She was sharper of feature than he remembered; the softness of her face, which had been burnished to perfection in the cleansing fires that raged within the heart of the Earth itself, through which she had passed on her way to the new world, gone, replaced by an aspect of severity that he did not recognize. And her glorious hair, a part of her he had cherished greatly, had been sawed off, shorn to the nape of her neck, leaving her with the face of a warrior.
She had warned him in an earlier visit through the Lightcatcher of her intention to separate her soul out this way, to wrap it around Meridion so that her love would remain with him as he was hidden away in the Nain kingdom. Her forewarning was a blessing, given that if he had not been alerted ahead of time, the wyrm within him would have rampaged at the sight of her now—stern, emotionless, and distant.
Hollow.
More than anything else, this image haunted him to the point where he had to push it from his consciousness and refill his thoughts with sweeter, older memories, lest the reality of the Present—and possibly the Future—drive him insane.
Ashe reached back again now, lighting on the memory he had been enjoying a moment before, from the trip they had made in the second year of their marriage to visit his family and holdings in Manosse. He opened his eyes again and took in the sight of the docks, now mostly empty of their vessels but brimming with foot traffic, and settled the nagging voice of the dragon again, a voice that had been largely silent during his time in the waves.
He found her easily, glowing in the light of a Manosse morning, smiling at him, laughing in the wind as it blew her long golden hair around her.
And, with that picture firmly fixed in his mind, he ignored the stares of townspeople at his odd clothing as he turned from the docks and made his way as quickly as he could to the city center, where the Council Hall stood.
* * *
The Magisterium of Manosse, the interprovincial body that was made up of representatives from each of the provinces within the vast nation of Manosse, held all of its meetings in the large columned building at the city center of Vlane.
Manosse was, in large part, a rural nation, with many country estates, forests, and conservatories of plants for both agricultural and ceremonial use in the Filidic religion, the faith in which Ashe’s father, Llauron ap Gwylliam, had served in the position of Invoker back on the Middle Continent.
Ashe himself was Chief of the House of Newland, one of the largest and oldest of Cymrian houses, and therefore had many holdings in several of the different provinces that comprised the nation of Manosse. The variety of representation was interestingly diverse, and the numerous consulates that housed the diplomats from those provinces reflected that diversity in their architecture.
Ashe ran past small, tidy houses of one or two stories with blooming gardens that he knew housed Gwadd from the farthest reaches of the nation, small, gentle people who were very often of or descended from the First Generation of Cymrians, that stood next to the towering edifices of the consulates of Seren diplomats, an even older, rarer, and vastly taller race, as well as buildings of every shape and size in between.
His presence was gaining attention, he noted, as he sped by the citizens of Manosse on the carefully cobbled streets of their capital city. Whether it was his speed that caught their attention, his strange attire, or his red-gold hair that shone in metallic tones owing to his dragon ancestry and its dominance in his blood, Ashe neither knew or cared. He was mounting the wide marble stairs of the Council Hall when the interest finally caught up with him in the form of a coterie of armed sentries that appeared at the gated doorways of the Hall.
Armed and drawn.
Ashe stopped mid-stair and put his hands up, elbows bent in a nonaggressive stance.
“I am Gwydion of Manosse, Chief of the House of Newland and Lord Cymrian,” he said quickly, forestalling a demand for the information from the head of the contingent. “I have urgent business with the council.”
The first guard blinked. He turned to a soldier behind him and gave a quick incline of his head; the man ran off through the doorway behind him.
“Well, while I do not doubt your word, sir, and you certainly have the bearing that gives credence to your statement, I have to ask you to wait here until I can confirm your business.”
“I am come from the Wyrmlands, from the Middle Continent—from Traeg,” Ashe said, trying to keep the impatience that was threatening to explode in rage out of his voice. “No one knows that I am here, but if you summon Vincent de Malier o Serendair, he will vouch for me.”
The guards exchanged a glance among themselves.
“Please be so kind as to wait a few moments more,” said the head guard. Ashe nodded curtly, and the soldiers lowered their weapons, though they remained drawn.
After a maddening wait, the doors opened wider, and a man in the red- and gold-banded robes of the consulate stepped through them. Ashe had known he was coming, and so had allowed his rage to cool as it was someone within his acquaintance, a distant relative.
“Lord Ellsworth,” he said. “I must speak with the consulate.”
“Lord Gwydion?” the man asked, shaken. “We—we had no notice of your arrival, m’lord.”
Ashe gestured impatiently at the guards; Ellsworth nodded quickly in agreement, and they dispersed, looking relieved.
Ellsworth started down the stairs as Ashe hurried up them.
“What brings you here, m’lord?” he asked, still shaky. “Is all well with the continent?”
“By no means,” Ashe said, passing him on the stairs. “Please, I don’t mean to be rude, but you must take me before the consulate immediately.”
Ellsworth nodded, struggling to catch up.
“This way,” he called after the hurrying Lord Cymrian, then gave up and ran behind him to the meeting room of the Manossian consulate.
27
The members of the consulate sat up uniformly in alarm as Ashe burst through the double doors of their chamber.
“What—what—” stammered the woman officiating the meeting, a half-Lirin landowner of considerable wealth he recognized as Cecelia Montagne.
“Pardon, Madam Chair,” he said hastily. “I beg pardon for this intrusion, but I bring news of the direst nature.”
Lady Montagne stared at him blankly, then rose in her place, quivering slightly.
“Lord Gwydion?”
“Yes, yes,” Ashe said impatiently.
“Who exactly is this rude oaf?” demanded a whippet-thin, silver-haired gentleman in the livery of Adelhoston, a manufacturing province deep inland. “How dare you, sir—”
“Silence!” thundered another silver-haired gentleman, this one with resplendent muttonchops and a chain of gold around his neck from which dangled a five-pointed star. “Rise, one and all, for we are now in the presence of the Lord Cymrian. I would think you might recognize him; his portrait hangs in the center of the Great Hall of Manosse, and his face is on every coin in this realm.”
Immediately a large portion of the inhabitants of the room rose to their feet, while a few who were clearly not of Cymrian lineage stared at one another in confusion, then stood as well.
The second gentleman came out from behind the table at which the consulate was sitting. Ashe recognized him immediately as the gentleman he had requested to see, Vincent de Malier. He was an elder member of the consulate, and a First Generation Cymrian who had sailed with the Second Fleet, coming to Manosse as a child, where he grew up to establish a well-regarded commerce in furnishings, clothing, and durable goods that were traded around the globe.
And the husband of Rhapsody’s closest friend, Analise, also a First Generation Cymrian, who was now sequestered with their child, hidden away from the sight of the world in the Nain kingdom.
Vincent hurried quickly to Ashe and knelt before him. Ashe took him by the shoulder and brought him to a stand again.
“What are you doing here, m’lord?” Vincent asked nervously. “I was under the impression
you were playing host to my wife at Highmeadow.”
Ashe’s hand remained on the man’s shoulder to steady him. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Vincent, to tell all of you this, but the Middle Continent is at war, and has been for some time.”
“What—” De Malier turned back to the table as the other members of the consulate began speaking to each other in a cacophony of voices. “Be silent! Decorum must be observed immediately; we are in the presence of our sovereign and a visiting head of state.”
From the very end of the table a quiet cough was heard.
Everyone in the room turned in the direction of the sound.
Sitting at the table’s end was a middle-aged man, clearly of Liringlas origin, with long white hair woven into a braid that hung down his back. His eyes were unfocused, cloudy, and Ashe’s dragon sense noted that they were without the capacity for sight. He wore robes of simple gray wool, without ornament, cinched at the waist with a rope of braided flax, a garment Ashe was familiar with. He had seen such robes adorning his wife when she was in attendance at meetings of state in the Lirin realm of Tyrian on the continent, where she ruled as titular queen, but often acted in her other capacity.
As a Namer of Lirin lore.
The woman who was chairing the consulate’s meeting addressed the man. “Yes, Frantius? Do you have a point of order?”
“I do,” said the blind Namer in a soft, clear voice, deep and beautiful of tone. “With respect, a falsehood has been perpetrated in speech, possibly unintentionally.”
“What falsehood?” demanded Vincent testily. “Nothing has even been stated yet.”
“Please elucidate,” said the chair of the consulate to the Namer. “Are you saying that the Middle Continent is not at war?”
Frantia shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m saying that the man who has just come into your presence is in fact not the Lord Cymrian.”
The councillors began to mutter among themselves again.
Vincent de Malier flushed with anger. “Nonsense!” he sputtered, turning in the direction of the Namer. “What you’re saying—”
Ashe squeezed his arm to silence him. “Actually, he’s right, Vincent,” he said quietly. “If you’ll allow me a moment’s grace, I believe I can set everything to rights.”
He released Vincent’s arm and walked slowly over to the end of the table, not wishing to unintentionally intimidate the blind man, coming to a stop at a respectful distance away.
“I am Gwydion ap Llauron ap Gwylliam tuatha d’Anwynan o Manosse,” he said. “By election and coronation I am, in fact, the Lord Cymrian, but I have transferred and left my Right of Command with my namesake back in Roland so that he might continue to prosecute the war in my absence. I have come to make the Second Fleet aware of the atrocities that have been visited upon us by the newly crowned emperor of Sorbold, Talquist Rev-Penthor, and to summon all maritime aid immediately that is not necessary in the defense of your own coastline, which, by the way, has been left far more vulnerable than you can imagine.”
“Wait, wait,” began the thin, silver-haired man that Ashe did not know.
“Hold, please,” said Cecelia Montagne. “We must return to order. Frantius, are you satisfied that this man speaks the truth as to who he is?” The Namer nodded. “Well, that’s a good start. Now, Lord Gwydion, please take a seat. We will get you some refreshment and—”
“There is no time,” Ashe interrupted, struggling to keep the multitoned voice of the dragon at bay. “I’m not here on a visit of state as I was when I met you, Lady Cecelia. I am here to summon the fleets of Manosse in defense of the continent, and to set you to your own defense. Between your lands and the lands of the First and Third fleets, the Wide Central Sea is alive with ships, slavers, merchants, pirates, and warships, all pledged to the same admiral, the emperor of Sorbold. He has been assaulting nations across the globe from Argaut to the distant shores of Myc’lamur beyond the eastern nation of Golgarn, enslaving entire populations to work in his mines, producing arms and armor for a campaign of conquest the like of which the Known World has never seen before. We are at the tip of the spear now, but you will be next.”
“Are you telling us that you wish us to deploy the fleet? To the Middle Continent, half a world away?” demanded the thin, silver-haired man, one of only two in the room who were not of Cymrian lineage. “To engage in battle at open sea and along the coast of the Wyrmlands?”
“Yes—yes.” As the heaviness of the air in the room descended on him, Ashe bent over at the waist, suddenly exhausted.
“Against the newly crowned emperor of Sorbold?”
“Again, yes. And the fleets he has conscripted, either by right or by deception.”
“You must be out of your mind.”
“Lord Lynfalt, you are out of order,” said Lady Montagne reproachfully. “Courtesy is the rule in this consulate.”
“And you must be out of yours, Lynfalt, to speak to the Lord Cymrian in that manner.” Vincent’s eyes were blazing.
“What you have clearly missed, Vincent, is that, in fact, he is not the Lord Cymrian,” said Lynfalt contemptuously. “Did you not hear the Namer or, in fact, the man himself? He has passed his Right of Command on to another. You, sir, are therefore not the sovereign of the Cymrian Alliance, and have no international standing as a head of state. You do not even have the right to enter this council, let alone make demands of it.”
“You are of a younger Manossian House, Lynfalt, and can almost be forgiven for not knowing your Cymrian history, but you would have to be willfully ignorant to not know who Lord Gwydion is just in terms of his Manossian heritage. He is also the Chief of the House of Newland, the Speaker of the Second Fleet, and descended of both Merithyn the Explorer and MacQuieth Monodiere Nagall,” said Vincent de Malier angrily. “And, Madam Chair, if you do not silence this fool I will personally gut him with my teeth, your demand for protocol and courtesy notwithstanding. Lord Gwydion, where is my wife? Is she safe?”
“When I left the continent, she was well out of harm’s way,” said Ashe as calmly as he could. The dragon was rising within his blood, leaving him struggling to maintain the human side of his nature in control. “Until we are back in a place where our words cannot be overheard, I can tell you no more.” Vincent nodded, looking suddenly older.
Ashe turned to address the consulate again.
“I ask you again to hear me,” he said, his voice steady. “Over the past eight seasons, I have sent orders and payment to Manosse and Gaematria for warships that have never arrived. Everything that has been sent from our shores has probably been interdicted, certainly diverted, stolen outright, or compromised in some hideous way. You know none of this, because a great barrier of vessels has been patrolling the central sea, destroying communication between the coasts as well. The man who has just been crowned emperor was, prior to his ascendance to the throne of Sorbold, the Hierarch of the western Mercantile guild, and thereby had immense reach across the world.”
“Indeed,” said Lynfalt. “Manosse has been privileged to do business with Talquist both through the Mercantile of Sorbold, and as a transportation magnate for our goods and services, Lord Gwydion. My province is one of manufacturers, and our goods are transported all over the world through the shipping network Talquist has put together, maintained, and run over the last three decades. We have no complaint with him, and I personally have met him, as have many of the members of this consulate.” He cast a glance at de Malier. “You, in fact, Vincent, have had him as a guest in your home, have you not?”
Ashe looked at the First Generation Cymrian. The man’s eyes were wide and his face stricken.
“Indeed,” he murmured as beads of sweat appeared on his brow. “I have indeed been his host.”
At the utterance of the word host, something in Ashe’s memory turned over suddenly.
“His host? What do you mean by that, Vincent?”
The First Generationer shook his head slightly. “You know my busine
ss, Lord Gwydion,” he said softly. “I entertain merchants and manufacturers from all over the world, and quite often that entails having them as guests in my home. You and your lovely wife have slept beneath my roof; Analise and I were honored to have you visit in that manner also, though it was not for business but because our wives are old friends.”
“Yes, yes.” Ashe’s brain was on fire, trying to make sense of the information that was scattering about in it like pieces to a puzzle, but the solution was eluding him. “Do you remember what his business was when you were his host?”
“I—I don’t rightly recall,” said the elderly Cymrian. “I actually hosted him on a number of occasions. Most of the time he was traveling by himself, but once I remember him bringing along an associate, a seneschal or judge of some sort. An unpleasant fellow; we were glad to be rid of him. His friend, not Talquist. Talquist was always a pleasant guest.”
The word seneschal made the blood in Ashe’s veins run cold.
The last time he had heard it uttered, it was by the mouth of a dead man, his blood wrung from him by Constantin, the Patriarch of Sepulvarta.
A dead man who had been in the employ of the beast that had taken his wife hostage.
A First Generation Cymrian himself, the host of a F’dor demon.
Known in the old world as Michael, the Wind of Death.
“Seneschal—do you remember where he was from?”
Vincent was beginning to shake. “I—I—”
Another man, this one with the characteristic auburn hair of some of the noble families of the Middle Continent, and of clear Cymrian lineage, spoke up.
“Wasn’t that the baron of Argaut, Vincent?” he asked. “I remember dining with you that evening as well, if that is the occasion you are referring to. I try to make it a point not to judge, especially those from cultures other than our own, but I found him quite terrifying, if I recall correctly. There was a—fragrance to him I found unsettling, as well as other characteristics that made me glad when supper was over and I was on my way home again. In particular, I found the attention he gave your wife, Lady Analise, to be most inappropriate and overbearing.” He glanced over at the Lord Cymrian.
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