Prophecy, Child of Earth (17 page)

'Not really," Rhapsody admitted. There was little she could imagine that was beyond the dragon's power.

'Why are you afraid to talk about it?"

'I don't know, actually. The other people in this land, they seem very curious about where I come from, but they are very reticent about their own backgrounds.

It seems that being Cymrian means to be sworn to secrecy, like it is something to be ashamed of."

The dragon nodded knowingly. "The man who brought you here, he wanted to know if you are Cymrian, yes?"

'Yes."

The dragon laughed. "You may as well tell him, Pretty. He already knows. It is obvious."

Rhapsody felt heat rise in her cheeks. "It is?"

'I am afraid so, Pretty. You have fire, and time, and music in you. Innate lore is a sure sign of a Cymrian—no other human type has it." She cocked her head as Rhapsody looked down. "Why does that make you sad?"

'I don't know. I think it's because the Cymrians here seem to be incapable of being honest, especially with themselves."

'That is Anwyn's fault, too," said Elynsynos, an ugly note coming into her voice. "She is to blame for that. She is the one who reached back into the Past and gave it power. She is the one." The electric charge returned to the air.

'Gave what power?"

'The evil one; the F'dor."

The sound of her own heartbeat suddenly filled Rhapsody's ears. "What do you mean, Elynsynos? There was a F'dor spirit here, in this land? Are you certain?"

Elynsynos's eyes gleamed with hatred. "Yes. It was a demon from the old world, weak and helpless when it came, but it grew in power rapidly." The dragons nostrils flared threateningly. "Anwyn knew; she knows everything that happens in the Past. She could have destroyed it, but instead she opened my lands to it, thinking it might be of use to her one day. And it was. She is bad, Pretty. She allowed it to live, even when she knew what it was capable of, like the one that took him away from me. He never came back. I never saw him again." The air in the room grew even more full of static, and outside the cave Rhapsody could hear the thunder roll overhead. The dragon's innate bond with the elements was beginning to assert itself.

'Merithyn?" she asked gently.

At the name the buzzing stopped, and the dragon blinked back tears again.

'Yes."

'I'm sorry, Elynsynos. I'm so sorry."

Rhapsody reached out and stroked the immense forearm, running her hand gently over the millions of tiny scales. The skin of the beast was cool and vaporous, like mist; Rhapsody had a momentary sensation akin to putting her hand into a raging waterfall. There was a solidity to the dragon's body that seemed at the same time ephemeral, as if her mass was not flesh but generated by the force of her own will. Rhapsody withdrew her hand quickly, fearing the undertow.

'The sea took him," the dragon said sadly. "He does not sleep within the Earth.

If he did, I would sing to him. How can he rest if for all eternity he is doomed to hear the endless crashing of the waves? He will never know peace." An immense tear rolled down the scales of her face and splashed the cave floor, making the golden sand glisten.

'He was a sailor," Rhapsody said before caution could intervene. "Sailors find peace in the sea, just as Lirin find it on the wind beneath the stars. We commit our bodies to the wind through fire, not to the Earth, just as sailors commit them to the sea. The key to finding peace is not where your body rests, but where your heart remains. My grandfather was a sailor, Elynsynos, and he told me this. Merithyn's love is here, with you." She looked around at the multitude of nautical treasures that filled the brimming cave. "I'm sure he is right at home."

I

Elynsynos sniffed, then nodded.

'Where is my sea song?" she demanded.

Her tone sent chills up Rhapsody's spine. Hurriedly she tuned the lute strings and began to pick out a simple sea chantey, humming softly. The dragon sighed, its warm breath a rush of hot wind billowing through Rhapsody's hair, making her close her eyes for fear they might burn. The lute strings grew hot, and she quickly concentrated on her lore, drawing the fire into her fingertips to spare the strings from igniting and burning the lute.

Elynsynos rested her head on the ground and closed her eyes, breathing in the music as Rhapsody played and sang. She sang all the sad sea chanteys she knew, ignoring the splashing of enormous tears that soaked her clothes and made her boots wet, understanding the need for a good cry to wash away the recurrent pain of a great loss, and wishing it were an option for herself. The lyrics to most of the songs were in Old Cymrian, a few in Ancient Lirin; Elynsynos either understood both languages or was not particularly concerned about the words.

How many hours she sang Rhapsody did not know, but finally she ran out of chanteys and other sea-related songs. She put down the lute and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

'Elynsynos, will you sing for me?"

One enormous eye opened slowly. "Why do you want me to, Pretty?"

'I would love to learn what dragon music sounds like. It would be the most unique song I have ever heard."

A smile came over the serpent's face. "You might not even recognize it as music, Pretty."

'Please. Sing for me."

The dragon closed her eye again. A moment later, Rhapsody could hear the water of the lagoon begin to lap in a different rhythm, an odd, clicking cadence that sounded like the beating of a three-chambered heart. The wind began to whistle in through the mouth of the cave, blowing across the opening in varying intensities, producing different tones. The ground beneath the boat she sat on rumbled pleasantly, the tremors rattling the coins in the chests and making the hardware clink and bang into itself.
An elemental sonjj
, Rhapsody thought in fascination.

From the throat of the dragon came a rasping sound, a high, thin noise that set Rhapsody's teeth on edge. It was like the whistling of a snoring bed partner, accompanied by deep grunts and hisses in irregular time. The song went on for an indeterminate interlude, leaving Rhapsody breathless when it was over. When she regained her composure she applauded politely.

'Liked it, did you, Pretty? I am glad."

'Did you like the Cymrian songs, Elynsynos?"

'I did. You know, you should make them your hoard."

Rhapsody smiled at the thought. "Well, in a way they are. The songs and my instruments; I have quite a few of them at home. The music and my garden, I guess that's my hoard. And my clothes; at least one of my friends would say so."

The great serpent shook her head, stirring a cloud of sand that rose from the ground and blinded Rhapsody temporarily. "Not the music, Pretty. The Cymrians."

'Pardon me?"

'You should make the Cymrians your hoard, like Anwyn did," Elynsynos said.

"Only you would not bring harm to them like she did. They would listen to you, Pretty. You could bring them together again."

'Your grandson is after the same thing," Rhapsody said tentatively. "Llau-ron seeks to reunite them as well."

Elynsynos snorted, sending a puff of steam over Rhapsody and the lagoon she sat beside. "No one will listen to Llauron. He sided -with Anwyn in the war; they will not forgive him for that. No, Pretty, they will listen to you. You sing so nicely, and your eyes are so green. You should make them your hoard."

Rhapsody smiled to herself. For all her ancient wisdom, Elynsynos clearly did not understand the concept of social class and lines of succession. "What about your other grandson?"

'Which one?"

Rhapsody's eyes opened in surprise. "You have more than one?"

'Anwyn and Gwylliam had three sons before the Grievous Blow, the act of violence between them that began the war," said the dragon. "Anwyn chose the time to bear each of them. Firstborn races, like dragons, have control over their procreation. She chose well, for the most part. The eldest, Edwyn Grif-fyth, is my favorite, but I have not seen him since he was a young man. He went oft" to sea, disgusted by his parents and their war."

'Who is the other one? The manuscripts did not mention him."

'Anborn was the youngest. He sided with his father, until he too could stand it no more. Eventually even Llauron could not take Anwyn's blood-thirstiness and went to sea. But Anborn stayed, trying to right the wrongs he had committed against the followers of his mother."

Rhapsody nodded. "I didn't realize Anborn was the son of Anwyn and Gwylliam, but I suppose it makes sense." She thought back to the scowling general in black mail interlaced with silver rings, his azure blue eyes gleaming angrily from atop his black charger. "My friends and I met him in the woods on the way to visit Lord Stephen Navarne, and his name was mentioned in a book we found in the House of Remembrance."

'Your friends—there are three of you together?"

'Yes, why?"

The dragon smiled. "It makes sense, too." She did not elaborate further. "Why did you go to the House of Remembrance?"

Rhapsody yawned; she hadn't realized how exhausted she was. "I'd love to tell you, Elynsynos, but I'm afraid I can't keep my eyes open much longer."

'Come over here by me," said the dragon. "I will rock you to sleep, Pretty, and will keep the bad dreams away." Rhapsody pushed herself off the rowboat and came inside the arms of the reclining beast without fear. She sat down and leaned back against the dragon, feeling the smoothness of her copper scales and the heat of her breath. That there was anything strange about the situation did not occur to her at all.

Elynsynos extended a nail on her claw and with infinite tenderness pushed back a loose strand of hair from Rhapsody's face. She hummed her strange music and moved the crook of her arm back and forth in a rocking motion, lifting Rhapsody off the ground as she did.

'I dreamt you saved me, Elynsynos; you lifted me up in your arms when I was in danger," she said drowsily.

Elynsynos smiled as sleep took the small Lirin woman she was holding. She leaned her head down close to Rhapsody's ear, knowing that the Singer would not hear her anyway.

'No, Pretty, that was not me in your dream." couldn't breathe, couldn't keep his eyes open in the searing heat. Caustic smoke had filled the cavern all the way to the ceiling, squeezing the life from his lungs. Grunthor waved his arms wildly to clear the burning ash from the air in front of him, but the flailing movements only made it harder to draw breath.

Around him in the fetid air sparks were igniting and ripping into flame. The giant covered his eyes and tried to cough-the burning cinders from his lungs, but only succeeded in drawing the acid further into his chest. He struggled to his feet, holding his breath, then staggered blindly forward, groping desperately for the tunnel that he knew opened somewhere before him in the smoky haze.

But the cavern was collapsing all around him, chunks of rock and debris falling from above, the tunnel walls closing in. Grunthor's lungs swelled in agony and he inhaled the filthy air, drowning.

He stumbled over soft mounds that clogged the street, shuddering as he felt the crunch of bone and heard the muted gasps below his feet. Bodies careened off him from all sides, pushing, crushing in a great rush toward the air. Grunthor had not seen them come forth from the Loritorium's silent buildings; he had still been asleep, gathering his strength when the world collapsed in a rolling cloud of stinging fumes. He was only vaguely aware they were there, a great throng of people hurrying forward in panic, blocking the exit, struggling for breath, as he was, in the acrid air.

The burning black fog swirled before his eyes, and one of the people grabbed him by the upper arms, shouting something unintelligible. The ser geant gasped, mustered the last of his strength, and flung the man into the caving wall. Then he stumbled forward again, trying to keep from inhaling. His sight was growing dimmer.

.Jt took a moment for the world to stop spinning. Achmed clutched his head and rose shakily, still reeling from the impact. Grunthor's reaction had caught him by surprise; he could tell by the wild glaze in the giant's amber eyes that the sergeant was in a delusional state and panicking, but he had hardly expected to be hurled across the street into a lamppost.

'Grunthor!" he shouted again, but the great Bolg sergeant didn't hear him.

Grunthor clawed at the air, lurching through the empty streets of the Lori-torium, locked in a life-and-death battle with unseen demons. He was fighting ferociously, but it seemed to Achmed that Grunthor was losing the fight.

Achmed steadied himself against the half-wall, his fingers brushing the oily substance in the channel that scored the top of the wall. Absently he noted a strong odor, similar to the one emitted by pitch when it burned. Then he ran down the street toward the central garden after Grunthor.

The giant was on his hands and knees now, gasping for breath. Achmed approached him carefully, calling his name, but Grunthor didn't seem to hear. He swung his arms wildly to the side as if trying to clear an invisible passageway, panting with exertion. He scrambled over a section of the circle of benches that surrounded the reflecting pond of the fountain, veering off toward the southwest, his olive skin flushing to a frightening shade of purple.

Then, just before Achmed caught up to him, Grunthor's face went blank, then relaxed. His eyes cleared and grew wide, and slowly he turned toward the south as if hearing his name being called. Achmed watched as the giant rose to a stand and walked forward through the small garden, following a call that only he could hear.

When he came to the foot of one of the altar-shaped displays, Grunthor sank to his knees, then leant over the altar, resting his head there.

L,'hrough the pandemonium Grunthor heard it ring like a bell on a windless night. The chaos and smoke died away in an instant, leaving only the clear, sweet tone, a sound that rang through his heart and reverberated there. It was the song of the Earth, that low, melodic hum that had played in his blood since he had first heard it, deep within the belly of the world. And it was singing to him alone.