The Assassin King Read Online Free PDF Page B

open with urgency.
    Standing in the door frame was his father's long-trusted chamberlain, Gerald Owen, an elderly Cymrian who had served Gwydion's father and grandfather, and perhaps a few ancestors before him. The old man stepped back in surprise, then opened the door wider for the young duke. “Finally,” Gwydion muttered as he entered the Hall. “I've been waiting a week to talk to him.” “He's aware of that, sir,” Gerald Owen said smoothly, closing the door behind him.
    “The Lord Cymrian needed to see that the Lady Cymrian and the baby were attended to before the meeting. She was in a grave state when she returned.” Gwydion stopped and turned back quickly. “And is she better now?” he asked anxiously. Rhapsody had adopted him and his sister Melisande four years before as honorary grandchildren, though in many ways she had been more like a second mother. “Will she be missing the council?” “Yes, and no,” came a warm baritone voice from behind him. Gwydion looked over his shoulder to see his godfather standing in the center of the feeder hallway leading into the central meeting place of the keep. Ashe, as the Lord Cymrian was called by his intimates, was a man in possession of the blue eye color most often associated with Cymrian royal lineage, but whose face and body bore the lines of the mixed races of human and Lirin, with draconic vertical pupils scoring his eyes and copper-colored hair that appeared almost metallic in its sheen, signs of the wyrm blood that ran in his veins as well. “She has been tended to, and will be sitting in on the council meeting. We would be sorely lacking in wisdom were she not to attend.”
    “Agreed,” said Gwydion, looking askance at the empty room. “But where is she? To that end, where is everyone? I saw Anborn come in earlier, and Achmed and Grunthor both a moment ago—where did they go?” His eyes fell upon the metal walking machine, abandoned in the corner of the room, a marvel of engineering provided by Anborn's brother, the Sea Mage Edwyn Griffyth, to help the lame Lord Marshal regain the ability to walk upright. “What is going on here, Ashe?” Outside the enormous windows of the Great Hall an icy wind howled, drowning the silence, buffeting the glass until it rattled. The Lord Cymrian eyed him seriously, then turned and walked over to a heavy wall tapestry depicting the voyage of the Cymrian fleets from the lost island of Serendair. He drew the drape aside and pressed his hand into the stone of the wall; darkness appeared as a hidden passageway opened.
    “Do you remember this place?” he asked. Gwydion's throat felt suddenly dry. “Yes,” he said.
    “Gerald Owen hid Melly and me there during the slaughter at the Winter Carnival four years ago.” Ashe nodded. “It's not a perfect place to meet in secret, but being underground and away from the wind, and any ears that might be listening, it's the best we can do for now.” The vertical pupils of his cerulean blue eyes caught the light from the windows and contracted visibly; Gwydion wondered if the change was from more than the light. “Make haste, Gwydion; we are about to convene the most dire discussion undertaken in the history of the continent.” The young duke nodded and stepped into the dark passageway, followed a moment later by the Lord Cymrian, who closed the doorway as he entered, plunging them both into empty blackness. A moment later he felt a crackle in the air around him, and the earthen walls of the dark passageway began to glow with a warmth that held no real light, but rather the radiance of heat. The dim illumination gave Gwydion enough vision to make out the rough-hewn stairs that twisted down into the blackness below, where he knew a small room was concealed, little more than a root cellar, behind a rock wall. The Lord Cymrian chuckled. “Thank you, Aria,” he called into the darkness below.
    “My pleasure, Sam,” came Rhapsody's voice in return. “Mind your step,