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As the soldiers set about laying camp, Shrike assisted the general off his mount and onto a bedroll
near the pile of sticks and branches in the clearing that would be the campfire. Rhapsody settled down
next to him, and was handed a mug of cider and a plate of biscuits.
She unbuckled Daystar Clarion from her belt and pulled the sword gently from its sheath; it came
forth with a quiet hum, the same pitch as the clarion call that it could wind when drawn in anger or need,
but almost inaudible, resonating quietly in the still air of the darkening forest.
The bond to elemental fire deep within her sang a harmonic in response; the music hummed in
Rhapsody, quieting her stomach and her mind.
The soldiers watched, fascinated, as she extended the sword of billowing flames and touched the kit
of sticks and branches; it ignited immediately, the fire leaping in the wind, showering the twilight with
bright sparks that crackled and winked like fireflies.
She rested the sword across her knees, her elbows holding it in place, impervious to the flames, and
listened to the gossip and banter of the four soldiers who were not standing watch as they relaxed around
the fire and ate their simple meals.
There was something refreshing, invigorating, about being in the forest at night in summer, she thought,
breathing deeply to take in the cool, moist air that stood in such contrast to the dry heat of Yarim.
Perhaps being in this natural setting, with the full green of the season, the warm, rich scent of the earth,
the sheltering canopy of tree branches above her, was improving her condition. She felt better, though
she was still off balance and unclear in her sight.
Many leagues away in the distance she could hear the song of the Great White Tree, a deep, primeval
melody that stretched throughout the forest, humming in all the things that grew there. She closed her eyes
and listened, entranced, letting the music fill her mind and clear it.
Softly she began singing a song of home that her seafaring grandfather had sung to her when she was
a child.
I was born beneath this willow, Where my sire the earth did farm Had the green grass as my pillow
The east wind as a blanket warm
Butaway! away ! called the wind from the west And in answer I did run Seeking glory and adventure
Promised by the rising sun
I found love beneath this willow, As true a love as life could hold, Pledged my heart and swore my
fealty Sealed with a kiss and a band of gold
Butto arms! to arms ! called the wind from the west In faithful answer I did run Marching forth for
king and country In battles 'neath the midday sun.
Oft I dreamt of that fair willow As the seven seas I plied And the girl who I left waiting Longing to be
at her side
Butabout! about ! called the wind from the west As once again my ship did run Down the coast,
about the wide world Flying sails in the setting sun
Now I lie beneath the willow Now at last no more to roam, My bride and earth so tightly hold me In
their arms I'm finally home.
Whileaway! away ! calls the wind from the west Beyond the grave my spirit, free Will chase the sun
into the morning Beyond the sky, beyond the sea
Anborn, Shrike, and the soldiers listened, their conversation dying away when the first notes sounded,
rapt at the melancholy melody. When she was finished, the circle of men drew in a deep, collective
breath, and let it out again in a synchronous sigh.
'Now for another, if you are up to it, lady," Anborn said, draining his tankard. "Can you favor us with
'The Sad, Strange Tale of Simeon Blowfellow and the Concubine's Slipper5? It's a favorite of mine, as
you know."
Rhapsody laughed, feeling the tightness in her chest and abdomen abate a bit. "A Gwadd song? You
want to hear a Gwadd song?"
Anborn adopted a comic air of injury. "Why not?" he demanded. "lust because the Gwadd are tiny
folk "
'Make good footstools," added Shrike rotely.
' doesn't mean they aren't fine singers
'Tender when stewed with potatoes
'And crafters of wondrous ballads "
'Can substitute as haybutts for crossbow practice
'All right!" Rhapsody choked, mirth making her ribs hurt. "Stop that at once." She sat up as straight as
she could and cleared her throat. "I need my harp," she said, positioning herself more comfortably.
"Would one of you fine gentleman be so kind as to retrieve it from the carriage?" The guards rose quickly
to their feet, looking askance at the ancient Cymrians so willing to be crude in front of the lady, to no
apparent displeasure on her part.
Anborn sighed comically as one of the men jogged to the carriage to get the instrument.
'Sounds better on a concertina," he said knowingly to Shrike.
'Or a fiddle strung with Gwadd-gut."
Rhapsody put her hand over her mouth to quell the mixture of nausea and laughter that rose up at the
comment. "One more statement like that, Shrike, and I will move over near you so that when I retch, you
can be the direct beneficiary of it."
'Tsk, tsk," intoned Shrike, shaking his head. "Never known her to be so mean and ornery before,
have you, Anborn? Wonder what's got into her? Oh, wait that's right. It was your nephew."
Anborn cuffed his oldest friend on the ear and glowered at him.
Quickly Rhapsody took the lap harp from the guard, tuned it and began to play the comically
heartrending air from the old land, the song of the Gwadd hero Simeon Blowfellow and his lost love's
shoe.
'Another! Sing another, lady," Shrike encouraged when she had finished the tragic tale.
'How's for a lullabye?" Rhapsody asked in return, shifting the harp to her other knee. "Not just
because it's late, but because I need to practice." The men nodded their assent, and she began to sing an
old, soothing night air, the origins of which she didn't remember.
Sleep, little bird, beneath my wing
Anborn turned suddenly pale in the reflected light of the campfire; his hand shot out and gripped her
forearm.
'Sing something else," he said tersely.
Rhapsody blinked, taken aback. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, trying to discern the expression on his
face, but could only make out the shadow of his eyes and mouth.
'Do not be sorry. Sing something else."
Unnerved, she thought back to the wind-song that was her own lullabye as an infant, knowing that
none of those assembled would have heard it before, and so would not take a dislike to it as Anborn
apparently had to the last one. Haltingly she began to sing it, her voice reflected in the gentle crackling of
the campfire, the pulsing of the flames that licked the blade of Daystar Clarion.
Sleep, my child, my little one, sleep Down in the glade where the river runs deep The wind whistles
through and it carries away All of your troubles and cares of the day.
Rest, my dear, my lovely one, rest, Where the white killdeer has built her fair nest, Your pillow sweet
clover, your blanket the grass The moon shines on you as the wind whistles past.
Dream, my own, my pretty one, dream,
In tune with the song of the swift meadow stream,
Take wing with the wind as it lifts you above, Tethered to Earth by the bonds of my love.
When she was finished, Anborn looked over at her for the first time since the air began.
'Lovely," he said quietly. "Where did you learn that one?"
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