The Hollow Queen (27 page)

Michael, the Wind of Death.

Who, sometime around the Cataclysm that had taken the Island of Serendair to the depths of the sea, had found new life and immortality as the baron of Argaut.

The seneschal.

And the host of a fire demon from the Before-Time.

A F'dor.

An entity that had the power to subjugate an unknowing person as a thrall, or take a host.

Just like the one that now walked the continent in a body of Living Stone.

Harvested and brought to life by Talquist, the emperor of Sorbold.

Who, long before his ascension to the Sun Throne, had brought the baron to Manosse to meet with Vincent de Malier.

And de Malier's wife, Analise o Serendair.

Rhapsody's friend from the old world.

The Liringlas child that, in another life, she had saved from Michael's cruelty.

Who had undoubtedly recognized him upon meeting him again, even in his new guise.

And who now was tending to and guarding his son in the Nain mountains.

Beyond any communication or reach he might have.

Ashe's conscious mind exploded.

The dragon roared forth, swallowing his will and preparing to rampage.

The outward signs were subtle at first; the vertical pupils in Ashe's eyes expanded, his muscles began to thicken, but the councillors were busy arguing among themselves again, and did not notice.

Lord Ellsworth, who had come to the front steps to meet him, had begun to speak.

“It seems to me, Lord Gwydion, that Lord Lynfalt has a valid point; while you make a serious charge against Sorbold's new emperor, he and even Lord Vincent have had peaceful commerce with Talquist, commerce that did not result in any damaging action on the emperor's initiative that we know of. Your claim of a wide blockade seems, well, somewhat fatuous in comparison to what our experience has been; our fishing vessels ply the sea on a daily basis and have reported no sign of such a blockade, even if, admittedly, they do not venture very far from shore—and so to commit the naval forces of Manosse to war with Sorbold, with no evidence to speak of—”

His speech came to a halt as the table of the councillors began to shake, sending charts and papers flying.

The large windows, fired in blocks of heavy crystal and bound in brass, shattered pane by pane, spraying glass into the air and out into the streets.

The members of the consulate dove to the floor in terror.

“I suppose I—neglected to remind you, Lord—Ellsworth, Lord Lynfalt—that in addition to his—other bloodlines—the Lord Cymrian is—descended of the—dragon Elynsynos as well?” Vincent de Malier puffed from beneath the council table. He pulled his legs in closer as chairs, books, and goblets were thrown about the room and into walls. Suddenly the room was bathed in intense blue light, rippling in waves.

Ashe stood in the center of the room, running one hand rapidly through the shining curls of his hair. In the other hand, Kirsdarke was roiling, tumescent, angry, like the sea in the grip of a hurricane.

Or a tidal wave.

The Lord Cymrian's eyes were smoking in the same blue color as the elemental sword of water.

He inhaled deeply, and the spinning currents of air in the room flashed with ancient power. The members of the consulate felt the slap of air like an assault, and curled against whatever walls or objects they could, seeking shelter.

A moment later, the rampaging winds and violent tremors that had shaken the room ceased.

The consulate members slowly unfolded themselves from beneath or behind their places of hiding, and stood shakily.

The door was open.

The room, save for them and the detritus of their meeting, was empty.

The Lord Cymrian was gone.

 

28

IN THE HIDDEN KINGDOM OF THE NAIN, UNDERVALE, NORTHEASTERN MOUNTAINS

Someone had left the window open, or so it seemed to Melisande.

She had been fast asleep in her bed, after a long and entertaining day of traveling the Nain kingdom with the crown princess, Gyllian, joined for a part of the walkabout by Faedryth, the Nain king himself. Gyllian had understood how cramped and boring Melisande's vigil entertaining Meridion could be, and so occasionally arranged for the little girl to have outings under the guise of being a foreign dignitary and the princess's young friend.

They had dined in splendor at a caf
é
near the artists' district, located near some beautiful crystal formations that had reminded Melisande vaguely of the sky. The colors were glorious, blues and purples and yellows that glowed softly in the artificial cold light of the radiant globes that hung from every lamppost, much like the ones in her father's keep, Haguefort, the ancestral home of rosy brown stone she had grown up in.

The thought had made her melancholy and reflective, and so she had hurried off to bed, planning to get as much rest in as possible before her early-morning shift of feeding, changing, and entertaining Meridion.

I wonder how long we will be down here, under the mountain,
she had mused as sleep took her.
Maybe the war will never end, at least not in my lifetime. Maybe I will be here forever. At least they won't have to bury me; in a way I'm already buried
.

She awoke from a roster of disturbing dreams, shivering with cold.

From the smell of the room, the fireplace in the central part of their apartments had gone out. Melisande was surprised at this; the three women were very careful to make certain it had been well stocked and stoked before putting the baby down and retiring for the night. One of them stood watch at all times, but it was a drowsy duty. Faedryth's soldiers stood watch in so many layers, and had installed so many warning bells, that it seemed impossible that an intruder might make his way in without their knowledge, so as the months passed, the women took turns sleeping upright in the soft, padded chair in which the baby was always fed the clarified goat's milk that was still the staple of his diet.

No alarm ever rang.

Fully awake now, but not wanting to disturb the baby or whoever was on guard, Melisande slipped out of bed, put her freezing feet into her cold slippers, and made her way to the fireplace.

In front of it, to her surprise, she found Analise, closer than she had expected.

The Liringlas woman was cradling Meridion's head in her hands, his tiny feet up against her breasts, looking down into his face. Melisande swallowed; it was a position in which she herself had been forbidden from holding him, because his head was over the floor and vulnerable should he start unexpectedly or squirm suddenly.

Analise, whom she could see in profile, seemed to be studying the baby's face. She turned him absently in small degrees, inclining her head as if to get a better angle, then shifted him into another position, gently and slowly.

Meridion, oblivious, slept on.

“He be beautiful, be he not?”

Melisande blinked. Until Analise spoke, the little girl had no indication that she had known Melisande was there.

“Yes,” she said uncertainly. “Yes, he is.”

“Of course he be,” Analise said. “The Child of Time, born of a woman from the old world, nurtured in the magic of Serendair, and sired by a man from the new one, both graceful of face. Steeped in the lore of fire, of water, of wind, as all Lirin children are, of earth, as all dragonlings be. A truly special child.”

“Why did you let the fire go out?” The words came from her own mouth, but they sounded hollow to Melisande.

At first Analise did not answer, but rather continued rocking Meridion slowly with his head pointed toward the hearth. Finally, when she spoke, her voice was soft.

“To make the voice go silent.”

“What voice?”

The elderly woman sighed, her silver eyes full of memory.

“The voice that has been speaking to me for more than two years now, his voice.”

“His?”

A smile spread slowly across the ancient face.

“Michael's voice. For all that he was a terrible man, his voice was sweet, and his eyes were blue, blue as the pinnacle of the sky. Rhapsody said that to me once, after he had gone.”

“I'm sorry, I don't know what you are talking about.” Melisande hated how young and frightened she sounded.

Finally, the elderly woman turned to her and looked at her thoughtfully.

“That was in the old world, of course. In the old world, Michael, the Wind of Death, was an evil man, a brutal man—a merciless killer with the voice of a sweetmeat vendor, and eyes as blue as the pinnacle of the sky. After he killed my family and took me away to the human city with him, I never again trusted another man with blue eyes.”

Melisande lapsed into silence. She felt a sense of calm descend, a steadying of her will that came upon her in moments of danger. With the amount of threat she had experienced even before turning ten, she had come to rely on the gift of calm.

There really was no alternative to it that would end in anything but death, she knew.

“I never saw the death of the Island—did you know that, Melisande? I be sure you must; your dear father was a great student of history, and the curator of the Cymrian museum, so I'm sure he told you all the tales, did he not?”

The little girl nodded.

“I sailed with the Second Fleet. Our ship sundered at the Prime Meridian, in the backwash of the great wave that had broken the First Fleet, had drowned Merithyn. I opted to go to live in Manosse, a place I was certain Michael, if he had survived the Cataclysm, would never find me.”

In her hands, the baby stretched, his tiny arms reaching out of his swaddling blankets and over his head, then settled down again.

“Imagine my horror when he came into my house as a guest, with no warning,” Analise continued quietly, billing the side of Meridion's head gently with her forefinger, caressing his golden curls. “I have no idea how he found me; it be vain to think it was anything but a chance of Fate, an accident. He did not recognize me. He had never bothered to learn my name in the time when I was in his clutches; he had given me an insulting name, a human name—Petunia. He was calling himself by another name as well—the baron of Argaut. The blue eyes were tinged with red at the edges now, and he carried the stench of the demon.”

“Let me take Meridion, please, Analise,” Melisande said softly. “Please, give him to me.”

The Liringlas midwife's face went slack. She turned and looked at Melisande for only the second time that night.

“He will wake—let him sleep,” she said, then shook her head and went back to studying the baby.

Melisande fell back into silence.

“Michael never knew about Meridion,” Analise said after a long moment. “Unlike the Merchant Emperor, who is ceaselessly seeking the Child of Time, Michael was only looking for Rhapsody. After all those centuries, millennia, really, he had heard her name on the wind somewhere, and came to my house, because he had heard she had been a guest there with Lord Gwydion. Sailors are bigger gossips than fishwives, you know.”

“I know,” Melisande whispered, but she didn't; she only knew that she feared what would happen when Analise went silent.

“He wanted to know how to identify her, what sign he would have that she was the same Rhapsody he had known. I—I told him that the woman who had visited my home wore a locket of gold, and his eyes lit up like bonfires of leaves in autumn. The woman he was seeking had also worn such a locket; it seemed to be the clue that he needed.”

Melisande's heart was pounding so hard that it was almost drowning out Analise's words.

Analise exhaled.

“I believe that's how he found her, ultimately,” she said. “But until recently, everything he said to me had left my mind; if I had been able to remember, I would have warned her.

“But the voice—that only began speaking to me once we came here,” Analise continued. “It is very distant, very far away—as if it is coming from the Vault of the Underworld itself.”

“What does it say? This voice?”

Analise kissed the child's belly.

“It tells me I must put the baby in the fire.” When Melisande gasped in horror, the midwife turned and looked at her. “Oh, do not fear, child—Meridion is his mother's son. The fire would never harm him.”

“Then why would the demon command you to do that?”

The question seemed to perplex Analise.

“Why, so that the demon can have him, of course. Fire be the element from which those demons sprang. They be the masters of it. On occasion, they can reach through fire itself and take what they wish.”

Tears began to roll down Melisande's cheeks.

“Please,” she whispered, prepared to lunge if she needed to. “Please don't do that.”

Analise blinked.

“Well, of course not. Of course I would not do that.”

Melisande's tears stanched suddenly at the look of shock in the elderly woman's eyes.

“Do you not see the fireplace, child?” When Melisande nodded, Analise turned Meridion into the crook of her arm and kissed his forehead softly. “I told you from the beginning, I let the fire go out to make the voice go away.”