Rhapsody

by Elizabeth Haydon

  “Miss?”

  Rhapsody caught her breath and looked down to see a young boy, perhaps seven, hiding in the dead weeds at the edge of the road. She bent down to him and touched his face in alarm.

  “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  “Yes, miss, I mean, no, miss; I’m fine.”

  She helped the child to stand. “What’s your name?”

  The boy looked up at Grunthor and grinned. “Robin.” The giant grinned back.

  Rhapsody felt a lump rise in her throat. That had been the name of one of her brothers. The boy looked back at her.

  “An’ I know that man’s name too.”

  “Really? What is it?”

  The child smiled with an air of importance. “Why, miss, that’s Anborn.”

  28

  The head guard at the gate of Haguefort, Lord Stephen Navarne’s keep, had called the chamberlain to make a judgment. Gerald Owen had served the duke for over twenty years, coming into his employ when Lord Stephen was still just a young man, and had seen many strange sights in his time on the job. Nothing could have prepared him for what stood before him now, he was certain.

  Two of the three travelers, a small woman of elegant build with enchanting green eyes, and a wiry man a head taller than she, were cloaked and hooded. In her case, it gave him cause for some disappointment; on a deep level he longed to see her unveiled. In the instance of the man, however, he believed the concealment to be a blessing.

  Standing with them was a monster of grotesque proportions, well over seven feet tall and on his way to eight. The sight of the tusklike teeth that protruded from his jutting jaw had set Owen’s heart to pounding wildly.

  “Uh, yes, well, everything does seem to be in order,” he stammered, examining the letter from Llauron the Invoker once again; this made the fifth time he had read it. “Uh, please come in.” He opened the gate and nodded to the guards, who left their posts and followed the strange retinue into the keep.

  The castle itself was a beautiful one, of classic design with touches of artistry, crafted from a rosy brown stone. Climbing ivy, brown and dead in grip of winter, scaled the walls, undoubtedly making for a verdant tapestry in summer. Around the perimeter of the courtyard stood high-edged gardens, pooling with water from the melting snow.

  When they reached the large front door, heavily carved in black mahogany, Gerald Owen paused. “If you’ll wait here, I’ll tell Lord Stephen of your arrival.” He bowed, then opened the door and hurried inside, closing it behind him.

  While they waited, Rhapsody turned in a circle, taking in the sights around her. Stephen Navarne’s keep was situated on a gently sloping hill, with a wide view of the rolling countryside that surrounded it on three sides and the forest behind it. Grunthor had commented on their way up to the gate about the many hidden defenses the keep employed. Despite its beautiful architecture and peaceful appearance, in his assessment the castle was well fortified in the event of attack. Rhapsody could see that the intelligence of the fortifications had impressed both of her friends, at least a little.

  The chamberlain had left the heavy door slightly ajar, undoubtedly to avoid insulting them completely by shutting it in their faces. Achmed now leaned back against it casually, nodding politely to the guards. The door swung open a little, as was his intent. Within the echoing foyer of the keep a rich tenor voice could be heard.

  “And she’s in the company of a giant what, did you say?”

  Gerald Owen’s uncomfortable reply was clearly audible.

  “I believe it’s a Firbolg, m’lord.”

  “A Firbolg? Splendid! I imagine I’ll be the only one at the Lord Regent’s meeting next month who has ever lunched with a Firbolg. Show them in, with full hospitality.”

  There was a pause. “Yes, m’lord.”

  “Oh, move out of the way, Owen. I’ll greet them myself.”

  Footsteps could be heard approaching, and a moment later the heavy mahogany door swung open. Behind it stood a smiling man about Achmed’s height. He was young and seemed full of energy, with just the beginning touches of white creeping into his otherwise blond hair.

  As with Anborn a few days before, the occasional line or wrinkle on his face seemed in opposition to the youth apparent in his physique. Rhapsody wondered if this could be a Cymrian trait, an indication of the great longevity their voyage across Time had granted them and their progeny. As Lord Stephen was the Cymrian historian, it made sense that he might be one.

  The young duke bowed politely. “Welcome! I am Stephen Navarne; please, come in.” He looked at his chamberlain, who still seemed in a mild state of shock, and nodded curtly. Gerald Owen blinked, and then swung the great door open wider.

  Rhapsody and Grunthor bowed politely; Achmed nodded slightly.

  “Thank you, m’lord,” Rhapsody said, and came into the keep, followed by the two Firbolg a moment later. “I hope we didn’t come at a bad time.”

  “Certainly not,” said Stephen. His eyes, blue-green as highland cornflowers, smiled as he did. “And please, call me Stephen. I’m delighted you came. I will have to thank Llauron for thinking of sending you to see me. Was your journey uneventful?” As he spoke he took Rhapsody’s hand and bowed over it.

  The three looked at each other. “For the most part,” Achmed said, forestalling Rhapsody’s more candid answer. Lord Stephen looked over at him in surprise at the sound of the fricative voice. He turned and began walking away, gesturing for them to follow.

  “Are you hungry? We’ll be having lunch shortly, but I could scare up something for you in the meantime.”

  “No, thank you, that won’t be necessary,” Rhapsody said, hurrying to keep up with him in his excitement.

  The noontime meal was served in a stately dining room at a table long enough to accommodate a legion of guests. At the southern end of the room was an enormous leaded-glass window, flanked by two banks of rectangular panes, that looked out over Lord Stephen’s lands and the courtyard below. The opposite wall held a hearth wide enough, Grunthor observed aloud, to roast an ox whole, a comment that drew a gale of agreeable laughter from master of the house.

  “What a marvelous thought! We shall have to try it at Melly’s birthday; it coincides with the first day of spring, so we customarily celebrate with a big feast.”

  “’Oo’s Melly?”

  The duke rubbed his hands together, then pointed to a large portrait, done in oils and bordered in an ornate gilt frame, hanging over the fireplace. It held the likenesses of a woman and two children, a boy and an infant girl. The woman was slender and dark, with rich brown eyes and a shy smile.

  By her side stood a lad of about seven, with his father’s snapping blue-green eyes and his mother’s mahogany-colored hair. His baby sister, perched on the woman’s lap, was his opposite, crowned with a sunshower of yellow curls above eyes as black as midnight.

  “Melly—Melisande, actually—is my daughter. That’s her as an infant, with my wife, Lydia, and Gwydion, our son.”

  Rhapsody was looking out the bank of windows with Achmed. At Lord Stephen’s words she turned and smiled.

  “And might we meet your family later?”

  The duke returned her smile. “My children will be delighted to meet all of you. As for my wife, I’m afraid that I am a widower.”

  Grunthor watched the smile melt from Rhapsody’s face. “Sorry to ’ear that, guv,” he said, clapping Lord Stephen roughly on the back. The duke lurched forward under the well-meaning blow, then stood straight with a laugh.

  “Thank you,” he said, noticing that the door to the kitchen had opened and the cooks were carrying in the luncheon trays. “It’s been four years now. Gwydion seems to have adjusted, and of course Melisande doesn’t remember her mother at all. Come, I see Hilde bringing our meal. Gentlemen, if you’ll have a seat, I’ll assist the lady.”

  It took four more trays of additional helpings before Grunthor had eaten his fill of ham and roasted grouse. The china bowls that held the sweet yams and b
raised potatoes were emptied two or three times more than necessary to mortify Rhapsody completely.

  Lord Stephen ignored her embarrassment and called for more food each time, seeming to delight in watching the giant enjoy his kitchen’s hospitality. Finally, after consuming enough food to feed most of Lord Stephen’s army, Grunthor declared himself full.

  “Couldn’t eat another bite, guv; delicious,” he said, wiping his gargantuan maw with a dainty linen napkin. “Nice meal.” Achmed nodded in agreement while Rhapsody covered her face with her hand and smiled.

  Stephen rose from the table with a bounce. “Good! I’m so glad you liked it. Now, can I interest you all in a small glass of Canderian brandy in my study? Llauron’s letter says you’re interested in the museum, and it’s a bit of a walk in the frigid air, so a little fortification might be in order, eh?”

  “By all means,” said Achmed.

  Rhapsody looked up in surprise; the Dhracian rarely spoke around people he had just met. And for him, the comment seemed almost jovial. She could tell that he liked Lord Stephen better than any of the people she had seen him meet thus far in the new world.

  She agreed with his assessment. There was an openness to the young duke that she had not seen up to now, and, despite some sad events in his life, he seemed full of energy and vigor. There was an excitement in just being around him, an intensity in virtually everything he said, as if he found life profoundly interesting all the time.

  Lord Stephen helped her with the chair and offered her his arm. Then he looked to the Firbolg. “It’s this way,” he said, turning and walking toward the door on the other side of the hearth from the kitchen. The leather soles of his boots clacked resoundingly on the polished marble floor as he led them from the dining room.

  Llauron says you are aware of the border incursions and attacks we have been suffering,” Stephen said as he handed Achmed a snifter of brandy.

  As before, the Dhracian was standing at the largest window in the room, this one on the eastern end of the keep, also overlooking the rolling hills of Navarne and the courtyard below. In the cobbled area two children chased each other, laughing. A broad smile crossed the duke’s face when he saw them.

  “Gwydion and Melisande,” he said to Rhapsody as he nodded downward. She came to the window as well.

  “He told us a little, nothing substantial,” replied Achmed casually. He pointed over the farmlands to a thick, high stone wall, partially finished, that stretched to the north for as far as he could see. He did not mention his and Grunthor’s firsthand observations. “Is that the reason for the ramparts being built?”

  Stephen gave Grunthor, who had stretched out on a large leather-covered couch with his feet on the table in front of him, a glass of the rich-colored liquid as well, then joined the other two at the window.

  “Yes, in a word,” he said matter-of-factly. “Navarne has the disadvantage of being settled primarily in small villages and communities of two or three large farms together, and it is several days’ ride from my holdings to the capital city. As a result, its inhabitants are more vulnerable than most to these kinds of attacks. When the nearest military post is at least two days away, a small village or farming community can be devastated, and no one even hears of it for weeks. We’ve had our share of brutal raids and incursions.

  “At first I tried posting scouts and soldiers in or near as many settlements as I could, but it was to no avail. So I decided to enclose as much of the local acreage within a walled fortress as possible, in the hope that it will better protect the people and their land. I’ve invited as many as are willing to come and live within the new fortress, and some have agreed.

  “Some would rather take their chances and keep the lands that are their legacy, and I can respect that. Eventually the land within the wall will become a heavily populated village, which will destroy the tranquillity of my holdings and the keep, but it’s a small price to pay if it keeps more of them safe. Truthfully, I have no idea if even that will help, but while I am still breathing I have to try every option open to me.”

  “That’s the sign of a good leader,” said Rhapsody, watching the workmen in the distance as they mortared stones into the wall. Gauging from their height as they stood near it, she estimated the wall to be more than twelve feet high. Whatever Lord Stephen sought to keep out must have made a serious impression.

  Lord Stephen’s face grew grave for the first time since they had met him. “I have a personal reason in addition to that duty. You see, two of the casualties of these raids were my wife and her sister.” He looked out into the courtyard where the children were playing in the frosty air, the snow gone with the thaw. Their shrieks of merry laughter rang suddenly hollow.

  Rhapsody’s heart filled with pain at his words, but they were spoken simply, without regret, and carried only a wistful sense of loss.

  “I’m very sorry,” she said.

  Lord Stephen took a deep swallow from his glass.

  “Thank you. It was four years ago. Melisande had just begun to walk, and Lydia had traveled into the city of Navarne to purchase some shoes for her, sturdy enough to support her little feet. She and my sister-in-law enjoyed traveling into the city; it gave them time to visit together and talk.

  “The baby had come down with a cold. I suppose we were lucky she had taken ill, or else she’d have likely been with her mother. On the way home they and the rest of their caravan were accosted by a raiding party of Lirin soldiers. I’ll spare you the details except to tell you that when I found her she was still clutching the shoes. Of course, we couldn’t use them. The bloodstains didn’t come out.”

  His words turned Rhapsody’s stomach, but Achmed and Grunthor merely nodded politely. This was certainly not the worst they had ever heard.

  “The strange part of it all is that, to a man, the Lirin raiders captured at the scene denied being involved in the massacre. There could be no doubt as to their guilt; they were caught in the act. Yet each man went to his death swearing that he knew nothing of the raid.

  “It was extremely odd. I have known Lirin all my life, living so close to their lands, and they tend to be one of the more honorable races, in my experience. It is out of character for them not to take responsibility for their actions. I think watching the executions took some of the hate out of me; they seemed, more than anything else, perplexed, each one of them. Very strange.”

  The Bolg exchanged a look. “Indeed. Is it only Lirin that have attacked your villages and towns?” Achmed asked.

  “No, that’s also part of the peculiar nature of these incursions. There have been incidents involving other men from Roland. In fact, even soldiers from Navarne have been caught in other provinces and Tyrian, committing similar atrocities. I swear on the lives of my children that I have ordered no such raids. I have no idea where this is coming from.

  “Worst of all, the new target seems to be the children of Navarne.” He opened the window and leaned out, calling to his son and daughter in the courtyard below.

  “Gwydion, Melisande, come in now, please.”

  The children looked up from their game, and exchanged a glance and sighed before complying. Stephen waited until they had reached the door, held open by the chamberlain who had been watching them, and then turned to his guests again. “I’m sorry. These are days of paranoia and little restful sleep.

  “Almost a score of the children of our province are missing, some taken in raids, others stolen from their own backyards. Their bodies are not found at the sites of the fighting, so we can only assume they have been kidnapped or taken to be sold.

  “Only one has been recovered, when the child’s father and uncle rode down the abductors, who were also from Navarne. The same strange circumstances; the captors swore they had no idea where the children had been taken from, despite having them in their custody. It’s like the entire continent is suffering from collective amnesia.”

  His tale at an end, Lord Stephen drained his glass and set it down on his desk, then wa
lked past the fireplace to the door, where he pulled a bellcord. A moment later the door opened, and a woman entered.

  “Yes, m’lord?”

  “Rosella, please get the children bathed and changed, and give them their tea, then bring them to meet our guests.” The woman nodded and left, casting a look askance at the giant monster with his feet on her master’s table.

  An hour or so later the door burst open and the children ran in, dashing to their father. Stephen bent down on one knee and opened his arms, hugging the two of them together and rocking them wildly, causing them to giggle ridiculously.

  In the midst of the laughter the little girl caught sight of Rhapsody. She stopped laughing during her father’s rough-housing and stared. Rhapsody smiled, hoping to put her at ease, but the child broke free from her father’s embrace and pointed at her.

  “Daddy, who’s that?”

  Stephen and his son stopped their play and looked to where she was indicating. He took his daughter’s arm and pushed it down.

  “Well, that was rude,” he said. His tone was exactly like the one Rhapsody’s own father had used, and she covered her smile; some things apparently transcended social status. “These are our guests. I invited you in here to meet them. This lady’s name is Rhapsody, and I expect you have something you want to say to her now.”

  The child continued to stare, as did her brother. Stephen’s face clouded with mild paternal chagrin. “Well, Melly? What do you say?”

  “You’re beautiful,” the child said, her voice filled with awe. Stephen flushed in embarrassment.

  “Well, that’s certainly true, but it’s not exactly what I had in mind,” he said.

  “But it will do nicely,” Rhapsody said breezily. Grunthor and Achmed exchanged a glance; perhaps she would believe it now that she had heard it from a child. A moment’s further study indicated that the hope was unrealistic.