Rhapsody, Child of Blood (13 page)

A moment later the sweet music ended, taking with it the fragile sense of well-being it had brought a moment before. By the time Rhapsody returned to camp, Achmed's hidden face was wrapped in a scowl again. By contrast, the grim expression that had beset her features the night before was gone, replaced by a placid, almost cheerful mien.

'Good morning," she said. She smiled, and the giant smiled in return.

'Mornin', miss. Ya feelin' better?"

'Yes, thank you. Good morning, Achmed." She didn't wait for a reply, but sat down next to her gear and began tightening the leather bindings on her pack. "Thank you for your—assistance last night."

The sun cracked the horizon behind her, bathing her in a shaft of rosy golden light, causing her hair to gleam brightly. She pulled a crust of bread out of the pocket of her vest, then brushed the crumbs from the long sleeves of her white muslin shirt, stained with grass and dirt. She held out the bread, of fering to share. When the men ignored her, she took a bite, wiping her mud-brown wool trousers free of debris.

'Eat quickly," Achmed said, ladling the stew into two battered steel mugs. "We have a lot of distance to cover today."

Rhapsody stopped in midchew, then swallowed painfully. "We? Today? What do you mean?" The Dhracian handed Grunthor a mug, then raised one to his own lips, saying nothing. "I thought—Michael's men are dead."

Achmed lowered his mug. "Are all Namers given to such rash leaps of assumption?

He has many men. That was only one contingent. Do you really think it was the only one he sent?" He ignored Grunthor's glance and raised the mug to his lips once more.

Rhapsody's face went white for a moment, then hardened into a considered, calm expression. "How far to the Tree?"

'Less than a fortnight, if the weather holds and field conditions don't worsen."

The Singer nodded again. "And are you still willing to let me come with you?"

Achmed finished his stew, wiped the remaining droplets out of the depths of the mug with his forefinger, and shook it out, upside down, over the fire. He tossed grass into the other utensils, spun them out as well, and stowed them away, her question hanging heavy in the air. Finally, when the equipment was packed, he shouldered his weapon and gear, slipping both beneath the black cloak.

'If you can keep up, and keep your mouth shut, I'll consider it."

Chey made their way at a brutal overland speed, traveling in long stretches, for a dozen nightmarish days, stopping rarely, barely pausing before moving on. Traveling time was not limited to either day or night, but rather to Achmed's scouting. It seemed to Rhapsody that he had some sense of inner warning about the presence of other beings, man or animal, that stood between them and the wood.

They might hide for hours, waiting for a group of unknowing travelers to move out of their path. When this happened, she would take the opportunity to doze, not knowing when it would come again. Or they might go for an entire day at a forced-

march clip if the way was clear. The men were used to the pace, and she could keep up fairly well, only needing to stop when she found the sun in the same place it had been once more without a rest break. After a week she was able to match their pace, and they traveled quickly, and in silence.

Finally, at noon on the twelfth day, Achmed pointed directly south and stopped. The two exchanged soft words in a language Rhapsody had never heard except between them; then Grunthor turned to her.

'Well, miss, you up for a good ten-mile run?"

'Run? We haven't stopped for the night yet. I don't think I can do it."

'Oi was afraid you might say that. 'Ere, then." He crouched down and patted his shoulder. Rhapsody stared at him, exhaustion making her confused, then realized foggily that he wanted to carry her on his back, a prospect she particularly loathed. She shuddered at the sight of the many hilts and blade handles protruding from various moorings and bandoliers that crossed his shoulders. It would be like lying down in a field of swords.

'No. I'm sorry, I can't."

The cloaked figure turned to her, and beneath the hood she could see the irritation in his eyes.

'We're almost there. Choose now: shall we abandon you here, or are you going to be gracious about Grunthor's offer of help? The woods are in sight; those that defend them are not. These are bad days; they take no risks with wanderers strolling near their outposts."

Rhapsody looked around. She had no idea where she was, nor could she see the forest. As she had several times since beginning the journey, she considered staying put, hoping that whatever she encountered after the two moved on would be safer company. But, also as she had decided before, her traveling companions rescued her, had not tried to harm her, and looked out for her in their own way. So she swallowed her displeasure and agreed.

'Very well, I'll walk as long as I can first, all right?"

'Fine, miss, just let me know when you're tired."

She rolled her eyes. "I've been tired for days. I'll let you know when I can't go on."

'Fair enough," said the giant.

Che moon was on the wane. It hung low in the sky, trimmed with blood-red mist, a silent observer of the answer to the F'dor's summons.

From deep within the dark temple the call had come, channeled out through the massive stone steeple above, standing black against the night sky.

The towering obelisk was an architectural marvel, a joint masterpiece of man and of nature. Thousands of tons of basalt base and obsidian shaft reached up into the darkness that surrounded its well-hidden cavern in the High Reaches, Seren-dair's forbidding northern mountain range. The actual spire of the mammoth fortress a mile below the ground, the shadowy monolith pierced the racing clouds, thrusting skyward proudly, almost insolently, tapering to a point in which was carved the image of a single eye. As the chant began, the scraps of vaporous mist that hovered in the humid air around the Spire dissipated instantly; the eye was clearing, readying itself.

The ancient words of Summoning, spoken by the dark priest at the altar of blood sacrifice, were not known in the language of this Age, or even the two Ages previous to it. They came from the Before-Time, the primordial era when the elements of the universe were being born, and symbolized the most ancient and essential of all ties: the link between the element of fire and the race that sprang from it, the F'dor.

Twisted, avaricious beings with a deceptive, jealous nature, the few surviving F'dor shared a common longing to consume the world around them, much like the fire from which they came. Also like fire, F'dor had no corporeal form, but rather fed off a more solid host, the way fire grows by consuming fuel, destroying it in the process.

The demon-spirit that clung to Tsoltan, high priest to the Goddess of Void in the world of men, had made its way to power slowly, patiently, over time. From the moment of its birth in the Earth's fiery belly it had taken a long worldview, planning its steps carefully, willingly attaching itself to hosts who were weak or inconsequential in order to give itself the time to grow into the fullness of its potential.

Even as it passed, through death or conquest, to increasingly powerful hosts, it held back, reserved the time of its revelation, to insure that nothing compromised its ultimate goal. The possession of Tsoltan had been an inspired one, achieved willingly, early in his priesthood. The duality of his nature served to make him doubly strong, leant a strategic composure to his innate desire to devour. Living at one moment in the world of men,

the next in the dark domain of black fire, Tsoltan existed on two levels, both as man and as demon.

And neither of them had the power he needed over the Brother.

From the ground around the Spire dew began to rise, steamy mist ascending into the scorching air of the summer night. Hot vapors twisted and danced, forming clouds that in the light of the just-past-full moon grew longer, taller, then began to hold a human shape.

First one, then several, then many, then a multitude of glistening figures formed beneath the unblinking eye of the obelisk, robed like the Brother himself, but with utter darkness within their hoods where a face would be. The bodily frames on which the mist-cloth hung began as thin and skeletal, but as the chant continued they took on the appearance of flesh, of a sinewy musculature, of fire-tipped claws, unseen indications of the demon's substantial investment of power expended in bringing them into being. The thousand eyes of the F'dor. The Shing.

In the great vault below, Tsoltan watched them assemble through the obelisk's eye, trembling with strain and joy. They lingered motionless in the air, absorbing more and more of the heat their master had committed to them, stripping it from himself, growing stronger as his power ebbed.

Within their empty hoods a glimmer could occasionally be seen, perhaps a moonbeam reflecting off the mist, but more likely the reflection of the lens of the immense eye which they now formed. In the world of living men one moment, in the spirit world the next, flitting back and forth between the two domains, much like their master himself, the Shing waited. They were as ephemeral as the wind, but not as fleeting: when sent forth to seek their quarry, they were as relentless as Time, as unforgiving as death.

Tsoltan clutched the altar, his strength waning like the moon on the fields above. In a moment his thousand eyes would set forth, resolutely combing each pocket of air, each step of the wide world, searching endlessly until they found their prey. When they finally came upon him, the results would be horrific.

The demon-priest trembled as weakness washed over him. The Shing would be taking virtually all of his life force with them, a heavy risk. As one knee, then the other, crumbled out from under him, Tsoltan wondered if the Brother would appreciate the compliment. His head struck the polished obsidian floor as he fell, splitting his brow and staining the stone with blood, an appropriate sign.

'The Brother. Find him," he whispered hollowly.

Tsoltan, high-priest, man and symbiotic demon-spirit, rolled onto his back and stared into the blackness overhead. A mile above, a thousand Shing turned and set forth on the wind, under the unblinking gaze of one solitary eye.

n the rare occasions that Achmed deemed a campfire safe, Rhapsody made sure to sleep as near to it as possible. Despite the blistering heat of midsummer, which lingered on well into the night, she found the crackle and smoke comforting, a reminder of the home she hadn't seen in so long.

Near the fire the voices in her dreams changed. They no longer repeated the jeering words of Michael and his ilk, but rather harked back to a deeper, farther Past, earlier, sweeter days near a different fire, drawing those days, if only for a moment, into the Present. Wrapped as she was in the fitful sleep of the outdoors, memories in the dark brought warmth, instead of fear, to her soul.

'Mama, tell me about the great forest."

'Get into the tub first. Here, hold my hand." Soap bubbles glistening in firelight, spinning in round whirling prisms, hovering for a moment, then disappearing before her mother's smile.

Warmth closing in with the water and the hot air from the hearth. "What did you put in the water this time?"

'Sit all the way down. Lavender, lemon verbena, rose hips, snow fern 'Snow fern?

We eat that!"

'Exactly. Why do you think the water is so warm? I'm not bathing you, I'm making soup."

'Mama, stop teasing. Please tell me about the forest. Are the Lirin that live there like us?"

Her mother sitting back on her heels, crossing arms with rolled-up sleeves, leaning on the edge of the metal washtub. Her face was serene, but her eyes clouded over with memory, as they always had when thinking about the Past.

'In some ways, yes. They look like us, at least more than the humans do, but their coloring is different."

'Different how?"

'Their coloring matches the forest more. Ours is a reflection of the open sky and the fields where our people, the Liringlas, live." The hair ribbon pulling free with a gentle tug. "Now, for instance, if you were of the forest, this beautiful golden hair that your father is so fond of would probably be brown or russet-colored; those green eyes might be as well. Your skin would be darker, less rosy; that way you could blend in, walk the greenwood unseen, as they do." A cascade of warm water; sputtering, blinking.

'Mama!"

'I'm sorry; I didn't expect you'd turn like that. Hold still for a moment."

'Do the forest Lirin have little girls, too?"

'Of course. And little boys. And women and men, and houses and cities; they're just different from the ones we live in."

'Will I see them someday, too? Will I have a Blossoming Year and go to the forest like you did?"

A gentle caress on her cheek, the sadness in her mother's eyes growing deeper.

"We'll see. We live among the humans, child; this is our home. Your father may not want you following the customs of my family, especially if it means you would leave for such a long time. And who can blame him? Why, what would we do without our girl?"

'I'd be safe among the Lirin, Mama—wouldn't I? They wouldn't hate me because I'm part human?"

Her mother had looked away. "No one will hate you. No one." The opening of a wide drying cloth. "Here, stand up, little one, and step out carefully." The harsh chill of the air, the rough fabric rubbing briskly on her wet skin. The soft warmth of her nightgown closing around her along with her mother's arms. "Sit in my lap, and I'll comb your hair."

'Tell me about the forest, please."

A deep, musical sigh. "It's as wide as your eyes can see—bigger than you can possible imagine—and full of the scent and sound of life. The trees within it grow in more colors than you have ever seen, even in your dreams. You can feel the song of the wood itself, humming in every living thing there. The humans call it the Enchanted Forest because many of the things —that grow and live there are unfamiliar to them, but the Lirin know it by its true name: Yliessan, the holy place. If you are ever lost, the wood will welcome you because of your Lirin blood."