He was at the crest of a deep swale in the Krevensfield Plain when Ashe felt it. At the very edge of his awareness he sensed something alien, something his perceptions had never before come across, and it made him stop in the morning shadow he was walking behind, unseen.
Power, the dragon within his blood whispered. Fascinating power. I want to touch it.
The dragon was a source of constant struggle. It was part of him, a faction of his own nature that had a mind of its own, and though he was perennially in a state of vigilance to keep it under control, Ashe had grown used to it over the years.
He had come to appreciate its vast awareness. Because of that element in his makeup he was conscious of the infinitesimal details of the world around him; he could feel and sense every blade of grass in the field he now stood within if he gave the dragon the leeway to do so. But Ashe tried to avoid that sort of thing; the dragon was unpredictable, and wanted more freedom than he was willing to allow it.
Its senses were never wrong; there was something alien around here, something mystical and old and perverse and fascinating all at the same time. Something more than a source of power, but exactly what it was he was at a loss to determine. It took him a moment to locate where it was coming from, and when he did, he sighed in annoyance.
Bethe Corbair; it was coming from within the city. Ashe hated cities. He avoided them whenever possible, primarily because Ashe's life was a life of shadow and solitude; it was not a wise thing to put oneself around people when one was hunted.
Still, there was such a thing as being lost in a crowd. Ashe would have been known to have done that every now and then, if anyone had known anything about Ashe, but in truth no one really did. Though technically Ashe could be seen, he was generally overlooked. He lived his life shrouded in a cloak of mist, made from woolen cloth but powered by an elemental force of water beyond the comprehension of most.
Because of this, the signature of his heartbeat, his breath, his physical form and immortal soul were not discernible to the naked eye, or even to the devices that could read the vibrations in the wind. This was a good thing, for the pain he carried—constant, and excruciating to both body and soul—would have made him an obvious target were it not for his mist cloak. Ashe was a paradox: invisible to all, but aware of everything.
I want to touch it, the dragon insisted. Rather than pushing it back, as he generally did, Ashe was forced to agree. He needed to see what this new power in Bethe Corbair was. Silently he followed the moving shadow of the morning sun across the Krevensfield Plain until he reached the gates of Bethe Corbair, where he slipped in, unnoticed, and blended into the crowd.
"And no stealing."
Jo rolled her eyes. "Oh, brother."
Rhapsody shuddered and looked at Achmed, who smiled beneath his hood in spite of himself. "Careful," she said to Jo, "a phrase very similar to that once got me into unbelievable trouble."
Jo dodged out of the way of an enormous cart filled with baskets traveling the road on which they now stood, outside the entrance gates of Bethe Corbair. A sea of humanity swirled around the city walls, generating a humming rumble they had heard from miles away. There was excitement in the air, a tense, edgy energy that only a city on the fringe of the wilderness could sustain.
"We've been on the road for weeks. What's the point of coming to the city if you're not going to loot a few pockets?" she demanded.
Rhapsody held up a small coin pouch. "How about actually paying for what you need?"
She received a surly glance in return. "That's your money."
"It's our money," Rhapsody corrected as she unwound the rawhide cord closure of the coin purse. "Sisters, remember?"
She took Jo's hand and opened it, then poured half of the contents into it. "Here's some 'walking-around money,' at least that's what my father used to call it. Be careful with it; it may be a while before we have money again."
"This is a city," said Achmed, looking around outside the gate. "For you, money is as close as the nearest street corner. You have earning talents the rest of us don't have."
Rhapsody glared at him. "I beg your pardon?"
"You're a musician," said Achmed in annoyance. "What did you think I meant?"
"I don't know if you make an effort to be offensive, or if you just come by it naturally, but you are very talented at it either way. Come on, Jo," she said, pulling up the hood of her cape. "We'll meet you by the basilica at noon, Achmed. I'm sure there will be someplace to eat in the center of town."
She took Jo's hand and followed the crowd into the city of Bethe Corbair, the last town before the Bolglands.
Grunthor and Achmed waited until the women were out of sight, then began to walk the perimeter of the city outside the wall, far enough away that they were inconspicuous.
After completing their reconnaissance of the entire perimeter they conferred at the city's northern edge. Although Bethe Corbair was a walled city, it had numerous scattered settlements at its outskirts ranging from rickety shacks to small villages.
It was a border town, a place that looked east to the mountains known as the Teeth with trepidation. There was no fresh evidence of a Bolg incursion; such raids left visible scars. Still, if the residents of the area felt the need to keep within sight of the city walls, the historical bloodletting must have been horrifying enough to convince them that isolated living was a bad idea.
"Scout farther, wider sweep," Achmed said. Grunthor nodded. "We'll meet at the eastern outskirts at sundown." The Dhracian watched as his enormous companion walked away and blended into the landscape, then turned and went into the city himself.
The city of Bethe Corbair was an old one, older than the capital at Navarne, though according to Stephen the areas were settled at about the same time. Rhapsody thought back to the history lessons she had learned from Llauron and Lord Stephen. Navarne and Bethany had been settled by the First Fleet, the initial group of planners, architects, and builders that Gwylliam had sent forth to construct the Cymrians' new home. They built their guard towers and homesteads first, then took their time building the common areas. That explained the beauty of the cities, a sensibility of design coupled with artistry that endured, making them marvels to behold.
Bethe Corbair, by contrast, had been built by the Third Fleet, Gwylliam's own contingent. The Third Fleet had been made up of soldiers and peasants, merchants and unskilled laborers, and as a result bore the signs of a fortress mentality. The city walls were thick and high, the buildings utilitarian in their design and built to withstand attack. Time had eased the military feel somewhat, but the city still held the intrinsic attitude of wariness.
That attitude was not evidenced in the people, however. They seemed as any other populace, made up of a typical number of the courteous and the rude, the peasant and the aristocrat, the educated and the illiterate. It was a city without scars, unpretentious and unafraid. Its streets spread out within its walls, filled with noise and foot traffic, merchants, carts and animals and the stench of human residence.
What made Bethe Corbair unique was the music. Rhapsody walked the streets as if enchanted, listening to the airy random melodies played by the bells in the basilica tower. Their songs were subject to the will of the wind, and therefore carried a feeling of freedom and wildness that made her heart rise into her throat at the beauty of it.
The townspeople went about their business oblivious of the music, though when the bells were ringing in a high breeze it had an undeniably pleasant effect on their attitudes. Street merchants stopped haggling, fishwives bickered at lower volume, and children squabbling in the streets generally found reasons to resolve their differences. Rhapsody smiled as she observed the power of the music.
Jo was fairly dancing with impatience. "This is boring," she whined when Rhapsody stopped at the table of a fabric merchant. "Please, my head is going to explode if I look at any more of this. I'm going to scout around."
"All right," Rhapsody said reluctantly. "We can meet at the basilica at noon; look for Achmed if you don't see me. And stay out of trouble. Remember, no stealing. I'd hate to see you lose your hand." She smiled as Jo shuddered visibly, then nodded and disappeared into the crowd.
Ashe glanced around the open-air market at the center of the city. The Krevensfield Plain lay to the south of Bethe Corbair, so he had entered through the southern gate, though the power he had felt lay somewhere to the east. Or at least part of it did; one element of it seemed to have split off and was now circling the city at the very edge of his dragon senses. It had different properties than the other did, and was so methodical in its movements that he was unable to tell whether it was a being or an object on a cart of some sort.
His inability to discern the power's nature bewildered Ashe. Generally he was able to accurately assess the properties of anything within his range, but for some reason this power was unknown to him even in the kind of form it was taking. The dragon was squirming impatiently; only the presence of the myriad items in the marketplace was able to distract it sufficiently to allow Ashe to remain in control.
He carefully sidestepped a swaggering buffoon, drunk with spirits and excitement about the warmth of the winter day. The man had been celebrating the temporary respite from the cold that the thaw had provided, and came within a few feet of driving an elbow into Ashe's chest, largely because the tipsy fellow had not seen him standing there. Ashe was nimble enough to avoid these encounters, but they played havoc with his concentration.
He turned his attention once again to the source of the power, but once again it had dispersed, as if dividing itself. He felt particularly attracted to one of the two aspects, the one that was somewhere nearby, radiating an irresistible warmth.
Ashe was immediately suspicious; servants of fire were the main hunters after him, and he had survived only by recognizing the potential for traps in every tantalizing situation. The source was around somewhere, and sooner or later it was bound to end up in the marketplace square. He resolved to hang back and wait.
In the meantime he was struggling with the dragon. Another reason he tried to avoid cities, particularly ones on a trade route like Bethe Corbair, was the fascination the dragon had with merchandise. The element of his nature had grown rampant as they passed a table of gems displayed under glass, whispering in his soul in excitement.
Prettier, it insisted. I want to touch it.
Ashe beat it back down again. No.
I want to touch it.
No. He walked away from the gem merchant, who had looked up a moment before as she became indistinctly aware of Ashe's presence, then looked back to her table, having not seen him as he passed by.
The dragon noticed the next table as well, spread with fine spices. Peppercorn; I want to count them, it whispered again as it made note of each grain, seed, bean, flake, and sprinkle.
Ashe willed it down again. No. He looked around for the source of the power.
Perfume and ambergris; it came from the vomit of a leviathan which had eaten seventeen mackerel, one hundred seventy —Stop.
Look at the fabric; no silk today, just linen, cream velvet, and wool in thirteen textured. The wool is in shaded of blue, azure, violet, indigo —NO. Ashe turned around again; it was near. He sublimated the dragon with an intense effort and tried to clear his mind.
Across the street a commotion caught his attention. It seemed to be centered around a small woman in a gray cape and hood, not unlike his own. He moved closer, feeling the call of the power source.
Rhapsody had been struggling with her own personal dragon, the desire to run her hands over the exquisite fabrics on the table in front of her. The cream velvet was especially exquisite, but far outside her ability to pay. With a sigh she forced her hands back to her sides and moved on, looking at the other wares of the marketplace.
At the end of the street a table caught her eye; the items on it were pooled in clusters that sparkled in the sun like light on a moving stream. Her interest piqued, Rhapsody hurried down the street in the direction of the gleaming objects.
She stopped before the merchant's table. The sparkling pools turned out to be jewelry, mostly earrings, by and large tawdry merchandise, but there were a few things of value and craftsmanship, some of which were genuinely lovely. She had a weakness for beautiful clothes and baubles, though she would rather die than admit it to her Bolg companions, and so in their absence she allowed herself the secret pleasure of looking at the glistening trinkets, her eyes matching their glow and even exceeding it.
The merchant turned to her when he was finished with his other customer, checking the table before raising his eyes to her face. Rhapsody knew immediately he was unconsciously taking stock in case she had stolen or would try to steal something.
Her Lirin blood had elicited the same reaction in Easton, something she never really understood. Lirin had little use for material possessions, especially items as useless as adornments like earrings and necklaces, so why they were automatically suspected by shopkeepers and tradesmen was beyond her. She had written it off to racism and tried not to be offended, but each time it happened it made her blood boil. She swallowed hard and tried to maintain a pleasant expression as she turned away from the table, her interest gone.
"Miss?" The merchant's voice held a note of desperation. Rhapsody innately held her hands up slightly, putting them into plain sight, in case he was about to accuse her of lifting something.
"Yes?" She did not turn back.
"Please, don't leave yet. Did you see anything you like?"
Rhapsody turned around again. The look on the merchant's face was utterly different than it had been a moment before when he was trying to wheedle a bald man into purchasing a matching pin for the ring he had just bought. His eyes were wide, as if amazed, and he was gripping the table in front of him so tightly his knuckles were turning white.
"Is something wrong?" Rhapsody asked, concerned. The merchant shook his head quickly, but did not release the table. "Yes, there are a lot of very nice things here. You have some lovely merchandise, but I was just looking." She turned once more to go.
"Miss?" The tone was even more urgent this time.
Rhapsody sighed, trying not to be visibly annoyed, and looked back at him again. His face was flushed and his hands were trembling.
"Are you ill?" Rhapsody asked in alarm. She was about to reach for her waterskin, but the man shook his head and pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket, mopping his brow rapidly.
"No, thank you, miss. Please, take a minute. Is there anything you would like?"
"I just told you, I'm only—"
The man seized a pair of gold earrings from the table and held them in front of her eyes. "These match your locket perfect, miss. Why don't you try them on?"
Rhapsody looked at the earrings. They were one of the items she had identified as lovely, with a simple but elegant artistry that did, in fact, match the gold lavaliere she always wore. Undoubtedly they were far more than she could afford, but she couldn't resist a look.
The trinkets caught the sun and flashed, and the secret part of Rhapsody that coveted pretty things was delighted, even as her mind reminded her sternly that street hawks could sell sea-water to a shipwrecked sailor. She had never been good at resisting, and so had avoided the Thieves' Market, as the bazaar in Easton was affectionately called, whenever possible.
"Please, miss. They were made for you. Try them on; I just want to see how they look on you. Please." His insistence seemed more than even the most fervent sidestreet pitch.
Rhapsody couldn't stand it anymore. "Oh, very well, as long as you understand I probably won't buy them." She took the jewelry the man proffered with an intense gleam in his eye, and pulled down her hood to try them on.
The gold was a different grade; she could see that even before they were attached to her earlobes, and it made her wistful for a moment. She remembered the pride on her mother's face as she had opened the box with the locket, and Rhapsody had known then, as she did now, how dearly it had cost her. Next to the earrings it looked less lustrous and rich, though its craftsmanship held up as a match.
A deafening screech, followed by a crash and the splintering of wood, erupted in the street behind her, and Rhapsody jumped.
She spun quickly around, dropping the earrings on the counter, and moved back; two oxcarts had smashed into each other. The first cart was unbalanced and about to tip over onto the table of the jeweler.
The animals snorted and screamed in panic as the drivers tried to get out of the way of the toppling cart. Rhapsody ducked under the table and pulled it back out of the fray, managing to keep most of the wares in place. The jeweler panicked, and would have abandoned his merchandise if there had been a place to run, but his exit was blocked.
After a precarious moment, the drivers sorted it out. Amid much cursing and recriminations the wagons were pulled apart, and Rhapsody busied herself helping the jeweler reset his table; it gave her a chance to experience the enjoyment of touching the baubles while helping him. He seemed to be in shock, so she passed him her waterskin while she worked. His wide eyes never left her face as he drank.
It only took a few minutes to set the bench to rights, and after making sure nothing was missing as far as she knew, she helped the man up, brushed him off, and gently retrieved her waterskin from his rigid grip.
Poor soul. Rhapsody thought with sympathy, how terrified he is. "Are you all right?" she asked, receiving only a glazed nod in answer. She was surprised that a merchant in a bazaar would have such a long recovery period. The ones she knew were amazingly fast on their feet, and probably wouldn't have let an event like this even slow, let alone stop, a sales pitch. But the jeweler was an older man, and this was a different world than she was used to. As she turned to go, once again, the man called after her.
"Miss?"
With a sigh, Rhapsody turned to face him for what she prayed was the last time. Nana had tried to teach her the fine art of walking away courteously, but she had never quite got it down. "Yes?"
The jeweler held the earrings out to her. "Please. With my thanks."
"No, thank you. I couldn't possibly accept."
"You must," he said, his voice louder than he meant it to be. "Please," he said, exhibiting more control.
The look in his eyes was so urgent that Rhapsody feared hurting his feelings. "Well, thank you," she said, giving in, and took the earrings from hands that trembled. She attached them to her ears again and swung her head slightly so that they caught the light. "How do they look?"
The man's mouth fell open, and he stuttered his answer. "Beautiful."
Rhapsody reached into her pack for her coin purse, but the man waved her hand away. "A gift. Please."
"All right; thank you," she said, smiling. "I hope you are feeling better soon." She put up her hood and walked away, leaving the jeweler, as well as the cart drivers and the witnesses to the accident, watching her in stunned silence.
From across the street Ashe watched the proceedings, first in amazement, then amusement. Whatever was beneath the hood of the remarkable creature in the gray mantle had clearly stunned the street merchant, but the woman had not seemed to notice.
The tradesman was standing, mouth agape, and staring intensely from the moment he had looked up inside her hood, while she continued about her business. Ashe's dragon senses wondered if she might be hideous, but he could make out no deformity or injury at this distance. He would have to see for himself what the commotion was about.
Whatever it was about, the commotion was growing. Ashe was not easily rattled, but he was somewhat taken aback when the two oxcarts slammed into each other. The drivers obviously had been able to see what their vehicles had obscured from him—she had pulled down her hood a few seconds before the accident occurred.
Whatever else she was, she was agile; a second after the moment of impact she was under the table, rescuing it and its owner from the collision, then helping set things to rights before ambling off again.
She made her way down the street, oblivious of the havoc she was causing, as tradesmen and soldiers, farmers and peasants, women and men alike stopped and stared after her, some of them dropping their belongings. Ashe's hand came to rest casually on the hilt of his sword as he turned to follow her with his eyes as long as possible, but all he could make out was a glint of sun-colored hair and a flash of agony shot through Ashe, twisting his stomach and nauseating him, originating at his scrotum, which had been violently wrenched to one side and had gone numb in preparation to experience excruciating pain.
In the moment of shock that preceded the wave of misery he knew was coming, his hand lashed out and seized the wrist of the young girl whose fingers still encircled his testicles. He felt the bones of her wrist grind as he squeezed with a crushing force, freeing his genitalia just before the incapacitating sensation coursed through him and made him gasp deeply.
The offending hand belonged to a young pickpocket, a girl of about sixteen, who had inadvertently mistaken his balls for a coin purse while attempting to raid his pocket.
Normally Ashe was immune to any sort of problem of this nature; between his dragon sense, his speed, and the near-invisibility afforded by his misty cloak, those who would bother him in any way would be unable to get within arm's reach of him. The depth to which he had been distracted by the strange vibrations of the gray-cloaked woman had allowed him to be vulnerable for the first time to this form of attack.
The girl cried out in pain as he gripped her wrist even tighter and dragged her back as she started to run, lifting her off the ground.
She was tall and thin, with long, unkempt hair the color of winter straw, and Ashe allowed himself the involuntary mental check he made unconsciously any time he was near a blond woman; he pulled her within visual range and looked down at her. Her eyes, staring up into his hood in abject terror, were a pale, watery blue, and he noted, as he always did, that this could not have been who he hoped.
An ugly, guttural snarl escaped him; it was the only noise he was capable of making at the moment, compromised as he was by her actions an instant before. The pallid eyes widened in fear, and Ashe felt his jaw clench in preparation of his utterance of vicious threats. But as he struggled to control his fury for fear he might kill the street wench, he felt pressure, this time of a different nature, against the wrist of his other hand.
"Kindly unhand my sister, or I will unhand you."
For the second time that morning Ashe had been caught off guard, and it both astonished and infuriated him. The dagger blade that now lay along his wrist had been put there without his notice, mostly due to the throbbing pain that threatened to cause him to vomit. The knife was pressing deep enough to serve as a warning without drawing blood yet.
He turned in fury to the other assailant, and felt his mouth drop open like those of the people he had been watching on the street a moment before.
Beneath his swimming gaze was undeniably the most beautiful face he had ever seen, or even heard tale of. Most incredible among all its exquisite features were two emerald green eyes, kindling in anger to the color of pale spring grass, glaring at him with a fury that superseded his own. Framing the elegant face were tendrils of hair that gleamed like gold in a smelting fire; had it not been restrained within its hood it would likely have outshone the winter sun.
The dragon blood within him danced in excitement. I want to touch it. Pleas; let me touch.
Ashe beat back the urge, but had to concentrate to force his mouth to close, and gave silent thanks for the anonymous cloak and hood that were both the bane of his existence and his saving grace, particularly in situations like this.
Realization that she couldn't see his face gave him sudden confidence, so he tempered what would have been his normal reaction and took a deep breath. When he did, he inhaled her scent, and felt his head grow weak with the pleasure of it. He struggled to keep his voice under control.
"I don't know why you are snarling at me," he said. "I'm not the one who transgressed."
"You are hurting my sister, and if you don't desist immediately I will return the favor." The blade of her dagger bit a little deeper, but still did not pierce his flesh.
Good pressure control, he thought with a tinge of admiration. He released the girl, who remained staring up into his hood. To remedy that situation he moved away slightly, closer to the beautiful woman. She removed her dagger from his wrist, but continued to glare at him.
"My, aren't you impressive," she said sarcastically. "Don't you have anything better to do than assault young girls in the street?"
Ashe's jaw dropped again. "Excuse me?"
She turned to the street wench. "Are you all right, Jo?" The girl, still staring at him blankly, nodded. "It's a lucky thing for you she's not hurt."
Ashe could not believe this was happening. Never in his life had he felt at such a loss to control a situation; in fact, he was having a hard time forming a coherent sentence.
"Your sister—your—whatever she is, your friend, tried to pick my pocket."
The beautiful woman glared at the girl, but said nothing.
"And she missed," he said, punctuating the last word for emphasis. "She reached in and felt what she thought was a coin purse, then tugged on it most ungraciously—tried to yank it free from my trousers, in fact."
His ears began to burn; he could not believe he was having this conversation at all, let alone in the street and with a complete stranger. The otherworldly quality of the woman's gorgeous face had totally unhinged his tongue, and it was flapping as though in a high wind.
The woman cleared her throat, and when she removed her hand from her mouth a slight smile remained behind.
"Let me guess; it wasn't a coin purse."
"No." His tone was pointed.
She glared at the girl again, who seemed to wither at her glance. Then her gaze turned back to him, and she sighed. There was music in the exhalation of breath, a music that Ashe could feel in the tiniest hairs on the back of his forearms.
"I'm very sorry," she said, her emerald eyes twinkling with effort to remain serious. "I hope there was no major damage done."
"It's a little early to tell," he said ruefully, feeling the throbbing pain begin to subside and the nausea abate a little.
"Nonsense," the woman said mischievously. Her hand shot out like a flash into his cloak and cupped his testicles.
Ashe felt his mouth drop open. Normally someone would have gotten as far as the mere thought of doing what she had before his reaction stopped them; his agility was thus far unsurpassed by anyone he had encountered in his 154 years. But here she stood, this enchanting thing, with his balls in her hand, smiling up at him before he had a chance to take a second breath.
She gave his genitals a gentle pat, sending waves of frenetic, if pleasant, shock through his entire body, and blood to many places she could not currently see but might be aware of momentarily. Then she bounced them carefully in the palm of her hand, her face intent on the reaction of their elasticity; at least, he hoped that was what she was gauging.
He knew he should ferociously order her to stop; had it been anyone else there would have been no point in speaking, as the dead can't hear well. But again he said nothing, partly because he hadn't recovered yet from his abject state of surprise, partly because he didn't want her to.
Just as the reaction to her touch was beginning, she removed her hand. "They seem fine to me," she said, her eyes sparkling wickedly. "Is the feeling returning yet?"
"The feeling was never gone; that was not the problem," he said, attempting to match the humor in her tone. "But you could say that it has changed."
Arousal was coursing through him now. He was extraordinarily uncomfortable with all this taking place on the street, and in particular with his stupid, moonstruck reaction to it. Then words came forth from his mouth, unbidden—words that must have been spoken by someone else, for surely they never would have come from him.
"They really need a more thorough examination."
The beautiful woman laughed, and her laughter had the ring of wind chimes to it. The dragon's interest piqued again, and it fought to emerge.
Let me touch it. I want to touch it.
He struggled to hold it down, but for the first time since he had entered the bazaar the dragon wanted the same thing he did.
A cold sweat broke over him as he had a dual realization. First, he knew that the dragon's unpredictability and voracious appetite for whatever it desired made him dangerous at the moment. Before he might stop himself it was possible that he would take her right there in the street, which would surely be the death of both of them.
Second, and far more disturbing, he knew that he didn't care. He wanted to let his senses run rampant over her, learning, in the time it would take for her heart to beat twice, every intimate detail about her. It was becoming more clear that he was going to. He fought it, but his twin nature defeated him before he even put forth a half-hearted effort.
I want to touch that. I want that; So do you.
The magnificent face broke into a dazzling smile. "Well, I'm glad to see you've recovered your sense of humor, at least. With any luck the rest will return momentarily. I apologize to you, sir, on behalf of my sister, and ask your pardon. We'll be on our way and out of yours now. Come along, Jo." She wrapped a protective arm around the shoulders of the younger, taller girl and began to lead her away.
"Wait," he said. The word tore forth from his throat before he could stop it. She turned back to him.
As she turned her hair caught the light; even under the hooded cloak she wore the glint of gold was obvious. She blinked, and as the long black lashes touched the bottom of her deep green eyes, the dragon rushed forward again, straining against his will.
I want to touch that.
She could be a servant of the demon, Ashe thought, his resistance crumbling.
I want to touch that.
Yes, he thought silently, succumbing.
It began like a rapid boiling in the pit of his stomach, awareness rising with the temperature of his skin and the frequency of his respiration. Then, like the repercussion of a bowl of finest crystal falling onto cobbled stone, shattering in a final, terminal puff, clarity of sight and sound and mind followed, dilating his pupils and making his skin conduct electrical impulses of the tiniest frequency. His blood surged, primed for discovery, and his muscles knotted throughout his body to withstand the rush of his newly dominant nature.
The dragon roared forth, consuming him internally, taking the reins of control away. With a mind and sense born of the elements that made up the fabric of the universe, it expanded its awareness to the outward limits of its reach, making note of all things within a five-mile radius down to the most infinitesimal detail. The total number of lenses in the eyes of the ants within the cracks of the city streets was as evident to him as the state of the weather. That awareness then centered on the woman before him, to the exclusion of everything else.
First the dragon sought to find and define the source of the odd magic that emanated from her. It was singular, different from the two other sources, which were also unrecognized, and unique.
There was a music to her that touched every nerve in the dragon's mammoth network of senses, a song that came forth from her and was tied to the world around her; she must be a Singer of great power or potential, she might possibly even have attained Namer status. Though he himself knew nothing of the art of music and its use in other forms, he was fully cognizant of what power lay in it, and it made him crave to touch her more deeply, to learn this lore, to take it, even.
There was more to it, an exquisite blend of other elements. He could sense she was out of time and space, but wasn't sure what that added up to. The concept excited him greatly; possibly she was only prescient, with the ability to see into the Future, but more than likely she was in fact Cymrian. There was a strong air of it about her, but that could be deceptive as well. There was more, but it was unknown to him; he assumed she was somehow tied to fire, the one element he couldn't recognize, being void of it himself.
Her physical form was a jubilee of observations. The outer edges of his senses swept over her, unabashedly drinking in all the information he could receive about her physical makeup. The heavy cloak by which she shielded her body from the eyes of the public was irrelevant to him, as were her clothes.
She was robustly healthy; the signature from her physical form swelled with life and energy and a surprising muscularity, given her size and stature. She was very small, even for a woman with Lirin blood, but her body was long and willowy, giving her a sense of height she did not merit. The lines of her figure were lithe; she was perfectly apportioned, with narrow shoulders, long arms, and longer, exquisite legs, the incredible beauty of which even the casual wool pants could not contain.
In addition to the sleek, long legs, her torso was long and slender, as was her beautiful neck. He found himself staring at the curving indentation at the hollow of her throat, imagining caressing it with lazy, warm kisses, breathing her in there.
That neck tapered down to a bosom that was in keeping with the rest of her, with breasts that were graceful and small, but perfectly formed. It was a good thing he could only sense their shape; he knew that the sight would reduce him to a quivering mass, mist cloak or no.
Her abdomen was slender and flat, and Ashe knew he could easily span her waist with both of his hands. She had the slim hips typical of the Lirin build. With great difficulty he stopped his physical assessment of her before his senses swung around behind her; he was afraid of what might happen if he allowed himself to continue.
Besides, the unpleasant side effect of such a search was that the longing welled up in the corresponding places to those he had concentrated on; his lips were beginning to burn when he imagined kissing the hollow of her throat, his fingers stung at the thought of caressing her waist. Since the dragon required satisfaction to calm itself completely, he was buying a lifetime of permanent, though minor, discomfort if he never had the opportunity to touch her as he imagined. Given how well he was doing with her so far, he was unwilling to risk it, despite the fact it could never compare to the agony he carried anyway.
For that reason, he forced the examination to stop here, before he turned to the shining hair that peeked out from under the hood. From what little he had seen already, he knew he would be helpless if he let himself think about it at all.
To keep himself from becoming even more entranced with her than he already was, the dragon searched for flaws, any imperfection that would prove she was real. Ashe found it on her fingers. They were well formed and soft, but the tips were hardened with dry calluses, owing to years of playing at least one stringed instrument. It was the only imperfection he could find.
The man, subservient by choice to his own dragon sense, shivered as the dragon's senses explored her more.
Her face was crafted as though by an expert sculptor lovingly working a lifetime on a masterpiece he would one day finish and commit to humankind. The features were all in perfect harmony with the possible exception of the large, deep-green eyes. They were fringed with thick black lashes and were intense in their colors, the whites very white against the dark green contrast. They sparkled with a light of their own; they were hypnotic, and even the dragon had a difficult time pulling away from them.
She's perfect, it said in ringing tones, inaudible to all but Ashe. I want her.
But behind the fascination of the dragon was the interest of the man. What appealed to him about her was altogether different. He could see that she was comfortable in her own skin, and confident, but if she had any idea as to the staggering nature of her own beauty it wasn't apparent in any of her outward signs.
She had a gentleness in her eyes that pulled him in, but only so far; there was pain there, too, pain the depth of which he could not even see a bottom to. He found himself wishing he knew what it was that troubled her so greatly, and knew he would go, without request, to the end of the Earth to find her the solution to it. When she laughed her eyes laughed first, and when she was angry, they were the bellwether of that emotion, too. Everything he was—secretive, solitary, hidden from sight—she was not. There was an openness to her that he envied, that he wanted to touch.
She is untouched, a virgin, whispered the dragon excitedly. Perfect. But within his subjugated awareness the man knew something more. There was a sensuality about her, too, an obvious knowledge of the charms of the flesh that bewildered him utterly. A virgin with the enchantments of a courtesan. It was too fascinating; she was a true paradox. He wanted to know more. His mind reached out to the Future.
As clearly as he saw her now, attired in traveling clothes and a soft gray hooded cloak and mantle, he could see her in her wedding gown, smiling at him, flowers in her hair. He allowed the fantasy to run further and pictured her in her wedding night peignoir, and could feel the heat rise to his face. He saw her cradling their child, and their grandchild. He could imagine her bent with age but unbowed, still beautiful; his throat tightened as he saw her in her shroud, white film netting covering the amazing eyes, closed now eternally.
The eyelashes returned to their open position. "Yes?" she said. His dragon sense abated; his research was all accomplished in the blink of an eye, a verdant green eye.
"Why don't the two of you join me for lunch?" he said lightly. "Just to show there are no hard feelings."
The woman's eyes sparkled wickedly. "If there are no hard feelings, either I didn't do it right, or you are more grievously injured than I thought."
He laughed. "Maybe it's just because I didn't pay first." The beautiful eyes opened in shock, then narrowed in anger. "Excuse me? What are you implying?"
Ashe knew immediately he had made a huge tactical error. "Nothing—I'm sorry, I was only kidding. I just think you're lovely enough to turn quite a profit as a courtesan." He winced; now the hole he was digging for himself was even bigger.
"You think I'm a courtesan?"
"No, not at all, I—"
"How dare you. Come along, Jo."
"Wait—I'm very sorry, please; don't stalk off."
"Stand aside."
"Look, really, I didn't mean to—"
"Get out of the way." The woman glared daggers at him, and guided the girl away and back toward the town square, keeping herself between them. He felt a wave of deep despair wash over him as they walked away, and whatever fear that she was a demonic minion that had remained vanished. He remembered that she had responded to humor, so he made a last-ditch effort.
"Does this mean we won't be having lunch?"
She whirled in the street. "Given the size of your coin purse, I doubt you would be able to treat both of us. In fact, you would be lucky to pay for yourself." She turned, and she and the girl disappeared into the crowd.
Ashe laughed aloud, causing a number of people around him to start in surprise; until they heard him, they had had no idea he was there.
"Don't say it; I know. I'm sorry."
"Are you insane? Losing your hand is looking more like a lucky option for you. You could have been killed."
Jo sighed. "I know."
Rhapsody came to an abrupt halt in the alley. "Why, Jo? I gave you money. Did you need more?"
"No." Jo reached into her pocket and drew forth the coins Rhapsody had given her. She held them out, as if to return them, but Rhapsody just stared at her hand. When she spoke again her tone was gentle.
"Tell me why, Jo."
Jo looked away. "I don't know."
Rhapsody reached up, grasped her face and turned it toward herself. Jo's expression was defiant, but in her eyes Rhapsody could see deep fear, and it went to her heart. It was a look she recognized, the street child's worry that she had alienated the only person in the world who cared about her. She loosened her grip on Jo's face, and caressed it gently.
"Well, at least you're all right. Let's go meet Achmed for lunch."
Jo's expression melted into astonishment. "That's it? You're not going to yell at me more than that?"
Rhapsody smiled. "Do you want me to? I'm not your mother, I'm your sister, and I've done more than my share of stupid things."
"Yeah? What kind of stupid things?"
"Didn't Achmed tell you anything about what happened in Bethany? Come on." She took Jo's hand and led her off through the streets toward the town square.
Achmed waited impatiently in front of the basilica at Bethe Corbair. It was noon; the sun had been directly overhead for a few minutes, and there was no sign of either of them. In the old world he could have sought their heartbeats to locate them and reassure himself of their safety, but things were different here; he had no power to find them.
Then he thought again. He had no power to find Jo, but Rhapsody was from the old world; he could still hear the sound of her heart. He would need a sheltered place to sit and concentrate.
Glancing around, Achmed located a small tavern with a few pine tables outside in the area near the street; the wood was wet from its covering of snow that had evidently melted with the thaw. He pulled out one of the benches under the table and brushed the pool of water off it, then sat down, grimacing. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind of the noises around him in the street, in particular the bells of the basilica. Their sound was subject to the wind, and was unpredictable; they cluttered the vibrational landscape with inconsistent clamor.
Achmed opened his mouth slightly, allowing the icy wind to fill it and whistle out again, as it would through a cave. His hands rested on the table in front of him; he raised one finger slightly, as if surreptitiously testing the breeze. This was the miniature version of his Hunting ritual, the means by which he had successfully plied his trade of assassination in the old land. His Dhracian physiology blessed him with a skull structure of complex sinus cavities and long glands in the throat that vibrated with the rhythm of a particular pulse. He knew Rhapsody's heartbeat instinctively; he had walked, rested, crawled, fought, and slept beside it for what may have been centuries, if any of the history was to be believed. He could taste it on the wind.
She was nearby. He had found her heartbeat and now felt her approach. He started to close down his sensing when a foul taste filled his mouth, more sour than bile, more repulsive than vomit. It was a putrid taste with a stench of the grave to it; the taste of evil. And this time he was all but certain it had the stench of F'dor.
Rapidly he opened his eyes. Rhapsody and Jo were walking toward him on his left, coming from the southwest side of town. Achmed looked away from them for a moment, tracking the evil taint. It was coming from the north.
He turned to look as the sun crept behind the spire of the basilica with the passing of the hour of noon. In the momentary darkness that fell he saw a shadow in front of the basilica, but could place no pulse to it; it blended into the larger silhouette of the basilica itself. The air whistled through his mouth and nose again, taking the odor of evil with it as it left, cleansing his senses of the taint.
"Sorry we're late," Rhapsody said, shattering his concentration. She pulled out the bench opposite him. "Here, Jo, sit down. Have you been served yet, Achmed?"
Achmed looked back at her, swallowing his irritation. The sun crept out from behind the basilica, though it was behind him and he couldn't see it; he knew because a shaft of light fell on a lock Rhapsody's hair, making it gleam within her hood.
He turned around again to look for the shadow, but it was no longer in the same place. Instead he saw a man, someone it took several glances to discern, standing in the street before the basilica, looking their way.
Instantly his hackles went up; this was probably the shadow he had seen, but it gave off no signature that he could pick up on. The figure was cloaked and hooded, with his face completely hidden from view, and the sun as it appeared caught a thin veil of mist around him, almost as if steam was rising from him. Then, to his surprise and annoyance, the man began to walk toward them.
The tavernkeeper had opened the door and was carrying a rough-hewn tray of food to the customers who occupied another outside table. Achmed recognized the smell instantly: mutton. He hated mutton. His mood blackened visibly, causing the smile on Rhapsody's face to vanish abruptly, to be replaced with a look of concern.
"What's the matter?"
Jo leaned closer. "It's him. He's coming."
"Who?" Rhapsody craned her neck to look behind Achmed's shoulder.
"That man from the market." Jo flushed red, either from embarrassment or excitement; it was difficult to tell.
Rhapsody rose from the bench, looking annoyed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Achmed return to his position facing her with his back to the approaching man; she saw him draw a dagger. The fact that she was able to see him do it was his way of telling her that he was armed and ready; she nodded imperceptibly as Grunthor would have. She was becoming accustomed to the silent language.
"What do you want?" she demanded. The man stopped in his tracks.
"Sorry," said the voice from within the hood. It was a pleasant baritone, with an interesting dryness to it. There also was a sweetness to the voice. "I came to apologize for my earlier rudeness."
"You did already; now please go away."
"I was hoping you would allow me to make up for my offensive comment by buying you both lunch." There was a pause as the man looked down at Achmed. "And your friend as well, of course."
Achmed said nothing; he watched Rhapsody's face, waiting for his cue. She was thinking; she turned and looked at Jo, who could barely contain her excitement. Achmed saw Rhapsody's brows furrow in puzzlement as she surveyed her new sister, and then she turned back to face the man who stood behind him. Her glance moved down to Achmed. "What do you think?"
"If he was rude to you, send him away," he said in an even tone. "He might do it again, and then I would have to kill him. I don't want to have to defend your honor before I've had lunch; it gives me indigestion."
The man behind him chuckled; it was all Achmed could do to remain seated. Rhapsody smiled.
"I think we can chance it," she said, turning to Jo again. "What do you think?"
"Yes, definitely," Jo said, the words tripping over themselves.
"Very well," Rhapsody said, pointing to the place next to Achmed, "why don't you sit there?"
"What's your name?" asked Jo, shifting eagerly in her seat.
"Ashe," said the stranger. He looked toward the inn; the tavernkeeper was approaching. "And yours?"
"Jo," she blurted excitedly. "And this is Rhapsody, and—ow!" Her words were choked off as her sister gave her a vicious pinch on the thigh.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Jo," said the hooded man. He turned to Rhapsody, who was glaring at Jo. "Rhapsody. What a beautiful name. Are you a musician?"
"Yes, she—ow! Stop that!" Jo demanded as she moved her leg away.
The man coughed into his hand for a moment; Achmed was sure he could sense a smile beneath the hood. "Is Jo short for something else? Joanna? Joella?"
Jo turned red to the roots of her pale blond hair. "Josephine," she said, her voice cracking.
Rhapsody stared at her in amazement. She had been unable to coerce this information out of her newly adopted sister; now Jo was confiding it to a stranger.
"Also a lovely name, to be sure. And you, sir? What may I call you?"
Achmed turned for the first time to look at the man. He could see the very tip of an unkempt beard, but nothing else. "I think 'sir' will do just fine."
"Don't be rude, Achmed," said Jo, an annoyed tone in her voice.
Achmed scowled at her. Her mouth was flapping, clearly unhinged from her brain. Jo understood the need to keep a name in reserve; she had done it herself. Before she could compromise them further, the tavernkeeper was at their table, asking what their pleasure was.
Jo ordered the mutton, Rhapsody plain bread and cheese. Achmed and Ashe both ordered stew simultaneously, then looked at each other as if reconsidering their choice. The tavernkeeper had jumped when Ashe spoke; he would have overlooked him completely had he not spoken up.
Achmed's final glower seemed to have gotten the message to Jo at last; she sat in sullen silence during much of the meal. Rhapsody attempted to make up for the awkwardness by chatting charmingly with the stranger, who had both women laughing by the end of lunch. Achmed listened to him carefully; he found the man's brand of easy banter annoying but without rancor or insistent prying. His stomach was roiling; the smell of Jo's mutton ruined the stew. He couldn't wait to be done.
Finally the meal was over. Ashe and the women had discussed the thaw in the weather, the bells of the basilica, and their impressions of the quality and availability of goods in the marketplace; nothing of substance. Achmed stood up, pushing the bench back from underneath himself and Ashe, nothing the lightning-quick response of the stranger, who managed to rise and be out of the way before the seat disappeared from under him.
"Where are you headed now?" Jo asked as the stranger pulled forth an oversized coin purse from the folds of his cloak; he held it up for a moment and Rhapsody laughed while Jo colored in embarrassment.
Ashe threw two silver coins on the table, sufficient to pay for their meal generously. "South. And yourselves?"
Before Rhapsody could stop her, Jo blurted again. "We're going to live in Canrif."
The stranger shuddered visibly; Achmed made note. "Why?"
"Well, I don't know that we're going to live there," Rhapsody corrected. "We're going to observe it. It seems an interesting place."
"That's one way of putting it," Ashe said dryly. "Do you expect to be there long?"
"She just told you we don't know," Achmed snapped.
"Why do you ask?" Rhapsody asked hurriedly.
"Well, if you will be there more than a few months, I will be back in that area again. Perhaps I will drop by and see how you're doing."
"Yes! You'd be welcome," said Jo, then she quickly became silent under the glance from Rhapsody and the glare from Achmed.
"We might be there still; it's hard to say," Rhapsody said, rising herself from the bench with Jo. "You're welcome to check, of course, if you're in the area anyway."
"I may do that. Well, good luck to all of you. I hope your journey is pleasant. Good day." Ashe bowed to the women, nodded to Achmed, then turned and started away into the town square. After a few feet he stopped and turned to Rhapsody once more.
"I hope I've made up for my rudeness in some small way. I apologize again."
"Accepted," she said, smiling. "Please don't think about it another moment." The stranger bowed again, then disappeared into the crowd and was gone.
Rhapsody turned to Jo and smiled. "See, things do turn around quickly, don't they? It's a good thing you didn't get away with stealing his purse, Jo; otherwise we would have to pay for lunch ourselves."
Achmed sat back down and pointed at the other bench, indicating he wanted the women to do so as well. "At least you might have had enough left over to buy some heavy, strong thread, the kind suitable for sewing lips shut." Jo flushed, looking mortified.
"Shut up," Rhapsody snapped. "Don't talk to her like that."
"Fine; then I'll pose my question to you. Who was that, and why did he follow you?"
The women sat back down, Rhapsody's brow furrowing in thought. "I don't know any more than you do now, Achmed. We came across him in the street and he invited us to lunch."
"What did he say to you? What was this rudeness he mentioned?"
Rhapsody looked at Jo, who appeared on the verge of tears. She took the girl's hand under the table and stroked it comfortingly, turning Achmed's question over in her mind, replaying their meeting point by point.
She thought back to the events leading up to the moment when his attributes were in her hand. She had given the area in question a playful squeeze. They seem fine to me. Is the feeling returning yet?
The feeling was never gone; that was not the problem. But you could say that it has changed. They really need a more thorough examination.
She had laughed, apologized and started to walk away with Jo.
Wait.
Yes? She had felt a tingle pass along her skin. When this would happen to her as a child, her father would say that a goose had walked over her grave. The strange cloaked man invited them to lunch, and then insulted her. He presumed she was a courtesan, and she had taken offense; she left with Jo in a huff.
"Nothing, really. He's a flirt, Achmed, and a bad one at that. I don't think there's any more to it. I didn't find his company unpleasant, even though you seem to have."
"And is he responsible for the earrings, too?"
Rhapsody flushed; she had forgotten about the jewelry. "No, they were a gift from the merchant for helping him spare his wares during a street mishap with some oxcarts."
"Hmm. Well, let's not belabor it. We have a few hours before we need to meet up with Grunthor. Let's explore the city. I think it may teach us a great deal about Canrif, since much of Bethe Corbair seems to have been built in response to fear of the Firbolg."
"I thought the Cymrians built Bethe Corbair," Rhapsody said, folding her napkin. "Lord Stephen said they built the basilica."
"The city proper, yes. But if you look carefully, you'll notice that, unlike the other provincial capitals in Roland we have seen, Bethe Corbair has an inner city, with fine architecture designed by artisans, and a newer, outer city, built almost entirely of stone and mortar, designed by soldiers as a livable barricade. There don't seem to be many farms or villages on the outskirts of the city; the few settlements that do exist are right outside the city walls. It's the outer city that should give us some answers."
"Sounds good. I'll be right back," Rhapsody said, rising once more. "I want to have a look at the bell tower before we go." She patted Jo's shoulder and trotted across the street to the southern side of the basilica.
Jo watched her cross, then turned to Achmed. "She caused that accident, you know."
He gave her a sharp glance. "What do you mean?"
"The oxcarts that ran into each other. I was across the street when it happened. People had been looking at her all morning, even with her hood up. Then she pulled it down to put the earrings on, and the drivers of those oxcarts stopped watching where they were going and smashed into each other. After that, men were dropping flowers in her path, trying to get her attention. She picked them up and handed them back, thinking the idiots had let them fall by accident. It was really strange."
Achmed nodded. He had seen the same thing ever since they had left the Root.
"And she has no idea," Jo said.
"No. And I doubt she ever will."
The three who had gone into the city met up with Grunthor as the sun was setting over the thatched fields on the outskirts of Bethe Corbair. They exchanged information and impressions, then took stock of their supplies, which they had replenished in the city.
"I'm now even more convinced a visit to Canrif is worthwhile," Achmed said as they ate their evening meal. "It sounds like a substantial power base, heavy with resources, but lacking organization. What they need is leadership. They're ripe for the picking, unless I miss my guess."
"What does that mean?" Rhapsody asked, wiping her mouth on her napkin.
Achmed looked up into the sky. Night was coming, heady with promise and excitement. "The Bolg need a king; I know one who might be willing to take the job."
"You?" Rhapsody asked incredulously.
Achmed looked at her. "What's wrong with me?" he asked in mock offense.
"I didn't realize you were of royal blood."
Both the Firbolg laughed aloud. "Only the races of men believe in that preordained, divine-right-of-kings nonsense," said Achmed. "Class structure means nothing among the Bolg. You rule when you're qualified to do so, either by strength, or by ingenuity. I hope to offer both."
Rhapsody stared into the campfire in silence. Though his words made sense to her, they clashed with a deeply ingrained belief in the limits of her own class. But then, even that was topsy-turvy now. Llauron had called her a peasant in the same breath he had sent her to meet the duke.
"I think it's likely we'll fit in very well there, even you two non-Bolg," Achmed said.
"Agreed," mumbled Grunthor, chewing on a pork shank. "Oi think we might find a place to establish your own outpost."
"Among the Firbolg?" Jo demanded. Her demeanor had returned to normal. "I don't want to be left alone among them. They're monsters."
"Let's see what it's like and give it a chance," said Rhapsody, watching her two companions from the old world. "There are a lot of myths about the Bolg that are greatly exaggerated. I'd be willing to wager they're not monsters at all. We might even get to like them."
Achmed and Grunthor merely smiled and finished their supper.