Ashe’s words came out in a choked gasp. “Khaddyr? It’s Khaddyr? Not Lark?”
“Apparently my original information was wrong. Lark may be involved in the assassination plot as well; I am no longer certain. But I discovered, on the verge of telling Khaddyr where Rhapsody was, that he knew things only the renegades would know, specifically that the Lirin raiders had traveled through Avonderre. In addition, a number of patients in his care who could possibly identify the F’dor’s host have died mysteriously. Under the circumstances, it seemed better not to send anyone.”
“You didn’t send anyone? Are you insane? She was expecting to meet Khaddyr, and you sent no one?”
“I had no one else available I considered trustworthy.”
The cords in Ashe’s neck stood out like iron bands. “No one else? What about me? You know I have been nearby for weeks now.”
“You were not an appropriate choice either.”
The blue dragon eyes narrowed to slits. “Would you care to explain that?”
Llauron returned the piercing glare without blinking. “No.”
Ashe paced the room angrily. “So you decided it was appropriate to abandon Rhapsody to the elements, alone? Anborn said you left her to die in the snow, with no food, no reinforcements. He said what she was wearing wouldn’t prevent frostbite inside by a fire, let alone in the forest.”
“Well, she’s your inamorata. Perhaps you should speak to her about her inappropriate choice of attire.”
“It was your plan!” Ashe exploded. Llauron said nothing. Ashe walked to the window and stared out into the windy meadow, running his hands angrily through his hair.
He turned back to Llauron, his eyes smoldering with blue fire. “This is the end of it, Father—the end, do you understand? I’m calling a halt to your idiotic plot once and for all. Rhapsody is no longer your pawn; you will have to find some other way to achieve your ends. Leave her out of it.”
The Invoker’s look of amusement flattened to a cold stare. “You’re going to intervene?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I’ll tell her your plan, Father—I’ll warn her—forbid her—from going anywhere with you.”
Llauron chuckled. “Now, if I recall correctly, you once accused me, in very ugly terms, of using her shamelessly, of making her decisions for her. What do you suppose you are doing now yourself, my boy? ‘There are some things you cannot manipulate, and some things you cannot repair once they are betrayed,’ you said. How do you suppose she will feel when she discovers your part in all this?”
Ashe rubbed his clenched fist with his open hand. “She’ll forgive me. She will understand.”
“Will she?” The Invoker decanted a splash of brandy into a crystal snifter and held it up to the firelight. “What was it you said to me last spring? Hmmm—now, let me think; it really was rather pithy, if I recall. Oh, yes: ‘You can’t expect someone to stand by you when you’ve used them as a pawn to accomplish your own ends to their detriment.’ Yes, that was it.” He took a sip, then regarded Ashe solemnly. “If you intervene, if you depart from the course of events now, you will not only ensure my death—my actual one—but you will be handing Khaddyr the staff of the Invoker in reality. Is that an end you wish to see achieved?”
“No. Of course not.”
“And Rhapsody—once Khaddyr no longer sees her as useful to him, once she is no longer valuable as a herald, what do you suppose he will seek to do with her?”
Llauron could feel the cold of Ashe’s shudder from across the room. When he spoke his voice was kind. “You have to let it unfold as it will now, Gwydion. Rhapsody needs to play her part, just as we all must. She will survive it—we will all survive it. With any luck, we will all get what we want in the end.”
“Why should I trust your judgment of what the impact will be on Rhapsody—you, who promised her reinforcements, but left her alone in the storm? How could you do that to anyone, and especially to Rhapsody? How could you expect the unswerving loyalty she had given you, and then abandon her to her death?”
“Aren’t you being a little histrionic? She didn’t die, did she?”
“No thanks to you. You should be mortally ashamed, though I doubt you have the honor to be.”
“Spare me your righteous indignation. I have already had enough of that from your uncle.”
“Would you prefer murderous rage? That’s much closer to what I am feeling.”
“Feel whatever you like, but spare me from it. I have no patience for this disrespect and will not tolerate it.”
“Do you have any idea what could have happened to her in Sorbold, dressed as she was?”
“Nothing that hasn’t happened to her before.”
Ashe’s eyes narrowed even further in anger. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, come now, Gwydion, it’s not like she’s a blushing maiden, as she was when she first came here. Surely you must know that as well as anyone, I expect.” A vase of flowers exploded behind him, spattering shards of porcelain and water over Llauron’s desk. “Well, that was mature. Are you taking offense at me pointing out that there is no honor there to defend anymore?”
“Rhapsody has more honor in one strand of her hair than you have known in your entire selfish life. I hope you are not saying that she deserved to have something of that nature happen to her. I would hate to have to add patricide to my list of crimes.”
“Not at all. I’m merely saying that I felt Rhapsody was capable of handling whatever befell her alone. She is the Iliachenva’ar, after all.”
“What did she ever do but help you, when was she ever anything but kind to you? Why do you hate her so?”
Llauron stared at his son incredulously. “Have you lost your mind? What are you talking about? I love that girl like my own daughter; I have nothing but the greatest respect for her.”
“Oh, of course, a daughter. No wonder you thought you could abuse and manipulate her with impunity; you mistook her for family.” The anger in both sets of eyes now matched. “What is it that makes you want to hurt her? Are you jealous, afraid she will capture the hearts and minds of the Cymrians in a way our line never could? Do you doubt her wisdom, if they should choose her as their leader?”
“Of course not. Rhapsody would be a magnificent leader. She has a noble heart and a beautiful countenance. I have no reservations about her at all.”
“So why? If you love her, you respect her, you think she would be a magnificent leader, why are you trying to kill her? Or is it that you feel perhaps it is I that don’t deserve her? Is that it? Are you trying to keep her for yourself?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Then why? Tell me, Father. Why? Why are you trying to destroy the only happiness I may ever have? Do you hate me so that you want to see me miserable again?”
Fury filled Llauron’s face and he turned away. “What a stupid thing to say.”
“Then explain it to me, Father. Tell me why you have interfered in my happiness, jeopardized my potential marriage to the one person who can make me whole? Who has made me whole?”
The Invoker said nothing for a moment. He walked to the window and stared into the darkness, his mind wandering down old roads. After a long moment he spoke, and his voice was toneless.
“Tell me, Gwydion, do you judge your dragon side to be more a part of you than mine is of me, or less?”
“More, obviously; otherwise we wouldn’t be undertaking this idiotic plan of yours.”
“Very well, then. I assume you are aware of what happened to your own mother upon giving birth to the child of a partial dragon?” Llauron could feel the blood drain from Ashe’s face even beneath the hood. “I have spared you the details up until now—shall I give them to you? Do you crave to know what it is like to watch a woman, not to mention one that you happen to love, die in agony trying to bring forth your child, hmmm? Let me describe it for you. Since the dragonling instinctually needs to break the eggshell, clawing through, to e
merge, the infant—”
“Stop,” Ashe commanded, his voice harsh as acid. “Why are you doing this?”
“To answer your question, ingrate son. I know that you love her. I knew you would before you even met her—who wouldn’t? How could you possibly resist her? And I also knew that somehow the training, and the natural stoicism of our family, has managed not to make an impression on you. You have always been moonstruck, babbling about your dead soulmate, pestering Anwyn for information about something that was only a dream.
“So when it became obvious that you had lost your heart to this one, I needed to step in to remind you that you have a responsibility that supersedes the heat of your loins, one that involves not only responsibly choosing a marriage partner, but also producing an heir. And that will, in all likelihood, mean that your mate will die, like mine did. Your child will be even more of a dragon than you were, so the chances of the mother’s survival are not good. If your own mother could not give birth to you and live, what will happen, do you think, to your mate?
“You accuse me of hating you—how stupid you are being. It is, in fact, my love for you that has informed my actions. I don’t wish you to suffer as I did. If the Lirin queen had accepted my proposal, I would have never suffered the pain I did when Cynron died; but life works out as it does. So instead I watched with horror the greatest sadness of my life in the face of what should have been my greatest joy. And I don’t wish for you to repeat my mistake, nor do I want to lose Rhapsody to our world. You would become ineffectual, and this place would be a darker one. So strike out at me in your frustration all you like—the truth is, I am trying to spare you pain from which you may never recover.”
Llauron heard no sound when he stopped speaking; it was as if all the air had gone out of the room. He turned slowly to face his son, who was standing rigid across the dark study. He took a step toward him, and watched as Ashe’s body relaxed, a sure sign he had rationalized things in his mind.
“We will just forgo having children,” he said, his voice tinged with sadness but weak with relief. “Rhapsody adopts every child she comes upon who needs her. We won’t be childless. There will be more than enough love in our lives, with or without them.”
“Not an option,” said Llauron coldly. “You know better by now. You have a responsibility to produce an heir, and it must be of the blood. How would a child without Cymrian lore rule a people so innately powerful? You were gifted with the line of MacQuieth, the blood of the Seren kings and the elemental ties of the Dragon; who else could assure that they will live in peace? Who else could undo the damage caused by both your grandparents?”
Ashe felt relief break, like an egg, over him. “Manwyn.”
“What?”
“Manwyn. She has already foretold this. She told me clearly that, though my mother had died giving birth to me, that my children’s mother would not die giving birth to them. She’s safe, Father. Rhapsody is safe. The Seer has said so.”
Llauron considered. “How do you know she was referring to Rhapsody?”
Anger sparked in Ashe’s eyes. “Because, as I have told you, I will have no other than she. No other woman will bear my children; therefore, she is safe.”
Llauron sighed. “I have only a short time left with you, Gwydion, so I will choose my last bits of advice to impart to you carefully, in the hope you will actually pay them some heed for once. Beware of prophecies; they are not always as they seem to be. The value of seeing the Future is often not worth the price of the misdirection.”
“Thank you for the advice. In the meantime, I plan to stop living in the shadows of fear and take what is rightfully mine.”
“Good, good.” Llauron rubbed his hands as if to warm them. “Now, that’s more like it. I am glad to see you are finally coming into your own, at peace with your destiny.”
Beneath his hood, Ashe smiled. “That’s not at all what I meant. What is rightfully mine is my own life, Father; I have been living it without any say in it for long enough. I will honor my destiny and my duty in the best way I know how—by doing whatever I can to make Rhapsody my wife and the Lady Cymrian. I cannot imagine there is another who would be better—you said so yourself.”
Llauron sighed. “You’re right, I did, didn’t I? All right, then, a word of warning: remember your grandparents. Never raise your hand to her, and never let your personal quarrels harm your subjects.”
“Of course not.” Even without being visible, the insult Ashe felt was clear.
“Very well, then, since you seem to be set on it, and time is growing short, let me give you my blessing.”
Ashe’s mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”
Llauron smiled, but there was a tinge of annoyance in his voice. “Now, Gwydion, don’t spoil this tender fatherly moment. Kneel.”
Ashe bent before him, and Llauron laid a hand on the coppery curls, a wistful look in his eyes. “First, be happy. Treasure her.”
Ashe waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. “That’s all?” he asked after a moment. “No lecture?”
Llauron laughed. “No, no lecture. I told you, time is growing short. Too many words dissipate the meaning. I do want you to be happy, and if you do as I suggest, I know you will be. Now, how’s for a brandy? That’s one aspect of humanity I shall miss; a good snifter of the golden elixir now and then.”
Ashe walked with him to the cabinet as the warm light from the sunset began to shine on the floor in windowpane patterns of pink and gold.
“Now, Father, you don’t need to live without that just because you’re a dragon. I know a place where I can get you a large trough. You should be able to have a good slurp from time to time.”
“Barbarian.” The guards outside heard the sound of laughter emerge from behind the door, and sighed.
37
Haguefort
Gerald Owen, the chamberlain of Haguefort, was on his way to his bedchamber to retire for the evening when he passed the library doors.
Though the double doors were closed, an icy gust of wind blasted from beneath them. Gerald stopped, surprised, and rested his hand against a mahogany panel; it was cold to the touch.
Perhaps the duke is up late, he mused, but discarded the thought as soon as it occurred. Lord Stephen had turned in for the night a few hours before, citing a need for rest in order to be ready to review the rebuilt barracks and the wall guard posts in the early morning hours with the master of his regiment. Gerald opened the door.
The shock of the cold air stung against his face and exposed skin. While not an elderly man, Gerald was long past youth’s prime, and was more vulnerable to the aches and pains he had remembered plaguing his father in his later years. Like his father, Gerald never complained, seeing each twinge and spasm as something to be endured silently, with grace, so as not to distract the duke or the household staff who served under him in any way. He expected as much from the staff as well.
The vast, dark room was filled with shadows and slashes of white light reflecting through the towering windows from the sheets of snow that were writhing outside them. Those billowing shadows danced across the furniture in time to the music of the breeze. A discordant wail rose and fell as the wind whipped around the keep, fluttering the drapes of the open balcony door wildly. The fireplace was cold and dark; the ashes were lifeless.
Gerald entered the library and quietly closed the doors. The howl of the wind diminished somewhat, and the drapes settled back, rustling now instead of flapping. His footsteps were swallowed by the moaning wind as he crossed the enormous room to the balcony doors, passing through wide fields of snow shadows flickering on the polished marble floors and thick silk rugs.
When he reached the doorway he looked out onto the balcony. The stone benches were crowned with several inches of pristine snow, as was the wide stone railing, ornately sculpted, that ringed the semicircular balcony. The carpet of snow on the balcony floor, however, had been marred by numerous small footprints, not much larger than those of a child, dimple
d impressions of toes that put him in mind of a distracted kitten’s, leading to the edge and back again several times. There was no one on the balcony.
Gerald hurried out into the bitter night, covering his ears with his hands, and looked down at the ground below the balcony. The snow of the evergreen trees and the courtyard below was unmarred; an ice crust had formed, smooth and serene, dusted by crystals scattering before the insistent gale. Satisfied that no one had fallen, the chamberlain hastened back into the library, pushed the doors shut, and locked them. The cries of the wind softened to a distant keen.
Gerald Owen took out his handkerchief. He bent slowly and wiped up the crystals of snow that had accumulated on the library floor while the door was open.
He was rubbing his hands and halfway across the room again on his way back to the hallway when a white shadow, slightly more solid and stationary than the others, caught his eye. It was huddled amid the dancing shades on the floor next to the sideboard, trembling.
Gerald walked slowly over toward the figure. In the darkness her enormous eyes were even larger, her light brown hair hung in loose waves over her thin shoulders. Her hands were clutching a small cloth sack; the duke’s decanter of after-dinner brandy was sitting on the floor beside her, the glass stopper in her lap.
“Rosella?”
Upon hearing her name the woman in the white dressing gown looked up sharply. Her eyes darted around the room madly, resting momentarily on Gerald’s face, then dashed off again, as if pursuing flying objects only she could see. Gerald slowed his steps even more.
When he was within an armspan of her, the governess began whispering wildly.
“I do, I love the children, sir, I love them, and the duke, of course, the duke has my undying devotion as well. He does. I do, I love them all, would die for any one of them, you have to believe me, sir, I would, I would die for any of them. I love them.”