“Shhhh,” cautioned Rhapsody, though she couldn’t suppress a smile at the reaction. “Yes.”
“I remember those words from my history lessons,” Melisande said. “ ‘Cyme we inne frið, fram the grip of deaþ to lif inne ðis smylte land—Come we in peace to life in this fair land.’ That’s the inscription Merithyn the Explorer carved on her cave, the birthplace of the Cymrian people—and how we came to be called by that name.”
“You must walk respectfully as you approach her lair,” Rhapsody said, import in her words. “Tread softly, walk slowly, and pause every few steps to listen. If you feel warm air flowing from the cave, or hear the leaves of the trees begin to rustle noticeably, stop and ask permission to enter.”
“I will,” Melisande promised, her face shining. Rhapsody crouched down and ran her hands up the young girl’s arms. “As much as I pray that this will come to pass, I regret to tell you that I think that you may hear nothing,” she said, the pale golden skin of her fair face growing rosy. “It is my fear, Melisande, that you will find her dead, or injured, or not there at all. If you find her dead, return to Gavin and report what you have found. If she is injured, but can still speak, ask her what she wants you to do. If she cannot, again, go to Gavin, but return with the healer to the cave, and stay with her while they attend to her wounds. “But if she is missing, when you report to Gavin, tell him to seal the cave. There is great treasure there, much of it not readily recognizable. If that lair is plundered, it would mean even greater woe to the continent than it will have already experienced with her loss. And take nothing, Melisande—not even a pebble. To do so would be a desecration.”
“I understand.” Rhapsody stood straight again, her hand still on the young girl’s cheek. “I know you do,” she said, pride shining in her eyes. “Understand this as well—if through your efforts Elynsynos is found and restored to health, you will be doing this continent one of the greatest services that has ever been done it. And even if it is too late—” She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “Even if it is, you will be safeguarding more than I can possibly explain.”
“I’m ready,” said Melisande. Rhapsody smiled, and bent and kissed her adopted granddaughter. “We wouldn’t be sending you if we didn’t believe it,” she said. She waved her hand dismissively in the direction of the circle of mist, and the babbling voices ceased; the glittering circle broke and shattered, its water droplets descending slowly to the floor like falling sparks from a campfire. “When my mission is done, where will I go then?” the Lady Navarne asked anxiously as Gerald Owen reappeared in the room, hovering politely in the doorway. Rhapsody considered, then put her arm around the girl and walked with her to the door. “I suspect Ashe will want you at Highmeadow,” she said as they went to meet the chamberlain. “In the four years it has taken to build, it has the strongest defenses, and the most intelligent construction, of anything I’ve seen on the continent, even exceeding those of Tyrian, which are brilliant. There is nowhere on the continent where you will be safer.” Melisande kissed her grandmother on the cheek as they parted ways in the hall. “It sounds to me like that is not saying much.” The Lady Cymrian sighed. “Alas, sworn as I am to the truth, I cannot disagree. I love you, Melisande. Travel well.” The chamberlain and the young girl watched her walk away in a rustle of brocade. Her golden hair caught the lanternlight as she passed the sconces in the hall, seeming to capture it and take it with her, leaving the corridor dimmer when she was gone.
12
Gwydion Navarne and Anborn were deep in the process of mapping out the garrison of the Alliance army in relation to their proximity to known Sorbold outposts before the roaring fire when a knock came at the door of the study. Without awaiting a response it opened and Rhapsody came into the room, her face set in a calm mien but her skin wan and bloodless, either from weakness or from worry. Anborn looked up in annoyance. “What do you want?”
“I’ve come to say goodbye.” The Lord Marshal took off his spectacles and laid them down on the map. “No,” he said shortly. “That will not do. I’m busy—go away.”
“But I’m leaving in a few moments,” Rhapsody said, nonplussed. They had often had such exchanges; she had long been accustomed to Anborn’s gruff manner, and knew that it masked something deeper, most likely a fear for her safety, and very possibly that of the continent. “The very least you can do is pause long enough to say goodbye as well.”
“Are you deaf? No. I will not.” Rhapsody turned to Gwydion Navarne, who looked uncomfortable. “Excuse us for a moment, Gwydion,” she said. “I think Ashe might need your assistance in the preparations anyway—we depart as soon as the horses are provisioned and ready.”
The young duke nodded and left the room. Rhapsody came over to Anborn’s chair and stared down at him. His hair was still black as night save for the streaks of silver that had grown slightly wider in the four years since she had met him; his upper body was still muscular and strong, but he had the air of an aged man, much more than the time would warrant. Re has grown old before my eyes, Rhapsody thought. “All right,” she said briskly, “we’re alone now. What is this nonsense?” Anborn exhaled wearily. “Aside from the few cherished opportunities I had to actually kiss you goodbye when we were pledged to marry, do you ever recall me saying that word to you?” Color flooded into the Lady Cymrian’s face. Anborn’s reference was to a time she still regarded with awkward memory, confusing days during which she had asked him to be a loveless consort to her as Lirin queen. The Lord Marshal had been good-natured about it, as well as in releasing her from her pledge when he discovered that she and his nephew were in love, but this was the first time he had teased her about their near-miss at matrimony. “No,” she said haltingly. “And I don’t intend to do so now. We both have work to do which will take us from this place; you are merely leaving first. So do it; be done with it. Go. I have no desire to mark this parting with such a word. Unless, of course, you wish to kiss me first—that does tend to take some of the sting out of it.” He winced as her eyes began to glisten, then shook his head. “Forgive me, m’lady, I’m being coarse and unpleasant, and you don’t deserve it. It is not you from whom I should have withheld a goodbye, but rather someone else much like you, very long ago.” He watched her press her lips together to forestall the question that had risen to them, and almost chuckled. “Thank you for not asking. I will tell you the story some day, when we are sitting at ease, playing with my great-nephew.” Rhapsody smiled slightly, putting her hand to her cheek, now pale again. “Agreed,” she said, “but only if you wish.” Anborn sighed. “There is little that I wish anymore, Rhapsody. I’ve lived too long, seen too much, to bother wishing for anything. This cursed lengthy life span, bequeathed to me either by whatever my father did to cheat time, or my mother’s dragon blood, has given me a sour outlook. This is the way of stupid longevity. It insures cynicism, because it guarantees that unlike the rest of oblivious humanity, the all-but-immortal realize that they will never really know peace. You, being similarly cursed, just haven’t figured it out yet. When one lives long enough, he learns that there is no such thing as peace, just longer and shorter intervals between wars. Life becomes an endless and often arduous series of goodbyes, laced with dread, unless you can learn to expect never to see anyone you care for again. I have learned this lesson in the ugliest ways imaginable, Rhapsody. So I will bid you farewell, wish you safe journey and Godspeed, express my hope, and expectation, that you and your child will be safe among the Firbolg, and that your undertakings will prove fruitful to the war effort. But I will not say goodbye to you.” The Lady Cymrian smiled, her wan face taking on more color for a moment. “Very well, then.” She reached into the leather bag and pulled out a large conch shell, turning it over in her small hands; Anborn watched her absently caress the horned crown with the calloused tips of long slender fingers that had hardened in uncounted years of playing stringed instruments, not unlike the hard pads on his own digits, ossified from centuries of plucking bowstrings. Odd, he mused as she took his hand in her own and turned it upright, then placed the shell in the scarred palm and gently bent his broken-knuckled fingers around it. I suppose we each make music in our own way, she for the purpose of lifting hearts, me for the purpose of piercing them with arrows. Rhapsody saw the look of wry amusement pass over bis face and smiled. “Long ago, back on the Island, when I was first learning to be a Storysinger, I knew a barkeep named Barney.” She chuckled. “Did you know all barkeeps in Serendair were named Barney? Every one?” Anborn studied the shell. “No. Why?”