Ashe winced in the flickering heat of the flames. The hollow pain of loss was with him still, even after four years of having her back, even having joined their souls together again.
Even knowing that she loved him eternally.
Even sharing a child with her, a son he loved beyond measure and had barely been given a chance to know. That loss was one he consciously struggled not to think about, because his draconic nature was unpredictable enough, and suffering enough, that he could not risk it.
In the back of his mind a tune was playing. It was a song that Rhapsody had often sung to him on their evenings alone together, a tale of a wanderer that her seafaring grandfather had taught her when she was a child. When she had met up with him again in the new world, he had been solitary, in pain and alone, just such a wanderer, so it had reminded her of him, and of the tree they had fallen in love beneath. Ashe pictured her before him, her harp or concertina in hand, singing the melodious tune in the voice that haunted his dreams.
I was born beneath this willow,
Where my sire the earth did farm
Had the green grass as my pillow
The east wind as a blanket warm.
But away! away! called the wind from the west
And in answer I did run
Seeking glory and adventure
Promised by the rising sun.
I found love beneath this willow,
As true a love as life could hold,
Pledged my heart and swore my fealty
Sealed with a kiss and a band of gold.
But to arms! to arms! called the wind from the west
In faithful answer I did run
Marching forth for king and country
In battles ’neath the midday sun.
Oft I dreamt of that fair willow
As the seven seas I plied
And the girl who I left waiting
Longing to be at her side.
But about! about! called the wind from the west
As once again my ship did run
Down the coast, about the wide world
Flying sails in the setting sun.
Now I lie beneath the willow
Now at last no more to roam,
My bride and earth so tightly hold me
In their arms I’m finally home.
While away! away! calls the wind from the west
Beyond the grave my spirit, free
Will chase the sun into the morning
Beyond the sky, beyond the sea.
His dragon sense roared to life at the presence of a tickling sensation. He opened his eyes.
His wife was sitting before the fire, her song finished, smiling warmly at him. His heightened senses could feel the physical presence of her in the room, a bending of the currents of air around a form that was heavy, real, unlike the dreams and fantasies in which she was nothing more than a picture in his head, a phantasm that vanished with the morning light. There was heft to this vision, a realness that never had been there before. Her scent, the simple odor of vanilla and soap, sweet meadow flowers and wood smoke, filled his nostrils, causing the blood to pound in his head, and his hands to shake.
Rhapsody smiled, her green eyes sparkling, backlit by the fire.
Ashe sat straighter in his chair. There was no question she was real, no figment of his imagination or dragon sense playing tricks of the mind on him; the energy of her life force rippled over him like waves in the sea.
Rhapsody, he whispered, almost afraid to shatter what was either a miraculous moment or an illusion of a slipping mind. You’re here.
Her smile grew brighter in the firelight. Yes. I’m here.
Ashe rose slowly from his chair and walked carefully toward the hearth. Rhapsody rose in return, and extended her arms to him in welcome.
He quickened his step, all but running to her, and scooped her up in his arms, drawing her near, pressing his face in the hollow of her neck and inhaling the scent of her skin, burying his lips in her hair, reveling in the solidity, the realness of her, no phantom of his mind, but flesh and blood and the warmth of a beating heart within her chest, thundering against his own.
A shocked gasp rent the air.
Like the slap of an ice-cold wave, the noise rebounded off of Ashe’s forehead. He loosed his grasp and took a step back, his frazzled mind trying to gauge what was wrong.
Standing before him in the shadows of the firelight, trembling like a leaf in a high autumn wind, was a young chambermaid whose name he did not remember. She was dark of hair and eye, taller than Rhapsody by half a head, and shaped nothing like her. Her face had gone white with shock, and flushed red in a combination of horror and embarrassment.
Much like Ashe’s own.
Made worse by the knowledge that this was not the first time it had happened.
The tea tray she was holding a moment before clattered to the floor, the plate bearing his supper bounced on the carpet before the hearth.
Ashe felt his face freeze in a mask of shock.
“I—I—”
The chambermaid’s mouth was similarly open.
“M’lord,” she whispered. “No. Please.”
Ashe struggled to place the woman, remembering distantly that she had come to Haguefort from Bethany with several other servants in the company of Tristan Steward, the Lord Regent of Roland, as a gift during Rhapsody’s confinement. Ashe thought perhaps the other two women were nursemaids of some sort, but this one was a servant of insignificant rank, a chambermaid, who now stood, terror in her eyes, shaking visibly.
“I—I am so very sorry,” he murmured, running his hand through his coppery hair, suddenly wet with sweat. “I—I am not feeling well. Please forgive me.”
The young woman bent quickly, as did Ashe, fumbling to gather the dishes and food that now littered the floor.
“My fault, m’lord,” she whispered nervously.
“No,” said Ashe, “no, not at all. I, as I said, am very sorry.”
He quickly turned and bolted from the room and out of the keep, into the cold night, seeking clarity.
The chambermaid gathered the dishes, calming quickly, and carried them back down to the kitchen again. She stopped as she passed the window of the library, long enough to see him hurry into the courtyard and come to rest with his head against a lamppost, the candlelight catching the metallic sheen of his hair, making it glow like embers in the night.
25
Ashe’s head was buzzing the next morning as if from the aftereffects of potent libation. After the first few hours of the headache, he began to rue refraining from imbibing the night before, knowing that even a hangover could not have caused his skull to throb more than the arrival of the dukes of Roland did.
He stood on the balcony, in his hand a cup of strong plantain tea with medicinal properties that his wife had often used to bring him out of the hard repose of dragon slumber, trying to focus his eyes on each carriage as it made its way up the well-traveled road that ran east—west in front of the Haguefort’s gates. Archers stood in the recently rebuilt guard towers, providing cover for the carriages, while the Lord Cymrian mused whether or not to give the signal to open fire on some of the occupants as they emerged from the bowels of the coaches.
The first of the dukes to arrive would never have drawn his fire, he noted, as Cedric Canderre stepped, with the assistance of his footman, out of his coach. In his own state of loss, Ashe felt tremendous empathy for the elderly duke, a gentleman and friend who had always lived hospitably and with grace, and while not the most admirable of husbands, had always been a loving and devoted father. To have witnessed the death of his only son and heir presumptive, Andrew, on these very grounds at the winter carnival that had taken the lives of so many could only be a soul-ripping reminder of that loss.
Ashe took a sip of the bad-tasting tea and winced. Had he been less distracted, he would have arranged for the meeting to take place at Highmeadow, whose halls and defenses were all but complete, and into which they
would be moving any day. While the creature comforts had not yet been established in the new fortress, it was certainly furnished enough to have spared Cedric Canderre the pain he was undoubtedly undergoing as he slowly made his way up Haguefort’s cobbled entranceway. Alas, he thought, such diplomatic considerations are a thing of the past; it’s all I can do to keep my mind clear enough of rage to focus on the meeting at all.
At the opening of the gate Gwydion Navarne was standing, his hands behind his back. Ashe watched, gratified, as the newly invested young duke greeted Cedric Canderre warmly and took his arm, leading him into the keep. How like his father he looks, Ashe thought as Gwydion held the door. Perhaps there will still be hospitality within these walls, even in Rhapsody’s absence, after all. The thought and the sight cheered him a little; in the contentious discussions they were about to undertake, he was glad to have his namesake beside him, even if the new duke’s opinions were often discounted by the others because of his youth and inexperience.
Behind the carriage of the Duke of Canderre hovered two more, one directly on the road, the other jockeying to hold the position of last arrival behind it. The first carriage bore the livery of Yarim, the dry red land to the east of Cedric Canderre’s lush and fertile province. The second was emblazoned with the colors of Bethany, Roland’s capital and central province. Ashe took another deep draught of tea and willed his head to stop pounding.
Ihrman Karsrick, the Duke of Yarim, waited for a long moment before opening his door and descending the stairs of his coach. He glanced in obvious annoyance at the carriage behind him, which had arrived more than a quarter hour ahead of him, then strode angrily up the walkway, his displeasure evident by the set of his shoulders and jaw.
The Lord Cymrian sighed.
The carriage from Bethany continued to linger at the road’s edge for almost an hour more while the coaches of Quentin Baldassarre and Martin Ivenstrand, the dukes of Bethe Corbair and Avonderre, arrived. Ivenstrand’s carriage, unlike the others, had come from the east, where Avonderre bordered Navarne on one side and the sea on the other. The Duke of Avonderre alighted, looked about, then made his way quickly inside, pausing as the carriage from Bethe Corbair pulled up to the gate. He walked back to wait for Quentin Baldasarre to emerge, then accompanied him up the walkway, conferring as they came.
Finally, when the horse and livery of the four other dukes that had come from a distance had discharged their contents and had made their ways to the stable, the carriage bearing the Lord Regent, Tristan Steward, Duke of Bethany, pulled slowly and deliberately up to Haguefort’s gate.
Ashe choked back the bile that had risen in his throat. As much as he had struggled against his deep dislike of Tristan Steward in general since they had been young men, there was an arrogance to the Lord Regent’s gait that made the irritable dragon within his blood rise, enflamed. We are about to be fighting for the very survival of the continent, and this pusillanimous ass is jockeying for position so that he can make an entrance, he thought bitterly. Clearly, the Alliance has as much of a threat within it as against it.
He swallowed the last of the herbal tea, feeling no fortification from it whatsoever, then turned away from the fresh air of the balcony and made his way to the meeting rooms where he knew the bright morning would give way to an endless day of dire plans, petty infighting, and, with any luck, a united army to defend the Middle Continent from the blood that was about to be spilled across it.
Gerald Owen’s kitchen was an orderly place, where cooks and wait staff of longtime employ moved efficiently through the day, preparing meals for as few as Haguefort’s regular occupants or as many as an entire province with very little disruption. It had long been so; Stephen Navarne, in his lifetime, had made it his business as duke to host many festivals and parties, Naming ceremonies and diplomatic gatherings, as had his father before him, culminating each year in the winter carnival, a combination of religious summit, cultural ritual, and folk celebration that accommodated the western third of Roland and many foreign visitors. Very little could disturb the smoothly running machine that comprised the chamberlain’s kitchen and buttery staff.
Tristan Steward, the Lord Regent of Roland, was one of the rare exceptions.
The elderly chamberlain’s face had darkened to an unhealthy shade of dusky red after the third ring of the serving bell. He slapped a tea towel down on the wide stone kneading surface before the bread ovens, causing three of the cooks to scatter to different sides of the hot room as the bells jingled more insistently. Then Gerald Owen turned to the slim young chambermaid whom the Lord Regent had brought to Haguefort some months back, along with a donated wet nurse and nanny, and gestured impatiently at her. He could not recall her name, and tried to suppress his irritation, reminding himself that she and the others probably had suffered more than enough during their employ in Bethany.
“You—girl—take the tea tray to his lordship, and make certain there is a modicum of rum to be had with it, or he’ll send you back for it. You used to be in his employ, so you know to stay out of his way, lest he strike you. But if that should happen, if he should even attempt it, report it to me immediately; the Lord Cymrian will address it. I’ve had too many house servants abused, and Lord Gwydion refuses to tolerate it.”
“Yes, sir.” The young woman picked up the silver tray and headed for the stairs, the vacant look of affected timidity replaced a moment later with a smile.
For the third time that night, a servant knocked on Tristan Steward’s door bearing libations in response to his summons.
This was the first time, however, that the Lord Roland’s response was not fully surly, but only annoyed, his irritation eased, perhaps, by the after-supper cordial followed by the half-decanter of brandy he had received on the two previous occasions.
“About time you got here,” he murmured grumpily as the slim, dark-haired chambermaid glided into the room with a silver tray, which she set down on the table near the fireplace. “What code do I have to use with your idiot chamberlain to assure that I get you when I call, and not some blithering idiot or bewhiskered sot?”
The young woman smiled as she turned back to the Lord Roland.
“Perhaps you should order the tea first next time,” she said, no hint of deference in her voice. “If you insist on calling for spirits, the wine steward and the sommelier are going to be the ones sent from the buttery to attend to your needs. Lowly chambermaids deliver tea, not brandy.”
“But I like brandy,” said Tristan playfully, setting down his empty glass and making his way across the room to her. “And I have needs other than those that can be met with a beverage. As you well know, Portia.”
The young woman’s black eyes sparkled with amusement as her former master slid his hands into her hair, gripping the long, glossy strands with an intensity belied by his lazy tone.
“Ah, so you missed me, did you?” she said, not flinching as Tristan pulled her closer, interlacing his fingers behind the base of her skull, allowing himself to become entwined in the dark waves of thick, rough silk. “I wondered if you would, given how quick you were to part with me, foisting me off on Lord Gwydion like an unwanted set of tea towels.”
Tristan Steward blinked at the accusatory tone in her smoky voice.
“I did no such thing,” he said reproachfully, twisting his hands in her mane. “It was agony to part with you, Portia; my loins have been aching since the day I left you in this place four months ago. Your mission here is of unsurpassed importance to me, to us—and had it not been, I never would have allowed you away from me for a moment.”
The chambermaid reached up behind her neck and roughly pulled his hands from her.
“Alas for you, and your aching loins, in the course of doing what you asked, I have come to understand how much you have misled me,” she said curtly, turning away from Tristan Steward and beginning to unload the items from the tea tray.
The Lord Roland blanched, the shock interrupting the desire that had been building
within him since he heard her light knock on the door, leaving him tingling and nauseated. “What—what do you mean?” he stammered. “I have never been anything but truthful with you, Portia, foolishly candid, in fact. I have shared with you more secrets than I care to count for fear it would make me realize even more than I already do what a foolhardy idiot I have been.”
The chambermaid turned back to him, tucking the tray beneath her arms like a shield over her belly, and regarded him coldly.
“What secrets would those be?” she asked, her throaty voice taking on a hint of acid. “Your profound distaste for your wife? That’s no secret—everyone in Roland knows it, just as they know your weakness for trollops and bedwenches, and are well aware of the parade of them that appears each time Lady Madeleine leaves Bethany to visit her family in Canderre. It’s an open joke, Tristan; it would be a truly miraculous happenchance if Madeleine herself doesn’t know it. And I certainly don’t blame you—she is a beast of legendary proportion. But it’s not exactly flattering to be just the latest in a string of nameless whores whom you use to satisfy your lust and vent your frustration. If you’re expecting me to feel grateful, I don’t.”
“You are hardly a nameless whore to me, Portia,” Tristan said smoothly. “You have heard me intone your name repeatedly, in many different places, all the time with a combination of respect and pleasure. And you have never seemed belittled or degraded by our carnal romps. I respect, in fact, admire, your lack of shame, your imagination, your insolence, your vigor, your fire, your contempt for polite sensibilities. You are not my toy; you are very important to me, and I have entrusted you with some of the most crucial of my secrets. You should be honored, not offended.”
The chambermaid’s stare intensified. “Honored? Oh. Perhaps you refer to sharing me with your brother, the saintly benison of Canderre-Yarim—is that what you mean? Should I feel honored to have been entrusted with the secret of our trysts, both with and without your participation? Do you think Blesser’s lack of the celibacy required by his office might have something to do with the problems you have had in Bethany? Perhaps the All-God is not amused by watching one of his holiest servants using my naked body as a table for his supper, or playing lascivious games of fox and hounds, or knobbing me as you—”
The Assassin King Page 21
