“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.”
55
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.”
Grunthor shot him an ugly look, then put a hand on her shoulder. “When’ll ’e be back, darlin’?”
“He won’t,” she said shortly. “Perhaps I’ll see him at the royal wedding in Bethany, but that will be the last time I expect to. He’s off to fulfill his destiny.” She looked back into the sun rising over the crest of Griwen. “Let’s go fulfill ours.”
The tunnel to the Loritorium had echoed with their footsteps, and with the memory of voices.
Is she still there, sir?
Damn you, Jo, go home or I’ll tie you to a, stalagmite and leave you until we return.
I want to go with you. Please.
Achmed closed his eyes, his head heavy with the weight of the memories.
The torch Grunthor carried flickered uncertainly, a pale candle compared to the roaring flame that had first lighted their way into the hidden vault of magic. Achmed wondered if the weak fire was an indication that the concentrated lore, once heavy in the stale air, had begun to dissipate as the wind from the world above made its way down the ancient passages. Or perhaps it was more a sign that the fires of Rhapsody’s soul were burning a little more dimly.
She said nothing, following them silently down into the belly of the moun tain, her face drawn and ghostly white in the pale torchlight. All the length of the tunnel to the Loritorium she remained quiet, so unlike their travels overland or along the Root, where she and Grunthor had passed the time with songs or whistled tunes. The absence of noise was deafening.
After they had gone a thousand paces Achmed heard a slow, broken intake of breath, and she knew she was hearing voices in the echoing tunnel as well.
Do you mean to tell me that the Lord, Roland sent an unarmed woman into Tlorc without the protection of the weekly armed caravan? These are unsafe times, not just in Tlorc, but everywhere.
I’m just doing my lord’s bidding, m’lady.
Prudence, you must stay here tonight. Please. I fear for your safety if you were to leave now.
No. I’m sorry, but I must return to Bethany at once.
Ghosts, Achmed thought. Everywhere ghosts.
Finally the tunnel widened into the entrance to the marble city. The flame from the firewell was burning brightly, steadily, casting long shadows about the empty Loritorium.
“Everything seems all right here,” Achmed said, examining the fiery fountain. “I don’t feel any strange vibrations here.”
They left the Loritorium and wandered down the corridor to the Chamber of the Sleeping Child.
The Grandmother was in the entranceway, as always.
“You’ve come,” she said; each of her three voices was trembling. “She’s worse.
From within the chamber the sound of moaning could be heard. They hurried past the enormous doors of soot-streaked iron, into the well of the chamber.
The Earthchild thrashed about on her catafalque, murmuring in panic. Rhapsody ran to her, whispering soothing words, trying to gentle her down, but the child did not respond.
Achmed grasped Rhapsody’s upper arm with a grip that hurt. When she looked up, he turned her toward Grunthor.
The giant stood beside the Earthchild’s catafalque, his sallow skin ashen in the dim light. His broad face was pickled with beads of sweat.
“Somethin’s coming,” he whispered. “Somethin’—” His words choked into a strangled gasp.
“Grunthor?”
The giant was trembling as he reached for his weapons.
“The Earth,” the Grandmother whispered. “It screams. Green death. Unclean death.”
As if to mirror the Firbolg giant, the ground began to shudder all around them. Pieces of rock and granite crumbled from the walls and ceiling as dust streamed down in great rivers, blackening the air.
“What’s happening? An earthquake?” Rhapsody shouted to Grunthor. The sergeant was drawing Lopper, his hand-and-a-half sword, and the Friendmaker, his expression grim. He barely had time to shake his head.
Soft popping sounds erupted around them, like sparks from wet wood in fire. From the floor, ceiling and walls, thousands of tiny roots appeared, black and spiny, poking through the dirt like new spring seedlings. Within a few moments they had grown to the size of daggers, slashing menacingly at the air. By the time they had, Achmed was across the cavern, almost within arm’s reach of Rhapsody. She stifled a gasp as the roots began to hiss, and held up her hands over the head of the Sleeping Child.