Prophecy, Child of Earth (74 page)

Unconsciously he was going about it in much the same way that he planned a demise. He went endlessly over the facts of the case, the infinitesimal details of how this could have come to pass, the hunt, the melee, the sites of her wounds, the way the blood had escaped her body. He tried to put the pieces of Rhapsody's survival into place, the way he would have arranged the sequence of an assassination.

He was not getting anywhere.

Grunthor approached the door as quietly as he could, then knocked softly.

Hearing no response, he opened it and came in.

The room was dark but for the minimal light cast by a few scented candles in the corner, far from the bed, and the sporadic radiance of strangely glowing wine bottles positioned in various places about the room. Grunthor had one in his hand; he closed the door quietly behind him, looking for a moment at the flickering container before approaching Achmed who sat, as he had for the past four days and nights, in the chair beside the bed.

'Sir?"

'Hmm?"

'Oi brought you some fresh fireflies. Them must be gettin' tired."

Achmed said nothing.

'Any change?"

'No."

Grunthor looked down at her; asleep or unconscious, it was hard to tell. It was impossible, in fact, to tell at the moment if she was even still alive. Her normally rosy skin was pale like the seashell he had once found at the oceanside, and she looked very tiny in the big bed. He had teased her at every opportunity about her petite stature, but somehow in motion she gave the impression of muscular strength and vitality. Now she appeared frail, childlike.

He looked down at his oldest friend and sovereign, whose lower face was hidden by folded hands. An ancient story occurred to Grunthor, the tale of a Bolg who had placed himself at the gates between Life and Death and would allow none to pass in order to forestall the demise of a comrade. It had a messy ending.

Achmed shifted in the chair. "Has there been any word from Ashe?"

'Not yet, sir."

The Dhracian rested his chin on the heel of his hand and fell silent again.

Grunthor assumed parade rest.

'Would you like me to stay with 'er for a while, sir? Oi'd be glad to, and you could get some sleep."

Achmed leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his waist. He said nothing.

Grunthor waited a few moments more. "Will that be all, sir?"

'Yes. Good night, Grunthor."

Grunthor set the wine bottle down on the stone that served as a bedside table, then reached under the bed to turn over the heated rocks that functioned as the room's source of warmth. Achmed had been insistent that the room be warmed and lit without using the fireplace for fear that the smoke or the acrid fumes from the burning peat would harm her.

It was Grunthor who came up with the idea of the fireflies and ordered the Firbolg army to set about gathering them. It was a dismal task in early autumn anyway, and the sight of monsters in mail clanking through the fields with wine bottles, desperately jumping after the hovering insects would have made Rhapsody laugh if she had been able to appreciate it. Grunthor gave her a kiss on the forehead as he rose, then left the room without another word.

Achmed continued to watch her in silence. After an hour or so the Firbolg medics came in with medicinal herbs and supplies, replacement hot rocks and clean piles of the muslin rags that served as bandages. They behaved quietly and respectfully, finishing with their tasks and leaving the room as quickly as possible.

Achmed waited until they were gone, and then gently undressed Rhapsody and bathed her wounds, changing the bandages and her shirt. The irony of the situation made him grimace. He had been so annoyed with her spending time ministering to the Firbolg, soaking gauze bandages in herbs to cure infections, singing to ease their pain. Now the procedures she had taught them, and him, were quite possibly the only things keeping her alive.

He leaned forward in the chair, resting his forehead in his hands, and looked at the waves of golden hair lying around her pillow like a sunlit sea. Against his will, the memory came back to him, the first of their many exchanges about her healing efforts.

Well, that's a useful investment of your evening
, he had groused.
I'm sure the
Firbolg are very appreciative, and will certainly reciprocate your ministrations if
you should ever need something
.

What does that mean'?

I'm trying to tell you that you will never see any return for your efforts. When
you are injured or in fain, who will sing for you, Rhapsody?

Why, Achmed, you will.

So many funny memories had lost their amusement value. He remembered the way her eyes had looked in the dark, how she had smiled as if she knew something.
Tou will
.

Achmed rested his fingers on her wrist, then her neck, sensing her pulse to see if the heartbeat had grown any stronger. It was there, fighting on, holding its own, though it still seemed weak to him.

He and Grunthor had braved the streets of Sepulvarta, the nearest place of healing to where they had fought the Rakshas, the place Rhapsody had fallen.

Waves of panic had resonated through the city at the sight of the two Firbolg riders galloping up the hill to the rectory, the dying woman in the arms of the smaller one.

The priests in the manse had been unable to bring her around, and even the Patriarch, carried in from his cell in the hospice, had only been able to stabilize her. Achmed knew by the look of despair in the old man's eyes that it was absence of his ring that prevented him from being able to heal her, and he cursed Ashe silently. All the skills the Patriarch's clergyman brought to bear merely made it possible for them to take her back, still unconscious and deathly fragile, to Ylorc.

The healers Achmed had sent for from the outlying areas had advised him politely to prepare for the worst, and had left hurriedly, without exception, in the face of his wrathful reaction.

'Come on, Rhapsody," he muttered, frustration curling his face into a contorted knot. "Show them all, the imbeciles; show them you're not the fragile harlot—show them what we both know you're really made of."

He ran a hand over his slippery hair and brought his head to rest in the crook of his elbow. As the dim light of the room receded even more, he saw her face, bruised and bleeding from her first combat on the Root, her eyes glittering in the fire-colored darklight of the path through the Earth, as she had applied the spiced bandage to his wrist, hesitantly singing her first song of healing.

Music is nothing more than the maps through the vibrations that make up all
the world. If you have the right map, it will take you wherever you want to go.

Achmed moved to the bed, sitting as close to her as he could without causing her discomfort. He leaned his head down over her chest, feeling in his skin the beating of her heart, the tides of her breath. His eyes took in her face from different angles, searching for improvement in the pallor, places where the sunken flesh might have returned to its former shape. With infinite care his fingers traced the line of the blood loss under her eyes, and came to rest on the stray lock of hair curling down the edge of her cheek.

'Rhapsody," he said in a voice of utter solemnity, "between two worlds I have had but two friends. I am not willing to let you alter this."
Who will sing for you,
Rhapsody? Ton will
.

The ritual he had used to paralyze and enthrall the Rakshas was the only song he had ever sung. It had come to him from deep within his belly, humming through the multiple chambers of his heart, throat, and sinuses until it transmitted out through his skull. The melody was not his own, but rather was written deep in the Before-Time as his race was conceived. The Grandmother had imparted to him the secrets of using it. It was not until he had done so that he had learned how it actually worked.

There was a duality to it. The ancient tune, the pattern of the notes, was the snare for the demon side of the F'dor, holding it against its will on the threshold between the Earth and the netherworld to which it sought to flee. But the human host was vulnerable to the sounds of the song as well; the vibrations called the blood to the brain and swelled it. The Rakshas was an artificial construct, and thus not really alive. But had it been the F'dor he was enthralling, the demon-spirit in the body of a human host, it would have been different. If he were alone with such a being, and able to sustain the Thrall ritual long enough, the rush of blood would cause his foe's head to burst. This was the only song he knew, the healing act that Rhapsody needed. Achmed had no idea if it would kill her.

Ton know, Grunthor, you could help with the healing as well. Tou like to sing.

Oi believe you've 'earA the content o' my songs, miss. Generally they tend to be
more on the threatnin' side, if you get my drift. And Oi don't think anyone's ever
gonna mistake me for a Singer. Oi certainly got no trainin' in it.

The fondness in her eyes had gleamed with an intensity that matched her smile.

Content makes no difference at all. It can be any kind of song. What matters is
their belief in you. The Bolg have given you their allegiance. You're their version
of "The Last Word, to Be Obeyed at All Costs." In a way
, they've
named you. It
doesn't matter what you sing, just that you expect them to get well. And they will.

I've always maintained that Achmed will do the same for me one day
. Under his breath Achmed swore vile epithets in every tongue he knew. "You set this up, didn't you? Was it really worth the risk for your entertainment? I should have left you out there to bleed to death. You deserve it for what you force me to do." His hand trembled as he brushed the stray lock tenderly off her face.
Tou will
.

The wilted blossom had swelled with moisture, uncurling in his palm as she sang the notes, the wordless call to its name.
It's part of what a Namer can do;
there is no thing, no concept, no law as strong as the power of a given thing's
name. Our identities are bound to it. It is the essence of what we are, and
sometimes it can even make us what we are again, no matter how much we have
been altered
.

Achmed sighed. She had bound him to it, and he hadn't even realized it when it happened. She had given him the key to help her, even as he mocked her. Like it or not, he had been named as her healer.

He glanced about the room furtively, then, reassured of their privacy, he cleared his throat and tried to summon forth a musical sound, but nothing came out.

"Bloody
hrekin;
this was brilliant of you," he muttered, scowling at her. "Require music of someone who has sung once in his entire life? Why not just ask the rocks to do it? You would have had better luck." He tried to think of another song he knew.

The obscene marching song Grunthor had used to herd the new recruits came into his mind, bringing an unexpected smile to his face. Rhapsody and Jo had occasionally sung it in comic exaggerations of the Sergeant's accented bass. His smile faded as quickly as it had come at the thought of Jo, now lying, pale and lifeless, in the silent chamber that had been the only real home the street child had ever known. There was little enough difference in the way Rhapsody looked now to make his hands grow clammy.

He had seen and dispensed enough death in his lifetime to be unmoved by it. In their time together he and Grunthor had both faced the potential demise of the other without panic, each possessing an understanding of the stakes of the game they played.

This was different. As each drop of blood had left her, draining bits of her life with it, he had wanted to scream, had held Rhapsody's wounds together with his hands as they rode at full gallop toward Sepulvarta, guiding the horse with his knees alone. The terror he felt at the thought of losing her had surprised no one more than himself. A song seemed little enough to pay to keep her on this side of the gate of Life.

Achmed took a deep breath. In a halting voice that resonated with scratchy vibrato and clicked with a fricative percussion, he sang to her a song of his own making, a song that even he didn't know the genesis or the meaning of. In a world where the grinding sound of a rockslide whispered lullabyes or cracking timbers soothed the angry, it might have been a lovely song. From one man came three voices, one sharp and rapid, one low, like the shadow of a note just missed in the distance, and this time, there were words.

Mo haale maar, my hero gone World of star become world of bone Grief and pain and loss I know My heart is sore, my blood-tears flow To end my sorrow I must roam My terrors old, they lead me home.

Rhapsody stirred beneath the blankets, and Achmed could hear a painful sigh escape her. Then he felt small, soft fingers with callused tips brush his hand, and heard her inhale as though undertaking something very difficult.

'Achmed?"

'Yes?"

Her voice was a weak whisper. "Will you keep singing until I'm better?"

'Yes."

'Achmed?"

'What?" He leaned forward to catch the soft words.

'I'm better."

'Obviously you're not much better if that's the best you can do," he said, smiling at the gentle insult. "But you're still the same ungrateful brat you always were.

That's nice thanks for someone who just gave you back the will to live."

'You're right, you did," she said slowly, and with great effort. "Now that you—have given me—a taste of—what the Underworld—is like—

Achmed laughed in relief. "You deserve it. Welcome back, Rhapsody."

Jy hen night fell the following day, Grunthor carefully lifted Rhapsody from her bed and carried her to the heath. Achmed was waiting there, the pyre built and primed. The Sergeant helped her to stand while the Firbolg king drew her sword for her and helped her hold it aloft.

Rhapsody's weak eyes came to rest for a moment on the white-shrouded figure that crowned the pile of frost-blistered wood, then searched the night sky for a star to call.