Prophecy

by Elizabeth Haydon

  From the throat of the dragon came a rasping sound, a high, thin noise that set Rhapsody’s teeth on edge. It was like the whistling of a snoring bed partner, accompanied by deep grunts and hisses in irregular time. The song went on for an indeterminate interlude, leaving Rhapsody breathless when it was over. When she regained her composure she applauded politely.

  “Liked it, did you, Pretty? I am glad.”

  “Did you like the Cymrian songs, Elynsynos?”

  “I did. You know, you should make them your hoard.”

  Rhapsody smiled at the thought. “Well, in a way they are. The songs and my instruments; I have quite a few of them at home. The music and my garden, I guess that’s my hoard. And my clothes; at least one of my friends would say so.”

  The great serpent shook her head, stirring a cloud of sand that rose from the ground and blinded Rhapsody temporarily. “Not the music, Pretty. The Cymrians.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You should make the Cymrians your hoard, like Anwyn did,” Elynsynos said. “Only you would not bring harm to them like she did. They would listen to you, Pretty. You could bring them together again.”

  “Your grandson is after the same thing,” Rhapsody said tentatively. “Llauron seeks to reunite them as well.”

  Elynsynos snorted, sending a puff of steam over Rhapsody and the lagoon she sat beside. “No one will listen to Llauron. He sided with Anwyn in the war; they will not forgive him for that. No, Pretty, they will listen to you. You sing so nicely, and your eyes are so green. You should make them your hoard.”

  Rhapsody smiled to herself. For all her ancient wisdom, Elynsynos clearly did not understand the concept of social class and lines of succession. “What about your other grandson?”

  “Which one?”

  Rhapsody’s eyes opened in surprise. “You have more than one?”

  “Anwyn and Gwylliam had three sons before the Grievous Blow, the act of violence between them that began the war,” said the dragon. “Anwyn chose the time to bear each of them. Firstborn races, like dragons, have control over their procreation. She chose well, for the most part. The eldest, Edwyn Griffyth, is my favorite, but I have not seen him since he was a young man. He went off to sea, disgusted by his parents and their war.”

  “Who is the other one? The manuscripts did not mention him.”

  “Anborn was the youngest. He sided with his father, until he too could stand it no more. Eventually even Llauron could not take Anwyn’s bloodthirstiness and went to sea. But Anborn stayed, trying to right the wrongs he had committed against the followers of his mother.”

  Rhapsody nodded. “I didn’t realize Anborn was the son of Anwyn and Gwylliam, but I suppose it makes sense.” She thought back to the scowling general in black mail interlaced with silver rings, his azure blue eyes gleaming angrily from atop his black charger. “My friends and I met him in the woods on the way to visit Lord Stephen Navarne, and his name was mentioned in a book we found in the House of Remembrance.”

  “Your friends—there are three of you together?”

  “Yes, why?”

  The dragon smiled. “It makes sense, too.” She did not elaborate further. “Why did you go to the House of Remembrance?”

  Rhapsody yawned; she hadn’t realized how exhausted she was. “I’d love to tell you, Elynsynos, but I’m afraid I can’t keep my eyes open much longer.”

  “Come over here by me,” said the dragon. “I will rock you to sleep, Pretty, and will keep the bad dreams away.” Rhapsody pushed herself off the rowboat and came inside the arms of the reclining beast without fear. She sat down and leaned back against the dragon, feeling the smoothness of her copper scales and the heat of her breath. That there was anything strange about the situation did not occur to her at all.

  Elynsynos extended a nail on her claw and with infinite tenderness pushed back a loose strand of hair from Rhapsody’s face. She hummed her strange music and moved the crook of her arm back and forth in a rocking motion, lifting Rhapsody off the ground as she did.

  “I dreamt you saved me, Elynsynos; you lifted me up in your arms when I was in danger,” she said drowsily.

  Elynsynos smiled as sleep took the small Lirin woman she was holding. She leaned her head down close to Rhapsody’s ear, knowing that the Singer would not hear her anyway.

  “No, Pretty, that was not me in your dream.”

  8

  He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t keep his eyes open in the searing heat. Caustic smoke had filled the cavern all the way to the ceiling, squeezing the life from his lungs. Grunthor waved his arms wildly to clear the burning ash from the air in front of him, but the flailing movements only made it harder to draw breath.

  Around him in the fetid air sparks were igniting and ripping into flame. The giant covered his eyes and tried to cough the burning cinders from his lungs, but only succeeded in drawing the acid further into his chest. He struggled to his feet, holding his breath, then staggered blindly forward, groping desperately for the tunnel that he knew opened somewhere before him in the smoky haze.

  But the cavern was collapsing all around him, chunks of rock and debris falling from above, the tunnel walls closing in. Grunthor’s lungs swelled in agony and he inhaled the filthy air, drowning.

  He stumbled over soft mounds that clogged the street, shuddering as he felt the crunch of bone and heard the muted gasps below his feet. Bodies careened off him from all sides, pushing, crushing in a great rush toward the air. Grunthor had not seen them come forth from the Loritorium’s silent buildings; he had still been asleep, gathering his strength when the world collapsed in a rolling cloud of stinging fumes. He was only vaguely aware they were there, a great throng of people hurrying forward in panic, blocking the exit, struggling for breath, as he was, in the acrid air.

  The burning black fog swirled before his eyes, and one of the people grabbed him by the upper arms, shouting something unintelligible. The sergeant gasped, mustered the last of his strength, and flung the man into the caving wall. Then he stumbled forward again, trying to keep from inhaling. His sight was growing dimmer.

  It took a moment for the world to stop spinning. Achmed clutched his head and rose shakily, still reeling from the impact. Grunthor’s reaction had caught him by surprise; he could tell by the wild glaze in the giant’s amber eyes that the sergeant was in a delusional state and panicking, but he had hardly expected to be hurled across the street into a lamppost.

  “Grunthor!” he shouted again, but the great Bolg sergeant didn’t hear him. Grunthor clawed at the air, lurching through the empty streets of the Loritorium, locked in a life-and-death battle with unseen demons. He was fighting ferociously, but it seemed to Achmed that Grunthor was losing the fight.

  Achmed steadied himself against the half-wall, his fingers brushing the oily substance in the channel that scored the top of the wall. Absently he noted a strong odor, similar to the one emitted by pitch when it burned. Then he ran down the street toward the central garden after Grunthor.

  The giant was on his hands and knees now, gasping for breath. Achmed approached him carefully, calling his name, but Grunthor didn’t seem to hear. He swung his arms wildly to the side as if trying to clear an invisible passageway, panting with exertion. He scrambled over a section of the circle of benches that surrounded the reflecting pond of the fountain, veering off toward the southwest, his olive skin flushing to a frightening shade of purple.

  Then, just before Achmed caught up to him, Grunthor’s face went blank, then relaxed. His eyes cleared and grew wide, and slowly he turned toward the south as if hearing his name being called. Achmed watched as the giant rose to a stand and walked forward through the small garden, following a call that only he could hear.

  When he came to the foot of one of the altar-shaped displays, Grunthor sank to his knees, then leant over the altar, resting his head there.

  Through the pandemonium Grunthor heard it ring like a bell on a windless night. The chaos and smoke died away in an instant,
leaving only the clear, sweet tone, a sound that rang through his heart and reverberated there. It was the song of the Earth, that low, melodic hum that had played in his blood since he had first heard it, deep within the belly of the world. And it was singing to him alone.

  Grunthor felt the nightmarish vision of smothering death sheet off him like water. He rose, the fire in his lungs instantly abating, and followed the music that permeated him.

  It was coming from a single source, decidedly louder than the ever-present melody that always was at the edge of his consciousness. His skin flushed with warmth and tingled as it had so long ago, back when they first emerged from the Fire at the heart of the world. It was back; the unconditional, loving acceptance he had felt then. He never knew how much he had missed the feeling until it returned.

  His sight cleared as he came nearer to it. He could see the source singularly, as if all the rest of the world had melted away into oblivion. There at the far side of the Loritorium’s central square was a piece of earth shaped like an altar, a block of Living Stone. Grunthor had never seen Living Stone before, but had once heard Lord Stephen make reference to it in the Cymrian museum while discussing the five basilicas the Cymrians had built and dedicated to the elements.

  This is the only non-Orlandan basilica, the church of Lord All-God, King of the Earth, or Terreanfor. 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. 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. The turning of the Earth itself resanctifies the ground within the basilica. It is a deeply magical place.

  A deeply magical place. Grunthor came to a stop before the altar of Living Stone, choking back the pain and wonder that were clutching his throat. The great block of earth was radiating a vibration that soothed the last vestiges of his panic, whispering wordless consolation. It erased the pain that had been pulsing in his chest, easing his breathing. Somehow, without hearing any words, Grunthor knew the living altar was speaking his name.

  He knelt down before it, as reverently as he ever had, and put his head down, listening to the story it told. After a moment he looked back up at Achmed. His eyes were clear with understanding, and sorrow.

  “Something ’appened near ’ere. Something awful. You game to go deeper, find out what it was?” Achmed nodded. “Are you sure, sir?”

  The Firbolg king’s brow furrowed. “Yes; why do you ask?”

  “Because the Earth says it was your death, sir. That you don’t know it yet, but you will.”

  Deep within the Earth, the Grandmother woke again to the sound of the child trembling. Her ancient eyes, well accustomed to the lack of light in the Colony’s caverns and tunnels, scanned the darkness furtively. Then she swung her brittle legs off the earthen slab that served as her bed and rose slowly, the grace of her movements belying her great age.

  The child’s eyes were still closed, but the eyelids fluttered with fear from whatever nightmare lurked behind them. Tenderly the Grandmother brushed her forehead and took a breath. From her highest throat the familiar clicking sound issued forth, a fricative buzz that sometimes helped to calm the child. In response the child began to mutter incoherently. The Grandmother closed her own eyes, and wrapped her Seeking vibration, her kirai, around the child. The deepest of her four throat openings formed the humming question.

  “ZZZhhh, zzzzhhh, little one; what troubles you so? Speak, that I may aid you.”

  But the child continued to mutter, her brow contorted in fear. The Grandmother watched in measured silence. This time would be no different than any time before; the prophecy would not be fulfilled. The child would not speak the words of wisdom that the Grandmother had been waiting for centuries uncounted to hear. She caressed the smooth gray forehead again, feeling the cold skin relax beneath her long, sensitive fingers.

  “Sleep, child. Rest.”

  After a while the child sighed brokenly, and settled back into deeper, dreamless sleep. The Grandmother continued her tuneless hum until she was certain that the worst of it was past, then lay back down again, staring into the darkness of the cavern high above her.

  Grunthor recapped the waterskin and handed it back to Achmed, then leaned back against the stone altar and exhaled deeply, driving the last of the tension from his lungs. The Firbolg king’s eyes watched him intently.

  “Are you past it now?”

  “Yeah.” Grunthor rose and shook the grit from his greatcloak. “Sorry about that, guv.”

  Achmed smiled slightly. “Well? Care to enlighten me? What did you see?”

  Grunthor shook his massive head. “Chaos. Swarms of people chokin’ to death in tunnels filled with burnin’ smoke. Like I was there. Smelt like a smithy does.”

  “The forges, perhaps?”

  “Maybe.” The sergeant ran a taloned hand through his shaggy hair. “Deeper than that, though. A place we never been. Oi don’t think ’twas part of the Cymrian lands.”

  “Do you think you can find it?”

  Grunthor nodded absently. He was thinking about Rhapsody, and all the times he had held her as she thrashed about in her sleep, battling dream-demons as he just had. He had never understood the ferocity with which she fought until now.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind he recalled the words they had exchanged upon parting.

  You know Oi’d take the worst of them dreams for you if Oi could, Yer Ladyship.

  I know, I know you would. And believe me, if it was within my power, I’d give you the worst of them.

  Perhaps she had. Perhaps that joking comment had evoked her Naming ability. Perhaps that ability, tied to the truth, which had changed Achmed’s name and broken him free of the demon’s hold, had inadvertently done the opposite for him—had opened the door to whatever it was that gave her visions in her sleep, and sometimes even when she was awake. Maybe he had carried the burden of one of those nightmares for her. It made him miss her all the more.

  “It’ll take a good deal more tunneling,” he said at last. “But distance-wise, it ain’t too far. When you’re ready, sir, we can ’ave at it.”

  A perfunctory canvass of the streets of the Loritorium yielded a detailed inventory of the defenses and traps that had been erected and built into the complex. Grunthor shook his head in amazement.

  “Seems like overkill to have so many for such a small place,” he said, a note of disdain in his voice. “One good explodin’ side-to-side or a ceiling cutoff would ’ave done it. Plus the idiot didn’t account for an escape route, by all appearances.”

  “Gwylliam may have been losing his grip on reality by the time the Bolg began to infiltrate Canrif,” Achmed said, examining an enormous semicircular cistern that was carved into the western wall. He ran his fingertips over the wide channel that led up to a stone block in the center of the cistern wall, then smelled them, recoiling slightly at the harsh odor. It was the same as that of the thick residue in the channels that scored the half-walls with lampposts.

  “This must be the reservoir of lampfuel,” he said to the sergeant. “The manuscript describes how one of Gwylliam’s chief masons discovered a huge natural well of an oily substance that burned like pitch, only brighter. They incorporated it into the lamppost system to provide light for the scholars to read by.”

  “’Ow’d it work?”

  Achmed studied the stone block for a moment, then looked around the Loritorium. “The reservoir is up behind this cistern, not as far down as we are now. Gwylliam devised a flow system to allow the cistern to collect the lampfuel until it was full, then distribute it into the channels that score the half-walls. The fuel ran up the hollow tubes in the lampposts and lit the wicks, burning continuously. The weights inside this main channel balance the outflow through this stone plug, so that i
f the cistern begins to overfill faster than the lamps are consuming the fuel, it closes automatically, opening again when the fuel level in the channels subsides. The balance of the system is fairly important; the lampfuel is highly flammable, and only a little was needed to light the streets.”

  Achmed wiped his hands on his cloak and followed the main channel into the center of the small city. He stepped carefully into the dry reflecting pool, avoiding the gleaming silver puddle, and gingerly touched the wellspring of the plugged fountain, quickly withdrawing his hand.

  “This wasn’t a fountain of water, it was a firewell like that ever-burning flame in the Fire basilica in Bethany,” he said. “Smaller, perhaps, but it has the same source. It vents directly from the inferno at the center of the Earth. One of the great pieces of elemental lore that this place was designed to study. This was what Gwylliam used as the firesource that sparked the street-lamp system and kept it alight, as well as for heat.”

  “Blimey,” said Grunthor. “What made it go out?”

  “It didn’t, I suspect. Looks like it was dammed, intentionally or otherwise. A piece of rubble from the ceiling is lodged in the vent. The heat from the wellspring is still there. Give me a hand, and we can unseal it.”

  “Per’aps we should wait for ’Er Ladyship,” Grunthor suggested. “First off, she’s apt to be mighty put out that we didn’t wait for ’er like we said we would. Second, she seems to be immune to fire and the like; she can probably unplug it without burning ’er face off. Oi’m not so sure that’s true o’ you, sir, with all due respect.”