Shrike was a practical man. He could see them all, the elite of the ambassadorial game: Abercromby and Evans, Gittleson, Bois de Berne, Mateaus and Syn Crote, the favored representatives of all the Orlandan and Sorboldian regents and benisons, each of whom had undoubtedly given their emissaries the same instructions. The representatives from Sorbold and the Nonaligned States were there, a few weeks ahead of the emissaries from the Hintervold and other distant lands. The two religious leaders of the continent, The Invoker of Gwyn-wood, head of the Filidic order, and the Patriarch of Sepulvarta, the leader of the Patriarchal faith who had dominion over the benisons, had each sent representatives as well.
The news of the Firbolg king had spread far and wide in a very short time. There was some wisdom in hanging back, listening to the scuttlebutt from the ones who had won the shoving match to be the first in. They would be patently unable to refrain from gossiping about the sights they beheld and the deals they made; there were, after all, bragging rights as much among ambassadors as there were among benisons and lords. The game of pecking order and self-importance did not interest Shrike. Information did.
In the end, Shrike knew, it was the entrée into Canrif that mattered. Any king crafty enough to engineer the defeat of a full brigade of Roland’s warriors, led by the late great Rosentharn, Knight Marshal, would have already arranged for the emissaries to see what he wanted them to see and take away with them the impression he wanted them to have. A better strategy, perhaps, was to learn these things by word of mouth, and use his time in the chambers of Ylorc to observe what might not be on the agenda. Even the smallest detail might be useful to his master. He did not expect to discover anything consequential, because Shrike was a practical man.
“I can’t stand this anymore, I am bored out of my gourd. Good night.” Jo stood and slid her dagger back into his wrist sheath.
“Go ahead,” said Achmed, checking the list. “There are only a few more.” He had entertained twenty-seven representatives from various heads of state and the church, only two of which he had wanted to see; his gourd was numb, too.
“You keep yer ’ands outta those presents, now,” warned Grunthor with a twinkle in his amber eyes. “ ’Is Majesty gets to look through ’em first.”
Jo scowled. “You know, I liked it a lot better before you were king, Achmed.” She strode out of the Great Hall and back to her chambers.
Achmed sighed. “So did I.”
3
The morning following their argument the interaction between the traveling companions was easier, less strained, than it had been in weeks. Rhapsody was at a loss to explain why, finally deciding that what had erupted was mutual suspicion that had been brewing over the course of their journey, unspoken until the night before.
It was odd; he had drawn on her, she had insulted him, and here they were, feeling more comfortable than they had since they had left Ylorc, almost like breaking a fever. Being around the Bolgs is making me strange, she thought with an amused sigh. The appalling behavior of the men in her acquaintance, over i which her brothers would have felt the need to defend her honor, was now routine. All her male friends were rude to her.
Perhaps that was what she liked about Ashe. Unlike the other human men she knew, he treated her like a friend, or even a politely disinterested acquaintance. He was not constantly aroused; the detection of amorous intentions was a skill she had learned from Nana, the proprietor of the brothel in which she had lived in Serendair, and it served her well. She had come to realize that men existed in a state of almost permanent arousal, with a few exceptions. Ashe was one of them. He treated her in a friendly, teasing manner, much the way her brothers had, dropping an occasional flirtation but never pressing it. Whether his platonic attitude toward her was a sign of disinterest or a problem with his physiology did not matter. It made for comfortable companionship, and she appreciated it.
Ashe knew she was under this misconception, and it made him breathe easier. Nothing could be further from the truth. His mist cloak, his hated disguise from the eyes of world, was a blessing here. It shielded his longing for her, and his less-than-noble desires. Rhapsody’s own strange abilities of self-deception played into the situation as well. So they went about their journey—he gave her no reason to be wary of his intentions, and she ignored any sign of them.
The rains caught up with them, and the walking became arduous. The forest grew deeper as they journeyed west, making traveling slower. The snow around the base of the trees had melted, leaving rings of brown grass, the harbingers of warmer, if not better, weather.
One late afternoon, after a day of plodding through overgrown thickets and twisted patches of briars, they stopped at the edge of a bog. Rhapsody found a comfortable-looking pile of leaves within such a circle beneath an elm tree and dropped down into it wearily. Ashe backed away as she jumped up with a squawk, rubbing her backside, and muttering ugly curses in the Firbolg tongue.
A moment later, when she had regained her composure, she knelt beneath the tree and brushed the leaves away, uncovering a large square stone with runes carved into it. The words were filled with dirt that had hardened with time. Carefully she rubbed the crevices clean, then exhaled when she made out the inscription.
Cyme we inne frið, fram the grip of deaþ to lif inne ðis smylte land,
The inscription was one Llauron had shown her long ago, the words Gwylliam had instructed his explorer, Merithyn, to greet anyone he met in his travels with, the words he had carved upon Elynsynos’s cave. Come we in peace from the grip of death to life in this fair land. “It’s a Cymrian marker,” she murmured, more to herself than aloud.
Ashe bent next to her to examine it. “Indeed,” he said agreeably. “Do you recognize it?”
Rhapsody looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean? If I knew it was here, do you think I would have injured myself on it?”
Ashe stood up again. “No,” he said. “I was just wondering if perhaps you had seen it before.”
“When would I have? If I had been here before, why would I need you to guide me?” She took off her cloak and laid it on the ground.
Ashe unslung his pack. “I thought perhaps you might have seen it when it was erected.”
Rhapsody exhaled loudly in aggravation. This had become an old saw; he was continually dropping hints, making veiled reference to the First Generation Cymrians. She had determined early on he was trying to trip her up, attempting to make her reveal herself as one. This was the most blatant he had been so far.
“I’m really getting tired of this game,” she said. “If you want to know if I sailed with the First Fleet, why don’t you just ask me?”
Ashe stood up even straighter in evident surprise. “Did you?”
“No.”
“Oh.” He seemed somewhat taken aback. “The Second? Third?”
“No. I’ve never been on any ship, except for rowboats and ferries.”
“So you have never traveled from one land to another on the sea? You’ve walked everywhere you’ve traveled?”
Rhapsody thought back to her trek within the Earth along the Root and shuddered slightly. “Or ridden on horseback. Now, will you please desist?”
Ashe dropped his pack on the ground. “Desist?”
“You have been quizzing me about the Cymrians since we left, in subtle ways. I don’t appreciate it.”
“But you do know who they were?”
“Yes,” she admitted, “but what I’ve heard about them I’ve learned from writings and students of history. So if you don’t mind, I would appreciate you ending this cat-and-mouse game.”
Ashe chuckled. “If I’m not mistaken, the way cat-and-mouse games end is by the cat eating the mouse.” He pulled the cooking utensils out of his pack. “I assume I don’t have to tell you which one of us is which in the analogy.”