The Assassin King

18

The two Filidic priests waited until Melisande had finished the cheese and cider. She stuffed the bread in the pocket of her cape, gaming smiles from both of them, and then was led back out to the winter garden, past many more people in robes tending the sleeping beds and hardy shrubs, all the way to the circle of trees surrounding the Great White Tree. The sun had gone beyond the horizon, leaving nothing but inky black clouds in a remnant of blue at the edge of the world. The moon was just rising, hanging low in the sky and spilling cold light across the meadow. A pathway from the building to the circle of trees was lit with lanterns hanging from wooden posts, all the way to the other side of the meadow. The closer they got to the gigantic tree, the warmer Melisande felt. There was something entrancing about it that reached down into her heart. Rhapsody had told her of her time in this odd place of natural magic, of the foresters like the man who led her to the Circle, who plied the woodland trails, escorting pilgrims to sites sacred to those who followed the faith practices of the Filids, of the vast herbal gardens where medicines and herbs used in rituals were carefully tended; of the healers who could cure the wounds and illnesses of both men and animals, and especially of the Tree, which she said sang an ancient song that was indescribable in its beauty. Melisande did not hear the song, but still could feel its power. She tried to remember what the Lady Cymrian had said about Gavin himself. Rhapsody had studied with him, had wandered a good deal of the forest in his presence, and seemed fond of him, but had said little more about him, mostly because it seemed that no one knew him very well, even the foresters who he trained. He had been the Chief Forester when Rhapsody met him, and was chosen to take over as Invoker when Ashe’s father, Llauron, had given up his human body to take on dragon form. All of this was very jumbled in Melisande’s mind; she had been very small when it all took place, and so it seemed like little more than a fairy tale to her—a fairy tale in which she knew the players.

As they crossed the dark meadow she began to see what she thought were signs of recent fire again. Many of the trees in the circle around the Great White Tree were newly planted or had been badly burned, including the great copse of ancient trees, vastly tall and broad, in and around which the house they were heading toward was built.

Unlike the house that Llauron had lived in, which she had seen drawings of in her father’s museum, this was little more than a large cabin, with a high hip roof and walls of fragrant cedar. Llauron’s house had been built by his father, Gwylliam the Visionary, and set within the trees and built around them at many odd angles, with sections placed high in the forest canopy and a tower in the center that was tall enough to look above it, and surrounded by many beautiful and cozy gardens. She had been fascinated by the drawings of it, and her father had described to her the great inventions that Gwylliam had installed to allow fragile plants to grow inside glass rooms in winter, tubes through which people spoke to people in other rooms, and a tower aviary in which the messenger birds lived in beautiful bamboo cages intricately designed to match the destination buildings to which they were trained to carry their missives. He and Ashe had spent many happy hours there as boys; the memory of his face, recalling those times, stung even as the surroundings entranced her. By contrast, the new house was clean of line and simple, barely larger than the carriage house at Haguefort, which was itself a small keep. The windows were round with carved shutters, with simple boxes affixed beneath them, wrapped for winter’s sleep. The house was all on one level except for a small lookout tower with an enclosed stairway that reached high above the forest canopy. Two lampposts flanked the cabin, the flame within them glowing brightly, if not warmly. The only remarkable thing about the place was the door. In the lantern shadows it appeared to be marred by soot but un-burned, it was arched, made of wood that Melisande did not recognize, and scarred by salt. The minuscule remnants of an image were barely visible, flaked leaves of gilding still able to be seen, evoking a mythical beast, a dragon or griffin of some sort. A great stone wall, lined with sleeping gardens, led up a pathway to the heavy wooden door, which was guarded by foresters.

“This is where Gavin lives,” Elara said. She walked up to the guardians and spoke to them in a tongue Melisande did not understand, to which they replied in kind. Elara nodded and turned back to the little girl. “Gavin is at the Tree,” she said. She nodded back across the meadow, where a number of Filids and foresters were milling about, some tending the guardian circle of trees, some conferring, others in ritual prayer. “Come.”

Melisande followed her back up the path and beyond the circle of guardian trees, to a spot beneath an enormous white limb glimmering in the light of the ascendant moon. Several bearded men in simple green and brown clothing were talking quietly among themselves. The one with his back to her gestured off toward the north, and the rest of them bowed and left. The remaining man stood for a moment, as if listening to something only he could hear, then turned and looked down into her face.

It was the forester who had brought her to the Circle.

“Gavin, this is the girl we told you of,” said Elara. “Her name is Melisande.”

The forester nodded, then hid a smile at the look of thunderous shock on the young girl’s face. “Hello, Lady Melisande Navarne.”

“You are Gavin?” Melisande exploded. “I am.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” The somber man looked even more directly at her. “You didn’t ask,” he said. “You merely told me who you were.” He signaled to Elara, and the Filidic priest bowed to him, smiled at Melisande, and withdrew, gesturing to the others within the circle to follow her. Gavin waited until they were alone beneath the Great White Tree, then returned his attention to the girl. “In the future, I respectfully suggest you consider asking the names of those in your presence, and being less forthcoming with your own, m’lady. A brave spirit can’t always overcome a foolish head.” Melisande’s face flushed hot in the light of the lanterns. The Invoker saw her embarrassment, and gestured for her to walk closer to the Great White Tree with him. “We are now outside of the wind, and within the protection of the Tree,” he said when they came to a stop beneath its outstretched limbs overhead. “This is the safest place in the forest to speak, without fear of being overheard, Tell me, then, Lady Melisande Navarne, why did the Lady Cymrian send you to me?” His dark eyes twinkled. “Aside from your rare brave spirit and even rarer ability for survival for one your age.” Melisande took a deep breath, concentrating and trying to remember Rhapsody’s words exactly as she had spoken them. “The Lady Cymrian bids me ask you to take me, along with a full contingent of your top foresters and your most accomplished healer, to the greenwood north-northeast of the Tar’afel River, where the holly grows thickest. She said that you will know where this is.” The Invoker nodded thoughtfully. “I am to ask you to have your foresters fan out at that point, keeping to a distance of half a league each, and form a barrier that extends northwest all the way to the sea, setting whatever snares and traps they need to protect that barrier. They are to remain there, allowing no living soul to enter.”

The Invoker inhaled, watching her sharply, his eyes gleaming intensely in the dark. “When this is accomplished, she asks that you yourself take me from this point onward. A sweet-water creek flows south into the Tar’afel; we are to follow it northward until we come to Mirror Lake.” The Invoker shook his head. “Those are sacred lands, where I have never trod. That is the realm of the dragon Elynsynos. I know of no such lake.”

“She said that we will know this body of water because its name describes it perfectly. At the lake I am to leave you and travel on alone. She asks you to wait for me there for no more than three days. If I have not returned by then, you are to return to the Circle and go about your business.”

“Leaving you to whatever fate you have met?” the Invoker demanded. Melisande exhaled. “I suppose so, yes.”

“And you agreed to this, Lady Melisande Navarne?” The little girl squared her shoulders and drew herself up to her full height, which reached its summit at a little above the man’s waist. “I did. And I fully understand the implications.”

“And is that all? You merely need me to provide escort into the forbidden lands and to abandon you to Fate there?”

“No,” Melisande said quickly, remembering the rest of her instructions. “Within that time I expect to return to you with one of two requests—-either to come back with me along with the healer, or with the intention of sealing the dragon’s cave.” The Invoker stood suddenly straighter. “What has happened to Elynsynos?” he asked, stricken. “I don’t know,” Melisande said plainly. “But Rhapsody fears the worst.”

“This is dire news indeed,” said the Invoker, turning away toward the silver trunk of the Great White Tree. He was silent for some time, then turned back to the little girl. “If you are willing to undertake such a task, it would be my honor to escort you in it,” he said finally. “I have but two last questions for you, Lady Melisande Navarne.”

“Yes?”

“How old are you?”

“Nine,” the little girl replied. “But I’ll be ten on the first day of spring, which is very soon.” The Invoker nodded. “And how old do you feel today?”

Melisande’s brows drew together in confusion, then in thought. “Much older than that,” she said. “At least twelve.”

“Very good,” the Invoker said. “And may I ask you something now?”

“Indeed.”

“How did you come to find me in the forest? Do you know if my chamberlain and soldiers are alive?” The Invoker smiled. It was an unusual expression, one that he did not seem to wear very often. “The second question first: your chamberlain is indeed alive, and two of your soldiers. They were found by my woods guides and returned under escort to Haguefort. “As for how I came upon you—the woods told me there was a brave young woman who had fought off attackers and was lost within them. I came to find you, for such a person cannot be left to the vagaries of misfortune and fate. And so I will again, Lady Melisande Navarne. Take heed and believe this—no matter what comes to pass, I will come for you.”