Prophecy

by Elizabeth Haydon

  And her status as a Namer provided the insurance against her going unnoticed as an unwilling thrall of the demon. F’dor were the masters of lies, deceptive and secretive; Namers were forsworn to the truth. Their powers were deeply tied to it; it was the act of keeping their thinking and speaking honed on the truth as they knew it that allowed them to discern it on deeper levels than most. Rhapsody had demonstrated the ability to manipulate the power of a true name in the moment they had met, though she had done so unintentionally.

  A moment before he and Grunthor had come upon her, in the old land, he was still known by the name given him at birth: the Brother. He was enslaved, breathing air tainted by the sickening smell of burning flesh; the malodor of the F’dor whose mark was upon him, the demon that had possession of his own true name. The invisible chain around his neck was tightening as each second passed. Undoubtedly, the F’dor had begun to suspect that he was running, trying to escape its last hideous command.

  And in the next moment, he had tripped over Rhapsody, running from her own pursuers in the back streets of Easton, trying to escape the lascivious intentions of Michael, the Waste of Breath. A slight smile crossed his lips and he closed his eyes, turning the memory over in his mind again.

  Pardon me, but would you be willing to adopt me for a moment? I’d be grateful.

  He had nodded, not having any idea why.

  Thank you. She had turned back to the town guards who were chasing her. What an extraordinary coincidence. You gentlemen are just in time to meet my brother. Brother, these are the town guard. Gentlemen, this is my brother—Achmed—the Snake.

  The crack of the invisible collar had been inaudible, but he had felt it in his soul. For the first time since the F’dor had taken his name the air in his nostrils cleared, dispelling the hideous odor from his nose and mind. He was free, released from his enslavement and the damnation that would eventually follow, and this stranger, this tiny half-Lirin woman, had been his rescuer.

  She had, in her own panicked moment, taken his old name, the Brother, and changed it forever into something ridiculous but safe, giving him back the life and soul over which he had lost control. He could see in his memory even now the look of shock in her clear green eyes; she had no idea what she had done. Even as he and Grunthor had dragged her overland and into the root of Sagia, the immense tree sacred to the Lirin, her mother’s people, she was still suffering the notion that in their escape they were trying to save her from the Waste of Breath. To his knowledge she was still under that mistaken impression.

  So, if the F’dor should come upon her and bind itself to her soul, it would be easy to discern. She would no longer be able to act as a Namer, would lose her powers of truth once she was the host of a demonic spirit that was an innate liar. It was small comfort, given all the other dangers that were lying in wait for her out there somewhere, beyond his lands and his protection.

  Achmed shivered and looked at the hearth. The last of the firecoals had burned down, vanishing in a thin wisp of smoke.

  Deep within the barracks of the Firbolg mountain guard, Grunthor was dreaming, too, something he did not tend to do. Unlike the Firbolg king, he was a simple man with a simple outlook on life. As a result, he had simple nightmares. His bad dreams, however, tended to cause more collective suffering.

  Grunthor, like Achmed, was half-Bolg, but the other half was Bengard, a giant race of grisly featured desert dwellers with oily, hide-like skin that held back the effects of the sun. The Bolg-Bengard combination was as unappealing to the eye as Rhapsody’s human-Lirin mix was pleasing, even to the sensibilities of the Bolg, who held Grunthor in high esteem dwarfed only by their utter fear of him. It was an attitude that pleased him.

  As Grunthor muttered in his sleep, whispering through the meticulously polished tusks that protruded from his jutting jaw, the elite mountain guard captains and lieutenants who shared his barracks remained still. To a one the Bolg soldiers were afraid that any movement might in some way disturb the Sergeant-Major or set him off, which undoubtedly qualified as the last thing any of them wanted to do. It seemed that neither Grunthor nor any of the Bolg who shared the sleeping corridor with him would be getting any rest that night.

  Grunthor dreamt of the dragon. He had never seen one before, except for a rather bad statue of one in the Cymrian museum, so his visions were limited to the scope of his imagination, which had never been vast. His only knowledge of them came from Rhapsody, who had told him dragon tales during their endless journey along the Root, stories of the great beasts’ physical might and power over the elements, as well as their ferocious intelligence and tendency to hoard treasure.

  It was this last characteristic that was giving him nightmares. He feared that once Rhapsody was within the dragon’s lair, it would seek to possess her and never let her return to the mountain. This was a loss he could not contemplate, having never before cared enough about anything to miss it.

  Unconsciously, he patted the wall next to his bunk, whispering in Bolgish the words of comfort he had imparted to Achmed not long after they had emerged from the Root, seeking to console his longtime friend and leader about the loss of his blood gift. Grunthor had known him in the days when he was the Brother, the most proficient assassin the world had ever known, so called because he was the first of his race born on the Island from which they had come.

  Serendair was a unique land, one of the places Time itself was said to have begun. As the Firstborn of his race in that unique land, the Brother had a bond to the blood of all who lived there. He could seek out any individual heartbeat with the skill of a hound on the hunt, matching his own to it and following it with deadly accuracy, relentless in his quest until he found his quarry. Watching him seek and find his prey was a marvel to behold.

  All that had changed when they came forth from the Root into this new land on the other side of the world. Achmed’s gift was gone; now the only heartbeats he could hear were the ones that had come from the old world of Serendair. Even though Achmed had said nothing, Grunthor had felt his despair, and so knew that there were things in life that brought sorrow when they were no longer there. It was the first time he had ever had this realization.

  He was now experiencing the feeling himself. Rhapsody was Lirin; a slight, frail race upon which the Firbolg in the old land had preyed very successfully, though what Lirin lacked in strength they generally made up for by being sly and swift. They were a race he had even consumed a few of himself, though not as many as he had teasingly led her to believe.

  In many ways Lirin were as opposite to the Firbolg as he himself was to Rhapsody. Lirin were sharp and angular where Bolg were sinewy and muscular. The Lirin lived outside, in the fields and forests beneath the stars, while the Bolg were born of the caves and mountains, the children of the dark of the earth. In Grunthor’s opinion Rhapsody had benefited from being sired by a human; her appearance was still slight but not frail, the sharp angles giving way to slender curves, high cheekbones and softer facial features than her mother undoubtedly had. She was beautiful. No doubt the dragon would think so, too.

  At the thought Grunthor roared in his sleep, sending his lieutenants scrambling up the roughhewn walls of their chamber or out of their bunks entirely. The wood of his massive bed screamed and groaned as he thrashed about, snorting and growling, finally settling onto his side in silence again. The only sound in the room for a few moments afterwards was the quickened breathing of his unfortunate bunkmates who huddled against the barracks walls, their eyes glittering and blinking rapidly in the dark.

  Unconsciously, Grunthor pulled his rough woolen blanket up over his shoulder and sighed as the warmth touched his neck, a sensation similar to being near Rhapsody. He had initially been reluctant to leave the Root once they had arrived here. He had been bound to the Earth by the song of his name that she had sung to lead them through the great Fire. Grunthor, strong and reliable as the Earth itself, she had called him in his namesong, among other descriptions. From the moment he had e
xited the Fire, he had felt the beating heart of the world in his blood, a tie to the granite and basalt and all that grew above it. The Earth was like the lover he had never had, warm and comforting in the darkness, a feeling of acceptance he had never known, and it was inextricably linked to Rhapsody.

  In a way, he did not miss being within the Earth, or the earthsong that still hummed in his ears when he was wrapped in silence, because she was there. He could still see her smile in the dark, her dirty face gleaming in the glow given off by the Axis Mundi, the great Root that bisected the world that had been their path away from Serendair and to this new place.

  He had been her protector from the very beginning, had comforted her in her night terrors, let her sleep on his chest in the dank chill of their journey along the Root, kept her from falling into nothingness during the arduous climb. It was a role so far removed from any he had ever played before that he hardly believed himself capable of it. It had taken every resource of self-control that he had to keep from locking her in her chambers now and driving her guide from the mountain. How he would deal with a double first loss—Rhapsody herself, and the memory she kept alive of being within the Earth—was more than he could imagine. If she were to die, or just never come back, Grunthor was not sure he could go on.

  And then, as ever, his mind cleared as the thoughts became too complicated, and pragmatism returned. Grunthor was a man of military solutions, and weighed the odds of her survival unconsciously. She carried a credible weapon—Daystar Clarion, a sword from the old world they had found within the earth, for reasons unknown, here on the other side of the world. It, like they, had undergone a significant change; its blade burned with flame now, where in Serendair it had only reflected the light of the stars. He had taught her how to fight with it, and she was a credit to her instructor, performing admirably in their campaigns to subdue the Bolg. She could take care of herself. She would be all right.

  Grunthor began to snore, a sound that was music to the ears of his bunkmates. They settled back in for the night quietly, taking care not to disturb the Sergeant-Major’s newly found sleep.

  Across the hall from Rhapsody’s chambers, Jo was having the dreams typical of a sixteen-year-old with an obsession, full of chemical excitement and pictures of hideous deformity. She slept on her back in her grotesquely messy room, the favored sleeping position of street children who had found a comfortable spot in an area of town in which they didn’t belong. From time to time she unconsciously dabbed at the beads of perspiration that dotted her chest, or drew her legs more tightly together when the flesh between them began to burn with arousal.

  The image in her dream was that of Ashe, and it changed from moment to moment. This was largely because she had never actually seen what Ashe looked like, though she had been closer to doing so than most. From the moment of their awkward introduction in the marketplace in Bethe Corbair she had longed for him. She had no idea why.

  Initially he had been nothing more than a pocket to pick, the glint of a sword hilt as he stood, near-invisible, in the street, watching the commotion that Rhapsody was unintentionally causing across the way. Upon slipping her hand into his trousers pocket, however, she had felt a surge of power that had unbalanced her. The mist that enveloped her wrist had caused her to lurch and slip, grasping his testicles instead of his coin purse. The row that had ensued served as an unpleasant but effective introduction, not only between Ashe and herself, but Ashe and Rhapsody as well. It had sorted itself out neatly, as everything seemed to when Rhapsody was involved.

  Now Jo dreamed of the image of his eyes, furiously blue and clear within the darkness of his hood, blazing down at her beneath a wave of coppery hair, the only aspects of his face visible from below. She had watched carefully ever since Ashe had come, months later, to visit them in Ylorc, waiting for any glimpse of further features, but it had never happened. Sometimes she wondered if she had actually seen anything at all, if the memory of his eyes and hair was just her mind’s way of filling in the desperately desired blanks.

  Sometimes Jo would dream of his face, but more often than not it was an unpleasant experience. No matter how nicely the image had begun, it would often resolve itself into something frightening. In her waking moments Jo had come to realize that men who shielded their faces from sight often had good reason to do so, and generally it translated into some form of hideous appearance. Achmed, another man with a hidden face, was ugly as death; uglier, if at all possible.

  The first time she had seen Achmed without the benefit of the swath of material that usually veiled his lower face she had gasped aloud at the sight. His skin was pocked and mottled, lined with exposed veins and imbued with an unhealthy pallor. And always above the veil were the eyes, closely set and somewhat mismatched, giving him the appearance of being transfixed in a perennial stare.

  She had pulled Rhapsody aside.

  How can you stand looking at him?

  Who?

  Achmed, of course.

  Why?

  Her adopted older sister had been of little use in making sense of the confusion she felt within the Firbolg mountain. Rhapsody seemed at ease among the ugly and the monstrous. She had stared at Jo as if she had two heads every time Jo made reference to the fact that looking at Achmed was not a pleasant experience. At the same time she seemed utterly unaware of any reason to be attracted to Ashe. Jo was secretly glad; it made the furtive desire that was growing daily within her a little less guilt-ridden.

  There was enough guilt to bear about the other thing that secretly gladdened her; she was relieved that Rhapsody seemed ignorant of Ashe’s attraction to her as well. Jo’s life on the street had made her a keen observer, and even though Ashe tended not to display his interest noticeably, she had picked up on it anyway. Achmed and Grunthor had seen it too, she was certain. But Grunthor was gone most of the time on maneuvers, and Achmed had found other reasons to dislike Ashe, so it was hard to confirm without asking them, something she would rather die than do.

  Jo turned onto her stomach and curled her knees and arms under her, trying to shield herself from the missiles of jealousy that rained down on her now in the dim light of her bedchamber. As much as she thought she wanted the attention of this hidden stranger, she found herself shuddering at the brutal thoughts that plagued her about Rhapsody, the only person who had ever loved her; who was now an unintentional obstacle.

  Rhapsody and the two Bolg had rescued her from the House of Remembrance, saving her from the blood sacrifice of the other children she had witnessed there. And while Achmed and Grunthor would have turned her over to Lord Stephen, Rhapsody had adopted her instead, bringing her along with them, protecting her, giving her an opportunity to belong, loving her. Jo was just beginning to learn to love her back when Ashe came to visit, complicating things. Life before had been a simple matter of survival, daily brushes with the law and other unsavory types, and the simple challenge of finding food and shelter for the night. Now it was far too complicated.

  The last flickering candle in Jo’s chamber faltered, then burned out, leaving nothing but the glowing wick and the acrid smell of the liquid wax in the new darkness. Her nose wrinkled, and she pulled the covers over her head. Morning couldn’t come soon enough.

  Ashe’s dreams were not of anyone in this world, or in this time. Being neither dead nor really alive, the only comfort Ashe ever found from the agony he carried each waking moment was in his memories of the Past.

  Even unconsciousness was not a respite from his torment. What few night visions his hideous half-sleep now granted him, were hazy and filled with pain. They were generally nightmares of what his life now was, or even more agonizing memories of what it had once been. It was difficult to say which kind of dream was harder to endure.

  The dragon blood within him, his dual nature that was both alien and his own, lay dormant for the moment, allowing him a few seconds’ peace in the constant torture of his existence. When it awoke it would begin whispering to him again, nattering away
with a thousand stupid insistences, a thousand demands. But now, at least for a little while, the constant drone of it was quiet, crowded into the back recesses of his mind by the sweetness of the dream he was having on this, his last night in the strange realm of Ylorc.

  In the silence of the guest chamber he now occupied, Ashe was dreaming of Emily. It had been years, decades, even, since she had graced his dreams, beautiful, innocent Emily, his soulmate, dead a thousand years now. He had met her but once, had passed only one evening in her company, and had known almost from the moment his eyes beheld her that she was the other half that completed him.

  She had known it, too, had in that briefest of moments said that she loved him, had gifted him with her heart, her absolute trust and her virtue, had consummated with him what had felt like their marriage, even though they were both barely out of childhood. One night together. And now her ashes blew about somewhere in the winds of Time, on the other side of the world, a lifetime away. The only vestige of her that remained was hidden away in the rusted vault of his memory.

  But while Emily was dead, in the Past, Ashe was half-alive in the Present. His existence was a secretive one, hidden from the many who hunted him and dictated by the one who manipulated him. For that reason he walked the world in a cloak powered by the element of water, drawn from Kirsdarke, the sword formed of and dedicated to that element. The cloak wrapped him in mist and shielded him from those who could read his vibrational signature on the wind.