“I am sorry to disappoint you,” she said, following his retreat. “If it’s sodomy you’re longing for, I’d be happy to oblige. Roll a little to one side.” She waved the sword at him threateningly, then sensed its harmonic vibrations suddenly jolt. She felt shame; in her fury she was taunting him while he was compromised. It was unseemly behavior for a Kinsman, and the Iliachenva’ar.
“Hold still, and I will end it quickly,” she said in a kinder tone. She raised the sword, pointing it at his throat.
Suddenly from the back of the room she heard a roar. She barely had time to roll clear of the wall of flame that leapt between her and her bleeding enemy. Out of the floor an inferno of black fire had risen, smoking with the same hideous stench that burned in his blood. The wall of heat and flame climbed as high as the top of the altar, surrounding her on all sides. Rhapsody was powerless to break through. This was not natural fire; it hissed and snarled with an evil intent that was tangible, and on the other side of the burning wall Rhapsody could see hasty movement.
She summoned her lore around her like a cloak and was preparing to broach the fire when it vanished. The two assassins were gone. The Patriarch, still chanting in a wavering whisper, was almost at the conclusion of his rite.
Rhapsody remained standing respectfully, breathing shallowly, still drawn, until the cleric finished. As he descended from the altar and came down the steps to her, she sat down, rubbing her fingers over her bruised throat. Her head throbbed as her body slowly began to recognize the pain it had bought as a result of the fight.
The Patriarch’s voice shook with alarm. “Child! My child! Are you all right?” He was quaking so violently Rhapsody feared he would pitch down the altar steps.
“Yes, Your Grace, I’m fine,” she said, struggling to her feet and holding out both hands to the frail old man. She steadied him; his eyes were wide with concern, but seemed without fear.
“Let me see your throat,” he said, pulling the collar of her jerkin aside and examining the swelling purple marks. “You look terrible.”
Rhapsody winced as his fingers brushed her neck. “Yes, but he looks worse, and that’s what counts.”
The Patriarch cast a glance around the basilica. “Where did he go?”
She was leaning over now, breathing slowly, trying to control the mounting pain. “I don’t know. He turned tail and ran, with help from his ugly friend.”
“Friend?”
“Yes, there was another one, wearing a horned helmet. I’m fairly sure he was the one that called the fire.”
“Fire? I can’t believe I missed all this. I heard the roar, but by the time the rites were over, the only thing left here was you. Protecting me has cost you dearly. It might have cost your life.”
Rhapsody was touched by the anxiety on his face. She gave him a comforting smile. “That you weren’t distracted is as it should be, Your Grace; it means we both were attending to our duties. You were able to successfully complete the ritual?”
“Oh, yes. The High Holy Day celebration is complete. The year is safe, and, with the All-God’s help, this time next year another will be in my place. I can go peacefully now. Thank you, my dear, thank you. If not for you, I—” He was staring at the floor, his mouth opening and closing silently, no words coming forth.
Rhapsody patted his hand. “It was my honor to stand as your champion, Your Grace.” The doors of the basilica opened, and cacophony swept in, as guards, soldiers, acolytes and townspeople rushed to check on the Patriarch. As the mob swarmed into the basilica, Rhapsody sheathed her sword and knelt down before the cleric.
“I’ll guard the office in the ring for you, Your Grace, until there is another in your place. Pray for me, that I may do so wisely.”
“I have no doubt that you will,” said the old man, smiling down at her. He rested his hand on her head, asking a blessing in Old Cymrian, the sacred language of his religion. Rhapsody hid her smile, remembering the last times she had heard the tongue used in the old land. What were now mystical holy words were once the vernacular of cursing guards and the advertisements of prostitutes, they had been screeched by bickering fishwives and slurred by drunkards. Yet pronounced now, solemnly and with awe, they were as meaningful to her as any Lirin song. Finally, his last blessing was a simple statement that she had heard attributed to the Ancient Seren as a child.
“Above all else, may you know joy.”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling. She rose, with some difficulty, bowed, and prepared to take her leave. As she turned to go, the Patriarch touched her shoulder.
“My child?”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“When the times comes, would you, perhaps, consider—” His voice trailed off into awkward silence.
“I’ll be there if I can, Your Grace,” she said softly. “And I’ll bring my harp.”
28
Madeleine Canderre, Lord Cedric Canderre’s daughter, was the sort of woman genteel people often described as “handsome.” Her face was pleasant enough, its features correctly balanced into the perfect aristocratic aspect that only centuries of exclusive breeding could produce. The skin of that face was dewy and fashionably pale, the eyes a famous shade of hazel. The hue was an allowable variant on the traditional azure blue or aquamarine of the Cymrian royal and noble lines.
While the color of those eyes was attractive, the shape of them, and the expression they usually held, was not particularly so. Small and closely set, Madeleine’s eyes routinely seemed to be conveying displeasure. Perhaps this was because, as a rule, she was routinely displeased.
That displeasure was more than slightly evident this morning, even as she sat in her carriage, preparing to return to her father’s lands. Tristan Steward sighed. He had come down to bid her goodbye an hour before, and still she was here, methodically listing all the problems that needed to be worked out before that auspicious moment a few months hence when she would join herself, inexorably, to every aspect of his life for Time Immemorial. The idea was causing him to grow more nauseated by the moment.
“I still don’t understand why you won’t go to Sepulvarta and see the Patriarch yourself,” Madeleine whined, rifling through the many pages of her list of notes. “Surely he will make an exception and marry us; after all, you are the only Prince of the highest House in all of Roland. What could possibly be more important, Tristan?”
“I believe the man is dying, dearest,” Tristan answered as patiently as he could. Would that the same could be said—he thought bitterly.
“Nonsense. Word all over is that he just survived an assassination attempt in the basilica on the High Holy Day. If he’s hale enough to live through his own murder attempt, he can stand in front of the altar, perform the Unification ritual and bless the most important marriage in the land.”
Tristan swallowed angrily. He, of course, was familiar with the news, but from different sources, and for different reasons. The Patriarch’s rescuer had been a slight, slender woman, according to the gossip among the prostitutes who serviced his guards, or so Prudence had said. A woman with the face of an angelic spirit, with the warmth of a raging fire in her green eyes. He had no doubt there could only be one.
“I’ll consider it, Madeleine,” he said curtly, snapping the carriage door shut. He leaned in through the open window and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Leave your list with the chamberlain, and I’m sure he’ll see to your other concerns. Now, travel well. We don’t want to keep your father waiting; you know how he worries.”
Tristan turned his back, too late to miss the shock that flooded his fiancée’s face, and gestured to the quartermaster, who whistled to the coachman. The carriage lurched forward, Madeleine’s startled expression visible only a moment longer before the coach jolted away out of view.
“I thought you were never going to come.”
“Prophetic words, no doubt. Once I’m married I can assure you that I never will again, at least in the manner I do with you.”
Prudence tossed a
pillow at the Prince, smacking him squarely in the chest. “It’s not too late,” she said, smiling. “Madeleine’s finger is still ringless, as is her neck. Wring one and not the other.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
The gentle smile faded from Prudence’s face. “Stop whining, Tristan. If you can’t stomach the thought of spending the rest of your life with that—woman, grow a spine and break the engagement. You’re the bloody Lord Roland. Nobody’s forcing you to marry her.”
Tristan sat heavily on the edge of his massive bed, and began pulling off his boots.
“It’s not that simple, Pru,” he said. “The marital pool from which I can draw is very limited. Lydia of Yarim had promise, but she also had the very bad taste to fall in love with my cousin Stephen Navarne and marry him; lost her life in the process.”
A painful shock ran up his spine to his neck as Prudence’s foot connected with his back.
“An ugly thing to say, Tristan, and beneath you, even when you’ve spent a month with Poisonous Madeleine and are toxic as a result. Lydia was killed in an unexplained incursion, as so many others have been over the years. It could happen to anyone; it does all the time, in fact. To imply that Stephen was in any way at fault—”
“All I’m saying is that it is ridiculous for a duchess to be traveling with so small a contingent, in pursuit of a pair of baby shoes for Lady Melisande. I didn’t say Stephen was at fault. I just think he could have taken better care of his family, of the woman he loved.”
“Hmm. Well, what about that Diviness in the Hintervold—what was her name? Hjorda?”
Tristan dropped the other boot to the floor and began to unlace his trousers. “Not Cymrian.”
“So? I thought all you needed in your fiancée’s background was royalty, nobility, or even landed gentry. The Diviner is royalty in the Hintervold. What difference does it make if his daughter is Cymrian or not? That might actually work to your advantage, given what most of the population thinks about you Cymrians, no offense.”
Tristan rose and slid his trousers off, then turned to face her. She was propped against the gauzy white pillows, beneath the drapes of royal blue velvet that hung about his bed. Her strawberry ringlets cascaded over the shoulders he noticed had grown bonier with time, as age stretched her skin and reapportioned her flesh from the silhouette of a young girl into the shape of an older woman. It was a sight that never failed to make his throat tighten with many emotions, none of them pleasant. He looked out the window.
“Madeleine is the daughter of the duke of Canderre and the cousin of the duke of Bethe Corbair,” he said, staring at the fields beyond the courtyard, ripe and green in the heat of summer. “Stephen Navarne and I are cousins. Once we are wed, I will have family ties to every province in Roland except Avonderre.”
“So? Why is that important? You’re the Lord Regent now without it.”
“I want to be prepared, in case there is a call to reunite the provinces of Roland under a Lord Cymrian again. There are those who feel it might be a way to end the violence that is plaguing the realm from the coast to the Bolglands, and in Tyrian and Sorbold as well. There might be a call.”
Prudence rolled her eyes and sighed. “There might be a call to have the sky painted yellow, too, Tristan, but I wouldn’t saddle myself with a woman who is the stuff of nightmares in anticipation of it if I were you.”
The Lord Roland smiled in spite of himself, and pulled his long tunic off, dropping it to the floor on top of the pile of rumpled clothing. “Madeleine’s not that bad, Pru.”
“She’s as cold as a war-hag’s tit, and twice as ugly. And you know it. Open your eyes, Tristan. See clearly what you are enrolling in, and for what purpose. Whoever you marry will become Cymrian just by virtue of being your wife, may the All-God help her. It’s not as though the line is pure, anyway. Marry someone who will make you happy, or at least who won’t make your life a misery. If you are so lucky as to become Lord Cymrian, or king, or whatever, no one will care who she was, just who she is now.”
The clarity of her words loosened the muscles in Tristan’s forehead, which had been clenched from the moment he had heard of Madeleine’s arrival. There was wisdom in Prudence’s words, as there always was.
He tore off his knee-length undergarments and grabbed the coverlet, tossing it and the satin counterpane aside, then swept Prudence up in his arms. The warmth of her skin felt comforting against his chest. He had missed her this last month.
“I think I should behead Evans and make you my chief counselor and ambassador,” he said, his hands sliding down her back and clutching her buttocks. “You’re infinitely wiser. And far more beautiful.”
Prudence shuddered comically. “I should certainly hope so. Evans is seventy if he’s a day.”
“Indeed. And he doesn’t have exquisite golden hair.” The Lord Roland ran his hand down her locks, tangling his fingers in her ringlets.
Prudence broke free from his embrace and sat back, pulling the covers up over her breasts.
“Neither do I, Tristan.”
“Of course you do,” he stammered, lightheaded, his stomach suddenly turning cold. “Red blond, I meant. It’s sort of gold.”
“Spare me,” she said, looking out the window. “You’re thinking of her again.”
“I was not—”
“Stop. Don’t you dare lie to me, Tristan. I will not be played for a fool. I know who you’re thinking of, and it isn’t me.” Prudence smoothed the sheet over her legs. “And I don’t mind, by the way. I just want you to be honest about it.”
Tristan sighed. He stared at Prudence for a long moment, his expression flickering between guilt for the hurt he knew he had caused her, and amazement that she was always so willing to forgive him any transgression. In his life there would never again be anyone who accepted him so unconditionally, fully cognizant of his faults, loving him nonetheless.
When he saw a hint of a smile creep back into her eyes he pulled down the covers, carefully this time, and slid into the bed beside her. Gently he drew her into his arms, bringing her head to rest on his shoulder.
“I really don’t deserve you, you know,” he said, something approximating humility in his voice.
“Yes, I know,” she said, her face buried in his chest. It was smooth and broadly muscled, humming with the youth and vitality that Tristan’s Cymrian heritage had bequeathed him, along with an extended life expectancy that Prudence herself would not enjoy.
“There is something I want you to do for me.”
Prudence sighed and lay back on the pillow. “What?”
The Lord Roland lay back as well, staring at the ceiling. This was so much easier at night, after lovemaking, the time they usually discussed his obsession with Rhapsody. Then the darkness cloaked the room, held in by the bed curtains, keeping any decent feelings of shame at bay, allowing him the candor he would have had with his confessor, had he been able to talk to one.
But where the royal rank had its privileges, it also had its curses. The only clergyman of suitable station to hear his crimes and channel his prayers for absolution to the Patriarch, other than the Patriarch himself, was his bother, Ian Steward, the Blesser of Canderre-Yarim. It was becoming more and more likely that Ian would be performing the Unification Blessing of the marriage ritual, Madeleine’s wishes notwithstanding. As a result he was left with no other confidant to hear his adulterous thoughts than the servant woman in his bed, his childhood friend, his first lover. The only person in the world he was certain he loved.
He covered his eyes with his forearm, affording himself some dimness in the absence of the night.
“I want you to go to Canrif—er, Ylorc, as the Firbolg call it.” He could hear Prudence exhale beside him, but she said nothing. “I want you to deliver the Firbolg king’s wedding invitation—and, uh, the one for his emissary.”
“Emissary? Come now, Tristan, surely you can do better than that.”
“All right! Rhapsody. Are you happy now? I want you to t
ake the invitation personally to Rhapsody. Gauge her reaction. If she seems open to it, try and get her to come back with you to Bethany, or to at least come soon, so that I can see her once, alone, before I throw my future away, before I wed the Beast of Canderre.”
“For what purpose, Tristan?” Prudence’s voice was soft, without a hint of accusation. “What do you hope to gain?”
He sighed again. “I don’t know. I only know that if I don’t I will live in agony for the rest of my life, wondering what she might have said. Wondering if there had been a chance that I never took, that I never even knew about.”
Prudence sat up in the tangle of sheets and pulled his arm away from his eyes.
“A chance for what? Do you love her, Tristan?” Her dark brown eyes searched his face, interested but otherwise expressionless.
He looked away. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s more—more—”
“Desire?”
“Something like that. An overwhelming, inexplicable need. Like she is a bonfire in the depths of winter. It’s like I’m wandering, shirtless, in the snow, and have been since I first beheld her. You’ve been right about my attraction to her all along, Prudence. I lost my head and committed a full brigade of my own soldiers to a grisly death rather than let her walk away from me. And, if you can believe this, she doesn’t even know it; at least that’s what the Firbolg king said.
“You knew better, of course, Pru, but I couldn’t let myself believe you. Poor Rosentharn had orders to bring her back with the army when the Firbolg were crushed.” He blinked rapidly at the memory of the Firbolg warlord, sitting on the edge of this very bed, playing with the crown of Roland like a child’s toy, calmly dispensing the news of the slaughter of Tristan’s army.
Prophecy Page 36