Elizabeth Haydon - Prophecy - Child of Earth

I’ll be thinking about you every moment until I see you again . It was not until many years that her image deserted him, had left in the face of the horror his life had become. Where once his heart was a holy shrine to her memory, now it was a dark and twisted place, touched by the hand of evil. Emily’s memory could no longer remain in such a charnel house. He had no idea why she had been able to return this night, lingering lightly on the smoke that had risen up from the firegrate and wrapped itself behind his eyes.

VII he thinking about you every moment until I see you again.

Th image in the distance grew dimmer. Ashe rolled, grasping again at the ***n his memory as she began to disperse, calling to him as she left. I love you, Sam. I’ve been waiting for you for so long. I always knew you would come to me if I wished for you .

Ashe sat up, sweat pouring from his clammy skin, wrapped in the cool vapor f the mist cloak, shaking. If only the same magic had worked for him.

Firbolg guard standing watch at the hallway’s end nodded deferentially to Achmed as he emerged from his chamber and made his way down the corridor to Rhapsody’s room. He knocked loudly and swung the door open, part of the morning charade performed for the benefit of the Bolg populace, who believed Rhapsody and Jo to be the king’s courtesans and therefore left the women alone. Both Achmed and Grunthor derived great amusement from the smoldering resentment they knew this survival game stoked in Rhapsody’s soul, but she had adopted a practical attitude about it, mostly for Jo’s sake.

The fire on her hearth was flickering uncertainly, mirroring the look on her face. She did not look up from the scroll she was poring over as he entered.

“Well, good morning to you, too, First Woman. You’re going to have to work a little harder at this if you’re going to convince the Bolg you’re the royal harlot.”

“Shut up,” Rhapsody said automatically, continuing to read.

Achmed smirked. He picked up the teapot from her untouched breakfast tray and poured himself a cup; it was cold. She must have been up even earlier than usual.

“What Scumrian manuscript are you reading this time?” he asked, holding the tepid tea out to her. Without looking up, Rhapsody touched the cup. A moment later, Achmed felt the heat from the liquid permeate the smooth clay sides of the mug, and took a sip, making sure to blow the steam off first.

“ ‘The Rampage of the Wyrm’ . Amazing; it just appeared out of thin air under my door last night. What an extraordinary coincidence.”

Achmed sat down on her neatly made bed, hiding his grin. “Indeed. Learn anything interesting about Elynsynos?”

Finally a small smile crossed Rhapsody’s face, and she looked up at him. “Well, let’s see.” She sat back in the chair, holding the ancient scroll of parchment up to the candlelight.

“Elynsynos was said to be between one and five hundred feet long, with teeth as long and as sharp as finely honed bastard swords,” she read. “She could assume any form at will, including that of a force of nature, like a tornado, an earthquake, a flood, or the wind. Within her belly were gems of brimstone born in the fires of the Underworld, which allowed her to immolate anything that she breathed on. She was wicked and cruel, and when Merithyn, her sailor lover, didn’t come back, she went on a rampage that decimated the western half of the continent up to and including the central province of Bethany. The devastating fire she caused lighted the eternal flame in the basilica that burns there to this day.”

“I detect a note of sarcasm in your voice. Do you reject this historical account?”

“Much of it. You forget, Achmed, I’m a Singer. We’re the ones who write these ballads and this legend lore. I’m a little more versed in how it can be exaggerated than you are.”

“Having done so yourself?”

Rhapsody sighed. “You know better than that. Singers, and especially Nam-ers, can’t make up a lie without losing their status and abilities, although we can repeat tales that are apocryphal or outright fiction as long as we present them that way, as stories.”

Achmed nodded. “So if you reject this story out of hand, why are you worried?”

“Who said I was worried?”

The Firbolg king grinned repulsively. “The fire,” he said smugly, nodding at the hearth. Rhapsody turned toward the thin flames; they were lapping unsteadily around a heavy log which refused to ignite. She laughed in spite of herself.

“All right, you caught me. And, by the way, I don’t reject the story out of hand. I just said there are some parts that I think are exaggerated. Some of it may very well be right.”

“Such as?”

Rhapsody put the manuscript back down on the table and folded her arms. “Well, despite the disparity in the reports of her actual size, I have no doubt that she was—is—immense.” Achmed thought he detected a slight shudder run through her. “She may actually have the ability to assume those fire, wind, water, and earth forms; dragons are said to be tied to each of the five elements. And though she may, in fact, be evil and vicious, I don’t believe the story about the devastation of the western continent.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, the forests there are virgin in most of the parts we passed through, and the trees are the wrong kind to have sprung up after a fire.”

“I see. Well, I don’t doubt your knowledge of forests, or virgins—after all, you’ve been one twice—

“Shut up,” Rhapsody said again. This time the fire reacted; the weak flames sprang to violent life, roaring angrily. She pushed her chair back, rose and walked purposely to the coat peg near the door. She snatched down her cape. “Get out of my room. I have to go meet Jo.” With a savage shrug she donned the garment, then rerolled the scroll and slapped it into Achmed’s hand.

“Thanks for the bedtime reading,” she said sarcastically, opening her door. “I assume I don’t need to give you specific anatomical directions as to where you should store it.” Achmed chuckled as the door slammed shut behind her.

I was beginning to abate, or so it seemed. It had been hovering decisively on the threshold of leaving for some time, reluctant to release its grip entirely while giving way grudgingly to a fairer wind and sky. The air f early spring was clear and cold, but held the scent of the earth again, a promise of warmth to come.

Rhapsody climbed carefully up the rocky face of the crags that led to the heath at the top of the world, a wide, expansive meadow beyond the canyon that a long-dead river had carved many millennia before. The basket she was lugging had almost spilled twice by the time she reached the flat land; she was off-balance, weighed down by the additional burden of the gear for her impending journey.

Waiting above in the dark meadow, Jo watched in amusement as the basket appeared at the crest of the heath, wobbled a moment, then righted itself. It slid forward a few inches as if under its own power, then finally a golden head surfaced, followed by intense green eyes. A second later Rhapsody’s smile emerged over the edge; it was a smaller version of the sunrise that would come in an hour or so.

“Good morning,” she said. Only her head was visible.

Jo rose and came to help her, laughing. “What’s taking you so long? Usually you can make this climb in a dead run. You must be getting old.” She offered her elder, smaller sister a hand and hauled her up over the edge.

“Be nice, or you don’t get any breakfast.” Rhapsody smiled as she laid her pack on the ground. Jo had no idea how right she was. By her own calculations she was somewhere in the neighborhood of sixteen hundred twenty years old in actual time, though all but two decades of that had passed while she and the two Bolg were within the Earth, crawling along the Root.