Rhapsody

by Elizabeth Haydon

  Rhapsody nodded and looked back to the gallery of paintings, her eyes scanning the portraits of the five benisons again. The Blesser of Avonderre was depicted in robes of green-blue silk, and the talisman around his neck was shaped like a drop of water.

  The vestry pattern was repeated in the other portraits, with robes and talismans evoking the other four elements. The Patriarch was robed in gold, an amulet shaped like a silver star hanging from a chain around his neck.

  It was easy to discern the benisons whose basilicas were dedicated to fire and earth, as well. The first was robed in flame-colored vestments and a matching horned miter. A golden talisman hung around his neck in the shape the sun with a spiral of red jewels in the center. The second wore robes in the colors of earth, with an amulet that resembled the globe Llauron had shown her. The last two benisons, however, were robed in white, and only one wore a neck chain, with no amulet on the end.

  “What are the others? What about this one?” Rhapsody pointed to a rendering that was shown from two perspectives, straight on and from above.

  This basilica, labeled Bethany, was round in shape, fashioned from what appeared to be marble, and consisted of several levels of circular outer walls that held seating for the faithful around the central core. Within the courtyard that surrounded the basilica were inlaid great flame-shaped mosaics, giving the impression when viewed from above of the sun in full splendor.

  “That is the church of Lord All-God, Fire of the Universe, or, in Old Cymrian, Vrackna.”

  Rhapsody blanched; in Old Cymrian, that word was actually the name of the evil fire god from the days of polytheism. Lord Stephen didn’t seem to notice.

  “It is, of course, also consecrated to the All-God, but is dedicated to the element of fire. An eternal flame burns at the very center, powered by a deep well of fire that comes from the very heart of the Earth, which, of course, keeps the ground holy.”

  “And is this the Patriarch’s basilica, since it’s in Bethany, the, ah, capital seat?”

  “No, Bethany is the political capital of Roland, but the religious capital is the sovereign city-state of Sepulvarta. That is where the Patriarch lives, and where the Citadel of the Star is. Only the Patriarch worships in that basilica, although the faithful come to attend services.”

  “I don’t understand. What’s the difference between worship and attending services?”

  “Direct prayer. In our religion, only the Patriarch prays directly to the All-God.”

  “Why?”

  “He is the only one deemed worthy to communicate directly with the Creator.”

  Rhapsody’s brows drew together, but she did not give voice to her first thought. “To whom do the rest of you pray?”

  “To the Patriarch. We celebrate the rituals of the faith, and pose our petitions to the lesser clergy, known collectively as the Ordinate, who pray for us. The Patriarch receives our intentions from the clergy and poses them to the All-God. By the time each prayer is elevated to the level of the Patriarch, it has the power of all the souls of the faith behind it.”

  “I see,” said Rhapsody pleasantly. Nothing could be further from her own belief system, so she turned to the rendering of the Patriarch’s basilica at Sepulvarta. “This is interesting.”

  Stephen beamed with obvious pride. “This is the Citadel of the Star, which I was just mentioning to you. The basilica itself is the church of Lord All-God, Light of the World, Lianta’ar in Old Cymrian.”

  He’s closer, thought Rhapsody. Lianta’ar meant bearer of light.

  “It sits outside the holy city-state of Sepulvarta, high on a hill. It’s quite beautiful, as you can see; the rotunda of the basilica is the largest known structure of its kind, and it is beautifully appointed inside, being the seat of the Patriarch. But I’m more fond of this aspect of Sepulvarta.”

  He pointed to a separate part of the drawing, a rendering of an enormous pointed minaret that towered high in the air from the middle of the city.

  “This is the Spire, an true architectural miracle, if I do say so myself. It is immodest to do so, as my great-grandfather was the architect and builder of it.” Rhapsody made the appropriate noises to show she was impressed.

  “The Spire reaches a thousand feet in the air, and can be seen from miles around. It is crowned with a single glowing star, the symbol of the Patriarchy. It is said that the Spire is the Patriarch’s direct channel of communication with the All-God. The light that shines from the Spire is directed from the stars themselves, thus reconsecrating the ground each night.”

  “What about on nights when the sky isn’t clear?” asked Achmed from across the room, still examining other museum pieces. Rhapsody started; she hadn’t realized he was listening.

  “Just because one can’t see the stars doesn’t mean they’re not there,” said Stephen simply. “And the Spire itself is illuminated by a piece of an actual star, the element known as ether.”

  “Fascinating,” said Rhapsody. “And the others?”

  “The basilica in Bethe Corbair is dedicated to the wind, the church of Lord All-God, Spirit of the Air, or Ryles Cedelian.”

  Breath of life, thought Rhapsody, and looked at Achmed. He was examining a piece of driftwood under glass.

  “The special attribute of that basilica is a central bell tower with eight hundred and seventy-six bells hung within it, one for each of the ships that left Serendair, carrying the Cymrians to safety. It is set on a rise in the center of the capital city where it catches the west wind, and the breeze blows through the hollow tower, acting as a sort of carillon. The music is exquisite; you really must go and hear it, Rhapsody, being a Skysinger.

  “As a part of the consecration of the basilica, the bells were rung for the same number of days as ships that set sail. Their ringing is what keeps the ground of the basilica holy, and makes the city of Bethe Corbair such a pleasant one; everywhere you go you can hear the sweet music of the bells.”

  “I shall make a point of visiting there,” she said, smiling. “Which benison is the Blesser of Bethe Corbair?”

  Lord Stephen pointed to one of the two men in white, with the silver chain around his neck.

  “Lanacan Orlando. The other benison is Colin Abernathy, whose See is the nonaligned states to the south. As with Sorbold, that area is not part of Roland, and of course there is no basilica as a result.”

  “And the last basilica?”

  Stephen pointed to a somber structure which appeared to be hewn from the side of a mountain. “This is the only non-Orlandan basilica, the church of Lord All-God, King of the Earth, or Terreanfor.” Rhapsody nodded. This was the only completely literal translation of the lot.

  “The basilica is carved into the face of the Night Mountain, making it a place where no light touches, even in the middle of the day. Sorbold is an arid, dusty place, a realm of sun, and so the Night Mountain is a place of deep reverence.

  “There is a hint of the old pagan days in Sorboldian religion, even though they worship the All-God and are a See of our religion. They believe that parts of the earth, the ground itself, that is, are still alive from when the world was made, and the Night Mountain is one of these places of Living Stone. So the turning of the Earth itself resanctifies the ground within the basilica. Having been there, I think the people of Sorbold are right. It is a deeply magical place.”

  “Well, thank you very much for the wonderful explanation,” Rhapsody said. “I must visit each of these places now.”

  “What’s this?” Grunthor asked from across the room. He was standing in front of a small alcove in the corner, with a rack of votive candles in front of it.

  Rhapsody came to where he stood and examined the display. The table that formed the base of it was covered with a lovingly embroidered cloth, much like she had seen on temple altars.

  On the table lay a gold signet ring, a battered dagger, and a bracelet of interwoven leather braids, torn open on one side. Attached to the wall behind the display was a brass plate, intricately
carved and inscribed.

  She leaned forward to read it, but the tarnish that had developed in the tomblike museum was too heavy. Unlike the scholarly exhibits of jeweled circlets and ancient artifacts, this display seemed more suitable to a church than to a historical depository.

  She reached into her pack and pulled out her handkerchief and a small flask, then held it up for Stephen. “Witch hazel and extract of lime,” she said. “It should clear the tarnish. May I?” Stephen nodded, the look on his face becoming somber.

  Rhapsody uncorked the flask and poured its pungent-smelling contents onto the center of the cloth, then stood on her toes to reach over the display and wipe the plaque clean. The tarnish rubbed off onto the handkerchief, leaving the few engraved words visible.

  Gwydion of Manosse, it said.

  Rhapsody turned back to Lord Stephen, whose face was now masklike. “What is this?” she asked.

  Stephen looked away. “It’s all that remains of my best friend, dead these last twenty years,” he said.

  30

  “I’m very sorry,” Rhapsody said. “Was he another victim of these unexplained hostilities?”

  Lord Stephen carefully brushed the dust off the display with the hand of one who had lovingly cared for many fragile exhibits. “I would venture to say that Gwydion was the first of them,” he said, putting the signet ring and the battered knife back on the cloth.

  “Dead twenty years?” Achmed asked. “The incursions have been going on that long?”

  Lord Stephen smiled and leaned on the wall next to the shrine. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that brigands and thugs have been killing innocent travelers and attacking and looting villages since well before recorded history,” he said. “But Gwydion’s murder was different. He was a man of superior strength and swiftness, and well armed. His wounds defied description. Whatever killed him must have been ferocious and powerful beyond imagination.”

  “Was it a beast o’ some sort?” Grunthor asked.

  Lord Stephen shrugged, then sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “Possibly, from the look of it. I was the one who found him first. I suppose I knew from the moment I saw him that he was dying; his heart was exposed and bleeding into the earth.” Rhapsody touched his arm, and he smiled briefly at her before his eyes clouded over with the memory again.

  “I was afraid to move him. It was as if the ground was all that was keeping his organs from falling out of his chest. I bound him up and threw my cloak on him, then ran for his father. He knew from my description where to find Gwydion and ran to him, sending me off on horseback to fetch the great Filidic healer, Khaddyr.

  “By the time I returned with the priest, Gwydion had been dead for two days. He must have died just after I left him. I suppose I should be grateful that I had the chance to say goodbye to him as he left this Earth. Fate wasn’t as kind with Lydia.” He looked away, his jaw clenched. “I’m sorry. You would think by now I would have gotten better at this.”

  Rhapsody ran her hand up and down his arm in a gesture of comfort. “There is no set time limit on grief, Lord Stephen. Healing takes as long as it takes; you can’t rush it.”

  Lord Stephen covered her hand with his own and sighed again. “No, I suppose not,” he said. “In a way, I think the shock of Gwydion’s death made it easier for me to accept Lydia’s all those years later.

  “He and I had been friends since childhood, when we met in Manosse. He was living there—that was where his mother was from—and I was visiting with my father. Eventually we both came back here, he to live with his father, and I to assume the responsibilities of the duchy when mine passed away. We were closer than brothers. My son would have been his godchild; instead he’s his namesake. And his death served as a warning for what was coming, but we have been unable to stop it.”

  “Only now you say the marauders seem to be concentrating on children,” Achmed said.

  “Mostly, yes, at least here in Navarne and, from what I can glean, in the Lirin lands. My scouts tell me that there are incursions and raids from here to the Bolglands, south through Sorbold and the nonaligned states, north to the Hintervold. Whether the patterns in all those places match our own is impossible to say.”

  He flipped the end of the lamplighter’s tool to the snuffer. “Well, unless there is something else you want to see, we should probably extinguish the lamps and go back now.”

  While the men set about quenching the flames, Rhapsody lingered a moment longer at the display, running her fingers along the little altar cloth. Carefully she picked up the signet ring and turned it over in her palm, then held it to her cheek.

  There was something comforting about the feel of the cool metal on her face, something she had no explanation for. She looked down at the flat surface and examined the crest. It was a rendering of a tree with a dragon coiled around the base, a symbol common throughout this museum, though nowhere else she had seen since arriving in this strange land.

  Memories are the first stories you learn. They are your own lore.

  Rhapsody blinked at the sound of the voice in her mind. A strange thought, she mused. Obviously there were no memories of her own here; she had never seen the ring, or even heard the name Gwydion of Manosse before. Perhaps the thought referred to the power of Stephen’s remembrances of his friend.

  She hummed a soft note, a pitch that sometimes helped discern vibrations on objects, the signatures of their owners. Her mind filled for a split second with the hazy image of a man in darkness, drowning in unquenchable pain. It was a vision she had had on the Root. She dropped the ring.

  The men had begun to troop down the stairs. Grunthor stopped at the top of stairwell and looked back at her.

  “Comin’, Duchess?”

  Rhapsody nodded. She turned and came to the staircase, waiting until Grunthor had descended with the torch, watching the jeweled eyes of the dragon statue glitter ominously in the vanishing light. She looked back at the corner where the shrine was now enveloped in darkness.

  “I wish I could have been there for you,” she whispered.

  One by one the lights in the tower of the keep went out. The rosy glow of the stone settled back into the shadows of night, brown and flat in the dark.

  Achmed watched from the window until the only light that remained was the flickering reflection of the torch flames. The lamplighters had finished their work long before; now the courtyard below was silent, filling with mist.

  He crossed to the door and listened for a moment, then opened it slowly, taking great pains to be quiet about it. Satisfied the hall was empty, he returned and sat down in the chair next to Grunthor’s bed.

  “This was a lot easier when I still had a million heartbeats in my head,” he said wryly, pouring himself a snifter of Stephen’s best brandy. “Now I never know who’s lurking about.”

  Grunthor untied the legging cords and unwrapped the cloth that served as his inner boot. When he looked up the expression in his eyes was direct, intense.

  “It’s ’ere, ain’t it?”

  Achmed swallowed and leaned forward, cradling the glass in both hands. When he spoke his words were soft.

  “I don’t know. I suspect something’s here, at least in this part of the world. I don’t know if it’s the same or not.”

  A massive boot dropped to the polished floor. “Oi assume you saw the amulet?”

  Achmed nodded. “It was very similar, yes. But Llauron said that MacQuieth killed Tsoltan. Anyone else might have botched it, might have killed the human and left the demon loose, looking for another host. But not MacQuieth—at least I’d like to hope not.”

  “So what next?”

  The Dhracian leaned so close that even someone standing in the room next to him would not have overheard.

  “Nothing changes. We still need to go to Canrif; that’s where it would have gone. That’s where the power was, where the Cymrians were. Where the Bolg are now. If there are any answers to be had, I’m betting we’ll find them there. But we need to g
o by way of Bethany. That’s where the basilica dedicated to fire is. Perhaps there’s something to be gleaned there as well.”

  Grunthor nodded. “And the Duchess?” Achmed looked away. The Sergeant sat up straighter and took hold of the Dhracian’s shoulder. “Oi say we leave ’er ’ere. There’s no need to be draggin’ ’er into this anymore.”

  “She’s safer with us. Trust me about this.”

  The Sergeant released his shoulder with a curt shove. “Says ’oo? ’Ad it occurred to you that maybe she’s better off with someone like ol’ Lord Steve? ’E seems smitten with the Duchess; ’e’d look after ’er. She likes ’is kids. Oi say we let ’er stay ’ere with ’im.”

  Sparks shot from Achmed’s eyes like disks from the cwellan.

  “And what if it is him? What kind of perversions do you think he’ll subject her to if we leave her in his care? You want to be responsible for making her wish she was back in the clutches of the Waste of Breath? It’d be kinder if you just make good on all your threats and eat her for breakfast, alive. She’d suffer less.”

  Grunthor sat back, stung. Achmed sighed, and when he spoke again his voice was gentle.

  “I know only a few things for certain anymore, Grunthor. It’s not you; it’s not me. After that things become cloudy. I’m fairly sure it isn’t Rhapsody, but not entirely. Wouldn’t that have been rich? For all I know she was bait waiting for us in the backstreets of Easton.”

  “That’s loony.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Bear in mind she might not even know it. She was alone at Llauron’s for a long time. But except for us, and possibly for her, there is nothing else we know for certain; am I right?”

  Grunthor stared at him for a moment longer, then nodded reluctantly.