Elizabeth Haydon - The Assassin King

His voice resonated inside the hovering circle of light, the sound remaining trapped within it. The Lord Cymrian reached into his pocket, removed a coin minted with his own aspect and tossed it on the earthen floor outside the protective spinning light. It landed without sound; satisfied, he continued his address. “We know we are facing war—what is at question is the scale of it, and who is allied against us. Each of us holds a piece of that answer, and it is critical that we have as much of the puzzle as we can know before we put our defenses in place. We must ascertain whether what is coming is a war of conquest, driven by the greed of men, or if it is something far darker, more ancient, which has always loomed in the distance. Rhapsody, Namer that she is, has the power to not only record the words for posterity, but to help derive additional meaning from them once they are laid out for her. She has canted a circle of protection to keep our words secret from any ear that could hear them, hiding us all from any eye that could see within our council chamber. She will now remain silent, concentrating on each of our stories. I will speak first.” He turned slightly toward Anborn. “My father, your brother Llauron, is dead, Uncle,” he said softly, his voice emotionless. “Worse, he has Ended, forsaking all of his draconic lore as the Progenitor did, in a final act of protection of Rhapsody and our child, his grandson.” He waited, allowing the import of his words to sink in. Anborn stared at him for the span of seventy heartbeats. “The shield of the world is compromised,” he said finally. “This is grave news indeed.” Gwydion Navarne blinked but said nothing. It never failed to amaze him how passionlessly the members of the royal Cymrian dynasty were able to absorb tidings about the deaths of their family members, especially given the history of a thousand years or more that they shared. It might have caused him to believe that as humans with dragon blood, or wyrmkin, they were incapable of emotion, except that he himself had witnessed their desolation in the loss of others. He had seen firsthand the grief of Ashe when Rhapsody was missing or away, and the agony Anborn underwent following the death of his man-at-arms and friend, Shrike, a lowly soldier. It was a puzzle he not only could not decipher, but one whose very pieces were invisible to him. Then again, he mused, maybe it was more a matter of the deceptions they had perpetrated on each other over the centuries. Both Ashe and Llauron had been forced, or chosen, to feign their own deaths, to remain hidden from the sight of the living world for years. Perhaps this lack of loss was the price of that. “Additionally, I was unable to find my great-grandmother, Elynsynos, who would most certainly have been there if she were able,” Ashe continued. He looked askance at Rhapsody, whose eyes glistened with tears, but whose face remained stoic otherwise. “My own ability to discern her presence is limited to a range of approximately five miles, but there is such a patent lack of ethereal energy in the air, such a loss of lore from the forest ground, that I fear the worst.” Anborn’s face whitened noticeably. Gwydion felt the air in the room become suddenly drier, more caustic. “Gods,” he whispered. “If that be true, then with her death and that of Llauron, the Great White Tree is now unguarded, and the lands that once were her domain—most of the western continent, even unto Tyrian in the south—are no longer under draconic protection.” His hand shook slightly as he traced the area. “For all that humans do not even discern that wyrms protect the very ground on which they walk, the loss of both of them will leave a good deal of the Alliance vulnerable, should there be F’dor about.”

Ashe nodded, his jaw clenched. Then he turned to Achmed and Grunthor. “Tell us, please, what you experienced in the forest of Gwynwood. Rhapsody was too ill to talk about it on the way home in the carriage.” The Bolg king’s mismatched eyes gleamed in the flickering light. “Well, I suppose if you are counting the number of dragons left in the world and bemoaning the loss of those two, you can gain cheer from this,” he said archly. “One we had thought dead is actually alive—your bloody grandmother, Ashe.”

The Lord Cymrian’s face went rigid, and the draconic pupils in his eyes expanded. “Anwyn?” he asked in a choked voice. “Anwyn is alive?” He looked from the Bolg king to Grunthor, who remained at attention, as he always did in Achmed’s presence, then finally to his own wife. “How can that be? The three of you killed her, locked her in a grave of scorched earth within the Moot before the eyes of almost everyone in this room. The sword Daystar Clarion took her from the skies with a flash of starfire that ignited the grass all around for miles—how can this be?”

“Bloody dragons,” Grunthor muttered. “Once is never enough with ’em; ya gotta kill ’em at least twice, maybe more.”

“If anyone should know that it would be you, Ashe,” said Achmed. “I’ve been trying with you for the last four years, and yet here you are.” The air around him bristled, and Gwydion Navarne winced involuntarily. He knew the Bolg king’s words were black humor. but there was enough truth in them to set off the dragon in Ashe’s blood, and possibly Anborn’s as well. “Careful then, Achmed, lest your reputation as a renowned assassin be seen as mere puffery,” Ashe said calmly, smoothing out the map. “Where did you see her?” The Bolg king lowered the veils that traditionally shielded his hideous face from both the gaze of the world and the vibrations of ordinary life that irritated the sensitive nerve endings and traceries of veins that scored his skin, hallmarks of his Dhracian heritage. “She chased Rhapsody, your brat, and me through a good deal of the forest outside of Elynsynos’s lair,” he said. “The last I saw of her was at the place where your father’s ossified carcass now stands.” Rhapsody glanced at him reproachfully but did not speak, still concentrating on the accounts. “She was alive when he interposed himself between you, enveloped you?” Ashe asked, his jaw rigid but his eyes clear, “When he Ended, with the three of you inside him?” The Bolg king exhaled. “She took a shot from my cwellan, a bladed disk of cold-fired rysin-steel that expands jaggedly in heat I think I hit her in the chest area or midsection—it’s hard to tell on a dragon. That disk should continue to expand for a while, ripping into the muscle and sinew, until it finally shatters, whereupon the pieces should make their way to the heart. Those disks are called dragonkillers. Ironic—your own grandfather, her hated husband Gwylliam, was the one who produced the design for the manufacturing process four hundred or so years ago before Anwyn had him assassinated. Seems he was bent on finding a weapon that could rip apart dragons as well.” His eyes went to Anborn. “Your parents were charming people. Family dinners in your house must have been joyous.”

“Why do you think each of us had a personal food taster?” Anborn replied testily. “Shall we return to the matter at hand?”

“She was after Rhapsody,” Achmed said. “She seemed obsessed, and unaware, of everything else around her. She did not threaten me, or call out after anyone else—she screamed Rhapsody’s name over and over again, using the wind, the rumbling of the earth, anything she could draw power from, to threaten her.”

“Sorry Oi didn’t come sooner,” Grunthor muttered, his polished tusks protruding from behind bulbous lips. “Oi’d ’ave made ’er scream somethin’ else.” Rhapsody glanced at him and smiled slightly; the Sergeant smiled in return, understanding the unspoken thanks in her eyes.

“It’s difficult to know whether or not she died of those wounds,” Ashe said, studying the map. “Like Anborn, and myself, and any other of Elynsynos’s descendants, she is not a true dragon but wyrmkin; if she were true wyrm, she woud never have been able or willing to try to kill my father, or Meridion. No true wyrm would ever kill another, not even in a dispute over territory, which is their greatest point of contention. She has none of the compunction and none of the collective conscience of her mother’s race—and therefore she will stop at nothing to vent her hatred. If she survived you cwellan shot, she will continue to appear randomly, whenever she is least expected, until she gets what she wants—and it appears what she wants is to kill you, Rhapsody.” The Lady Cymrian nodded, still concentrating on the re-port. “I suspect that she will ultimately die of the wound, Achmed said. “There is no person to whom she can turn to have the shards removed, so sooner or later they will rend her enough inside to cause her to bleed to death—one of my all time favorite aspects of those disks. I suspect Rhapsody has little to fear in the long term.”