“Some we track by the human shells they leave behind. The greedy Ficken lays in wait for unsuspecting small folk, both of stature and spirit, at the forest edge. It—we know not its gender—prefers to consume many, farmers, goodwives, halfwit laborers, rather than take prize victims and grow fat on ambition and fear. The Glutton. “Some are bold, even brave, have fought and survived the Thrall ritual. The hunters of the Gaol do not always win. Like Bolg or men, the F’dor speak at the hour of their doom. Some snarl, some beg, some bargain, some weep. Do not mistake me. You are a fool if you treat them as if they think as we do, feel as we do. Each one is different, like a village of candles, or a hillside of armed fires. This is all they have in common with us. They beg, they bargain, they weep because they have been hunting us so long, and have seen us, been us. They know these keys to the human soul, and manipulate them, though they themselves are immune to such pleas for pity. And sometimes their deception has worked, even on the Gaol. “Few other than the Gaol have the gift to see them, and then their nature is hidden, just like ours. The Nain king has been making lenses to scry for that which is hidden, but none has proven reliable either to detect or predict. I do not think it will be long before he wishes to attempt to capture one, so he can study it. The Nain king is great, and learned, and ancient, but he will gaze upon this thing which is not really a thing, but only a being, and he will not realize that it gazes also at him.”
“He is a fool,” Achmed said. “And is far more likely to bring about the wakening of the wyrm than I am.” Rath shook his head. “He was an ally—and in this battle, you will need every upworld ally you can muster. It was a mistake to rebuff him, Bolg king. Far better that you should have to suffer him as your foolish ally than as your wise enemy.”
“He would never aid the Bolg in a time of need; it is more like the Nain to retreat to their mountains and make a stand there, even when the rest of the world is falling apart. It is how it was at the end of the Cymrian War, and how it will be now. So whether he is my enemy or my ally matters not—he will behave in the same selfish, isolationist manner either way. That’s what kind of king he is. And if that is how he has judged best to protect bis people, I cannot fault him for it—but I don’t have to tolerate his stupid demands, either.”
Rath shrugged. “Either you are an assassin, or you are a king,” he said, closing his eyes and letting the night wind pour over his face. “A king must tolerate such things. An assassin cares not.” Achmed fell silent.
As the breeze kicked up, the Dhracian opened his mouth out of habit and began to cant his list. Hrarfa, Fraax, Sistha, Hnaf, Ficken.
The wind shifted, blowing from the north. Rath sat up as if struck. His mouth was filled with fire, the back of his throat burning with caustic blood. He had caught a trace of one of the Older Pantheon.
Hrarfa, he whispered. The word sank down into his heart and anchored itself through his vessels. Beating in time now with another heart, far off.
Rath scrambled to his feet, his face twisted in pain and excitement. Achmed stood quickly with him. “You have caught a trail?” The Dhracian nodded. “I will go with you.” Rath shook his head. “Stay here,” he said with great effort. “Guard the—Earthchild. It may be a diversion. It is my lot to follow this now.” The needles had begun to pulse through Achmed’s veins, whispering words of hate as they ran hot through him. Reluctantly he nodded in assent. “Good fortune be with you,” he said as Rath made his way down the causeway. Rath stopped and looked over his shoulder. “I will bring you the tale, if I am alive to tell it,” he said. Then he vanished into the wind.
41
The day had been a long and fruitless one. Ashe’s head was pounding, from the reports of damage to Sepulvarta and the clashing of soldiers in the course of the evacuation of the Krevensfield Plain, to the arguments of the dukes about the allocation of resources for defense of the various provinces. The reconvening of the Council of Dukes in this new fortress had done nothing to ease the contentiousness of their discourse, as Ashe had hoped it would. He had been as patient as he could for as long as he could, until finally the hollow ache inside him threatened to cause his head to split.
“We will reconvene in the morning,” he had told the Council of Dukes from behind an enormous pile of papers on the desk before him. All had withdrawn quickly at the tone in his voice save for Tristan Steward, who had remained behind in the grand library. “You could do with a glass of brandy, my friend,” he said, “and something to eat; if an army travels on its stomach, he who is commanding the army should not neglect his own. I will have something sent up for you.”
He went to the sideboard and retrieved a heavy crystal glass into which he poured three fingers of clear amber liquid, a honey brandy from the province of Canderre, known the world over for its excellent libations and other luxurious goods. He poured a glass for himself as well, and handed the first one to the Lord Cymrian.
Ashe waved him away.
“Thank you, no,” he said. “I’m not hungry.”
“But you must be thirsty,” Tristan Steward pressed. “You’ve been answering inane questions for the better part of the day, Gwydion. Even the Lord Cymrian deserves a cessation of the constant barrage of war preparation.” He set the glass down on the table in front of Ashe, whose head was resting on his forearm. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts. Be certain to get some sleep. Good night.”
“Thank you,” Ashe murmured as the door closed behind him, staring at the firelight dancing within the bowl of the glass. There was something fascinating about the way the gold liquid caught the light, refracting it into the warm colors of flame.. As always, anything to do with fire reminded him painfully of Rhapsody.
Against his better judgment, he took the glass in hand and allowed the alcohol fumes to seep into his nose, stinging his sinuses and warming them a split second later. He took a sip; the liquid was as smooth as silk, and warm, filling his mouth with the delightful taste and his nose with a rich vapor. He had to credit Tristan Steward for knowing his drink. The door opened quietly again. Ashe turned and glanced over his shoulder. Rhapsody was there again, this time clothed not in traveling garb but in a filmy gown of thin white silk. Backlit by the fire, he could see the slender lines of her legs, the appealing curves of her torso shadowed through the flimsy material, tapering up to the swell of her breasts, above which the naked skin of her throat gleamed. I miss you, she said, her voice at once soft and smoky. Ashe took another swallow of the burning liquid. “Go away,” he muttered. “You are a phantasm, a figment of my pathetic imagination. Or a sign of my pending insanity; go away.”
She smiled and came to him, the silken gown whispering around her bare feet. I am no phantasm, she said, bending down beside him and filling his nostrils with the warmth of her scent. Not as long as I am within your heart.
Exhausted from keeping the dragon at bay, lonely and overwrought, Ashe reached out his hand, a soldier’s hand, calloused and worn from battle and the heft of a sword hilt, and brought it, trembling, to rest on the smooth hollow of her neck. Her skin was warm and smooth; her breath quickened beneath his touch.
“You are not real,” he said softly. “Though the All-God knows I want you to be.”
I can be, she whispered in return.
Ashe looked away. He closed his eyes and brought his forehead to rest on his forearm again. He lay there, allowing the fumes of the brandy to seep into his brain, his dragon sense registering the shape of the dream that stood beside him, waiting. He felt the warmth of lips on his neck, the tickle and sweet scent of freshly washed hair, the aching availability, the willingness, the need.