Prophecy

by Elizabeth Haydon

  She tiptoed down the upstairs hallway to Oelendra’s bedroom. A light was still burning; Rhapsody knew that many nights Oelendra did not sleep at all. Being full-blooded Lirin she had no need to, as she was refreshed and rejuvenated by the subconscious meditation that resulted from the vibrations that her physiology drew from the forest. She tapped softly.

  “Come in, dear.”

  Rhapsody opened the door. Oelendra was sitting up in bed, unbinding her long thin braid. The sight of her caused tears to well up in Rhapsody’s eyes. Her mother had taken down her own hair each night when they were alone, and she had brushed it and Rhapsody’s before the fire. Oelendra represented her mother in so many ways that it never failed to cause her the pain of memory when something reminded her of this. Oelendra knew instantly that it had happened. She patted the bed next to her.

  “Sit down.” Oelendra began brushing her hair.

  Rhapsody complied. “Oelendra, tell me of the Three, and the prophecies about them.”

  Oelendra smiled. “’Twere rantings, Rhapsody. Manwyn was trying to spare her sister from being cast out by the Cymrian Council. It didn’t work. The Council banished Anwyn in spite of her sister’s promises that saviors would come to undo the wrongs she had committed. After four hundred years, I think ’tis time we give up the fantasy and make different plans.”

  Rhapsody nodded. “Do you remember exactly what she said?”

  “Aye; I helped write them down. Why?”

  The Singer smiled. “Well, you know me, always searching for lore.”

  Oelendra looked at her seriously, then began to recite the words in the language of the Cymrians.

  The Three shall come, leaving early, arriving late,

  The lifestages of all men:

  Child of Blood, Child of Earth, Child of the Sky

  Each man, formed in blood and born in it,

  Walks the Earth and sustained by it,

  Reaching to the sky, and sheltered beneath it,

  He ascends there only in his ending, becoming part of the stars.

  Blood gives new beginning, Earth gives sustenance, the Sky gives dreams in life—eternity in death.

  Thus shall the Three be, one to the other.

  Rhapsody nodded. “And there has never been a further explanation?”

  “Not really,” Oelendra answered. “The sages studied Manwyn’s words, trying to discern their meaning, and finally decided ’twas an allegory that meant anyone could kill the F’dor, since she spoke of the lifestages of all men. I didn’t believe that at the time, but I have decided since that ’twas more or less useless information. Why are you so interested tonight? Did you have a dream?”

  “No,” Rhapsody answered. “And there was no other explanation?”

  “Well, actually, Anborn, Gwylliam’s son, asked Manwyn before the Council how the Three would repair the rift.”

  “Do you remember what she said?”

  Oelendra nodded and thought a moment.

  As each life begins, Blood is joined, but is spilled as well; it divides too easily to heal the rift.

  The Earth is shared by all, but it too is divided, generation into generation.

  Only the Sky encompasses all, and the sky cannot be divided; thus shall it be the means by which peace and unity will come.

  If you seek to mend the rift, General, guard the Sky, lest it fall.

  Rhapsody laughed. “Well, that was helpful.”

  Oelendra put her hairbrush down on the bedside table. “Now do you see why I don’t put any stock in the babbling of a madwoman?”

  “Yes, but perhaps you should.”

  Oelendra looked sharply at her. “Say what you mean, Rhapsody.”

  The Singer regarded her seriously. “You know I didn’t sail with you, Oelendra, yet you know I am also a First Generation Cymrian. You have assumed that instead of sailing with the Cymrians I went to a country nearer to Serendair, as so many Liringlas did, but I did not. I actually have only been in this world for a very short time. I have told you about Grunthor, my Bolg friend who taught me the sword. I should probably tell you that he is Cymrian as well. We came with a third friend.” Her voice grew softer as Oelendra’s eyes widened. “He is Dhracian.”

  Oelendra took her hand, clutching it. “You’re one of the Three?”

  Rhapsody shrugged. “I think so. I mean, I don’t know, really, but Grunthor is tied to the Earth, and Achmed to blood. And since I am Liringlas, I would guess that could make me a child of the sky.”

  “Leaving early, arriving late,” Oelendra murmured to herself. “None but the sky encompasses all, thus shall it be the only means by which peace will come and unity will result.” Her eyes began to shine. “’Tis you, Rhapsody; I knew it from the moment I saw you. Even if you weren’t one of the Three, I believe in my heart that you are the one to do this; the true Iliachenva’ar. The sword has borne out Manwyn’s prediction.” Her hands trembled slightly from excitement.

  “Now, Oelendra, don’t get carried away,” Rhapsody warned. “I know nothing of the Three, and if it is foretold, nobody foretold me. I just thought you should know that I didn’t come alone.”

  “And you will never be alone again, Rhapsody. Whatever it takes to prepare you for this fight, whatever your destiny may be, I am here for you.”

  25

  Rhapsody had awakened early, the sonnet from her dreams still nattering in her head. She had bathed, and dressed, but it still wouldn’t leave, driving her to distraction.

  She listened at the door to see if her predawn putterings had disturbed Oelendra, but there was no sound from the hall. Rhapsody eyed the lute in the corner with annoyance, then gave in with a sigh, knowing that once the composing session began she would have to see it through or be unable to think of anything else.

  She made herself a cup of tea. As she sipped the steaming liquid she remembered Ashe’s insulting comments and wondered what the problem was. It didn’t taste that bad to her.

  She settled into the comfortable chair across from the fireplace, tuned the lute, and began to play. At first the song was cold, uncooperative, but after a few minutes the notes began to flow with more regularity and the melody started to take shape. Rhapsody played softly so as not to disturb her host. Soon the room began to hum with creative energy, adding to the light and warmth within it.

  The fire sang on the hearth, crackling in rhythm to the notes from her lute, hissing in time. Rhapsody was lost in the music when the door opened.

  “Are you ready?” Oelendra asked, entering the room. She was dressed in her customary leather armor, worn from years of workouts, and carried her high-collared cape.

  Rhapsody looked up from her lute to the iron-grated window. Morning was still at least an hour away.

  “It’s dark outside, Oelendra,” she answered, her fingers continuing to work on the strings.

  “Aye, but you’re awake, or at least you do a good impression of it.”

  Rhapsody smiled at her. “I am almost finished with this sonnet,” she said, her eyes returning to her instrument. “It will be completed before the sun comes up. As soon as I’m done I’m at your disposal.”

  “Funny,” Oelendra said quietly, “I was of the notion that you were at my disposal regardless.”

  It was an odd comment, and Rhapsody looked up. Oelendra was studying her intently. When her eyes met Rhapsody’s, she smiled. Rhapsody smiled back, feeling as if she was missing something.

  “My focus should be better today,” she said, returning to the sonnet. “Once this song is out of my head, I should be able to concentrate again.”

  “Really?” Oelendra’s voice was kind.

  “Yes,” Rhapsody said, tuning a string that had slipped flat. “This lute is a harsh taskmaster. It nagged at me all night while I slept; that’s why I got up so early. It keeps drawing my attention back to the song, demanding I finish it. I don’t think it will let me rest or focus until it’s done.”

  “What an annoying instrument. Well, if that’s all�
�” Oelendra reached out and yanked the lute from Rhapsody’s hands. As Rhapsody opened her mouth in protest Oelendra smashed the instrument into the wall, then threw it across the room into the fireplace, where it splintered into crackling fragments and the whine of burning gut strings. Rhapsody’s eyes stung in astonishment as she watched the wood begin to kindle.

  “Well, then,” Oelendra said lightly, “now that ’tis not a problem anymore, are you ready to start?”

  It took a moment for Rhapsody to regain her voice. “I cannot believe you just did that.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “What in the name of the One-God is the matter with you?” Rhapsody shouted. She gestured at the fireplace. “That instrument was priceless! It was a gift from Elynsynos, filled with lore and history. And now it’s—”

  “’Tis going to keep the room warm.”

  “You think this is funny?”

  “Nay, Rhapsody, I do not.” All pleasantries had been stripped from Oelendra’s manner, replaced by a cold, angry determination. “I don’t think this is funny, and I don’t think this is a game, though you seem to. This is about as deadly serious as it gets, and you’d better begin acting like you understand this. You are now the Iliachenva’ar. You are one of the Three—you have a job to do.”

  “That doesn’t excuse what you did! I do have other responsibilities, Oelendra, besides this. I’m a Namer, too. I have to practice my profession, or I’ll lose it.” Rhapsody swallowed rapidly, trying to contain the anger that was burning behind her eyes.

  Oelendra began to pace the room restlessly. “Perhaps, but, rare as they may be, there are other Namers in this world. There is but one Iliachenva’ar. You have a tremendous responsibility to live up to. The rest of your interests do not matter.”

  Rhapsody felt her fists begin to coil in fury. “Pardon? Are you now dictating what I am? I don’t remember volunteering for this assignment.”

  “Nay, you were conscripted,” said the Lirin champion, a harsh edge in her voice. “Now get up.”

  “Oelendra, what is the matter with you?”

  A washbasin and pitcher shattered against the floor, sending shards of crockery flying, as the Lirin champion slammed the washstand into the wall. “I can’t kill the damned thing; that’s what’s the matter with me!” Oelendra snarled. “If I could, it would have been ashes on the wind ten centuries ago. But I failed; I made mistakes, and the price has been great. You can’t let it escape, Rhapsody. Your destiny is foretold, and you can shrug at it all you like, but you will kill the F’dor, or die trying. You have no choice. My responsibility is to give you a chance to be successful at it, and you are wasting my time.”

  Rhapsody closed her mouth; it had been open since Oelendra’s tirade began. She tried to formulate the words to calm her mentor down, but realized immediately that she couldn’t. There was more than rage in Oelendra’s eyes, there was something even deeper that Rhapsody couldn’t fathom. She remembered the warnings about Oelendra’s fury and her reputation as a harsh taskmaster. All she could do was try to stay out of her way.

  “Listen to me, Rhapsody. I have sent eighty-four fully trained warriors after this beast, and not one of them, not one, has returned. You have more raw talent, more potential, than any of them to defeat it, but you lack the discipline and the will. Your heart wants to save the world, but your body is lazy. You don’t understand the depth of the evil lurking out there, waiting to destroy you.

  “And if you can’t find a shudder over your own death and damnation, think of the people you love. Think of your friends, of your sister, of the children you look after. Do you have any idea what’s in store for them if you fail, as I did? Nay, you do not, because if you did you would be out there right now praying to get hold of this thing and drive your blade through it again and again and again—to taste its death on your hands and relish the joy of retribution for all the heinous things it has done over the millennia of its life!”

  Rhapsody looked away; she could not bear to watch Oelendra rant. Deep within her a sense of calm descended, the feeling of peace that signaled imminent danger to her. But it was not Oelendra who threatened her, it was the panic that rose in her throat as she contemplated the task ahead of her.

  “Do you know what befell your family, your friends, at this thing’s hands? Do you know happened to Easton, Rhapsody?”

  “No,” Rhapsody whispered.

  Oelendra’s eyes cleared; it was as if the Singer’s tone had brought her around. “Be grateful; ’twasn’t pretty,” she said in a calmer voice. “You have the chance to end it, Rhapsody, end the suffering for all time. You have a natural tie to the stars and to fire, and the aid of a Dhracian. You’re one of the Three. It knows you’re here, you realize. It has been waiting for you as long as I have. But if you’re not ready it will catch you unaware, and what it will do to you and those you love will make death seem like a blessing. And then I may as well have handed the sword to it myself long ago.”

  Rhapsody took a deep breath, and willed herself to be calm. There was a desperation under Oelendra’s obstreperous tone that touched her; deep within herself she felt it resonate, and she could identify the song. It was the sound of unspeakable pain, pain as she herself had felt upon coming to this land. Clearly the ancient warrior was not as much at peace with the Past as she had seemed at first. Moreover, as impossible as it seemed, there was a cold fear in Oelendra, a fear whose depth knew no bottom.

  “Oelendra, we have to resolve this,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “I don’t want there to be anger between us. Please, will you sit down and talk to me for a moment? After that I will gladly go with you to the field, and you can work me through sunset and beyond if you wish. But it will be unproductive unless we settle this.”

  Reluctantly the older warrior took a seat at the table. Rhapsody pulled back the chair opposite her, and sat down.

  “Oelendra, I can’t be the Illachenva’ar that you were.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Rhapsody. I wasn’t born with the sword in my hand. I had to learn it too, just like you. It takes commitment. And focus. And dedication. You can’t be a reluctant warrior.”

  “I can only be a reluctant warrior,” Rhapsody answered. “I have no other choice. That’s not what I meant, however. I know I can learn the sword. I have a far better teacher than you did—the best, in fact. But each of us has different gifts. You are blessed with strength that I don’t have, and a mind like a fine instrument.” She looked to the burning ashes of the lute in the fireplace. “Well, maybe that wasn’t a good analogy.”

  Oelendra smiled in spite of herself, her anger diminishing somewhat. “I get the gist.”

  “And I have skills that you don’t have. I am a different person; if I try to be you I will fail. It seems to me in a fight against a foe of this strength that every skill can and must be brought to bear. So I have to become the best swordsman I can be, and I no doubt will, because I have your wisdom and experience to guide me, not to mention your boot on my hindquarters. But I don’t think it makes sense to ignore the other weapons at my disposal, either. You keep telling me to maximize my strengths in combat; ‘rely on your speed and skill, don’t fight like a Bolg’—isn’t that right?”

  “Is there a point?”

  Rhapsody exhaled. “Maybe. I hope so. There are many kinds of weapons, and all of them are powerful in their way and time. The point is, music for me can be my most powerful weapon, even more powerful than the sword. It is not a pastime or recreation; it’s my best skill, Oelendra, my best. That doesn’t diminish in any way my commitment to the sword.”

  Oelendra stared at her for a long moment, then she looked down and let her breath out slowly. “You’re right. I really had no right to take my pain out on you today. I’m sorry about the lute.” Something in her voice sounded wrong; there was an undertone that made Rhapsody frown.

  “Oelendra, look at me.” When there was no response, Rhapsody pressed her again. “Please.”

 
After a moment the older woman raised her head, and her eyes met Rhapsody’s. There were tears in them that startled her.

  “Oelendra? What’s wrong? Please tell me.”

  “Today.” It was a whisper.

  “What about today?”

  Oelendra looked into the fire. “The anniversary.”

  “Today is your wedding anniversary? Oh, Oelendra.”

  The warrior smiled sadly. “Nay, Rhapsody, not the anniversary of our wedding. ’Tis the anniversary of his death.”

  Rhapsody’s face melted in sorrow. “Oh, gods. I’m so sorry.” She bolted from the table and ran to her mentor, wrapping her arms from behind around her broad shoulders. She held her for a long moment, as Oelendra’s hand came to rest on her own. Then she released her, and went to the sword rack.

  “All right, Oelendra,” she said, belting her sword. “I’m ready now.”

  In the darkness of her dream Rhapsody could see a pinprick of light. It shone across the room from her, lighting the corner, and she sat up to watch as it grew in brilliance. She squinted in the dark. She could see the light source twinkle; it was a tiny star on top of a thin strand of spider-silk, hovering in the air.

  As she stared at the infinitesimal star, she became aware of other lights in the darkness, pools of illumination composed of hundreds of dimmer points, glowing softly around her. In the dark they looked like brooches in a jeweler’s case, sparkling gems against the black velvet of night. Then she looked down, and Rhapsody could see she was no longer in her room in Oelendra’s house, but was sitting on a thin wisp of a cloud in the sky, hovering above the land wrapped in night.

  From her lofty perch she watched as the sun rose, clear and golden, at the edge of the eastern horizon. The sunlight touched the land, and as it did she could see that the tiny star was the minaret in Sepulvarta, the towering Spire in the pictures Lord Stephen had showed her. The solar light glinted brightly off the Spire, and then touched the rest of the land, illuminating all of Roland at her feet. The jeweled pins were revealed as cities, which ceased to glow as the sun came up.