Destiny: Child of the Sky

45

Four street corners east from the northern district’s secondary well, then eleven streets south. Rhapsody counted silently as she followed the pattern of foot and cart traffic, keeping her head down and the large cloth bag tucked carefully over her arm, taking care not to drag it in the icy filth of the city’s cobbled streets. Her breath, warm from her pace and the anxiety that swirled in the air around her, formed thin clouds of white mist that caught the wind and vanished with each inhalation, each hurried step.

In the height of summer, during their days as lovers, Ashe had given her specific directions to a number of safe places hidden within various cities and towns across the land, garrets and cellars and storerooms he employed in need. Each direction had come with the warning that these places were inconsistent in their status; most of his time was spent traveling overland, and it was very rare that he ventured into a city or town, so much time elapsed between his visits. The rooms, he told her, might not be safe the next time they were visited; there was but one, the turf hut hidden behind a waterfall in northern Gwynwood, that he felt certain would be secure at all times. He had urged her to make use of these safe havens nonetheless. There was one somewhere here in Bethany where they had agreed to meet before, and perhaps after the wedding, if she could only find it.

At the eighth street heading south she noticed a decrease in the traffic around her, and stopped to take a better look. Rising above her in the near distance were three enormous towers, each topped by a vast cistern that col lected rainwater for the town’s use. The rainwater from the cisterns irrigated the public gardens, fed the ancient Cymrian aqueduct and sewer system, and supplied water to the palace and basilica. The streets that surrounded the towers were lined with smaller stone cisterns and tanks for storing the rainwater, as well as barracks for the workers who maintained the water system and the soldiers that defended it. Each tower had a guard post for the soldiers who stood watch at the cisterns night and day to prevent the royal water supply from being poisoned.

Rhapsody followed the seemingly endless wall of curving stone for three more streets until she came to the spot where the door should be, if she remembered Ashe’s directions correctly. She looked around furtively, and, seeing no one near, darted quickly down a side alley that ended in a stone wall covered with thick thorny growth, as were all the outer walls of the water system.

The evergreen vegetation, known to the Filids of Gwynwood as under-thorn, was a popular defense employed across the western part of the continent, a natural barrier with serrated spines that grew in double rows and delivered tremendously painful wounds that continued to bleed long after they should have healed. Rhapsody had studied underthorn with both Llauron and Lark, the Invoker’s shy Lirin herbalist, during her time with him in Gwynwood, and therefore knew its dangers. She also knew how to circumvent them, both with the techniques she had learned in Gwynwood and her own

Namer abilities.

She cast another glance around as the sound of a horse-drawn coach clattered up the alleyway and passed by. Good, she noted. The carriage routes were not far; it would be easy to hire a coach to get to the wedding. Once the sound had died away she turned back to the thorny wall and slid her hand under the first shaggy layer from the bottom, away from the direction in which the thorns grew.

Verlyss, she sang softly, speaking the plant’s true name. She could feel the musical vibration of the rough bark, the spiked thorns, in the air around her as the vegetation attuned itself to the call.

Evenee, she said. Velvet moss.

The savage thorns that rested against the skin on the back of her hand softened, became slippery and harmless, tender as the green lichen that covered fallen trees in springtime. Gently she pulled the tapestry of vegetation aside. Behind it was a stone door without a handle, as Ashe had said there would be.

She felt around the edges of the door until she found an indentation to use as a handhold, and pulled. The door opened silently and she stepped quickly inside, closing it behind her again.

She was in a small, dark room that had once been part of a street-level cistern in Cymrian times, perhaps a caretaker’s dwelling, long since forgotten behind the wall of swordlike thorns. A tiny recessed grate served as a window, letting light but no sound into the room.

Rhapsody fumbled in her pack for a candle. Upon finding one she willed it to light; as the flame sparked she felt a pleasant surge from her inner fire, connecting momentarily to the elemental bond within her. She held up the candle and looked around.

The room contained a bed, a chest of drawers, and a doorless closet. A threadbare armchair, much like the one in Ashe’s room behind the waterfall, stood by the window next to a small table on which a lantern sat. The room was remarkably free from mildew and comfortably dry, though cold. All around, on the floor and the chest of drawers, were large beeswax candles.

Rhapsody went to the doorless alcove and hung up the cloth bag that contained her dress for the wedding, put her pack atop the chest of drawers, then set about lighting the beeswax candles from the taper in her hand. She sat down on the bed, watching the wicks catch more thoroughly, and the light grow brighter. As she settled back to wait for Ashe, she smiled as she heard her mother’s voice.

Even the simplest house is a, palace in candlelight.

Rhapsody closed her eyes and sought her mother’s face in her mind. It appeared, smiling in return.

“Thank you, m’Lord and Lady Rowan,” she whispered. “Thank you for giving her back to me.”

In the balcony of the upstairs ballroom at Tannen Hall, the royal residence where the wedding guests were being housed, Llauron crossed his arms and inhaled the frosty wind that was turning even colder with the coming of night. He scanned the sky in the west, watching the clouds winding in hazy gold spirals as they chased the sun beyond the rim of the horizon. How beautiful, the Invoker thought, running his hands absently over his arms for warmth. Soon I will know firsthand what it is like to be part of that beauty.

The evenstar appeared in the sky, glittering brightly in the darkening firmament. As if waiting for the lead to be taken, one by one the rest of the stars began to shine, winking with cold, burning brightly, eternally. Tears stung the edges of Llauron’s aged blue eyes.

I come, my brothers, he whispered into the wind, come.

The balcony door opened; Llauron turned away from the dark beauty of the night, back toward the light and merriment within the royal hall. A servant stood, silhouetted against the bright backdrop of moving shapes and laughter.

“Is everything all right, Your Grace? Can I assist you in anything?”

The Invoker smiled.

“No, thank you, my son,” he said, walking slowly back toward the door. “I was just making a wish on the evenstar that all goes well tomorrow.”