The Merchant Emperor (25 page)

“I have no idea what women soldiers need to inspire them as they leave for battle, though watching you with my great-nephew seems to answer the question,” he continued quietly. “For a man, it helps to have the face of a woman in his memory, a woman who says she loves him, to think of, to dream about, to plan to come home to. A woman who serves as the reason to take up arms, to take other men’s lives, to lay down his own life, to give him reason to endure through pain and injury and death. A beautiful face to haunt and inspire his dreams. Even if she is the faithful, adoring wife of another man; even if she is only his friend. It helps, Rhapsody. Believe me, it helps.”

Rhapsody’s throat was so tight she thought she might strangle.

“Me? Am I that for you, Anborn? That face to live for?”

“Yes.” His smile dimmed as the look in his eyes intensified. “There is no other face in my memory or my eyes, not now, anyway. I hope that doesn’t offend you, or make you feel compromised in any way, my dear. I recognize and respect your marriage; reprobate and sinner though I am, I would never think or even hope for anything more than what you have given and been to me—my sovereign, my lady, a friend, a Kinsman, a confidante, someone who tells me the truth, tells me when I’m wrong or when I’ve overstepped, tells me that life is better, more worthwhile than I have ever seen it be. I would believe that I could fly if you said it to be true, Rhapsody—I would toss myself off this cliff into the arms of the wind, believing it so, expecting to soar to the clouds.”

“Why—why ‘says she loves him’? Do you not believe me when I tell you that I do?”

Anborn looked at her, shadows in his eyes.

“No, my dear, I believe you. But it is different—because you do not love me in the way that she did.”

Rhapsody blinked, surprise finally stanching her tears. “She? Who?”

After a long moment, Anborn spoke. “My wife.”

Rhapsody’s brows drew together.

“I—thought you said you didn’t like each other.”

“Not Estelle.” The words came from a throat that sounded as if it had swallowed shards of glass. “Damynia.” He pronounced the word softly, reverently, like a prayer.

“Damynia?” It was a name that had never entered her ears before. “You—you had another wife?”

“I have lived a long time, Rhapsody.”

“I had no idea. No one has ever told me this.”

“No one else knows—no one living, anyway, not even my brother Edwyn. It was long ago. I tell you, my favorite Lirin Namer, now because, among other reasons, should I not survive the war, I want the lore, the history of that marriage to survive, at least—a tiny bit of immortality of some part of me that once was good.”

“There is so much of you that
is
good,” Rhapsody said. Her face was wet with tears again, and Anborn had to look away.

“This is what you do not grasp, Rhapsody—whatever could be described so now is entirely because of you. I have not led the life of a good man—not for centuries, anyway. There was a long time during which I was a cold-blooded, efficient killer, a relentless conqueror, remorseless in the destruction I leveled upon this land. The Lirin you love, that you were willing to try and undertake making peace with through our marriage, had it come to pass—no matter what I achieve, I will never be able to make amends for the damage I did to them, and they are certainly not the only ones that could say this.

“It is because of you and your foolishness—your insistent belief in the worth of this Alliance, your willingness to love those who really don’t deserve it, your belief in forgiveness and redemption, your refusal to see people as they are, to see the blood on their hands, the Namer in you, that has brought about a change in me. As much as I scoffed at you in the beginning, in the end I have come to believe you—and as a result, I can walk again, which is the least important element of this transformation. Your undeserved faith in me has awakened something in me I thought long dead; I am remembering again a time when life’s ideals and aspirations actually meant something to me, when camaraderie and valor and love of land and kin were the reasons to pick up arms, not wanton violence and the rage of revenge. It’s sparking in me a rebirth of a sorts, a hope of absolution, making whatever sacrifices, whatever efforts in the coming war worth something meaningful; you cannot imagine how important this is to me, after a life as long as mine, time which I have passed, dead inside, until I met you. I have sworn allegiance to no one since Gwylliam, and when I did that I was unrecognizable as a human being. I am not understating this, Rhapsody; you are right that it is a good thing we did not meet in earlier days, because you would have hated me, as the entire empire did. You are well aware that my freedom is what I prize above most other things, but I am not certain you made the connection that my sworn allegiance to you was a voluntary surrender, a limitation on that freedom, that wherever you are, your safety, your need, is my happiest priority now. It is because of that allegiance, and because of you, that I wade back into this fray as the man, the leader I was born to be—unlike—unlike—” The Lord Marshal fell silent.

Rhapsody stood as still as she could, in mutual silence, waiting. Finally he finished his thought.

“Unlike the villain I was because of Damynia.”

“Is she—was she the one you didn’t—kiss goodbye? Is that why you won’t say that word to me without doing so?”

The Lord Marshal’s face darkened suddenly, and he turned away. He stood silent for a long while, traveling down old roads in his mind. Then he raised his head, looked back and her and smiled.

“It would be a fair assumption,” he said at last. “You remind me a great deal of her, though you look nothing like her. If Fate is kind, I will tell you the story someday.”

“You keep promising me that,” Rhapsody rebuked him gently. “And yet you never do.”

“True enough, I suppose.” The general sighed. “This is old lore, Rhapsody—frozen for centuries, buried in a vault of unforgiving stone. Allow me to chip away at it a little at a time, please—it’s painful. Shrike knew, because he could show me glimpses of it, of her. And he never required me to speak of it. But my heart is sore from what little I’ve already said. I beg you—give me time.”

“Then you must promise to come back to me and finish the story.”

“Now, my dear, I may have made many promises I couldn’t keep to a battlefield’s worth of bedwenches, but I would never, upon my life,
never
, make one to you. I will promise you that I will do my very best to remain alive and sound, but after that, I’m afraid there is little to nothing else I can commit to. But I know you already understand that.”

A horn blast echoed up from the floor of the steppes.

Anborn looked down over the edge and chuckled at the Bolg king’s displeasure, evident even a thousand feet below.

“His Majesty summons,” he said humorously. “I really can’t keep him waiting any longer. Rhapsody, may I ask just one last boon of you?”

“Anything.”

Anborn laughed again. “Now, what have I told you about making rash promises you can’t or don’t want to keep, m’lady? I believe the last time you did so I suggested I could have you there on the ground outside the Moot, but that was a considerably softer and warmer place than this rocky ledge.”

“I remember,” Rhapsody said. “Nonetheless, I love and trust you enough to make the same offer of anything.”

The Lord Marshal’s eyes took on a sheen. “I am well and truly honored,” he said, repeating the words she had spoken upon receiving his sworn pledge of allegiance. “Will you tell me of the Veil of Hoen?”

Rhapsody’s mind went back to the drowsy woodland place of healing and dreams, the realm of the Lady Rowan, Yl Breudiwyr, the Guardian of Sleep, and her husband, the Lord Rowan, Yl Angaulor, the Peaceful Death, where she had passed seven years’ time healing children sired by a demon, during which time only a moment had passed in the eye of the world.

“Yes,” she said, though the breaking of silence about the place made her nervous. “What do you want to know?”

“Do you—can one really see those who have gone before?”

Rhapsody smiled through her tears.

“Yes,” she said. “I saw Jo, my sister, the first person I adopted in this world. I don’t think you ever met her.”

“I believe Shrike once described her to me,” Anborn noted. “I sent him to Achmed’s court when the Bolg king was accepting visits of state just after the three of you had taken the mountains; Shrike told me upon his return of a thin blond adolescent who he assumed was you, but by his description of her I knew he was mistaken. What happened to her?”

Rhapsody swallowed, but her face returned to a calm mien.

“I killed her,” she said. “She was a thrall of the demon, and would have killed Achmed when he was compromised, so I killed her first. It was horrendous. The guilt and regret was torturous, until she came to me one night behind the Veil, granting me her forgiveness and telling me that I needed to forgive myself, demanding it, in fact. My mother came to me as well; it was only after that I was able to make peace with being in this world, on this side of Time, and was able to let the old world go to its rest.”

Anborn’s eyes began to shine.

“And that was just on this side of the Doorway,” Rhapsody continued, “because that is essentially what the Veil of Hoen is—the doorstep between life and death. When Stephen Navarne lay dying after the battle of the Moot, when you were clinging to life as well, I sang the Lirin Song of Passage for him, and I saw—” Her voice faltered.

“Yes?”

“I saw him in front of the sun, in the doorway, whole, unbroken, with his wife, Lydia. The song allowed Gwydion Navarne and Melisande to see them both, their mother and father, for a last moment as well.”

“So the legends are true,” Anborn murmured. “Your husband had told me he had been healed there, but didn’t remember anything about it.”

Against her will, Rhapsody broke into tears again.

“Please do not hasten to that place,” she pleaded. “You and I have been close enough to it before many times—when you rescued me in the forest near Sorbold, when I left you with Daystar Clarion as Michael took me hostage in the fire of Gwynwood, when you caught me as I fell from the sky—we are Kinsmen of more than one kind, Anborn. And so I will ask you as I did in Gwynwood, beg you even, selfish as the request is: live, please live. If I am that face for you, then live for me. I need you, Meridion needs you—Ashe needs you. Please, live, for us, for me, if not for yourself.”

Anborn smiled and pulled her into an embrace.

“In a way, I already do, my dear, in case you haven’t been listening,” he said. “But I will do my best.”

Another blast of an impatient horn caused him to release her quickly and step away from the ledge.

“Since we do plan to see each other again, there’s no need to drag this out,” Anborn said, checking the buckle of his sword belt and his vambraces. “Buck up, m’lady; there’s no need to be weepy. You are the mother of a fine, strong son who lives and thrives, all predictions to the contrary, even mine. It’s a bright morning, with fair weather, and it turns out your husband was heeding my warnings after all, so a worthy fighting force with Right on its side is gathering as we speak, coming to the rescue of an Alliance well worth saving. It’s quite a glorious day to be alive—I will keep in touch by bird when I can. Keep out of harm’s way as much as
you
can, and call me on the wind, Kinsman to Kinsman, if you are ever in need.” His eyes twinkled; he turned away and started down the mountain pass to the steppes below. He had gone a score of paces when he stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

“Goodbye, Rhapsody.”

The Lady Cymrian watched him turn away again, rooted to the spot. Then madly she ran to him, stumbling blindly, and threw herself into his arms, startling him.

“Wait! Don’t you
dare
say that to me without kissing me. Don’t you dare!”

As the Lord Marshal stared at her in shock she pressed her lips to his, holding his face in her hands, breathing him in, passionately, fearfully, intimately. She was too frightened to notice his arms wind around her, too terrified to feel his heart pounding against her chest beneath his mailshirt, too worried to care what it looked like in the sight of the world. She sustained the kiss, letting her mouth cling to his until their breathing slowed, until her fear was spent, until it settled into a calmer gesture, a respectful salute, a gentle goodbye.

When finally their lips parted, she took one hand from his face and caressed his black hair, the silver streaks that had been evident when she first met him somewhat wider now.

“Let that be from her,” she whispered. “Whatever you missed, whatever the story of that loss was, let it be rectified now. Let that be from her.”

Anborn smiled down at her, his eyes shining radiantly.

“Thank you,” he said gently. “But it’s more than enough that it was from you.”

He let go of her reluctantly and, after a long final look, headed back to the pass leading down to where the two Bolg waited. Just before he disappeared around the rocky bend, he turned one last time and called up to her.

“If that’s the way you plan to bid me goodbye, I may have to find reasons to come back more often.”

“Do so,” she called back.

“Not sure how much my nephew will like it.”

“He will understand,” she replied. “Be safe. My love goes with you.”

The Lord Marshal held up his hand. Then he vanished from her sight.

She watched until he reappeared on the steppes below, saw him talking with Achmed and Grunthor, bowing finally amid pats on the shoulder from the Sergeant-Major and a nod from the Bolg king. Then Anborn pulled himself atop his beautiful black warhorse and shouted orders to his men.

He looked up to the rise and waved to her; she waved in return, and watched as the small cohort started out into the west.

Then she sank to her knees and gave herself over to grief.

As heart-wrenching as it had been to say goodbye to Ashe, somehow it was even more painful to do so to Anborn.

Perhaps it was because, in the deepest place in her heart, she believed she would see her husband again.