Elizabeth Haydon - Prophecy - Child of Earth

Jo grabbed the basket and unhooked the catch, then dumped its contents unceremoniously onto the frozen meadow grass, ignoring Rhapsody’s dismayed expression. “Did you bring any of those honey muffins?”

“Yes.”

The teenager had already located one and stuffed it into her mouth, then pulled out the sticky mass and looked at it in annoyance. “Ick. I told you not to put currants in them; it ruins the flavor.”

“I didn’t. That must be something from the ground, a beetle, perhaps.” Rhapsody laughed as Jo spat, then hurled the partially masticated muffin into the canyon below.

“So where’s Ashe?” Jo asked as she sat cross-legged on the ground, picking up another muffin and brushing it off carefully.

“He should be here in half an hour or so,” Rhapsody answered, sorting through her satchel. “J wanted to see you alone for a little while before we leave.”

Jo nodded, her mouth full. “Grnmuthor um Achmmegd are commiddg, too?”

“Yes, I expect them shortly, although I had a hostile exchange with Achmed earlier, so perhaps he won’t bother.”

“Why would that stop him? That’s normal conversation for Achmed. What was his problem this morning?”

“Oh, we just had an argument over a Cymrian manuscript he slipped under my door last night.”

Jo swallowed and poured herself a mug of tea. “No wonder; you know how much he hates the Cymrians.”

Rhapsody hid her smile. Since the Cymrians had come from Serendair, their homeland, she, Grunthor, and even Achmed were technically Cymrians themselves, a fact she had not been allowed to share with Jo. “Why do you think that?”

“I heard him talking to Grunthor a few nights back.”

“Oh?”

Jo leaned back importantly. “He said that you had your head wedged up your arse.”

Rhapsody grinned. “Really?”

“Yes. He said the dragon probably had a Cymrian agenda, because she was the one who invited the arse-rags here in the first place to please her lover—that’s what he called them: arse-rags.”

“Yes, I believe I’ve heard him use that word about them myself.”

“He also said that you were trying to find out more about the Cymrians, to help bring them back into power, and that it was stupid. He thinks the Bolg are much more worthy of your time and attention, not to mention your loyalty. Is that true?”

“About the Bolg?”

“No, about the Cymrians.”

Rhapsody looked off at the eastern horizon. The sky at the very edge of the land was beginning to lighten to the faintest shade of cobalt blue; otherwise the coming of foredawn was still indiscernible. Her face flushed in the darkness as she thought back to Llauron, the gentle, elderly Invoker of the Filids, the religious order of the western forest lands and some of the provinces of Roland.

Llauron had taken her in not long after the three of them had arrived, had made her welcome. He had taught her the history of the land, as well as many useful things that were now helping Achmed build his empire, among them planting lore, herbalism, and the healing of men and animals. His voice nagged in her head now, expecting information and solutions to problems she didn’t understand.

Now that you’ve learned about the Cymrians, and the growing unrest that threatens to sunder this land again, I hope you will agree to help me by being my eyes and ears out in the world, and report back what you see.

I’ll be glad to help you, Llauron, but —

Good, good. And remember, Rhapsody, though you are a commoner, you can still be useful in a royal cause.

I don’t understand.

Llauron’s eyes had glinted with impatience, though his voice was soothing. The reunification of the Cymrains. I thought I had been clear. In my view, nothing is going to spare us from ultimate destruction, with these unexplained uprisings und acts of terror, except to reunite the Cymrian factions, Roland and Sorbold, and possibly even the Bolglands, again, under a new Lord and Lady. The time is almost here. And though you are a peasant—please don’t take offense, most of my following are peasants—you have a pretty face and a, persuasive voice. You could be of great assistance to me in bringing this about. Now, please, say you will do as I’ve asked. Tou do want to see peace come to this land, do you not? And the violence which is presently killing and maiming many innocent women and children; that is something you’d like to see ended ?

Jo was staring at her intently. Rhapsody shook off the memory. “I’m going to find the dragon to give her back the claw dagger, in the hope she won’t come and lay waste to Ylorc, and all the Bolg in the bargain,” she said simply. “This journey has nothing to do with the Cymrians.”

“Oh.” Jo took another bite of her muffin. “Does Ashe know that?”

There was a warning note in her sister’s voice that Rhapsody heard, a fluctuation to which she, as a Singer, was sensitive. “I assume so. Why?” An awkward silence took up residence between them. “What aren’t you telling me, Jo?”

“Nothing,” said Jo defensively. “He just asked if you were Cymrian, that’s all. More than once, in fact.”

Rhapsody’s stomach turned over in the grip of cold to rival the chill that the land still held. “Me? He asked you that about me?”

“Well, about the three of you; Achmed and Grunthor, too.”

“But not you?”

A blank look crossed Jo’s face as she considered the question. “No, he never did. I think he assumes I’m not. I wonder why that is.”

Rhapsody rose to a stand and brushed off her trousers and cloak. “Maybe you’re the only one of us he doesn’t think is an arse-rag.”

Jo’s eyes sparkled wickedly. “I hope not,” she said, looking innocently up at the sky. “Grunthor’s certainly not an arse-rag, either.” She laughed as a shower of snow and dried leaves flew into her face. “Seriously, Rhaps, I mean, have you ever even met a Cymrian? I thought they were all long dead.”

The sky was lightening at the horizon to a thin gray-blue. “ You’ve met a Cymrian yourself, Jo,” Rhapsody said flatly, beginning to pack up the remains of breakfast. “Lord Stephen is of Cymrian descent.”

“Well, I guess that proves the arse-rag theory,” said Jo, wiping the crumbs from her mouth with the back of her hand. “I meant an old one, one of the ones who lived through the War. The kind that lives forever.”

Rhapsody thought for a moment. “Yes, I think so. I was once almost trampled on the road from Gwynwood to Navarne by the horse of an obnoxious soldier named Anborn. If he is the one mentioned in the history we heard, he was Gwylliam’s general in the War. That would make him fairly old. The War ended four hundred years ago, but it went on for seven hundred.”

Jo had been there when they had opened the library vault and found Gwylliam’s body. “Guess the old bastard didn’t look that bad, then. He didn’t seem dead a day past two hundred.” Rhapsody laughed. “Was he the one who started the war when he hit his wife?”

“Yes; her name was Anwyn. She was the daughter of the explorer, Merithyn, the first Cymrian, and the dragon Elynsynos—”

“The one you’re going to see now?”

“Yes—who fell in love with him and told him the Cymrians could come live in her lands, where no human had ever been allowed before.”

Jo popped the last muffin into her mouth. “Whyys diggeeay wanddadoo dhat?”

“The king of Serendair, Gwylliam—”

“The same stiff we found?”

Rhapsody laughed. “The very one. He had foreseen that the Island was about to be destroyed in volcanic fire, so he wanted to relocate the bulk of the population of his kingdom somewhere they could maintain their culture, and where he could remain their king.”