Elizabeth Haydon - The Assassin King

Her baby.

Rhapsody’s hands immediately went to her abdomen, once again flat beneath her palms. Then, tears of joy pouring down her cheeks, she reached out gently and caressed the smooth skin of his face, sliding her hands carefully beneath him and bringing her lips to the hollow of his neck, kissing him over and over again gratefully.

Meridion just lay on the coverlet, staring up at her in the dark, his eyes twinkling. “I should have known,” Rhapsody murmured, smiling down at her son. “I knew you would come back; I just didn’t know that you already have the power of dragons to chase away dreams. My, aren’t you a special boy.” The infant gurgled.

If Melisande had not seen two hundred foresters mount up and ride into the woods around her, followed immediately by another five hundred on foot who disappeared into the great forest behind them, she never would have known that she and Gavin were anything but utterly alone on their journey. The mounted men who had accompanied them from the Circle for the last several weeks had taken off in two cardinal directions upon crossing the Tar’afel River, riding north and west with the rising sun behind them to the outermost edges of the lands of the dragon. The Invoker had explained to her that only the scouts assigned to the farthest reaches would continue to ride; foresters could move far more quickly and quietly on foot than on horseback when traveling through the heavy glades of virgin wood such as those that comprised the lands of Elynsynos. His face had no hint of a smile as he fur- her explained that foresters would not wish to tempt a dragon with horse meat unless the distance made it necessary. The young Lady Navarne had listened to his explanation from atop her own mount, a thick-bodied forest mare with gray dappling. “Why are we mounted, then, if it is more easily done on foot?” she had asked. The bearded Filidic leader had smiled. “Do you fancy yourself a forester, then, Lady Melisande Navarne, as well as all your other accomplishments?” He turned away quickly as her face changed color, but the gentleness of his tone left her vanity intact even as she choked on her own foolishness.

As soon as Gavin’s contingent was out of sight, the Invoker mounted his own horse, a Lirin roan that had been given to him by the border guards of Tyrian in tribute, took hold of her mare’s reins, and rode smoothly into the greenwood. Melisande clung to the mare’s bridle at first, but soon discovered that the Invoker’s quiet vocal cues led the horses easily around deadfall and the deeper pits in the mossy floor of the forest, ensuring a reasonably stable ride. They traveled northwest in silence, following the path of the sun that gleamed through the budding leaves of the ancient forest, casting lacy shadows on the ground before them. Melisande struggled to stay awake in the saddle; the exhaustion of her ordeal was compounded by a dreamy lulling sensation that surrounded her thickly the deeper they traveled into the greenwood. Her eyelids grew heavier as the sun made its way down the vault of the sky, and by dusk she had drifted off to sleep, jostled awake only for a few seconds at a time, and only by the most egregious of bumps. She surrendered to the sensation of riding the spinning world, helpless in the force of its turning, and let her chin come to rest on her chest. For the most part she was able to doze, led by Gavin’s skilled hand and the horse’s gentle canter. She was dreaming of her mother, or at least a woman who looked like the painting of her mother over the fireplace in her father’s library, when she felt the world stop spinning around her. Melisande was startled awake; the light was gone from the sky, leaving nothing but the faintest hint of aquamarine peeking through the trees to the west, while clouds sped through the darkening canopy above her.

She looked around for the Invoker, and spied his horse a few feet beyond her own, but the saddle of the roan was empty.

“Gavin?” she called softly, her voice trembling a little.

A gentle birdcall that blended in with the night sounds of the forest answered her. Melisande knew immediately it was the response of the Invoker, and was reassured, but still she leaned forward in the saddle and peered into the growing forest shadows, trying to find him. The Invoker stepped out of the darkness behind the horse, “You really have a terrible sense of direction, Lady Melisande Navarne,” he said pleasantly. He extended his hand to help her down from her mount.

“Are we stopping here for the night?” Melisande asked.

“A little farther north, about a hundred paces. There’s a spring-fed fairy pond there where the horses can drink.”

Melisande nodded and took hold of her horse’s lead, preparing to follow Gavin. In the distance, a mournful howl rose on the wind, a high, dark whine that held steady for a moment, then undulated down the scale into silence.

The hair on the back of the little girl’s neck was suddenly damp as cold chills ran through her body. She stiffened, just as the horse she was leading did.

Gavin did not turn around. “Don’t panic,” he said quietly. “Keep walking, and stay behind me.” A chorus like animal voices took flight on the wind, whining in discordant unison in reply. They seemed closer than the first, or at least louder. “Wolves?” Melisande whispered. She had heard dark tales of the beasts from her nanny, and from listening to the servants talking among themselves in the buttery in hushed tones, long after she was supposed to have been to bed.

In front of her, she could hear the Invoker chuckle.

“Nothing so dramatic,” he replied, his voice still soft, but stronger now. “Coyotes. Perhaps wild dogs, or half-breeds.”

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

“Hardly. A wolf alone will seldom bother a human, but in packs they are fierce, because they have a strong hierarchy and a sense of community. Alone, surrounded by wolves, you would be in great peril. Coyotes are cowards for the most part, carrion feeders with no real organization, smaller and weaker, preying on rabbits and moles and eating that which larger predators leave behind. With a walking stick, and an adult who has one, you will be fine. Fear not, Lady Melisande Navarne.” The Invoker came to a stop beside a small forest pond, black and deep with the beginnings of water lilies fringing its edges. “Take down your bedroll while I start the fire,” he directed as the horses stepped forward and bent to drink. Melisande, suddenly thirsty, followed their lead and dipped her hand in the water, raising it to her lips, but Gavin shook his head. “I’d advise against that if you don’t want to swallow a mouthful of frog eggs or, even better, tadpoles.” He snorted in amusement as the little girl leapt away in revulsion, spitting and wringing her hand. “Why do they call this a fairy pond?” she asked, curiosity replacing disgust, as she unrolled the thick blanket on the mossy ground.

The Invoker was bent over, assembling their campfire.

“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s just what a small, spring-fed pond is called, I guess. I never really asked.” Melisande sat down on her outstretched bedroll. “You don’t know? You’re the Invoker of the Filids, the head nature priest in all the world, and the guardian of all the holy forests, aren’t you? I thought you were supposed to know about fairies and nature spirits and all those magical things. If you don’t know, who on earth would you have asked?”

“Vingka,” the Invoker said to the small bundle of sticks and dry grass. The wood ignited, snapping into flame. Gavin turned back to the girl, whose eyes were wide, and regarded her thoughtfully. “Now, that’s a good question,” he admitted. “I don’t really know. I suppose I could have asked Llauron if I had thought of it, but alas, there was not time. I didn’t serve as his Tanist, so I did not have much time to learn the lore of the Invoker from him.”