Rhapsody

by Elizabeth Haydon

“I already told you; my name is Rhapsody. Now put that down before you break something.”

  “I never break anything unless I mean to. Now, try again. Who are you?”

  “I thought I got it right the first time. Let’s see; I’ll try again. Rhapsody. Isn’t that what I said before?” Her head was swimming, her answers seemed fuzzy. “What did you put in the fire?”

  “I’m about to put your hair in it. How did you know who I am?” He grabbed her injured arm with fingers that behaved more like shears, cutting off feeling to her wrist and hand. Without moving, her muscles began to spasm. There was a small shock of painful interrupted bloodflow at each heart-beat.

  Rhapsody did not react. One advantage she had always had was that she could stand a little abuse. She had also learned that hiding her pain and fear could keep her alive.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I have no idea who you are. Now let go.”

  “In the alley you named me before those guards.”

  Even though her fingers were going numb, Rhapsody remained steady. You gentlemen are just in time to meet my brother. Brother, these are the town guard. Gentlemen, this is my brother—Achmed—the Snake. Despite her drugged state, she felt embarrassment.

  “I needed an ally at that moment, and you just happened to be there,” she said. “It was the first scary name that came into my head, even if in hindsight it was rather, well—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to presume.”

  “That’s not the part ’e’s talkin’ about,” said Grunthor. “’Ow did you know ’e’s the Brother?”

  “Whose brother?”

  For a moment, Rhapsody thought it had gone too far, that she was going to pass out. With each question the sensation that he was severing her arm with his grip grew more urgent. Suddenly, he relaxed his hold on her and looked across the fire at his partner, then back at her.

  “I certainly hope you’re only pretending to be this stupid.”

  “No, I’m afraid not. I have no idea what you are talking about. Is your name supposed to mean something to me?”

  “No.”

  “Then could you let go?”

  Grunthor moved to help her stand as the man with the nightmare face released her and returned to searching her bag.

  “What ’e’s sayin’ is, those troops after you were nothing next to what’s chasin’ us. This is a serious business, miss. My friend wants to know ’ow you knew ’e is the Brother.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard of the Brother, if that’s your name. I was trying to convince them that you were my brother. That’s why I asked if you would adopt me, so that it would be true. I guess this was an unfortunate coincidence. But I’ve already told you I never lie. So either believe me, or kill me, but do not break my instruments.”

  “I’ll smash every one here if you do not tell me the whole truth. Perhaps you had well-meaning parents. Perhaps you were once a professional whore, perhaps you took a vow. Perhaps you now are the consort of some holier-than-unholy man who gets his jollies from your candor. Tell me now who you really are and how you knew to name me.”

  “First, tell me who you both are, and what you intend to do with me.”

  The piercing eyes regarded her sharply. “This is Grunthor. No one has concealed that.”

  The giant glanced at her quickly. “Although you can always call me ‘The Ultimate Authority, to Be Obeyed at All Costs,’” he said lightly. “My troops always does.”

  The joke had its intended effect. The robed man exchanged a look with the giant, then seemed to relax somewhat.

  “At the moment, Achmed is as apt an appellation as anything for me, since that is what you chose to call me,” he said sullenly. “As to who I am, and your fate, both of those are yet to be determined. You spoke my name and then changed it. Normally this would only be an annoyance, but those who are hunting us can make the dead speak, and surely will if they feel they can learn something. Those dead idiots heard what you said. What is a trollop doing with expensive instruments?”

  Rhapsody rubbed her shoulder, feeling the pain begin to abate.

  “I am not a trollop. As I told you before, I am a student of music, and I have achieved the status of Singer of Lirin lore; our word for it is Enwr. My goal was to go on to become a Namer, a Canwr; it is a rare accomplishment but the skills are useful.

  “Four years ago I was accepted as an apprentice. I studied for three of those years with Heiles, a Namer of great renown who lived in Easton, but a year or so ago he vanished without a trace, and I was left to finish my studies on my own. I was completing my final research just this morning.”

  “What can you do?”

  Rhapsody shrugged, then held her throbbing hands closer to the fire.

  “Assorted things. The main thing Singers study is lore. Sometimes lore consists of old tales or the history of a race or a culture. Sometimes it’s the knowledge of a particular discipline, like herbalism or astronomy. Sometimes it’s a collection of songs that tell an important story which would otherwise be lost.”

  The man now known as Achmed stared at her. “And sometimes it’s the knowledge of ancient powers.”

  Rhapsody swallowed nervously. The subject of lore was more akin to a religious belief than a science. It was the way in which the people of her race and profession derived wisdom and power from the vibrations in the life around them. Since in the Lirin creed Life and God were the same thing, the use of lore was a form of prayer, a kind of communion with the Infinite. It was hardly something she wanted to be discussing with a stranger, and especially not this one.

  She looked up to meet his gaze and found an intensity in his eyes that stung her own. It was compelling her to speak, silently demanding an answer.

  “Sometimes, yes, but that generally is something known to Namers and Singers of great experience. Even then, the reason a Namer can draw on the power of a primordial element, like fire or wind, or on a lesser element, like time, is that they have intimate knowledge of it; they know its story, in a sense. That’s another reason for the need for the vow of truth among Namers: if you should interject falsity into lore it dilutes its story, makes it weaker for everyone.”

  The hooded man stuffed her burlap-wrapped harp back into her pack and cinched the drawstring savagely. “So I’ll ask you again, Singer; what can you do?”

  Rhapsody hesitated. The man who had once been known as the Brother lifted her pack off the ground, balancing it precariously on one finger over the fire. It was as subtle a threat as she had ever seen.

  “Not very much, outside of singing a rather extensive collection of historical ballads and epics. I can find herbs to throw into the fire to mesmerize people. Obviously that isn’t going to impress you much since you can, too. I can bring sleep to the restless, or prolong the slumber of someone who is already asleep, an especially useful talent for new parents of fussy babies.

  “I can ease pain of the body and the heart, heal minor wounds, and comfort the dying, making their passage easier. Sometimes I can see their souls as they leave for the light. I can tell a story from a few bits of fact and a good dollop of audience reaction. I can tell the absolute truth as I know it. And when I do that I can change things.”

  Rhapsody pointed to her pack, and he handed it over. She reached inside without looking, and took out a shriveled flower from her morning study session. Gently, to avoid crumbling what was left of the dried petals, she placed the blossom on her open palm and spoke the name of the flower as it might be said in the humid summer day of its glory.

  Slowly, but strongly, the petals drank life into themselves and, as long as she whispered the words, bloomed again. Grunthor touched the flower with the tip of one claw, and it bounced a little, as it might if it were fresh. Then Rhapsody fell silent, and the life evaporated into the darkness.

  “In theory, I could also kill a whole field of these by speaking the name of their death, if I knew it. So, I suppose the explanation of this afternoon’s events goes something like this: we c
ame upon each other in the circumstances you know. By happenstance I spoke your true name, for which I apologize most humbly, but it was, after all, an accident. And then I renamed you; now you really are Achmed the Snake, it’s your identity on the deepest possible level. I’m sorry if that was presumptuous. I had no idea I could actually do it yet. I suppose that makes you my first.”

  “How ironic,” said the man she had called Achmed, with a sneer. “I wonder how many other men have heard you use those very words.”

  “Only one,” she retorted without a hint of offense in her voice. “As I said before, and am tired of repeating, I don’t lie. Not knowingly, anyway.”

  “Everyone lies, don’t be naive. I don’t know whether your party trick has shortened the time we have, or covered the trail.”

  “Will you at least tell me who you are running from? I have told you all about what I was up to and who was chasing me, and here you have stranded me in the middle of gods-know-where, without a clue about who you are or where you’re going or whether you’re worse than what I left. I want to know if I should stay or take my chances back with the guards.”

  “This presumes you will be given a choice.” Achmed turned his back on her and conferred quietly with Grunthor. For a very long moment she was stalled in her frustration and confusion. As her head cleared from the intoxicants she began to plot out how she might escape, and, if successful, find her way to somewhere she could survive. As she rearranged the displaced contents of her pack, Grunthor approached her. She turned quickly, but the other man was gone again.

  “Miss, you should come with us.”

  “Why? Where?”

  “To return to Easton is death. If the Waste o’ Breath don’t get you, then our particular problem will. You won’t ’ave any chance to say you weren’t with us, and they’ll torture you until you tell what you know or die, whatever comes second.”

  “I could go to another town. There are plenty of places to hide. I’ll be fine on my own, thank you.”

  “Your choice, my dear, but leavin’ is better than stayin’.”

  “Where did the other one go?”

  “Oh, you mean ‘Uchmed’? Oi believe ’e went to scout for Michael, to make sure ’e ain’t picked up our trail yet.”

  Rhapsody’s eyes widened in horror. “Michael? Michael is following us?”

  “Could be; it’s ’ard to say. ’E was camped outside the nort’western wall when we left, so ’e probably ain’t too nearby yet unless ’e is particularly intent on findin’ you. Michael ain’t got no trouble with us.”

  Rhapsody looked around in the darkness nervously. “Where are you going?”

  “You can follow us as far as the forest, if you’d like.”

  “The Lirin wood? The Enchanted Forest?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  “I thought you said you were headed off Island.”

  The giant rubbed his jutting chin. “Oh, we are, believe me. But we’re goin’ to the forest first.”

  “What business do you have in the Lirin wood?”

  “Actually, we’re on a bit o’ a pilgrimage, miss. We’re gonna go see the Great Tree.”

  A look of awe came over Rhapsody’s face. “Sagia? You’re going to Sagia?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. We’re gonna pay our respects to the great Lirin Tree.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You aren’t going to harm it, are you? It would be a tremendous mistake on your part.”

  Grunthor looked offended. “O’ course not,” he said indignantly. “We intend to do a bit o’ prayin’ there.”

  Rhapsody was mollified. “All right,” she said, lifting her pack. “I’ll go with you, at least to the wood.”

  “’Ow many miles you got left in you today, miss?”

  “Whatever I need to have, I guess.”

  “Well, Oi’m afraid that makes you the only one. We been on the road all day, and we’re campin’ ’ere. Why don’t you get some sleep, darlin’? We’ll wake you in time to leave before daylight.”

  “Will we be safe? From Michael, I mean.”

  A look of utter amusement crossed the giant’s face. “Oh, very safe, my dear. Not to worry.”

  “I can sit a watch,” Rhapsody offered. “I have a dagger.”

  Achmed’s voice came from behind her in the darkness. “Well, I for one will sleep much better now knowing you’re protecting us, Rhapsody. Try not to hurt any small animals that might attack unless they’re edible.”

  Deep in the foothills of the High Reaches, within the Spire, the silent vault of obsidian that was its hidden seat of power, the red-rimmed eyes of the F’dor’s human host broke open in the darkness.

  The chain had snapped.

  Slowly Tsoltan sat up on the smoothly polished catafalque where he customarily took his repose. He passed his hands through the darkness, grasping futilely for the invisible ends of the metaphysical restraint that had held his greatest trophy in servitude. Nothing; not even a frayed thread of his former absolute control.

  The Brother had slipped his leash.

  As his anger mounted, the air around the demon-priest grew suddenly dry and thin, on the verge of tangibly cracking. Tsoltan rose quickly and strode down the long hallways to the Deep Chamber.

  Sparks ignited behind him, combusting tapestries, altar cloths, and the robes of a few unfortunate priests along the way. His minions gasped for breath in the smothering air and shivered in the black light of the flames, recognizing the fire for what it was—the prelude to the venting of the demon’s wrath.

  In fury he ascended the red-veined marble steps to the highest altar, his place of blood sacrifice. A solid block of obsidian, mined in the Second Age by the Nain of the Northern Mountains, it had once been the cornerstone of a temple to the All-God, the Deity of Life, built by the united races.

  Now it rested at the top of the enormous staircase of concentric marble circles reaching to the unseen ceiling of the Spire, its leather limb restraints and metal collection vessels amusing testimony to how times had changed. It had seemed a fitting place to store the true name of the Brother, the Dhracian whose birthright had bequeathed him a link to the life’s blood of the populace of Serendair. The Child of Blood, as he was known in some circles.

  Vast ceremonial braziers, standing cold and silent, roared to hideous life in a wide, screaming circle of black fire as he raged past. The smoky flames threw grisly shadows on the distant walls, twisting and writhing in grim anticipation.

  Upon reaching the sacrificial altar, Tsoltan hesitated for a moment. He extended a shaking hand and gently caressed the symbols of hatred exquisitely carved into the polished surface, tracing the crusted black channels that laced the smooth top, curving downward into a brass well in the center.

  Through this metal mouth he had fed the assassin’s captive soul the blood of the Brother’s own race, and, when the Dhracians were largely exterminated, that of other innocents, by way of keeping his prize’s unique blood bond alive even in slavery.

  It had been especially effective in ensuring the Brother’s cooperation in his master plan, though he had no illusions about the assassin’s allegiance. It would have been a coup just to secure his services; the Brother had a reputation, prior to the capture of his true name, for taking only those assignments that he selected himself. His enslavement changed all that. It had made him Tsoltan’s most effective weapon and his primary agent in the completion of the plan’s final steps.

  The F’dor’s hands gripped the altar table more firmly now. He muttered the words of Opening in the ancient language of the Before-Time, perverse countersigns of power tied directly to the birth of fire, the element from which all of his race had sprung. The black stone altar glimmered for a moment, then glowed red as the fire within the obsidian burned, liquefying the stone into molten glass. With a hissing snap, the altar split in two.

  Tsoltan tore through the layers of aqueous stone inside and reached into the hollow reliquary within the belly of the altar where the Br
other’s name had been entombed. When the name had first been brought to the altar to be sealed in the coffer it had been the most singular moment of satisfaction the F’dor had ever experienced, at least in this lifetime.

  It was the culmination of great search and great expense, first in obtaining the name, and then capturing it. Finally, the greatest Namer in all of Serendair had been persuaded, after months of torture so excruciating that it bordered on artistry, to write the name in musical script on a scroll of ancient silk. Tsoltan himself had taken the scroll from the man’s lifeless hand and surrounded it lovingly with a whirling sphere of protective power, born of firelight and held in place by the spinning of the Earth itself. It had been a thing of great beauty, and securing it within the altar had left him strangely sad, almost bereft of the joy its capture had brought him.

  Not, however, as bereft as he felt now. The reliquary held no radiant globe, no Namer’s scroll, only the fragments and crumbs of silk left over from what seemed to have been a small explosion. Feverishly Tsoltan gathered the pieces, searching for the musical script, but what few shreds remained were blank.

  A howl of fury echoed through the mammoth chamber, cracking many of the obsidian walls. Tsoltan’s servants waited in dread to be called in, but heard no further sound. A moment later, their apprehension expanded into full-fledged horror. They could feel the darkness fall about them, palpable and cold as a mist on their shoulders.

  Tsoltan was summoning the Shing.

  4

  Rhapsody was already in the throes of a nightmare when the enormous leathery hand cupped her mouth, snapping her eyes open. Her heart, thrown into feverish racing, pounded so loudly she feared it would rip forth from her chest, but like the scream Grunthor’s hand had stifled, it remained in place for the moment, unable to escape, careening off her ribs in panic.

  “Sshhh, miss. Don’t move. Stay ’ere, darlin’, and don’t make any noise, eh?” The giant’s voice was soft. Rhapsody nodded slightly. Grunthor removed his hand and moved away.

  Beneath her back she could feel the ground rumble. She strained to hear over the whine of the night wind, and after a moment thought she could make out the sound of distant horses, many of them, galloping hard.