“I apologize,” he said to Anborn, noticing for the first time the fresh scars and bandages. “I know you must have done everything you could. Tell me what happened.”
The General did not speak for a long moment. Finally, when he did, Ashe noted that his voice sounded older than he had ever heard it.
“We were barely more than a day out from the dragon’s lair when we were attacked in Gwynwood north of the old forest outpost of Penn-yg-Naral,” he said stiffly. “I counted at least thirty of them altogether—and some masters of the stonebow. One of them killed Shrike; he was the first casualty, riding rear guard.”
Ashe exhaled. “I am sorry, Uncle.”
Anborn waved his hand in the air sharply, as if to deflect the sympathy.
“She held her own. They overwhelmed the guards, set her carriage alight, cornered her—sick as she was, she fought back. I almost had her out of there, but they took down my horse. And then, because of these cursed useless legs, there was no escape for her. She knew it, so she traded swords with me, knowing that to allow Daystar Clarion to fall into their hands might be fatal to the continent.” Ashe nodded, his eyes gleaming.
Anborn’s voice became hoarser. “She healed me, told me to tell you—both of you, and the children—that she loved you. Then she said some blasted words over me that put me to sleep, caused me to appear dead, until they were gone.” He coughed to clear his throat. “But we saved the body of one of the bowmen—all the rest, our men, their men, Shrike—all of them burned to cinders in the fire that ensued.
“The man who took her carried the elemental sword of air, Tysterisk. Though I have never seen it, I am certain of it—he commanded the wind with the power of a god. He torched the entire northern forest, nephew. The Invoker is probably still working to extinguish it. Unfortunate that your father has gone off to play with himself amid the ether; he might have been able to summon rain or quiet the flames before it burned a good piece of the continent.” At the mention of Llauron, Anborn’s eyes darkened.
“Did you see where they took her?”
“No. But I am certain it was into the fire. They came from the west, even though we were hit first from behind, from the east. I am the world’s biggest fool for allowing her to fall into such a simple trap.”
“None o’ that,” Grunthor said gruffly. “We got a bad enough enemy to fight without you giving ’im any free shots at yer arse.”
“So where were they from?”
“No idea. I did not recognize them, and their garb was foreign.”
Ashe began to pace the stone floor of the Great Hall. “Then they were probably heading to the sea, perhaps to Traeg or Windswere, or even down to Port Fallen.”
“If they was takin’ ’er to sea,” Grunthor said. “ ’Oo knows?”
“The bowman knows,” Anborn said acidly, “which is why we saved his misbegotten body. We have to take it to Sepulvarta, to the Patriarch. He can wring the truth from his corpse, chase his spirit into the Vault of the Underworld and wrestle the information out of him—or so it’s rumored.”
Ashe paused in his pacing, looking doubtful. “Those may be folktales, Uncle,” he said uncertainly. “Having worn that ring myself, though not as Patri arch, I recall nothing of that in the Office. I fear that may just be wild tales and wishful thinking.”
Anborn snorted. “Perhaps. But I am willing to make the journey on the chance that it is not.”
“I know you are,” the Lord Cymrian said, running his hand over the backs of the chairs that stood beneath the tallest windows at the end of the Great Hall, where he and Rhapsody had heard petitions for aid and supplications for relief every month for the last three years during Days of Pleas. “But you will not. I need you here.”
The General’s face blanched, then turned a livid shade of purple.
“It will take more men than you have in your army, nephew, to confine me so when the lady to whom I am sworn is—
“Anborn,” Ashe interrupted, his voice ringing with quiet authority and the deeper, more menacing tone of the dragon, “I do not question your willingness to do so, or your fealty to Rhapsody. But we know very little still about the motivations behind this. For Rhapsody’s sake, and for the security of the continent, it is imperative that we make no missteps here. Calm and order must be maintained, and we must do all that we can before word of her disappearance comes out. Once it is known that she has been taken, chaos will break out. The ensuing uproar may compromise her safe return, or even her life.”
He turned to Gerald Owen, who had quietly withdrawn and now stood at respectful attention in the doorway.
“Aside from those in this room, who else in Haguefort knows?”
“Only young Master Gwydion, m’lord.”
Ashe considered for a moment, then turned back to Anborn.
“One of us must seek Rhapsody’s return, while the other stays in Haguefort, keeping a watchful eye on the Alliance, maintaining order and as much secrecy as possible. Can we stipulate that I must go, and you must stay?”
Anborn glared at him balefully. The dragonesque pupils in Ashe’s eyes expanded infinitesimally, but otherwise he did not move. Finally the General nodded, then stared down at the floor, his face suddenly older.
Ashe turned to Grunthor. “Will you accompany me to Sepulvarta, Sergeant?”
“Aye,” Grunthor said. “And ’Is Majesty will be meetin’ us there; I directed him so in the message I sent by bird.”
Ashe’s breathing loosened. “Good,” he said in relief. “Achmed can track her by her heartbeat. Though it pains me to say it, he is our best chance to find her now.” His attention returned to Anborn. “Grunthor, will you excuse us, please? Owen, please have another horse restocked and ready to go in ten minutes, with provisions for Sergeant-Major Grunthor as well.”
“Yes, m’lord.” The chamberlain waited respectfully for Grunthor to leave the hall, then quickly followed, closing the heavy door behind him.
Ashe walked slowly over to where his uncle sat, staring out the window. He stood in silence for a moment, studying the ancient Cymrian’s face, watching the shadows flicker across it.
“I know what a sacrifice you are making, staying in this place yet again at my request,” he said finally. “I know, too, that Roland and the rest of the Alliance will be safe in your hands.”
Anborn said nothing, just continued to stare out the tall window.
“I also know that she has no better friend in this world than you, Uncle,” Ashe said quietly. “And that if it were possible for anyone to have saved her, she would have been saved.”
“Get out of here,” Anborn said flatly.
Ashe waited a moment longer, then turned and left the Great Hall.
As he passed the Grand Staircase in the foyer, he saw Gwydion Navarne waiting on the steps, his shoulders square, but his face pale as death. He gestured to the boy to follow him.
When they reached the doors to the keep, Ashe strode past the guards and stopped at the top of the stairs that overlooked the roadway, where only a few short weeks before Rhapsody had eschewed the carriage he had provided for their journey to Yarim. He closed his eyes, remembering the look of comic horror on her face, trying to freeze the moment in his memory.
“I will bring her back, Gwydion.”
The boy inhaled deeply but said nothing.
Ashe turned and regarded him thoughtfully.
“You’ve heard those words before, haven’t you?”
Gwydion nodded. “It’s what my father said when he rode out to the place where my mother’s carriage—”
“I know.”
“Do you?” the boy asked sarcastically, his voice rising with barely contained hysteria. “Do you know, Ashe? Did you know she was attacked by Lirin? Our friends, our neighbors, a race my father loved and trusted, who he counted as his friends. Did you know that they cut her head off? That they kept on sawing at her neck, even when my father’s soldiers were shooting them point-blank? That she was still clutching Meliys baby shoes, even while—