Destiny: Child of the Sky

51

“Kneel.”

The five Filidic priests who had accompanied Khaddyr knelt before him. Llauron, who stood beside Khaddyr, nodded at Rhapsody, and she knelt as well, averting her eyes to avoid burning holes through Llauron’s opponent with her stare. Khaddyr looked to Llauron; the Invoker began to chant the Second’s Pledge softly.

The beauty in the well-modulated voice caused Rhapsody’s throat to tighten, but she had determined that her last tear had already been shed. The vow with which Llauron bound them required her to guarantee no harm to anyone within the Filidic circle there present before the rising of the next sun. Lark swore first, followed by each of the priests. Finally Rhapsody gave her word as well, wishing she had taken Llauron directly to Stephen Navarne. It was all she could do to keep the horror she felt from taking her over completely.

The two sides retreated to the opposite edges of the clearing. As Khaddyr walked by her he gave her a final smile; Rhapsody took the opportunity to scan his body for signs of weakness. She closed her eyes and sensed the slight imbalance in his step; he favored the left knee somewhat. In addition, his breath intensified when he was agitated, and she could see his heart was not as strong as it might have been. She passed the information on to Llauron as he handed her his outer vestments, stripping down to the plain undyed woolen robe that Khaddyr wore as well.

“Try to aim for the front of his left knee,” she advised her mentor, attempting to look confident.

“Thank you,” said Llauron. His voice was serious, but his eyes twinkled. “Don’t worry, my dear; everything will work out just fine. If anything unfortunate does happen, though, don’t forget your promise to light the pyre.”

Rhapsody nodded. She could feel Khaddyr and the others moving into position behind her. “Good luck, Llauron,” she said, squeezing his hand. “If you kill him quickly enough we may still make it to Lord Stephen’s in time for supper.”

Llauron laughed aloud; Rhapsody saw the startled looks on the faces of Khaddyr and his followers and took a secret delight in them. The Invoker kissed her cheek.

“Buck up, now; don’t show them you’re worried.” Rhapsody watched as he took his place opposite Khaddyr, the white oaken staff in his hands. He had said nothing about Ashe.

Lark handed Khaddyr a staff as well. Unlike the smooth, finely honed wood of the staff Llauron carried, the gift of Elynsynos to a predecessor long ago, Khaddyr’s weapon was a thin, shaggy-barked branch from a tree Rhapsody didn’t recognize. There was an unsettling familiarity about it, however, something that nagged at the back of her mind.

Having delivered her leader’s weapon, Lark returned to the edge of the glade where the seconds had taken their positions of watchfulness. Rhapsody was accorded the space in front; as a Namer she was expected to deliver the unvarnished account to the members of the church and head of state, in this case Stephen Navarne. She felt uneasy as Khaddyr’s followers spaced themselves in a semicircle around her, but decided that if anything untoward happened she could take all of them easily, even surrounded as she was.

At Llauron’s spoken signal the two Filidic priests commenced their battle. Despite Llauron’s advanced age he was spry, and moved with as much seeming ease as Khaddyr. The rival Filid himself was not a young man, and Rhapsody could see that each move cost him almost as dearly as Llauron’s actions did. They circled around each other, their staves ready, looking for openings. Rhapsody saw many that they did not take, and decided that they were each conserving their strength for a large attack or an obvious opportunity.

A moment later, Khaddyr proved her wrong. With an impressive triple strike he assaulted Llauron’s weapon, alternating the sides of his staff, then aimed the third blow at the Invoker’s chest. Llauron caught the blow full force and staggered back as Rhapsody gasped. The Filids about her closed ranks, moving nearer to her in the obvious belief she would break her oath. She glared at Lark, and the Filid second stepped back involuntarily.

Llauron’s hand went to his chest and he took several shuddering breaths, followed by a hacking cough. As Khaddyr moved in, Llauron’s hand returned to the white staff, and with surprising speed he parried the would-be usurper’s second attack. He drove Khaddyr back and swung the staff like a sword, knocking his opponent’s feet out from beneath him. Khaddyr fell heavily on his back to the frozen ground. A thin stream of blood broke forth from his lip, spattering the cowl of Llauron’s robe and staining it red.

It was now the Filids’ opportunity to gasp on behalf of their mentor. The sound caused an unexpected thrill to shoot through Rhapsody, who was watching the battle intently. Her heart jumped into her throat as Llauron landed a solid strike to the same place on Khaddyr. The younger man rolled to one side, clutching his staff, and planted it upright in the ground beside him. Llauron moved in for the kill.

Suddenly a hideous stench filled the glade. It was an odor Rhapsody had experienced before, once in Sepulvarta, once in the cavern of the Sleeping Child, and once, not long ago, on a frost-whitened Orlandan plain. The malodor was unmistakable, and it caused the Singer’s eyes, burning with its acid, to open in panic.

The staff Khaddyr had planted began to writhe. Thin and scraggly before, it now began to flex with muscular strength and uncoil, extending tendrils rapidly in Llauron’s direction. Snakelike vines shot out from the shaggy branch and seized the Invoker, wrapping around him with astonishing speed. They spun about his neck like whipcords and tightened immediately, drawing a deep, ugly gasp from the elderly man in their death grip. Thorns sprang from the vines and began to strike, slashing his face and arms.

“No!” Rhapsody screamed, lunging forward. The Filids caught her immediately. They had been ready for this moment and were waiting for her to move. They wrestled her to the ground, dragging her back from the clearing as she clawed her way toward Llauron in vain.

Her fire lore roared to the surface, her skin burning the hands of her captors. Lark and the men pulled back, wringing their hands in pain. Their hesitation gave Rhapsody the chance to scramble to her feet again. Her hand came to rest on Daystar Clarion, but when she touched it a violent shock shot through her. The sword had been pledged not to participate, and it was keeping her word for her.

All the horror of her first fight with the servant-vine of the F’dor flooded back, Jo’s sightless eyes swimming in her memory. Rhapsody’s eyes met Llauron’s as the Filids grasped her again, dragging her to her knees. His face was purple, his features contorted into a look of deathly surprise. The old man’s mouth opened as if to protest, then closed abruptly. He loosed one final sigh and went limp in the clutches of the demon-vine. “No,” Rhapsody choked, her voice a raw whisper.

The Filids released her roughly and she fell forward on the frozen ground, her hands buried up to the wrists in the snow. She struggled to her feet and ran to the center of the clearing where Llauron lay, staring blindly up at the apex of the clear winter sky. The vine had grown misty, and now began to dissipate on the fresh breeze that blew through the glade with an icy sting.

Rhapsody sank to the ground and drew the Invoker into her arms. Her trembling hand slipped beneath the woolen robe to his chest, then to his neck, but she could find no heartbeat. His pupils were dilated, and deep within them she could see a vertical slit, the same as his son’s, only dormant and distant. She had never noticed it before. Gently she closed the sightless eyes and bent her head over his body in grief.

Nothing but the whistle of the wind was audible in the glade, the winter breeze billowing her hair around her. No bright soul came forth to ascend to the light; Rhapsody’s throat closed in horror. He’s damned, she thought ruefully, the realization twisting her stomach. The vine took his soul as it would have taken Jo’s. She looked back to see Khaddyr standing behind her, his face emotionless, stanching his bleeding lip with the back of his hand. Finally he spoke.

“I’m sorry, Rhapsody.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Get away from him.”

Khaddyr’s expression grew cold. “It is my right as victor to examine the body, and to take the staff of his office.”

“You will not touch him.” The words spewed forth from her mouth with a venom that made Khaddyr cringe. She lifted one of Llauron’s arms and dropped it; it fell limply in her lap. “What additional examination do you need?”

Khaddyr nodded, still trying to regain his breath. “None. Give me the staff.”

Rhapsody looked beneath Llauron’s stiffening hand. On the ground lay the white oaken scepter, the golden leaf tip buried in the snow. She gave a blistering look to Khaddyr, then carefully slid the staff out from beneath the fallen Invoker’s arm. She tossed it at the victor. As he caught it his face broke into a beaming smile. From behind him a cheer went up from the five Filidic priests. Khaddyr watched Rhapsody stand, then spoke in a gentle voice.

“I really am sorry you had to witness this, Rhapsody. I hope someday you will understand why I had to do it.”

“I understand completely why you had to do it,” Rhapsody replied in a calm, deadly tone. “You are the whore of the demon.”

Khaddyr’s eyes snapped open in shock, then narrowed in rage. After a moment he just smiled. He pointed the staff of his new station at her abdomen.

“How ironic,” he said softly, grinning hideously. “Well, time will tell. We will see who is the whore of the demon.” He signaled to his compatriots and they gathered around him, preparing to leave the glen. “Now, don’t forget, Rhapsody, it is incumbent upon you to spread the word of my victory. See if you can do a better job as a Namer than you did as the Iliachenva’ar.” He smiled at her once more, then turned and left, his followers hurrying behind him, struggling to keep up with the exuberant step of a man who has just seen his investment rewarded.

Rhapsody waited until she could no longer smell the hideous odor of Khaddyr’s contingent before she returned to the body again. She bent down slowly, tenderly touching the aged hands that were cooling in the grip of death and the winter snow. As if in a trance she cradled his head in her arms, rocking him as if he were a child, much as she had with Jo. Only this time she was grieving not only for herself but for Ashe as well. She felt the crack of her heart as it shattered yet again.

“Llauron,” she whispered brokenly.

The wind blew across her face, dry in the absence of tears. She heard Oelendra’s voice wafting toward her on the wind, sounding much as her Kinsman call must have sounded to Anborn. A voice of memory.

The Iliachenva’ar acts as a consecrated champion; an escort or guardian to pilgrims, clergy, and other holy men and women. You are to protect anyone who needs you in the pursuit of the worship of God, or what someone thinks of as God.

She had failed.

The darkness came early in the dead of winter. Rhapsody stood at the top of the open hill, waiting for the stars to dawn, unable for the first time to lift her voice to greet them. It was as if the music had left her soul completely, though she knew somewhere she would have to find it again, if only to sing Llauron’s dirge. She had given her word.

The pyre she had built was wet; she could find very little dried wood beneath the snow. It wouldn’t matter. Even a living tree would succumb instantly to starfire.

She remembered her dream at Oelendra’s, the nightmare in which she had called starfire down on Llauron, burning him alive; though she knew that was impossible, she checked him several times anyway, just to be sure. He was cold and lifeless, his face white as the starlight, slumbering eternally, peaceful in his bed of sticks and brambles.

Her heart ached hollowly at the sight of him. He had opposed her relationship with Ashe, reminding her continually of her unworthiness, but he had been kind to her, had helped her when she needed it.

My son is not the only one in this family who loves you, you know; in many ways you have been like a daughter to me.

He had been the closest thing she had to a father in the new land, and she would mourn him like her own.

She tried not to think of Ashe as she awaited the coming dark. The horses seemed to sense her mood and stood quietly, watching as she absently folded and packed Llauron’s garments into the saddlebags of the Madarian, saving out the piece of his cowl where Khaddyr’s blood had spattered. As she slid his rope belt into the pack her hand struck something cold, and she looked at it more carefully. It was the tiny globe filled with water that contained a glowing light; Crynella’s candle, Merithyn’s first gift to Elynsynos. .

Gently she unfastened it from the belt and put it in her pouch with Llauron’s cowl. It was Ashe’s now, a legacy to the third and most cursed of all the Cymrian royal generations. She hoped it would bring him comfort. She felt nothing, not even sadness at the thought that the man who had been her lover was now his father’s avenger. The first person, by right, he should seek to destroy was Llauron’s failed champion, the Iliachenva’ar. She hoped that act would bring him comfort as well. It would bring it to her.

When finally a star appeared on the horizon, Rhapsody drew Daystar Clarion and pointed it skyward. Then, as in her dream, she spoke the name of the star and called its fire forth. A beam of light, brighter than a strike of lightning, seared from the sky and rolled like a white and flame-colored wave over the pyre on the top of the hill. Rhapsody stood near it, hoping in the back of her heart that the fire would take her as well, but the inferno washed over her, the blinding heat illuminating her golden hair like a beacon for miles around.

The wood burial mound exploded in flames, charring Llauron’s body in seconds, and lifting his ashes into the wind, where they fluttered momentarily like black leaves before vanishing into the darkness above the fire. Rhapsody opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She swallowed furiously and forced the song up in her gullet, the melody burning her throat. The Song of Passage croaked forth, barely above a whisper. She sang until the fire burned low, all traces of wood and cloth resolved in white hot ash.

“I’m so sorry, Llauron,” she whispered. Only the winter wind answered her, its reply a low moan that whipped through her hair, stinging her dry eyes.

She stood vigil until morning, silently watching the daystar fade and the eastern horizon begin to pale. Then she took a handful of ashes from the cold pyre and placed them in a sack, which she slung across the back of the gelding. She mounted and rode off into the rising sun to tell Stephen Navarne of Llauron’s fate.

He waited in the smoke from the battle, the desolation evident in the morning light. Rhapsody would come soon, he knew; the Tree was three days’ ride from where Llauron had fallen, but she would be hurrying. The loyal Filidic priests scurried around the Circle, tending to the injured and clearing away the human debris from Ashe’s one-man rescue of Gwynwood. The raid had come to an end with astonishing speed; by the time Ashe had arrived there was nothing that could have stopped the destruction his anger brought with him. The knowledge that many of the attackers were unwilling thralls of the demon did nothing to temper his wrath; Rhapsody’s tears had driven him into a rage that was unstoppable.

He could feel his father now, moving through the earth, laughing in the wind. Is it worth it? he thought angrily, surveying the destruction and death around him. Are you finally satisfied now, Llauron? How many more hearts will have to break, how many more lives end, before your lust for power is abated?

The wind whipped around him, fluttering the edges of his cloak. Ashe sighed. Llauron’s last wish was to be one with the elements. It would now be impossible to know what, if anything, the wind was trying to say.

“Are you certain there is nothing I can do for you, Rhapsody?” Rhapsody’s eyes met Lord Stephen’s. She saw the concern in them, but was unable even to smile in return.

“Yes,” she said simply. “I’m fine, m’lord, thank you. Please do as you see fit with the horses. If you are able to get in touch with Anborn, he will know what to do with them.” A strand of hair blew into her eyes, and she brushed it back, looking up at the blackened shell of the single standing carillon tower, where the bitter wind blew wildly through the bells that had saved Navarne during the Sorbold assault.

The duke reached out and gently took hold of her hand. He ran his thumb over the small, sword-callused palm, and was pained by the coldness in her usually warm skin, her normally firm grip flaccid and listless.

“Where will you go now?” he asked, his eyes heavy with concern. “To the House of Remembrance,” she said simply. “Llauron asked but two things of me—that I herald the results of his battle with Khaddyr, which I have now done, and that I tend to the Great White Tree. I sang a song of protection to the sapling, and that should have served to protect the Tree as well. I’ll do it again to be sure; I would go to the Tree itself, but Gwynwood is so far away, and I need to be heading east, not west. It’s the last thing I can do for him, and so I shall. Then I will return home, back to Ylorc, where

I belong.”

Lord Stephen nodded. “Can you stay for a few days,-visit the children?

They have been asking after you.”

Rhapsody shook her head. “I don’t think that’s wise, m’lord,” she answered. “Please do give them my love.”

The skin around the blue-green eyes crinkled as the Duke of Navarne took her other hand in his. “You know, Rhapsody, we’re practically family. Do you think there will ever be a time when you might address me just by my first name?”

Rhapsody considered his question as thoughtfully as she could. “No, m’lord,” she said. She curtsied deeply and took her leave of his keep, walking into the billowing arms of the winter wind.