“Perhaps. It’s the song of the drill.” Rhapsody folded her hands. “And I am not the singer to make use of this song, but within the Cymrian Alliance there are such singers.”
“Please elaborate,” Ashe said, noting the looks of bewilderment on the faces of the councilors.
Rhapsody sat back in her chair. “Entudenin was the embodiment of a miracle; fresh water in the middle of the dry clay of Yarim, heralded as a gift from the All-God, and the gods that the indigenous population worshipped before the Cymrians came. As such, when Entudenin went silent, it was assumed to be some kind of divine punishment. What if, in fact, it is not?”
The silence that answered her was broken only by the crackle of the hearth-fire.
“Please go on,” Tristan Steward said.
“It is possible the water that flowed from Entudenin in its lifetime came from the sea,” Rhapsody said. “That would explain its lunar cycle—the phases of the moon have similar effects on ocean currents and tides. I have just recently been to the lava cliffs along the southern coastline of the lands of the sea Lirin, similar to the ones that line the coasts near Avonderre. There are thousands of crannies and caves in those cliffs, some of which are quite shallow, others of which go on for miles.
“It made me wonder about the source of the water for Entudenin. It is possible that an inlet there or even more northward fed water through an underground riverbed or tunnel of some sort all the way to Yarim. The complexities of the strata that make up the earth are immeasurable.” Rhapsody inhaled deeply, having traveled through such strata long ago. “It is possible that the right combination of underground hills and valleys, riverbeds, inlets, and filtering sand led to this sweet-water geyser a thousand miles from the sea, swelling and ebbing with the cycle of the moon and the tides. If all this is possible, it is also possible that this pathway became clogged, closed somehow. If it could be opened again, the water might return.”
“M’lady, how would anyone know?” Quentin Baldasarre asked incredulously. “If, as you suggest, a blockage occurred somewhere along a thousand miles of subterranean tunnel, how could one ever find it?”
Rhapsody sat forward. “One would ask those who know the subterranean maps of the Earth, who walk such corridors in daily life, and have the tools to mine them.”
Realization began to spread through the features of the councilors, leaving unpleasant expressions on the faces of the dukes of Roland.
“Please tell me that you are referring to the Nain,” Martin Ivenstrand said.
“I am referring to the Bolg, of course,” Rhapsody replied testily. “And I do not appreciate your tone or your implication. The Nain want as little contact with the Cymrian Alliance as is necessary to maintain good standing. The Bolg are full participants in its trade and support.” She turned to Ihrman Karsrick, whose face had gone an unhealthy shade of purple. “You seem suddenly unwell, Ihrman. I would think that this opportunity would bring you great joy and anticipation, not indigestion.” She glanced at the turkey leg again. “Though I am not surprised if you are suffering from that, too.”
The Duke of Yarim coughed dryly. “Surely m’lady does not believe me so daft as to want to enter into dealings of some sort with the Bolg?”
The expression on the Lady Cymrian’s face resolved into one of sharp observation.
“Why ever not, Ihrman? There has been a trade agreement between Roland and Ylorc for four years now. You sell them salt, you buy their weapons, they are members of the Cymrian Alliance—why would you not seek their expertise in solving your greatest problem?”
“Because I have no desire to be beholden to the Firbolg king, that’s why.” snapped Karsrick. “We share a common border. I do not wish to have him feel he can cross that border and take remuneration from Yarim at any time he wishes.”
“I would never think that you would put yourself in such a position,” Rhapsody replied. “His doing so would not be tolerated. My suggestion is that you contract for the services of his artisans, just as you do with those of Roland, Sorbold, and even from as far away as Manosse. Do you have some objection to making use of the talents of Firbolg artisans?”
“I do not wish to invite hordes of Bolg—artisans into Yarim, no, I don’t, m’lady,” Karsrick retorted. “The possible repercussions hold great horror for me.”
“Surely that is not an unreasonable stance,” interjected Tristan Steward. “King Achmed does not look happily on Orlandan workers coming into his realm. The handful of them that have been invited to work on the rebuilding of Canrif have been subjected to unbelievably intense scrutiny, and even then only one or two have been hired. Why should we issue invitations to his people when he has not been particularly welcoming to ours?”
“Perhaps the reason for King Achmed’s lack of hospitality may be that the last time your people came into his lands they were carrying torches and clubs, Tristan,” Ashe commented. He had been sitting back in his chair, hands folded in front of his chin, watching Rhapsody press her argument. “It will take some time for the Bolg to get over the annual Spring Cleaning ritual that was practiced, at their grievous expense, for so many centuries.”
“If I recall, you took part in one of those raids yourself when you were a young man training with the army, Gwydion,” said Tristan Steward darkly. “We rode in the same regiment.”
“Regardless, you are missing the point,” Rhapsody said. “The Bolg may be able to help restore water to Yarim, sparing it from the drought that now threatens your people. If there is any possible chance that they can, do you not have an obligation to seek their assistance?”
“Do I not have an obligation to the safety of those people as well, m’lady?” asked Karsrick, a note of desperation in his voice.
“Yes, you do,” Rhapsody replied, “and so do I. Therefore, I offer to take full responsibility for the comportment of whatever Bolg craftsmen, miners, or artisans come to Yarim to examine Entudenin, and for whatever work they do. I am well aware that this is, at least historically, a holy relic, and that you are greatly concerned with preserving it.”
“Yes.”
“So again, let it be on my head. I will take full blame for anything that should occur in this undertaking.”
The Duke of Yarim threw his hands up mutely, then sat back in his chair with a dull thud. The other members of the council looked at each other in bewilderment. Finally Karsrick sighed in resignation.
“Very well, m’lady.”
Rhapsody smiled brightly as she rose from the table. “Good! Thank you. We will meet King Achmed and his contingent four weeks hence in Yarim Paar at the foot of Entudenin.” She looked around at the blank faces staring back at her. “Well, good councilors, if you do not have anything else pressing that needs to be attended to this evening, I think I shall commandeer my husband and leave you all to get some rest.”
Ashe was on his feet in an instant. “Yes, indeed, thank you for your patience. I shall see to it that you are all able to sleep in late tomorrow; we will not be convening until the day after. At least. Good night, Gwydion.” He pushed the chair back under the table, bowed to his councilors, and his namesake hastily accompanied Rhapsody out of the library. On the way across the room he leaned down to her ear and spoke softly.
“Well, darling, welcome home. It’s good to see that causing strife among the members of the council is still a family trait.”
As they passed the large open hearth the flames of the fire roared in greeting, then settled into a quiet burn again. Rhapsody stopped and looked quickly over her shoulder.
She stared into the fireshadows dancing on the colorful threads of the intricately woven carpet, then looked up to the balcony doors on the other side of the library, where raindrops dashed intermittently against the glass.