“You have not seen his wife,” said Tristan Steward, his hands moving lower. “Even on her worst day, she is a hundred times more beautiful than you ever dreamt to be on your best day. There is a magic to her that is indescribable; I wonder how you will compete with that.”
Portia turned suddenly, her eyes blazing violently.
“Tell me about her scent,” she said hoarsely, struggling to keep the ire from her voice and losing.
Tristan thought for a moment, oblivious of the gleaming naked woman standing before him.
“Like vanilla, and spiced soap,” he said finally. “The faintest scent of flowers. And the sharp odor of sandalwood smoke.”
Portia smiled. She leaned against the Lord Roland and pressed her lips to his, sliding her arms around his neck. Suddenly, in his nostrils was the scent of vanilla and clean, sweet spice, with an undertone of fire in it. Though not exactly the same as Rhapsody’s, it was close enough to make his hands shake. He pushed away in surprise.
“How—how did you do that?” he asked haltingly.
The black eyes danced with laughter.
“There is much you do not know about me, m’lord,” she said, her voice silky with an undertone of threat. “I have not even seen her yet. But mark my words; you will not be disappointed.” She pushed him back, and set about undoing the laces of his trousers while he stood still in shock. “Have you ever been?”
Numbly Tristan shook his head. There was something suddenly terrifying in Portia’s aspect, something cruel and dark and deeper than he could fathom that he had never seen before. He did not recognize it at first, aroused as he was, but later, when he was alone in his bed, he realized that what he felt in the presence of this woman, this servant he had had his way with countless times, was fear.
She pushed him to the floor, covering his mouth, and then his body, with her own, his fully clothed, hers utterly naked; sliding him inside of her, riding him ruthlessly. He began to tremble, wondering what it was he had set in motion.
And as the tall windows mirrored the writhing dance of their bodies commingling on the floor of the guest chamber, he realized that, even in the traditional role of master and servant, he was helpless to stop it now.
The dragon was growing impatient.
All around her the earth was cooling, falling into dormancy, cold beneath a blanket of snow that she could sense above, even in the southlands through which she traveled. As the world fell asleep, the ground became thicker, harder to pass through, deadening the sound of her name that she was following.
Let me pass, she thought angrily, struggling through the clay of the Earth’s crust. Do not hinder me.
The beating heart of the Earth was slowing; it flickered at her ire, but then settled down again. She felt its answer in her mind, or at least imagined she did.
This cycle is older than you are old, the Earth seemed to say. Take your time; it is unending.
No, the dragon insisted, flailing about in the clay and the layers of rock. Help me!
But the earth merely settled back, thickening, making the way more difficult.
In the darkness of the crust of the world, the dragon’s gleaming blue eyes narrowed, shining like lanterns in the blackness.
I may be waylaid, she thought in slowly building fury, but I will not be denied.
And when I finally arrive, even the Earth will suffer.
21
When she entered Haguefort’s garden in the gray light of foredawn the following morning to prepare for her aubades, Rhapsody thought she caught sight of a thin shadow at the edges of her vision. She turned as quickly as she could without losing her balance, but saw nothing except the gray haze that was thinning in the advent of sunrise.
Then she felt it again, a vibration she recognized, and she broke into a wide smile.
“Achmed! Where are you?”
“Here,” a voice behind her said, closer than her own shadow. “As I told you I would always be.”
She turned and threw her arms around the Bolg king, laughing with delight.
“I’m so happy you are here,” she said, clinging to her oldest friend in excitement. “Where have you been?”
“I arrived this morning,” Achmed said, extricating himself after a quick return of her embrace, gently pulling her away, mindful of her belly. “You didn’t really expect that I would come for First Night and have to endure all the nonsense of the arrivals and the pomp that goes with it, did you?”
“No, I suppose not,” Rhapsody chuckled, taking his arm and walking with him through the gardens. “But I have been waiting so long to see you that I just suppose I hoped you would arrive sooner. It doesn’t matter; you’re here now. How are you? How is Grunthor? And everyone in the Bolglands?”
“Grunthor is well, but the Bolglands have been suffering,” the king said bluntly. “If you are truly concerned, you can be of great help.”
“Of course,” Rhapsody said haltingly, her good cheer fading away like water running down a drain as her nausea returned. “What’s wrong? Why are the Bolglands suffering?”
“We can go into that at greater lengths later,” Achmed replied hastily, noting the change in the color of the horizon. “You have not sung your morning devotions yet, I take it?”
“No,” Rhapsody admitted. “I had just entered the garden when I felt your presence.”
“Well, don’t let me interrupt. I have to see Gwydion Navarne before he becomes too wrapped up in the preparations for his investiture. Which window is his?”
“That one,” Rhapsody said, pointing to a balcony above the Great Hall. “But spare yourself the climb and the arrest. Ashe is taking no chances; there are guards everywhere, and soldiers at all points around the province perimeter.”
“I noticed,” Achmed said dryly. “Good for him; he’s finally learning. Perhaps your kidnapping had some lasting value after all.”
“Gwydion is probably in the burying ground,” Rhapsody said coolly, ignoring the slight. “That is usually where he begins his day. I expect he is there already this morning. Give him a moment alone before you seek him out, please.”
Achmed nodded. “I will be back afterward, and then we will talk. I need your focused attention, so be prepared to send away anyone who comes nattering at you about minutiae.”
“Gladly,” said Rhapsody as his arm slid out of hers. He had just vanished from the edge of her blurry sight when she became aware of another presence, felt another vibration in the garden, an older, more musical sound.
“Good morning, Jal’asee,” she said without turning.
“Good morning, m’lady.” The sonorous voice drifted toward her on the warm wind, light as ether. A moment later, the Sea Mage seemed to appear out of the morning light, although Rhapsody was certain he had been standing just beyond her vision.
Rhapsody inhaled deeply. The Sea Mage and his retinue had been away from Haguefort since the morning after Ashe’s announcement of Gwydion’s investiture, visiting the Lirin kingdom of Tyrian with her viceroy, Rial. She had hoped he would return earlier, so that he might spend some time instructing her in the science of magic that the Sea Mages practiced, as he had promised, but his absence meant the secrets of the Isle of Gaematria were still a mystery. She suspected that his timing was intentional. He smiled disarmingly and shielded his eyes, looking into the sky.
“Have you greeted the daystar yet?”
“Not yet,” Rhapsody said. She turned toward the east, where the star was setting; a thin line of pink had cracked the gray vault of the horizon, and was pulsing with impending light.