Rhapsody Read online

  Finally, at noon on the twelfth day, Achmed pointed directly south and stopped. The two exchanged soft words in a language Rhapsody had never heard except between them; then Grunthor turned to her.

  “Well, miss, you up for a good ten-mile run?”

  “Run? We haven’t stopped for the night yet. I don’t think I can do it.”

  “Oi was afraid you might say that. ’Ere, then.” He crouched down and patted his shoulder. Rhapsody stared at him, exhaustion making her confused, then realized foggily that he wanted to carry her on his back, a prospect she particularly loathed. She shuddered at the sight of the many hilts and blade handles protruding from various moorings and bandoliers that crossed his shoulders. It would be like lying down in a field of swords.

  “No. I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  The cloaked figure turned to her, and beneath the hood she could see the irritation in his eyes.

  “We’re almost there. Choose now: shall we abandon you here, or are you going to be gracious about Grunthor’s offer of help? The woods are in sight; those that defend them are not. These are bad days; they take no risks with wanderers strolling near their outposts.”

  Rhapsody looked around. She had no idea where she was, nor could she see the forest. As she had several times since beginning the journey, she considered staying put, hoping that whatever she encountered after the two moved on would be safer company. But, also as she had decided before, her traveling companions rescued her, had not tried to harm her, and looked out for her in their own way. So she swallowed her displeasure and agreed.

  “Very well, I’ll walk as long as I can first, all right?”

  “Fine, miss, just let me know when you’re tired.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ve been tired for days. I’ll let you know when I can’t go on.”

  “Fair enough,” said the giant.

  The moon was on the wane. It hung low in the sky, trimmed with blood-red mist, a silent observer of the answer to the F’dor’s summons.

  From deep within the dark temple the call had come, channeled out through the massive stone steeple above, standing black against the night sky.

  The towering obelisk was an architectural marvel, a joint masterpiece of man and of nature. Thousands of tons of basalt base and obsidian shaft reached up into the darkness that surrounded its well-hidden cavern in the High Reaches, Serendair’s forbidding northern mountain range. The actual spire of the mammoth fortress a mile below the ground, the shadowy monolith pierced the racing clouds, thrusting skyward proudly, almost insolently, tapering to a point in which was carved the image of a single eye. As the chant began, the scraps of vaporous mist that hovered in the humid air around the Spire dissipated instantly; the eye was clearing, readying itself.

  The ancient words of Summoning, spoken by the dark priest at the altar of blood sacrifice, were not known in the language of this Age, or even the two Ages previous to it. They came from the Before-Time, the primordial era when the elements of the universe were being born, and symbolized the most ancient and essential of all ties: the link between the element of fire and the race that sprang from it, the F’dor.

  Twisted, avaricious beings with a deceptive, jealous nature, the few surviving F’dor shared a common longing to consume the world around them, much like the fire from which they came. Also like fire, F’dor had no corporeal form, but rather fed off a more solid host, the way fire grows by consuming fuel, destroying it in the process.

  The demon-spirit that clung to Tsoltan, high priest to the Goddess of Void in the world of men, had made its way to power slowly, patiently, over time. From the moment of its birth in the Earth’s fiery belly it had taken a long worldview, planning its steps carefully, willingly attaching itself to hosts who were weak or inconsequential in order to give itself the time to grow into the fullness of its potential.

  Even as it passed, through death or conquest, to increasingly powerful hosts, it held back, reserved the time of its revelation, to ensure that nothing compromised its ultimate goal. The possession of Tsoltan had been an inspired one, achieved willingly, early in his priesthood. The duality of his nature served to make him doubly strong, lent a strategic composure to his innate desire to devour. Living at one moment in the world of men, the next in the dark domain of black fire, Tsoltan existed on two levels, both as man and as demon.

  And neither of them had the power he needed over the Brother.

  From the ground around the Spire dew began to rise, steamy mist ascending into the scorching air of the summer night. Hot vapors twisted and danced, forming clouds that in the light of the just-past-full moon grew longer, taller, then began to hold a human shape.

  First one, then several, then many, then a multitude of glistening figures formed beneath the unblinking eye of the obelisk, robed like the Brother himself, but with utter darkness within their hoods where a face would be. The bodily frames on which the mist-cloth hung began as thin and skeletal, but as the chant continued they took on the appearance of flesh, of a sinewy musculature, of fire-tipped claws, unseen indications of the demon’s substantial investment of power expended in bringing them into being. The thousand eyes of the F’dor. The Shing.

  In the great vault below, Tsoltan watched them assemble through the obelisk’s eye, trembling with strain and joy. They lingered motionless in the air, absorbing more and more of the heat their master had committed to them, stripping it from himself, growing stronger as his power ebbed.

  Within their empty hoods a glimmer could occasionally be seen, perhaps a moonbeam reflecting off the mist, but more likely the reflection of the lens of the immense eye which they now formed. In the world of living men one moment, in the spirit world the next, flitting back and forth between the two domains, much like their master himself, the Shing waited. They were as ephemeral as the wind, but not as fleeting: when sent forth to seek their quarry, they were as relentless as Time, as unforgiving as death.

  Tsoltan clutched the altar, his strength waning like the moon on the fields above. In a moment his thousand eyes would set forth, resolutely combing each pocket of air, each step of the wide world, searching endlessly until they found their prey. When they finally came upon him, the results would be horrific.

  The demon-priest trembled as weakness washed over him. The Shing would be taking virtually all of his life force with them, a heavy risk. As one knee, then the other, crumbled out from under him, Tsoltan wondered if the Brother would appreciate the compliment. His head struck the polished obsidian floor as he fell, splitting his brow and staining the stone with blood, an appropriate sign.

  “The Brother. Find him,” he whispered hollowly.

  Tsoltan, high-priest, man and symbiotic demon-spirit, rolled onto his back and stared into the blackness overhead. A mile above, a thousand Shing turned and set forth on the wind, under the unblinking gaze of one solitary eye.

  5

  On the rare occasions that Achmed deemed a campfire safe, Rhapsody made sure to sleep as near to it as possible. Despite the blistering heat of midsummer, which lingered on well into the night, she found the crackle and smoke comforting, a reminder of the home she hadn’t seen in so long.

  Near the fire the voices in her dreams changed. They no longer repeated the jeering words of Michael and his ilk, but rather harked back to a deeper, farther Past, earlier, sweeter days near a different fire, drawing those days, if only for a moment, into the Present. Wrapped as she was in the fitful sleep of the outdoors, memories in the dark brought warmth, instead of fear, to her soul.

  “Mama, tell me about the great forest.”

  “Get into the tub first. Here, hold my hand.” Soap bubbles glistening in firelight, spinning in round whirling prisms, hovering for a moment, then disappearing before her mother’s smile.

  Warmth closing in with the water and the hot air from the hearth. “What did you put in the water this time?”

  “Sit all the way down. Lavender, lemon verbena, rose hips, snow fern—”

  “
Snow fern? We eat that!”

  “Exactly. Why do you think the water is so warm? I’m not bathing you, I’m making soup.”

  “Mama, stop teasing. Please tell me about the forest. Are the Lirin that live there like us?”

  Her mother sitting back on her heels, crossing arms with rolled-up sleeves, leaning on the edge of the metal washtub. Her face was serene, but her eyes clouded over with memory, as they always had when thinking about the Past.

  “In some ways, yes. They look like us, at least more than the humans do, but their coloring is different.”

  “Different how?”

  “Their coloring matches the forest more. Ours is a reflection of the open sky and the fields where our people, the Liringlas, live.” The hair ribbon pulling free with a gentle tug. “Now, for instance, if you were of the forest, this beautiful golden hair that your father is so fond of would probably be brown or russet-colored; those green eyes might be as well. Your skin would be darker, less rosy; that way you could blend in, walk the greenwood unseen, as they do.” A cascade of warm water; sputtering, blinking.

  “Mama!”

  “I’m sorry; I didn’t expect you’d turn like that. Hold still for a moment.”

  “Do the forest Lirin have little girls, too?”

  “Of course. And little boys. And women and men, and houses and cities; they’re just different from the ones we live in.”

  “Will I see them someday, too? Will I have a Blossoming Year and go to the forest like you did?”

  A gentle caress on her cheek, the sadness in her mother’s eyes growing deeper. “We’ll see. We live among the humans, child; this is our home. Your father may not want you following the customs of my family, especially if it means you would leave for such a long time. And who can blame him? Why, what would we do without our girl?”

  “I’d be safe among the Lirin, Mama—wouldn’t I? They wouldn’t hate me because I’m part human?”

  Her mother had looked away. “No one will hate you. No one.” The opening of a wide drying cloth. “Here, stand up, little one, and step out carefully.” The harsh chill of the air, the rough fabric rubbing briskly on her wet skin. The soft warmth of her nightgown closing around her along with her mother’s arms. “Sit in my lap, and I’ll comb your hair.”

  “Tell me about the forest, please.”

  A deep, musical sigh. “It’s as wide as your eyes can see—bigger than you can possibly imagine—and full of the scent and sound of life. The trees within it grow in more colors than you have ever seen, even in your dreams. You can feel the song of the wood itself, humming in every living thing there. The humans call it the Enchanted Forest because many of the things that grow and live there are unfamiliar to them, but the Lirin know it by its true name: Yliessan, the holy place. If you are ever lost, the wood will welcome you because of your Lirin blood.”

  The crackle of the fire, its flickering light on her hair, so like her mother’s. “Tell me about Windershins Stream, and the Pool of the Heart’s Desire, and Grayrock. And the Tree—Mama, tell me about Sagia.”

  “You know these stories better than I do.”

  “Please?”

  A gentle hand running smoothly down her hair, the bite of the comb. “All right, I’ll tell you of Sagia, and then it will be time for devotions.

  “The Great Tree grows in the heart of the forest Yliessan, on the northern crescent. It is so tall you can barely see the bottom branches. You could never see the top unless you were a bird, because those branches touch the sky.

  “The legends say it grows at one of the places where Time began, where the light of the stars first touched the Earth. Sagia is as old as the ages, and its power is tied to Time itself. It is sometimes called the Oak of Deep Roots, because those roots reach out to the other places on Earth where Time began.

  “It is said that its trunk root runs along the Axis Mundi, the centerline of the Earth, and its smaller roots spread throughout the Island, tying it to all things that grow. I know this is at least true in the great forest—it is the power of Sagia that creates Yliessan’s song, keeps the forest safe. Now, come; the sun is setting.”

  The chill of the evening wind, the smudges of inky clouds lining the horizon on the final edge of the pale-blue sky. The glow of the bright star, appearing over the fields and valleys of the wide, rolling land. The sweet clarity of her mother’s voice, her own awkward attempts to match the tone. The single tear on her mother’s translucent cheek.

  “That was very good, little one; you’re learning. Can you name the bright star?”

  “Of course, Mama; that’s Seren, the name-star of our land.”

  Her mother’s embrace, warm, strong. “That is also your star, child; you were born beneath it. Do you remember how to say ‘my guiding star’ in our tongue?”

  “Aria?”

  “Good, very good. Remember, though you live in the human world, though you have a human name, you are also descended of another proud and noble people, you have a Lirin name as well. The music of the sky is in you; you are one of its children, as are all Lirin. Seren hangs in the southern sky over the forest Yliessan. When all else fails, you will be welcome there. If you watch the sky and can find your guiding star, you will never be lost, never.”

  The grip of the huge, taloned hand, the caustic smoke of the campfire. The sting of the morning air. The deep voice ringing in her ears, drowning out the sweet one in her memory.

  “Miss? Ya ’wake?”

  If you watch the sky and can find your guiding star, you will never be lost, never.

  Rhapsody sat up, clutching at the air in one last attempt to retain the memory. It was of little use; the dream was gone. She choked on the loss that welled up from inside her, then rose to a stand, brushing grass and twigs off her cloak.

  “Yes. I’m ready to go now.”

  They had been in sight of the Lirin forest for several days before Rhapsody realized what it was.

  Initially when she saw it, across the Wide Meadows at the edge of her vision, she was certain they must have inadvertently traveled east, that the broad, dark expanse in the distance was the shoreline of the sea. Like the sea it radiated a shimmering, undulating pattern of heat above it, lending it a mystical air, even from tremendously far away. Her mother’s teachings notwithstanding, she was unprepared for the immensity of the forest, and the power that vibrated in the air around it.

  They were hiding in a grassy thicket at midday in the endless meadow when the realization of what the dark panorama really was first occurred to her. Without thinking she stood, as if enchanted, and looked in the direction of the vast wood. Immediately Grunthor’s enormous hand grasped the back of her vest and dragged her down into the brush again.

  “What’s the matter with you? Get down.”

  Angrily she twisted free and cuffed his hand away. “Let go. What’s the matter with you? There’s no one in sight, and I want to see the forest.”

  “Settle,” whispered the sandy voice next to her. Rhapsody’s protest died in her mouth, her words choked off by the authority in Achmed’s tone. He was staring off to the west, crouched low behind the highgrass, his palm open to the air, the forefinger raised at an angle. “They’ve seen you.”

  There was the slight rustle of the wind in the distance ahead, then nothing more. After several long moments Rhapsody glanced to her side and saw Achmed still frozen in his crouch, his eyes closed, listening intently. She looked west again and saw the highgrass of the field ripple beneath the hot breeze. Still nothing.

  Then, closer than she possibly could have imagined, off to the southwest she saw a face rise infinitesimally out of the scrub, its colors matching the dry brush so completely as to be almost indiscernible. The brown-gold hair crowning its head flowed in crimped waves that blended into the highgrass, the face itself almost the same color, shaped in the slender planes and angles that made her throat tighten with memory.

  The large, almond-shaped eyes, the high cheekbones, the translucent skin, the s
light build of the body hidden within the scrub, long of limb and muscle—Lirin. Darker somewhat than her mother had been, and than the Liringlas she had met the one and only time she had ventured into the meadows west of Easton. Perhaps these were the people known as Lirinved, the In-between, nomads that were at home in either the forest or the fields, settling in neither.

  Suddenly she was aware of many others, not too far behind the scout, spread out through the billowing highgrass of the meadow to the west. A cloud passed in front of the sun overhead, casting a shadow onto the field, and in that brief moment of darkness she saw the glitter from two score or so eyes. Then it was gone.

  Unwilling to look away even for a moment, Rhapsody could see out of the corner of her vision a glint of metal in the grass beside her. Achmed had drawn the cwellan as silently as the cloud had passed; it rested in his thin hands, ready but not yet aimed.

  Grunthor’s grip on her had eased and disappeared. Rhapsody’s heart sank in the knowledge that the giant Firbolg was undoubtedly armed as well. Panic coursed through her, though she was only aware of it when she felt her cheeks redden; she was too busy trying to think of a way back from the abyss on which they now found themselves.

  The hooded man had held his fire, which she took as a hopeful sign that Achmed didn’t want the bloodbath that she knew was looming before them. That notwithstanding, having witnessed her two companions dispense with Michael’s men, she had no doubt that they were capable of surviving being outnumbered, and were intent on doing so. This was the Lirin’s land, however. She had no idea what advantage they had because of it.

  In addition, Rhapsody was not sure on which side of the impending conflict she was safer. Though her two traveling companions had rescued her and had not tried to harm her, she did not trust them. The slaughter of Michael’s soldiers had instilled in her a deep sense of apprehension, bordering on dread.

  The Lirin were, in a sense, her own people with whom she felt a soul-deep bond, but to them she was a stranger, possibly an enemy. The woods are in sight, Achmed had said. Those that defend them are not. These are bad days; they take no risks with wanderers strolling near their outposts. Either way, she knew she was expendable. She felt a silent click on her neck as the cwellan disks were loaded next to her.