Free The Weaver's Lament by Elizabeth Haydon Page B

more somberly. “He represents the experience of those who die violently, or in pain, or wither away in the grip of terrible illness.”
    The young women exchanged a glance and a wince.
    â€œIs any part of the exhibit about the Afterlife?” Evannii asked hopefully. “I would think that might be a pleasant collection.”
    â€œIt will be opening next year,” Rhapsody said as Meridion waited eagerly to continue his presentation. “I find the research into that subject at the moment to be somewhat controversial. I have long thought that the traditions and beliefs of various cultures have brought about the existence of their mythical figures and entities, rather than the other way around. Lore manifests into reality sometimes; that’s why Namers have to be especially careful about what they say.
    â€œThere are many people who believe with certainty that they know what color the paint on the walls of their homes in the Afterlife will be. The more I study the lore, the more I have come to believe that paradise is not the same for everyone, and that we don’t all live in it together. I think we each make our own places in the Afterlife—”
    â€œWe were talking about Death,” Meridion interjected. “These other two horsemen are Death in War and Death of Worlds—”
    â€œI’m sorry to have interrupted, Meridion, but I do believe we all need to be on our way in order for you three to arrive at the guest house in Tref-Y-Gwartheg by nightfall,” Rhapsody said lightly. “You know how much Papa worries when we are on the forest road in the dark.”
    Meridion, paused in the middle of an intriguing lecture, exhaled, then nodded quickly.
    â€œRight,” he said. “I will go get my gear—did you ladies already give yours to the quartermaster to put in the coach?”
    â€œYes, Uncle,” said Cara quickly.
    â€œVery good. All right, I shall return forthwith, and we can be on our way.” He came to Rhapsody and kissed her, then hurried toward the door of the Repository.
    Cara and Evannii looked to the Lady Cymrian in relief and smiled gratefully.
    Thank you, Cara mouthed.
    Rhapsody bowed slightly, smiling to herself.
    Meridion stopped at the door, then turned back in excitement.
    â€œI’ll grab some of the manuscripts and folios from my office on the way to the coach,” he said happily. “And then we can finish the discussion on the way to Highmeadow! I can even teach you the songs of Passage for each of the major races, and the dirges of all the cultures in the Alliance. I am so glad we will be traveling together.”
    Rhapsody waited until Meridion had left the Repository to laugh. She hugged both crestfallen young women.
    â€œNamers,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’m so sorry. Maybe you can pretend to fall asleep in the coach; I sometimes do. Except I don’t have to pretend.”
    *   *   *
    Once her son and granddaughters were safely packed and on their way to Highmeadow, Rhapsody had her forest roan brought forth, saddled up, and rode north.
    She had traveled this road for a thousand years, most often alone, but occasionally with company. The very first time she had undertaken the journey it had been with Ashe, who at the time was unknown to her and her Firbolg friends, neither of whom trusted him. He was still in the throes of physical and spiritual agony, suffering from a wound that left an ugly, festering scar bisecting his chest, where his heart had been torn open and a piece of his soul removed by a F’dor demon at the House of Remembrance, an ancient Cymrian museum similar to the Repository, on midsummer’s night long ago.
    As she rode through the forest, Rhapsody thought back to those days of suspicion and fear, glad that they were long past. Ashe had been forced for the sake of his safety to hide himself within a cloak of mist generated by Kirsdarke, the elemental