“That would be correct,” Gwydion said sympathetically. “I’m sorry to have made you experience it.”
“No need to be,” the Lady Cymrian replied. “Do what you need to do, and come home safely. I know that Anborn will guard you with his life.”
“And I will guard him with mine.”
Rhapsody resisted the urge to smile. “I know that as well,” she said.
A slamming sound startled them. The young duke stood as the doors opened and the litter bearers entered, carrying the Cymrian hero, who was snarling at Jal’asee as they came through the door.
“No, I did not try the infernal contraption, bugger it all,” Anborn said, gesturing contemptuously at the Ancient Seren. “And as I have told you over and over again, I have no intention of doing so, unless the bloody thing can be used to hone weapons or ferment ale. I don’t want my brother’s damnable pity, or his largesse. You can tell him that rather than its intended use, I plan to donate it to a whorehouse and suggest that they use it on their guests who find it intriguing.”
Jal’asee consulted his cards, then pulled one out of the sheaf.
“Hmmm, whorehouse, whorehouse, whorehouse. Ah! Here it is. ‘Then at least I know you will be getting some use out of it occasionally.’ ”
“Are you ready yet?” Anborn demanded of Gwydion Navarne, glaring daggers at the Sea Mage.
“I will be in just a few more moments, Lord Marshal,” the new duke said, bending to kiss Rhapsody on the cheek. “I need to say my goodbyes to Gerald Owen and Melly, and then I will be prepared to go.”
“Get on with it, then,” Anborn said gruffly. Gwydion nodded and took his leave.
The Lord Marshal gestured at his bearers. “Withdraw to the edge of the room; I wish to speak privately with the Lady Cymrian.” The servants bowed and walked away. “And you, Jal’asee—tell my miscreant brother that the next time he wants to make something for me, he might want to be certain it is something that would not squash him flat should it drop on him unexpectedly next time he comes to visit.”
“I will relay the message,” said the Sea Mage dryly.
“Good. Now go away.”
Rhapsody and the Seren ambassador exchanged a sympathetic glance; then Jal’asee bowed slightly and withdrew from the room.
“You know, it’s a shame that you chose to go into soldiering,” Rhapsody said, a sour edge mixing with the humor in her voice. “You really would have made a fine diplomat.”
“Indeed, the finest sort of diplomat is the one that is plainspoken about his goals and intentions, and where he stands. I don’t think anyone could seriously accuse me of vacillating on my positions, or obfuscating my statements.”
“Certainly can’t disagree with you there.”
Anborn’s azure eyes twinkled. “Well, to that end, I have to ask you if you are still planning your ill-considered visit to the lair of Elynsynos.”
“Yes,” said Rhapsody, taken a little aback. “Why would you think that I had changed my mind?”
Anborn shrugged. “I have no reason to believe that good sense would suddenly strike you; it has never made an appearance up until now. I had just hoped against hope that it would.”
“What is your objection to my plans?” Rhapsody asked.
“For the life of me I cannot imagine why you would want to go sit in a cave with a vapid beast who might accidentally incinerate you should she get a head cold. Is my wretched nephew’s company even more dull than I had imagined?”
“You have never met Elynsynos,” Rhapsody said tartly, her ire rising. “I don’t appreciate you speaking about her, or Ashe, in that manner.”
The general chuckled. “Elynsynos is my grandmother.”
“So perhaps you should take the time to come to know her. She’s fascinating.”
Anborn shrugged. “Perhaps. Maybe someday when I have nothing better on which to spend my time. It appears I value mine more than you do,” he said, a playful note in his voice, but a serious look in his eyes. “Stay here, Rhapsody, where Gwydion can take care of you. This pregnancy was ill advised; do not make it even more dangerous by hiding away in a dragon’s cave where no one can find you to help if you need it. At least at Haguefort you have access to the very best healers in Roland.”
Rhapsody shook her head. “To my knowledge, none of those healers has ever delivered the child of a Lirin mother and a dragon father,” she said lightly. “It’s a somewhat exclusive experience. There are few in the world who have ever been involved in such a pregnancy, and Elynsynos is one of them. She conceived Manwyn, Rhonwyn, and your mother while in human form, and could not then change back to her wyrm form until they were born, so she has had the experience of carrying babies of different blood in her body and giving birth to them. I hope to learn a great deal from her, and perhaps fare better in the delivery than I would have otherwise.”
“What can she possibly teach you? She was a serpentine beast of ancient race, an egg-layer that took a Seren form, mated with a Seren man, and carried triplets in a body that itself was foreign. That is not your situation.”
“No, it’s not,” Rhapsody admitted. “But as far as I know, there is only one other person who had a closer situation to mine, whose natural form was human, and that was your mother.” She sighed deeply. “I wish that events had worked out differently with Anwyn, that I could have come to know her and learn from her, as my grandmother-in-law. I wish she could come to know her grandchild. If only I had not gained her ire, perhaps—” Her voice broke off in midword.
Anborn’s face was bloodlessly pale, his azure eyes gleaming with wild intensity.
“Do not ever speak those words again,” he choked, his voice raw. “You are a Namer; may the All-God forbid that your wish ever be granted just because you were foolish enough to misuse your power.”
Rhapsody stared at the Lord Marshal in amazement. He was more visibly upset than she ever remembered seeing him, even in the heat of battle.
“Anborn—”
His hand shot out and roughly covered her mouth. “Stop—do not utter another sound.” He glanced around behind him, then above, as if listening for something in the wind. “You do not know what you are saying.” His voice dropped in tone to just above a whisper. “If there is anything in this life that you have to be grateful for, it is that the misbegotten hellkite is dead, rotten into coal in her ash-covered grave, and therefore will never know your child, or that you even have one. She was the absolutely last entity on the face of this earth that you would want to seek maternal advice from; trust me on this.”
His hand trembled as it cupped her lips.
Rhapsody’s emerald eyes, wide with surprise, blinked above his fingers. Then her expression resolved into one of more calm, and she placed her hand over his and pressed his hand to her lips, then gently pulled it from her face.
“All right, Anborn,” she said quietly. “I believe you.”
Her eyes searched his face, trying to ascertain the reason for the intensity of his alarm. She knew that Anborn had led his father’s armies against his mother’s in the Cymrian War, and doubtless that had given him opportunity to see Anwyn’s brutality at close range. But the war had been over for more than four hundred years; the general seemed to have made peace with other old adversaries and buried his enmity in all other matters. The strength of his reaction confounded her.
After a moment’s staring at each other, she still had found nothing tenable, so she smiled, hoping to diffuse his mood. The wildness in the general’s eyes seemed to pass, and he stared at her with a new clarity.