He directed the horse back to the trail and started toward the Earl’s camp.
The morning ride was a haze of images and, Terrance knew, hallucinations. He felt fine for moments only to come awake with a lurch as he almost pitched from the saddle, and realized he had been dreaming of being well. He found it odd that he was now without fear. He simply knew he would either die on the road or reach safety. It didn’t bother him any more to consider the risk.
The horse walked as slowly as he permitted, so he constantly had to urge it to a faster pace, only to discover he had lost focus and the horse had slowed to a walk.
More than once he had regained his wits to find the horse had wandered off the trail to nibble at what scant foliage it could find. By midday he was barely able to keep in the saddle.
Terrance knew that to stop would mean his death. If he fell from his horse, he would lose consciousness and freeze to death. He undid the strap of the message pouch and retied it around his waist, running it through two metal rings on the saddle, effectively tying himself to the saddle. The pouch flapped behind him with every step the horse took.
His head pounded and his throat was swollen and hot. His lungs protested every breath he took and he couldn’t feel his hands and feet.
Twice more during the day he gained enough lucidity to see he had wandered off course. He barely had enough wits to get back to the small trail.
Sometime in the seemingly endless hours he spent hanging on to the saddle, he noticed he had left the small trail from the mountains and was back on the main trail to the Earl’s camp. That recognition perked him up a little and for the better part of the next hour he felt more focused and aware of his surroundings.
Through endless minutes of jerking awake and dozing he wandered over the countryside, until a jolt of alarm shot though him. The horse had stiffened and snorted and the sudden sense of danger brought him to full awareness.
He was a hundred yards or more south of the road, once again wandering, but despite the fever and his aching body, he rose up in the stirrups. The leather pouch he had tied around his waist pulled against him, but he scanned the horizon in all directions, looking for the cause of the horse’s alarm.
Then he saw them, a line of figures less than a hundred yards to the south, crouching and advancing quickly. A flash of green color told him all he needed to know: Tsurani.
He didn’t know if this was a detachment sent far to the left on a flanking move in support of those attacking Moncrief’s position, or if this was simply a unit deep behind lines trying to get back to their own camps before the first blizzard hit.
He didn’t debate which was more likely, but turned the horse and kicked hard against the animal’s barrel. The horse needed little urging, sensing danger in the approaching men. He leapt forward, heading back to the trail. In less than ten seconds he was on the trail and racing.
Terrance bent low over the horse’s neck, his buttocks out of the saddle, in a racing stance, his toes barely in the irons of the stirrups. He fought against fever and fear and kept his horse guided up the road, praying another band of Tsurani wasn’t waiting for him ahead.
Those who had been approaching him shouted and others appeared along his line of march, but none was close enough to intercept him. He sped past the closest enemy soldier, who let fly with an arrow more out of frustration than any real hope of striking the speeding rider.
With the last of his strength, the horse stretched out, tearing along the road for three miles, then fatigue caught up with horse and rider and Terrance let the animal slow.
Struggling to hold a rocking canter, Terrance realized suddenly where he was, and knew that once he crested a small rise less than a half mile ahead, he would be within sight of the first sentry post on the road.
Suddenly Terrance felt like he had once when running a race at home, during the Midsummer’s Day festival. He had been among the very youngest boys in the race and had been pressed to finish, let alone be among the winners. At the end of the long run, nearly five miles, he had seen the finish line in the distance. Another boy was a few yards ahead, and Terrance had vowed not to be the last across the line. By sheer focus and will he had pressed on and on, until he had crossed the line a step ahead of the older boy. Then he had collapsed and had to be carried away to his father’s house.
He reached deep inside and pulled up that same resolve. He focused and by will kept his horse moving along the road at a canter. In the distance he saw the first sentry, and as he approached they waved him through.
He rode along another quarter mile until the first tents appeared, white shapes seen between the boles of the trees that lined each side of the road. Then suddenly he was in the clearing that housed the Earl’s camp.
He started to rein in his horse, and the animal slowed as he reached a line of picketed horses. A groom came up and, taking one look at Terrance, shouted, “Help me!”
Two soldiers close by hurried over to see what was the matter, as Terrance lost all grip on consciousness and started to slide from the saddle. Only the strap he had tied kept him from falling and then he felt hands upon him, as someone held him up while other hands undid the strap.
Then he felt himself carried, and he wondered why he was no longer cold.
Then darkness.
Suddenly pain.
It felt as if his skin were being peeled off, from the crown of his head, an inch at a time, down his entire body until it reached his toes.
Terrance sat up and screamed.
Strong hands restrained him as he tried to flip himself out of the cot upon which he had rested. Then he went weak and felt those hands push him back onto the cot.
“He’ll be fine.”
Terrance felt his head swim, and perspiration drenched his skin with a wetness that stank of poisons leaching out of his body. He could feel his skin burn, as if the sweat were acid, and he expected blisters to form, but suddenly he felt his senses return and the pain vanished. He was weak, but well. He blinked and the room came into focus. He ran his hand across his forehead and it came away dry. He looked at a circle of concerned faces above him and said, “I’ll be fine.”
Terrance sat up slowly, turning to put his feet on the dirt floor. He glanced around. He was in the infirmary tent. Next to him stood a pair of orderlies, and behind them the apothecary and a healing-priest. The apothecary said, “That was a close thing, boy. Another hour or two and we’d be putting you on the funeral pyre.”
Terrance took a deep breath. He still felt weak, but far better than he had in days. “What happened?”
“You rode into camp at sunset, then fell off your horse, and they hauled you in here. We worked on you all night. I gave you some of this”—he held up a flask—“and Father William said a prayer, and it worked. Your fever broke and you’re back to health.”
“I could use a meal,” said Terrance as he stood up. He expected to feel light-headed, but he didn’t. He sniffed at himself and said, “And a bath.”
“That’s the poisons from your body, son,” said the priest. “My spell held your spirit in your flesh while the apothecary’s draft purged your body of the sickness.”
“You need nourishment. The magic in my drug doesn’t replenish the body, just heals it.”
“Thank you,” said Terrance.
The apothecary said, “I had little choice. It seems the Earl would look upon me with little favor if I let a cousin die.”
“A distant cousin,” said Terrance.
“Still, a relative. In any event, I do what I can for whoever I can.” He looked around the tent at the dying men who would not see home and said, “Often it is not enough.”
Terrance nodded. He motioned for an infirmary boy to bring over a basin and cloth. The air was frigid, so he raised gooseflesh as he sponged off his skin, and then he dressed. Looking at the apothecary, he said, “I need to report in.”
“Then get some food and sleep,” cautioned the apothecary. “I don’t want to try to save you
twice in two days.”
“I will,” said Terrance. He saw that his message pouch was on the ground next to the cot, so he bent over and retrieved it.
He left the tent and looked around. His horse was nowhere in sight. Some groom must have taken it to the remounts. He wondered if Bella had found her way back.
He moved slowly, still weak and not wanting to appear clumsy before the other soldiers. He marveled he was alive. He had been so fearful just the day before. Now he realized that every time he went on a mission he might face death. Heunderstood that fact, rather than just thought he knew. He had faced his own weaknesses and he had overcome them. He felt positively buoyant when he reached the Earl’s tent. He said to the guard, “I have messages for Earl Vandros.”
He had to wait only a few moments before he was admitted. The Earl looked up from a conversation he was having with one of his captains and said, “Ah, Terry. I expected you back two days ago.”
“A slight delay, m’lord.”
“Messages?”
Terrance handed the pouch to an orderly, who took it. “A report from Baron Gruder, m’lord.”
“What else?”
“The Tsurani moved in force against Baron Moncrief. He repulsed them for a day and was relieved by Baron Summerville.” He filled in the Earl with the rest of the report then added, “Baron Moncrief fell during the battle.”
“Shame,” said Vandros. “He was a good man. It’ll put the Duke of Bas-Tyra in a foul mood. Moncrief was one of his barons. Anything else?”
“Yesterday, I saw a unit of Tsurani to the south making their way westward.”
“I’ll send out a patrol to see what they’re up to.”
“That’s all I have to report, sir.”
Vandros looked at Terrance. His uniform was filthy, and his gray coat had blood on it. “Any difficulties along the way?”
“Nothing to speak of, m’lord.”
“Then go get some food and rest. And send another messenger in. Dismissed.”
Terrance left the tent and Vandros turned to the captain. “Glad I kept that boy with the messengers. Much safer for him there.”
Terrance voraciously wolfed down a hunk of hot bread and clutched a small half wheel of cheese and a bottle of wine he had purloined from the Commissary on his way from the Earl’s tent. He felt fit, but he was starving. He reached the messengers’ tent, where an older messenger lay on a dry mat, his arm across his eyes. “William,” said Terrance as he stuck his head in the tent.
“Terry?”
“Your turn.”
The man nodded and put on his boots. Terrance sat down to finish his food and William said, “Much trouble?”
With a smile and a nod, he answered, “Nothing to speak of.”
William returned the smile. “I understand. See you soon.”
“Ride safe, William.”
“Ride safe, Terry,” was the reply, and William departed.
The young messenger sat down to eat, hoping he could manage a full night’s sleep before he was sent out again. But rested or not, if it was his turn, he’d go.
THESYMPHONY OFAGES
ELIZABETH HAYDON
THE RHAPSODY TRILOGY:
RHAPSODY: CHILD OFBLOOD(1999)
PROPHECY: CHILD OFEARTH(2000)
DESTINY: CHILD OF THESKY(2001)
REQUIEM FOR THESUN(2002)
ELEGY FOR ALOSTSTAR(2003)
The Symphony of Agesis written as a history in which the eras of time in the universe are recounted in seven distinct ages. The debut trilogy,Rhapsody ,Prophecy, andDestiny , and the subsequent sequels, are set at the end of the Fifth Age, the age of Schism, and the beginning of the Sixth Age, the age of Twilight.
A giant tree stands at each of the places, known as the birthplaces of Time, where the five primordial elements—air, fire, water, earth, and ether—first appeared in the world. The oldest of these World Trees is Sagia, which grows on the Island of Serendair, the birthplace of ether. It is through the interconnected roots of Sagia that three people, all half-breeds, running from different pursuers, escape the cataclysm that destroys the Island and find themselves on the other side of the world, sixteen centuries later.
The three companions are initially antagonistic. Rhapsody, a woman of mixed human and Lirin blood, is a Namer, a student of lore and music who has learned the science of manipulating the vibrations that constitute life. She is on the run from an old nemesis, and is grudgingly rescued from his henchmen by two men. The Brother is an irritable and hideously ugly assassin with a bloodgift that makes him able to identify and track the heartbeats of any victim. His only friend, Grunthor, is a giant Firbolg Sergeant-Major with tusks, an impressive weapons collection, and a fondness for singing bawdy marching cadences. The two men are fleeing the demon of elemental fire who has control of the Brother’s true name. Rhapsody accidentally changes the Brother’s name to Achmed the Snake, breaking the control the demon has over him, and making his escape possible. The three make the trek along the roots of the World Trees through the belly of the Earth, passing through the fire at the center with the help of Rhapsody’s ability to manipulate names. In the process, the distrustful adversaries become grudging friends. When they emerge on the other side they find themselves transformed; time appears to have stopped for them. In addition, they discover the story of their homeland’s destruction and that refugees from Serendair, alerted to the impending cataclysm by a king’s vision, traveled across the world to the place they have emerged, built a new civilization and destroyed it in war in the intervening centuries. Now the people from their homeland, knows as Cymrians, are hiding or quiet about their ancestry. It becomes clear to the three companions that a demon known as a F’dor accompanied the refugees away from the Island, and is clinging to an unknown host, biding its time and sowing the seeds of destruction.Rhapsody chronicles the journey of the Three as they cope with the loss of their world and build a new life in this new land, and the rise of the Firbolg, the demi-human nomads whom they eventually come to make a life with, and Achmed comes to rule, in the kingdom of Ylorc, the ruins of the Cymrian civilization carved into forbidding mountains. InProphecy , the discovery of a dragon’s claw in the ancient library of Ylorc leads Rhapsody to travel overland with Ashe, a man who hides his face, to find the dragon Elynsynos and return the claw before she destroys the Bolg in revenge. More of the F’dor’s plot is uncovered, though its identity remains a mystery. Achmed discovers a child of living earth that slumbers endlessly in the ruins of a colony of Dhracians, tended to by the Grandmother, the only survivor of the colony. He realizes that the F’dor is seeking this Sleeping Child because her rib, made of Living Stone, would form a key like the one with which he opened Sagia—but in the demon’s hand would be used to unlock the Vault of the Underworld and loose the remaining fire demons, who only seek destruction and chaos.Destiny follows the tale to its conclusion, the unmasking of the demon, the battle that ensues, and the re-formation of the Cymrian alliance.
The sequels,Requiem andElegy , pick up the story three years later, and show the factors that eventually led to intercontinental war. With each new book, more of the history is laid bare, more of the secrets revealed, and more of the tale told in the style of a musical rhapsody.
The novella in this anthology is set in the Third Age, and chronicles the destruction of Serendair, telling the story of those who remained behind after the exodus.
THRESHOLD
ELIZABETH HAYDON
Two Ages ago, the doomed island of Serendair survived one cataclysm, when the burning star that came to be known as the Sleeping Child fell from the sky into the sea, taking much of the coastline, but sparing the middle lands. This time, as the Child that has slept beneath the waves for centuries signals its awakening, the earth and sea prepare for it to rise, and Gwylliam, the prescient king of the Island, foresees Serendair’s obliteration in a vision of a second cataclysm.
Nearly everyone has left, the Nain of the northern mountains, the Lirin of the
central forests and plains, and the humans, following their king in three great fleets to rebuild their civilization on another continent. The unbelieving, the foolish, the stubborn, the resigned, and a few truly abandoned souls remain, awaiting the end.
By the command of the king, a small detail of guards remains as well, to maintain order and protect those that stayed behind, and to keep some shred of the king’s authority intact, just in case there is no second cataclysm. Condemned as they are, there is no way they could foresee what can happen when one pauses on the threshold between life and death.
This is their story, otherwise lost to history.
Hot vapor covered the sea, making it appear as calm and still as a misty morning.
There is more steam above the northern islands today,Hector thought, shielding his eyes from the stinging glare of the midday sun that blazed in rippling waves off the water, blinding in its intensity.Most definitely.
He glanced to his right, where Anais stood, staring into the impenetrable fog. The expression in his friend’s silver eyes was calm, contemplative, as always; it had rarely varied since childhood. Hector knew he had made note of the thickening as well.
He watched a moment longer as the plumes of mist ascended, then stood and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve, his gaze still affixed on the rising steam.
“Still unable to make out the increase, Sevirym?” he asked facetiously. He already knew the young soldier’s answer.
“I see no difference from yesterday,” Sevirym replied rotely. “Or the day before.”
Jarmon, older than the other men by twice over, took his hand down from his eyes as well and exhaled in annoyance.
“And so he will continue to insist, until the waves fill his mouth and the sea closes over his head,” he said. “His eyes work perfectly, but he is blind as a mole nevertheless. Do not ask him any more, Hector. It sorely tries what is left of my patience.”
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