Elegy for a Lost Star (27 page)

Rhapsody smiled at her in return. “Are you going to compete in the Snow Snakes competition this year?” she asked the young girl.

“Yes, definitely,” said Melisande with a knowing glance at Gwydion. “I have to defend the family honor; last time Gwydion lost in the final round.”

“That's right,” Gwydion murmured to himself. He had forgotten that aspect of the carnival; the thought opened a floodgate in his mind and the memories poured back in, the good-spirited competition, the comic races where Melisande and the other little children had to race with a sled tied to their waists on which a fat sheep had been placed, the excitement of the sledge races, the humorous dunking of the winning teams by the losing ones. Such good memories that had been overshadowed by what came later. Over it all he could hear the pealing of Stephen's merry laughter.
I have to hold on to these
, he thought.
That was my father's last carnival. I need to remember him that way
.

He turned to Anborn, beside whom he was sitting, and motioned into the crowd.

“Isn't that Trevalt, the swordmaster?” he asked, indicating a black-mustached man, tall and rapier-thin, accompanied by a small retinue, making his way from the line of carriages outside Haguefort's wall to the central festival grounds.

Anborn's lip curled in disdain. “I would never call him by such a lofty title, but yes, that's Trevalt.”

Gwydion leaned forward in his seat and addressed his godfather.

“Third-generation Cymrian?”

“Fourth,” Ashe corrected.

“But a First Generation damfool,” said Anborn scornfully. “A simpleton dressed in the robes of a scholar, a thespian who wraps himself in the titles of soldiers because he lived through a war in which even children and blind beggars fought.”

Gwydion blinked at the acid in his mentor's voice, and looked questioningly at Ashe. His godfather motioned to Gwydion, who rose and walked over to him. Ashe leaned closer so as not to be overheard.

“Anborn loathes Trevalt because he once claimed, for personal gain, to have been invested as a Kinsman,” he said quietly. He needed to say nothing more; the look of horror on Gwydion's face indicated clearly that he understood the severity of the offense. Kinsmen like Anborn were members of a secret brotherhood of warriors, masters of the craft of fighting, sworn to the service of soldiering for life. They were accepted into the brotherhood for two things: incredible skill forged over a lifetime of soldiering, or a selfless act of
service to others, protecting an innocent at the threat of one's own life. It was a sacred trust to be one, the ultimate honor coupled with the ultimate selflessness, and with the membership came the unspoken understanding of its secrecy, and its honor. Anyone who was boasting about being one was clearly lying. And that was considered an affront almost too egregious to be borne.

He looked back at Anborn, whose face was still flushed with purple rage, sitting impotently on his litter, his useless legs motionless beneath the massive barrel of his chest. Gwydion's heart went out to him, but a moment later he saw Anborn glance at Rhapsody, a Kinsman herself, and the anger drained out of his face as she smiled at him. They both sighed, then returned to watching the assemblage of the crowd and the festivities.

“Become accustomed to this torture, Gwydion,” Anborn said as the line of dignitaries passed the reviewing stand. “Alas, this is the sort of useless nonsense that takes up one's days when one is saddled with a title.”

Rhapsody slapped the Lord Marshal playfully. “Stop that.
Your
title never stopped
you
from distancing yourself from court obligations.”

“Ah, but you forget, m'lady, my titles have only been military,” said Anborn. “I was the youngest of three. No one ever had any illusions about me being to the manor born, I am relieved to say.”

“Well, except for the Third Fleet, who nominated you for my title, I remind you,” joked Ashe. “Had you not refused it, you might have a lot more ‘useless nonsense' to attend to today.”

Anborn snorted and returned to his mug of hot spiced mead. Trevalt and his retinue stopped before the reviewing stand, per custom, and bowed deeply with flourishes to the Lord and Lady Cymrian. Rhapsody's hand shot out and covered Anborn's mouth in time to prevent him from spitting his libation at the swordmaster. She smiled pleasantly at Trevalt; he blinked, confused, smiled wanly in return, and moved on.

“Now, now, Uncle, this is Gwydion's last day before his investiture tomorrow,” Ashe said, trying to contain his amusement. “Let us not christen his ascension to duke with a brawl, shall we?”

“You will be lucky if that's all that comes to pass,” muttered Anborn into his mug.

Rhapsody, Ashe, and Gwydion exchanged a somber glance and returned their attention to the opening of the festival.

“I believe I see Tristan Steward arriving,” said Gwydion.

“Oh joy,” said Rhapsody and Anborn in unison under their breath.

Gwydion sighed and returned to his seat. It appeared it was going to be a long day.

L
ater, after the Gathering Day's festivities had come to an end, and the First Night feast had begun, he had to admit to himself that he was enjoying the carnival in spite of it all.

Ashe had wisely limited the attendance to the citizens of Navarne and a few invited dignitaries from across the Cymrian Alliance, rather than holding it open to the entire population of the western continent, as Stephen always had. Since the tents required to accommodate a very much smaller attendance were able to be spread out and more carefully managed, the settling in took only a few hours, rather than the whole of Gathering Day; Ashe had anticipated this as well, and had arranged for the afternoon to hold several highly favored events, as well as a remarkable performance by the Orlandan orchestra that Rhapsody had patronized. The result was a jolly populace, fresh with the excitement of the sporting events and music, ready to sup heartily at the First Night feast. The wine and ale were flowing freely, courtesy of Cedric Canderre, duke of the province that bore his name. Gwydion was quietly amazed that the elderly man had even been willing to attend, let alone provide such a generous donation of his highly valued potables; his beloved only son, Andrew, had died a hero's death at the battle of the last winter carnival.

As Gwydion stood talking to Ashe while the roasted oxen were being carved and the ale being passed, Tristan Steward, the Lord Roland and his cousin once removed, sidled up to them both and greeted them pleasantly, his auburn hair gleaming in the light of the open fire.

“A splendid beginning, young Navarne,” Tristan said, saluting Gwydion with his glass. “I confess at first when I heard of your godfather's intention to hold the carnival again, I thought it in poor taste at best, and foolhardy at worst. But it seems to have worked out well, so far at least.”

Gwydion felt the air around him go dry, no doubt the dragon in Ashe's blood bristling in ire at the insult, but the Lord Cymrian merely took another sip from his tankard and said nothing.

“And where is Rhapsody this evening?” the Lord Roland asked, oblivious of Ashe's annoyance.

“To bed,” Ashe replied. “Tired from the day's revels, as we all are. I intend to join her shortly.”

Tristan's cheeks glowed red in the light of the bonfires. “Glad to hear it. I do have a gift of sorts for you—though it is on loan.” He signaled to his retinue, and three women came forward, clad in the attire of the house servants of Bethany, Tristan's seat of power as regent of Roland. One of the women was elderly, the second of middling youth, and the last of tender years, perhaps twenty.

Ashe's brows knit together. “I don't understand.”

Tristan smiled and put out his hand to the eldest of the women, who came to his side immediately.

“Renalla was my wife's nanny, and a very much beloved member of the household of her father, Cedric Canderre. Madeleine sent for her when our son Malcolm was expected, and she has served as nanny for him as well. She
is without peer as a governess, and wonderful with children. I have brought her to you so that you might make use of her skills when Rhapsody delivers your child.” He pointed to the next oldest woman. “Amity is a wet nurse, and as you've seen, Malcolm has grown healthy and strong on her supply.” He glanced over his shoulder at the last, the youngest woman. “And Portia is a chambermaid.”

Ashe looked uncomfortably at the three women. “Ladies, please sup; the ox is carved, and you have traveled a long way today,” he said, dismissing them to the feast. Once they were out of earshot, he turned back to the Lord Roland. “I thank you, Tristan, but I can't imagine that we will need any of their services. Rhapsody plans to nurse the baby herself, especially given the rareness of its bloodline—we don't know what to expect of a wyrmkin child born of a Lirin and human mother. I'm certain if she needs any help with caring for the baby, she will want to select the nanny herself as well. And we have no end to chambermaids at Haguefort.”

“Undeniably,” said Tristan idly, watching a magician who was mixing colorful powders into the enormous bonfire and setting off brightly hued explosions that formed pictures that hovered in the night air, to the delight of the crowd. “But you will be moving to Highmeadow soon, and I thought, perhaps foolishly, that you might appreciate experienced servants to help ease the tremendous load of Rhapsody's transition there. My mistake.”

Ashe held out his tankard to the waitservant who had offered a pitcher.

“That is very kind of you,” he said awkwardly. “I apologize if I seemed ungrateful. I will consult with Rhapsody in the morning and see what she thinks.”

“Why don't I just leave them in the custody of your household until the baby arrives?” Tristan suggested. “It's impossible to know right now just how truly demanding and all-consuming an infant—even a royal infant—can be. Wait and see if you need any or all of them then, and if not, send them back to Bethany with the guarded caravan. Otherwise keep them as long as you like.”

“Thank you,” Ashe said, draining the glass and putting it back on the servant's tray. “I appreciate your kindness. Now, I bid you good night. Enjoy the feast.”

“Indeed,” remarked Tristan as the Lord Cymrian hurried away from the festivities toward his wife's bedchambers. “You enjoy the feast as well.”

C
ontrary to Ashe's beliefs, Rhapsody was not asleep, but was in fact sharing her bedchamber with another man.

Young master Cedric Andrew Montmorcery Canderre, known to his family as Bobo, the three-year-old grandson of Cedric Canderre, was gleefully tearing through her rooms, playing in her closets, pulling all the
pillows from the chairs, hiding amid the bedcurtains, and giving spirited chase to the panicked tabby cat, causing his widowed young mother, Lady Jecelyn Canderre, supreme embarrassment and the Lady Cymrian great amusement.

“I'm terribly sorry, m'lady,” Jecelyn said, struggling to catch up with the energetic tyke. She grasped him in midstride and swung him up over her shoulder, amid howls of angry protest. “He slept in the carriage all the way from Canderre, and now has enough energy to run all the way home. He was keeping all the rest of the guests in your quarters awake.”

“I am delighted to see him,” Rhapsody said, reaching for the struggling toddler. “I've missed him terribly. And besides, if there are that many guests sleeping already, we surely are not putting on a very good carnival.” She reached into a box on the bedside table as Jecelyn set the child on the bed beside her, pulled forth a ginger biscuit, and held it up for his mother's approval. Jecelyn nodded, and Bobo immediately came into her lap, seized the biscuit, and consumed it forthwith, scattering crumbs over the bedsheets.

Rhapsody ran a hand over his glossy black curls, the same curls his father Andrew had sported, and quietly hummed a song of calming as he sat in her lap and ate. She patted the bed next to her for Jecelyn to sit down; the weary young mother sighed and dropped onto the mattress in relief.

“There will be many fun things for you to do tomorrow,” Rhapsody said to Bobo, who nodded and dove for the biscuit box. The two women laughed, and Rhapsody handed it to him, restraining him from falling head-first off the bed. “These are really quite wonderful concoctions,” she said, filching two of the biscuits and handing one to Jecelyn. “They make them in Tyrian; ginger is an herb that offsets nausea. They are the only thing that I can eat first thing in the morning.”

“I remember those days,” said Jecelyn wistfully. Her eyes darkened, and Rhapsody took her hand. Her husband Andrew had died when she was early in her pregnancy; he had never seen his son. After a moment Jecelyn rose and went to the tower window, where the gleaming torchlight from the two carillon towers that stood before Haguefort's front gate could be seen, lighting the dark night and the silvery snow that still fell in gentle sheets on the wind. “Are those the towers where he fell?”

“Yes,” Rhapsody said, running her fingers through Bobo's hair. “Rebuilt now.”

Jecelyn turned to her. “Which one was it?”

“The rightmost, I believe,” the Lady Cymrian said gently. “I'm not certain—I was not here during that last carnival.”

“Yes, it was the rightmost,” said Ashe, who had just entered the room. He crossed to the bed, bent and kissed his wife's cheek, then snatched the munching youngster from her lap and lifted him high in the air. He tilted
him upside down, eliciting squeals of glee from the boy and glances of consternation from the women. He held Bobo by his feet and swung him between his own legs, brushing the silk carpet with the child's inverted curls, then pulled him back up onto his hip and came to the tower window with Jecelyn.

“I was not here at the time, either, but I have read the reports carefully. He and Dunstin Baldasarre saw the attack coming—they were past the gate—and they each ran for a tower, knowing if they could sound the bells of the carillon they could warn Stephen and the others on the fields beyond. Dunstin took the left tower, Andrew the right. Dunstin's tower was felled by fire from a catapult just as he reached it, but Andrew was faster, and managed to ring the alarm before—before he, too, fell.” Ashe took Jecelyn's hand and looked into her face; he understood the need to have the questions answered, the pieces of the puzzle filled in.