Ashe had gone white.
“M’lord?”
“The baron of Argaut spent time in your home with your wife? With Analise?” His voice was so soft as to almost be inaudible.
“Only on one occasion, m’lord,” said Vincent.
Ashe did not hear him. His brain was full of other voices, other memories.
The memory of Analise, Rhapsody’s friend from the old world, sitting at his table, when she had come to aid Rhapsody with the birth of their child, only to find that she was already gone.
M’lord, I came from Manosse because, until six months or so ago, Rhapsody and I were in regular contact, exchanging letters on each Alliance flagship that sailed between Manosse and the Middle Continent. She had written to me in great excitement and joy of her pregnancy; as you know, I be, by profession, a midwife and healer specializing in young children. But then, suddenly, the letters stopped coming, and I thought perhaps, feared really, that something had happened to Rhapsody or the baby, that she was grieving, or ill—
No, no, he had assured her. Rhapsody has had quite a hard time of it in the last six months. First, she was kidnapped by a maniac from the old world when I was away at the funeral of the empress of Sorbold—
A maniac, you say? From the old land? Not—not—Michael?
You knew of him?
The elderly woman had nodded. Not of him; I knew him, in the most horrible of ways. Rhapsody did not tell you how we met? Not even before you came to visit my family in Manosse?
No, Ashe had said. She does not speak of those days to me.
It is because of what she did for me in those days that I be alive and here this day, Analise had said quietly. Michael killed my family before my eyes, set our longhouse on fire, and took me, wrapped in my mother’s bloody shawl, away with him to the city of Easton where he used me as leverage to gain her attention. My memories of that time be those of a child, because I was spared the details, as Rhapsody made sure to shield me as much as she could as well, m’lord. But I know that Michael’s intentions for me were brutal, and that Rhapsody’s intervention spared me from them.
Michael, the Wind of Death.
Who, sometime around the Cataclysm that had taken the Island of Serendair to the depths of the sea, had found new life and immortality as the baron of Argaut.
The seneschal.
And the host of a fire demon from the Before-Time.
A F’dor.
An entity that had the power to subjugate an unknowing person as a thrall, or take a host.
Just like the one that now walked the continent in a body of Living Stone.
Harvested and brought to life by Talquist, the emperor of Sorbold.
Who, long before his ascension to the Sun Throne, had brought the baron to Manosse to meet with Vincent de Malier.
And de Malier’s wife, Analise o Serendair.
Rhapsody’s friend from the old world.
The Liringlas child that, in another life, she had saved from Michael’s cruelty.
Who had undoubtedly recognized him upon meeting him again, even in his new guise.
And who now was tending to and guarding his son in the Nain mountains.
Beyond any communication or reach he might have.
Ashe’s conscious mind exploded.
The dragon roared forth, swallowing his will and preparing to rampage.
The outward signs were subtle at first; the vertical pupils in Ashe’s eyes expanded, his muscles began to thicken, but the councillors were busy arguing among themselves again, and did not notice.
Lord Ellsworth, who had come to the front steps to meet him, had begun to speak.
“It seems to me, Lord Gwydion, that Lord Lynfalt has a valid point; while you make a serious charge against Sorbold’s new emperor, he and even Lord Vincent have had peaceful commerce with Talquist, commerce that did not result in any damaging action on the emperor’s initiative that we know of. Your claim of a wide blockade seems, well, somewhat fatuous in comparison to what our experience has been; our fishing vessels ply the sea on a daily basis and have reported no sign of such a blockade, even if, admittedly, they do not venture very far from shore—and so to commit the naval forces of Manosse to war with Sorbold, with no evidence to speak of—”
His speech came to a halt as the table of the councillors began to shake, sending charts and papers flying.
The large windows, fired in blocks of heavy crystal and bound in brass, shattered pane by pane, spraying glass into the air and out into the streets.
The members of the consulate dove to the floor in terror.
“I suppose I—neglected to remind you, Lord—Ellsworth, Lord Lynfalt—that in addition to his—other bloodlines—the Lord Cymrian is—descended of the—dragon Elynsynos as well?” Vincent de Malier puffed from beneath the council table. He pulled his legs in closer as chairs, books, and goblets were thrown about the room and into walls. Suddenly the room was bathed in intense blue light, rippling in waves.
Ashe stood in the center of the room, running one hand rapidly through the shining curls of his hair. In the other hand, Kirsdarke was roiling, tumescent, angry, like the sea in the grip of a hurricane.
Or a tidal wave.
The Lord Cymrian’s eyes were smoking in the same blue color as the elemental sword of water.
He inhaled deeply, and the spinning currents of air in the room flashed with ancient power. The members of the consulate felt the slap of air like an assault, and curled against whatever walls or objects they could, seeking shelter.
A moment later, the rampaging winds and violent tremors that had shaken the room ceased.
The consulate members slowly unfolded themselves from beneath or behind their places of hiding, and stood shakily.
The door was open.
The room, save for them and the detritus of their meeting, was empty.
The Lord Cymrian was gone.
28
IN THE HIDDEN KINGDOM OF THE NAIN, UNDERVALE, NORTHEASTERN MOUNTAINS
Someone had left the window open, or so it seemed to Melisande.
She had been fast asleep in her bed, after a long and entertaining day of traveling the Nain kingdom with the crown princess, Gyllian, joined for a part of the walkabout by Faedryth, the Nain king himself. Gyllian had understood how cramped and boring Melisande’s vigil entertaining Meridion could be, and so occasionally arranged for the little girl to have outings under the guise of being a foreign dignitary and the princess’s young friend.
They had dined in splendor at a café near the artists’ district, located near some beautiful crystal formations that had reminded Melisande vaguely of the sky. The colors were glorious, blues and purples and yellows that glowed softly in the artificial cold light of the radiant globes that hung from every lamppost, much like the ones in her father’s keep, Haguefort, the ancestral home of rosy brown stone she had grown up in.
The thought had made her melancholy and reflective, and so she had hurried off to bed, planning to get as much rest in as possible before her early-morning shift of feeding, changing, and entertaining Meridion.
I wonder how long we will be down here, under the mountain, she had mused as sleep took her. Maybe the war will never end, at least not in my lifetime. Maybe I will be here forever. At least they won’t have to bury me; in a way I’m already buried.
She awoke from a roster of disturbing dreams, shivering with cold.
From the smell of the room, the fireplace in the central part of their apartments had gone out. Melisande was surprised at this; the three women were very careful to make certain it had been well stocked and stoked before putting the baby down and retiring for the night. One of them stood watch at all times, but it was a drowsy duty. Faedryth’s soldiers stood watch in so many layers, and had installed so many warning bells, that it seemed impossible that an intruder might make his way in without their knowledge, so as the months passed, the women took turns sleeping upright in the soft, padded chair in which the baby was always f
ed the clarified goat’s milk that was still the staple of his diet.
No alarm ever rang.
Fully awake now, but not wanting to disturb the baby or whoever was on guard, Melisande slipped out of bed, put her freezing feet into her cold slippers, and made her way to the fireplace.
In front of it, to her surprise, she found Analise, closer than she had expected.
The Liringlas woman was cradling Meridion’s head in her hands, his tiny feet up against her breasts, looking down into his face. Melisande swallowed; it was a position in which she herself had been forbidden from holding him, because his head was over the floor and vulnerable should he start unexpectedly or squirm suddenly.
Analise, whom she could see in profile, seemed to be studying the baby’s face. She turned him absently in small degrees, inclining her head as if to get a better angle, then shifted him into another position, gently and slowly.
Meridion, oblivious, slept on.
“He be beautiful, be he not?”
Melisande blinked. Until Analise spoke, the little girl had no indication that she had known Melisande was there.
“Yes,” she said uncertainly. “Yes, he is.”
“Of course he be,” Analise said. “The Child of Time, born of a woman from the old world, nurtured in the magic of Serendair, and sired by a man from the new one, both graceful of face. Steeped in the lore of fire, of water, of wind, as all Lirin children are, of earth, as all dragonlings be. A truly special child.”
“Why did you let the fire go out?” The words came from her own mouth, but they sounded hollow to Melisande.
At first Analise did not answer, but rather continued rocking Meridion slowly with his head pointed toward the hearth. Finally, when she spoke, her voice was soft.
“To make the voice go silent.”
“What voice?”
The elderly woman sighed, her silver eyes full of memory.
“The voice that has been speaking to me for more than two years now, his voice.”
“His?”
A smile spread slowly across the ancient face.
“Michael’s voice. For all that he was a terrible man, his voice was sweet, and his eyes were blue, blue as the pinnacle of the sky. Rhapsody said that to me once, after he had gone.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you are talking about.” Melisande hated how young and frightened she sounded.
Finally, the elderly woman turned to her and looked at her thoughtfully.
“That was in the old world, of course. In the old world, Michael, the Wind of Death, was an evil man, a brutal man—a merciless killer with the voice of a sweetmeat vendor, and eyes as blue as the pinnacle of the sky. After he killed my family and took me away to the human city with him, I never again trusted another man with blue eyes.”
Melisande lapsed into silence. She felt a sense of calm descend, a steadying of her will that came upon her in moments of danger. With the amount of threat she had experienced even before turning ten, she had come to rely on the gift of calm.
There really was no alternative to it that would end in anything but death, she knew.
“I never saw the death of the Island—did you know that, Melisande? I be sure you must; your dear father was a great student of history, and the curator of the Cymrian museum, so I’m sure he told you all the tales, did he not?”
The little girl nodded.
“I sailed with the Second Fleet. Our ship sundered at the Prime Meridian, in the backwash of the great wave that had broken the First Fleet, had drowned Merithyn. I opted to go to live in Manosse, a place I was certain Michael, if he had survived the Cataclysm, would never find me.”
In her hands, the baby stretched, his tiny arms reaching out of his swaddling blankets and over his head, then settled down again.
“Imagine my horror when he came into my house as a guest, with no warning,” Analise continued quietly, billing the side of Meridion’s head gently with her forefinger, caressing his golden curls. “I have no idea how he found me; it be vain to think it was anything but a chance of Fate, an accident. He did not recognize me. He had never bothered to learn my name in the time when I was in his clutches; he had given me an insulting name, a human name—Petunia. He was calling himself by another name as well—the baron of Argaut. The blue eyes were tinged with red at the edges now, and he carried the stench of the demon.”
“Let me take Meridion, please, Analise,” Melisande said softly. “Please, give him to me.”
The Liringlas midwife’s face went slack. She turned and looked at Melisande for only the second time that night.
“He will wake—let him sleep,” she said, then shook her head and went back to studying the baby.
Melisande fell back into silence.
“Michael never knew about Meridion,” Analise said after a long moment. “Unlike the Merchant Emperor, who is ceaselessly seeking the Child of Time, Michael was only looking for Rhapsody. After all those centuries, millennia, really, he had heard her name on the wind somewhere, and came to my house, because he had heard she had been a guest there with Lord Gwydion. Sailors are bigger gossips than fishwives, you know.”
“I know,” Melisande whispered, but she didn’t; she only knew that she feared what would happen when Analise went silent.
“He wanted to know how to identify her, what sign he would have that she was the same Rhapsody he had known. I—I told him that the woman who had visited my home wore a locket of gold, and his eyes lit up like bonfires of leaves in autumn. The woman he was seeking had also worn such a locket; it seemed to be the clue that he needed.”
Melisande’s heart was pounding so hard that it was almost drowning out Analise’s words.
Analise exhaled.
“I believe that’s how he found her, ultimately,” she said. “But until recently, everything he said to me had left my mind; if I had been able to remember, I would have warned her.
“But the voice—that only began speaking to me once we came here,” Analise continued. “It is very distant, very far away—as if it is coming from the Vault of the Underworld itself.”
“What does it say? This voice?”
Analise kissed the child’s belly.
“It tells me I must put the baby in the fire.” When Melisande gasped in horror, the midwife turned and looked at her. “Oh, do not fear, child—Meridion is his mother’s son. The fire would never harm him.”
“Then why would the demon command you to do that?”
The question seemed to perplex Analise.
“Why, so that the demon can have him, of course. Fire be the element from which those demons sprang. They be the masters of it. On occasion, they can reach through fire itself and take what they wish.”
Tears began to roll down Melisande’s cheeks.
“Please,” she whispered, prepared to lunge if she needed to. “Please don’t do that.”
Analise blinked.
“Well, of course not. Of course I would not do that.”
Melisande’s tears stanched suddenly at the look of shock in the elderly woman’s eyes.
“Do you not see the fireplace, child?” When Melisande nodded, Analise turned Meridion into the crook of her arm and kissed his forehead softly. “I told you from the beginning, I let the fire go out to make the voice go away.”
“How—how can you do that, if you are—in thrall to a demon?” the little girl stammered.
The look of shock became one of quiet outrage.
“In thrall to a demon? What be you talking about, Lady Melisande Navarne? I could never be in thrall to such a thing.”
“I—I thought anyone could be made a thrall—unless they were stronger than the demon—”
Analise’s face wore equal expressions of amusement and annoyance.
“Now see here, Miss Melly—no demon can take a soul that already belongs to another, if the bond be old and strong enough. And while there be no doubt that my soul be shared with my husband, I had sworn my soul and my life to your
grandmother long before I met him. I can never repay what she did for me in Serendair all those years ago; my life and soul are hers.
“There was nothing within me for the demon to latch on to, nothing to take; it had been given away in the old world, on the day she put me atop a horse in front of the leader of the Lirin of the fields outside of the city where she had met me. She had bargained with Michael for my life; I do not know what she paid, but I know it was dear. She saved me; I would never harm her or her child at the command of a voice from wherever this be coming from. Instead I just let the coals burn out. Fornicate him.”
Melisande released a sigh of relief so loud that Meridion twitched in Analise’s arms and turned on his side away from her.
Both women, young and old, chuckled quietly.
“Back to bed,” Analise commanded as Melisande came to her side and bent to kiss Meridion’s head. “You be on duty in the morning, and he be bound to be hungry after the depth of his slumber tonight. Make certain you leave time to rekindle the fire. And make it a big one—I want to be able to feel it in my room with the door closed.”
The little girl nodded and hurried back to her bedchamber.
29
THE PENINSULA OF SITHGRAID, VLANE, MANOSSE
Ashe was running so hard that it almost seemed his pounding heart might cease to beat.
To the end of the peninsula of Sithgraid, the place where his ancestor had stood to hold vigil for the Island and the son he had unwillingly left behind there.
Ashe, having left his own son behind in the mountains, finally understood what MacQuieth had felt.
The fragmenting of his sanity settled within him; the wyrm in his blood was in control now, but focused.
Ashe closed his eyes.
He imagined the distant shore of the land he stewarded half a world away, imagined the harbors smoldering from the northern tip of Traeg, the windswept fishing village where he had once met MacQuieth, and where he had stepped into the ocean to come to this continent so many months before.