The Assassin King

  Tristan clapped his hand over her mouth and glanced over his shoulder, then locked his gaze on to hers. The flames of the fire were dancing in her black eyes, causing their expression to alternate between amusement and cruelty in turns.

  “Lower your voice,” he commanded quietly. “Walls of keeps have ears—you should know that.”

  “The only ears this keep’s walls have are my own,” Portia retorted. “I have done exactly as you asked, have pressed my ear to every wall, have stood on the eave of every doorway, in the hope of collecting the unspecified information you sought to bring down the man you profess to hate—”

  “I do not hate Gwydion,” Tristan interrupted hastily. “I never said that—I only resent his elevation to Lord Cymrian over me.” Anger began to build in his blue eyes, now also reflecting the flames of the fireplace. “I served in that position, without any of the power or the acknowledgment, for twenty years while he was in hiding, pretending to be dead. I’m the one who held Roland together, who kept the Middle Continent from falling into chaos and war. It was I who defended this very keep during the assault of the Sorbolds during the winter carnival four years ago. You are too young to remember—you did not even live in Roland then, I believe. But I gave everything to this land when it was fragmented, protected it when it was vulnerable. And for all the stewardship I put forth, for all my efforts, I was constantly refused the throne, then eventually cast aside in Gwydion’s wake, given a pity regency, stripped of that which is rightfully mine. I trusted you to help me gain it back—and to in turn share it with me. How is it that this offends you?”

  Portia’s eyes narrowed to gleaming slits, but her mouth crooked into a smile at the corners.

  “You’re a liar,” she said, but there was fire in her voice that caused the knots in Tristan’s abdomen to loosen. “Your command that I seduce the Lord Cymrian while his wife was bloated with pregnancy had nothing to do with your desire for the lordship. And you well know it.”

  “Of—of course it did,” Tristan stammered.

  “Liar,” Portia said again; time her voice was filled with sexual teasing. “I do not doubt you crave the lordship; everyone knows that as well. It’s another of your pathetically obvious secrets. When I first came to Roland, I heard it within a few hours of being here. But that’s not why you commanded me to seduce him. You wanted to disrupt his marriage because you are obsessed with his wife—and you want her for your own.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Tristan said, but the heat in Portia’s voice and smile were causing his defenses to give way; he had experienced the sensation before, and it was one of risky relief, something he rarely felt in his tortured existence. He took the tray from Portia’s hands and dropped it to the carpeted floor.

  “I am not the one who is being ridiculous here,” Portia said, stepping closer. “Nor am I blind to your deception of me. You said that I might be able to use my seductive skills on Lord Gwydion, and in turn have him confide secrets to me that would be useful to you in your bid to replace him on the Cymrian throne. But you knew that would never happen; his wife owns every corner of his soul, and he hers. She has only been in this keep for a few moments in all the time I have been here, and that is apparent even in those few moments. Additionally, he cares little, or nothing, for the power of the lordship; he views it, somewhat distastefully, as an unavoidable duty, and longs for the day when someone else—someone qualified—will take it over.” She reached out a hand and caressed Tristan’s face to soften the sting of her words. “I don’t know why you didn’t just confide the truth to me from the beginning—it would have been so much easier to help you if I had known.”

  “H—how?” Tristan asked. The heat of his blood was rising, flushing him with warmth, making him painfully tumescent.

  The chambermaid’s smile widened. She turned away from the roaring fire and walked over to the tall windows that led out to the small balcony, stopping to admire her reflection in the glass.

  “Unlike the situation between you and the Beast, neither the lord nor the lady has the desire to stray—and so that betrayal can only be accomplished through deception,” she said lazily, chuckling at the distortion of her face in the wavy panes. “And deception of either or both of them will be a challenge. One cannot easily deceive two people who have special connections to the truth. The Lord Cymrian has dragon’s blood in his veins, and so his awareness is heightened far beyond the bounds of normal perception. And the word about the keep is that the Lady Cymrian is a Skysinger, a Namer, in fact, and so she has a racial and professional devotion to the truth, which makes her perception of falsehood even keener.” She idly stroked the heavy velvet curtain that dressed the window.

  “So, then, how will you accomplish this deception?” Tristan asked, his head growing light from lack of blood.

  Portia turned to face him again, her eyes dancing with wicked light.

  “I won’t,” she said briskly. “They will accomplish it for me in the only way it can be accomplished—they will deceive themselves. It will be easier, now that she’s gone from this place again. The stupid intensity of their love for each other will be their undoing, and when that happens, it will be shattered forever. How melodramatic. But it’s true. And when it happens, the world will grow brighter for all of us.” She slid her hands into the opening of Tristan’s shirt at the neck, then followed with her mouth.

  “Tell—tell me how,” Tristan said, his voice faltering as the heat of her breath warmed his skin, followed by the delicious press of teeth against his clavicle.

  Portia’s hot mouth made its way slowly up his neck to the earlobe.

  “You are just going to have to trust me, m’lord,” she said teasingly. “You must be able to tell that I’ve been at this sort of thing for a long time. You’ve been the beneficiary of enough of my talents to be aware of it.”

  “Yes, yes I have,” Tristan murmured weakly. “Did you lock the door?”

  With a screeching rip, Portia tore apart his shirt, her eyes gleaming with excitement.

  “Of course not,” she said, her voice growing husky. “The risk of being caught is what drives the excitement higher—isn’t that what you’ve always told me when pushing me into alcoves and behind sofas in your own keep?” With impatient fingers, she began to roughly unlace the stays of his trousers. “Now, I can assure you the kitchen staff is entirely sick of you, and will do everything they can to avoid coming within your beck and call. And the other members of the Council of Dukes have had as much of you as they can stand already today, I have no doubt. So there is little chance of being disturbed.” Her grin grew brighter as her task was accomplished; she took the Lord Roland firmly in hand, then ran her teeth over his chin just below his lips.

  “But,” she continued, feeling the breath go utterly out of him, “if you like I can stop now, and go to the door, check the corridor, and see if anyone’s coming—”

  “No,” Tristan gasped hoarsely. “No.”

  Portia chuckled. “Suit yourself,” she said, lowering his trousers to the floor and following their descent with her mouth.

  To keep from passing out, Tristan counted the breaths before the succor he was painfully anticipating was at last upon him. When Portia finally indulged him, after a teasing delay, he felt his muscles go slack, and his body crumpled to the floor beneath her. Unlike their last coupling, which had occurred on this very floor the night he had left her here four months before, this time it was he who was naked and utterly vulnerable, while Portia remained almost fully garbed, in complete control of the situation.

  He was helpless to stop it, totally unable to reverse positions, to regain his standing as the master of a submissive servant.

  And even if he had been able, he knew he would never have any desire to do so.

  Instead, he surrendered himself to her ministrations, breathlessly allowing her to put him through his paces like an obedient mount. Even as she climbed atop him, gripping him, riding him savagely, he felt the sweet consolation o
f abandon, the helpless freedom that comes when a tormented soul abdicates any remaining control over its own destiny.

  And one more sensation, a seeping entanglement making its way through his heart like the trickling of a stream or the tendrils of a vine, a soul-deep need for the release that her hot flesh drew from him the way a poultice draws forth the toxin of infection, healing him, burning away the prison of his unhappy life, tying him gleefully to this young servant-mistress in a way that he knew would be impossible to disentangle without pain. The feeling left him weak with gratitude.

  And when, after many false attempts to summit the jagged mountain peak that was Portia, brought again and again to the brink of ecstasy, only to be held in torturous delay, she finally released him, letting all the poison and disappointment that had taken root in his soul pour forth from him in a heated rush of physical and spiritual delight, Tristan managed to focus his clouded vision for a moment on her face, staring down intently at him with the leaping fire behind it. It was not the rigid mask of pleasure, open-lipped and gasping, that his own aspect had assumed, but rather a studied expression of interest. In that instant, before the surge and the wild remnants of bucking and thrusting transported him back to hedonistic oblivion, Tristan Steward had the impression that she was looking for something deeper in him than he possessed.

  The thought did not linger past that moment.

  Later, as they lay, disengaged, side by side before the crackling heat of the fire, the Lord Roland took the hand of the chambermaid and kissed it gratefully, happy to feel connected still, even after the moments of passion had passed, to a spirit so unlike that of his despised wife, so unlike his own indolent nature.

  “When I am with you, at last I feel brave, Portia,” he said quietly. “I feel as if perhaps the world is not passing by without me.”

  The young woman stretched lazily before the fire, her glowing skin dewy with sweat.

  “Glad to be of service, m’lord,” she answered, running her fingers idly through his damp auburn curls. “Your satisfaction is the greatest joy to one of my lowly station.”

  “I’m so sorry that I made you feel less than you are,” Tristan continued, his strength waning as exhaustion began to set in. “I apologize for making you feel like a nameless whore—you are so much more to me than that.”

  Portia lifted herself up onto her elbow and chuckled. “There is where you are wrong, m’lord. I had no objection to you thinking of me as a whore—I am a whore, indeed, one of the most shameless variety. But I am not nameless. I treasure my name; as a lowly chambermaid, I’ve had to hide it for a long time, keep it demurely unspoken; even that smarmy chamberlain barely addresses me by anything but ‘you, girl.’ But by the time my work is done, the powerful will speak my name, and tremble.” Her eyes sparkled. “Beginning with you, m’lord.”

  Drowsily Tristan Steward rolled closer and kissed her ear. “Portia,” he whispered softly. “I am trembling, Portia.”

  The woman only smiled, backlit by the roaring fire. She waited until the Lord Roland was all but asleep, then rose up on her palms and placed her lips next to his ear and whispered her name into it as he fell into slumber.

  Had he been more awake, he would only have heard the sound of the crackling flames.

  26

  In the deepest part of that same night, the Lord Roland lay naked on the floor before the dying fire coals, shivering and alone. His exhausted dreams were plagued by an overwhelming sense of loss, of wandering in dark caverns without a light. He was sinking into despair in his slumber when he felt the touch of a soft blanket draped over him, the caress of a gentle hand with pleasantly calloused fingertips across his brow. His body, cold from the loss of both Portia’s warmth and that of the fire, discerned the presence of a delicious heat beside him.

  Tristan Steward blinked, and rolled onto his back.

  In the darkness a woman was kneeling beside him, her long golden tresses catching the remaining glimpses of light from the fading coals. Tristan could barely distinguish her form from the shadows that surrounded her, but the curve of her small face, the shape of her large, dark green eyes was known to him in every waking moment. The familiar scent of vanilla and spiced soap, meadow flowers and sandalwood filled his nostrils, driving away the hollow odor of loneliness and fire ash that had lingered there a moment before.

  “Rhapsody?” he whispered, his mind still foggy from drink, his body still spent from sexual fury.

  She smiled at him, the warmth of kindness that held no trace of pity in her eyes.

  “You seemed cold,” she said, tucking the blanket more snugly around him. “I hate for anyone to be cold in my house.”

  Tristan struggled to focus in the dim light. “You—you’re here? Are you a dream?”

  She chuckled, then rose and went to the fireplace, her heavy brocade dressing gown rustling musically in his ears as she passed his head. The coals gleamed as she approached; it was a phenomenon Tristan had witnessed in her presence many times, as if the last vestiges of the fire were greeting her in homage. She moved the screen aside, took hold of two logs and set them carefully into the ashes, her hands seemingly inured to the fire’s sting.

  The hearth fire caught immediately, the flames leaping in welcome, spilling flashes of brightness around the dark room, dispelling many of the shadows. Tristan watched her, transfixed, as she returned to his side and sank to the floor beside him once more.

  “Not a dream, no,” she said softly. “As a Namer, I can feel the silent call of those in despair, and can transcend the limits of space and time to come if the need is great enough.” She brushed the shock of red-brown curls from his forehead again. “You must be in very great pain to summon me from so far away. Don’t be sad, Tristan—you have so much in your life to be grateful for.”

  “I know,” Tristan said, struggling to wake more fully. “I know, Rhapsody, I am blessed, but—” His words failed, his voice faltered under the weight of his selfish need, his obsession.

  “But what?”

  He raised himself up on his elbows, looking up into the perfection of her face.

  “It’s not enough,” he said finally. “It’s not enough.”

  The smile left her eyes and her lips, replaced by an expression of thoughtful sadness.

  “What would be enough, then, Tristan?”

  All the barriers he had built to keep his need in check, to remain socially acceptable, to keep from driving her away, buckled in the face of what might be his only chance to tell her.

  “You,” he whispered. “You—I need you. From that first meeting when you came to me, long ago, to sue for the Bolg’s protection, when I dismissed you, drove you from my presence, I have felt a chasm inside me. I curse myself for being so blind, so foolish—”

  “Stop,” she said, placing her small, warm hand against his lips. “There is no need for regret between us. All of that has come and gone, and yet here I remain.”

  “I need you,” Tristan said again; the words thudded stupidly, flat against his eardrums.

  “And I am here.”

  “Not like this,” he insisted, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips again, then resting it against his cheek. The warmth, the solidity of it gladdened him; until that moment he was still unsure as to whether or not she was merely a dream, a figment of his drunken imagination. “I want to love you, Rhapsody.”

  She exhaled sharply, pulling her hand away.

  “We are married to other people,” she said flatly. “We have children with other people.”

  “I know, I know,” said Tristan Steward. The exhaustion and the late hour made his head light, his words echo stupidly in his brain.

  “Then you know that what you are asking for can never be,” she said, but her words carried no sting, no accusation.

  The beauty of her face, the warmth of her body in the otherwise cold room, even the gentleness of her words of rejection were more than Tristan’s twisted heart and fuzzy mind could bear. He began to weep, painfu
l tears slipping in quick rivers of self-pity and inestimable loss. The sincerity of his agony must have been apparent to her, because her eyes opened wide in concern again, and she quickly reached out her hand, resting it against his rough cheek once more.

  “Stop now,” she said softly. “Stop, please. There is no need. Stop.”

  Tristan lowered his head to his chest, no longer able to look at her. Even without seeing her he could feel her consternation growing, but he was unable to pull himself together enough to reset the situation to an unbroken form.

  Her remaining hand came to rest on his other cheek. “Please, please don’t be sad,” she said. “I came all this way to comfort you, Tristan, not to cause you pain.”

  “Comfort me, then,” Tristan blurted. “Comfort me, Rhapsody.”

  For perhaps the only time in his life, Tristan was able to make his mind and body function spontaneously enough on the spur of the moment to take the initiative he needed. He reached out and pulled her into his arms, ignoring the startled look on her face, pressing her body feverishly against his.

  He was prepared for the sharp blow across his face, prepared for her to pull violently away, but instead she froze, her emerald-green eyes glistening with an emotion he could not identify. At first he thought it might be fear, but there was no trace of that; rather, it was an intense look of confusion melded with sympathy and, though perhaps only in his imagination, a tinge of longing.

  He decided to believe that was what it was.

  He abandoned words, and throwing all caution, all decorum, to the winds, he kissed her, covering completely her spicy red mouth with his own, almost as if to steal any objections along with her breath.