Elizabeth Haydon - Rhapsody - Child of Blood

“I’m very sorry,” came a vaguely familiar voice. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Who the—who are you?” she gasped between breaths.

“It’s me, miss; Ashe,” came the sheepish reply. “You know, from Bethe Corbair. We had lunch together, you may recall.”

“Gods,” she choked, trembling with exhaustion and the aftermath of panic. “Don’t ever do that to me again. I might have cut your throat.”

From within the hooded cloak she heard a chuckle. “I’ll be more careful next time, I promise,” Ashe said. Rhapsody could hear a smile in his voice, and it irritated her.

“What are you doing here? I’m amazed you got past the Bolg guards. Grunthor will be furious.”

“Whoever he is, I hope he won’t be too harsh with them,” came the voice from the shadow, and it sounded sympathetic. “It’s really not their fault. And besides, I’m here by invitation.”

The shuddering chill of fear that had blasted through her, followed by a roaring heat of panic, left her weak and trembling. “Really? Whose?”

“Well, yours, I thought; at least that’s what I assumed when Jo said I was welcome here. I’m sorry if I overstepped or misunderstood.”

Rhapsody felt the trembling heat that had coursed through her a moment before begin to subside. “No, no, of course not,” she said, her breath coming easier now. “It’s I who must apologize; you are certainly welcome. I’m afraid you caught me when I was a little winded, and my brain was a bit addled.”

“What are you running from?”

Rhapsody thought about how to answer, then decided it would be impossible, as well as unwise, to explain to this virtual stranger. “Nothing tangible,” she said, mustering a slight smile.

“Really?”

“Yes,” she said. “What are you hiding from?”

The hooded figure chuckled, then bowed in acquiescence to her point. “Also nothing tangible.”

As the initial panic that had clutched her stomach unclenched, Rhapsody felt herself filling with other, darker emotions. The unexpected appearance of this stranger had set her pulse on fire. She had come to the meadow at the top of the world to run away from her nightmares, and instead she had run into something that was the stuff of one of them.

She struggled to remember the dream, the image she had seen twice. It was the vision of a body on a table in darkness, glowing, then disappearing.

I can’t see him anymore, Mama. Why can’t I see him?

It’s not what he is, it’s what he wears.

Rhapsody looked up into the wide hood, where not even a glimpse of his face could be seen. The fear she felt was tempered a little with sorrow; she, too, often needed to walk the world unseen. What was it that made Ashe feel the need to do so? Was his appearance, too, freakish in the eyes of the people of this land? Had he been scarred, or maimed? With all the violence in the countryside, perhaps he had fallen victim to something that had mutilated his face, had left him in pain.

Another image rose in her mind, leaving her trembling. It was the image of a man drowning in darkness, in unspeakable agony.

“Rhapsody? Are you all right?”

She felt her face, its muscles tight across her brow and cheeks. It was a face that conveyed her fear.

“Yes,” she said shortly. “I’m fine. Why don’t you come with me?” She smiled wanly, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “I’ll take you to the Cauldron; Achmed will be glad to see you. He’s king now, you know.”

“The Cauldron?”

“Yes, that’s what he calls his seat of power, the Great Hall and its surrounding area.”

“Gods.” She thought she felt a shudder from inside the cloak.

“Yes, well, these are Firbolg lands, after all. Come; allow me to show you some of our hospitality.” She pulled her hair self-consciously back into its restraints, turned, and started back to the rock ledge.

The gray shape followed her easily across the heath, the wind whipping at the fringes of his cloak. “M’lady, believe me, I would follow you anywhere. I’m just not sure I would be able to keep up if you decided to run.”

Ashe had never been to Canrif before; it was a somber, astonishing sight. The passes in the Teeth were heavily guarded by Firbolg troops who were consistently, if sparingly, armed and armored. They held a watch as well as many of the soldiers of Sorbold, and better than those in Roland, whose armor some of them wore. Only the Lirin were better trained at this point; the concept was flabbergasting.

The last time he had come near the Bolglands was on his Spring Cleaning detail as a trainee in the army of Bethany, back in his other life, when he still had cause, and the ability, to walk openly in the world of men.

He had participated in the exercise with distaste but not malice, efficiently cleaning out the border towns and dispatching with alacrity and pragmatism the semi-human monsters who lived there.

It had bothered him a little at the time. It ate at him more now, seeing them as they really were: primitive and warlike, but people, not animals. And these two, Rhapsody and the man she called Achmed, had been able to harness the power the Bolg held, molding them into a formidable fighting force in almost no time. It was a significant piece of information, an indication of their power.

He had stood in the darkness of the heath and watched Rhapsody for a long time before he made himself known to her. At first he had no idea what she was doing, running into the wind, letting it billow her hair and dress about her like a sail on the high seas. After observing the intensity of her flight, the wildness of her dance, his throat tightened; she was trying to run away, but had nowhere to go. It made him want her even more.

Ashe tried to drive the thought from his mind as he followed her now, through the mountain passes and into the rocky halls, torch-lit tunnels that led to the ancient Cymrian seat of power.

Canrif; it was legendary, the birthplace of the Cymrian Age, the best and brightest time in the history of the land, when systems of justice were formed and codified, great advances made in science, architecture, medicine, and art, the great basilicas and roadways built, and marvelous discoveries made. And all of it shattered by one blind moment of marital rage; a pity, really. Ashe looked around. It was like reliving history, walking these halls.

The ruins of the fortress were much as they undoubtedly had been left when the Cymrians fled: crumbling, dank with the odor of ancient pitch and smoke; the smell of grim defeat, still present four centuries later.

Gwylliam had been an engineer, a man who was responsible for some of the greatest structures in the known world, and Canrif was no exception. He had carved an almost unassailable stronghold out of an unwilling mountain, made sources for heat and light and ventilation, had found a realm in which the diverse population of races that had followed him on the last fleet out could live in familiar surroundings, and had held it together for three hundred years. It was a marvel to behold.

Rhapsody led him at last down a long corridor to what had once been the throne room, the Great Hall of Canrif, or Ylorc, as the Bolg called it. The two he had met in the market, the teenager, Jo, and the obnoxious man known as Achmed, were both there.

With them was an immense Bolg, obviously of mixed blood, whom Rhapsody introduced as Granthor; this must be the captain of the guard she had referred to when he first arrived. The giant had clicked his heels and nodded, but said nothing. Jo was bustling with excitement, but had obviously received some sort of corrective lecture and therefore smiled brightly at him, but said nothing as well.