Elegy for a Lost Star (28 page)

Lady Jecelyn nodded, then took her son into her arms. “Thank you,” she said. “It helps to see, to understand a little. Well, we have disrupted your evening enough. Thank you, Rhapsody, for the biscuits and for your patience. We'll see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Jecelyn. Good night, Bobo,” Rhapsody called as they disappeared into the hallway, Bobo's wails of protest echoing off the rosy stone walls of Haguefort.

As the shrieks died down in the distance, the lord and lady burst into laughter.

“See what we have to look forward to?” Rhapsody said as Ashe unlaced his shirt, still chuckling.

“It's a joyful noise,” he replied, sliding out of his clothing and into the bed beside her. “It's been good to hear such noise around here today; the place is filled with the sort of music Stephen loved, the music of laughter and merriment and good-natured argument. I know he is watching from wherever he is. I hope the ceremony tomorrow makes him proud.”

“He was always proud of Gwydion and Melisande, Sam,” Rhapsody said, opening her arms and welcoming him into the warmth of the bedsheets, running her hands over his shoulders to loosen the muscles. “I hope tomorrow is sufficient to make Gwydion proud of himself.”

“It should. The ceremony will be dignified, modest, and, above all, brief, both for his comfort and for yours. Then we will get back to the festivities.” Ashe put out the candle and pulled the covers up around them, settling down in the darkness, exhaling as he took his wife into his arms. For a moment there was only the sound of rustling blankets in the darkness. Then a shudder rose in the night, audible over the snowy wind and the distant noise of revelry below.

“What?” Rhapsody asked.

From the depth of the blankets came two words.

“Biscuit crumbs.”

T
he fire on the hearth in the royal guest chamber crackled and leapt in time with the whine of the winter wind outside the tall panes of glass in the windows overlooking the festival grounds, where the revelry had died down into sleep and calm celebration among the most hearty of merrymakers.

Tristan Steward heard the door open quietly. He smiled, and took another sip from the heavy crystal glass into which some excellent Canderian brandy had been decanted.

“About time you arrived,” he said without looking behind him. “I was wondering how long you could maintain your demure demeanor.”

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean.” The woman's voice behind him had a throaty chuckle in it.

That chuckle never failed to inspire a rush of warmth through Tristan. He set the glass down on the table before him and stood, turning around slowly to let the fire warm his back.

Backlit by the lanternlight of the hallway, the woman's form was half obscured in the shadow that stretched forward toward him. She turned and closed the guest-chamber door behind her, then ambled over to where the Lord Roland stood and stopped before him, smiling up insolently at him.

“Are you enjoying the revels, Portia?” Tristan inquired, stroking the porcelain cheek of the chambermaid.

The young woman shrugged. “It's very different from what I expected.”

“Oh? How so?”

The woman's dark brown eyes sparkled wickedly. “From what you had described, I was looking forward to wild drunkenness and public debauchery. It's all very much more tame than I had hoped.”

“It's early yet,” said Tristan, pulling the white chambermaid's kerchief from her head and dropping it to the floor. “This is still First Night; most years this day was more for settling in than anything else. The real revelry begins tomorrow. But you are correct; there is a rather dull pall over this festival, no doubt owing to the horror that it sustained the last time a few years back. The Lord Cymrian has clamped down on the size and scope of the festival; I imagine we will have to settle for debauching in private.”

Portia's lovely face contorted in a mock pout. “Now, what fun is
that?
” she said humorously. “We could have stayed in Bethany if that is all there is to be had.”

“Now, you know better,” said Tristan, unlacing the stays of her sedate bodice and untying the ribbons of her apron. “You have work to do here after I leave—and it's very important to me that you accomplish your task well.”

Portia brushed his hands away from her breasts. “Don't I always?” she said, her eyes flashing with amusement.
“M'lord?”

Tristan inhaled deeply. Portia's impudence was what he liked best about her, the ability to appear as demure and proper as any peasant chambermaid in his household's employ in public, while rising to a dominance and brashness of spirit behind closed doors. Doubtless her fiery nature would not have been appreciated by a lesser man, but Tristan had a weakness for strong women.

Her rude teasing and domineering sexual proclivities reminded him of an old paramour, now dead, whom he had loved more than he had realized while she was still alive. Prudence and he had been born in the same castle on the same day, minutes apart, he the oldest son of Lord Malcolm Steward, she the daughter of his father's favorite concubine and serving wench. They had been inseparable friends; she was his first lover and tireless confidant, willing to call him on his bad behavior and failings while never ceasing to love him unquestioningly. Her death had devastated him, but he had moved on, grimacing through a loveless marriage to Madeleine, the Beast of Canderre, as well as countless trysts with female servants.

And an unrequited obsession with the wife of his childhood friend, Gwydion of Manosse, the Lord Cymrian.

Portia had been his favorite bed partner for a while. Her wild spirit and willingness to fornicate on a moment's notice, barely hidden in public places where the possibility of detection added fuel to their passion, had gone a long way to sating the emptiness he had felt in recent years. It was, at its best, stimulating and emotionless sexual satisfaction. At its worst, it was better than nothing.

And anything was better than Madeleine's cold and formal submission to wifely duties.

“Stand still,” he ordered, turning her around again. Portia's eyebrow arched in surprise, but she allowed the Lord Roland to pull her back to him.

“Now, tell me, Portia, how you plan to accomplish what I've asked of you,” he said, untying the laces from the back of her skirts, then pulling her free of them with an impatient tug which implied an intensity that had not been in his eyes the moment before.

Portia shrugged as his hands slid over her breasts again, unrebuffed this time, pulling her completely free of the last remnants of clothing.

“The same way I accomplished it when
you
were the prize,” she said nonchalantly, though the unexpected fire in her lord's voice was beginning to excite her. “One must first be an unobtrusive and extremely useful servant, so as not to attract the notice or ire of the house's lady. After that, it's only a matter of time. When the wife is bloated with child, it makes it all the more simple.”

“You have not seen his wife,” said Tristan Steward, his hands moving lower. “Even on her worst day, she is a hundred times more beautiful than
you ever dreamt to be on your best day. There is a magic to her that is indescribable; I wonder how you will compete with that.”

Portia turned suddenly, her eyes blazing violently.

“Tell me about her scent,” she said hoarsely, struggling to keep the ire from her voice and losing.

Tristan thought for a moment, oblivious of the gleaming naked woman standing before him.

“Like vanilla, and spiced soap,” he said finally. “The faintest scent of flowers. And the sharp odor of sandalwood smoke.”

Portia smiled. She leaned against the Lord Roland and pressed her lips to his, sliding her arms around his neck. Suddenly, in his nostrils was the scent of vanilla and clean, sweet spice, with an undertone of fire in it. Though not exactly the same as Rhapsody's, it was close enough to make his hands shake. He pushed away in surprise.

“How—how did you do that?” he asked haltingly.

The black eyes danced with laughter.

“There is much you do not know about me, m'lord,” she said, her voice silky with an undertone of threat. “I have not even seen her yet. But mark my words; you will not be disappointed.” She pushed him back, and set about undoing the laces of his trousers while he stood still in shock. “Have you ever been?”

Numbly Tristan shook his head. There was something suddenly terrifying in Portia's aspect, something cruel and dark and deeper than he could fathom that he had never seen before. He did not recognize it at first, aroused as he was, but later, when he was alone in his bed, he realized that what he felt in the presence of this woman, this servant he had had his way with countless times, was fear.

She pushed him to the floor, covering his mouth, and then his body, with her own, his fully clothed, hers utterly naked; sliding him inside of her, riding him ruthlessly. He began to tremble, wondering what it was he had set in motion.

And as the tall windows mirrored the writhing dance of their bodies commingling on the floor of the guest chamber, he realized that, even in the traditional role of master and servant, he was helpless to stop it now.

T
he dragon was growing impatient.

All around her the earth was cooling, falling into dormancy, cold beneath a blanket of snow that she could sense above, even in the southlands through which she traveled. As the world fell asleep, the ground became thicker, harder to pass through, deadening the sound of her name that she was following.

Let me pass
, she thought angrily, struggling through the clay of the Earth's crust.
Do not hinder me
.

The beating heart of the Earth was slowing; it flickered at her ire, but then settled down again. She felt its answer in her mind, or at least imagined she did.

This cycle is older than you are old
, the Earth seemed to say.
Take your time; it is unending
.

No
, the dragon insisted, flailing about in the clay and the layers of rock.
Help me!

But the earth merely settled back, thickening, making the way more difficult.

In the darkness of the crust of the world, the dragon's gleaming blue eyes narrowed, shining like lanterns in the blackness.

I may be waylaid
, she thought in slowly building fury,
but I will not be denied
.

And when I finally arrive, even the Earth will suffer
.

W
hen she entered Haguefort's garden in the gray light of foredawn the following morning to prepare for her aubades, Rhapsody thought she caught sight of a thin shadow at the edges of her vision. She turned as quickly as she could without losing her balance, but saw nothing except the gray haze that was thinning in the advent of sunrise.

Then she felt it again, a vibration she recognized, and she broke into a wide smile.

“Achmed! Where are you?”

“Here,” a voice behind her said, closer than her own shadow. “As I told you I would always be.”

She turned and threw her arms around the Bolg king, laughing with delight.

“I'm so happy you are here,” she said, clinging to her oldest friend in excitement. “Where have you been?”

“I arrived this morning,” Achmed said, extricating himself after a quick return of her embrace, gently pulling her away, mindful of her belly. “You didn't really expect that I would come for First Night and have to endure all the nonsense of the arrivals and the pomp that goes with it, did you?”

“No, I suppose not,” Rhapsody chuckled, taking his arm and walking with him through the gardens. “But I have been waiting so long to see you that I just suppose I hoped you would arrive sooner. It doesn't matter; you're here now. How are you? How is Grunthor? And everyone in the Bolglands?”

“Grunthor is well, but the Bolglands have been suffering,” the king said bluntly. “If you are truly concerned, you can be of great help.”

“Of course,” Rhapsody said haltingly, her good cheer fading away like water running down a drain as her nausea returned. “What's wrong? Why are the Bolglands suffering?”

“We can go into that at greater lengths later,” Achmed replied hastily, noting the change in the color of the horizon. “You have not sung your morning devotions yet, I take it?”

“No,” Rhapsody admitted. “I had just entered the garden when I felt your presence.”

“Well, don't let me interrupt. I have to see Gwydion Navarne before he becomes too wrapped up in the preparations for his investiture. Which window is his?”

“That one,” Rhapsody said, pointing to a balcony above the Great Hall. “But spare yourself the climb and the arrest. Ashe is taking no chances; there are guards everywhere, and soldiers at all points around the province perimeter.”

“I noticed,” Achmed said dryly. “Good for him; he's finally learning. Perhaps your kidnapping had some lasting value after all.”

“Gwydion is probably in the burying ground,” Rhapsody said coolly, ignoring the slight. “That is usually where he begins his day. I expect he is there already this morning. Give him a moment alone before you seek him out, please.”

Achmed nodded. “I will be back afterward, and then we will talk. I need your focused attention, so be prepared to send away anyone who comes nattering at you about minutiae.”

“Gladly,” said Rhapsody as his arm slid out of hers. He had just vanished from the edge of her blurry sight when she became aware of another presence, felt another vibration in the garden, an older, more musical sound.

“Good morning, Jal'asee,” she said without turning.

“Good morning, m'lady.” The sonorous voice drifted toward her on the warm wind, light as ether. A moment later, the Sea Mage seemed to appear out of the morning light, although Rhapsody was certain he had been standing just beyond her vision.