The Assassin King

11

As soon as the council dispersed, both the lord and lady went to the chamberlain of Haguefort. Gerald Owen was an older Cymrian, and had been in the service of the family Navarne for several generations. He set a great store by efficiency and proper etiquette, and took great pride in the meticulous running of his staff. He was in the process of getting the Lady Navarne ready for bed when the lord and lady appeared in the hallway. “Owen?” Ashe called as the two of them approached. Gerald Owen turned in surprise. “Yes, m’lord?” Ashe pulled the elderly chamberlain aside. “Pack Melisande’s belongings, and enough of your own for a brief journey.” He looked over to the young Lady Navarne, whose face was growing pale at his words. Rhapsody put her arm around the little girl’s shoulder. “You will take her to the Circle at Gwynwood, where you are to entrust her to Gavin, the

Invoker of the Filids. Then return to Haguefort and gather the staff; direct them to begin packing in a written missive before you leave. They will be relocating to the stronghold at High-meadow when you return.”

“Yes, m’lord,” said the elderly chamberlain smoothly, but his hands were shaking. “When do you wish the Lady Navarne to leave?”

Ashe glanced at Rhapsody. “Before dawn,” he said, then turned and left the room. Gerald Owen bowed quickly to Rhapsody and followed him. “You’re—you’re sending me away to Gwynwood—alone?” Melisande stammered. Rhapsody knelt down and turned the trembling little girl to face her. “Shh,” she whispered. “Yes. Don’t be frightened. I have a mission for you.” Melisande’s black eyes, glazed an instant before in building terror, blinked, and in the next second were sparkling with interest. “A mission? A real mission?”

“Yes,” said Rhapsody seriously. “Wait a moment, and I’ll tell you about it.” She closed her eyes and reached out both hands to Melisande, who took them excitedly. Then she began to chant softly, words in an ancient language taught to her more than a thousand years before by her mentor in the art of Singing, a science known to her mother’s people, the Liringlas, called Skysingers in the common language. The air in the room was suddenly drier as the water within it was stripped, and a thin circle of mist formed around the two of them, glittering like sunlight on morning dew. A moment later the words Rhapsody was speaking began to echo outside of the mist in staggered intervals, building one upon the other until the room beyond was filled with a quiet cacophony. Melisande had witnessed this phenomenon before; Rhapsody often called such a circle of masking noise into being whenever the two of them were whispering, giggling, and sharing secret thoughts to protect their words from imaginary eavesdroppers. In the back of her mind, she knew innately that those days were about to come to an end. When she was satisfied that their words had been sufficiently occluded, Rhapsody opened her eyes and looked down at the Lady Navarne. “I need you to do something for me that I can entrust to no one in this world other than you, Melly,” she said, her voice soft but solemn. The words rang with a clarity that Melisande recognized as the Naming ability of True-Speaking; she straightened her shoulders to be ready for the gravity of what was to come. “This night I will send a messenger bird to Gavin asking him do as you direct him when you arrive. I can only entrust this request to you in spoken word, because if something should happen to the message, it would be disastrous.” Melisande, orphaned by such disasters, nodded soberly, understanding the full implication of the Lady Cymrian’s words. “Once you arrive at the Circle, ask Gavin to take you, along with a full contingent of his top foresters and his most accomplished healer, to the greenwood north-northeast of the Tar’afel River, where the holly grows thickest. These are sacred lands, and I can give you no map, for fear of what might become of it. Gavin will know where this is. Tell him to have his foresters fan out at that point, keeping to a distance of half a league each, and form a barrier that extends northwest all the way to the sea, setting whatever snares and traps they need to protect that barrier. They are to remain there, allowing no living soul to enter. They should comb the woods for a lost Firbolg midwife named Krinsel, and should they come upon her, they are to accord her both respect and safe passage back to the guarded caravan, which will accompany her to Ylorc. Are you keeping up with this so far?”

“Yes,” said Melisande. She repeated the directions perfectly, and the Lady Cymrian’s emerald eyes sparkled with approval. “Gavin himself is to take you from this point onward. A sweet-water creek flows south into the Tar’afel; follow it northward until you come to Mirror Lake—you will know this body of water because its name describes it perfectly. At the lake you are to leave Gavin and travel on alone. He is to wait for you there for no more than three days. If you have not returned by then, direct him to return to the Circle.” She paused, and Melisande repeated the directions again flawlessly, her face calm and expressionless. “Walk around the lake to the far side. There you will see a small hillside, and in it, hidden from all other vantage points, is a cave. Its entrance is approximately twenty feet high, and on the cave wall outside the opening is an inscription—“Cyme we inne frið, fram the grip of deaþ to lif inne ðis smylte land” Melisande’s small face lit with excitement. “Elynsynos! You are sending me to Elynsynos?!”

“Shhhh,” cautioned Rhapsody, though she couldn’t suppress a smile at the reaction. “Yes.”

“I remember those words from my history lessons,” Melisande said. “ ‘Cyme we inne frið, fram the grip of deaþ to lif inne ðis smylte land—Come we in peace to life in this fair land.’ That’s the inscription Merithyn the Explorer carved on her cave, the birthplace of the Cymrian people—and how we came to be called by that name.”

“You must walk respectfully as you approach her lair,” Rhapsody said, import in her words. “Tread softly, walk slowly, and pause every few steps to listen. If you feel warm air flowing from the cave, or hear the leaves of the trees begin to rustle noticeably, stop and ask permission to enter.”

“I will,” Melisande promised, her face shining. Rhapsody crouched down and ran her hands up the young girl’s arms. “As much as I pray that this will come to pass, I regret to tell you that I think that you may hear nothing,” she said, the pale golden skin of her fair face growing rosy. “It is my fear, Melisande, that you will find her dead, or injured, or not there at all. If you find her dead, return to Gavin and report what you have found. If she is injured, but can still speak, ask her what she wants you to do. If she cannot, again, go to Gavin, but return with the healer to the cave, and stay with her while they attend to her wounds. “But if she is missing, when you report to Gavin, tell him to seal the cave. There is great treasure there, much of it not readily recognizable. If that lair is plundered, it would mean even greater woe to the continent than it will have already experienced with her loss. And take nothing, Melisande—not even a pebble. To do so would be a desecration.”

“I understand.” Rhapsody stood straight again, her hand still on the young girl’s cheek. “I know you do,” she said, pride shining in her eyes. “Understand this as well—if through your efforts Elynsynos is found and restored to health, you will be doing this continent one of the greatest services that has ever been done it. And even if it is too late—” She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “Even if it is, you will be safeguarding more than I can possibly explain.”

“I’m ready,” said Melisande. Rhapsody smiled, and bent and kissed her adopted granddaughter. “We wouldn’t be sending you if we didn’t believe it,” she said. She waved her hand dismissively in the direction of the circle of mist, and the babbling voices ceased; the glittering circle broke and shattered, its water droplets descending slowly to the floor like falling sparks from a campfire. “When my mission is done, where will I go then?” the Lady Navarne asked anxiously as Gerald Owen reappeared in the room, hovering politely in the doorway. Rhapsody considered, then put her arm around the girl and walked with her to the door. “I suspect Ashe will want you at Highmeadow,” she said as they went to meet the chamberlain. “In the four years it has taken to build, it has the strongest defenses, and the most intelligent construction, of anything I’ve seen on the continent, even exceeding those of Tyrian, which are brilliant. There is nowhere on the continent where you will be safer.” Melisande kissed her grandmother on the cheek as they parted ways in the hall. “It sounds to me like that is not saying much.” The Lady Cymrian sighed. “Alas, sworn as I am to the truth, I cannot disagree. I love you, Melisande. Travel well.” The chamberlain and the young girl watched her walk away in a rustle of brocade. Her golden hair caught the lanternlight as she passed the sconces in the hall, seeming to capture it and take it with her, leaving the corridor dimmer when she was gone.