Elizabeth Haydon - Rhapsody 1 - Rhapsody,Child of Blood

======================

Book Information:

Genre: Epic Fantasy

Author: Elizabeth Haydon

Title: Rhapsody: Child of Blood

Series: Rhapsody 1

======================

Notes:

Scanned by JASC

If you correct any minor errors, please change the version number below (and in the file name) to a

slightly higher one e.g. from .9 to .95 or if major revisions, to v. 1.0/2.0 etc.. This particular scan has

errors at the first word of every chapter, please correct if possible.

Current e-book version is .9 (mostformatting errors have been corrected—but OCR errors still occur in

the text; semi proofed)

Comments, Questions, Requests (no promises):daytonascan4911@hotmail.com

DO NOT READ THIS BOOK OF YOU DO NOT OWN/POSSES THE PHYSICAL COPY.

THAT IS STEALING FROM THE AUTHOR.

======================

Rhapsody: Child of Blood

Rhapsody 1

Elizabeth Haydon

THE PROPHECY OF THE THREE

The Three shall come, leaving early, arriving late,

The lifestages of all men:

Child of Blood, Child of Earth, Child of the Sky.

Each man, formed in blood and born in it, Walks the Earth and sustained by it, Reaching to the

sky, and sheltered beneath it, He ascends there only in his ending, becoming part of the stars.

Blood gives new beginning, Earth gives sustenance, The Sky gives dreams in life—eternity in

death. Thus shall the Three be, one to the other.

THE PROPHECY OF THE UNINVITED GUEST

Among the last to leave, among the first to come,

Seeking a new host, uninvited, in a new place.

The power gained being the first,

Was lost in being the last.

Hosts shall nurture it, unknowing,

Like the guest wreathed in smiles

While secretly poisoning the larder.

Jealously guarded of its own power,

Ne'er has, nor ever shall its host bear or sire children,

Yet ever it seeks to procreate.

He modified the miniature bristle. Finally satisfied, he meticulously dabbed the liquid onto the eyes of the

boy in the now-frozen image and waited to see that the solution had spread across the sapphire-blue

irises to the corners of each canthus. The window of opportunity would be small and final; it was

important that the boy be given every chance to see things clearly and quickly. When he was done he

recorked the phial and set it back on the gleaming disk.

Meridion removed the spool from the Time Editor and replaced it with a different one, another Past,

even older. This he spun out with even more care, owing to its extreme age and the nature of the place

from which it had come, now vanished beneath the waves. It took a great deal longer to find the right

point on this thread, but Meridion was patient. It was important to do this correctly; much depended on

it.

When he finally found the right place he stopped the frame again and picked up a different tool. With

a practiced hand he made a smooth, circular slice, plucked the image from the first strand, and placed it

gently into the second. He looked through the lens to check his work.

The boy had not lost consciousness, as he had expected, but instead lay writhing facedown on the

ground with his head cradled in his hands, frantically rubbing his eyes. Meridion was both amused and

sorry.I should have known he would fight it , he thought. He sat back and turned the viewing screen onto

the wall to watch the outcome of his work and wait for the moment of meeting, and of exit.

THIRD AGE

The pain subsided as quickly as it had come. Gwydion spat out the dust from the road and rolled onto

his back, allowing himself a deep groan. He glanced at the sky above him and was instantly aware of the

shift not only in location but in time of day. A moment ago it had been early morning, and now it was

afternoon, winding toward evening. That he had been removed from where he had been was clear to

him; he had no idea where he was.

Gwydion had been blessed with a pragmatic nature, and after a moment of adjusting to the new

surroundings he stood and began calculating what to do next. How or why this had happened to him was

not an issue for the moment.

The air of this place was thinner than the air of home, and Gwydion knew it would take some time for

him to acclimate to it. Glancing around, he spied a small copse of trees a short jog away, and he hastily

made for it.

Upon reaching the shelter he sank to the ground and began to inhale in short, shallow breaths, slowing

and expanding each one until his lungs began to assimilate, shielding his watering eyes to give them a

chance to adjust. Then he felt for the items he had brought with him on his way to town: his dagger and

pouch were still there, as well as his waterskin and the apple. He took a quick drink. As he was capping

the skin he felt faint vibrations in the ground below him. A cart, or something like it, must be approaching.

Gwydion sank lower to the ground as the ever-thickening dust cloud signaled the arrival of the group.

He could see three men walking beside the cart, which was pulled by two oxen with a calf following

along behind. It was laden with barrels of grain and loose straw, and a fourth man was driving it. The

dress of the men was unfamiliar to him, although it was apparent that they were peasants, probably

farmers.

Gwydion listened as carefully as he could over the rumbling din of the cart's wheels. His eyes

throbbed slightly and then were drawn to the farmers' lips, strangely accentuated in the haze that filled his

view. Suddenly his vision became intensely clear; it was if he could see the words as they were formed in

the men's mouths, and could hear them as if they were being spoken directly into his ear. When he

recognized the language pattern, his head began to spin.

They were speaking Old Cymrian.It isn't possible , he thought. Old Cymrian was essentially a dead

language, used rarely in the holy-day ceremonies of religions other than his own, or as a vanity language

among those of Cymrian lineage. But it was being spoken here, between peasants, as common

vernacular on an average day in farmlands. It wasn't possible, unless Gwydion shuddered. Serendair, the

Cymrian homeland, had been gone for more than a thousand years now, vanished into the sea in the

cataclysm that swallowed the Island and some of its neighbors in volcanic fire.

-

His ancestors had come from there, as had those of a few of his friends, but by and large the refugees

of that land were a dispersed people, the casualties of wars they visited upon the lands of their hosts.

Could there still be an untouched pocket of them here, wherever he was, living as they had thirteen

centuries before?

As the cart and its accompanying dust cloud rumbled out of sight, Gwydion's head emerged from the

patch of trees and brush to watch it go. He saw it make a laborious climb up a graded hill to the west and

disappear over the summit. He waited until he knew that he could reach the top of the hill with them in

sight while remaining unseen, checked to be sure there was no one else on the road, and then made for

the summit himself.

The countryside was hilly, and when he got to the top he paused a moment to take in the sight of the

late-afternoon sun favoring certain pastures with blankets of gold. This rolling land was beautiful, and he

knew he had never been through these parts before, or he would have remembered it. It was verdant in

the heat of summer, the green earth filling the air with the rich scent of life.

The farmlands stretched out as far as he could see in an endless expanse of field and meadow dotted

with trees but no real forests. There was no sign of any major waterway either, except for small streams

that crossed the pastures, and the wind held no scent of the sea.

Gwydion had no time to wonder where he was; the light was beginning to leave the sky, and the cart

was almost out of sight. Its destination was probably the small village he could see past the next valley.

Between here and there were several small farms and one large one. He decided to stop at the first small

farm and see if he might find lodging and, with any luck, answers.

Gwydion removed the gold crest ring from his hand and tucked it quickly into his pouch. He took one

last look around the hilly vista, and drew in a deep breath. His lungs had gotten used to the air here; there

was a sweetness to it, mixed with the scent of pastureland and barns, a richness that spoke of a

happiness he had never known in his short life.

A sense of calm overtook him. There was no time to wonder how he had gotten here, and no need.

Whatever the reason, he was here now, and he meant to make an adventure of it. He took off in a dead

run for the farmhouse at the dip in the road, where candlelight was just beginning to shine in the windows.

cA number of men were finishing the day's chores when he reached the first small farm, bringing the

plows and animals back into the barn and making ready for the night. The sunset was a brilliant one, and

it bathed the farmhouse and the surrounding pens with gentle streaks of crimson and pink.

The farmhands were laughing and joking; there was a festive mood in the air for the end of such a long

day. Gwydion located the man he thought was the farmer. He was distinctly older than the others, with a

shock of silver hair crowning a body still strong and muscular, and he directed the others with a soft voice

that belied his great height.

Gwydion moved to the end of the carriage path next to the house, hoping to catch the attention of the

farmer without seeming threatening. He stood there for a moment, but the men were hurrying to be

finished and didn't see him.

'Partch!" A woman's voice called out over his head, and Gwydion turned around. An older woman,

most likely the farmer's wife, was standing under the eaves of the house, pointing at him, and calling to the

tall man. "Looks like you've got a new hand." She smiled at Gwydion, and he returned her grin. This was

easier than he had thought.

The farmer gave the reins of the last of the horses to another of the men and came over, brushing his

hands on his shirt. "Hello there, Sam," he said, offering his hand to Gwydion. "Looking for work?"

'Yes, sir," Gwydion answered, shaking hands. He hoped his pronunciation was correct. That the

language was not his mother tongue was instantly apparent to the farmer, who slowed his words in an

effort to be more easily understood. He gestured to one of the men, who came over, wiping his hands on

a rag.

'Asa, show Sam here the shed. You can get settled; I'm afraid you missed supper, boy. But the

foreharvest dance is in town tonight, and these young fellas are goin'. Why don't you ride along? There's

bound to be food there if you're hungry."

The woman clucked at her husband. "We have scraps he can have now, Partch. Here, young man,

come with me." She turned and went into the farmhouse.

Gwydion followed her, taking in the sight with amazement.

The walls were stone with a wood interior, and the furniture was simple but well crafted; it bore the

hallmarks of Cymrian artistry. The spindles on the chairs and staircases were turned in the exact manner

of the railings on the altar of the basilica in Sepulvarta, the holy city of his homeland, the tables fashioned

similarly to ones he had seen in the Great Hall in Tyrian.

'Here you are, dear," she said, handing him a plate of leftovers. "Why don't you take this with you out

to the shed and clean up a bit? The foreharvest dance is a big thing in these parts—do they have one

where you come from?"

Gwydion accepted the plate with a smile. "No, ma'am," he said respectfully.

'Well, I'm sure you'll enjoy it; it's the last dance before the marriage lottery, so you best have fun while

you can." She winked at him, then set about finishing her work.

'Marriage lottery?"

'You don't have one at home?"

'No," said Gwydion, following her to the door. She swung it open for him and walked back toward

the two men, who were washing with the others at the well.

'You must not come from a farm community, then."

'No, ma'am," said Gwydion. He thought of the place he lived and hid his smile.

'Well, you better get ready. It looks like the others are almost ready to leave."

'Thank you," Gwydion said to her gratefully. He took a scrap of the bread and ate it hurriedly, then

followed Asa to the shed where the hired hands slept.

leapt from the wagon as soon as it came to a stop. The ride had been rocky, but pleasant, and the

farmhands agreeable, if not talkative. He had sensed a reserve from the beginning, and he wasn't sure if

they were distant because he was unfamiliar or because of his mixed bloodline. Without exception the

men were human, as were the farmer and his wife and everyone else he had seen thus far. The pure,

homogeneous makeup of this place was so unlike the rest of the world, where half bloods dominated.

The village was ablaze with light, lanterns set on barrels and strung in trees, making for a festive mood.

The community was obviously not a wealthy one, but the farms seemed substantial and the people

reasonably fed and clothed for the most part.

Noticeable was an absolute lack of luxury, and Gwydion's eyes took in the details of decoration that

had been fashioned out of simplicity—fresh-cut boughs of evergreen trees and fragrant flowers festooned

the main hall that apparently served the community as house of worship, meeting place, grange, and

school. Long tables laden with baked goods and harvest foods were set to the sides of the large open

room with a dirt floor, and muslin love knots were tacked everywhere.

Despite being used to a far more wealthy and sophisticated life, Gwydion found himself taking in the

homespun celebration with delight. There was a simplicity here that felt easy on his shoulders; it stood in

marked contrast to the dull and ponderous ceremonies of festivity he was used to.

Excitement was starting to fill the air as people began to arrive, young women in pale-colored

broadcloth dresses, young men in clean muslin shirts. There was a musician with a stringed instrument he

didn't recognize and two others with minarellos, sometimes called groan-boxes back home. They were

dragging barrels over to a place behind the food table. The village was making ready to celebrate the

upcoming harvest, both of crops and of marriageable young people.

As the room started to fill, Gwydion began to sense that he was not going unnoticed. More than once

a group of young women passed in front of him, looking him up and down, then whispering to each other

in excitement and young laughter. This made him quite uncomfortable, but it was momentary; the group

would disperse quickly or move on, to be joined by others or by some of the young men. He gauged the

girls to be about his age, fourteen or so, while the boys seemed four or five years older, although there

were a few that were younger. Gwydion went to the refreshment table and was encouraged by an older

woman to help himself, which he did gladly. No one asked him who he was, despite notice being taken

that he was not local. Many others were apparently here from outside the village as well. When

addressed by the villagers, an unknown young man was generally referred to as Sam or Jack; now he

understood the farmer's greeting earlier.

An older man came into the room carrying a large wooden box, and a swirl of excitement rose up

from the crowd. He made his way to the table and the woman behind it began clearing an empty spot for

the contents of the box, which turned out to be a large number of small parchment sheets and several

inkpots with quills and writing reeds.

Here the crowd began to separate by gender, with the young women continuing to mill about while

the men hurried to the table, searching through the papers for specific ones, and, upon finding what they

sought, scribbling on them with the quills. Gwydion was familiar with the concept of dance cards, and it

seemed to him that perhaps that was what these were. He decided that this would be a good time to get

some air.

The night had come while he was inside, and now the sky was totally dark. The lanterns and candles

illuminated the area, and people continued to arrive, amid laughter and arguments and other sounds of

excitement. They jostled past Gwydion as if he weren't there.

He was aware as he watched them of the seriousness of this festive ritual. Despite the light mood

there was an undertone of solemnity, of portent, that was palpable. In a community such as this, mating

and the propagation of families was essential to its survival.

Gwydion left the area around the meeting hall, looking to find a dark place where the stars were

visible. He was well versed in astronomy, and suspected that he would be able to discern where he was

once he got a clear look at the night sky.

The lanternlight played havoc with the visibility, and he needed to get a good ways away before he

was able to see anything. When he finally could, it didn't help much. He didn't recognize any of the

constellations, or even a single star. A very bright one hung deep in the sky by the horizon, but even that

was unknown to him.

He felt a cold wave of fear wash over him. Until now he had expected that it would be relatively

simple to navigate home once he had ascertained where he was. But if even the stars were foreign, he

was much farther away than he had originally thought, though the season was certainly the same as the

one where he had been. Nothing was making sense. Gwydion sat down on a bank of barrels and fought

the panic that was rising in his throat.

Across the road a slight movement caught his attention, and he turned to look. Someone was moving

behind the identical bank of barrels that lined the roadway, crouching low and peering over the tops of

them toward the meeting hall. Gwydion decided to investigate. He had left much of his gear back at the

farmhouse, but he still had his dagger, and he drew it now and ran silently across the road, circling around

behind the line of barrels.

When he was in position he rose carefully and rested one hand on a barrel, looking around it to spot

the intruder. To his surprise it was a young woman, hiding behind the line of barrels and watching the

comings and goings of the crowd.

He couldn't see her face. She had long straight hair with just a hint of a wave to it, and it hung like a

silken sheet down her back. In the dark it appeared to be the color of pale flax, and Gwydion was struck

by the desire to run his hand down it.

He reached out and instead tapped her on the shoulder. She started and gasped, reeling around to

face him and nearly toppling the empty barrels into the road.

The look of shock on her face did nothing to diminish his instantaneous impression that she was

undoubtedly the fairest thing he had ever seen. Her face was delicately formed, with large, dark eyes

fringed with black lashes and an upper lip shaped like a longbow. Unlike the other young women at the

party, she was clearly of mixed blood, as he was, and thin. As she backed up toward the barrels her hair

fell over her shoulders, obscuring much of her upper body and the corsage of flowers that adorned her

breast.

'Don't be frightened," Gwydion said as gently as he could. "I'm sorry if I startled you."

The girl took a deep breath, and her enormous eyes ran rapidly over his face. She blinked abruptly,

as if trying to clear away sudden stinging tears. It took a long moment for her to be able to respond, and

when she did the wonder in her voice made his stomach tighten with excitement.

'You're Lirin," she said. The words held as much awe as he had ever heard uttered before.

'Yes, partly; you are, too?"

She nodded slowly.

Gwydion coughed to cover the flush he felt creeping into his face. "Uhm, are there many of you, I

mean, Lirin, around here?"

'No," she said, and the amazement was still in her voice. "Except for my mother and brothers, you are

the first I have ever seen. Who are you?"

Gwydion thought about how to answer her. He wanted more than anything to tell her the truth, but he

wasn't sure himself what that was.

'I'm called Sam," he said simply. "What about you?"

The young woman smiled for the first time, and Gwydion felt a strange stirring he had never

experienced before. It was heady, and frightening, and dizzying all at once, and he was not sure that the

control he normally had over his face or voice was still in place.

'Emily," she said, and then she looked behind her. Two young men were approaching, bantering

between themselves, and looking around the area. The young woman backed up, almost into him, and

then ducked quickly behind the barrels again. Gwydion sat down next to her, hidden from view as well.

Together they watched as the men searched around, looking down the dry dirt road and over the

neighboring fields. Just then the music started, amid a swelling of laughter and applause from inside, and

the men turned back toward the hall. Emily waited until they were out of sight, then let loose a long sigh.

'Do you know them?" Gwydion asked, wondering what he had missed.

'Yes," she said curtly. She rose up onto her knees to see better. Catching sight of no one else, she

relaxed, then stood once more and brushed the dirt off her skirt.

Gwydion stood as well. In general he had little use for women, young or old; being motherless, he had

little experience with any. But this girl was different somehow. There was an innate intelligence in her

eyes, as well as something indescribable, and he was fascinated by her. Perhaps it was that she was the

singular example of her race whom he had seen so far. Or it might have been the mild humming in his

eyes and his utter inability to break his gaze away and stop looking at her. Whatever the reason, he

wanted to make sure she didn't walk away.

'Why are you hiding? Don't you like to dance?"

She turned to face him again, and Gwydion felt the strange sensation once more. It began in his groin,

but rushed rapidly to his head and hands, leaving those areas weak and perspiring a little. "I love to

dance," she said. Her tone was wistful.

'Well, then, shall we? I mean, would you like to?" His voice sounded inane to his ears.

Emily's eyes filled with regret, and she shook her head. "I can't," she said sadly. "Not yet. I'm sorry."

'What's the matter?"

She looked behind her again. Seeing nothing that bothered her, she turned back around. She gave him

a direct look. "Doesn't this all seem, well, barbaric to you?"

Gwydion stared at her in astonishment, then let out a laugh. "Yes, actually," he said, trying not to be

rude at the same time he was being honest. "Yes, it does."

'Well, then, imagine how I feel."

Gwydion felt his liking of her instantly increase. He put his hand out to her. "Come out of there," he

said.

Emily gave a backward glance, then took his hand and allowed him to assist her over the debris

around the barrels. They walked a little farther down the road, then looked back toward the hall. The

dance was in full swing, with merry music issuing forth and the sound of excited voices filling the night air.

It was warm, with a soft breeze; a perfect night.

Gwydion had so many questions that he didn't know where to start, but he was sure that he did not

want to frighten her off by overwhelming her with his need for information. He pointed to the corsage.

'Are you here with someone?"

Emily's brows furrowed; then her eyes followed his finger. Rapidly, understanding crossed her face.

'No," she said, smiling slightly. "These are a gift from my father. You don't come to the foreharvest

dance with anyone, that would be counterproductive."

'I see," Gwydion said. Now that she was out in the lantern-light he took the opportunity to study her

more. Her dress was velvet, probably a dark blue, and it was cut with a deep, curving neckline.

Underneath it at the throat was a modesty piece that matched the lace at the hem, studded with a line of

small silver buttons of simple manufacture. A tiny matching ribbon pulled two of the front strands of her

pale hair off her face, securing them at the back of her head.

Her Lirin blood was obvious in her slim build and delicate features, but she was only three or four

inches shorter than he was, probably just over five feet. Despite the calluses on her hands, and a small

scar on her wrist, she had an absence of the coarseness that some of the other farmgirls had, and there

was an air of dignity about her that belied her age. He wished he could tell more about the colors of her

complexion and beautiful dark eyes, but the light was too weak.

-

He was suddenly grateful for the first time to his own father for the years of intense insistence

regarding Cymrian language study. "Well, what are you going to do now? Since you obviously don't want

to go in."

Emily looked back at the hall. "I think I'll just wait here until my brother comes to fetch me at

midnight," she said, sounding a little disheartened.

'Seems like a pretty miserable way to spend a summer evening."

'Well, there are varying degrees of misery. It could be worse."

Gwydion nodded sympathetically. He could see that her family must be somewhat better off than

most to afford her the trimmings on her dress, though in his family's circles she would still be seen as a

very poor peasant, or at most a common landowner. Her family's relative wealth, coupled with her

appearance, had obviously made her a prime target for the young hunters inside. Unlike the other young

women, however, she was unwilling quarry, and he respected her for it.

'I have an idea," he said, casting a glance around. "There's a clear, flat area over there near the

meeting hall, but not too near. I'm sure we can hear the music from there. Why don't we have a dance or

two there? If you're willing, of course." All his years of etiquette training stumbled over his tongue and he

screeched to an awkward halt.

Emily's face brightened, and Gwydion's heart rose. "What a wonderful idea," she said happily. "I

would love to. Thank you."

He offered her his hand once more, and led her across the road and over the fields to the small

clearing he had seen. They ducked quickly to the side of the building when more people came through

the door, but managed to avoid being seen.

A mazurka was ending just as they reached the field. They stood, facing each other in awkward

silence, until the next dance began. Gwydion put his hand on her waist, and was almost unbalanced by

the thrill that shot from his fingers up his arm to his head. He took her hand as she lifted the edge of her

skirt, and they followed the rhythm of the music across the field, turning in time.

Almost immediately there was a problem. Though the dance was a simple two-step, Gwydion's

training had been in classical military style, and as a result, the unsophisticated step Emily used caught his

foot on the fourth pass. She trod lightly on his toe, and embarrassment flooded her face. He ignored it,

going on, but at the same point in the next set of passes it happened again. She stopped, looking

humiliated, and turned away quickly.

'I'm terribly sorry, Sam," she said. "You must think I have all the grace of a farm animal. Maybe you

should go back inside."

Gwydion took hold of her shoulders and turned her around. "What are you talking about? I'm the one

who doesn't know the dance. Please don't do that." "Do what?"

'Start acting like I'm one of them." He gestured at the hall. "I'm enjoying your company, Emily, and I

can't think of anything you resemble less than a farm animal. Do you know what the next dance will be?"

Emily's smile returned. "Probably a courting twirl." "Well, can I have another go of it? I think I can

handle that." She nodded. Gwydion noticed that he had not released her hand, and she had not pulled it

away, so he held it as they stood, waiting for the waltz to begin. When it finally did he was careful to stick

to the basic steps and not add any of the flourishes that he had been taught for use at court.

This time they meshed perfectly, and he could see exhilaration take her as they waltzed across the

field in time to the diminished music. When she was excited her eyes caught the light, or perhaps they

generated it themselves. Either way, by the time the dance was finished they were sparkling brighter than

the illumination from any lantern.

'Emmy, what are you doing out here? Are you coming in?" She whirled around. Gwydion looked over

her head to see a small group standing at the edge of the field, staring at them. The speaker was a

dark-haired young man of mixed race; he concluded that this must be her brother. In addition there were

two young women and one of the boys who had been out looking for her earlier. All wore expressions

containing varying degrees of displeasure.

'Everyone's waiting for you, Emmy. You've missed three dances already and your suitor card is

Elizabeth Haydon - Rhapsody 1 - Rhapsody, Child of Blood

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: