The Lord Marshal examined his shoulder as Rhapsody laughed.
“Perfect,” Anborn declared. “Well done, Meridion—a fulsome sound, grand degree of volume, and no residual aftereffect. Good use of resources when you keep it all down like that. An excellent student—you may redeem your wretched father’s reputation after all.” He took the little boy back into his hands, watching him intently.
“Were you the one to teach Ashe to burp as an infant?”
Anborn shook his head, but he didn’t take his eyes off Meridion.
“At the time of Gwydion’s birth, his father and I were still enemies. Llauron didn’t marry until long after the war was over—he had gone to Tyrian in an attempt to mend fences with the Lirin by proposing a marriage of state to Terrell, their queen at the time—only my misbegotten brother would think such an offer would be taken as flattering after bringing so much destruction upon them, involving them in a war they should have stayed out of. Terrell refused—at least one Lirin queen has had the good sense to stay far away from this family. Eventually he married the woman to whom he was betrothed before the war—she was foolish enough to have him after being forced to wait seven hundred years. Then she died giving birth to his son. A terrible shame, really.”
“So when did you get to know Ashe?”
Anborn smiled slightly as the baby drifted off to sleep in his hands. “That name always gives me pause, for to me he has always been Gwydion. He was the equivalent of eleven or so—I’ve lost track of his numerical age, as Wyrmkin all grow at different rates. By then my brother’s and my enmity had settled into indifference, mostly, and I have avoided the Circle since my own childhood, so I did not see Gwydion as an infant or a young child much, except on occasions of state—Shrike actually spoke to him more often than I did during those days when he was little.” Anborn’s voice faltered slightly at his mention of his longtime friend and man-at-arms, who had died in an attack on Rhapsody’s own carriage escort. “But Gwydion was great friends with Stephen Navarne, and Stephen’s father was a favorite comrade-in-arms of mine, so one day I tripped over him, quite literally, at Haguefort. I gave the two boys some early training in the sword, and other important areas—spitting, cursing—Gwydion had a remarkable aptitude for that, being a dragon—”
“Yes, I’ve noticed.”
“He was actually quite a pleasant and interesting young man, respectful, modest and easygoing, with a ready laugh and willingness to learn anything in which instruction was being offered, though it was also clear that he was somewhat lonely, understandable for a boy growing up motherless and with a father who was self-absorbed. I was gruff with him, but he didn’t seem to mind, though I confess to some regret about the way I treated him then. When he was a little older, fourteen or so, I believe, he came into a phase of melancholy; the cheerful boy was replaced by a solemn, often sad young man. I have no idea what happened to cause that, but he remained so into adulthood.”
The smile vanished from Rhapsody’s face. She knew the reason.
She turned away to prevent the Lord Marshal from noticing, but he was still enthralled with the infant.
“At any rate, I had them both, Gwydion and Stephen, and that weasel-meat, Tristan Steward, in my regiment when they were older, with a few of his other friends—the Baldasarre brothers, Ian Steward, Andrew Canderre and the like. I have even greater regrets for my treatment of him then. Family favoritism is something I could never abide, especially when I was a young soldier and the unwilling beneficiary of my father’s nepotism, so I made a great effort not to let it come into my command of Gwydion, perhaps to an unfair level, but he excelled in spite of my somewhat abusive treatment and criticism. I gave him some very onerous tasks, and some miserable nicknames, but he never complained.”
“Ah, yes, ‘Useless’?”
“That was actually from when he was younger. The later ones I would hesitate to mention in front of a lady.” Anborn chuckled as Meridion began to make suckling motions with his mouth, his eyes still closed in slumber.
“I think we are going to have to call him ‘Insatiable, son of Useless,’” he said fondly.
“Wouldn’t the Cymrian nomenclature for that be ‘Insatiable ap Useless’?”
“Indeed.”
Rhapsody laughed as her son scowled and began issuing forth loud sucking noises. “His mouth is always moving in his sleep. In the rare moments during the day he isn’t actually nursing, he’s dreaming of it, it seems.”
“Of course he is. No man of any age, in or out of his right mind, would ever pass up a chance to have his lips cemented to your breast, my dear,” Anborn said pleasantly, still watching the baby. “I am often undertaking the same pastime in my own dreams.”
“I am so glad to know that my newly minted motherhood has not changed your willingness to say crudely amusing things to me, Lord Marshal,” Rhapsody said, humor in her voice. “I would hate to think you might have falsely gained a new restraint—it would make life boring.”
“It was meant as a compliment.”
“Of course.”
Finally the Lord Marshal looked at her. “Sincerely—I did not mean to be vulgar, just truthful.”
“And believe me, it’s appreciated,” Rhapsody said lightly, hoping to leaven the awkwardness that had crept into the moment. “I often wonder if my lack of endowment in that area is contributing to my son’s constant demand—perhaps he is underfed because the storage tanks are so small, an explanation Grunthor offered at one point. At least your observations are kind; Achmed’s and Grunthor’s are insulting.”
Anborn exhaled, and his gaze returned to the baby.
“Did you ever discuss the prospect of marriage with either of them? Or both?”
“Goodness, no,” Rhapsody blurted. Her face colored as Anborn looked at her again. “With Grunthor, much as I love him, it would literally be suicide. Though I did once raise Achmed as a potential mate when Ashe asked me about it long ago. He was rather nauseated by the thought, as I recall.”
“Rightly so,” Anborn agreed.
Rhapsody hesitated, then decided whatever was unspoken needed to be heard. “Is there a particular reason you ask?”
The Lord Marshal was silent for a moment. “I am just remembering a particularly fine day, and a particularly fine lunch, on a balcony in Tyrian where you and I discussed the same prospect. It was a perfect afternoon, with the exception of a line of imbeciles who had come to sue for your hand on the other side of the wall around Newyd Dda, hooting like a crowd at a bloodsport arena,” he said. “Uncomfortable or nauseating as it may be for you to recall it, it is one of my most cherished memories.”
Rhapsody inhaled, then let out her breath pensively.
“Why would you think it would be uncomfortable, much less nauseating, for me to recall it? Other than the imbeciles, I mean—that nonsense went on for months, so it is its own nauseating memory. Why would you think the memory of our first lunch together would be upsetting to me?”
Anborn tilted the baby slowly back and forth in his hands, rocking him.
“Is it not?”
“No,” said Rhapsody flatly. “At least it wasn’t uncomfortable until just now. And certainly even now it isn’t nauseating. I remember enjoying that lunch, and that conversation. You have been one of the easiest people I know to talk to, Anborn—that afternoon, and always. It’s one of the things I cherish the most about you. If you have something to say to me, please speak it plainly. My brain is addled these days from the constant demands of an infant, missing my husband, being back in Ylorc where I am still considered a fresh source of wasted food, and the buildup to a war which terrifies me. I am grateful for plainspokenness, and you are usually the master of it.” She thought for a moment. “And, if I’m being completely truthful, as I always try to be, I remember now that I also discussed Achmed as an alliance marriage with Oelendra, after I told her what I had suggested to you.”
“That’s right; I recall you did go off to speak to her after that lu
nch,” Anborn said. “I believe I walked with you there.” He moved Meridion into the crook of his arm; the child fit perfectly between his wrist and elbow with the padding of his blankets. Then Anborn scratched his head with his other hand. “I was touched and impressed that you spoke to me about the possibility of our marriage before you shared it with even your closest friends and confidantes. Oelendra advocated for Achmed over me, I presume?”
“She actually advocated for Ashe—er, Gwydion—over both of you.” Anborn nodded, still not meeting her eyes, and Rhapsody felt her throat begin to tighten. “Please tell me what you are thinking,” she said. “You’re breaking my heart, and I don’t even know why.”
The Cymrian hero said nothing for a long time, just rocked his great-nephew in the crook of one arm while Rhapsody fought back tears. Finally he turned to her, and his searing blue eyes were gleaming, but the look in them was mild.
“I’m sorry, m’lady,” he said simply. “When events of great portent come to pass—the birth of this beautiful child, a new generation in our troubled but powerful family, the buildup to war in which I am again serving as Lord Marshal, which I have not done since the Cymrian era, my brother’s Ending, even the miraculous return of the use of my legs—I have always had a propensity to become contemplative; others might call it brooding, but really it’s not. I go back over my old memories; it’s probably the way the wyrm in my blood manifests itself, and you may not recognize it, because Gwydion’s dragon nature is so much more a part of him than mine is of me. And when I go through the things I’ve said, the things I’ve done, I try to set things to rights, to answer any old, outstanding questions, make amends, whatnot, for things I have left in chaos, or unspoken, undone. A habit born out of longevity that borders on immortality; there are only so many things that you can carry around in your brain on a to-do list when your life is counted in millennia, not years.”
“I can imagine,” Rhapsody said.
Anborn laughed, but his eyes regarded her seriously. “Forgive me, but I don’t believe you can, not yet, my dear, you are far too young still.” he said. “But one day you will—one day you will have to, given your longevity is bound to be even greater than mine. And then, on that day, you will understand what you really cannot imagine now. And if I am still around, I will come to you, and comfort you in your understanding—because you will need comforting.”
“So what has you contemplating our—our almost marriage?” Rhapsody asked. Before the words were even voiced she regretted opening her mouth.
Anborn smiled.
“Passing on it—asking you to let me out of the arrangement—is perhaps the only selfless, altruistic thing I have ever done,” he said.
“I don’t believe that.”
The Lord Marshal shrugged. “Believe what you like; it’s my assessment that matters, and as far as I am concerned, having taken stock of my memories, at least the ones I have chosen to keep, that’s it; that’s the only one.”
“And it’s something for which I have never thanked you properly,” Rhapsody said quietly, her face reddening. “You were more aware of my feelings than I was at the time; you knew I was in love with Ashe, even when I couldn’t admit it. It was such a confusing time, full of lies and misinformation. Had you not asked for release from our bargain, I would never have built a life with the other half of my soul. I wouldn’t have Meridion. You once pledged your life to me, Anborn—truly, we need to reverse that pledge, for I owe everything I have found in this world to you.”
“Stop that,” the Lord Marshal commanded. “The value of altruism, of selflessness, dims when one seeks or accepts such thanks. You’re welcome. Thank you for returning to me the use of my legs. There; we’re even. Now, can you put aside what you have gained from my decision for a moment and explore some other possibilities with me, just for discussion’s sake?”
Rhapsody blinked. “I—I guess so. I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Let us both acknowledge that we are happy in the way things turned out for you in your marriage, your choice of spouses.” Rhapsody nodded. “I wonder what you think life would have been like for us if I, in fact, had not given in to altruism, and had acted on the impulse of my baser nature, which has always been my default. I will make the question simple for you, Rhapsody: do you think you would even have gone through with it at all, or would good sense have held sway?”
“If I had not married Ashe, would I still have married you?”
“That’s a start, yes.”
“Of course,” Rhapsody said haltingly. “I would not have broken our bargain.”
“Well, that’s a good start then,” Anborn said. “And, had this come to pass, do you think we would have achieved the companionable, though loveless, marriage that we planned for, with my freedom unhampered and your suitors frightened off by the reputation of your husband, or, because it is clearly not what the All-God, or the Fates, or the Universe, or whatever other bloody thing is controlling our destiny wanted for us, would it have ended up as most of these marriages of convenience do—like Tristan Steward and his Lady Nightmare, or Anwyn and Gwylliam, or even Estelle and me?”
“Why are you asking me something I can’t possibly have any knowledge of?”
The Lord Marshal smiled again, but this time it was rueful.
“Perhaps I am just torturing myself in preparation for war,” he said. “When one contemplates something as impossible as saving a continent, it’s good to know that there is something worth saving. Or maybe I need to clean out the closets that once held unrealistic dreams, because I have no excuse to have such things or the space in which they are stored anymore. Or perhaps because you are the only Lirin Namer I know, and I want a knowledgeable observation, an opinion, rather than a prophecy from a mad Seer which would ruin my life in trying to figure it out. Or—maybe I just want to know if what I sacrificed mattered anyway; if it were to turn out to be a horror, I didn’t really miss out on much. Humor me—tell me what you think. It’s just a harmless question—what if?”
Rhapsody sat back in her chair and watched him as he stood, then delivered Meridion to the cradle, covering him carefully with a blanket and patting him affectionately, to return a moment later to his chair. For the first time since he had come into the room, he gave her his complete attention.
“‘What if?’ is usually not a harmless question,” she said. “It’s an impossible question, because the true answer can never be known.”
“There is no true answer; I’m just wondering what you think. I promise to hold you to nothing, because I understand the strictures of being a Namer. I can also promise I will not reveal anything you say to anyone else, nor will I torment you with its repetition. I just want to know what you think.”
Rhapsody closed her eyes. She pushed aside the tension of the feelings that had been mounting, recognizing Anborn’s hypothetical query as being something antithetical to the attitude of a Namer, but reasonable from his perspective as an answer to whatever was clearly plaguing his mind. She considered his question, taking her time to sort through the layers of it, then opened her eyes. When she did, they were gleaming calmly.
“Very well,” she said, “here’s my opinion.”
Anborn sat forward in his chair.
“First, all those forces you named that are supposedly controlling our lives don’t give a roasted rat’s damn about who we marry and what we do,” she said. “At least not the way you specified. We control our own destiny. If the alternative of our marriage would not have been as favorable as the one I actually have, it doesn’t mean we would have been made to suffer by some faceless entity for not getting it ‘right.’”
Anborn nodded, pleased.
“Second, you and I could never—let me repeat this for emphasis—never—be Gwylliam and Anwyn, or Tristan Steward and his hateful spouse. We would only be ourselves, as we are. And while you rode away with a faceful of mud from our first encounter, and I was called a ‘freak of nature’ and threatened with the prospect o
f seeing your horse’s new shoes close up if I didn’t get out of your way, I actually do not believe the interaction within our marriage would have been even the slightest bit unpleasant.”
Anborn chuckled, amused by the reminder of their first meeting. “Not even the slightest? If I recall, you accused me loudly of being buggered by my own horse. Come now, my dear—”
“Do you want my opinion or not?”
The Lord Marshal bowed his head humorously and yielded the floor back to her.
“I am so glad that I have come to know you now, at this point in your life, not in your youth, or during the Cymrian War, or in its aftermath. I have come to like the experienced you very much, and I’m not sure I would have liked you at all when you were younger. I am also especially glad that you did not know me in an earlier time, either; I expect you would have had nothing to do with me had you met me then.”
“I doubt that, Rhapsody.”
“Doubt it, or doubt it not. It doesn’t matter. You and I are no longer works in progress, but adults now. Had things been different, had we gone ahead with our alliance marriage, I believe at least most of the conditions we laid out in that lunch meeting would have been fairly easily upheld. You would have had your freedom, and so I imagine the arguments or conflicts that might arise when two people who aren’t in love marry would be nullified just because if things got to the edge of unpleasant, you would have saddled up and ridden away. It’s hard to maintain anger when someone is gone, at least for me. I would have found myself missing you, and glad to see you once you came home again.”
A small smile took up residence on his face. “Well, you have just proven yourself correct about not being like Estelle.”
“We agreed not to have children—” Rhapsody’s voice caught in her throat; she coughed. “Now that I have Meridion, I cannot imagine life without him. But, pragmatically, if I vowed that to you, I would not have tried to change your mind. All the things about not embarrassing each other or harming the people of Tyrian, I can’t imagine that would have been a problem.”
The Merchant Emperor (The Symphony of Ages) Page 15