“What makes that so astounding is that, except for Grunthor and me, Achmed trusts no one,” Rhapsody agreed. “Trust is the thing that allows you to risk, but the concept of risk is not in his personality. He hates acting without a plan, without the ability to control every aspect of the situation, even though he has so many skills that he can call upon in a crisis or an unexpected circumstance. He’s consummately impatient.”
Ashe’s smile faded a notch.
“I don’t know if you are right about that, Aria,” he said. “I think Achmed is more patient than we think. It all depends on what he is waiting for.”
Rhapsody laid her hand on top of his that lingered on her face.
“What are you telling me, Sam?” she asked softly.
Ashe entwined his fingers with hers. “That if you agree, if you are willing to undertake with me a new beginning, I think we can set about ordering your birthday present tonight.”
Rhapsody leaned closer so that her lips were just a breath away from his.
“And what do you plan to give me for my birthday?”
Ashe gazed into her eyes, the love in his own burning as brightly as the lanternlight, the candlenames.
“Someone to teach your morning aubade, your evening vespers to,” he said.
All of the worry, the concern that had plagued both their minds over the years was gone, banished from the room as if by the hand of an unseen guardian, leaving nothing but the soft, inconstant light of the candleflames, the scent of tuberoses, the crackle of the lantern fire, the splash of the fountain, and each other.
And yet there was anticipation, a nervous, dizzying excitement that they had felt once before, so long ago, on the other side of Time.
The sense of portent, the good cheer that Rhapsody had felt on the balcony, blew in on the evening breeze and wrapped itself around the bedchamber; there was an utter lack of foreboding, a palpable good cheer that drove any doubt from the room.
Only once did Rhapsody speak.
“Why-?”
“Shhh, love,” Ashe said, resting his finger on her lips, then replacing it with his own. “Don’t ask why tonight; leave that for the morning.”
She returned his kiss without hesitation of any kind.
The lanternlight within the fiery cylinder that shone on the falling water of the fountain mirrored their movements, a slow, gentle dance of melding, opposing elements, improbable in their attraction, beautiful in their union.
Those bonds of elemental power, tied inexorably to their souls, sang deep within each of them; the crackling passion of the fire that was she, the patient relentlessness of waves of the sea that was nascent in him, oscillating, undulating, building and cresting as it joined with her, warmed by the pure, gleaming fire within, forming a new element, one that burned with heat, ebbed with the tides of the sea, remaining stalwart, unending, as their love for one another.
The element of Time.
In a fleeting moment of conscious thought amid the blissful oblivion of lovemaking, Rhapsody felt a tone sound within her, a melodic note that was different from da, her own Naming note, and sol, the musical pitch to which Ashe was attuned. This new tone resonated through her body and mind, then disappeared, leaving a mark she could sense, but only distantly.
It was the most beautiful sound she ever remembered hearing.
The water in the fountain on the table leapt with joy; the fire in the lantern burned brightly in time with it, until its fuel was spent. Then it resolved to a gentle glow, reflecting in the ripples in the basin, no longer leaping, but smooth as glass.
The moon crept over the horizon’s edge, bathing the red clay of Yarim in white light, making the city shine as if in a dream, the silent brick buildings and empty market stands gleaming in its radiance.
The moonlight glided through the open balcony window and came to rest on the two lovers, wrapped in sleep and the arms of each other, spreading to lovers like them all across the city.
It tiptoed into the apertures beneath which children slept, blanketing them in its light, shining in their dreams.
It shone around the sad, lifeless relic that stood in the center of a disrupted fountainbed, illuminating it to dazzling as the tiny flakes of mica in its surface reflected the light.
From the depths of the now-cleared earthen passageway came a whisper, then a gurgle, and finally a sigh.
A particularly bright moonbeam caught the first mist around the Fountain Rock’s summit; it sparkled in the haze of the glistening vapor, bathing it with an ethereal radiance of mist.
And as the dry, weary city slept in the cool wind of an otherwise warm summer night, life-giving water began to pour forth, once more, from Entudenin.
18
Morning clanged in on the clamor of the bells from the Judiciary’s tower ringing over a swell of shouting in the still-dark streets.
Groggily Ashe sat up, deep in the fog of dragon-sleep, his head humming unpleasantly at the ruckus. He muttered an inaudible curse, then rubbed his eyes with one hand as he propped himself up with the other, the blissful ease of the night before dissipating around him.
His dragon senses came to awareness first; the fire in the room had gone out, and the heat of day had not yet come to dispel the chill of dawn from the chamber. In the scope of his awareness he could feel the water coursing forth from Entudenin a few street corners away, hear the glad tidings being shouted and acclaimed by voice, the ringing of bells, the clashing of pots, and the banging of drums as Yarim Paar awoke to the miracle. The minutiae of it all was mammoth; each individual in the square—four hundred twenty three, four hundred twenty four, the dragon counted—each of the three hundred and seven, no, nine, noise makers, each of the one hundred and eleven sparks in the fireplace, each drop of newly flowing water—seven hundred million, four hundred sixty seven thousand, three hundred thirty six, seven, eight—counted obsessively by his dragon nature. The resulting din made his head hurt, made him struggle to subdue his innate awareness, shielding it from his conscious mind so he would not end up with a colossal headache.
Rhapsody slept fitfully beside him, pale and whispering to herself. After spending half the night in deep slumber she had become restless, edgily twitching from side to side in the bed, embroiled in dreams that he could not chase away. He had, as a result, not gotten a great deal of rest, and he was certain, based on the reverberations from her body and the alabaster hue of her face, that she had not, either.
He leaned over her and kissed her neck, his lips warm against her cold skin; it was moist, perspiring. He laid his hand on her side and shook her gently.
“Rhapsody? It’s almost dawn. Are you going to sing your aubade?”
She moaned in response, drawing her knees up and curling into a ball.
Alarm rushed over him. Ashe sat up, shaking off the tremors of cold worry and gathered him wife into his arms. She was breathing shallowly, face beaded in sweat.
“Rhapsody?”
Weakly she pushed away from him and rolled onto her side, then dragged herself to the edge of the bed. She stumbled as she stood, then hurried to the privy closet, slamming the door behind her.