And there was something more, something even more distant. In the back recesses of his conscious mind, fragmentary and shrouded in the darkness of ambiguity, was the memory of fire.
Dark fire.
20
“This is mortifying,” Rhapsody said.
Ashe sighed. “So you’ve indicated three times already in the last hour,” he said indulgently, watching his wife wriggle uncomfortably in her thick cape beneath an even thicker blanket. She was ensconced on a large padded chair with a high back in the center of the reviewing stand, her feet propped on a tufted ottoman, her distended belly elevated to a point that she could barely see over it. Ashe leaned over and kissed her cheek, rosy from the wind, and brushed a strand of golden hair out of her eyes.
“I can stand,” she insisted.
“Well, that makes one of us,” Anborn chimed in humorously. He was seated to her left, watching the parade of festivalgoers from the reviewing platform as well. “Now you know how I feel.”
“She can’t stand, either,” Ashe retorted. “When she stands she vomits or gets light-headed.”
“I vomit and get light-headed when I sit as well,” Rhapsody said crankily. “At least if I’m going to be sick, it would be nice to be able to see who I am going to be sick on.”
“Oh, m’lady, by all means, don’t aim at the peasantry,” said Anborn, nudging her playfully. “Turn your lovely head clockwise toward your husband. He is, after all, responsible for your woes—or at least he thinks he is.”
Rhapsody glared at Anborn, then settled back down beneath the blanket, attempting to maintain a pleasant official expression. The crowd of merrymakers was a blur to her, a sea of jumbled faces and clothing passing beneath the flapping banners of colored silk that hung from Haguefort’s towers and guardposts and the reviewing stand on which they were seated.
Melisande hovered nearby, her face shining with excitement, rimmed in a fur hat that matched the muff that encased her hands. Her black eyes were sparkling in the wind, her nose and cheeks red with the bite of it.
“Look at the puppets!” she said gleefully to Rhapsody as a line of giant articulated harlequins paraded past the reviewing stand, their limbs controlled by the large sticks of their puppetmasters, who walked behind them, dwarfed by their size.
Rhapsody smiled at her in return. “Are you going to compete in the Snow Snakes competition this year?” she asked the young girl.
“Yes, definitely,” said Melisande with a knowing glance at Gwydion. “I have to defend the family honor; last time Gwydion lost in the final round.”
“That’s right,” Gwydion murmured to himself. He had forgotten that aspect of the carnival; the thought opened a floodgate in his mind and the memories poured back in, the good-spirited competition, the comic races where Melisande and the other little children had to race with a sled tied to their waists on which a fat sheep had been placed, the excitement of the sledge races, the humorous dunking of the winning teams by the losing ones. Such good memories that had been overshadowed by what came later. Over it all he could hear the pealing of Stephen’s merry laughter. I have to hold on to these, he thought. That was my father’s last carnival. I need to remember him that way.
He turned to Anborn, beside whom he was sitting, and motioned into the crowd.
“Isn’t that Trevalt, the swordmaster?” he asked, indicating a black-mustached man, tall and rapier-thin, accompanied by a small retinue, making his way from the line of carriages outside Haguefort’s wall to the central festival grounds.
Anborn’s lip curled in disdain. “I would never call him by such a lofty title, but yes, that’s Trevalt.”
Gwydion leaned forward in his seat and addressed his godfather.
“Third-generation Cymrian?”
“Fourth,” Ashe corrected.
“But a First Generation damfool,” said Anborn scornfully. “A simpleton dressed in the robes of a scholar, a thespian who wraps himself in the titles of soldiers because he lived through a war in which even children and blind beggars fought.”
Gwydion blinked at the acid in his mentor’s voice, and looked questioningly at Ashe. His godfather motioned to Gwydion, who rose and walked over to him. Ashe leaned closer so as not to be overheard.
“Anborn loathes Trevalt because he once claimed, for personal gain, to have been invested as a Kinsman,” he said quietly. He needed to say nothing more; the look of horror on Gwydion’s face indicated clearly that he understood the severity of the offense. Kinsmen like Anborn were members of a secret brotherhood of warriors, masters of the craft of fighting, sworn to the service of soldiering for life. They were accepted into the brotherhood for two things: incredible skill forged over a lifetime of soldiering, or a selfless act of service to others, protecting an innocent at the threat of one’s own life. It was a sacred trust to be one, the ultimate honor coupled with the ultimate selflessness, and with the membership came the unspoken understanding of its secrecy, and its honor. Anyone who was boasting about being one was clearly lying. And that was considered an affront almost too egregious to be borne.
He looked back at Anborn, whose face was still flushed with purple rage, sitting impotently on his litter, his useless legs motionless beneath the massive barrel of his chest. Gwydion’s heart went out to him, but a moment later he saw Anborn glance at Rhapsody, a Kinsman herself, and the anger drained out of his face as she smiled at him. They both sighed, then returned to watching the assemblage of the crowd and the festivities.
“Become accustomed to this torture, Gwydion,” Anborn said as the line of dignitaries passed the reviewing stand. “Alas, this is the sort of useless nonsense that takes up one’s days when one is saddled with a title.”
Rhapsody slapped the Lord Marshal playfully. “Stop that. Your title never stopped you from distancing yourself from court obligations.”
“Ah, but you forget, m’lady, my titles have only been military,” said Anborn. “I was the youngest of three. No one ever had any illusions about me being to the manor born, I am relieved to say.”
“Well, except for the Third Fleet, who nominated you for my title, I remind you,” joked Ashe. “Had you not refused it, you might have a lot more ‘useless nonsense’ to attend to today.”
Anborn snorted and returned to his mug of hot spiced mead. Trevalt and his retinue stopped before the reviewing stand, per custom, and bowed deeply with flourishes to the Lord and Lady Cymrian. Rhapsody’s hand shot out and covered Anborn’s mouth in time to prevent him from spitting his libation at the swordmaster. She smiled pleasantly at Trevalt; he blinked, confused, smiled wanly in return, and moved on.
“Now, now, Uncle, this is Gwydion’s last day before his investiture tomorrow,” Ashe said, trying to contain his amusement. “Let us not christen his ascension to duke with a brawl, shall we?”
“You will be lucky if that’s all that comes to pass,” muttered Anborn into his mug.
Rhapsody, Ashe, and Gwydion exchanged a somber glance and returned their attention to the opening of the festival.
“I believe I see Tristan Steward arriving,” said Gwydion.
“Oh joy,” said Rhapsody and Anborn in unison under their breath.
Gwydion sighed and returned to his seat. It appeared it was going to be a long day.
Later, after the Gathering Day’s festivities had come to an end, and the First Night feast had begun, he had to admit to himself that he was enjoying the carnival in spite of it all.
Ashe had wisely limited the attendance to the citizens of Navarne and a few invited dignitaries from across the Cymrian Alliance, rather than holding it open to the entire population of the western continent, as Stephen always had. Since the tents required to accommodate a very much smaller attendance were able to be spread out and more carefully managed, the settling in took only a few hours, rather than the whole of Gathering Day; Ashe had anticipated this as well, and had arranged for the afternoon to hold several highly favored events, as well as a remarkable performance by the Orlandan orchestra that Rhapsody had patronized. The result was a jolly populace, fresh with the excitement of the sporting events and music, ready to sup heartily at the First Night feast. The wine and ale were flowing freely, courtesy of Cedric Canderre, duke of the province that bore his name. Gwydion was quietly amazed that the elderly man had even been willing to attend, let alone provide such a generous donation of his highly valued potables; his beloved only son, Andrew, had died a hero’s death at the battle of the last winter carnival.