The Merchant Emperor (33 page)

His sexual fantasies while awake and feverish dreams while asleep were consumed with images of her, none of which he would have wanted her husband to be able to see through his eyes. Having been raised in unrivaled privelege, Tristan’s powers of self-deception and self-importance led to him having no compunction about planning for a time when he might steal her away from his childhood friend, whether for a well-timed tryst or something more long-lasting that would increase his power and social standing. A realistic assessment of his chances of this happening was never in question. Married to the cold and pusillanimous woman that he was, he felt no guilt at his unclean thoughts, believing on a soul-deep level that he deserved better than what he had chosen for his life. At the very worst, he reasoned, he was engaging in harmless sexual fantasy that satisfied masturbatory needs which he alone was aware of. At best, his gloriously seedy fornication with Portia, whom Gwydion had described as being the host of a F’dor, was fueled by her encouragement of his sharing of those raunchy and deviant fantasies as she fulfilled them to the best of her abilities. Upon discovering her real nature after her death, Tristan was grateful to have escaped with his soul intact.

Or so he thought.

He had no idea that the intensity of his longing for another man’s wife, predating his introduction to the demonic serving wench, was the only thing that had kept him from succumbing to the F’dor’s thrall.

But as time passed in his cell, his fading ability to recall Rhapsody’s face, to bring her image into his mind, or feel anything but despair left him vulnerable to the whispering voice in his mind.

Tristan, come to me
.

Tristan listened carefully now, as he always did, to the toneless words in his mind. It was an all-but-unavoidable beckoning, one he could not ignore, but the solidity of his surroundings made its demand impossible to obey. The only opening in the room was a low, locked metal window on the one door, near the floor. It was unlocked from the outside, and items, mostly food, were slid in on wooden trays which needed to be returned before any new ones were sent through. Tristan had tried repeatedly but was unable to fathom any possible escape; Gwydion had made certain of the jail’s impenetrability.

Now, however, the words were more than the command to come. They whispered other instructions, simple words with a harsh meaning, repeated over and over in the silence of his empty chamber.

Finally, Tristan comprehended.

When it was almost time for the evening meal to be delivered, he rose from his cot and made his way to the door. It was built from thick elm trunks bound tightly in brass bands that had been affixed with heavy bolts, the heads of which were rounded and smoothed to prevent being used to shape weapons, though the jailers were always careful not to leave anything behind that would be able to be so manufactured.

Tristan took hold of the stone walls on either side of the doorway.

His muscles strained as he gripped them tight.

Then, with all his strength, he slammed his head into the door.

Over, and over, methodically repeating the self-assault as soon as his head cleared enough to do it again.

He kept bashing his head into the door and the stone edges of the opening, gashing his forehead open and spraying blood all over the walls. Finally the world went dark around him and he fell to the floor, his head leaking a black-red river immediately in front of the metal opening at the base of the door.

So that when the guard came to bring him his supper, and unlocked that opening, he was met with an ominous cascade of gore pooling already under the metal window.

*   *   *

“M’lord! M’lord!”

Ashe looked up in surprise from the meal he was sharing with his visitor. He smiled reassuringly at Analise, then rose, bowed politely, folded his napkin, and went to the door of his library chambers.

“Yes, Gerald?”

“M’lord, come, please. Your, er, guest in the stockade is in need of your attention.”

Ashe nodded, then turned to Analise.

“I’m very sorry, I must go, though I will return as soon as I can. Please, finish and enjoy the rest of the meal; we can talk more when I return.” He made a slight bow again and followed Gerald Owen through the doorway.

*   *   *

Ashe’s dragon sense had assessed the degree of Tristan’s injury even before he had entered the corridor leading to the cell.

“Tristan, you fool,” he muttered as he strode down the corridor, the jailer, two guards and Gerald Owen hurrying to keep pace with him. “What sort of game are you playing this time?”

He signaled impatiently for the jailer to unlock the door, then drew his sword as the guards entered the cell. Just beyond the door, Tristan was lying in a large pool of blood, sprawled prone on the stone floor. Ashe gestured impatiently, and the two guards took the unconscious prince by the upper arms and hauled him to his feet, then over to his cot, where they propped him, slumped, against the cell wall.

The jailer slung his crossbow over his shoulder and sighted it on the prisoner, just to be sure.

Ashe crossed the room slowly, deliberation in each step. The blue waves of light emitted by Kirsdarke made the cell seem as if it were under the sea in the fading radiance of dusk.

“Exactly what do you think you accomplished with this brilliant tactic, my friend?” he asked the prince, who was coming to consciousness, wincing in pain.

The Lord Roland waved his hand in front of his face hazily.

“Let me out of here,” he whispered weakly. “For the love of the All-God, Gwydion, send me home.”

“I’m sorry, Tristan, but nothing has changed. I’ve asked for those who might be able to assess you to do so if they are in the area, but the war is in full fledge now, and there is little travel that isn’t of a martial nature.”

“My brother,” Tristan said. “Send for Ian, I beg you, Gwydion. He is a man of the cloth, a benison. Surely he will be able to attest that I am not bound.”

“You insult my intelligence, and your own,” Ashe said harshly. “I am going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that your head injury made you disoriented enough to suggest such a silly thing to me, rather than the actual possibility that you think I might be stupid enough to agree to that. Your brother may be a holy man, or at least claim to be one, but his word is not one I would take to rule you free of demonic taint. Stop your pathetic attempts at gaining freedom and accept your fate for the time being. I have kept Madeleine and her family in the dark, passing along your missives of love and reports of your brave leadership in the buildup to the war. I have kept those contacts minimal so as not to arouse her suspicion; I suspect Madeleine is well aware of what a rotten husband you are in all aspects, no matter what she pretends.”

“You—you can’t keep me locked up for being an—unfaithful—husband, Gwydion,” Tristan muttered. “Unless you—wish to share—the cell.”

Ashe’s eyes narrowed in anger.

“What is
that
supposed to mean?”

Tristan sat up as straight as he could and leveled a blurry glare at the Lord Cymrian.

“Come now, Gwydion. Your wife is not here; who are you trying to deceive? I well know what you did with Portia when Rhapsody was away in the dragon’s cave, swollen with pregnancy—”

His cloudy speech ground to a halt as the point of the ancient sword of water pressed into his neck. His eyes grew wider as a hissing oath in draconic tones issued forth from Ashe’s mouth.

“You disgusting piece of filth,” Ashe said once his curse was finished being uttered. “You have forgotten the warnings I gave you when you were first imprisoned, Tristan; I told you that this was not ground on which you wished to tread heavily. Now, let me be specific—I do not want to hear my wife’s name rolling around in your mouth or uttered by your tongue
ever again
. Do you hear me?” He punctuated his question with a deeper press of the sword against Tristan’s jugular vein, causing the Lord Roland to suddenly see swimming black bands before his eyes. “You are not worthy to
think
of her, let alone speak about her. I have told you for the last time, your subterfuge
did not work
. Whatever demonic magic your servant F’dor employed to convince me to stray from my marriage vows
did not work
. It insults Rhapsody for you to imagine that you and your demon bedwench could come even close to approximating her enough to confuse me into betraying her; the very thought is laughable.” He leaned a little closer, pressing the sword deeper. “I do not ever want to hear you speak of this again. Do you understand?”

Tristan leaned his head back against the wall.

“Yes,” he whispered.

Ashe turned to one of the guards. “Give him a handkerchief,” he said, “and have the buttery send down some wet cloths on his supper tray.” He turned to the Lord Roland once more.

“Fortunately, you have not damaged your actual skull with your idiocy,” he said in annoyance. “The tendency for head wounds to bleed furiously has given palpitations to my chamberlain, but you’ll get no further sympathy from me. Settle down, Tristan. You may not be enjoying my hospitality, but if you continue to be an obstreperous guest, I may give up on the possibility of having you examined to be clear of demonic taint, and just put you out of all of our misery for being a tremendous pain in the privates and a colossal waste of resources.”

Tristan said nothing, but just closed his eyes.

Ashe withdrew his blade with a sweeping motion, spattering drops of water across the floor of the cell. He sheathed the sword, dousing the blue light, and signaled to the guards to remain at attention, then made his way across the cell.

He stopped at the door, where Gerald Owen had already managed to clear the pool of blood from the floor, and turned back to signal the guards that they could withdraw.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that there is a lovely minted roast lamb coming for your supper. I wish you a pleasant evening.”

He waited for Gerald to gather the bloody rags and then slammed the cell door behind him, waiting until the jailer sealed and locked the door again.

Then followed the chamberlain back up the stairs and out into the night, back to the central building where his dinner guest awaited him.

His dragon sense, roiling and twisting as it had been since the moment that his family had departed, failed to make note of the blood that had stained the chamberlain’s hands in the process of cleaning it up.

*   *   *

Deep within his cell, as he leaned up against the stone wall, a smile staggered over Tristan’s bruised and blooded face.

He had no idea why.

28

The dragon in Ashe’s blood was rising, whispering angrily when he returned to the table. He swallowed with effort and forced as pleasant a smile as he could muster before sitting down to the cold remnants of his supper and Analise again.

“I apologize,” he said, moving his plate out of the way.

“No need to, m’lord,” his wife’s oldest friend said briskly. “I hope all is well.”

Ashe smiled ruefully.

“All has not been well in a very long time, I’m afraid,” he said. He picked up his wine glass and drained it quickly, then set it down again. “I have pondered your request, and, if you are still determined to help Rhapsody with the baby, I have a proposal for you.”

Analise’s face brightened. “Yes?”

“I want you to know from the outset that it is a grotesquely presumptuous request, and I will not feel slighted in any way if you decline.” Analise nodded. “I don’t believe it is safe to send you back to Manosse now. Civilian passage will be all but impossible soon; the Middle Continent is now little more than a string of armed command posts and fortifications where there used to be open grasslands for as far as the eye could see, dotted by farming settlements and villages that have now been swallowed into the outposts. My wife and son are a thousand miles away, on the other side of the Krevensfield Plain, hidden away in the mountains for their safety.

“Analise, I beg your forgiveness, but were you not as dear to my wife as you are, I would never have even told you where they have gone, because in these days of intercontinental war, there is no one I can trust, especially regarding my family. But I believe you are sincere in your offer of help, and my heart wants to believe you. I know what you have sacrificed to travel here, how fearful your family must be for your safety, but I could not even judge now whether it would be more dangerous to keep you here, or send you on. I cannot send you home; the harbor is vulnerable to attack—there is no chance of safe return at this time. So, if you are willing, here is my plan.

“Tonight, as soon as you are ready and provisions are made, if you are willing to do so, I will send you, in an armored coach, in the company of a cohort of highly trained guards, to the place where Rhapsody and our son are living now. I will not send word to her ahead of time, as I cannot take the chance of that information falling into enemy hands, for your sake and hers.”

The woman’s wrinkled face began to shine, but she merely nodded again.

“If you are willing, I will entrust two others with you as traveling companions. The first is an injured Firbolg woman, a midwife of great skill and stature, like yourself. Her name is Krinsel; she has undergone a horrific trauma and is healing from it, but is still frail and weak. She is in need of Rhapsody’s healing talents specifically; if you would be willing to make the journey with her, I would be most grateful.”

“Of course, m’lord.”

“Thank you. If you will bear with me, I will introduce you to your other prospective traveling companion.” He rose from his chair and rang for the chamberlain, whom he met at the door. After exchanging a few words he sat down again and poured himself another glass of wine.

A few moments later, the door opened again, and Melisande came into the room. She looked quizzically at Ashe, then came to the table and made a polite bow in Analise’s direction.

The Lord Cymrian smiled easily for the first time since he had returned from the stockade.