The Assassin King (17 page)

“Keep going,” he said softly to Grunthor. “I'll take care of these.” He waited until the horses had gotten a slight head start, then found a low clump of leafless ramble off to the side a way where he took cover. After a few moments he could feel the sound and vibration of approaching hooves in the ground. A moment beyond that, the handful of soldiers in Ashe's regalia appeared behind them, traveling quickly and quietly, following closely but making no effort to catch up. There was something about the way they sat in the saddle that caught Achmed's notice. He had seen Anborn training the retinue of the Lord and Lady Cymrian, and knew that his trainees were prone to sit forward and up, the position that would best prevent them from getting quickly off, and most protect their viscera. But those coming down the road were sitting high in the saddle, in total contradiction to what he knew the Alliance soldiers'

training to be. And they were riding the gray mountain horses of Sorbold. The Bolg king crouched down and swore silently. There was a time when he would have felt them coming from a quarter mile away, and felt their very heartbeats in his skin, and could return fire accurately at that distance as well. But his blood gift, the ability granted him early in life as the first of his race born on the Island of Serendair, the first of Time's birthplaces, had deserted him when he left the Island, disappearing through the root of Sagia, the tree of elemental starlight. When he arrived in this place, fourteen centuries later, his ability to unerringly follow the heartbeats of every living creature on the Island had vanished, leaving him, somewhat ironically, only able to do so still with those who themselves had come from there. Still, his skills were keen, his talents well honed. Achmed silently loaded three whisper-thin circular blades onto the arm of his cwellan, the weapon he had designed for himself a lifetime before. He set the recoil and waited. When the cohort had passed him without notice, he loosed the recoil arm into the backs and necks of the men on horseback, slicing through the seams of their armor. He reloaded and fired again and again, even before the first body hit the ground. In the distance he could hear the horses, now riderless, coming to a confused stop. Achmed trotted after them, stepping over the bodies, and quickly searched their supply packs. As he suspected, there was nothing to identify them as anything other than soldiers of Roland. He rifled their provisions, then turned the horses loose, finally checking the bodies also for marks of other identification. In the distance he saw Grunthor and Rhapsody reining to a halt and turning back. He started across the field to catch up with them again, bothered most by the fact that what alerted him to the presence of his stalkers had been an odious signal from a newborn, rather than his own sensitive network of nerves and blood vessels. “I'm getting too old for this hrekin,” he muttered. When they were encamped that night, the baby fed, changed, and asleep for the evening, along with the two Fir-bolg, Rhapsody pulled a small flute from her pack, a simple reed instrument that she always

brought with her when traveling. While Meridion dozed in her lap, shielded as always by the cloak of mist, she began a simple melody she had often played for Ashe before the fire in their days together. The clouds of the inky black sky sailed quietly overhead on the night breeze, unhurried. She imagined she was tying the notes of the song to them, sending them like a missive of love across the sky, hoping that her husband was standing beneath the same firmament, watching the same stars.

As she played, she was at first unaware of the tears on her cheeks.

Loss, deep and strangling, roared up within her, choking her, making her song sour and thin.

Rhapsody lowered her chin to her chest, remembering their days of journeying together, neither trusting the other, and yet comfortable in each other's presence, falling slowly and inextricably in love all the while. She could not believe that once again they were parted.

She cleared her throat, savagely brushed the tears from her face, then began the song again in earnest, weaving into it the musical pattern of his name. When the melody was complete, she sang softly behind it as it hovered in the air. Gwydion ap Llauron ap Gwylliam tuatha d'Anwynen o Manosse, I miss you, she intoned, directing the long waves of sound into the wind, attached by an invisible thread to his name. / love you—remember me.

Then she curled up with their child, kissed him, and fell into a sleep of disturbing dreams.

Far away, in the keep of Haguefort, her husband was standing on the balcony of the library, watching the eastern sky. The wind rustled through his hair, carrying with it a warmth that had not yet come to the winter-wrapped land. There was a song in that wind, a song he had heard long ago, when Rhapsody had summoned him to the grotto Elysian, to reunite him with a lost piece of his soul she had recovered. He could hear her voice in his memory.

Gwydion ap Llauron ap Gwylliam tuatha d'Anwynen o Manosse, I miss you.

Ashe smiled. “I miss you, too, Emily,” he said, knowing that she would not hear him in return.

“But I will see you tonight in my dreams. May yours be sweet.”

I love you—remember me. “As if I could forget.” The Lord Cymrian stood for a long time under the starry sky, but no more of the message was forthcoming.

Finally he sighed, and went to bed, wrapped in warm memories of a girl in a grassy meadow on the other side of Time.

The forest edge of Navarne and Gwynwood

Melisande had been traveling for the better part of a day when she began to suspect she was going in circles. She had been traveling for the better part of two when she began to suspect she was being followed. Melisande heard the trickling of water in the distance and urged the horse forward, knowing it was thirsty. Under a tree was a spring-fed pond, partially frozen, that she thought they had paused at the day before; she swallowed her despair and dismounted, leading the horse to the water, then refilled her waterskin while it drank.

Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw movement, a little more than a stone's throw away to the north, though when she looked more carefully she beheld nothing but the snowy forest, the evergreens with branches bowed heavy with icy burdens, the bramble and undergrowth frosted with recent snow.

Melisande stood erect. She stared harder into the

greenwood, but still saw nothing. Still, she drew her knife from the boot sheath and held it out threateningly. “Show yourself,” she demanded of the trees and hillocks.

Nothing but the wind answered her. She waited for a long moment, then, feeling foolish, she took a drink from the pond. Fighting the pangs of hunger and desperation, she turned to mount and be on her way again. Standing behind her in a thicket of saplings was a man, a farmer or huntsman by the look of him. He was human, middle-aged and bearded, his expression somber, his face and clothing unremarkable. He wore a brown broadcloth cloak of modest quality and deerskin boots; had he not stepped slightly out of the thicket, she would never have seen him, so plain and colorless were his garments. A long tapering basket of woven reeds and a quiver of arrows were strapped to his back, and he carried a bow, but no other weapon was visible. He said nothing, but watched her with dark eyes that seemed keen and a touch intimidating. Melisande drew her dagger again quickly.

“Stay back,” she said, in a voice she had hoped would sound threatening.

The stranger did not move. Melisande took hold of the bridle. “Remain still,” she said.

The man complied, saying nothing. The girl turned and prepared to mount, then looked at the knife in her grip. She shifted it to the right hand, then reconsidered; should the man attack her, she would be at a disadvantage, as her left hand was dominant. The stranger just watched her as she cogitated. Finally, she stuck the knife between her teeth like a pirate and climbed into the saddle. The man just continued to watch her. Melisande took the knife from her mouth and pulled back on the reins. As she prepared to depart, the stranger finally spoke.

His voice was gravelly, as if from disuse.

“Are you injured?”

I certainly wouldn't tell you if I were, Melisande thought “No,” she said, “but you will be if you try to interfere with me.”

The man shrugged. “You are lost.”

“I am also the Lady Melisande Navarne, and there are by now any number of armed soldiers looking for me” Melisande said, struggling to maintain a brave front. “So be on your way, and I will be on mine.” The man folded his hands. “And where are you going, Lady Melisande Navarne? I can offer directions. Unless you prefer to continue wandering aimlessly in the forest in winter.” The man swallowed, as if so many words at one time had been uncomfortable to produce. Melisande inhaled. She wanted to be able to trust him, but having just experienced the kindness of strangers in the woods, she was afraid to let him get too close to her. “I am on my way to the Circle, to see Gavin the Invoker,” she said at last.

The man's eyebrows drew together. “You are going the wrong way. The Circle is west; you've been heading south.” Melisande sighed miserably. “I could take you there,” the man said.

The horse danced in place. Melisande shifted on its back, her leg muscles sore and cramping.

“Why should I trust you?” she asked, secretly hoping he would provide her a reason to do so.

The man turned to go. “Come if you wish. Remain if you wish. If you're right, your soldiers will find you eventually.” He began walking away through the underbrush. “Have—have you ever been mere?” she called after him. “Where?” “The Circle? Have you gone there before?”

The stranger stopped and considered. “On occasion. Though not often.” Then he turned away again and disappeared between two stands of trees. Melisande hesitated, then, seeing no alternative, urged the horse forward, keeping her distance from the brown figure that blended disturbingly into the woods around them.

Afer several hours, Melisande began to wonder if the stranger was trying to lose her even more deeply in the forest.

In spite of being on foot while she was riding, the man moved through the greenwood at a much greater speed than she could. Her stomach growled and cramped; she had had nothing to eat since supper the night before she left, and was weak with hunger. When the man finally stopped for the night, she worked up her courage and addressed him as politely as she could.

“Have you any—food you could spare?” The stranger turned around and regarded her sharply.

Then after a moment he took the reed basket off of his back, fished around inside it, and took out a packet wrapped in cloth. He tore back the wrapping to reveal a small husk of hard-baked black bread, then came forward and offered it to her. Melisande drew her knife quickly.

“You eat some first,” she said, brandishing the blade. The man nodded. He took the husk and bit the end off it, chewing and swallowing. He took another bite, and a third, finally popping the last of the husk into his mouth. Then he turned around and headed back off into the forest, leaving the crestfallen girl behind him. Melisande exhaled sadly, then kicked the horse and followed him. Well, that was stupid, she chided herself. Perhaps he has the right idea—I'll just remain quiet from now on. They continued walking in silence, with no sound except for the winter wind and the noise of the horse's hooves. As they traveled, Melisande noticed that the forest was changing. At first it seemed brighter, or that there was more snow on the branches and boughs of the trees, but eventually she realized that more of the trees themselves were of white or pale bark— alders, birches, silver maples. She knew from her studies that the prefix gwyn meant white, but until she had seen the place she didn't realize why it had been so named.

There were also many places where the ground beneath the blanket of snow was black and scorched, where trees showed signs of fire damage. In these places new saplings and scrub were shooting up; the baby trees stood straight against the winter wind, making a place for themselves where disaster had taken their forebears. Melisande felt a kinship with them, the same had been true of her and Gwydion.

Finally, after the sun had begun to set, they came to a large cleared place in the deep forest that appeared to be a woodland village. Throughout the area were many cottages and huts, some of stone and others of earth with turf roofs, or the wattle and dab walls. In addition there were several very large buildings made of wood, with heavy doors and conical thatched roofs.

Smoke rose placidly from the hearths of the buildings.

Above the doors of the huts and cottages were brightly col- J ored hex signs of painted or inlaid wood or enamel in complex and beautiful patterns. Most of the dwellings had gardens or kraals in the side or backyards that had been put to bed for the winter, but doubtless would be uncovered in spring as a source of food for the residents of the houses, which had been whitewashed or faced with stone as ornamentation.

The man had chosen to avoid the main pathways that led through the forest village, but Melisande could see, in spite of the cold, people milling about in robes of wool, some dyed with indigo or goldenrod or engilder leaves to bring forth hues of blue or yellow or green.

Others had been soaked in butternut shells or heather, producing tones more earthy, shades of dismal brown and somber gray. These men and women were carrying baskets and tools, and by the descriptions she had heard from her father and Rhapsody, she assumed that they were some of the Filids, the nature priests who worshipped in what they considered a sacred forest and tended to the Great White Tree, the last of the places where Time itself was said to have begun. In addition to the robed clergy were armed men, carrying bows, spears, axes and other weaponry of foresters and scouts, and attired in leather armor. Melisande recognized the clothing of the stranger as being similar to these foresters, and re-alized that he was probably one like them, or one of them, ft made her relax a little; if he served Gavin, or knew him, he was unlikely to do her harm. Just before the sun disappeared below the horizon, they came to a vast meadow in the forest. Towering there, its trunk whiter than the snow, with great ivory branches that spread like immense fingers to the twilight sky, was the Great White Tree. Its pale bark glimmered in the last rays of the setting sun, its sheer size made Melisande pull her mount to a stop and stare at it. It was more than fifty feet across at the base, and the first of its giant limbs was easily more than one hun-dred feet from the ground, leading up to more branches that formed an expansive canopy that reached out over the other trees of the forest, as if sheltering them from the sky. Around its base, set back a hundred yards from where its great roots pierced the earth, had been planted a ring of trees, each one of a different species.