Destiny: Child of the Sky

49

Seeing the landmarks on the Cymrian Trail with Llauron was like seeing them for the first time. That they were on horseback this time was part of the difference; Llauron had loaned her a dappled gray gelding, keeping his prized white Madarian for himself. Rhapsody had smiled when she saw the elderly man mount; Anwyn’s sons appreciated fine horseflesh. Anborn’s black charger was among the most beautiful she had ever seen. Llauron’s steed was almost as impressive.

They had gone first to check on the House of Remembrance, finding it in ruins, nothing but the shell of the frame remaining. Rhapsody’s heart had constricted when she saw it. She thought of the marvelous library, and the significance of the outpost historically, that had caused her to take the time to extinguish the fire that had ignited in battle when they first visited the House. The raging fireball that had destroyed the demon-vine which had invaded Ylorc in search of the Earthchild had destroyed the House of Remembrance as well. At least the grisly scene of sacrificial horror had been purged, leaving nothing but blackened timber and ash.

She looked with concern at Llauron, whose family heritage had been so much a part of the outpost, but the old gentleman seemed quite calm. He crouched down and ran a hand through a nearby pile of gray cinders and black ash which contained the scorched remnants of what had once been leather book bindings, sifting the debris through his fingers. After a moment’s reflection he looked up at her and smiled slightly.

“Pity, isn’t it? It was once such a marvelous museum.” Llauron tossed the ashes back to the ground and stood, wiping his hands on his gray robes. “Ah, well, now that the next Cymrian Age is in the offing, we will need to build new outposts, new museums, won’t we, my dear?”

Rhapsody smiled at him. “I suppose.”

Llauron’s face grew serious as they traversed the charred cobblestones lining the remains of the courtyard to its center, where the tall sapling of Sagia, the Oak of Deep Roots on Serendair, still grew, healthy and vibrant among the destruction. “You know, Rhapsody, it is within your grasp to leave this land as great a bequest as ever has been given it. That’s a tremendous opportunity for a peasant of common birth; it is the chance to affect history as none but the Lords of the Cymrians themselves did.”

Rhapsody swallowed the sarcastic comment that rose to her lips. “And what opportunity would that be, Llauron?”

The ever-present twinkle in Llauron’s blue eyes disappeared. “Protect the tree.”

Rhapsody glanced at the young Sagian oak, remembering how diseased and dead it looked when she had first beheld it so long ago. Llauron himself had given her the salve which she had used to bring about its healing, anointing its polluted roots and protecting it with a song of healing. Its gleaming branches now towered above her head, white wooden arms outstretched to the clear winter sky, laden with bright blossoms. She smiled and pointed to the small shepherd’s harp that was nestled in the lowest crotch of the trunk, playing its repetitive roundelay. “I believe I already have,” she said.

The Invoker’s smile returned. “I’m sorry, my dear, I misspoke. Of course you have cast your mantle of protection on this tree. It was the Great White Tree to which I referred.”

She shook her head in surprise. “The Great White Tree?”

“Yes.”

A sudden blast of winter wind blew through, rippling her cloak and making her arms shudder with the chill. “I don’t understand, Llauron. Do you not protect the Tree yourself, as Invoker?”

“I do.” The old gentleman’s voice grew soft and deepened, as it had back in the days when he was instructing her in history or woods lore. “And I will continue to do so until the end of my days. But it seems to me, my dear, that your ministrations have been able to impart a special protection to this young sapling that even the Great White Tree does not enjoy—a protection from the ravages of fire.”

He smiled as he stretched out an arm in a panoramic sweep. “Look about you. Centuries of history, both building and contents, reduced to nothing more than soot and embers in a matter of moments—and yet the tree still stands, unblemished, not even a scorch mark or stain. Quite remarkable, really, and quite unprecedented. In the various conflicts of the Cymrian War, and in many terrible thunderstorms over the years, the Great White Tree has been greatly damaged, once almost burned to its destruction in the Battle of the Outer Circle. Even I, as its sworn guardian, cannot protect it thus.” His eyes glittered.

“But you, my dear, you seem to be able to rebuke fire itself, to deny it claim on those things which you protect—that you love. I have watched you for a long time, Rhapsody, watched as fire responded to your every move. I’ve seen how it leaps to greet you when you pass, settles into a low, steady burn at your command. It is a great gift, and doubtless it rests in the best of hands. Now, I ask only for one boon, as your old mentor—that you grant this protection to the holiest entity on the continent: the Tree itself. It is the marker of the last of the five places where Time began—what could be more important?”

“Llauron—”

“Rhapsody, you do remember the legends of the Island of Serendair that I told you when you studied with me, do you not?”

Her throat went dry. “Yes.”

“That was once a place of deep magic, Rhapsody, the homeland of many enchanted beings, a place where ancient power was heavy in the air. The world now is a much more ordinary place since the Island’s death—do you know why?”

Rhapsody had her own reasons, but merely shook her head.

“It was the loss of the Tree, my dear, the great Oak of Deep Roots, Sagia. Sagia’s death took with it much of the magic of the world. Each of the great trees—there were five of them, legend has it—grew at one of the five birthplaces of Time, where one of the five elements had its beginning. Sagia grew at the place where ether was born, where starlight first touched the Earth. Ether was the first of all the elements to be born, and its magic was the strongest. Sagia sank beneath the waves when Serendair was destroyed. The loss the world suffered when the Island was consumed in the fire of the Sleeping Child is incalculable.” Llauron began to wheeze suddenly, then erupted into a fit of hacking coughs. Rhapsody put her hand out to him, but he waved her away, intent on- his tale.

“The Great White Oak grows at the last of the birthplaces of Time, where the element of earth was born; it protects the Earth, keeping its magic alive. Imagine what kind of place the world would be if we were to lose it, too? Surely life would become so colorless, so meaningless, that it would scarcely be worth living. You, of all people, a Canwr, a Namer, would hardly wish to see anything so disastrous come about, would you?”

Rhapsody hid a smile at the dramatic ending of Llauron’s discourse. “No, of course not.”

“Excellent. Now, my dear, favor me thus, please. Promise me that upon our return to my keep in Gwynwood you will work whatever charm you did upon this young sapling on the Great White Tree as well. As a gift to your humble admirer.”

Rhapsody swallowed but said nothing. The fire that had destroyed the House of Remembrance had been, in a way, her doing; it was the means she and the Bolg had utilized to destroy the demon-vine that once grew from the sapling’s roots. It could have destroyed the tree as well; she was not certain what had prevented it. Still, Llauron seemed so intent, desperate even, to obtain similar protection for the holy oak he guarded that it seemed little enough to promise.

“All right, I will try,” she said, smiling and adjusting the Invoker’s cloak where it had fallen from his shoulder. “You, in return, must endeavor to be more careful with your health, Llauron. Leaving your neck exposed to the elements like this is tempting frostbite, and you could take cold.”

“Let us strike a bargain, then,” Llauron said merrily. “I shall put on my hat and gloves, and keep my neck well swathed, if you agree to work whatever rite of protection on the Great White Tree that you did dn this young sapling to spare it from the destruction of fire. Then the scales will be balanced. Agreed?” He put out his hand.

-

Rhapsody looked at him strangely. The expression of scales balancing was one she had primarily heard used in Sorbold; perhaps it had farther-reaching influence that she had realized. In the back of her mind she heard the terrifying chant begin again, low and thunderous: Tovvrik, Tovvrik, Tovvrik. She shuddered involuntarily and looked up into Llauron’s expectant face; there was something about the way his eyes glinted in the winter light that unsettled her, but his request seemed reasonable enough. She pondered a moment longer, then took his hand and shook it.

“Agreed. However, I had not planned to return to the Circle with you, Llauron,” she said. “I really need to be heading back to Ylorc soon. But I believe I might be able to do it from here, through the roots of the sapling. They intertwine with those of the Great White Tree, or so Grunthor said.”

“How wonderful,” Llauron said. He walked briskly to the horse and opened the left-flank saddlebag, removing from its depths a pair of gloves, a hat, and a scarf, all made of soft, undyed wool.

Rhapsody glanced around at the ruin of the House of Remembrance, trying to dispel the deep chill that had settled on her like snowfall. She waited until Llauron returned, more warmly dressed, then went to the foot of the sapling.

“Do you know the Great White Tree’s true name?” she asked.

Llauron looked down into her face. He watched her seriously for a moment, then shook his head.

“I’m afraid not,” he said reluctantly. “Will that prevent you from working your magic on the Tree?”

Rhapsody exhaled. “I don’t know. I don’t think so—I know a few of the names that the Filids and the Lirin call it—but it would be better to know its true name.”

“Alas,” Llauron said. “I suppose we will just have to make do, then. Go ahead, my dear. I’ll try to be as quiet as possible.”

She stared up into its smooth white branches, dancing in the winter breeze, the bright blossoms rustling under the clear sky, then closed her eyes and listened to the song of the wind singing harmony with the tree’s own melody. It was the same sound she had heard within the Earth as she and the two Bolg traveled along the roots of Sagia, this tree’s mother, a rich sound, full of wisdom and power, a melody that moved slowly, changing tones infinitesimally, unhurried by the need to keep pace with anything, though younger, brighter, than it had been below ground, blending with the music of the sky that surrounded it.

Gently she rested her hand on the sapling’s trunk, then attuned herself to the pitch .and began to sing, calling to each of the primordial elements save for the one from which she wished to protect the tree, knowing that those elements held the power of all magic within them.

Green Earth below thy roots, guard thee Wide Sky above thy branches, shelter thee Cool wind buffer thee, Rain fall down upon thee, Fire shall not harm thee.

After a few moments Rhapsody could feel the song moving through the young tree’s trunk and out through its branches, down to the very blossoms that graced its twigs. Like sap she sensed it traveling through the tree and into the ground along its roots. Slowly she chanted some of the names she had heard the Filids call the Great White Tree, hoping to direct the song to it.

Signpost of the Beginning, live Mother of the Forest, flourish Temple of Songbirds, sustain, Fire shall not harm thee.

An infinitesimal harmony began to emanate from the sapling, joined a moment later by a deep, rich counterpunto that could only be the voice of the Great White Tree singing in response. It was a silver sound that sent a thrill through her blood, bringing with it memories of long ago, in a land long lost to Time, when she had first heard the voice of the great tree’s Root Twin, Sagia, the tree that had sheltered her and her two companions from danger, had given them passage here, to safety and life in this new land. She moved into the last verse, calling forth characteristics of fire that would touch but not bring harm to the tree.

Light of early spring, illuminate thee, Heat of summer sun, warm thee, Leaves of flaming color, bejewel thee, But fire shall not harm thee.

The harmonic surged, blending into the song of healing she had left playing on the harp a year before. Rhapsody smiled, satisfied, and turned to Llauron, who was watching her with great interest.

“That’s the best I can do, I’m afraid. I don’t know if it will work.”

Llauron smiled warmly in return. “I’m sure it will. And I do appreciate your efforts, my dear. Thank you.”

Rhapsody nodded and pulled up her hood. “You’re welcome. Now, let’s be on our way. We still have a long ride and much work ahead of us.”

They walked along the original trail, leading their horses through the wood, stopping to observe markers that had been overgrown with weeds, buried in snow and all but forgotten by time. Rhapsody had brought the dragon-claw dagger with her; she only employed it now to till the earth, trying to make positive use of it. The memory of its part in Jo’s last moments was too strong to carry it as a weapon ever again.

Carefully she stripped away the frozen weeds and thorns that obscured the various commemorative plaques and stones, noting the growing warmth of Llauron’s smile as she did so. She sang a song of tending at each place, calling to the windflowers that still slept, dormant beneath the snow, in the hope that the spring would bring a new beauty to the place. The trail held little significance to her; she had not known the Cymrians, and felt them to be strange and troubled people, from what little she did know, but it meant a great deal to Llauron to see her honoring their history, so she refrained from making the suggestion that nagged in the back of her mind that they turn back.

They crossed over the unmarked border back into Navarne, where many of the landmarks were hidden by excessive growth and neglect. “You know, I’m somewhat surprised that Lord Stephen isn’t tending to these markers better,” Rhapsody said, rising and repacking her dagger after tending to the third site in Navarne. “He’s the Cymrian historian, after all.”

“This is a difficult era to be an Orlandan lord of Cymrian heritage,” Llauron replied, bending over and peering at the marker. “The royalty of the lineage is recognized, but there is still the taint left over from the war and the crimes of Anwyn and Gwylliam. Stephen’s actions represent in a way the attitude of many later-generation Cymrians: it’s acceptable to keep a small museum in your own castle, but the outer signs of the Cymrian ancestry fall by the wayside. Ah, well, that will all change soon, won’t it, my dear? Gwydion will give us all reason to be proud of our heritage again.”

Rhapsody smiled as they mounted the horses. “Yes, I’m sure he will.”

Within their hiding place in the copse of trees to the south, Lark gestured the others into silence, then listened to the sound of the hoofbeats as they waned.

When she could no longer hear the sound of Llauron’s Madarian, she turned to the others, renegade Filids all, and nodded.

“Are you ready, Mother?”

Lark nodded again.

“All right, then,” said Khaddyr, nervously fingering the belt of his robe. “Don’t follow too closely—we need him to be exhausted from his travels; understood?” The nods of silent assent brought a smile to his face. “Good. Let’s be off.”