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.
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 Slipper’? 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?”
“From my mother,” Rhapsody said. “She had a song for everything. Liringlas ascribe a song to almost every event in life. It is tradition among the Lirin that when a woman discovers she is with child, she chooses a song to sing to the growing life within her. It is the first gift she gives to the baby, its own song.” She looked off into the darkness beyond the campfire’s blurry light. “Each of my brothers had his own, but this is the one she sang when she was carrying me. The Liringlas mother sings the song she has chosen through the course of each day, through mundane events, in quiet moments when she is alone, before each morning aubade, after each evening vesper. It’s the song the child comes to know her by, the baby’s first lullabye, unique to each child. Lirin live outside beneath the stars, and it is important that the infants remain as silent as possible in dangerous situations. The song is so familiar that it comforts them innately. Puts them to sleep.”
Anborn exhaled. “A noble tradition. Have you chosen one yet for my great-nephew or niece?”
Rhapsody smiled. “No, not yet. When it is right, I will know it. Or so they told me. Now, if you’ll permit me, I think I will sleep. Rest well, gentlemen.” She stretched out to sleep by the fire.
Anborn watched her affectionately through the better part of the night, his brow furrowing when she winced in pain in her sleep, his eyes shining as she slumbered peacefully.
After the watch had changed, Shrike came over to him and crouched down beside him.
“Withdraw for a moment,” he ordered the four guards who had come off watch. They looked to Anborn for confirmation; the General nodded.
When the soldiers were out of the way, Shrike drew a thin, battered cutlass and held it out to his old friend.
“Take it,” he said.
Anborn looked away. “Not tonight.”