Prophecy

by Elizabeth Haydon

  The king motioned again, and two more guards came in, bearing an enormous nautical net. They dropped it on the floor at Sir Francis’s feet. He bent to pick up a corner of it and found that he could lift almost all of it, a feat of which he had never expected to be capable. He knew most nets of that size weighed a tremendous amount, but for some reason this one was only a fraction of standard weight. Instantly the value of it was apparent to him.

  “Where did you get this?”

  The Firbolg king sighed in annoyance. “Do not give me the impression that Cedric Canderre sent me an idiot.”

  Sir Francis’s face flushed. “I’m sorry.”

  The giant’s face spread into a wide grin, revealing grotesque teeth. “Well, yes, we’ve thought so all along, but we’re far too polite to say so.”

  “We made it, obviously. What’s your opinion of it, Pratt?”

  “It’s amazing.” Sir Francis turned the rope net over in his hands. “The workmanship is extraordinary, as is the material.”

  The Firbolg king nodded, and signaled once more. A chest was dropped at Sir Francis’s feet. The emissary opened it; what he lifted out made him blush. It was a set of lingerie, fashioned from intricately crocheted silk threads, or something that looked like them. It was softer than gossamer, and had a natural sheen to the textile, but what was most appealing about it was the design. It was spare and cut in a scandalous way, but still beautiful and elegant, like the more refined and staid camisoles and undergarments Canderre was famous for producing. The process by which the garment was crafted was totally unknown to him, a situation he would have thought impossible, given his training and background.

  “What do you call this?” he asked.

  “Underwear, you nitwit,” said the girl without looking up from her game.

  “Oi call mine ‘Beulah,’” offered the giant Bolg helpfully.

  “I meant the fiber, the process,” said the emissary.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said the Firbolg king. He glanced at Grunthor, and they exchanged a nod. Rhapsody’s expertise on such things was borne out; she knew what women felt beautiful in, and in what men wanted to see them. “Do you like it?”

  “Yes, indeed, it’s very impressive.”

  “What about the wine?”

  Sir Francis’s eyes opened in amazement. “That’s a Firbolg product as well?” The hooded king nodded. Pratt rubbed his neck, trying to sort out his comments and thoughts. “What form does this economic experiment take?”

  The king leaned forward slightly. “We wish to test the interest in these things, without revealing their origins as yet.” It was Sir Francis’s turn to nod. “I want you to put them into your trade stream, sell these products through your merchant network. They will be assumed to be Canderian, and their quality will be judged against the high standards that name invokes.”

  Sir Francis smiled at the compliment. “Thank you, Sire.”

  “In a year’s time you will report back to me accurately about the performance of these products. I warn you, don’t ever try to dupe me, Pratt; I don’t take well to it. I’d offer to let you question someone who tried, but there are none presently alive.”

  The elderly ambassador drew himself up to his full height. “I assure you, Sire, strictly honorable trade practices are an age-old matter of pride in Canderre.”

  “So I’ve heard. I just want to be sure that is true, even when your suppliers are Firbolg.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. If, at the end of the year, there is a demand, as I expect there will be, we will enter into a trade agreement by which Canderre will be granted the exclusive right to sell certain Bolg merchandise, specifically the luxury items. In addition, we will consider selling you the raw materials to use in your own manufacturing, specifically the grapes and the wood.”

  Pratt looked confused. “Wood?”

  The giant laughed. “Look under yer arse, sonny.”

  The emissary checked the chair beneath him. When he looked up the new admiration was apparent on his face. “Well, well. This certainly has been an interesting day.”

  The king smirked. “You feeling genuinely honored yet, Pratt?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Sir Francis smiled. In a strange way, he was.

  Centuries had passed since the road to Canrif had seen such traffic as Shrike saw today. Not since the wedding celebration a thousand years earlier had a host of hopeful emissaries trod their way through the waiting front gates as they did now, and as they had apparently been doing for days.

  He almost laughed out loud at the high and mighty falling over themselves, pretending to legitimize the reign of a monster over what had at one time been the richest fortress of this world or the last. He stopped himself when he realized he had been sent on the same mission as they had: to discover who this new king was, get a glimpse of what remained of the glory of Canrif, and prevent what happened to two thousand troops of Roland from happening to the armies of each of their homelands.

  Shrike was a practical man. He could see them all, the elite of the ambassadorial game: Abercromby and Evans, Gittleson, Bois de Berne, Mateaus and Syn Crote, the favored representatives of all the Orlandan and Sorboldian regents and benisons, each of whom had undoubtedly given their emissaries the same instructions. The representatives from Sorbold and the Nonaligned States were there, a few weeks ahead of the emissaries from the Hintervold and other distant lands. The two religious leaders of the continent, The Invoker of Gwynwood, head of the Filidic order, and the Patriarch of Sepulvarta, the leader of the Patriarchal faith who had dominion over the benisons, had each sent representatives as well.

  The news of the Firbolg king had spread far and wide in a very short time. There was some wisdom in hanging back, listening to the scuttlebutt from the ones who had won the shoving match to be the first in. They would be patently unable to refrain from gossiping about the sights they beheld and the deals they made; there were, after all, bragging rights as much among ambassadors as there were among benisons and lords. The game of pecking order and self-importance did not interest Shrike. Information did.

  In the end, Shrike knew, it was the entree into Canrif that mattered. Any king crafty enough to engineer the defeat of a full brigade of Roland’s warriors, led by the late great Rosentharn, Knight Marshal, would have already arranged for the emissaries to see what he wanted them to see and take away with them the impression he wanted them to have. A better strategy, perhaps, was to learn these things by word of mouth, and use his time in the chambers of Ylorc to observe what might not be on the agenda. Even the smallest detail might be useful to his master. He did not expect to discover anything consequential, because Shrike was a practical man.

  “I can’t stand this anymore, I am bored out of my gourd. Good night.” Jo stood and slid her dagger back into her wrist sheath.

  “Go ahead,” said Achmed, checking the list. “There are only a few more.” He had entertained twenty-seven representatives from various heads of state and the church, only two of which he had wanted to see; his gourd was numb, too.

  “You keep yer ’ands outta those presents, now,” warned Grunthor with a twinkle in his amber eyes. “’Is Majesty gets to look through ’em first.”

  Jo scowled. “You know, I liked it a lot better before you were king, Achmed.” She strode out of the Great Hall and back to her chambers.

  Achmed sighed. “So did I.”

  3

  The morning following their argument the interaction between the traveling companions was easier, less strained, than it had been in weeks. Rhapsody was at a loss to explain why, finally deciding that what had erupted was mutual suspicion that had been brewing over the course of their journey, unspoken until the night before.

  It was odd; he had drawn on her, she had insulted him, and here they were, feeling more comfortable than they had since they had left Ylorc, almost like breaking a fever. Being around the Bolg is making me strange, she thought with an amused sigh. The appalling behavior of t
he men in her acquaintance, over which her brothers would have felt the need to defend her honor, was now routine. All her male friends were rude to her.

  Perhaps that was what she liked about Ashe. Unlike the other human men she knew, he treated her like a friend, or even a politely disinterested acquaintance. He was not constantly aroused; the detection of amorous intentions was a skill she had learned from Nana, the proprietor of the brothel in which she had lived in Serendair, and it served her well. She had come to realize that men existed in a state of almost permanent arousal, with a few exceptions. Ashe was one of them. He treated her in a friendly, teasing manner, much the way her brothers had, dropping an occasional flirtation but never pressing it. Whether his platonic attitude toward her was a sign of disinterest or a problem with his physiology did not matter. It made for comfortable companionship, and she appreciated it.

  Ashe knew she was under this misconception, and it made him breathe easier. Nothing could be further from the truth. His mist cloak, his hated disguise from the eyes of the world, was a blessing here. It shielded his longing for her, and his less-than-noble desires. Rhapsody’s own strange abilities of self-deception played into the situation as well. So they went about their journey—he gave her no reason to be wary of his intentions, and she ignored any sign of them.

  The rains caught up with them, and the walking became arduous. The forest grew deeper as they journeyed west, making traveling slower. The snow around the base of the trees had melted, leaving rings of brown grass, the harbingers of warmer, if not better, weather.

  One late afternoon, after a day of plodding through overgrown thickets and twisted patches of briars, they stopped at the edge of a bog. Rhapsody found a comfortable-looking pile of leaves within such a circle beneath an elm tree and dropped down into it wearily. Ashe backed away as she jumped up with a squawk, rubbinng her backside, and muttering ugly curses in the Firbolg tongue.

  A moment later, when she had regained her composure, she knelt beneath the tree and brushed the leaves away, uncovering a large square stone with runes carved into it. The words were filled with dirt that had hardened with time. Carefully she rubbed the crevices clean, then exhaled when she made out the inscription.

  Cyme we inne fri, fram the grip of deap to lif inne di smylte land

  The inscription was one Llauron had shown her long ago, the words Gwylliam had instructed his explorer, Merithyn, to greet anyone he met in his travels with, the words he had carved upon Elynsynos’s cave. Come we in peace from the grip of death to life in this fair land. “It’s a Cymrian marker,” she murmured, more to herself than aloud.

  Ashe bent next to her to examine it. “Indeed,” he said agreeably. “Do you recognize it?”

  Rhapsody looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean? If I knew it was here, do you think I would have injured myself on it?”

  Ashe stood up again. “No,” he said. “I was just wondering if perhaps you had seen it before.”

  “When would I have? If I had been here before, why would I need you to guide me?” She took off her cloak and laid it on the ground.

  Ashe unslung his pack. “I thought perhaps you might have seen it when it was erected.”

  Rhapsody exhaled loudly in aggravation. This had become an old saw; he was continually dropping hints, making veiled reference to the First Generation Cymrians. She had determined early on he was trying to trip her up, attempting to make her reveal herself as one. This was the most blatant he had been so far.

  “I’m really getting tired of this game,” she said. “If you want to know if I sailed with the First Fleet, why don’t you just ask me?”

  Ashe stood up even straighter in evident surprise. “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” He seemed somewhat taken aback. “The Second? Third?”

  “No. I’ve never been on any ship, except for rowboats and ferries.”

  “So you have never traveled from one land to another on the sea? You’ve walked everywhere you’ve traveled?”

  Rhapsody thought back to her trek within the Earth along the Root and shuddered slightly. “Or ridden on horseback. Now, will you please desist?”

  Ashe dropped his pack on the ground. “Desist?”

  “You have been quizzing me about the Cymrians since we left, in subtle ways. I don’t appreciate it.”

  “But you do know who they were?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, “but what I’ve heard about them I’ve learned from writings and students of history. So if you don’t mind, I would appreciate you ending this cat-and-mouse game.”

  Ashe chuckled. “If I’m not mistaken, the way cat-and-mouse games end is by the cat eating the mouse.” He pulled the cooking utensils out of his pack. “I assume I don’t have to tell you which one of us is which in the analogy.”

  Rhapsody was gathering sticks and peat for the campfire she had started. “Is that something you’d like to do tonight?”

  “Are you offering?” His tone was suggestive.

  “Well,” she said, bending over and picking up more fallen branches, “I think it can be arranged. After I get the fire going I’ll hunt around and see if I can find you some small rodents for supper.” She went about her gathering chore, and unconsciously began to whistle. A moment later Ashe recognized the tune. It was a hymn to the ancient harvest goddess, a song from the old land.

  She was Cymrian; he was virtually certain of it. Ashe decided to try something else. He thought about the languages she would have used in the old world if she really was Cymrian, but his knowledge of Ancient Lirin was limited. He decided to try one comment in the archaic Lirin tongue first, then one in Old Cymrian. He waited until he could see her face on the other side of the fire.

  “You know, Rhapsody, I find you extremely attractive,” he said in the dead Lirin language, then shifted into the tongue of the Cymrians. “I really love to watch you bend over.” She gave him a strange look, but she said nothing, and the dragon did not sense any blood rise to her face in a blush. The furrow in her brow seemed more extreme at his first comment than his second; perhaps she had lived in a Lirin village, or a meadow longhouse, where the only language spoken was the Lirin tongue. He tried again.

  “And you have the most incredible backside,” he said, waiting to see the reaction. She turned to gather more peat, and fed it to the fire, seeming to grow annoyed.

  “I don’t understand you,” she said, glaring at him through the smoke. “Please stop babbling at me.” She heard him sigh as he returned to unpacking the utensils, waiting until his back was turned to allow the smile to take over her face. Tahn, Rhapsody, evet marva hidion—Listen without rancor, Rhapsody, I think you are a beautiful magnet. Abria jirist hyst ovetis bec—I love to watch you squat. Kwelster evet re marya—you have the most beautiful muffins. It was all she could do to keep from choking with laughter. While his Old Cymrian was not too far off, his knowledge of Ancient Lirin was even more limited than he knew. And she spoke the truth, as always. She didn’t understand him at all.

  They had taken to sitting shorter, more frequent watches, mostly because of her nightmares. After an hour or so of deep sleep, Rhapsody would invariably begin to toss and turn, muttering under her breath, sometimes crying, sometimes gasping as she woke in shock. Ashe wished he could comfort her when these dreams occurred, and thought often about waking her gently to save her from them, but he knew that she was probably prescient. If she was seeing visions of the Future it might be important to allow her to do so, no matter what it cost her. So he sat in frustrated sorrow and watched her suffer through the nights, sleeping lightly, to wake, trembling.

  They spoke little during the day. It was the evening that eased the tensions and facilitated conversation. Darkness cloaked the forest; its sounds increased, along with the crackling of the fire and the whispering of the wind in the trees, so difficult to hear in the daylight. By day words seemed as though they were held up to the light, and so were used very little. The night hid them, made them safer, an
d so it was then Rhapsody and Ashe were able to exchange them.

  They were but a few days out from their destination. Ashe had said they would make Elynsynos’s lair by week’s end. There was still a wide river to cross, and many more leagues to travel, but they were within reach.

  There was a loneliness in the air that night. They had been walking in the forest so long that it was hard to recall when they were not surrounded by trees. Rhapsody’s sunset devotions seemed to be swallowed by the forest canopy, as if the songs themselves were suddenly too heavy to soar to the stars. She sat now on the rise of a small forest hill, watching those stars appear in the twilight one by one, to duck again behind the passing clouds that swallowed them intermittently. It put Rhapsody in mind of tiny minnows, their scales twinkling in the water of a dark lake, pursued by misty white predatory fish that consumed them and moved on.

  “Rhapsody?” Ashe’s voice broke her solitude. She turned in the direction of her shadowy companion. He was sitting at the fire’s edge, its light flickering off his misty cloak, wrapping him in haze.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you feel safe here with me?”

  She considered for a moment. “As safe as I do anywhere, I suppose.”

  The hooded figure looked up. “What does that mean?” His voice was soft, almost gentle.

  Rhapsody looked into the sky again. “I guess I don’t remember what feeling safe feels like.”

  Ashe nodded, and went back to his thoughts. A moment later he spoke again.

  “Is it because of the dreams?”

  Rhapsody pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “Partly.”

  “Are you afraid of meeting Elynsynos?”

  She smiled slightly. “A little.”

  Ashe picked up the kettle and poured himself another mug of tea. As if to make up for his rude behavior earlier in the trip, he was now drinking most of the pot over the course of a night, which she found amusing. “I could go in with you, if it would help.”