“All in good time,” he said.
44
Capital of Bethany, at the City’s Western Gate
Rhapsody had been to Bethany only once before. Her initial impression was that it was a city under a silent siege. It was a round city, vast in size and in aspiration of design; as far as she had seen, no other of the Cymrian cities still standing had been outfitted with the riches of paving stones, street lanterns, roadways, public baths, marvels of architecture, horse hitchings, and all the other luxuries she had come to associate with wealth. Wealth in Roland seemed to be a sign not so much of successful trade but of the collection of taxes, and the collection of taxes was a sure sign of where power lay. Bethany had all the makings of a royal city, despite the fact that there was still no king on the throne.
The siege aspect came from the plethora of soldiers, both at the city’s outskirts and on its well-manicured streets, constantly patrolling the eight gates and four main thoroughfares, consigning the cattle and animal trade to certain districts, while keeping other streets, notably those around the central palace and its extensive private garden, pristinely clear for genteel foot travel. Markets and mercantile areas were found in the eastern and western sections, while museums and public gardens were located in the northern and southern parts of the city. The prince’s palace and the great circular fire basilica made up the central section. Only the barracks of Bethany’s enormous army were found in every quarter.
By the time she had made it through the western villages that had once been part of the outer ring of the city, it was clear to her that Bethany had changed dramatically in a relatively short time.
When she had first come here, more than a year ago with Achmed, Grunthor, and Jo, the city’s outer ring had been a lively place, an endlessly sprawling ragtag village of peasants and paupers, workmen, tradesmen, and street urchins, people far too poor to live within the confines of the pristine inner city walls, but happy nonetheless to prosper from those who went in and out of its gates to trade. She had once unintentionally caused a riot in these outer villages, intervening with a man who was beating his son. It was only thanks to a speedy rescue by Grunthor and Achmed that she had managed to survive the melee that ensued.
Now, the population of that massive peasant town was gone. In its place were new barracks, most still being built, with additional ramparts being erected around the city wall. It didn’t seem as if the preparations were for a temporary event, but rather were darker and permanent in nature. Rhapsody was in awe at the sight, her heart wrenched in sudden fear. Could all of this be for the wedding? she wondered as she looked out the carriage window, waiting in line at the newly erected guard post at the western city gate. She pulled the hood of her woolen cloak tightly about her face.
Past the gate she could see that the city itself was glittering in the light of the winter morning, with silver flags flying from every streetlamp, and great garlands strung from rooftop to rooftop. The mosaics on the walls and in the streets had been polished to a bright sheen, and from every tree hung a silver star, the symbol of the Patriarchy. Rhapsody was amazed that so many extensive preparations had been possible in such a short time.
The wedding of the prince and his bride, Lady Madeleine of Canderre, had been originally scheduled for the first day of spring; Rhapsody had reread the invitation over many times since she had returned to Tyrian from the Veil of Hoen. Oelendra had told her by chance that the date had been moved up owing to a horrendous slaughter at the winter festival; the tale had made Rhapsody’s blood run cold.
Rial, Tyrian’s loyal Lord Protector, had also been invited to the wedding, and so she had met up with him on the forest road and traveled with him and his guards, grateful for the chance to be able to ride in a coach in winter rather than on horseback. Originally her invited escort was Achmed, but he had snorted in a way that made it very clear to her that he would not be coming. The tossing of his invitation into the fires of the Great Hall of Canrif, followed by a giant projectile of spit, had sealed her impression the previous summer. Events at the House of Remembrance notwithstanding, it was not really surprising that if Ylorc was to be represented at this state occasion, she would have to be the one to go, and go alone.
Secretly she was looking forward to the event. Weddings had always been a time of great celebration in the Seren farming village of Merryfield, where she was raised, and she had always loved to dance. In addition, since Achmed had grudgingly given her several notes of tender to purchase clothing and appropriate jewelry, her excitement had grown over each league of the journey. And finally, deep in her heart she hoped Ashe might be there, as they had tentatively planned. For all of Llauron’s ugly warnings, she hoped to see him one last time before he was wed himself.
Now, however, sitting in Rial’s coach at the western gate in a line of other guests waiting to enter the city, she was nervous. There were soldiers everywhere, at least four times as many as there had been when she was last here, and the attitude was much more threatening than it had been. She laid a hand on Rial’s arm as they waited.
The Lord Protector, wrapped in a deerskin cloak over his standard dark red cape, turned to her and smiled. The smile faded when he saw the look in the eyes within her hood.
“Rhapsody? Is something wrong?”
She gestured out the window. “Doesn’t it seem more—more martial than it has been here before?”
Rial chuckled. “ ’Tis not an answer I can give, dear one. This is my first time in Bethany. But I have heard from the mail caravan that Tristan Steward has taken control of the armies of Roland. Most probably the first step in seizing the crown.” Rhapsody shuddered.
“Who seeks to enter?”
The voice was harsh and deep, and seemed to come from right beside her. Rhapsody turned and looked into the eyes of the brown-bearded soldier who had thrust his face through the carriage window; they were now at the gate. Eleven other soldiers were deployed around the area, standing guard and checking tradesmen who were bringing in goods for the wedding, and turning away others who wanted to enter the city.
She averted her eyes as Rial spoke up.
“Rial, Lord Protector of Tyrian, here for the wedding by invitation,” he said in his smooth, warm voice. He took Rhapsody’s invitation from her hand, added his own to it, and handed it out the window to the guard. “With me is the Lady Rhapsody, the, er, Duchess of Elysian,” he continued, a twinkle in his eye. Rhapsody hid a smile at the joking title Achmed had given her when he had made the hidden island cottage her own.
The soldier had looked at both invitations, passing Rial’s back without comment. He turned Rhapsody’s over several times, then stared at her.
“Show your face, lady,” he commanded.
Before she could move, Rial leaned forward, his body tensing.
“Why?” he demanded. “How dare you speak this way to an invited guest of the prince? Nay; the invitation is in order. Move aside, soldier. The weather is bitter. Let us pass.”
The guard drew his bastard sword menacingly, and the others at the gate turned their attentions to the carriage. Rhapsody turned hurriedly to Rial.
“It’s all right, Rial,” she said quickly. “They are just being careful.” She looked back at the guard, then took her hood down.
The soldier’s eyes widened. He blinked rapidly, then averted his gaze and passed a hand over his face to regain his composure. He returned the invitations to Rial and gestured for the coach to move inside the city gates.
Rhapsody pulled her hood back up. “Are you going to the guest housing directly, Rial?”
The Lord Protector smiled. “Aye, as I know no other place in the city. Did you have somewhere you prefer to go first, Rhapsody?”
She nodded, staring absently out the window at the throngs of tradesmen and soldiers streaming through the streets. “I need to get to a dressmaker. I did not bring appropriate attire with me; I’ve been journeying for a long time now.” More than seven years, though no time has passed on
this side of the Veil of Hoen, she mused silently. She turned to Rial, who was watching her intently, and smiled.
“Besides, I’m looking forward to the chance to spend a good deal of Achmed’s money.”
The holy man sighed silently. Logjammed in a line of carriages yet again. He shook his head, urging the harsh, wheedling voice within to be patient.
There was no true sport to be had at the wedding, sadly. Tristan’s forces, now loyal to him as regent and supreme commander, were already sworn, and therefore all but impossible to turn in any way that would bring harm directly to him or his interests. The ranks had swelled prodigiously; the army of Roland, quartered still in their home provinces but relocating to Bethany more by the day, would soon surpass one hundred thousand soldiers. His eyes burned with excitement at the thought.
Still, it was hard to pass up such a plum opportunity to make mischief, to wreak havoc on such a grand scale. A royal wedding, the first in many years, was a prime hunting ground, an almost irresistible chance to cause an eruption of violence. He had already arranged for a small surprise of that sort, though he doubted it would do much to disrupt the actual festivities. He sighed again humorously. Such a loss.
He pushed back the curtain of his carriage window and leaned slightly into the wind.
Now, my good folk, he whispered. You may come.
Outside the city proper, on the western bank of the Phon River, the central waterway of the province, far beyond the view of the soldiers, hidden in the dark wastes of makeshift huts and ramshackle stalls that had been erected to house the displaced residents of Bethany’s outer villages, the eyes of the blacksmiths who had, a few days before, shoed the horses that pulled the holy man’s carriage began to burn at the edges. Deeper within, a darker fire began to kindle.
Silently they ceased their chores, left their hovels, and gathered their tools in the bitter wind.
45
Four street corners east from the northern district’s secondary well, then eleven streets south. Rhapsody counted silently as she followed the pattern of foot and cart traffic, keeping her head down and the large cloth bag tucked carefully over her arm, taking care not to drag it in the icy filth of the city’s cobbled streets. Her breath, warm from her pace and the anxiety that swirled in the air around her, formed thin clouds of white mist that caught the wind and vanished with each inhalation, each hurried step.
In the height of summer, during their days as lovers, Ashe had given her specific directions to a number of safe places hidden within various cities and towns across the land, garrets and cellars and storerooms he employed in need. Each direction had come with the warning that these places were inconsistent in their status; most of his time was spent traveling overland, and it was very rare that he ventured into a city or town, so much time elapsed between his visits. The rooms, he told her, might not be safe the next time they were visited; there was but one, the turf hut hidden behind a waterfall in northern Gwynwood, that he felt certain would be secure at all times. He had urged her to make use of these safe havens nonetheless. There was one somewhere here in Bethany where they had agreed to meet before, and perhaps after the wedding, if she could only find it.
At the eighth street heading south she noticed a decrease in the traffic around her, and stopped to take a better look. Rising above her in the near distance were three enormous towers, each topped by a vast cistern that collected rainwater for the town’s use. The rainwater from the cisterns irrigated the public gardens, fed the ancient Cymrian aqueduct and sewer system, and supplied water to the palace and basilica. The streets that surrounded the towers were lined with smaller stone cisterns and tanks for storing the rainwater, as well as barracks for the workers who maintained the water system and the soldiers that defended it. Each tower had a guard post for the soldiers who stood watch at the cisterns night and day to prevent the royal water supply from being poisoned.
Rhapsody followed the seemingly endless wall of curving stone for three more streets until she came to the spot where the door should be, if she remembered Ashe’s directions correctly. She looked around furtively, and, seeing no one near, darted quickly down a side alley that ended in a stone wall covered with thick thorny growth, as were all the outer walls of the water system.
The evergreen vegetation, known to the Filids of Gwynwood as underthorn, was a popular defense employed across the western part of the continent, a natural barrier with serrated spines that grew in double rows and delivered tremendously painful wounds that continued to bleed long after they should have healed. Rhapsody had studied underthorn with both Llauron and Lark, the Invoker’s shy Lirin herbalist, during her time with him in Gwynwood, and therefore knew its dangers. She also knew how to circumvent them, both with the techniques she had learned in Gwynwood and her own Namer abilities.
She cast another glance around as the sound of a horse-drawn coach clattered up the alleyway and passed by. Good, she noted. The carriage routes were not far; it would be easy to hire a coach to get to the wedding. Once the sound had died away she turned back to the thorny wall and slid her hand under the first shaggy layer from the bottom, away from the direction in which the thorns grew.
Verlyss, she sang softly, speaking the plant’s true name. She could feel the musical vibration of the rough bark, the spiked thorns, in the air around her as the vegetation attuned itself to the call.
Evenee, she said. Velvet moss.
The savage thorns that rested against the skin on the back of her hand softened, became slippery and harmless, tender as the green lichen that covered fallen trees in springtime. Gently she pulled the tapestry of vegetation aside. Behind it was a stone door without a handle, as Ashe had said there would be.
She felt around the edges of the door until she found an indentation to use as a handhold, and pulled. The door opened silently and she stepped quickly inside, closing it behind her again.
She was in a small, dark room that had once been part of a street-level cistern in Cymrian times, perhaps a caretaker’s dwelling, long since forgotten behind the wall of swordlike thorns. A tiny recessed grate served as a window, letting light but no sound into the room.
Rhapsody fumbled in her pack for a candle. Upon finding one she willed it to light; as the flame sparked she felt a pleasant surge from her inner fire, connecting momentarily to the elemental bond within her. She held up the candle and looked around.
The room contained a bed, a chest of drawers, and a doorless closet. A threadbare armchair, much like the one in Ashe’s room behind the waterfall, stood by the window next to a small table on which a lantern sat. The room was remarkably free from mildew and comfortably dry, though cold. All around, on the floor and the chest of drawers, were large beeswax candles.
Rhapsody went to the doorless alcove and hung up the cloth bag that contained her dress for the wedding, put her pack atop the chest of drawers, then set about lighting the beeswax candles from the taper in her hand. She sat down on the bed, watching the wicks catch more thoroughly, and the light grow brighter. As she settled back to wait for Ashe, she smiled as she heard her mother’s voice.
Even the simplest house is a palace in candlelight.
Rhapsody closed her eyes and sought her mother’s face in her mind. It appeared, smiling in return.
“Thank you, m’Lord and Lady Rowan,” she whispered. “Thank you for giving her back to me.”
On the balcony of the upstairs ballroom at Tannen Hall, the royal residence where the wedding guests were being housed, Llauron crossed his arms and inhaled the frosty wind that was turning even colder with the coming of night. He scanned the sky in the west, watching the clouds winding in hazy gold spirals as they chased the sun beyond the rim of the horizon. How beautiful, the Invoker thought, running his hands absently over his arms for warmth. Soon I will know firsthand what it is like to be part of that beauty.
The evenstar appeared in the sky, glittering brightly in the darkening firmament. As if waiting for the lead to be taken, one by one
the rest of the stars began to shine, winking with cold, burning brightly, eternally. Tears stung the edges of Llauron’s aged blue eyes.
I come, my brothers, he whispered into the wind. I come.
The balcony door opened; Llauron turned away from the dark beauty of the night, back toward the light and merriment within the royal hall. A servant stood, silhouetted against the bright backdrop of moving shapes and laughter.
“Is everything all right, Your Grace? Can I assist you in anything?”
The Invoker smiled.
“No, thank you, my son,” he said, walking slowly back toward the door. “I was just making a wish on the evenstar that all goes well tomorrow.”
46
The white linen blouse beneath Tristan Steward’s sky-blue velvet wedding doublet clung uncomfortably to the muscles of his chest and beneath his arms, wet with nervous perspiration.
He had been pacing back and forth since sunrise, striding the long corridor outside the Great Hall of his palace with an aspect that at some times resembled that of a condemned man, and at others that of a caged beast. Now he was wearing a path in the woven silk carpet of his office, which had been outfitted as a dressing chamber, running his hands through his hair, displacing the ceremonial ribbon of state that had been plaited neatly through his forelock.
For the third time in the last hour he summoned James Edactor, the chamberlain, scowling as the door opened and quickly closed behind the man.
“Yes, m’lord?”
“Is she here yet?” the Lord Roland blurted, turning from his desk and knocking a sheaf of maps and papers over in the process.
“Lady Madeleine?”
“No, you thickheaded lout.” Tristan Steward scowled. “Did I not thrice ask you to have the representative from the Bolglands sent to me?”