Destiny: Child Of Sky (105 page)

She took Ashe's hand, and he bowed his head over it in grief. They stood watch, hoping that Stephen would begin to breathe again, to inhale the color of the sunrise into his cheeks. But as each moment passed, his skin grew more alabaster, his hands colder.

As dawn crested the clouds, the light left the duke's eyes. Rhapsody looked to the horizon, and thought she saw a brief glint of a smile within the shadow from beyond the Veil of Hoen.

'Receive him kindly, m'Lord Rowan," she whispered into the morning wind.

Beside her Ashe began to weep.

Rhapsody looked over her shoulder at the white faces of Rosella and the children.

She put her hands out to them.

'Quick! Come quickly!"

Gwydion Navarne's hand was icy as she grasped it and pulled him and Melisande in front of her, wrapping her arms around them, pointing off into the rising sun.

In the shadow of golden light edging over the horizon they could see the outline of their friend, their lord, their father, standing straight again, broken no more. His shadow, long and black before the sunrise, stretched out to them. The radiance of the morning light caused his hair to shine, golden.

Beside him was another shadow, slighter, darker, backlit by daybreak.

'Who is that?" Melisande asked, shielding her eyes.

Rhapsody pulled her closer, smiling through her tears. “Your mother."

Softy she began to sing the Lirin Song of Passage, weaving his name—Stephen—into the ancient dirge. The growing light of dawn seemed to stop brightening, holding steady for a moment.

Ashe recognized what she was doing. He reached out and touched Meli-sande's face, then rested his hand on Gwydion Navarne's shoulder.

'Bid him farewell," he said to the children. His voice had regained its strength; there was wisdom in its tone. Gwydion Navarne raised his head and stared off at the horizon.

'Goodbye, Father," the boy said softly. Melisande waved, unable to speak. Behind them, Rosella dissolved into grief.

In the depths of memory Gwydion recalled his father's words at the passing of Talthea, the Gracious One.

Time holds on to us all, Gwydion. Like all mortal men subject to the whims of Time, he struggles to stave off death as long as possible, because he does not know it for the blessing it sometimes can be. For you, and for me, Time goes on.

Gwydion raised his hand to the rising sun.

Numbly Rhapsody sang, light spilling into her eyes now, her head buzzing, her heart frozen, a dam against the pain she knew was to come. She wondered if the wisdom that the Moot had granted her was giving her the strength to maintain calm for the sake of Stephen's children, for the sake of the Cymrian people. For Ashe's sake.

For her own sake.

Behind the fading shadow in the sun she could see others, scores of them, standing in the distant light of a glade, peaceful and green, behind the Veil of Hoen.

She brought the dirge to its end.

'Goodbye, Stephen,“ she said. "I'll take care of them for you."

In a burst of glory, the sun crested the horizon fully, illuminating the sky to a brilliant blue. The wind came up, the wind of morning, dispersing the smoke from the smoldering ashes.

Rhapsody looked around at the dawn shining hazily through the desolation and smoke of the fields around the ruin of the Great Moot. The soldiers of Roland and of Ylorc were moving among the Cymrians like living men among sleepwalkers.

The Lord Cymrian stood and offered her his hand.

'Come,“ he said. "Let's finish this."

From the remains of the Summoner's Rise, the new Lord and Lady Cymrian looked over the morning valley at the base of the Teeth, down on the people who had sworn fealty to them only the day before. The pain and loss were unmistakable, but so was the hope—even as Firbolg soldiers joined with the army of Roland in rebuilding and rescue, the refugees of Serendair and their descendants put aside old animosities and reached across the chasms of bitter years to begin rebuilding a new alliance of peace.

Rhapsody stared down at the horn in her hands. The casing was cracked, the magic that bound the storm-tossed survivors in promise broken, drained from it like the shine from tarnished metal. Still, there was good cheer in the air that surrounded it, a sense of hope and survival that had lasted through the death of the Island, the horror of the Great War, and even the rising of the Dead, to stand firm, a bellwether of a future that was strong and bright.

She raised the horn to her lips and sounded it; it was not a martial call, a call to battle, but rather a call of victory.

In return, the Cymrians below roared in affirmation, filling the summer air with the sound of their cheers.

She yielded the floor to Gwydion, who stood by her side, commending those who had fought bravely, blessing those who had been lost, and returning to the announcements he had been in the process of making when the Earth had sundered beneath them.

He hurried through his proclamations: the speakers for each representative group, and any other interested parties, were invited to stay to plan the merging and rebuilding of the Cymrian states. The rest of the group was excused, invited to return in a year's time for the next Council, which would convene every third year thereafter. The wedding would take place three months hence, on the first day of autumn, at the sapling tree of the Oak of Deep Roots, growing in what had once been the House of Remembrance. He thanked the Cymrians for their attendance and participation, then seized Rhapsody's hand and led her speedily off the rise before the crowd of well-wishers could sweep them away as they had tried two nights before.

On her way down the side of the rockwall Rhapsody looked up to see Achmed and Grunthor watching her. She smiled at them hesitantly: Grunthor stared at her, straight-faced, but Achmed gave her the hint of a knowing smile in return. Then she was gone, pulled out of the way of the swelling crowd.

From her hiding place on the lower ledge Rhapsody watched as the crowds slowly made their way out of the remains of the Bowl. It would take many days for the fields around the Moot to empty, she knew, between the reunions among Houses and old friends who tarried behind, renewing their ties, and the sheer logistics of moving a hundred thousand people and their belongings. She sighed; Achmed had handled things for her without complaint; she felt guilty at the prospect of leaving him with such a tremendous mess to clean up. She had sought him out before the announcement, securing his permission to have annual access to the Moot, but had been pulled away without forewarning him about her engagement. The dismay she had felt was still palpable.

She sensed a strange tingle on the surface of her skin, a static charge that buzzed in the strands of her hair and made her fingertips itch. Then she heard the voice, and a frown spread over her face.

'I hope you will allow me to extend my heartfelt congratulations, my dear, both on your appointment and your engagement." The statement issued forth from the earth itself, or the air; she was uncertain as to which.

'Thank you,“ she said, not knowing what to turn away from. "Please leave me alone, Llauron. I have nothing to say to you."

A deep chuckle resonated in the ground, and she felt the wind pick up, as it did when she had visited Elynsynos. But instead of it lovingly caressing her hair, the way it had in the quiet glen outside the hidden cave, it blew her tresses around her face with a confident strength.

'Now, somehow I doubt that is the truth, my dear."

She tried to keep from losing her temper. “You're right; let me rephrase that. I have many unpleasant things I could undoubtedly say to you at this point, Llauron, but I'd rather not. Go away and leave me alone."

'That's better. I am sorry you're so angry, Rhapsody; of course you have every right to be. I was just hoping you might be willing to extend some of your famous forgiveness to your father-in-law-to-be. I can't very well ask your pardon if you won't hear me out. You did say, after all, that we must forgive one another."

'There are some things that are unforgivable.“ Gwydion's voice came from behind her, its tone harsh, startling her. "Leave the Lady alone, Father; you have no right to speak to her after what you've done."

Rhapsody reached out for him. "Sam—

'He's right, of course,“ said the warm, cultured voice. "I certainly have no right to anything where either of you are concerned anymore. I was merely asking your indulgence."

'Sam, why don't you see if Achmed and Grunthor need any help with the crowd,"

Rhapsody said gently. “I can take care of myself. Go on. Please." Gwydion looked at her doubtfully, then reread her intention and walked away with a sigh of annoyance.

'He's very angry still, and grieving,“ Llauron said; it was as if the air and the earth both contained the sound of his voice. "I hope you can help him let go of his wrath, my dear."

'I'm not sure I should,“ she answered. "Perhaps it is better for us both to remember it."

A deep chuckle rumbled through the earth. “You may think you want to, Rhapsody, but you don't. You don't have the stomach for it. I suspect you've had enough bad feeling to last you a lifetime. Given your life expectancy, that's a lot of pain. You don't seem the type to hold a grudge."

-

'Well, if I ever have difficulty remembering why I don't speak to you I can just conjure up the image of today, of Anborn crippled trying to save me, of Stephen dying so that the Cymrians could get out of the Moot, of the horrors that Anwyn visited upon us—I think I can remember. Time will tell if I am the type to hold a grudge."

The voice in the wind seemed genuinely perplexed. “Why are you so angry with me? What have I done?"

She slapped her hand into the wind in exasperation. “Where were you? Why didn't you help? You could have spared so many, these Cymrians you have claimed to revere, to cherish—why didn't you take on Anwyn yourself? Surely you were in a better position than any."

The wind sighed around her.

'She was my mother, Rhapsody."

'Gwydion is your son. Anborn is your brother. Stephen was your friend. Those are your people. It hardly seems a worthy excuse."

'Gwydion has you. Anborn has the friendship of many. Stephen, may the Creator bless him, had the love of a woman, two marvelous children, and everyone who ever met him. The Cymrians had each other, and many in their lives to give them meaning, connection. Anwyn had only me." The wind blew warm through her hair.

“I hope one day you will understand, and will extend me your forgiveness. I do hope one day to see my grandchildren. Surely you won't deny me that, will you?"

'I doubt I will ever understand why you did any of the things that you did, but I don't have to, Llauron,“ Rhapsody replied. "You are in your own world now. One day, if we have children, and if they want to see you, that may come to pass.“ Then her eyes turned a darker green. "But not if you try to manipulate us in any way ever again."

'Understood. I think our worlds are separate enough to assure that won't happen."

'Let's hope you're right."

The sonorous voice sighed in the wind. “Rhapsody, I must ask you to remember something."

She looked over the rise at the Cymrian stragglers, standing about the Bowl in small groups, talking. “Yes?"

'Whether you realize it now or not, for all that you hated our last interaction, you will be faced one day with the same situation again."

Her attention snapped back to Llauron, invisible around her. “What does that mean?"

'It means,“ said the elemental voice of the wyrm, "that when you marry a man who is also a dragon, one day you will find that he is in need of becoming one or the other. If he chooses to let his human side win, you will eventually understand the pain of being widowed, as I have. And if he takes the path I chose, well, you have had a window into what both of you must do. I don't mean to impinge on your happiness in any way, my dear, but these are the realities of the family you are about to marry into. I just don't want you to wake up one day and feel you were misled."

Rhapsody felt sour pain rise in her throat. The truth of his words, despite her desire to ignore them, was undeniable. His reasons for telling her were less clear; it was impossible to discern whether he was forewarning her of what she was to face, or trying to discourage her from entering into the situation in which she would have to do so.

She looked across the field at the base of the Bowl again, to where Gwydion knelt, surrounded by old friends, consoling the children of Stephen Na-varne and Rosella.

'Goodbye, Llauron,“ she said, gathering her skirts. "I'll see you at the wedding, I expect, or at least feel your presence." She climbed down from the rocks and hurried across the Moot where her husband waited.

In the Great Hall of Tyrian atop Tomingorllo, amid the glad sound of silver trumpets, a solemn procession carried the chosen gift of suit to the display pedestal where the diadem had rested. It was carefully set in place, and revealed with great respect.

Out of all the rich gifts of state that were presented for the Lirin queen's approval, gifts whose incalculable wealth showcased the treasuries and artistry of the nations whose leaders sought her hand, she had chosen a simple scroll, bound with a black velvet ribbon. It was sealed with an odd, thirteen-sided copper signet, said to be one of only two in the entire world.

The scroll was rumored to be a song unlike any other. As the queen was a musician unparalleled, it was widely believed to be beautiful to the point of magical if she had been moved to choose it above all other offerings. The plate beneath it, by way of announcement, bore the name GWYDION OF MAN

During this meaningful and joyous ceremony, the queen, by custom, was absent; at least she was not noticed, lying on her stomach on the floor of the Grand Balcony, looking down and watching it all from underneath Gwydion's mist cloak with him.

It was a struggle for them both to refrain from giggling like maniacs as they had when, straight-faced, she had presented her betrothal choice to Rial and left his offices in a dead run before her composure collapsed.