Destiny: Child of the Sky

19

The night seemed to grow darker around the small fire. Shrike’s eyes gleamed more brightly; it was as if he had drawn the light out of the air into himself, and now sat, staring into the flames, lost in thought.

Ashe waited silently, observing him closely. Though the ancient man’s damaged eyes had taken on new life, his skin was growing grayer. The dragon in his blood could feel Shrike’s body waning, his life ebbing away slowly, even as his soul grew stronger in the fire’s light.

Finally, when the wind had died down and the night had become silent enough that the snow itself could be heard falling in soft whispers on the frozen ground, Shrike spoke.

“My sword,” he said quietly. “Is it still here?”

Ashe rose and went to the gelding, standing twenty paces away in a copse of trees, blanketed against the snow. He unbound the curved scabbard from the saddlebag and brought it back to Shrike, putting it carefully into his hands. The old man’s heart beat stronger as he touched it.

“Thank the gods,” he murmured. With great effort he eased the weapon from its sheath and held it up before his eyes. It was an ancient blade of modest manufacture and without ornamentation, old and battered as its bearer. Ashe recognized the curve of it; it was a sailor’s cutlass, shortened in the same manner as the swords from the Cymrian ships that lay in the dusty display cases of Stephen’s museum.

Shrike watched the fire’s reflection in the dark steel a moment longer, then turned back to Ashe.

“Listen closely, son of Llauron, and I will repay your kindness.

“I met your grandsire, King Gwylliam, on the—day—the last ship of the Third Fleet set sail. I was a hand on the Serelinda, the vessel which—carried the king away from the Island for the last time.” Shrike leaned against the rotten trunk and closed his eyes, exerted by the effort of the speech.

“Rest, Grandfather,” said Ashe gently. “I’m certain there will be at least a moment to talk once we reach lodging and patch you up a bit. Surely Anborn won’t throw me out right away; you can tell me your story when you are feeling better.”

Shrike’s eyes snapped open, blazing with intense fire. “You’re a bigger fool than I thought, Gwydion ap Llauron,” he muttered. “What know you of moments?” He struggled to sit up taller and glared at Ashe. “I am the Lord of the Last Moment, the Guardian of That Which None Shall See Again, so—named—by your own grandsire. Are you saying that there is none such in your own past? Nothing you would—give your very soul to see again, just once?”

Ashe’s strange blue eyes blinked in shock at the harsh response. “No,” he said after a moment, “I would certainly not say that. There are any number of things I can think of that I would give a great deal to change if I could.” He looked away from the fire and out into the darkness, broken only by the ebb and flow of waves of crystalline snow.

Shrike snorted contemptuously. “I said nothing of change,” he muttered, breathing more heavily. “I cannot alter Time for you, Lord Gwydion, any more than I could for your grandsire.” He leaned back on one elbow, and brushed the snow from his head. “Now, do you wish to hear my tale or not?”

“Forgive my rudeness. I am listening.”

The old man exhaled deeply, and drew in a ragged breath. He tilted the sword to reflect the firelight again, then looked off into the sky above him, his eyes looking past the falling snow to another night, another sky.

“Your grandsire was a man given to changeable moods, Lord Gwydion,” he said finally. “Even before he had his vision foretelling the destruction of Serendair, the sailors told stories of his famous temper, his ready laugh that could turn to fury or despair in a heartbeat, then back again a moment later. Given that he was about to lose his birthright, and all that set him apart from any other mortal man, ’twas not surprising that he was in the clutches of a thick gloom the day we set sail, leaving the Island behind forever.” Shrike paused, and Ashe handed him the waterskin, from which he took a deep drink. Shrike capped it and handed it back, finally looking at his listener again.

“The seas were boiling, the fire beneath them raging, in the heat building from the Sleeping Child,” he said, his eyes darkening in memory. “We were sore afraid that we would not make it out in time, all but His Majesty, who only leaned despondently on the stern rail and watched morosely as we pulled out of port for the last time, the Serelinda pitching fore and aft like a cork on the sea. ’Twas a miracle we were not torn apart in the crosscurrent.” Ashe, a sailor himself, nodded.

“No one dared beckon the king away from the rail, though there was word passed among the crew that his retinue feared he might go over the side. His greatest friend, Lord Hague, remained ever at his side, talking with him, keeping him tranquil; there never was a man with more of a gift for calming your grandsire than he, Gwydion.”

Ashe smiled and nodded silently. Hague had been a direct ancestor of Stephen Navarne, his best friend in life when life was still his own. Perhaps more than blue eyes ran in Cymrian royal families.

He took in breath as silently as he could so as not to distract the ancient Cymrian from his tale; Shrike’s breathing had grown stronger, his lapses between words less frequent, as if the tale, and the memory it told, was sustaining him. There was a power in his voice that filled Ashe with awe, as if he was hearing history relate itself.

“As we neared the rim of the horizon, the king became even more anxious, pacing the deck and wringing his hands. He kept his eyes to the south, watching the Island ebb and return with the fallowing of the ship, panicking each time he thought it was gone from his sight forever. Even its return a moment later did not seem to calm him. ’Twas painful to watch.

“Finally, when he lost sight of it, with no return on the upwave, he grew hysterical. Madness was in his eyes, Gwydion. A score of sailors and noblemen hovered nearby, awaiting his pitch, for surely it was coming. Hague rested his hand on the king’s shoulder, and Gwylliam collapsed in despair.

“I was a lookout in those days. These eyes were once sharp enough to pick out a tern in the sun a hundred leagues away; they’re still a damned sight finer than most men’s, I can assure you. I was standing watch in the crow’s nest, and it was from there that I watched all the carryings-on.

“Gwylliam was moaning like a man on his deathbed, ranting at Lord Hague. ‘I’ve had my last sight of it, Hague; it’s gone, gone forever now. What I would give to see it just once more, Hague, just once more!’ Sad it is, to see a man suffer the death of all he has been, had ever hoped to be. Couldn’t watch it; I had to look away, and as I did, I caught the sight of Balatron’s highest peak, on the north side of that purple mountain range, gleaming in the rays of the setting sun.

“I called down to your grandsire, Gwydion, shouted the bearings for him to see it again. The first mate handed him a spyglass, and evidently the king was able to sight it, too, for he grew most excited and joyful, rising out of that pit of hopelessness like a seagull on an updraft.

“He stared into the distance a good long time, becoming contemplative again, and when at last he lowered the spyglass he looked up to the crow’s nest. His bright blue eyes sighted on me, and he called from the deck, ‘Ho, my fine man, come down so that I may thank you!’ And when your king calls you so, you scurry down with all due haste.” Shrike chuckled, lost in the pleasant memory, and Ashe smiled. He could almost feel the salt spray, smell the scent of the waves, hear the creak of the decks, watching the excitement in the old man’s eyes.

“When I reached the deck the king was smiling again, something I had not seen since he boarded, had never seen, in fact, since I had not had occasion to meet him, or even see him before. I confess his first words to me gave me pause—‘Have you a sword, my good man?’ Given his wild swings of mood and temper, I was fearful for a moment that my life was in danger, that he was somehow angry with me. Nonetheless, I surrendered my cutlass to him, as one does when the king commands.

“He asked my name, and I give it to him. ‘Kneel, Shrike,’ he says, and I prepared for my beheading. Imagine my surprise when instead he taps me lightly on both shoulders, and dubs me ‘the Lord of the Last Moment, the Guardian of That Which None Shall See Again,’ with his thanks. Coulda knocked me over with a breath, lad.”

“I can imagine,” Ashe said, chuckling. He shook the accumulation of snow from his cloak.

Shrike’s face lost its smile. “I believe when he said it he was making jest, Lord Gwydion. But it was a strange moment, not just because of his own unpredictable mood, but because of the time we were caught up in. We were at the end of an age, the last age of the first place where Time began, being flung about on a boiling sea beneath which a star was rising. And even if all that weren’t the case, a king’s word is a strange and powerful thing. At the time it was said in jest, but later I came to realize that an oath, no matter how it is given, has the ability to command Destiny.”

Ashe’s face lost its smile. He thought back to all the times when Rhapsody had patiently explained to him the need for a Namer to speak only the truth, to be wary of what was said, even in jest, because words could become reality.

Shrike began to wheeze again. “The long and the short of it is that I am, in fact, Lord of the Last Moment, Lord Gwydion, the guardian of—that which none will ever see again. I found over the years that I could show your grandsire that momentary glimpse of our homeland again, and again, because he had given me the power to do so. It gave him great solace in his darkest times.” He pulled the blanket closer to his neck, his hands trembling. “Your grandmother, now, she didn’t appreciate my doing so. She felt only she should be able to look back into the Past, that being her domain.”

“I’m not surprised,” Ashe said dryly. “Anwyn is a dragon; she believes everything on Earth is hers exclusively.”

“She learned otherwise.”

“At incalculable expense,” Ashe muttered, then stopped as he saw the pain on Shrike’s face. “Forgive me, Grandfather. I’m certain your efforts brought Gwylliam great comfort, and I am glad you were able to give him sight into his lost moment.”

Shrike gave in to a racking cough, then turned his tattered eyes once on Ashe. “And I can do so with you as well. Now, do you still wish to wait until I have been returned to Anborn?”

“If you can show me the last sight of Serendair, it would be most interesting,” Ashe said. “But I would not risk your health further for such a vision.”

“Your last moment, you idiot,” Shrike growled. “Something lost to you, that you have seen, that none will ever see again. Do you have such a moment in your memory?”

Ashe sat up straighter in the fire’s light. Silence reigned for a time in the hidden woodland camp, broken intermittently by Shrike’s heavy breath and coughing. When Ashe spoke again, his voice was soft.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I believe I do.”

Shrike nodded, then gestured weakly toward the low-burning fire. “Then move me nearer, lad.”

Ashe rose, setting his waterskin down on the frozen ground. He slid his forearms gently beneath Shrike’s arms, and carefully pushed him closer to the burning coals. Shrike grunted his approval when he was near enough, and Ashe returned to the log on which he had been sitting, watching the old man intently.

With great effort the ancient Cymrian raised his battered cutlass and held it so that it reflected the firelight.

“Look into the fire, Gwydion ap Llauron ap Gwylliam tuatha d’Anwynan o Manosse.”

Quickly Ashe’s outstretched hand shot out. “Wait, Grandfather; if you are to show me something in the fire, desist. I’ll forgo the sight.”

“Why?”

Ashe laughed bitterly. “Suffice to say that I don’t trust the element. I would not wish any memory of mine to be visible to its denizens.”

Shrike coughed deeply, then shuddered. “I cannot show you the Past without reflecting it to you in one of the Five Gifts, the primordial elements. In their power alone can something as fleeting as old—memory be held for a moment. We are nowhere near the sea; the stars are hidden by the snow, and the Earth—sleeps now. Fire is the only element readily handy.”

“What about a pond? Could you show it to me in such a surface?”

Shrike shook his head. “Yes, but it’s winter. Any pond would be frozen; it would distort an already hazy image too greatly.”

Ashe stood and drew his sword. Kirsdarke came forth from its sheath, the elemental water of its blade rippling like the waves of the sea. In the blue light that filled the small glade Shrike’s eyes grew wide.

“Kirsdarke,” he whispered. “Small wonder you were able to survive alone, eluding whatever was hunting you all this time.”

“Indeed.” With a smooth sweep, Ashe drew a circle in the burnt, frozen grass of the fire ring. The campfire snuffed instantly as clouds of billowing steam rose, folding in upon themselves in the moisture-heavy air, then dissipated into a wide, thin fog that hung low to the ground. Where the fire had been was a small puddle of clear water, deep and rippleless.

“Will this do?”

Shrike nodded, still watching the vapor as the wind took it, blending it into the falling snow. He turned and stared into the newly made pond.

“Very well, we’ll try again. Look into the water, Gwydion ap Llauron ap Gwylliam tuatha d’Anwynan o Manosse.”

Ashe sheathed the water sword smoothly, extinguishing the light in the glade. He bent over the pond and stared into its darkness, snowflakes falling lightly on its surface.

For a long time he saw nothing but the all-encompassing blackness of the water, reflecting the dark sky. He shook his head, and was about to look back at Shrike when a flicker of movement in the pond caught his eye.

He could see that what a moment before had been the white mantle of falling snow now was the reflection of moonlight, diffuse and hazy in the heat of a long-ago summer. Its radiance pooled in the flax-colored hair of a young woman, still a child, really, who had sat next to him on a summer hillside, in the sweet darkness of a summer night. The flicker of movement had been the blink of her eye, wide with wonder, shining with a light brighter than the moon. She smiled at him in the dark, and Ashe could feel his knees weaken now, as they had so long ago.

Sam?

Tes? he murmured now, as he had then. His light baritone sounded much younger to his ears, filled with anxious excitement, on the verge of cracking.

Do you think we might see the ocean? Someday, I mean.

He remembered feeling that he could have truthfully promised her anything she asked of him. Of course. We can even live there if you want. Haven’t you ever seen it?

I’ve never left the farmlands, Sam, never in my whole life. I’ve always longed to see the ocean, though. My grandfather is a sailor, and all my life he has promised me that he would take me to sea one day. Until recently I believed it. But I’ve seen his ship.

How can that be, if you’ve never seen the sea?

She had looked so wise, so sensible as she smiled at him on this, the eve of her fourteenth birthday. Well, when he’s in port, it’s actually very tiny—about as big as my hand. And he keeps it on his mantel, in a bottle.

Ashe choked on the knot that had formed in his throat, fighting back the stinging at the edge of his eyes. Rhapsody had been so beautiful then. Her face did not bear the awe-inspiring magnificence that she now kept covered with a hood, but rather the simple, dewy innocence of the spirited young girl that she was, the girl her family had called Emily. He never had the chance to see her in daylight; whatever Fate had thrown him back in Time had only allowed him one night with her, one blissful night in the hilly farmlands of Serendair where she had been born, more than thirteen centuries before his own birth.

The moment Shrike had shown him had been the moment when he had come to realize who she really was, and why Time had been altered so; she was the other half of his soul, born a world and many lifetimes away, but possessing a magic so strong that it could defy time and distance to bring them together.

Ashe’s stomach turned violently as the irony clutched at him. They had spent those few moments together, only to be separated by events and trials of gruesome proportion. Fate, more cruel than kind, had brought them together for a second time, and they had fallen in love once more, only to be separated yet again.

This time, however, the one that had robbed them of the chance to be together had been Ashe himself.

The pain was becoming too much to bear; Ashe’s breathing was labored. The image in the newly formed pool was beginning to fade. He whispered what he had said to her one more time as it blurred into the reflected moonlight and disappeared.

“You are the most wonderful girl in the world.”

The only answer was the whine of the winter wind. Ashe looked up, his eyes sore with unspent tears.

Shrike lay beneath the camp blanket in the dark, breathing shallowly. Ashe’s dragon sense warned him immediately that the ancient man had taken a bad turn and was struggling to hold on to life once more. He stood quickly and drew the blanket tightly around Shrike, then lifted him off the ground and carried him to the horse.

“No fear, Grandfather; we are almost to Anborn,” he said as he mounted behind Shrike’s hunched body. “Lean on me and rest. We will be there very soon, and you will find solace of your own.”

Shrike could only nod, then collapsed in a fit of labored coughing. Ashe spurred the gelding onward, following the vibrations he had caught of Anborn in the distance.

“Thank you for showing me,” he said softly.

Shrike did not hear him.