The Assassin King

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 All had withdrawn quickly at the tone in his voice save for Tristan Steward, who had remained behind in the grand library.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.

And then he brought his head around quickly, and opened his eyes. The chambermaid was there again, looking down at him with the same smile that had been on his wife’s face a moment before.

“Why are you here, Portia?” he asked brokenly. “What do you want of me?”

“Whatever you want of me.” The tone of her voice was almost magically inviting, stirring all of the nerves in his body to life.

Ashe slammed the chair back and brought his hands down on the table before him. “What are you doing?” he shouted. “Why do you always manage to be around me when my mind is fragmented—or is it that my mind is fragmented because you’re around me?” The Lord Cymrian seized the hair of his own head and clawed at it. “What sort of insidious game are you playing with me, Portia?”

The young woman’s eyes brimmed with tears.

“M’lord, I—”

The dragon within his blood exploded in rage.

“Enough! Enough!” Ashe shouted. He swept the papers before him off the desk angrily, splattering the contents of the ink well across the thick carpet. “Leave this place; go back to Bethany or wherever it is that you came from. Go work your evil wiles on Tristan Steward; climb into his bed. Perhaps he will succumb to your seduction, but I never will. Do you not think I would know you from my own wife? Did you think you could seduce me in my misery, cause me to betray all that I hold holy? You damnable beast.” Even as the dragon in his blood rampaged, his words and the voice that spoke them sounded mad to his own ears. The chambermaid broke into tears and shuddering sobs.

“M’lord, I never—”

But the dragon in Ashe’s soul was raging, rampaging through his blood, leaving it burning in his veins.

“Silence!” he snarled, his voice more the roar of an animal than the words of a man. “Silence! Get out of my house. I want you out of here tonight; this moment! Take whatever you have and get out of here; leave my presence and do not return. I do not wish to ever see you or behold you in any way again. I do not know what trickery of the mind you are employing, but if you do not leave at once I cannot guarantee your safety here. Take whatever you brought with you; I want this entire keep purged of your presence, your essence, and anything to do with you. Go. Get out of my sight. Get out of here!” He stumbled blindly to the speaking tubes and shouted for the chamberlain.

“Gerald! Gerald Owen! Come at once and rid me of this monster!”

The chambermaid stared wildly at him for a moment longer, then buried her face in her hands and ran from the room, weeping loudly.

As she departed, something in the air of the room around Ashe seemed to shatter; the Lord Cymrian could not be certain it was a spell of some sort, a twisted snare like an invisible spider’s web that has been woven from evil power to deprive him of his sanity. Or if it was the shattering of his sanity itself.

Ashe felt every clattering step as she bounded down the stairs, absorbed the slamming of every door in the course of her exit in the nerves of his skin. He was oddly grateful that her mourning appeared to cease very quickly; her calm returned almost immediately, judging by the beating of her heart in a normal rhythm, the slowing tides of her breath, and the deliberation with which she hurriedly packed her belongings and dashed out into the night by the back door, not even waiting to be shown out by the chamberlain. He closed his eyes, hoping for the same return to calm himself, and monitored her leaving until he could no longer feel her presence within his lands, no longer smelled the scent of vanilla and sweet soap, wood smoke and meadow flowers in the upper reaches of his sinuses. He did not realize how badly his hands were shaking, or how rapidly his heart was thundering against his chest, or how, when the chamberlain came to him in a calmer moment, he would reconsider his tantrum, be swallowed by remorse, and need to rectify his actions. He did realize, however, how close he had come to a mistake that would have cost him more than the whole world.

Portia ran out into the night, her heart pounding, but with calm of one who had survived many such evictions. She wandered the cold paths of the forest under the moon until she came to a shady glen, where the budding leaves cast black lacy shadows on the ground in the ghostiy radiance all around her.

She shivered from the cold; her body had never been well padded, and the chill of the night air sank into her skin, leaving her trembling.

He will come for me, she thought. Already he regrets what he has done, and when the remorse takes over, he will come out into the night for me.

And bring me home with him again.

Tonight it will finally be consummated, she thought in delight, rubbing her hands quickly up and down her arms to warm them with the friction of it. Tonight he will finally take me in his arms, and to his bed. I will have all of him; I will ride him to the ends of the cliffs of pleasure, and as he drives himself into me, I will drive myself into his soul as well. I may not be able to evict the shadow of his wife, but she will find mine within him when she returns. And then it will all begin. It only took a few moments for the remorse to set in and take hold. Ashe stood up from the table and went to the speaking tube again. “Come, Owen,” he said, summoning the chamberlain. “I’ve been an ass. I didn’t mean to drive her out into the night, alone and without protection. Saddle up; we have to find her and bring her back. And then Tristan can make certain to take her with him when he returns to Bethany tomorrow.”