Elizabeth Haydon - Prophecy - Child of Earth

The end was coming. And there was no way to warn them.

All his manipulation of the Past had come to nothing; the result was going to be the same, after all.

Meridion put his head down on the instrument panel of the Time Editor and wept.

Beneath his face were fragments of time, splinters and scraps of film left over from the destruction of the original strand from the Past he had tried to unmake. He brushed them away dejectedly. One stuck fast to his sweating fingers.

Meridion shook his hand, but still the scrap clung to it. He held it up to the Time Editor’s lightsource.

There was nothing left of the image; the heat of the Time Editor’s rending had marred the film irretrievably. The top edge was similarly rent, taking out the sensory information. The bottom edge of the film piece was the only part left intact, the piece that housed the sound from the Past. Meridion held it up to his ear.

At the edge of his hearing the Grandmother’s dry, insectlike voice whispered.

The deliverance of that world is not a task for one alone. A world whose fate rests in the hands of one is a world far too simple to be worth saving.

Meridion pondered the words. Not a task for one alone .

Not for one alone.

The idea flashed through him so intensely, along with the heat of excitement, that he felt hot and weak, almost dizzy.

Meridion reignited the Time Editor. The machine roared to life. Bright light flashed around the glass walls of his spherical room, suspended above the dimming stars, the heat from the boiling seas churning up a blanket of mist on the world’s surface below him.

There was another way, another connection that could be made with dream-thread. A path that had already been blazed, synchronicity that already existed.

A name that had already been shared.

When the machine was fully engaged, Meridion looked through the eyepiece again. Carefully he backed the film up one night, and repositioned it under the lens to another place in the dark mountains, in the night black as pitch. It took him a moment to find what he was looking for in the gathering storm, crystals of harsh snow beginning to form in the wind of the Teeth.

He caught the dream-thread easily, anchored it without difficulty. The warning was in place.

Now it was only a matter of seeing whether they heeded it.

A shaft of sunlight as golden as Rhapsody’s hair broke through the morning clouds. Ashe stepped into the glow, the mist from his cloak sparking into a million tiny diamond droplets, hanging heavy in the new-winter air.

From beneath her hood Rhapsody smiled. The sight was a beautiful one, a memory she would hold on to in the sad days to come. Standing there in the sunlight, even swathed in his cloak and mantle, Ashe looked like something almost godlike, here at the crest of the first barrier peaks, on his way to the foothill rise. Soon they would part company at the pass that led to the lower rim, and he would be gone from her life.

A billowing roar echoed through the Teeth, sending shivers through her. The sound echoed off the crags and over the wide heath, frightening the wildlife that still remained in the sight of winter’s coming. The sound was unmistakable.

“Grunthor!” Rhapsody spun around, searching blindly in the blaze of morning light for the source of the scream.

Ashe put his hand to his eyes, scanning the panorama of the crags bathed in the sun’s brilliance. He pointed to a pass in the guardian peaks, the barracks of the mountain guard.

“There,” he said.

Rhapsody put her hand to her brow as well. From the cave door that led to the barracks hall, figures were spewing forth like ash from a rampant volcano. The Bolg soldiers of the barracks scrambled to evacuate the corridor, taking shelter behind whatever outcroppings of rocks afforded them cover. Rhapsody shook her head.

“Grunthor must be having nightmares again,” she said, watching the Bolg scatter.

A moment later, her assumption was confirmed. A much bigger figure, still dwarfed by the mountain peak, emerged from the opening. Even from a great distance, his distress was unmistakable.

Rhapsody felt for a friendly gust of wind, making certain it would carry up to the top crag. “Here, Grunthor!” she called, wrapping her voice in the gust. A moment later the figure stopped and sighted on her, then waved frantically. Rhapsody waved back.

“I’m sorry,” she said to Ashe, who was leaning on his walking stick, his face shrouded once more by the hood of his mist cloak. “I have to go to him.” She ran her hand down his arm.

Ashe nodded. If he was annoyed, the mist cloak shielded any sign of it. “Of course,” he said, shifting his weight. “I’ll wait.”

Rhapsody patted his arm again, then hurried to the ledge midway up the peak. Even as she ran, she could see the wary soldiers, backs pressed against the mountain face, surreptitiously slip into the barracks corridor again once Grunthor was clearly away.

“Gods, what’s the matter? You look awful.”

The Sergeant-Major was disheveled and wild-eyed, even after his sprint. The enormous chest heaved so thunderously that Rhapsody grew frightened.

“Here, calm down,” she said in her Namer’s commanding tone. “What’s the matter?”

Grunthor measured his breathing, his panting diminishing somewhat. “We gotta get down there, Duchess. She needs us.”

“The Grandmother? Or the child? How do you know?”

The Firbolg giant bent over, his hands against his knees. “The Earthchild. Oi don’t know ’ow Oi know, Oi just do. I could see inside ’er dreams, and she’s panicking. From the feel o’ them, Oi don’t blame ’er a bit. You gotta sing to ’er again, Yer Ladyship. She’s terrified.”

“All right, Grunthor,” Rhapsody said soothingly. “I’ll go with you. I just need to see Ashe off first; he’s leaving.”

Grunthor stood, eyeing her sharply. “For good?”

“Yes.”

The sharp look mellowed into one of sympathy. “Ya all right, Duchess?”

Rhapsody smiled. She remembered when she first heard him use that expression, the first of many times. It was in the tunnel of the Root; he had been trying to ascertain whether she had fallen into the endless darkness. Each time she had responded in the affirmative, knowing that the answer was only partially true; safe or not, she would never be “all right” again. There was something sadly ironic in hearing it again now.

“I will be,” she said simply. “Rouse Achmed, and get my armor. I’ll meet you on the Heath.”

Grunthor nodded, then patted her shoulder and headed back toward the Cauldron. Rhapsody watched him go, then returned to Ashe.

He was still there, as she had left him, leaning on his walking stick.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

Rhapsody shielded her eyes and looked up into the darkness of his hood. The sight tugged at her heart, but she swallowed the pain, hoping that the next time she saw him, probably from across the great Moot at his coronation, that he would be able at last to walk with his face to the sun, open to the sight of all men, without fear.

“My newest grandchild needs my help,” she said. “I’ll tend to her once we’ve parted at the foothills. Come; let’s be off.”

Achmed had expected Rhapsody to be late coming back from seeing Ashe off, so he had taken his time getting to the Heath. As a result, when he came over the top of the last rise he found two figures there, one enormous, one slight, both looking grim, and both waiting for him. Achmed cursed. She was predictable in her unpredictability.

“He’s gone, then?” he demanded, handing Grunthor the morning’s report from the night patrol. Rhapsody nodded. “Good.”