The Assassin King

34

Well, that was a neat trick,” Grunthor said to the Dhracian, still picking the sand from his ears. “Oi’ve traveled the wind myself, but only when—” He stopped at the sight of the look on Achmed’s face, then turned around to see Rhapsody staring at the ashes in her arms. For a moment he could say nothing; seeing the expression on Rhapsody’s face was like watching the end of the world. When the words came to his bulbous lips finally, they were gentle.

“How now, Duchess—where’s the lit’le prince?”

Achmed shot him an acid glance.

The Lady Cymrian stood stock-still, not breathing. Then, after the shock passed, she began looking rapidly around her, her arms twitching, causing the remains of the cloak to drift gently down to the ground like black snow. Her eyes took on a mad light, a glitter of panic that was almost too ugly to behold, “We—we have to go back,” she stammered, turning around and scanning the ground. “I must—I must have dropped him. Please—o-open the door again—please, we have to go back—”

“Rhapsody.” Achmed’s voice was quiet. “Come here.”

But the Lady Cymrian did not hear him. The sound of her heartbeat was pounding in her ears, threatening to burst; time had become suspended for her. She numbly crouched to the ground and felt around for something solid among the ashes, but there was nothing, just burnt strands of fabric and soot.

Finally she looked up.

“Achmed,” she said softly, “where is my baby?”

The Bolg king reached out his hand.

“Stand up,” he said gently.

Rhapsody shook her head, feeling around on the ground in the darkness once more. “No, no, he must be here somewhere—he—Achmed, help me find the baby.”

“Rhapsody—”

“Damn you, help me—he has to be here somewhere—I had him tightly, Achmed, please, help me find him—”

The Bolg king crouched down in front of her while the other two men looked on. He watched her in silence as she knelt on the ground, continuing to pat the earth helplessly in all directions, until she finally turned back to him. Then, before their eyes, she seemed to collapse; Achmed caught her as she fell forward into his arms. “No,” she whispered. “Please, no.”

Achmed said nothing, but ran his bony hand awkwardly over her shining hair. He held her as she began to shudder, then she abruptly stopped and slowly looked up into his face, her cheeks wet with tears, but her eyes wide again in shock.

Then she looked down at her abdomen.

Distended there, between them.

Rhapsody’s hand went to her belly, now expanded and swollen. Her expression became dazed. “It can’t be,” she murmured.

Achmed’s brows drew together. He stood, pulling her up with him. “Where’s the light?”

Grunthor jogged over and handed him the globe. “Ya dropped it just outside the sluice.” Achmed held the cold lantern up above her; there was no mistaking the bulge in her waist. A moment later, to his utter disgust, he thought he saw it move. Stunned relief came over Rhapsody’s face. “He’s kicking. I can feel him kicking.”

“I’m going to be ill,” said Achmed.

“Well, well, look at that,” Grunthor said, sounding immensely pleased, “the lit’le nipper found a safe place in all o’ that. ’Ow’d ’e do that?”

“ ‘Born free of the bonds of Time,’” Rhapsody said. “Perhaps that means he can be in whatever time he knows of—and this is the only other time he has ever known.”

Achmed exhaled, annoyance evident in the sharpness of his breath. “It’s to be expected, I suppose; history is riddled with many young men who could not resist staying inside Rhapsody as long as they could.”

“Well, that was ugly, sir,” Grunthor admonished reprovingly. “You’re talkin’ about a mother, after all. So what’s the plan?” He looked around for the Dhracian in the dark, but the man was not to be seen. “And where’s yer friend?”

He stands behind you, holding the door.

Why are you still here? Achmed demanded of the darkness in the silent speech of his race. I am sorry to disappoint you, but I cannot, and will not, join your endless quest for F’dor, though when I come across one, you can be comforted in knowing that I have been trained in the Thrall ritual, and will gladly do whatever I can to destroy it. There—are you satisfied?

No. There is much that you still do not know.

I expect that will be the case throughout time, Achmed answered. But for now, I have a kingdom to get back to, and preparations to make. We can waste no more time here; we’ve lost the horses, and we are ten days’ walk from the nearest outpost in the northern Teeth. So be on your way, and best of luck in your quest. I am sorry to have disappointed you after all this time.

I will come with you, the inaudible voice said. I will open the doors of the wind for you, that the journey will be swift. And I will tell you of the Gaol, and of the Vault. And of your mother. Achmed thought for a moment. I will not be beholden to you, the Bolg icing finally replied. I guard the Sleeping Child—and I will not be threatened, or wheedled, or coaxed into abandoning her, even for as worthy a quest as the Primal Hunt. We can travel together, and I will listen to what you have to say. But after that, you will go back to being an assassin. I will go back to being a king. If you agree, then we have a deal.

The wind whistled around him, raising sand to his eyes. The stars twinkled brightly above as he waited for his answer. Finally, it came.

Agreed. The Dhracian opened another door in the wind, behind which swirling currents of air could be seen. I am Rath; and so you may call me.