Destiny: Child of the Sky

20

Ashe caught the scent of the cinders first, stronger now, wafting on the wind from the west. Shrike had fallen into unconsciousness, his skin gray and dappled with cold sweat, his breathing shallow. He was clinging to life by the slightest of threads, and Ashe knew there were at least two leagues more to cover before he would reach the burning brands that had sent the cinders skyward.

His dragon sense expanded as he neared the inn where he would find Anborn. For a distance of five leagues in every direction, all aspects of information washed over him like an ocean wave, indiscriminate: the fluctuations in the heartbeat of his galloping mount, the varying weights of snow on each evergreen branch in the wide forest, the soot on the feathers of the snowwren that circled above him on a chilly updraft. Ashe swallowed and honed his concentration, willing the dragon in his blood to focus on what he sought.

He felt it instantly. A small inn, made from the rotting timber of the forest, slathered between post and beam with dried mud and mortar, a story and a half, joined by a staircase of questionable sturdiness. Thatched roof, and floor of matted thresh. Paint peeled from the sign in front of the establishment, which had once borne a fair depiction of a crowing rooster and nothing more. Eight firebrands—two recently lit, five half-spent, one on the verge of snuffing out—lighted the path in front of the inn; Ashe could tell the length of time they had been burning by the amount of melted snow he could sense pooled around their unburned bases.

Shrike groaned unconsciously as Ashe spurred the gelding onward. Four riders were approaching them, all from the northwest. He knew Anborn was aware of his presence as well, though doubtless did not know who he was; his hood was up, and the mist cloak shielded him still. He began shouting as soon as his dragon sense told him their ears could hear him, timing his call to coincide with the fading whine of the wind.

“Help! Help me! I have wounded!”

The riders, hearing his words above the howl, turned eastward in his direction and began to gallop as fast as the muddy forest path would allow. Ashe slowed his mount, wishing to be stationary when Anborn’s men arrived.

It seemed an eternity before they did, a mismatched group of soldiers clad in various types of armor, bearing the standard of no royal house. Ashe recognized three of the men, Knapp, Garth, and Solarrs; they had been Anborn’s compatriots for all the time Ashe had known his uncle. The Patriarch’s Ring of Wisdom that he wore on his right hand told him that, like Shrike, both Knapp and Solarrs were Cymrians of the First Generation. The fourth man he did not recognize.

“Hie, in the name of Anborn ap Gwylliam!” he called. The riders slowed their mounts. Each carried a heavy crossbow that was trained on him. “I have Shrike! He is wounded!”

Three riders reined their mounts to a halt, while Solarrs, Anborn’s head scout, rode forward cautiously. He lowered his crossbow; the others remained pointed at Ashe.

“Shrike?” Solarrs shouted.

“He’s dying,” Ashe shouted back into the wind. “Take me to Anborn if you value his life.”

“You’d best not be responsible for his injuries, if you value yours,” Solarrs replied. He turned and signaled to the others. Knapp and the man Ashe didn’t recognize waited while he and Solarrs passed, joined as they did by Garth. The other two brought up the rear, and the group made with all due haste toward the inn, whose glowing brands could now be seen by human eyes in the distance, blotted occasionally by the falling snow.

When the five horsemen arrived at the inn, Ashe reined to a halt and waited for the others to come and collect Shrike. Anborn’s men dismounted hastily; Solarrs and Knapp rushed to him, easing the dying Cymrian from his lap and carrying him gingerly toward the inn.

At their arrival the inn door slammed open, and the flickering light of a roaring fire spilled into the snowy darkness. Several more shadows ran into the frigid night, each sliding an arm or a hand under one of Shrike’s limbs or his torso, easing his transport.

The light from the doorway was snuffed a moment later as a shadow filled it, blocking the fire’s illumination. Ashe inhaled deeply.

Anborn.

The ancient warrior cast a back glance toward Ashe, his face lighted by the firebrand nearest the door. Anborn signaled brusquely for him to come into the inn, then turned his attention to Shrike as the soldiers carried the wounded man over the threshold.

Ashe dismounted and tossed the reins over the horse’s back, patting it gratefully on the flank. He looked up for a moment into the blackening sky; a storm was coming, though it would pass before dawn. He took a deep breath, allowing the clear air to fill his lungs, stinging his nose and throat with the burning cinders. When the noise of the soldiers had abated, he walked up the short path made of trodden snow and came into the inn.

The innkeeper looked nervously at him as he closed the door. They were alone in the inn’s common room; Anborn and the soldiers were nowhere to be seen. The man gestured anxiously toward the rickety staircase, above which two doors were visible, and Ashe nodded. He took off his sodden gloves and draped them over the fire iron to dry.

Finally the innkeeper cleared his throat. “Canna get ye some ale, sir?”

Ashe nodded, kicking the snow from his boots against the hearth as the steam from his mist cloak surrounded him. “Thank you.”

The innkeeper scurried away behind the staircase, returning a moment later with a battered tankard filled with a thin brew. Ashe accepted the mug and returned to the fire, where he drained it. He turned to hand it back to the innkeeper, but the man had vanished.

In his stead stood the Cymrian general, the Lord Marshal of Gwylliam’s ignominious army. Anborn’s face was blank, and he did not look directly at Ashe. Ashe bowed slightly.

“Lord Marshal.”

“I am such no longer.” Anborn crossed his arms. “What befell Shrike?” He sat down at a table near the staircase. A moment later three men came down the shuddering stairs; Anborn looked up questioningly, and one of them nodded. The man went back up the stairs while the other two joined Anborn at the table where tankards and a pitcher waited.

In the light of the hearth Ashe took a moment to look his uncle over with his eyes; it was always interesting to note the things his dragon sense had missed, or could not discern.

Anborn’s face had not changed noticeably since the last time Ashe had seen him, twenty or more years before. It was the face of a middle-aged man, though his muscular body was more suited to a man of late youth. His hair and beard, black as night, bore a few more silver streaks than Ashe remembered. He wore the same black mail shirt he always had, its dark rings interlaced with bands of gleaming silver, and beautifully crafted steel epaulets from which a heavy black cloak once hung. Ashe knew that the cloak was now upstairs, wrapped securely around Shrike’s body, giving him warmth. The general’s azure eyes gleamed ferociously in an otherwise nonchalant expression. He was staring at the fire.

“I found him at the edge of the Krevensfield Plain, dying,” Ashe said. He approached the table where the men sat and set the empty mug down. “He had been ambushed, along with his retinue, by soldiers of Sorbold.”

The men looked up, startled, at his words, and exchanged a glance, but Anborn merely nodded, his attention still on the fire.

“Why didn’t you take him to Sepulvarta or Bethe Corbair to be healed?” one of Anborn’s men asked. “You risked his life further traveling with him so far in such grave condition.”

“He asked to be brought to you. He was most insistent.”

Anborn nodded again. “You have my gratitude. If you know anything of me you know that’s a valuable thing to have.”

“Indeed.”

“If you need to call in the favor, remind any of my men of your rescue of Shrike, and they will seek to aid you.” The warrior rose from the chair, but Ashe did not move. After a few moments of silently standing still, impatience darkened Anborn’s countenance.

“Be off with you, then, man. I’ve wounded to tend to.”

“Very well.” Ashe retrieved his gloves from the fire iron, then went to the door and opened it. “I just thought that perhaps you might wish to ask my name.”

Anborn’s eyes, clear as the azure sky, grew suddenly dark. His gaze came to rest on Ashe for the first time. After a moment he motioned to his followers. “Leave us,” he said to the men at the table without breaking his gaze away. “Tend to Shrike.” Hurriedly the armsmen climbed the stairs and disappeared into the room at the top, the last one up closing the door resoundingly.

When the men were gone, Anborn allowed his glance to wander over the curtain of mist that shrouded Ashe from normal sight.

“Close the door,” he commanded. Ashe complied. “I dislike games of the mind and the men who play them,” the general muttered darkly. “I assumed you were trying to keep your identity hidden, and offered you the respect of allowing you to do so. It is rare that anyone toys with me, and even more than rare, it is unwise. Who are you?”

“Your nephew.”

Anborn snorted. “I have none such.”

Beneath his hood, Ashe smiled. “My name is Gwydion ap Llauron ap Gwylliam tuatha d’Anwynan o Manosse,” he said patiently. “But you may address me as ‘Useless,’ if you’d prefer; you generally did.”

Anborn’s sword was in his hand; the movement that put it there was invisible to Ashe’s eyes, though the dragon in his blood sensed it and could follow the arc of electric sparks the motion left hanging in the air.

“Reveal yourself.”

Carefully Ashe took the edge of his hood in hand. He pulled it back slowly, watching the reflection from his shining copper hair catch the firelight and reflect in Anborn’s widening eyes. Almost as quickly the azure eyes narrowed again, retaining the gleaming light. He did not sheathe his sword.

Ashe could feel the weight of Anborn’s gaze as it assessed his face, could feel the same dragon sense that ran in his own blood, tiny pinpricks of energy where Anborn’s inner nature made note of the changes in his nephew’s physiology. The examination lingered longest in his eyes, eyes that had taken on reptilian pupils since the last time his uncle had beheld him. He stood as still as he could, waiting for Anborn to finish, trying to ignore the panic his own dragon sense felt at the intrusion. Finally the ancient Cymrian warrior spoke.

“Your father has been claiming for twenty years that you were dead,” he said in a tone touched with menace. “My wife’s mourning dress for your funeral was encrusted with a king’s ransom of pearls to honor the tragic passing of the Heir Presumptive; the cost of the blasted thing damn near beggared me.”

“Sorry about that.”

“How woefully inadequate. I suppose your inadequacy should be no surprise. You are, after all, spawned of Llauron. What transformed you thus?”

Ashe shook off the sting of the slight. “That matters not. What does matter is that I am here, and though I choose not to be foolhardy, I will hide no more. Not from any man, nor any demon.”

“Cocksure as always. I guess even death, or its proximate, cannot change a reckless fool.” Finally Anborn sheathed his sword. He returned to the table, where he took up his tankard and downed the contents, then looked back at Ashe again. He refilled the mug.

“I’d be a little more wary than that if I were you, Gwydion. Your newly won wyrmdom will make you all the more savory a target than you were before.”

“It also makes me a more formidable one.”

Anborn laughed harshly and took another drink, but said nothing. Ashe stood by silently, waiting for his uncle to speak again. Finally Anborn gestured at the door.

“Well, then, what keeps you? Be off.”

Ashe was taken aback, but gave no outward sign of it. He watched Anborn’s gaze grow in fierce intensity as he wiped the ale roughly from his lips with the back of his forearm. The air in the room became warmer, drier, with an undertone of threat.

“Did you want something else?” Anborn demanded.

“I thought perhaps we could put aside old enmities and talk.”

“Why?” Anborn slammed the empty tankard down. “I have nothing to say to you, whelp of my once-brother. Why would I waste another moment in fruitless conversation when my supper’s growing cold, my man-at-arms needs looking in on, and there’s a bedwench upstairs, awaiting my attention?”

Ashe took hold of the door cord. “I can’t imagine.” He pulled his hood back up.

Anborn’s eyebrows drew together as his nephew opened the door. He reached hurriedly into his pocket and drew forth a small cloth sack, which he tossed at Ashe’s feet.

“There. That should pay you for your trouble.”

With a sweep of his foot Ashe kicked it back to him. The air in the room hissed on the verge of cracking.

“Keep it. Your offer of it disappoints me.”

Anborn laughed menacingly. “Not enough? I’d forgotten you would know the contents of the sack, down to the last coin, with your inner sense. Name your price, then, so that I may be rid of you.”

Ashe struggled to keep his voice calm, though the jeering tone had enflamed the dragon, and its wrath pounded behind his eyes. “You may be rid of me by the mere request of it. Not precisely the warm family reunion I had pictured, but I will depart if that is what you wish, Uncle.”

“What did you expect, Gwydion—a lawn fête held in your honor? You and your accursed father have been lying to me for a score of years.” The general drained the tankard.

“It was necessary.”

“That may be. Further contact with you, however, is not. The truth be told, nephew, while I bear you no enmity, I felt little sorrow at the loss of you. Your return may bring joy to your confederates, to Navarne, to your mother’s House in Manosse, but to me it means nothing. I couldn’t care less what happens to you now. I am in your debt for the return of my man-at-arms. If you have a boon to ask, do so, and I will grant it if I can. Other than that, I have no need of your company. Be on your way.”

Ashe pulled up his hood. “As you wish, Uncle,” he said simply. “You deserved to know the truth about me, and now you do. Goodbye.” He opened the door and disappeared into the snowy mist.

Anborn waited until he could no longer hear the hoofbeats of Gwydion’s horse, then took another long draught from the tankard. He watched silently as the fire burned down to coals, snapping and hissing in impotent fury. Then he rose slowly, wiped the ale from his lips, and made his way up the rickety staircase to the room above.

In the pale light of a rusty lantern his men stood around the hay mattress, quietly tending to his armsman and friend. Shrike’s tattered eyes opened when Anborn came to the foot of his bed, darting quickly from man to man until their gaze came to rest on the general. He winced in pain as he turned to his fellow armsmen.

“Leave us,” Shrike said, his voice a ragged whisper.

The armsmen looked questioningly to Anborn, and he nodded silently. They quickly gathered the basin and the bloody cloths that had served as bandages, and quietly left the room.

The general took a clean cloth and soaked it in the water of the pitcher on the floor. He crouched down beside Shrike’s bed and gently wiped the dried blood from his eyes. Shrike turned, and fixed his failing gaze on his commander.

“Thank the gods I lived to see you again,” he said haltingly.

“Indeed I shall,” Anborn replied, smiling slightly.

“Get—the—cutlass.”

“Later,” Anborn said. “Rest now.”

“Bugger later,” Shrike scowled. “It may never come. This may be the last time I can show you, m’lord—Anborn. Would you pass up that opportunity?”

Anborn fell silent for a moment as he dabbed the cool cloth on the wounded man’s gray face.

“No,” he finally admitted, reluctance in his voice.

“Get it, then.”

Anborn rose wearily and strode to the corner where Shrike’s belongings had been hastily tossed. He searched quickly and found the battered cutlass; he held it for a moment before bringing it back to the bedside.

“This can wait until you’re stronger,” he said to Shrike, who scowled again.

“Void take you. Look into the lantern.”

Anborn reached out a hand that trembled visibly, and plucked the tarnished lantern from the bedside table. He held it up before his eyes.

Shrike watched as those azure eyes, the hallmark of Cymrian royalty, began to shine. He lay back against the hay pillow and closed his own, breathing raggedly.