Destiny: Child of the Sky

68

The fire on the hearth in the council room behind the Great Hall of the Cauldron burned rambunctiously, smelling vastly better than it had in Grunthor’s memory, thanks in large part to the three fat vanilla beans Rhapsody had tossed on it when they came in for supper. The meal had been a surprisingly quiet one, due in large part to the pensive look on the Singer’s face and her lack of conversational patter, a signal to him that something was decidedly wrong.

It had been so all the way home from Bethe Corbair as well, his own celebratory mood not extending to either of his companions. He had cast a glance in Achmed’s direction a moment before and had seen the warning look in his eye, so he did not ask, but rather attempted to lighten the mood with a pleasantry, or his approximation of one.

“Delicious meal, Duchess,” he said jovially, patting her roughly on the head. “Oi don’t remember your stew ever tastin’ that good before.”

“It’s all that garlic from Bethe Corbair,” she replied, rising and taking his plate. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such plump, firm heads. I saved some to plant. Would you like more?”

“Yes, indeed.” Grunthor took a sip of the tea and made a face. “And is this somethin’ you bought there as well?”

“Yes; that’s the horehound. It’s the same thing that was in the candy.” She smiled at his grimace. “Don’t like it, do you?”

Grunthor made an effort to look cheerful. “Oh, it’s lovely, darlin’.”

“Liar. That’s all right, I’m used to people insulting my tea. That’s the oil from the leaves; you said you had a sore throat. It’s supposed to taste that way.”

The giant Bolg swallowed. “Oi guess it’s an acquired taste, eh? What are you gonna do with all that demon stuff—the mugwort and datura? Ain’t that poisonous?”

“I certainly hope so. I’ve painted all the cockroach nests with it.” Achmed hid his smile. “What are you going to do with all those arrows?”

“They’re for my grandson, Gwydion Navarne. He’s an archer, like his father, or at least is training to be. He’ll love the ones that hold flame.”

“Don’t let him practice with them near the keep or anything flammable you don’t want incinerated. They’re warped.”

Rhapsody’s face clouded in dismay. “They are? I didn’t notice.” The Firbolg king leaned back and crossed his feet. “Of course you didn’t. You were too busy concentrating on making sure Gittleson saw you in the market.”

“He was inept, wasn’t he?”

“Was being the operative word.”

“The poor benny,” said Grunthor sympathetically. “It’s so ’ard to get good ’elp these days.” He grinned when he saw a smile touch the corners of Rhapsody’s mouth.

“Especially where he is now,” said Achmed, studying her as well. “Actually, it’s pretty hard to get anything good there.”

Rhapsody pushed her chair back. “All right, stop watching me. I can’t stand it.” She rose and went to the fire, staring into the billowing flames.

“You want to tell us what’s wrong?” The deep voice was gentle; Grunthor saw the muscles of her back tense at his words, but otherwise could discern no reaction.

Rhapsody watched the fire a moment longer. Finally she turned and smiled slightly at both of them.

“I don’t know for sure if anything’s wrong at all, Grunthor,” she said quietly. “I do have to go back to Tyrian, and it’s making me sad to think about leaving you both again.”

“So stay,” said Achmed flatly.

She shook her head. “I can’t. It’s time to call the Cymrian Council, and I have preparations in my own lands to make before I do. But after that I’ll be back, and I’ll have several months to wait before all the Cymrians show up. I have to stay within Canrif until they do, so we’ll have some extended time together then.”

“Oi doubt it,” Grunthor mumbled gloomily. “Just when we’re ’aving some fun, OF Waterboy will show up, and you’ll be off with ’im.”

Rhapsody’s face lost its smile. “No, he won’t,” she said decisively. “He’s out of the picture now, Grunthor. And if he does come, I don’t want to see him anyway.” The Bolg looked at each other.

“Well, that’s refreshing,” said Achmed. “What do you need from us for the Council?”

“I have a list, actually. It mostly involves accommodations and security, no small task for a hundred thousand potential guests. There are some other things on it as well; I’ll go to my room and get it.” She hurried out of the Council room and away from their watchful gaze.

After she was gone the two continued to stare out the door after her.

“What ya think’s botherin’ ’er, sir?”

Achmed looked back at the fire. “I think she’s wrestling with her own internal demons now.”

Achmed rode with her as far as the Ylorc-Bethe Corbair border. They had shared a simple campfire supper and watched the stars come out in a sky that was darkening later at the approach of winter’s end. They sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Rhapsody stood and prepared to leave.

“Thank you. For supper, and for everything else.” Achmed nodded. Her eyes became a little brighter, and she took his hand. “Do you remember what you said to me the night before the coronation? About always being behind me?”

“Yes.”

Rhapsody smiled. “When I was standing in the basilica, before you came in, I could feel you there, even though the demon couldn’t.”

“I know.”

“It’s the only reason I didn’t turn and run right then.”

Achmed shook his head. “No, it’s not. But it doesn’t matter; it will always be the case.”

“I know.” She hoisted the saddlebag over the back of her horse, then turned to face him again. “Will you do something for me?”

“Of course.”

“I«ok in on Elysian while I’m gone. It’s been such a long time since I’ve been there. My gardens are undoubtedly all dead, but I just want to know that the house is still standing.”

Achmed slung the other satchel on as well. “All gardens die in the winter. It’s almost spring. Your plantings will make it through; the hard part is almost over.”

Rhapsody studied him as he packed his own horse. “Not necessarily,” she said. “Sometimes the frost kills.”

He came back over to her and took her hand. “Not when the garden is properly tended.”

She smiled at him again, then reached up and took his face in her hands. Gently she kissed him as she had in the street next to the basilica that night, allowing the warmth of her lips to linger on his for a moment. Then she stepped back and let her eyes wander over his face.

“I was afraid I would never get the chance to do that again,” she said softly.

“So was I,” he said. He walked with her to her horse and watched her mount. “Travel well.”

“Thank you. You stay well, my friend.” She blew him another kiss, then rode off into the inky blackness of the night, toward the light of the rising moon.

As he rowed across Elysian’s silent lake, Achmed muttered curses under his breath. He hated water. Only at Rhapsody’s request would he be down here, sculling this loathsome boat across the giant pond.

He missed the mooring repeatedly and finally gave up in disgust, jumping into the knee-deep water and wading to shore. The moment his feet touched dry land he knew something was wrong with Elysian; there was an unwelcome vibration in the air.

Ashe was here somewhere.

As if in confirmation the front door opened. After a few moments Ashe appeared in the doorway, unshaven and wild-eyed. The look of abject panic on his face was clear even from several hundred feet away. Achmed took his time, removing his sodden boots and pouring the lake water out. Then he waded back into the lake and pulled the uncooperative craft to shore.

“Where is she?” Ashe’s voice was right behind him.

“Yes, thanks, I certainly would like a hand,” Achmed said sarcastically. He tied the boat off and turned to face Llauron’s son.

His consummate dislike and lack of trust abated momentarily; he was looking into a face contorted by stark fear and unrelenting worry. He had in fact only seen Ashe’s face once or twice before, on the occasions of uncomfortable dinner parties here in Elysian the summer that the pest had been staying with Rhapsody. The air had been chokingly thick with tension as the two eyed each other suspiciously and exchanged barbs while Rhapsody went about serving the meal, pretending to be oblivious of it all.

Now his rival was at a disadvantage. He had obviously been waiting here for her to return; if he had been upworld anywhere he would have heard the news from Bethe Corbair about the benison. Panic had made his face look older than it had even when he was being hunted. Somewhere deep in his past Achmed remembered that feeling. It was hard to imagine that another, far worse, one existed, but clearly it did, and in that instant, for the first time in his memory, Achmed felt something that resembled compassion for the man whose presence he couldn’t abide.

“She’s alive,” he said, winding the rope and tossing it onto the beach. “She’s probably halfway to Tynan by this time.”

Relief broke over Ashe’s face, replaced a moment later by concern and another, more complex expression. “Was she injured?”

“No. You can stop worrying about her now.”

“Why did she go to Tyrian?”

Achmed met his eyes with a characteristic stare. “She lives there. Had no one told you?”

Ashe blinked uneasily. “Yes. No. I mean, I thought she would come here first. She lives here, too.”

Achmed nodded, and turned to survey the gardens of Elysian. As she had predicted, they had gone dormant, frost withering their leaves and buds even underground. “Then perhaps she had an inkling you might think that, and went to Tyrian to avoid you. She doesn’t want to see you, Ashe.” He watched as Ashe’s face flushed red.

“She said that?”

“Those very words.”

“I see.” Ashe turned away for a moment, running his hand through the implausibly copper hair. “Is that why you came? To tell me that?”

Achmed snorted. “Hardly. I am not your messenger. Rhapsody asked me to look in on the house and the gardens. She didn’t have any idea that you would be here. Had she, I probably wouldn’t have come.”

Ashe nodded. “Well, thank you at least for giving me the news. Is the benison dead?”

“Yes.”

“Good; that’s good.” He glanced around Elysian again; he looked as if he had no idea what to do next.

“Where will you go now, Ashe?”

Ashe turned around to face him again. A new calm had taken up residence on his face. “I’m not certain. Tyrian, probably.”

Achmed smirked. “You did hear me, didn’t you?”

“Yes. But that doesn’t mean I believe you, or want your advice.”

The Firbolg king chuckled. Being crossed made Rhapsody defiant, bordering on obstreperous; he wished he could see her face now, listening to this. “Suit yourself. I assume the house is in order?”

Ashe colored a bit. “It’s in order, if not orderly.”

“I see. Well, be sure to clean up before you leave. I’d hate to have her any angrier at you than she already is.”

Ashe’s face darkened. “No, you wouldn’t. You’d love to see us apart, wouldn’t you?”

Achmed shrugged. “You are apart, aren’t you? Ashe, go find something to do. We’ve killed your demon for you; she’s healed you and given you unbelievable power. You’re the Invoker and the Patriarch now, both of which were her doing. What else do you want? Find a life and go lead it. If you stay in Elysian much longer I will have to assess you for residence taxes.” He picked up his still-soggy boots and headed back to the boat.

“Taxes? Do you charge them of Rhapsody as well? What kind of an account are you keeping for her expenses, and how do you expect to be paid?”

Achmed stopped and turned, leveling a sour look at Ashe. “I would pretend you have the ability to understand, but why bother? You think you’re a dragon, Ashe, but you are really just a giant leech. You’re one to talk of payback. She has given you everything—what has she gotten in return? What have any of us seen as a return on our investment?

“Sooner or later you’ll see her at the Cymrian Council, something she again will be responsible for calling, despite the fact that it was your bloody family’s responsibility. When the arse-rags meet, you will undoubtedly be made Lord Cymrian, a role for which, I might add, you’re perfect. Being worse than your grandfather would take some doing, and I don’t think you have it in you. You aren’t a wastrel, just a waste. You have the power to be the largest rock in history—all you have to do is fall into the pond—but you can’t raise yourself to make the slightest ripple. Whatever your titles may be, don’t flatter yourself to presume that you are her equal. She will outlive you, Ashe. We will all outlive you, like a blighted crop or a bad neighbor. Go away. We’ve already had to purify this island once.” He turned and walked back to the boat.

Awareness dawned, and Ashe saw past the barbed insults to what the Firbolg king was really saying. “It was your way of being near her, coming here.”

Achmed kept walking, but slowed his pace. “To be near her, all I’d have had to do was go with her to Tyrian. Stop assuming that everyone has the same motives you do.”

“You miss her, and you came down here to be with her, in a way, didn’t you?”

“What you think has no bearing on anything, Ashe. Sooner or later you will figure that out.” Achmed tossed his boots into the boat as he approached it.

“You love her too, don’t you?” Ashe’s voice was mild, resonant with understanding.

Achmed stopped, but did not turn around. He was silent for several moments. When he spoke his voice was dry but contained none of his usual sarcasm.

“No, Ashe; you love her too. And do you want to hear something amusing? Killing the Rakshas? She still thinks I did it for you.” He climbed aboard the boat, fit the oars in the oarlocks, and rowed away out of sight.

By the time Ashe got to Tyrian, Rhapsody had already come and gone.