Destiny: Child Of Sky (42 page)

'I look forward to it,“ Ashe said. "We can celebrate the joy of the ordinary for the rest of our lives. We'll both be in our dotage soon, anyway; we can hide in your wine cellar, drink ourselves into a fine stupor, and tell each other the stories that would bore anyone else to death."

'Done.“ Stephen's face grew serious. "Know that I stand ready to help you in whatever you need, Gwydion. The land is balancing on the brink of war. Perhaps your return from death may spare the continent from its own."

'Goodbye, Stephen,“ Ashe said. "Take care of yourself and your children first.

We'll meet again soon." He opened the door to the balcony and was gone, leaving Stephen staring out into the darkness and flying snow as the bitter wind howled around and through the windows and doorways of Haguefort.

torches were just beginning to be lit in the darkening hallways of the Cauldron when Greevus knocked on the door of the council room behind the Great Hall.

Achmed did not look up from the field map he had been examining; Grunthor waved him into the room, then turned back to the map as well.

Greevus waited in silence as the Sergeant-Major continued to confer with the king.

Finally Achmed rolled the map into a tight scroll, irritation apparent in his sharp movements.

'Yes?"

Greevus cleared his throat. “M'lord, bird came in to Griwen Tower with message for you. Seemed strange."

For the first time since the general had entered the room the king looked up; he fixed his disturbing gaze on Greevus for a moment, then extended a gloved hand.

The soldier placed the small scrap of oilskin in the king's palm, then bowed quickly and retreated to the dancing shadows near the wide hearth.

Achmed and Grunthor exchanged a glance; then the Sergeant-Major strode to the hearth, took a long twig of kindling from the woodpile, and caught a spark from the fireplace. He returned to the table and kindled the lamp on it while the king unrolled the tiny scrap of oilskin beneath it and bent over to read it. A moment later he did so aloud.

King Achmed ofYlorc

Your Majesty:

In great sorrow I have heard R's tale of the terrible illness that has befallen your people and the tragic loss of your army. I extend my condolences and offer whatever assistance you may need in medicines or burial herbs.

Llauron, Invoker—Gwynwood

The king and the Sergeant exchanged another glance; then Grunthor dismissed Greevus with a nod. The general bowed, then closed the door behind him.

After a moment Grunthor took off his helm and scratched his head, running his neatly manicured claws through his heavy hair.

'Well, what do ya make o' that? What is it you're thinkin'?"

Achmed held up the oilcloth before the fire and read the words again, watching the flames twist behind the paper, their colors and intensity muted. Finally he spoke.

'That I have been wrong about Llauron." He tossed the oilcloth into the fire where it blazed brightly and vanished in a cloud of acrid smoke.

Grunthor waited patiently as Achmed dropped into a chair before the hearth, brought his fingertips together, and rested them on his lips. The king stared into the fire as if trying to discern its secrets.

'Llauron is not the F'dor," he said.

'How d'ya know?"

'Rhapsody would never have said such a thing to Llauron—I doubt she even knows about this missive. The story of the illness, the decimation of the army is a lie, of course—and Rhapsody doesn't lie. This is a message to her as much as to me; there is a coded subtext to it."

The Sergeant nodded. “Can you tell what it is?"

Achmed's brow wrinkled above his veils. “I believe so. For some reason of his own, Llauron has intentionally spread this lie; he doesn't believe it himself. This is his way of making me aware of what he has done. If he were the F'dor, he would never have given me such notice." Grunthor nodded as Achmed curled forward, staring even deeper into the fire. "Perhaps he is trying to flush the F'dor from its hiding place by disseminating the information that the Bolglands are vulnerable.

That would explain the part about the destruction of the army."

Grunthor's face grew solemn in the flickering shadows.

'And ya know what that means, then."

Dark rage burned in the king's eyes. “Yes. He thinks the F'dor's host is in a position to take advantage of the situation. I will have to think of a special way to thank him for using my kingdom as demon-bait—if we survive the attack that is no doubt massing at this moment."

'— ome in, Evans; it's rude to lurk in doorways."

Evans, Tristan Steward's elderly councilor and court ambassador, had been standing at the entranceway to the dining room of the Regent's Palace for some time. He exhaled and crossed the vast hall, his footfalls on the polished marble floor echoing loudly against the tall panes of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, an architeccural hallmark of the palace that was Bethany's capital seat. The light from the hearth fire cast long shadows through which he passed briskly, musing.

He had swallowed his ire at the sound of the Lord Roland's voice, thick with drink and self-pity; it was a timbre he had heard much too often over the last few weeks.

Whether the regent was mourning the tragic turn of events at the winter festival, or feeling extreme pressure from his recent assumption of command of the Orlandan armies, or merely in a state of panic at his upcoming nuptials, Evans was not certain, but any of those cases seemed to warrant excusing.

The man was, after all, betrothed to Madeleine, the Beast of Canderre. The joke in ambassadorial circles was that Cedric Canderre produced fine, strong libations out of necessity to ensure that someone might one day be drunk enough to seek his daughter's hand. Tristan must have consumed an entire full-cask by himself, and then some, Bois de Berne, the Avonderrian ambassador, had suggested mirthfully at the time the betrothal was announced. Evans remembered chuckling then; now the sound of the prince's voice, and all that had happened since those days, only made him want to weep.

'I thought you might want to see this, m'lord,“ he said as he approached the regent's table, noting that Tristan's supper was largely untouched, but the decanter next to his brandy snifter was empty. "It was discovered at sunset by one of the archers on the western inner tower in the .leg-sleeve of a bird, an avian messenger that most likely got caught in one of the recent storms and misdirected."

Tristan stared into the snifter, swirling the last of the brandy around, watching the light from the fire dance in rings on the heavily carved dining table. He sighed as Evans held out the oilcloth scrap, lifted his snifter and tossed back the brandy, then held his hand out for the paper.

Evans watched the Lord Roland's expression metamorphosing each time the shadows shifted on his face as he read the note. First confusion, then shock took hold, changing to wonder, then an almost manic glee. Evans ran his hands up and down his elderly arms to stave off the sudden cold chill that came over him as the prince put down the scrap of oilcloth, threw back his head, and laughed uproariously.

In the darkness of his study the holy man could hear the Lord Roland laughing; whether the sound was carried on the wind, or through the hearth fire, or just in the depths of his mind where he and Tristan were bound he did not know, but he could hear it cleanly, as surely as he could hear the crackle of the flames.

He had no idea why the prince was laughing, but the bloodlust he could hear below the surface of the merriment cheered him immensely.

—

The stream that flowed from the waterfall was crusted with ice, broken in patches by snowfall. Ashe knelt beside it beneath the boughs of the bare crabapple trees, lost in thought. He had come to cleanse the blood from his sword in the clear water of this place that he thought of as his own, as his safe haven, but was regretting the decision now. It seemed wrong, selfish even, to befoul the icy water, the pristine snow, with the gore he had carried since his last fray in the gently rolling forest of northern Navarne.

After leaving Stephen's keep he had come upon a Lirin raiding party, small in number but keen in murderous intent. The villagers of the forest settlement, scarred still from the slaughter of the winter solstice festival, were making a good rally of it, fighting for their homes with pitchforks, harrows, and scythes. Ashe could smell the burning cinders from the thatched huts that the Lirin had set aflame from several leagues' distance, and so turned his sword and his attention first to melting the snow that burdened the heavy boughs of the forest evergreens which sheltered the village. Kirsdarke's blade had run in intense blue-white rivers as he held it above his head, commanding the element of frozen water to thaw and pour down from the trees, quenching the fire.

For a moment both villagers and attackers had stood in silent amazement at the sight of him, staring as if entranced by the waves of light from the gleaming water sword. But a moment later a deeper enchantment took over, and the Lirin thralls resumed their mayhem. Ashe was left with no choice but to join the villagers until the last Lirin was dead. He had broken through the clutching gratitude and stumbled away through the smoke of the forest, heading here, to this place, where he could cleanse the horror from his blade and his soul.

But even now, as he knelt beside the stream, he felt uneasy.

We are not alone, the dragon in his blood whispered.

He took a deep breath in agreement. At the edge of his senses someone was approaching. The dragon itched beneath his skin in excitement.

Let me jeiue, his wyrm nature insisted.

Seeing no alternative, Ashe sighed and surrendered to his nether side.

A moment later he had his answer. The dragon in his blood recognized its own kind.

Anborn was approaching the stream.

Ashe slid Kirsdarke back into its sheath. His hood was down, so no doubt Anborn had an inkling that he was there as well. He took off his gloves and broke through the ice, scooped some of the frigid water into his hands, and slapped it on his face, bracing himself against the sting. He cupped his hands again, drank deeply, then turned to face his uncle.

-

Anborn had dismounted and approached the stream on foot. When he came within a few yards he stopped and nodded.

'Nephew."

Ashe smiled. “Uncle."

Anborn snorted. “We can revert to our old nomenclature if you prefer—I can call you 'Useless' and you can refer to me as 'That Pompous Bastard.'"

'I only did that once, Uncle, and I apologized, I believe. I can feel my father's grip on the back of my neck to this day; it made a lasting impression."

The Cymrian general nodded. “I just came from your father's palace. He was alive when I left him."

'I had no doubt he would be, Uncle,“ Ashe replied pleasantly. "What I don't know is why you are here, so deep in Gwynwood."

Anborn chuckled. “I knew this glade nine centuries before you were born, lad. I am the one that showed it to you, if you recall."

Ashe nodded. Anborn had, in fact, once discovered him in the woods at play as a youth, and had shown him the crabapple glen, had taught him to hurl the small, hard projectiles side-armed, much to the eventual consternation of his father, who later had to ameliorate the complaints from the Filidic priests whose window shutters were his prime targets. He felt a strange sense of awkward warmth; he did have one pleasant memory, however brief, of his uncle.

That warmth was coupled with trepidation. The crabapple glen was the doorstep of the waterfall, and the waterfall hid his secret sanctuary—a one-room turf hut secreted behind the shale wall of the vertical stream. To his knowledge only one other person in the world knew the location of the hut—Rhapsody.

Beneath the surface his dragon nature stirred again, bristling with nervousness. The security of the tiny cottage was paramount to him, one of the few places in the world he knew he was safe from detection. More than that, he had encouraged Rhapsody to meet him here should she ever be in need of him, or to come here to hide. Anborn's presence seemed to indicate the folly of that offer.

Mine, the dragon whispered furiously. His uncle, and his presence, was now a threat.

Just as the jealous rapacity of his wyrm side began to rise, his pragmatic human outlook descended. Between a single pair of heartbeats he reached down inside himself to the place where he was tied to the element of water, the pure, elemental liquid core of his soul. That water bond, dormant within him, rose to glistening life and sang to the waters of the frozen cascade, banished now to a mere trickle beneath the hoary frost of winter.

At first the stream was silent; then, quietly, from beneath the frozen strata of ice shards, the voice of the slumbering waterfall answered.

No one has come, the waterfall whispered. He does not know. The place I guard is still yours alone. I have protected it well.

My thanks, Ashe replied silently through the elemental bond. If the woman should come, let her in—guard her well. Protect her for me.

A crackle of breaking ice answered him; only a heartbeat's time had passed.

'Indeed,“ he said to his uncle. "Yes, you did. So why have you come here now?

Surely not out of concern for my technique of throwing crabapples."

'Surely not,“ Anborn agreed testily. "I have come to tell you that I have granted you a boon."

'I don't remember asking one of you."

'No, but I assume you will appreciate it nonetheless."

'Oh. Well, thank you, then,“ Ashe said mildly. "Do you mind if I ask what it is?"

'Not at all. I have spared your father from the thrashing of his life, one that is long overdue, and well deserved. He lives, untouched, because of your kindness to my man-at-arms, and only because of it. My debt to you is repaid now, nephew. The scales are balanced between us."

Ashe smiled slightly at the strange Sorboldian expression, trying to sort out the confusion he felt.

'I certainly appreciate your forbearance. What was it that you felt the need to thrash Llauron over? I might have been willing to help you if it had been well enough deserved."