Elizabeth Haydon - The Assassin King

As she played, she was at first unaware of the tears on her cheeks. Loss, deep and strangling, roared up within her, choking her, making her song sour and thin. Rhapsody lowered her chin to her chest, remembering their days of journeying together, neither trusting the other, and yet comfortable in each other’s presence, falling slowly and inextricably in love all the while. She could not believe that once again they were parted. She cleared her throat, savagely brushed the tears from her face, then began the song again in earnest, weaving into it the musical pattern of his name. When the melody was complete, she sang softly behind it as it hovered in the air. Gwydion ap Llauron ap Gwylliam tuatha d’Anwynen o Manosse, I miss you , she intoned, directing the long waves of sound into the wind, attached by an invisible thread to his name. I love you—remember me . Then she curled up with their child, kissed him, and fell into a sleep of disturbing dreams. Far away, in the keep of Haguefort, her husband was standing on the balcony of the library, watching the eastern sky. The wind rustled through his hair, carrying with it a warmth that had not yet come to the winter-wrapped land. There was a song in that wind, a song he had heard long ago, when Rhapsody had summoned him to the grotto Elysian, to reunite him with a lost piece of his soul she had recovered. He could hear her voice in his memory. Gwydion ap Llauron ap Gwylliam tuatha d’Anwynen o Manosse, I miss you . Ashe smiled. “I miss you, too, Emily,” he said, knowing that she would not hear him in return. “But I will see you tonight in my dreams. May yours be sweet.”

I love you—remember me. “As if I could forget.” The Lord Cymrian stood for a long time under the starry sky, but no more of the message was forthcoming. Finally he sighed, and went to bed, wrapped in warm memories of a girl in a grassy meadow on the other side of Time.

Melisande had been traveling for the better part of a day when she began to suspect she was going in circles. She had been traveling for the better part of two when she began to suspect she was being followed. Melisande heard the trickling of water in the distance and urged the horse forward, knowing it was thirsty. Under a tree was a spring-fed pond, partially frozen, that she thought they had paused at the day before; she swallowed her despair and dismounted, leading the horse to the water, then refilled her waterskin while it drank. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw movement, a little more than a stone’s throw away to the north, though when she looked more carefully she beheld nothing but the snowy forest, the evergreens with branches bowed heavy with icy burdens, the bramble and undergrowth frosted with recent snow. Melisande stood erect. She stared harder into the greenwood, but still saw nothing. Still, she drew her knife from the boot sheath and held it out threateningly. “Show yourself,” she demanded of the trees and hillocks. Nothing but the wind answered her. She waited for a long moment, then, feeling foolish, she took a drink from the pond. Fighting the pangs of hunger and desperation, she turned to mount and be on her way again. Standing behind her in a thicket of saplings was a man, a farmer or huntsman by the look of him. He was human, middle-aged and bearded, his expression somber, his face and clothing unremarkable. He wore a brown broadcloth cloak of modest quality and deerskin boots; had he not stepped slightly out of the thicket, she would never have seen him, so plain and colorless were his garments. A long tapering basket of woven reeds and a quiver of arrows were strapped to his back, and he carried a bow, but no other weapon was visible. He said nothing, but watched her with dark eyes that seemed keen and a touch intimidating. Melisande drew her dagger again quickly. “Stay back,” she said, in a voice she had hoped would sound threatening. The stranger did not move. Melisande took hold of the bridle. “Remain still,” she said. The man complied, saying nothing. The girl turned and prepared to mount, then looked at the knife in her grip. She shifted it to the right hand, then reconsidered; should the man attack her, she would be at a disadvantage, as her left hand was dominant. The stranger just watched her as she cogitated. Finally, she stuck the knife between her teeth like a pirate and climbed into the saddle. The man just continued to watch her. Melisande took the knife from her mouth and pulled back on the reins. As she prepared to depart, the stranger finally spoke. His voice was gravelly, as if from disuse.

“Are you injured?”

I certainly wouldn’t tell you if I were, Melisande thought “No,” she said, “but you will be if you try to interfere with me.”

The man shrugged. “You are lost.”

“I am also the Lady Melisande Navarne, and there are by now any number of armed soldiers looking for me” Melisande said, struggling to maintain a brave front. “So be on your way, and I will be on mine.” The man folded his hands. “And where are you going, Lady Melisande Navarne? I can offer directions. Unless you prefer to continue wandering aimlessly in the forest in winter.” The man swallowed, as if so many words at one time had been uncomfortable to produce. Melisande inhaled. She wanted to be able to trust him, but having just experienced the kindness of strangers in the woods, she was afraid to let him get too close to her. “I am on my way to the Circle, to see Gavin the Invoker,” she said at last. The man’s eyebrows drew together. “You are going the wrong way. The Circle is west; you’ve been heading south.” Melisande sighed miserably. “I could take you there,” the man said. The horse danced in place. Melisande shifted on its back, her leg muscles sore and cramping. “Why should I trust you?” she asked, secretly hoping he would provide her a reason to do so. The man turned to go. “Come if you wish. Remain if you wish. If you’re right, your soldiers will find you eventually.” He began walking away through the underbrush. “Have—have you ever been mere?” she called after him. “Where?”

“The Circle? Have you gone there before?” The stranger stopped and considered. “On occasion. Though not often.” Then he turned away again and disappeared between two stands of trees. Melisande hesitated, then, seeing no alternative, urged the horse forward, keeping her distance from the brown figure that blended disturbingly into the woods around them.

Afer several hours, Melisande began to wonder if the stranger was trying to lose her even more deeply in the forest.

In spite of being on foot while she was riding, the man moved through the greenwood at a much greater speed than she could. Her stomach growled and cramped; she had had nothing to eat since supper the night before she left, and was weak with hunger. When the man finally stopped for the night, she worked up her courage and addressed him as politely as she could. “Have you any—food you could spare?” The stranger turned around and regarded her sharply. Then after a moment he took the reed basket off of his back, fished around inside it, and took out a packet wrapped in cloth. He tore back the wrapping to reveal a small husk of hard-baked black bread, then came forward and offered it to her. Melisande drew her knife quickly. “You eat some first,” she said, brandishing the blade. The man nodded. He took the husk and bit the end off it, chewing and swallowing. He took another bite, and a third, finally popping the last of the husk into his mouth. Then he turned around and headed back off into the forest, leaving the crestfallen girl behind him. Melisande exhaled sadly, then kicked the horse and followed him. Well, that was stupid, she chided herself. Perhaps he has the right idea—I’ll just remain quiet from now on. They continued walking in silence, with no sound except for the winter wind and the noise of the horse’s hooves. As they traveled, Melisande noticed that the forest was changing. At first it seemed brighter, or that there was more snow on the branches and boughs of the trees, but eventually she realized that more of the trees themselves were of white or pale bark— alders, birches, silver maples. She knew from her studies that the prefix gwyn meant white, but until she had seen the place she didn’t realize why it had been so named.