“Answer this,” Ashe commanded, disturbed by the look in the Seer’s eyes that was bringing fear into Rhapsody’s. “If Rhapsody and I conceive a child, will she or the baby come to any harm of it? I seek a direct answer, Manwyn. I tire of the game.”
The Seer stared at him for a moment, as if stunned, then calmly pointed the sextant at the firmament of the cracked domed ceiling above her and peered into it. Rhapsody huddled closer to Ashe as a dark wind rose from the well in the floor; the thousands of candleflames dimmed suddenly, blackening the room. Above their heads, the dome had faded into a night sky, dotted with stars between which ephemeral clouds passed, unhurried. A cold breeze rippled across their backs, snapping the fabric of the ghodin like a sail on the high sea.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Manwyn lowered the instrument from her eye and turned her gaze back to Ashe, her face sober. She held the golden sextant aloft, the navigator’s tool that guided his great-grandfather, her father, Merithyn the Explorer, across the sea to the shores of the dragon Elynsynos. Ashe understood the gesture; she was reminding him that she was born of that union, as was he, even if consciously she could not see the Past in which it happened, a commonality of dragon blood and ancient lore that was both their bane and blessing.
“You will always fear your own blood, Gwydion,” she said calmly, her voice absent of any wildness. “You need not. Your wife will not die in bearing your children.”
Ashe pointed at her accusingly. “Rhapsody,” he said sternly. “Say that Rhapsody will not die.”
“Rhapsody will not die in bearing your children.”
“Nor become injured or infirm by it? Don’t hedge your answer, Aunt.”
Manwyn shrugged. “The pregnancy will not be easy, but it will not kill or harm her. No.”
Ashe inhaled, gauging the new clarity with which she spoke. “Swear it to me, Manwyn, as your great-nephew, and as your lord. I want your oath; swear to me, descendant of our common ancestors, Lord Cymrian, duly invested, to whom you swore allegiance, that you are utterly certain that my blood will not cause this woman who stands before you harm in the bearing of our children.”
“It will not,” the Seer said patiently. “I swear it.”
Ashe exhaled, watching her carefully. “Thank you, Aunt.”
“You are most welcome, m’lord,” the Seer said, bowing respectfully.
“Anything else you wish to impart us of the Future before we go?” Ashe asked as Rhapsody began to pull the hood of the ghodin over her head again.
Manwyn considered his question, her curled fist tucked beneath her chin, a finger resting on her cheek.
“The Pot and Kettle will be serving an excellent spiced lamb at the noon-meal,” she said pleasantly. “And today the netcher will have some wonderful arrows, sparred in feathers dropped from an albatross in Kesel Tai; they will bring your ward luck in his bowmanship.”
“Thank you.” Ashe pulled up his own veil. “God give thee a good afternoon, and a peaceful night.” He took Rhapsody’s hand and started to lead her away.
“Gaze into the well before you go,” Manwyn said, her voice soft.
The two exchanged a glance, then Ashe nodded and released his wife’s hand, turning to approach the well.
“Not you, m’lord,” Manwyn chided. “The lady.”
“Do you wish to, Aria?” Ashe asked, running his thumb over her knuckles. “We can leave right away if you wish.”
“That might offend her; I don’t wish to do that,” Rhapsody said quickly. She turned and walked carefully across the dark floor, taking care to stay as far from the cracks in the jagged opening as possible.
When she reached the well, she peered hesitantly over the edge into the endless darkness below, where once she had seen the poor Lirin mother who had fulfilled Manwyn’s childbirth prophecy. A soft howl, the whine of the wind, ululated and echoed deep within the black pit in a discordant wail, but nothing more. She stared, trying to see whatever it was the Oracle was trying to show her, but all she could make out was blackness.
“I see nothing,” she said finally.
The prophetess smiled widely, her silver eyes gleaming with wicked light once again. “No? Pity. I suppose there are no more divinations coming to you today.” She slid down on her stomach again, her chin resting on her hands, and cocked her head to one side.
“Such it is with all those unlike yourself, who are not prescient,” she said, a tinge of haughtiness entering her voice, “who are not Singers, who are not blessed with dreams of the Future—in short, the rest of the world, lady. Who walk the earth, go about their lives, never having any warning of what is coming for them.” She began to giggle again; the mirth increased rapidly, until she was shrieking with laughter.
“Rhapsody—come now.” Ashe’s voice had the tone of a king, a quiet command that sliced through the madness and beckoned unwaveringly. Rhapsody shook her head to clear it, then turned away from the well and hurried back to him, taking his hand and walking rapidly toward the cedar door.
Behind them Manwyn began to call loudly.
Long ago a promise made, Long ago a name conveyed, Long ago a voice was stayed—Three debts to be paid.
Against her will Rhapsody stopped and turned around. The Seer was not looking in their direction, but was dancing on the suspended dais, clutching the wires that tethered it to the domed ceiling, swinging crazily over the pit.
Manwyn began muttering madly. “Betrayed! Aid! Delayed! Your eyes—the color of jade!” Then her gaze locked on to Rhapsody’s, and a broad smile wreathed her face.
“Afraid?” she asked solicitously.
Rhapsody straightened her shoulders angrily, annoyed with the game.
“No,” she shouted back across the dark room. “No, Manwyn, I’m not afraid, not of the Past, nor of the Future, nor of your senseless babble. I will live happily in the Present, thank you very much, a place you should consider visiting sometime. But thank you for the lunch recommendation. If it produces a satisfying belch I shall dedicate it to you. But since it will be in the Past, you won’t know it.” She turned and stormed out through the cedar door, Ashe close behind her, struggling to keep his laughter in check.
“Well, Aria,” he said, wiping back a tear, “you are doing an excellent job of behaving as well. Come; that lamb sounded tempting, and I would pay an immense sum to watch you belch.”
13
“Almost ready, Rhur?”
The Bolg artisan nodded his agreement, followed a moment later by Shaene.
“Ready, Sandy,” the Canderian artisan said.
Omet took a deep breath, then grasped the newly assembled wheel, forged from steel and inlaid with clear glass wedges. The others took hold as well and lifted, groaning under the strain.
Carefully they guided the wheel over to the wall where metal piping was attached in a semicircular track beneath the open dome of the tower above them. The beveled edges of the wheel, after a few moments of maneuvering, aligned with the metal track; once they had it in place, the wheel hung, suspended at an angle, above the floor of the tower. The artisans carefully stepped back to survey their work.
“All right, Sandy, it’s up. Now what does it do?” Shaene asked, panting and wiping the sweat from his forehead.
Omet shrugged, ignoring innately Shaene’s joking reference to the sands of Yarim from which he had come, feeling winded himself. “Don’t know. I think it is some kind of healing device. Once the stained glass in the ceiling is in place, the plans seem to indicate that the wheel works with the colored light shining through the ceiling. Purely speculative on my part, however; I can’t read die language of die plans. If you want to know more you’ll have to ask the king when he returns. But at least we know we followed the plans correctly.”