The Assassin King (14 page)

Rhapsody went rigid. “Gods, don't even say something like that aloud,” she choked, but in his eyes she could see the veracity of his words, and knew that he was not exaggerating.

Ashe smiled, and ran his calloused hand through her shining hair.

“Oh, and one other thing—I still have to make good on the promise I made you long ago: that when all of this is past, and others come forward to take over the burden of leadership, on that day, and not one day more, I will take you to the forest of your choice, to the glen of your choice, and build for you the goat hut you have long desired, where we can live simply, raise our children, and forget that the world exists beyond our hedgerow.” Rhapsody relaxed beneath the warmth of his smile, though the understanding unspoken between them of what might be a fatal outcome for either or both of them was clear. “Done,” she said. A polite knock came at the chamber door. “Ready, m'lord,” came the quartermaster's muffled voice.

The lord and lady rose quickly from the bed and headed, as if of one mind, to each of their dressing rooms, returning a moment later, holding objects in their hands.

Ashe extended his arms first, in which he held a battered cloak, gray on the outside with a blue interior. A shadow of mist, like fog hovering above a lake in morning, seeped out from between the folds. Rhapsody smiled. This was the cloak of mist that had hidden him from sight and other forms of detection ail the years he had been in hiding, walking the world mostly unseen and unnoticed by those around him. It was in this garment she had first beheld him, at least on this side of Time, in the course of a botched pickpocketing that had caused uproar in the streets; the memory of the scuffle that had ensued was both bittersweet and comic. The mist had been imbued into the cloak by Ashe's command over the element of water, as bearer of the sword Kirsdarke; he had worn it so long that the mist remained, clinging to the fabric, shielding the wearer from prying eyes and scrying.

“Take this with you, Aria,” he said briskly. “It's more than large enough to hide both you and the baby; if the prophecy was right and there are eyes watching him, this should blind them, at least while he is within it. Try to keep him within its folds at least until you reach Canrif, and perhaps beyond.” Rhapsody nodded and took the cloak. “I will, thank you, Sam.” She extended her hand in turn, her fist closed, and held it over his. She opened her hand, and into his palm fell a pearl, luminescent and shining as the glowing moon. In it was contained the memory of their first wedding, a ceremony of their own making conducted without witness in the grotto of Elysian, her hidden underground home within the Bolglands. It was a memory that only they had shared, in a place where she had always felt safe. “And you keep this, to remind you of happy times, and better times to come when this is over.”

He squeezed the pearl and nodded in return. “You know the dreams will return,” he said.

“Yes.” Ashe regarded her sadly. On the night they had met in their youth, on the other side of Time, she had told him of her disturbing dreams. When they had come to know each other again on this side of Time, those prophetic, prescient dreams had evolved into night terrors, causing her to thrash about violently in her sleep, even as they sometimes provided a key to what would come to pass in the Future, or what had happened in the Past. He, dragon that he was, had the ability to chase her nightmares away, had been able to provide a protective vibration that kept the nightmares that had once tortured her at bay while she slept. Over the years he had finally seen her at rest, at peace in his arms. “Who will keep you from the nightmares now, Aria?” he asked softly. “The nightmares are the least of it, especially if they help foretell what may come,” she said. “I suppose the answer is that you still will, Sam. In a way, the sacrifice you are making—we are all making—may be the only chance we have of keeping from being consumed by far more terrifying nightmares that do not go away upon waking.”

Her hand came to rest lovingly on the side of his check. “But I will come to you in dreams, if 1 can,” she said softly. “You are ever there, Aria.” She shook her head. "No, I mean that I will try to visit you, to be with you in a way that is more than dream, but less than the flesh. Being alone with Elynsynos for months, studying ancient texts of primal lore, I have come to understand much more about how Namer magic works than I ever knew before. And one thing I may be able to do is visit from time to time, in a way where we are both aware.

Especially after Achmed has finished his project." Ashe kissed her, then opened the door.

“Either way, you are ever there.” Both of their backs suddenly straightened, as if shot with an arrow. “Meridion is crying,” they said to each other in unison. Ashe stood back to allow Rhapsody out the door first. As they hurried together down the hall, he looked down at his wife. “There is no possible way you could have heard that,” he said fondly. “You must be developing a dragon sense of your own. I must be rubbing off on you.” Rhapsody snorted and doubled her speed, beating him to the stairs by four strides. “Hardly. Every new mother is a bit of a dragon.” Ashe watched her descend the stairs two at a time. “Hmmm. That explains the ferocious mood swings.” The quartermaster had readied and provisioned four horses, two light riding, two heavier war horses. One of the war horses was of enormous size, and packed with very little weight; Grunthor examined it and nodded in approval. The other of the two heavy horses and one of the light riding horses bore most of the equipment and supplies for their long journey. The other light riding horse had been equipped with an extra long saddle.

“I think at least at first you should consider riding with Achmed,” Ashe told Rhapsody gravely. “Your ordeal in the forest of Gwynwood, Meridion's birth, and the long journey back here have taken their toll on you, Aria. I am not certain that in the current state of your health you can withstand the rigors of the swift ride, especially holding the baby swathed in the mist cloak. Therefore, I think wisdom dictates that you and Achmed share a saddle, at least for the first portion of the trip. I will rest easier knowing that you are unlikely to fall from the horse.”

Rhapsody smiled and kissed him. “You will always be in my thoughts, as I know we will be in yours,” she said. "Each night before I go to sleep, I will try and visit you in your dreams.

Remember the songs I sing to you when we are together and know that I will be singing to you even while we're apart, and to Meridion; keep that picture in your mind, and we will never be far away from you.“ Ashe smiled sadly in return. ”Now I can count every one of your eyelashes, and each beat of your heart. I know how you are breathing, and how you shape the currents of air where you stand, how they change as you move. Once you are outside a range of five miles, it will be as if you are lost to me forever,“ he said. ”Just keep yourself and our son safe, my love. Knowing that you are doing so is the only chance that I have to hang on to sanity." Rhapsody embraced him, knowing that he spoke the truth.

ce o' news Oi thought you might want to know, sir,“ Grunthor said quietly as Rhapsody and Ashe were saying their final goodbyes. ”While you were away, ol' Ashe's grandma, that bloody dragon, Anwyn, made 'er way to the Bolglands and tried to get in. No worries, sir; we repelled 'er easily enough.“ ”How did you manage that?“ Achmed asked incredulously. ”I have the only weapon in the whole of the Bolglands capable of piercing dragon hide, and it was with me. What did you do to drive her off?“ ”We backed up the sewage cistern and blasted 'er out of the tunnels with the hrekin,“ Grunthor replied. ”About an 'undred thousan'

gallons of the former contents of Bolg arses; seemed an appropriate enough weapon. Besides, dragons are extra sensitive to all the senses, if I recall correctly. Stunned 'er, it did. Left an

'eck of a mess as well, which we thought about cleaning up before you got 'ome, but decided instead it made a lovely battlement. So we just sort a shaped it into a barricade and left it to stink up the place right nicely. Don't expect she'll be comin' back anytime soon."

“And you neglected to mention this at the council of war?” Achmed said, amused.

“Yes, sir,” Grunthor said. “If 'e 'ad known that the dragon had already broached the Bolglands, there was a possibility 'er 'usband would not let her go. And in my judgment, sir, dragon or no, she's safer with us anyway.” “Agreed,” Achmed said, mounting his horse. “It should be interesting to see her reaction to your new barricade; Rhapsody considers cleanliness to be a sacrament. Let's be on our way as soon as he can tear his lips off her and the squalling brat.”

At the crossroads, eastern Navame

The cohort of the Second Mountain Guard of Sorbold came to a halt at the place where the road leading north into the province of Canderre crossed with the forested trader's route heading east from the wooded lands of Navarne to the capital city of Bethany.

The wind was cold, but the sky clear; darkness and the absence of travelers in winter had covered their journey from their southern homeland with but minimal exception. Each stray merchant or farmer had been easily dispensed with, with no major outcry or notice in the sparsely settled area, just as they had planned.

Now, as they approached the keep and the surrounding walled village mat was Haguefort, the commander gave quiet orders to more surreptitiously travel the forest road, to cling to the fringe of the woods for cover, in single and dual file, to keep from attracting notice of any of the patrols that were most likely stationed throughout the area, guarding the home of Gwydion of Manosse, the Lord Cymrian. And his family. The commander silently signaled to the troops, and they followed him quietly into the woods, their surefooted mounts all but silent along the forest trail. They had gone the better part of a league when the sound of horse approaching could be heard in the woods to the north. Quickly, the commander signaled to two of the scouts and dismounted. They followed him, sliding down from the saddle silently while the rest of the cohort quietly came to a stop deeper into the fringe. The commander and the scouts crossed the forest road and crept through the underbrush, dry and dead from the snow that still gripped this part of the continent, so different from their homeland of dry and arid mountains. They passed through the forest easily, having been trained to do so at great expense, and stopped within a thick copse of evergreens to wait. Beyond the stand of trees at the edge of their sight was a forest path, a meager route where farmers traveled to avoid the main road and to harvest the fruits of the forest, wood for hearths, berries and wild herbs, and game. The sound of a small number of horses at full canter could be heard in the wvest; the three soldiers sank lower to the ground, waiting. After a few moments the horses and riders came into sight. There were four beasts, two light riding horses and two heavy draft, with what appeared to be two riders atop one each of the light and heavy, the others carrying supplies. The man atop the heavy horse was enormously tall and broad; the beast was breathing noisily as it ran. The travelers did not tarry; they traversed the forest path, gaining speed as the woods grew thinner, and disappeared into the distance.

The commander rose quickly. Take the third wave, and follow them,“ he said to the first scout. ”It may be nothing, but my instinct says they should not be allowed to slip past. Bring back their horses if you can; they will aid in the journey back." The scout nodded, and all three men made their way quickly back to the main forest road. The cohort divided itself up quickly and quietly, the third wave taking to the north in pursuit of the riders, the second doubling back southwest to serve as a far flank, the remainder heading quietly west.

To Haguefort.

The small carriage was outfitted and ready at the western gate shortly after the two Firbolg and the Lady Cymrian had departed by the northern one. Gerald Owen coughed as the dropping temperature stung the inside of his lungs. He looked up into the cold night sky from the courtyard, illuminated only by a single hooded lantern, at the stars spreading out beyond the canopy of trees that were the beginning of the wooded lands to the west of Haguefort, through which they would be riding, eventually melding north into the holy forest of Gwynwood and the Circle, their destination. For all that bitter cold had returned, the sky itself was clear and the wind gentle; it seemed that they would have favorable enough weather to make good time. He conferred quietly with the drivers and their two escorts, then signaled to the window of the keep. A few moments later the buttery door opened quietly, and the two Navarne children appeared, both clad in dark shirts, trousers, and gray cloaks that blended into the night. Gwydion Navarne closed the buttery door quietly, then took his sister's hand and led her through the herb garden and across the cobbled courtyard to the tree-lined area where the coach was waiting. “Oh, good, they've used the roans yoked in a doubletree,”

Melisande whispered. “Should be a fast ride.” “Is everything ready, Gerald?” the young duke asked nervously, loosing Melisande's hand and passing the bag carrying the last of her supplies to the coachman. Melisande snagged the waterskin from his hand and attached it to her belt. “Everything, m'lord,” the chamberlain replied. “The Lady Cymrian sent word by winterbird to Gavin at the Circle, so he will be expecting us, no doubt. I'll see to it that Lady Melisande is delivered promptly and safely.” Gwydion nodded, trying not to vomit. Melly had been too little to remember the last time they had seen their mother, but the memory was as clear to him as if it had happened yesterday instead of nine years before. He had been eight years old at the time, a quiet lad of books with a deep love of the woods that his mother shared. She had also shared his propensity for shyness, unlike his father and sister, whose natures were abundantly social and warmly cordial. He missed her still, the scent of lavender or lemon in her hair, the gentleness of her hands as she smoothed the covers around him at night, the way the comers of her mouth crinkled when she smiled—the memories always made the hollow space in his stomach ache when he let them come back. Worst of all was the last one, of her and her sister, his aunt who he barely remembered, climbing into just such a carriage, on their way to the city to buy Melisande some shoes in which to learn to walk. They were laughing, her black eyes, so like Melly's, were sparkling, and she had held his face in her hands, had kissed him on the cheek and forehead and whispered in his ear, words he could still recall in the very tone of her voice. Be a good little man. Help your father. Remember that I love you. He had endeavored to fulfill all of those requests. Most of the time it wasn't difficult. “I know you will,” he said rotely to the chamberlain. Melisande, who rightfully fancied herself an excellent groom, had already made a check of the horses' bindings, to the quiet amusement of the coachmen, and was standing at the door of the carriage.