The Assassin King

26

In the deepest part of that same night, the Lord Roland lay naked on the floor before the dying fire coals, shivering and alone. His exhausted dreams were plagued by an overwhelming sense of loss, of wandering in dark caverns without a light. He was sinking into despair in his slumber when he felt the touch of a soft blanket draped over him, the caress of a gentle hand with pleasantly calloused fingertips across his brow. His body, cold from the loss of both Portia’s warmth and that of the fire, discerned the presence of a delicious heat beside him. Tristan Steward blinked, and rolled onto his back.

In the darkness a woman was kneeling beside him, her long golden tresses catching the remaining glimpses of light from the fading coals. Tristan could barely distinguish her form from the shadows that surrounded her, but the curve of her small face, the shape of her large, dark green eyes was known to him in every waking moment. The familiar scent of vanilla and spiced soap, meadow flowers and sandalwood filled his nostrils, driving away the hollow odor of loneliness and fire ash that had lingered there a moment before. “Rhapsody?” he whispered, his mind still foggy from drink, his body still spent from sexual fury. She smiled at him, the warmth of kindness that held no trace of pity in her eyes. “You seemed cold,” she said, tucking the blanket more snugly around him. “I hate for anyone to be cold in my house.” Tristan struggled to focus in the dim light. “You—you’re here? Are you a dream?” She chuckled, then rose and went to the fireplace, her heavy brocade dressing gown rustling musically in his ears as she passed his head. The coals gleamed as she approached; it was a phenomenon Tristan had witnessed in her presence many times, as if the last vestiges of the fire were greeting her in homage. She moved the screen aside, took hold of two logs and set them carefully into the ashes, her hands seemingly inured to the fire’s sting. The hearth fire caught immediately, the flames leaping in welcome, spilling flashes of brightness around the dark room, dispelling many of the shadows. Tristan watched her, transfixed, as she returned to his side and sank to the floor beside him once more. “Not a dream, no,” she said softly. “As a Namer, I can feel the silent call of those in despair, and can transcend the limits of space and time to come if the need is great enough.” She brushed the shock of red-brown curls from his forehead again. “You must be in very great pain to summon me from so far away. Don’t be sad, Tristan—you have so much in your life to be grateful for.”

“I know,” Tristan said, struggling to wake more fully. “I know, Rhapsody, I am blessed, but—” His words failed, his voice faltered under the weight of his selfish need, his obsession. “But what?”

He raised himself up on his elbows, looking up into the perfection of her face. “It’s not enough,” he said finally. “It’s not enough.”

The smile left her eyes and her lips, replaced by an expression of thoughtful sadness. “What would be enough, then, Tristan?”

All the barriers he had built to keep his need in check, to remain socially acceptable, to keep from driving her away, buckled in the face of what might be his only chance to tell her. “You,” he whispered. “You—I need you. From that first meeting when you came to me, long ago, to sue for the Bolg’s protection, when I dismissed you, drove you from my presence, I have felt a chasm inside me. I curse myself for being so blind, so foolish—”

“Stop,” she said, placing her small, warm hand against his lips. “There is no need for regret between us. All of that has come and gone, and yet here I remain.”

“I need you,” Tristan said again; the words thudded stupidly, flat against his eardrums. “And I am here.”

“Not like this,” he insisted, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips again, then resting it against his cheek. The warmth, the solidity of it gladdened him; until that moment he was still unsure as to whether or not she was merely a dream, a figment of his drunken imagination. “I want to love you, Rhapsody.”

She exhaled sharply, pulling her hand away.

“We are married to other people,” she said flatly. “We have children with other people.”

“I know, I know,” said Tristan Steward. The exhaustion and the late hour made his head light, his words echo stupidly in his brain.

“Then you know that what you are asking for can never be,” she said, but her words carried no sting, no accusation.

The beauty of her face, the warmth of her body in the otherwise cold room, even the gentleness of her words of rejection were more than Tristan’s twisted heart and fuzzy mind could bear. He began to weep, painful tears slipping in quick rivers of self-pity and inestimable loss. The sincerity of his agony must have been apparent to her, because her eyes opened wide in concern again, and she quickly reached out her hand, resting it against his rough cheek once more.

“Stop now,” she said softly. “Stop, please. There is no need. Stop.”

Tristan lowered his head to his chest, no longer able to look at her. Even without seeing her he could feel her consternation growing, but he was unable to pull himself together enough to reset the situation to an unbroken form.

Her remaining hand came to rest on his other cheek. “Please, please don’t be sad,” she said. “I came all this way to comfort you, Tristan, not to cause you pain.”

“Comfort me, then,” Tristan blurted. “Comfort me, Rhapsody.”

For perhaps the only time in his life, Tristan was able to make his mind and body function spontaneously enough on the spur of the moment to take the initiative he needed. He reached out and pulled her into his arms, ignoring the startled look on her face, pressing her body feverishly against his.

He was prepared for the sharp blow across his face, prepared for her to pull violently away, but instead she froze, her emerald-green eyes glistening with an emotion he could not identify. At first he thought it might be fear, but there was no trace of that; rather, it was an intense look of confusion melded with sympathy and, though perhaps only in his imagination, a tinge of longing.

He decided to believe that was what it was.

He abandoned words, and throwing all caution, all decorum, to the winds, he kissed her, covering completely her spicy red mouth with his own, almost as if to steal any objections along with her breath.

When all the waiting, all the long-held fantasy melts away, and the moment mat a man has wished for in vain for years suddenly arrives, the weight of time shifts, Tristan discovered. The blood was hammering in his ears in time with his racing heart, drowning out all but its thudding tattoo. Time slowed; dimly he could hear her voice beyond the pounding whenever his mouth moved from her own, his name the only word he could make out, but whether it was being repeated in passion or in resistance he could not be certain. The rich fabric of the brocade dressing gown whispered in his shaking hands. Beneath the gown her skin was bare, and warm in his palms as he sought her. Like a freezing man discovering a blazing bonfire, he drew nearer, pressing, insisting, and found no resistance, no barrier, only acceptance, only welcome.

How many heartbeats their actual coupling lasted, Tristan was not able to gauge; he only knew that time was suspended in the bliss of finally attaining that which he had come to believe was unattainable. As her arms and legs wrapped around him, her hands cradled his face lovingly, the Lord Roland began to weep, hot, painful tears of disbelief and jubilation in at last having his desire, and his love, returned by the woman who had stolen his soul on the day he met her.

Finally, when he could sustain the act no longer, he pulled her even closer and buried his face gratefully in the waves of her flaxen hair. He kissed her neck, then whispered into her ear, damp with the dew of sweat from the fire and their passion.

“This night, no one is cold in your house.”

He could feel her smile against his neck.

She pulled back and lay in the crook of his arm, smiling up at him, the light of the fire dancing in her eyes.

“Are you comforted, Tristan?”

The Lord Roland sighed happily. “Immensely.” He leaned up on his elbow, listening past the door. Upon hearing nothing in the hall beyond, he brushed a tangled strand from her face. “And know that I will treasure this night forever—” His words faltered, but he pressed ahead, unwilling to lose the opportunity. “And all those nights to come.”

The firelight dimmed in her emerald eyes.

“Nights to come?”

“Yes,” Tristan Steward blurted. “Now that we’ve—now that you and I have—” His words slowed as her face changed, her expression becoming guarded before his eyes. “But you need not fear Gwydion finding out, Rhapsody. We will be careful hence. I would never disclose to him, even in the most accidental of circumstances, what we have done.”

She exhaled sharply. “Tell him whatever you want,” she said tersely. “He won’t believe you anyway.”

Tristan blinked as if he had been slapped. Until that moment, he had not realized that he expected her gratitude in return for his discretion. “No, no, I would never compromise you—I love you—I don’t want to ruin anything mat you value. Just knowing that you care for me—” His words faltered at the blank expression on her face. “You—do care for me, Rhapsody? You must, to have, to have come to me like this—”

“Of course I care for you, Tristan,” she said, shifting uncomfortably in his arms. Tristan felt his fading hope return. “Then we can continue to meet clandestinely?” he asked. His grip on her tightened unconsciously as she squirmed more noticeably, as if trying to break free.

“Of course we can—oh, bugger it, enough. This is making me ill. Get off me, I can’t breathe.” With an almost violent shove, she pushed out of his arms and rose to a stand, turning away from him and straightening her dressing gown as she did.

To Tristan’s utter shock, as she stood, her body and shadow lengthened, taking on height and width that it had not had a moment before. In the fading light of the fire her hair seemed to darken, her face to elongate, and when she turned around, her eyes sparkled with a wicked black light.

The Lord Roland felt all the breath leave his body.

After two attempts that produced no sound and sour spittle, he finally got his mouth to form the word.

“Portia?”

The chambermaid laughed merrily. She continued to stand, looking down amusedly on his astonishment, until his mouth finally closed.

“Isn’t self-deception a remarkably powerful entity?” she asked playfully. “I told you, m’lord, I’ve been at this a long time.” She turned and headed for the door, then stopped for a moment. “You should get up from the floor, Tristan,” she said. “Your position there does not befit the position you will soon attain.”

Then she left the room without a backward glance.