The Merchant Emperor (32 page)

He remembered her telling him that she and the baby were actually staying within the Cauldron in Ylorc, but his mind discarded the picture, preferring to concentrate on the thought of them within Rhapsody’s lovely cottage, surrounded by her gardens, in the grotto instead.

Whenever his dragon sense threatened to overwhelm him, he pictured his wife in his mind. The wyrm in his blood was far more obsessed with her than with the minutiae of the world around him, and often could be diverted in its concentration when offered a thought of her to enjoy.

The unfortunate consequence of distracting the dragon in this way was the overwhelming loss it engendered. The wistful thoughts were usually successful in quelling the noise in his mind, especially when he was in complex or detailed situations that tempted the beast to count a multiplicity of objects, but afterward, the memory came up against the reality, and to have to endure losing his wife and son yet again usually left Ashe feeling hollow and heartbroken.

He returned the salutes of the guards as he neared the western gate, making note of the integrity of the high stone wall reinforced with iron, two stories in height and encircling a major part of the stronghold to the west. He climbed the nearest of the ladders and looked down at the outside of the gate.

A woman was standing with her back turned to him. She was wearing a hooded cloak, much like Rhapsody often wore when away from home out in the world; even obscured by it, Ashe could see that the visitor’s height, slender build, and stance were very reminiscent of his wife’s.

A cold nausea swept through him; the serving maid that Tristan Steward had brought into his household when he and Rhapsody were still living in Haguefort, who later had transitioned with him to Highmeadow, and who had turned out to be the host of a F’dor spirit, had often subtly tormented him by appearing to him in his wife’s aspect, and was convincing enough in doing so that it had almost cost him his whole world. The memory of the manipulation caused his revulsion to begin to mutate into anger.

Then, as the wind changed, the woman turned toward the gate again, her face visible, and Ashe could see that while she was, like Rhapsody, of the Liringlas race, a rarity in the Known World and even more of one on the continent, she was of advanced years, reminding him more of Oelendra, the ancient hero of the Seren War who had trained Rhapsody in the use of Daystar Clarion, than she resembled Rhapsody herself.

Relief broke over him, and he made his way down the ladder and signaled for the guards to open the gate and usher her in.

Once on the ground, his relief turned to delight.

He did, in fact, recognize the elderly Liringlas woman the guards were escorting through the heavily bound doors of the gate. He had once been a guest in her household in Manosse, in the second year of his marriage when he had taken Rhapsody across the sea to meet and visit his family and ancestral lands there.

She was his wife’s oldest friend from Serendair, someone she had known longer, though not as dearly, as Achmed and Grunthor.

“Analise!” he called as the woman passed through the guard station. She looked in his direction and smiled warmly, then dropped him a respectful bow.

“Lord Gwydion.”

“Ashe, please,” he said, embracing her. “Happy as I am to see you, what in the world are you doing here, in a time of war?”

Analise’s face went slack.

“War?”

Ashe offered her his arm and led her back toward the central building of the fortress.

“I am surprised you are unaware of the buildup and hostilities here; I sent word long ago to the magisterium in Manosse.”

The elderly woman blinked rapidly as they traveled through the forest.

“I do not believe that word was received, m’lord. My husband be, as you know, a member of the consulate, and if he had been aware that war was in the offing, I be quite certain he would not have agreed with my decision to come here.” She looked up into Ashe’s face, a head higher than her own. “Though I would have come anyway. Rhapsody—be she all right?”

“I believe so.”

“Forgive me—believe so? You don’t know?”

They had reached sight of the central command post; Analise paused where she stood and took in a breath.

The palace was a wonder of architecture and engineering, built from polished wood and stone to evoke and enhance the natural beauty of its forest setting, with gleaming leaded glass windows filling the building with light and breathtaking views. It was set at many interesting angles and levels, as Ashe’s father Llauron’s house at the Circle had been when he had served as the Invoker of the Filids and the guardian of the Great White Tree in Gwynwood, but with a more Cymrian aspect, the lost artistry of the Island of Serendair apparent in its design.

Analise, who had been born on the Island, had seen its type of design in person, rather than from historical renderings.

“Please come in, Analise,” Ashe said as one of the soldiers standing guard opened the front door. “This is the chamberlain, Gerald Owen, on loan from Navarne; he is the wisest person in the fortress, so if you need anything, by all means seek his aid.”

The elderly chamberlain smiled politely and bowed, then extended his arms for Analise’s cloak, which she gave him. She returned her attention to Ashe.

“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.” Ashe nodded. “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,” Ashe said quickly, seeing the tears that had welled up in the woman’s eyes. He took her elbow and guided her gently into the library, wordlessly signaling to Gerald Owen, who departed immediately. “Come, please, Analise, let us sit. Gerald will bring us tea, and supper later.” He led his wife’s friend to a set of chairs across from one another in front of the cold fireplace and waited until she had taken a seat, then did so himself.

“Rhapsody has had quite a hard time of it in the last six months,” he said quietly. “First, she was kidnapped by a maniac from the old world when I was away at the funeral of the empress of Sorbold, someone who had been seeking her all this time. She escaped him, endured, and prevailed, only to have the baby come early, in a manner that threatened her life and left her profoundly weak. Finally, as war neared, I needed to send them both away, into hiding. But I hear from her almost every day, in one way or another, and she and our child seem well.”

“The baby was born already, then?”

“Yes.”

The Liringlas woman exhaled in relief. Then her silver eyes darkened.

“A maniac, you say? From the old land?”

Ashe grimaced, then nodded. He had already said more to Analise than he normally would have, but there was comfort in speaking with someone who was unlikely to be a thrall of the demon. Analise lived on the other side of the sea, and her relationship to Rhapsody was unknown to any but the two of them on the continent.

Forbear,
the dragon in his blood whispered.
You can trust no one.

Ashe swallowed and forced the words out.

“He was a soldier when he knew her in Serendair. She hated him.”

Analise went pale, and she began to tremble slightly.

“Not—not—Michael?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

Ashe blinked, and his face grew solemn.

“Yes, it was Michael, the Wind of Death.”

Analise’s hand went to her mouth. “He be still alive? Dear One-God.”

“He is no longer,” said Ashe bitterly. “You knew of him?”

The elderly woman nodded, her breathing somewhat lighter.

“Not of him; I knew him, in the most horrible of ways.” She looked askance at the Lord Cymrian. “Rhapsody did not tell you how we met? Not even before you came to visit my family in Manosse?”

“No,” said Ashe, thinking back. “I don’t think she ever did. She said you were a child when she knew you, and she was older, seventeen or so, I believe, though I can’t recall her saying more than that. But I am aware that the era in her life in which you must have known her was the most terrible time; I have held her through the nightmares she still occasionally has of it, though she does not speak of those days to me.” His stomach turned over. “She once told me of some of the things she was forced to do in those days, and it upset me so greatly that she has shielded me, coward that I am, ever since, to spare the dragon in my blood from knowledge that might enflame it.”

Tears came to Analise’s eyes again.

“It is because of what she did for me in those days that I be alive and here this day,” she 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. I do not know everything she sacrificed to save me, but on at least one occasion I saw—”

Ashe could see the lump rise in her throat, his dragon sense making note of the depth of her horror.

“I beg you, Analise, please do not tell me,” he interrupted, urgency in his voice. “I am having a difficult enough time maintaining my sanity with the loss of my wife and child; please. It could very well provoke a rampage.”

Analise nodded silently as the tears in her eyes spilled over and down her cheeks.

“Of course; my deepest apologies, m’lord. It is brazen past words for me to think to tell you of things she did not choose to. I only wish you to know that I had planned to come when Rhapsody was closer to the end of her pregnancy, to help, if possible, with the delivery of the baby. There is a song Liringlas women sing to one another to ease the pain of childbirth, with which I be very familiar.”

Ashe smiled as a soft tap sounded at the door, and Gerald Owen came in, bearing a tea tray. “I imagine. I’m sure she would have welcomed that greatly. I am sorry for your worry, Analise, though it certainly was founded, but she has returned to health, from what I can surmise, and the baby is apparently growing stronger each day.” His own throat felt a lump rise in it. “I miss them both more than I can put into words.”

He picked up the cup of tea the chamberlain had placed before him as Analise did the same.

“I am sorry you traveled all this way, only to not find them here,” he said after taking a draught. “If Manosse truly does not know that we are in a state of war, I fear even more for the outcome, as I had been depending on a number of warships I ordered from there and Gaematria. So, after we’ve finished our repast, I fear I must return to my work. If you would like to tour the fortress, I can arrange that. Then we can have supper and decide what to do about getting you home.”

27

INTERNAL STOCKADE, HIGHMEADOW

A few hours later and several buildings away, deep within the heavy walls and behind the even heavier doors of the high-security stockade, Tristan Steward was pacing his cell, wearing a path in the small rug on the stone floor.

Each day that passed devolved him, bit by bit, into something only vaguely human. He was allowed, in exchange for being bound and under bowman sight, to be shaved if he so desired, as well as having a one-way drain for any refuse or bodily fluids he wished to dispose of through the floor. Hot water was available to him every day through a pipe high above in the ceiling in a tiled area in the corner of his cell for cleansing himself, and fresh clothes were delivered daily also. Ashe had commented, on one of the occasions he had come down to make good on his offer of a flask of brandy now and then, that he wished he had been so incarcerated during his time in hiding.

But in spite of a relatively luxurious captivity, Tristan was going out of his mind.

If the utter solitude and ascetic living wasn’t enough to drive him mad, the thin voice that scratched on windy nights at the back of his brain surely would bring it about.

Tristan.

He thought he had heard that voice before, somewhere in his broken memory, but the solid walls of the prison cell, the complete silence that the stones kept locked away with him, prevented him from deriving any tone from it. It was as if it was sounding deep within his mind, rather than coming to him through his ears.

Mostly because it was.

Tristan, come to me
.

He had been hearing it, or something like it, for a very long time he realized one day, early in his captivity, just after he had finished reading one of the books Ashe loaned him to occupy his mind in his solitude. The text was a dense historical narrative, a dull retelling of the story of the exodus of the Cymrian Fleets. The only actual satisfaction he had derived from it was the picture it had placed in his mind of Rhapsody in the land of her birth. His lack of intellectual curiosity meant that he had never ascertained with which Fleet she had sailed, or anything else about her history, though he was aware that she was one of the Three that had been prophesied about at the end of the Cymrian War. But her personal history, or any other mundane detail, was not what held his interest about her.

The Lord Roland had been shocked when Gwydion had arrested him at Ashe’s angry accusation of Tristan’s desire to have his wife. The shock was not a result of error, but rather of degree; if the Lord Cymrian had any real notion of the intensity and depth of Tristan’s obsession with the Lady Cymrian, the Lord Roland reasoned, he would have been long since buried in an unmarked grave, undoubtedly watered with Gwydion’s urine. He had been consumed with an overpowering lust from the moment Rhapsody had walked away from him almost five years before, upon their meeting in which she had unsuccessfully presented a diplomatic initiative to him on behalf of the Firbolg king. His arrogant response to her, and her amused departure, had ignited an anger and passion so foolhardy in his addled brain and the lower regions of his body that he had sent two thousand men to their slaughter in the vain attempt to win back her interest.