Elegy for a Lost Star (6 page)

“If the Sea Mages are sending a representative, there must be something else going on here,” Gwydion mused aloud. “It would be vain beyond measure to imagine that my schooling was of any interest to them—or to anyone else in that room except Rhapsody and Ashe, and perhaps Anborn.”

“Maybe they are going to execute you instead,” Melisande said jokingly, rising from the bench and drawing out her jackstraws again. “Your report from the tutors must have been worse than we imagined.”

At that moment the doors opened, and their guardian emerged. Both children stood immediately. The Lord Cymrian, whose given name was also Gwydion but whom they both referred to in private as Ashe, was attired in court dress, a happening so rare that it made both Melisande and Gwydion begin to fidget.

The Lord Cymrian's eyes, cerulean blue with vertical pupils that told of the dragon's blood in his veins, sparkled warmly as he beheld the children.

“Melly! You're here as well. Excellent. Please remain here in the hallway for a moment, and then they will bring you in.” He held out his hand, banded at the wrist in leather at the end of a sleeve of white silk slashed with dark red, to Gwydion. “Will you come with me, please, Gwydion?”

The youth and his sister exchanged a terrified glance; then Gwydion followed Ashe through the vast double doors, which closed almost imperceptibly behind him.

As they passed through the entrance to the Great Hall Gwydion's eyes went to the vaulted ceiling on which historical frescoes representing the history of the Cymrian people had been meticulously rendered in a circle around a dark blue center. When his father was alive, they had entered the Great Hall only on rare occasions, spending most of their time in the family quarters and the library, so the grandeur of the Hall never became commonplace to Gwydion. He found himself unconsciously following the story of his ancestors who had refugeed from the doomed Island of Serendair fourteen centuries before.

Each vault on the ceiling covered a period of the history. Gwydion stared up at the first panel, a fresco depicting the revelation made to Lord Gwylliam ap Rendlar ap Evander tuatha Gwylliam, sometimes called Gwylliam the Visionary, that the Island would be consumed in volcanic fire by the rising of the Sleeping Child, a fallen star that burned in the depths of the
sea. It made him even more nervous when he realized that the court clothing that Gwylliam was wearing in the painting was very similar to what Ashe, who was walking before him, was wearing now.

Each of the additional ceiling frescoes told more of the story—the meeting of the explorer Merithyn and the dragon Elynsynos, who had once ruled undisputed over much of the middle continent, including Navarne; her invitation to the people of Serendair to take refuge in her lands; the construction and launch of the three fleets of ships that carried the Cymrian refugees away from the Island; the fates of each of those fleets; the unification of the Cymrian royal house with the marriage of Lord Gwylliam to Anwyn, one of the three daughters of the dragon Elynsynos; the building of the mighty empire over which the first Lord and Lady Cymrian had ruled, and its eventual destruction in the Cymrian War.

Gwydion had once suggested to Ashe that the blank blue panel in the center be painted to commemorate the new era into which they had recently passed, known as the Second Cymrian Age, with his godfather's ascension to the Lordship along with Rhapsody, who had been named Lady by the Cymrian Council three years before. Ashe had merely smiled; the panel remained blank.

In the Great Hall itself numerous chairs had been set up. Occupying those chairs were the dukes of the five other provinces of Roland and representatives from each of the other member nations of the Cymrian Alliance, the loose confederation of realms loyal to the Lord and Lady. Rial, the viceroy of the forested kingdom of Tyrian, where Rhapsody was also the titular queen, nodded to him pleasantly, but with a look of sympathy that was unmistakable. The back of Gwydion's neck began to tingle.

Before they passed under the arch that demarked the second vault, Ashe turned and took him by the arm.

“Come in here for a moment,” he said, diverting him into a side room.

Gwydion followed blindly, his stomach clenching with worry. Ashe closed the door behind him. The echo of the vast hall was swallowed immediately by the smaller room's carpets, drapes, and tapestries.

In the room near the windows the Lady Cymrian was standing, watching the leaves on the trees beginning to lose their verdant hue and turn the color of fire. She, too, was dressed in heavy velvet court clothing, a deep blue gown that hung stiffly away from her slender frame, hiding the swell of her belly. Her golden hair was swept back from her face and plaited in the intricate patterns favored by the Lirin, her mother's people. She turned upon hearing them enter the room and eyed Gwydion intently for a moment, then broke into a warm smile that faded after a second into a look of concern.

“What's wrong?” Rhapsody asked, coming away from the window. “You look like you're about to be executed.”

“You're the second family member to suggest that this morning,” Gwydion replied nervously, taking the hand she held out to him and bowing over it formally. “Should I be worried?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” she said, pulling him close and tousling his hair fondly. The skin of her face, normally a healthy rose-gold tone, paled visibly; her clear green eyes brightened with tears of pain. She released him and walked over to a chair where she sat quickly. Her pregnancy was a difficult one, Gwydion knew, and she became fatigued and nauseated easily.

“We have a few announcements to make shortly, but since all of them concern you directly, I thought you should hear of them before the general council does,” Ashe said, pouring a glass of water for his wife and handing it to her. “And, of course, if you object to any of them, we will reconsider.”

Gwydion inhaled deeply. “All right,” he said, steeling himself. “What are they?”

Ashe hid a smile and put his hands on Rhapsody's shoulders. “First, Highmeadow, the new palace I've been having built for your—grandmother”—his dragonesque eyes twinkled in amusement at the word—“will be ready on the first day of autumn. I plan to move our lodgings there; it is time we leave Haguefort and set up our own residence.”

Gwydion's stomach turned over. Rhapsody and Ashe had been living in his family's home since the death three years prior of his father, Stephen Navarne, who had been Ashe's childhood friend. Their presence was the only thing that had made living in Haguefort tolerable; otherwise the memories would have been too strong to bear. Even though he had been a young boy, and Melisande an infant, when their mother was murdered on the road to town, he still remembered her, and missed her when the night winds shrieked and howled around the castle parapets, or on warm, windy days, like the ones on which he and his mother had flown kites together. And the loss of his father in battle, before his eyes, had dealt a death blow to his optimism. Though he knew he would always carry the weight of these tragedies, the load seemed lighter when shared with people who loved him, and who had loved his father.

“We also think it would be a good idea for Melisande to come with us for the time being, and live at the new palace,” Ashe continued.

“Melly? But not me?”

“Right. We will get to that in a moment.”

Gwydion nodded numbly, his every nerve screaming inside.
They
are
sending me away
, he thought, his mind reeling at the thought.

“Second,” Ashe continued, oblivious of his consternation, “Rhapsody and I would like to reinstitute the winter carnival this year.”

Gwydion's nausea grew exponentially. The winter carnival had long been a family tradition at Haguefort, something his father had relished hosting, on the days that spanned the winter solstice. Each year a great festival
was undertaken, coinciding with holy days in both the Patriarchal religion of Sepulvarta and the order of the Filids, the nature priests of the Circle in Gwynwood, the two faiths of the continent. The festival lasted for three days, marked with games of winter sport, feasting, singing contests, minstrelsy, and dozens of other forms of merrymaking.

The last of the carnivals had taken place four years before and had turned into a bloodbath. The horror of it was still raw in Gwydion's mind.

“Why?” he asked, unable to contain his revulsion.

“Because it is time to get back to the business of living,” Rhapsody said gently. “Your father loved that celebration, and understood how important it was to the folk of his province, and in fact all of Roland. It is the one time of year that the adherents of the religion of Sepulvarta and that of Gwynwood convene for a happy purpose; that is critical to advancing understanding between both sects. And besides, we have an announcement to make; that seems like the best place to make it.”

“What announcement?”

“Third,” Ashe said, “we have decided, after deep discussion and consultation with a few of our most trusted advisors, that you are ready to take on the full mantle of your inheritance, as duke of Navarne.”

Gwydion stared at his guardians in silence.

“That is why we are offering to take Melisande with us,” Rhapsody said quickly. “Once you take on the responsibility of the duchy, there will be much for you to accustom yourself to, and caring for your sister, as much as we know you are willing to do it, should not be a distraction to you. Our new home is less than a day's journey on horseback anyway; she can come and see you whenever either of you wish.”

Ashe came over to the young man and stood in front of him, looking down gravely into his eyes.

“Your seventeenth birthday is the last day of autumn,” he said seriously. “You have more than proven yourself worthy of being fully invested as duke; you are both brave and wise beyond your years. This is not a gift, Gwydion; it is both your birthright and a title you have earned. I need you as a full member of my council, and Navarne needs a duke who looks out for its interests as his main concern. Anborn believes you to be ready, and that is high praise indeed. My uncle is not the quickest to offer support or praise; if he feels you merit the title, there are few that will gainsay it.”

“But there may be some who do,” Gwydion said, his heart still racing.

“None,” Rhapsody said, smiling. “We have met already, and all agree. We're sorry for keeping you waiting in the hall, but the council needed to be able to speak freely. You would have been flattered to hear what they said. No one objected.” She glanced at Ashe; Tristan Steward, Gwydion Navarne's cousin, had expressed concern, but in the end had acceded and given the idea his support.

“And even if there are, that is something you may as well become accustomed to,” Ashe said. “It is the lot of a leader to be questioned; it is the sign of a good one when that leader takes the praise and blame with equanimity, without being swayed too far from what he believes by either of them. So, what say you? Shall we call in Melisande so that she can witness the first moment of her brother's investiture?”

Gwydion walked over to the window where Rhapsody had stood and pulled the drape back, causing a bevy of winterbirds that had been perching in the nearby trees to scatter noisily. He gazed out over the rolling green fields of his ancestral estate, scored by a twelve-foot-high wall his father had built to fortify the lands around the castle. The townspeople had begun to move their dwellings within the wall, turning it from the once-pristine meadow into a village, as Stephen had predicted would happen. It was an ugly reality: the trading of innocence and beauty for safety and security.

“I suppose this is childhood's end,” he said, his voice tinged with melancholy.

Ashe came to the window and stood behind him. “In some ways, yes. But one could make the case that your childhood ended long ago, Gwydion. You've seen more loss in your young life than any man should have to see. This is just a formal recognition that you've been a man for some time.”

“Your father never truly lost the innocence of childhood, Gwydion,” Rhapsody said. “He had seen the same kinds of early loss that you have—his mother, your mother. Even your godfather—for many years Stephen believed Ashe to be dead. But he had you, and Melly, and a duchy to be strong for. He could have embraced the darkness of melancholy, and he would have had every right to do so. He chose instead to laugh, to celebrate, to live in the light instead of the darkness.” She rose slowly. “That choice is yours as well, as it is for each of us.”

Gwydion turned back and regarded his guardians. They were watching him closely, thoughtfully, but in their eyes was the silent, common understanding of people who had taken on leadership reluctantly, at great personal sacrifice. He knew that they had both lost much, too—most everyone in the world they had ever loved. In their loss, they clung to each other.

Something his godfather had said to him on their wedding day three years before came to mind.

If your grandmother were to have her way, she would abandon all of the trappings and the power and live in a goat hut in a remote forest somewhere. Grow herbs, compose music, raise children. And with but one word from her, I would move the mountains with my hands to make it happen
.

Then why don't you?
Gwydion had asked.

Because there are some things that you cannot escape, for they are inside you
, Ashe had said, putting on his wedding neckpiece.
One of them is duty. She is needed in the positions she has been given, as I am
. His eyes had twinkled.
But on
the day when we are no longer specifically needed, I will ask for your help in building that goat hut
.

Gwydion met the eyes of the Lord and Lady Cymrian.

“I'm honored to accept,” he said simply.

Rhapsody and Ashe smiled in response.

“Know that we are here for you, always,” Rhapsody said.