48
Winter had returned in all its fury by the time the caravan returned to the sheltered courtyard of Haguefort.
Gwydion Navarne watched the carriages arrive from the tall windows above the library; the firelight reflected off the glass in the panes, warming a room that had felt cold for some time. How long, he did not know; he waited anxiously for the doors to open, but the carriage driver took his time, endeavoring to position the coach as close to the steps as possible.
Melisande stood beside him, wrapped in the drapes, dancing impatiently to see the baby.
“Why aren’t they hurrying?” she demanded, pushing in front of her brother again.
Gwydion’s hands came to rest gently on her shoulders.
“They want to keep him as warm and safe as possible,” he said, thinking back to what he had seen in Ghant, and what it portended for the future. His hands gripped her shoulders a little more tightly, as if to hold on to her without worrying her. “I guess that’s the natural impulse with babies—and sisters.” He smiled as reassuringly as he could as Melisande looked up at him, her face contorted in humorous doubt.
They continued to stand at the window and watch as Ashe finally exited the carriage, followed by the shadowy cloaked figure Gwydion recognized immediately as the Bolg king. The coach swayed from side to side for a moment, and to his delight the young duke saw Grunthor step out as well.
“They’re—” His words choked off; Melly had already run from the room. He could hear her footfalls dashing down the steps of the Grand Stair. Gwydion smiled and followed her.
By the time he reached the entranceway of the keep, Ashe had already carried the newborn inside, and had handed him, with an awkward smile, to the chambermaid who had opened the door. The servant took the baby and moved out of the draft as the Lord Cymrian reached through the doorway and assisted Rhapsody over the threshold, where a bevy of other household staff descended upon them, taking cloaks, hats, and winter wear out of the way.
Excitement overran his natural reserve; he dashed across the foyer to the doorway and threw his arms around Rhapsody, whose smile was bright, though her face seemed pale and somewhat drawn. He looked up happily at his godfather, only to see him staring absently over his shoulder at the chambermaid, who was cooing to the baby; a chill went up his spine, though he had no idea why.
Melisande hugged Ashe, oblivious of his preoccupation.
“Can I hold him? Please, please?”
“By all means,” Ashe said quickly. “Portia, please bring the baby to Lady Melisande.”
The chambermaid nodded respectfully, then, seeing the door close behind the Firbolg king, carried the child across the entranceway and put him into the waiting arms of Melisande.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your homecoming,” Gwydion said quietly to Ashe, “but I have a matter of great urgency that I must discuss with you once Rhapsody and the baby are safely settled in. I regret having to impinge this way, but—”
A loud metallic clanking sounded down the corridor in the Great Hall.
The two Firbolg, the Lord and Lady Cymrian, the children of Navarne, and the household staff all looked up to see Anborn appear at the doorway of the hall, standing erect and without his crutches, in the center of the great silver walking machine that had been brought to him from Gaematria.
“Sweet All-God,” Ashe exclaimed. “I thought I’d never live to see this day.”
“May you live to see many such days that you’d never expect to see,” said Anborn seriously.
“What changed your mind, Uncle?”
Anborn exhaled deeply, his eyes going to the bundle in Melisande’s arms that had started to kick.
“The need to be ready for what is to come,” he said seriously. “You and I have need to speak now, Gwydion; your ward may already have told you what he and I have witnessed since we left. I have even worse news to add.” He blinked as Ashe took the baby from Melly, walked over, and offered the baby to him.
“Tarry a moment, Uncle,” Ashe said gently, “and meet your new great-nephew.”
A change came over Anborn’s stern face. He stared at the infant for a moment, then reluctantly reached out and took the infant in his arms, cradling him gently as Rhapsody came over beside him, smiling.
He smiled slightly down at the child for a moment, watching in wonder as the tiny fist curled around his finger. He looked up first at Rhapsody, then at Ashe, and spoke in a voice that was uncharacteristically gentle.
“Well done, my dear, and congratulations, nephew,” he said quietly. “To celebrate this occasion, Gwydion, I am going to stand here for a moment and marvel at this child, allowing you a few final moments of contentment before I tell you what I saw in Sorbold.”
Ashe exhaled deeply. “And I will return the favor by giving you yet a few more moments of happiness before I tell you what has happened to Llauron.”
The two Firbolg looked at each other, then turned away and started toward the door.
“I don’t envy Rhapsody her homecoming,” Achmed said, pulling his cloak around him and preparing to start out into the building storm.
Grunthor cleared his throat as he opened the door.
“Yeah, well, sir, Oi don’t especially envy you yours, either.”
The Bolg king’s eyes narrowed as he glanced back over his shoulder.
“What now?”
“Well, if ya thought that the ‘birthday party’ we had while you were gone the last time left a mess, wait until ya see the one that’s waiting for you when you get back this time, sir.”
Achmed sighed in annoyance. “Hrekin.”
“Actually, sir, that’s right. And lots of it.”