Haydon’s Rhapsody is filled with wit, adventure, and delightful characters. Pick up this book at your own risk—of neglecting your family, friends, and chores—while under the enchanted spell of Rhapsody.”

  —Kathi Kamen Goldmark

  Rhapsody

  CHILD OF BLOOD

  Elizabeth Haydon

  A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

  NEW YORK

  To

  November, October, and September

  the three best months of the year

  with love and appreciation

  for all they have given me

  * * *

  THE PROPHECY OF THE THREE

  The Three shall come, leaving early, arriving late,

  The lifestages of all men:

  Child of Blood, Child of Earth, Child of the Sky.

  Each man, formed in blood and born in it,

  Walks the Earth and sustained by it,

  Reaching to the sky, and sheltered beneath it,

  He ascends there only in his ending, becoming part of the stars.

  Blood gives new beginning, Earth gives sustenance,

  The Sky gives dreams in life—eternity in death.

  Thus shall the Three be, one to the other.

  * * *

  * * *

  THE PROPHECY OF THE UNINVITED GUEST

  Among the last to leave, among the first to come,

  Seeking a new host, uninvited, in a new place.

  The power gained being the first,

  Was lost in being the last.

  Hosts shall nurture it, unknowing,

  Like the guest wreathed in smiles

  While secretly poisoning the larder.

  Jealously guarded of its own power,

  Ne’er has, nor ever shall its host bear or sire children,

  Yet ever it seeks to procreate.

  * * *

  Contents

  Overture

  Meridion

  The Lost Island

  First Movement

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Acknowledgments

  Overture

  Meridion

  Meridion sat down at the Time Editor and began to work. He adjusted the lenses and checked the spools of diaphanous strands, ranging in density from the thick, clear film of the Past to the foggy, wisp-thin threads of the Future. He gave the slender tools a final cleansing wipe and spun out the thick thread he had identified off the Past spool, drawing it over the frame of the machine and positioning it under the lens. Separating carefully, he picked apart each timeline, working through centuries and years down to days and moments until he found the precise point of entry that he needed.

  He smiled to himself as he watched the gait of the boy, cocksure and unguarded, as he wended his way along the forest road. The gait was very different from the one he was used to seeing. The scenery surrounding the boy was achingly bright and fresh, a glistening summer morning that begged appreciation, but he seemed oblivious of it. Meridion stopped the frame.

  From the prismatic disc hovering in the air beside the Editor he took a tiny flask, dense black stone molded carefully into a spill-resistant phial. Upon uncorking it, Meridion recoiled slightly; the harsh odor was always more intensely astringent than he was prepared for it to be. He blinked several times, unwilling to use his hands to clear the water welling in his eyes, kno
wing the risk of even an infinitesimal droplet being accidentally applied or, worse, wasted.

  When his vision cleared again he carefully drew forth the hair-thin brush and waited while the tiny bead of glimmering liquid elongated into an oval tear, then reabsorbed back up the miniature bristle. Finally satisfied, he meticulously dabbed the liquid onto the eyes of the boy in the now-frozen image and waited to see that the solution had spread across the sapphire-blue irises to the corners of each canthus. The window of opportunity would be small and final; it was important that the boy be given every chance to see things clearly and quickly. When he was done he recorked the phial and set it back on the gleaming disk.

  Meridion removed the spool from the Time Editor and replaced it with a different one, another Past, even older. This he spun out with even more care, owing to its extreme age and the nature of the place from which it had come, now vanished beneath the waves. It took a great deal longer to find the right point on this thread, but Meridion was patient. It was important to do this correctly; much depended on it.

  When he finally found the right place he stopped the frame again and picked up a different tool. With a practiced hand he made a smooth, circular slice, plucked the image from the first strand, and placed it gently into the second. He looked through the lens to check his work.

  The boy had not lost consciousness, as he had expected, but instead lay writhing facedown on the ground with his head cradled in his hands, frantically rubbing his eyes. Meridion was both amused and sorry. I should have known he would fight it, he thought. He sat back and turned the viewing screen onto the wall to watch the outcome of his work and wait for the moment of meeting, and of exit.

  The Lost Island

  1139, THIRD AGE

  The pain subsided as quickly as it had come. Gwydion spat out the dust from the road and rolled onto his back, allowing himself a deep groan. He glanced at the sky above him and was instantly aware of the shift not only in location but in time of day. A moment ago it had been early morning, and now it was afternoon, winding toward evening. That he had been removed from where he had been was clear to him; he had no idea where he was.

  Gwydion had been blessed with a pragmatic nature, and after a moment of adjusting to the new surroundings he stood and began calculating what to do next. How or why this had happened to him was not an issue for the moment.

  The air of this place was thinner than the air of home, and Gwydion knew it would take some time for him to acclimate to it. Glancing around, he spied a small copse of trees a short jog away, and he hastily made for it.

  Upon reaching the shelter he sank to the ground and began to inhale in short, shallow breaths, slowing and expanding each one until his lungs began to assimilate, shielding his watering eyes to give them a chance to adjust. Then he felt for the items he had brought with him on his way to town: his dagger and pouch were still there, as well as his waterskin and the apple. He took a quick drink. As he was capping the skin he felt faint vibrations in the ground below him. A cart, or something like it, must be approaching.

  Gwydion sank lower to the ground as the ever-thickening dust cloud signaled the arrival of the group. He could see three men walking beside the cart, which was pulled by two oxen with a calf following along behind. It was laden with barrels of grain and loose straw, and a fourth man was driving it. The dress of the men was unfamiliar to him, although it was apparent that they were peasants, probably farmers.

  Gwydion listened as carefully as he could over the rumbling din of the cart’s wheels. His eyes throbbed slightly and then were drawn to the farmers’ lips, strangely accentuated in the haze that filled his view. Suddenly his vision became intensely clear; it was if he could see the words as they were formed in the men’s mouths, and could hear them as if they were being spoken directly into his ear. When he recognized the language pattern, his head began to spin.

  They were speaking Old Cymrian. It isn’t possible, he thought. Old Cymrian was essentially a dead language, used rarely in the holy-day ceremonies of religions other than his own, or as a vanity language among those of Cymrian lineage. But it was being spoken here, between peasants, as common vernacular on an average day in farmlands. It wasn’t possible, unless—

  Gwydion shuddered. Serendair, the Cymrian homeland, had been gone for more than a thousand years now, vanished into the sea in the cataclysm that swallowed the Island and some of its neighbors in volcanic fire.

  His ancestors had come from there, as had those of a few of his friends, but by and large the refugees of that land were a dispersed people, the casualties of wars they visited upon the lands of their hosts. Could there still be an untouched pocket of them here, wherever he was, living as they had thirteen centuries before?

  As the cart and its accompanying dust cloud rumbled out of sight, Gwydion’s head emerged from the patch of trees and brush to watch it go. He saw it make a laborious climb up a graded hill to the west and disappear over the summit. He waited until he knew that he could reach the top of the hill with them in sight while remaining unseen, checked to be sure there was no one else on the road, and then made for the summit himself.

  The countryside was hilly, and when he got to the top he paused a moment to take in the sight of the late-afternoon sun favoring certain pastures with blankets of gold. This rolling land was beautiful, and he knew he had never been through these parts before, or he would have remembered it. It was verdant in the heat of summer, the green earth filling the air with the rich scent of life.

  The farmlands stretched out as far as he could see in an endless expanse of field and meadow dotted with trees but no real forests. There was no sign of any major waterway either, except for small streams that crossed the pastures, and the wind held no scent of the sea.

  Gwydion had no time to wonder where he was; the light was beginning to leave the sky, and the cart was almost out of sight. Its destination was probably the small village he could see past the next valley. Between here and there were several small farms and one large one. He decided to stop at the first small farm and see if he might find lodging and, with any luck, answers.

  Gwydion removed the gold crest ring from his hand and tucked it quickly into his pouch. He took one last look around the hilly vista, and drew in a deep breath. His lungs had gotten used to the air here; there was a sweetness to it, mixed with the scent of pastureland and barns, a richness that spoke of a happiness he had never known in his short life.

  A sense of calm overtook him. There was no time to wonder how he had gotten here, and no need. Whatever the reason, he was here now, and he meant to make an adventure of it. He took off in a dead run for the farmhouse at the dip in the road, where candlelight was just beginning to shine in the windows.

  A number of men were finishing the day’s chores when he reached the first small farm, bringing the plows and animals back into the barn and making ready for the night. The sunset was a brilliant one, and it bathed the farmhouse and the surrounding pens with gentle streaks of crimson and pink.

  The farmhands were laughing and joking; there was a festive mood in the air for the end of such a long day. Gwydion located the man he thought was the farmer. He was distinctly older than the others, with a shock of silver hair crowning a body still strong and muscular, and he directed the others with a soft voice that belied his great height.

  Gwydion moved to the end of the carriage path next to the house, hoping to catch the attention of the farmer without seeming threatening. He stood there for a moment, but the men were hurrying to be finished and didn’t see him.

  “Partch!” A woman’s voice called out over his head, and Gwydion turned around. An older woman, most likely the farmer’s wife, was standing under the eaves of the house, pointing at him, and calling to the tall man. “Looks like you’ve got a new hand.” She smiled at Gwydion, and he returned her grin. This was easier than he had thought.

  The farmer gave the reins of the last of the horses to another of the men and came over, brushing his hands on h
is shirt. “Hello there, Sam,” he said, offering his hand to Gwydion. “Looking for work?”

  “Yes, sir,” Gwydion answered, shaking hands. He hoped his pronunciation was correct. That the language was not his mother tongue was instantly apparent to the farmer, who slowed his words in an effort to be more easily understood. He gestured to one of the men, who came over, wiping his hands on a rag.

  “Asa, show Sam here the shed. You can get settled; I’m afraid you missed supper, boy. But the foreharvest dance is in town tonight, and these young fellas are goin’. Why don’t you ride along? There’s bound to be food there if you’re hungry.”

  The woman clucked at her husband. “We have scraps he can have now, Partch. Here, young man, come with me.” She turned and went into the farmhouse.

  Gwydion followed her, taking in the sight with amazement. The walls were stone with a wood interior, and the furniture was simple but well crafted; it bore the hallmarks of Cymrian artistry. The spindles on the chairs and staircases were turned in the exact manner of the railings on the altar of the basilica in Sepulvarta, the holy city of his homeland, the tables fashioned similarly to ones he had seen in the Great Hall in Tyrian.