The windowless ground floor was more akin to a mausoleum than an artifact depository. It had been built at a time when, as now, Cymrian lineage was something to be ashamed of, or at least not boasted about. The population of the continent had suffered greatly as a result of the war between Anwyn and Gwylliam, and thus had little tolerance for the descendants of those who had been loyal to the Lord and Lady, and had wreaked so much devastation, not only on themselves but on those around them as well. The museum had been designed without windows for two practicalities. The first was to protect the historical treasures inside from the damages of direct sunlight. The other was to protect them from potential damage caused by resentful vandals.
Casting a glance around at the artifacts now, Stephen could understand the impulse the non-Cymrian population might have to destroy, the impulse the Cymrian descendants might have to hide their lineage. The frowning statues and pieces of Cymrian history had fascinated him since youth, but to another they might seem relics of an era of braggarts, people who had been endowed with powers they didn’t understand and therefore assumed themselves to be divine, godlike. Certainly in the wake of the destruction their once-great civilization had wreaked, resentment was understandable.
Understandable, but sad. Stephen looked at his historical handiwork, the carefully preserved artifacts, the meticulous reproductions of ancient manuscripts, the polished statuary, exhibits that had been lovingly displayed for no one to see. There had been a greatness to the Cymrian Age that none but a historian could appreciate, a spark of genius and excitement, a deep interest in life itself and its possibilities that Stephen had been endowed with since birth, could still feel in his blood, even in the face of all the sadness, and madness, of his existence.
Above his head the stone ceiling thumped, and Stephen started. “Who’s there?” he shouted.
A blue light answered him, filling the stairway at the far end of the tiny building. Stephen turned quickly to one of the weapons displays and snatched up a broadsword, the blade carried by Faedryth, King of the Nain, and left in the Great Moot at the final Cymrian Council. It was said that Faedryth had tossed it into the Bowl of the Moot in disgust, severing his ties and those of his people to the Cymrian dynasty forever, then left with his subjects to lands beyond the Hintervold.
Slowly he approached the stairs, where the light was now billowing in waves from above.
“Who’s there?” he demanded again.
In response the light grew brighter, more hypnotic. Stephen was put in mind of the immense blocks of glass embedded in the walls of the great seaside basilica Abbat Mythlinis in which he worshipped. The glass blocks had been positioned beneath the sea line to allow the water to be seen through the vast temple’s walls. It filled the basilica with diffuse blue light that rolled in waves over the worshippers. He shook his head to clear it and climbed the stairs slowly, silently.
At the top of stairway the copper statue of the dragon Elynsynos glittered in the azure light, its jewels and giltwork sparkling ferociously. Stephen crouched low to the stairs, keeping his cover. Then the light disappeared.
“Hello, Stephen.” The voice, soft and vaguely familiar, came from the far left corner of the room.
Stephen stood straight at the sound of his name, and stepped onto the second floor, the Nain king’s sword in his grip. A figure, cloaked and hooded, was standing in the darkness of the room, looking at the small exhibit on which Stephen had displayed the belongings of Gwydion of Manosse: the man was running his hand gently over the embroidered cloth that dressed the table. His fingers came to rest on the rack of unlit votive candles that stood in front of the display.
“Birthday candles?” The figure’s voice was warm, and held a hint of teasing.
Stephen gripped the sword tighter and raised it slightly. “Memorial votives. Who are you? How did you get in here?”
The man turned to face him. “The second answer first. I got in with the key you gave me.”
Stephen moved closer. “A lie. No one has a key except me. Who are you?”
The cloaked man sighed. “No one living, perhaps.” He reached up and took down his hood. “It’s me, Stephen; Gwydion.”
“Get out, or I’ll summon the guards.” Stephen backed up a step and reached for the banister.
Ashe took hold of the sword’s hilt and pulled it free from its scabbard. Kirsdarke’s blue light roared silently forth, glistening in waves like moving water, illuminating his hair and features, adding a blush of copper to the blue light.
“It really is me, Stephen,” he said softly, adopting a passive stance. “And I do live, thanks in part to your ministrations to me the day you found me on the forest floor.”
“It’s not possible,” Stephen murmured, shock making him go numb. “Khaddyr—Khaddyr couldn’t save you. You died before I returned with him.”
Ashe sighed uncomfortably and ran a hand through his copper curls. “I’m sorry you were lied to, Stephen. There’s no way to explain adequately.”
“You’re damned right!” Stephen shouted, tossing the Nain sword to the floor and wincing as it clattered on the stone. “You’re alive? All these years? What kind of obscene joke is this?”
“A necessity, I fear,” Ashe said gently, though the contortions of pain on the face of his friend twisted his heart and his stomach. “But not a joke, Stephen. I’ve been in hiding.” And you know it, if you are the F’dor’s host yourself, his dragon nature whispered suspiciously.
“From me? You couldn’t trust me? You’ve allowed me to believe all these years that you were dead? Void take you!” Stephen spun angrily and started down the stairs.
“It almost did, Stephen. Sometimes I’m not certain that it didn’t.”
The Duke of Navarne stopped where he stood. He looked back at the shade of his friend, standing in the blue shadows. His eyes ran up the watery blade.
“Kirsdarke,” he said brokenly. “I gave it to Llauron after your—after he told me—”
“I know. Thank you.”
Stephen stepped back onto the second floor, rubbing his hands together awkwardly. “I was afraid to take it, and more afraid to leave it there, with you so grievously injured,” he said slowly, his mind wincing at the image in his memory. “I—we—had always joked about me stealing it from you, after you gained it—”
Ashe dropped the sword and ran to his friend, meeting him halfway across the museum floor in a desperate embrace. Stephen was trembling with shock, and Ashe cursed himself, and his father, again.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, squeezing the duke’s broad shoulder. “I would have told you if I could.”
“May the All-God forgive me for spurning His blessing,” Stephen answered, returning the embrace. He loosed his grip on his friend and walked through the billowing blue light to where the sword lay, bent, and picked it up, handing it to Ashe again. Ashe took it and sheathed it, dousing the light once more.
“Come back with me to the keep,” Stephen said, turning toward the dark stairs. “It’s cold as a witch’s tit in here; we’ll sit before the fire and—”
“I can’t, Stephen.”
“You’re in hiding still?”
“Mostly.” Ashe went back to the corner and looked down at the table again; Rhapsody had once referred to it as a shrine, and he could see why. Aside from the altar cloth and candles it held the last of the possessions that he had been carrying the day he went after the demon: his gold signet ring, a battered dagger, and the bracelet Stephen had given him in their youth, fashioned of interwoven leather braids, torn open on one side. Attached to the wall behind the display was a brass plate, intricately carved and inscribed with his name. His dragon sense noted a lack of tarnish on it compared with the brass plates of the museum’s other displays.
“Why, then? Why do you reveal yourself to me now?”
“Because it’s my birthday?” Ashe said jokingly. His smile resolved into something darker. “I’m no longer hiding as I was these past twenty years; I didn�
�t show my face to anyone, Stephen, even to Llauron, in all that time. Now I’m being very careful about when and to whom to reveal myself. The demon is still looking for me, no doubt. I want to be the one to choose the time when it finds me.”
“I remember hearing sightings of you, years back, and fairly recently, but it was laughed off as rumor and myth.”
Ashe shuddered. “It was neither, I’m afraid. Nor was it me.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“That’s why I came tonight. Yes.”
Stephen smiled for the first time. “I don’t believe that,” he said humorously. “You were undoubtedly just hoping to scrounge a piece of birthday cake and a drink. Come; I can get you into the keep unnoticed. We can go through the stables to the wine-cellar tunnels. Perhaps we’ll pick up something to celebrate your birthday with on the way.”
31
Rhapsody could no longer feel her feet; the stinging snow had numbed them into oblivion. How many days and nights she had been out here she no longer knew, only that her strength was ebbing and her goal was nowhere in sight. She no longer had any idea where she was.
All around her the wind shrieked, and the forest spread forth in a vast, unending pattern; copses of trees and brush melded into identical copses of more trees and brush, until the landscape around her blurred into a white whirl of sickening confusion. Rhapsody was exhausted, and she was lost.
She tried to navigate by the stars, as her grandfather had taught her, but the stars here were foreign to her, even if she could have seen them through the building storm, which blotted out all visibility. The gladiator no longer even tried to awaken; she expended all of her diminishing fire lore keeping him from freezing across the back of the horse.
Finally she could go no farther. She sank onto her knees in the snow, the sharp ice crust jabbing her legs as she fell. Her hair whipped around in the wind, and she watched it dance before her eyes, like branches of a golden tree bowing before the same gale that commanded the flailing arms of the forest. The wind bit at her ears, its howl a fluctuating musical note that spoke of sleep and dark dreams. And something more—there was power in the wind, power she should remember.
Then it came back to her—the Kinsman call Oelendra had taught her. Rhapsody curled up, resting her head on her thighs, and tried to block out the insistent shrieking all around her. Her breath no longer provided her any warmth, and she tucked her hands under her arms so that she could concentrate, searching in the howling roar for the single note that would carry her cry of help to the brethren of the wind. Finally she found it; the clear, quiet tone ringing under the tumult, humming steadily as the wind raged and ebbed.
“By the Star,” she whispered, her voice cracking from the cold, “I will wait, I will watch, I will call and will be heard.” Around her the storm diminished, almost imperceptibly, and the quiet tone rang truer. Rhapsody summoned her strength.
“By the Star,” she sang again, in the words of her birthplace, the language of her childhood, her volume increasing steadily, “I will wait, I will watch, I will call and be heard.” The tone sounded, clear and bright, then whistled down into a humming breath and wrapped itself in the wind, disappearing into the night.
Rhapsody listened as it left, praying that help would come, but her heart reminded her that the star she swore by now lighted the sky over the sea a world away; the place where lived the wind that had answered the call of Kinsmen was long gone beneath the waves. Still, perhaps Oelendra would hear. Just to be sure, she sang her mentor’s name, sending messages of love to her, to the children, to her friends. She did not mention Ashe, for fear he might come.
Time passed, unhurried and unmarkable. The horse shivered and began to walk, trying to stay warm. She made a grab for the bridle and missed, toppling chest-first onto the icy ground. As she pushed herself upright again on her hands she thought she saw the figure of another horse at the edge of her vision, slipping in and out of the black trees at the horizon; then it was gone.
The snow began to harden as the temperature dropped even more, the soft flakes changing to crystals of ice, spraying as gusts of wind kicked up. They stung her face and blinded her; now she could not even see where she was. Rhapsody tried to press forward, walking on her knees, coming alongside the horse. Her father’s face danced before her, calling her name, and warmth began to descend; she knew she was freezing to death.
In the distance she could make out the silhouette of a dark figure standing erect in the changing patterns of swirling iceflakes and, even further at the edge of her disappearing vision, what was probably the horse she had imagined she’d seen. With great effort she raised up onto her knees on the hard crust of the snow, and strained to see better.
The figure seemed to move toward her. It appeared to be a large man and wide, with billowing edges that flapped in the screaming wind. It pressed forward with none of the difficulty she was having. The figure seemed to undulate as it moved; Rhapsody realized this was a result of the violent shivers that had taken over her body. She fought to stay alert, but her mind had already progressed to a stage of fogginess that she could not overcome.
She reached a trembling arm up to touch the horse beside her and felt for the leg of the gladiator; it was still warm beneath its shroud of blanket and cloaks. She blinked repeatedly to stay focused. If the approaching man threatened them, with her last ounce of fire and Naming lore she would spur the horse with heat and order it home. Rhapsody patted the muscular leg in apology, knowing she had failed in her attempt to rescue him, and praying as the darkness began to set in that she had not put him in even a worse place than he had been.
“Rhapsody?” The darkness deepened and ebbed as she struggled for consciousness. She thought she could hear the wind calling her name. Then the snow began to crunch loudly as the figure sped its approach, and she heard her name again as the biting breeze whipped around her ears and echoed throughout her head.
“Rhapsody? Gods, is that you?” The voice was clearer now, and deep; in her diminishing awareness she felt she recognized it, but was unsure from where. It reverberated and expanded, making her head spin. She tried to rise but found she had no dominion over her legs anymore, and, in fact, no feeling in them. She grabbed the horse’s girth and held on, her hip scraping the ground as the animal danced in place at the change in weight.
Then he was upon her, dragging her to her feet and out of the snow. Through the haze of her vision that remained she saw that she was facing a mail shirt of black rings interwoven with silver beneath a flowing black cloak that again seemed familiar, though she was still unable to place it, or even to determine if she was in danger or not. Her perspective swayed again as one of his hands released her upper arm and in a gyration of white snow and black wool she felt his cloak encircle her, touching her numb body with the warmth that a moment before was his own.
“Criton! By the Kin, it is you. What in the name of all that is good are you doing out here? And all but naked? I knew you were dim-witted, but I hadn’t realized you were insane. Or are you suicidal?”
Rhapsody tried to see through her ice-caked lashes, but she couldn’t get a fix on his face. There were patches of light and dark alternating, as if he wore a beard, and his eyes were the same shade of blue as Ashe’s, but without the vertical pupils. He was holding her off the ground in front of him, with arms strong enough to keep her suspended thus without a hint of effort.
She concentrated as best she could on the vibration emanating from him, until a hazy picture formed in her mind of the last time she had seen him. It was in this same place, or very near it; at least, in the place she thought this was. Finally, as the image took shape: Llauron’s brother. Anwyn and Gwylliam’s youngest son. Ashe’s uncle. The soldier who had almost run her down on a forest road the year before. She thought she recalled his name.
“Anborn? Anborn ap Gwylliam?” In her daze she didn’t recognize her own voice, cracked and raspy as a crone’s and shaking audibly.
�
�Yes,” he said, putting his arm under her knees and drawing her frozen feet under the cloak. “It was you that called on the wind? Gods, if I had known you were like this I would have summoned others—healers.”
“No,” she gasped, her voice resisting being discharged from her throat. “Can’t. No one—must know. Please.”
“What’s that?” Anborn asked tersely, nodding toward her horse.
Rhapsody’s teeth were chattering so violently she could barely get the word out. “Gladiator.”
Anborn wrapped the edge of his cloak tighter around her feet and pulled her against his chest, trying to warm her with the heat from his upper body. “You stole a gladiator? From where—Sorbold?” She nodded. “I hope you had a good reason—he’s not for your private entertainment, is he?”
Rhapsody started to shiver uncontrollably as her frozen limbs began to absorb the heat, and her head shook with the rest of her.
“You went into Sorbold, alone, to kidnap a gladiator, dressed like that? Whose brilliant idea was this?” He made a whistling click, and his horse immediately began to canter toward them.
She tucked her hands under her arms again, trying to warm them and keep from jerking with the convulsive spasms that were beginning to take over her body. “Llauron.”
As the horse came up alongside him, Anborn pulled a small saddle blanket that had protected its neck from in front of the saddle. He lifted her onto the horse sidesaddle, and set about wrapping her legs in the saddle blanket. “When you lose both feet to this little venture, please remind me and I’ll go thrash him for you, the fool. What happened? Why are you here?”
Rhapsody’s ears began to ache in the stinging wind as feeling returned to the rims of her lobes. “Reinforcements—never came.”
Anborn looked up at her, regarding her with a thunderous frown on his broad face. From his saddlebag he brought forth a metal flask and held it out to her. “Drink this.” She tried to reach out for it, but her arm trembled so furiously that Anborn reconsidered and held the flask to her lips, bracing her back with his hand. The burning liquid made her choke, and as she coughed some of it spilled over her lips, leaving them even more vulnerable to the bite of the air.
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