Destiny: Child of the Sky

57

Lark stepped out of the fireshadows, trembling.

The wood was burning, though the flames had passed the villages and hostels; it was as if the fire was sparing the faithful, withholding its wrath from the exterior settlements.

It was coming instead to the Circle with a vengeance.

The herbery and Lark’s lands, several leagues away, had been consumed in a rolling wave of fire that crept from the forest edge, turning the white snow and the brown earth orange with its light. Branches in the trees above her burst into flame, even though the fire had not reached that area yet, rained down and fell to the ground around her, seemed to follow her as she ran.

Khaddyr, she thought desperately. I have to get to the Invoker.

As she hurried along the forest road ahead of the conflagration, she could see hundreds, perhaps thousands of the faithful milling through the wood, could hear their nervous talk. Tales had caught the wind, fragments of stories of a dark man walking, unscathed, through the inferno, little more than a shadow wrapped in mist.

Lark had little use for such rumors, discounted the words shouted by fleeing people above the wind of the fire, until she caught a single one.

Dragon.

She had to stop for a moment to restart her breath; her heart had constricted in fear at the word, squeezing the air from her lungs.

When her breath returned she covered her stinging eyes with her arm and hurried to the Circle.

Invoker stood in the shadow of the Great White Tree, leaning on a white wood staff, its golden oak leaf tip gleaming in the oncoming light.

Khaddyr breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of burning leaves and smoke. All about him the Filids were panicking, hurrying westward where the fire still had not ringed the inner forest. He had tried to keep them calm, had tried to assure them that they were safe beneath the boughs of the Great White Tree, but the fear had taken hold. He could not command them, could only stand and watch them run into the arms of death.

“Your Grace.” The words were whispered, barely audible above the distant fire’s roar.

Khaddyr turned around to see Lark standing behind him, her face a mask of smoke. He smiled slightly.

“Ah, Lark, I should have known you alone were stalwart enough to stay.”

“I’m leaving, Your Grace, and so must you. Come with me; there is still time to flee west. The dragon comes.”

“Flee? To where? To the sea? To the lair of the beast herself? Don’t be ridiculous.” Khaddyr smiled beneficently and held out his hand to her. “Do not fear, Mother. Elynsynos would not burn the Tree.”

Lark stared into the reddening sky above her, the normally placid features of her Lirindarc heritage taut with panic.

“The dragon comes,” she repeated. “You must make haste and leave at once, Your Grace.”

Khaddyr patted her shoulder, struggling to keep his hand steady.

“She cannot broach the Circle, Mother,” he said as comfortingly as he could manage. “Wyrmkin or no, the family of Anwyn no longer has dominion over Gwynwood; that rests solely in the hands of the living Invoker.” He squeezed the white oak staff, the rising light of the fire in the distance glimmering off the golden leaf at its tip.

Lark glanced quickly over her shoulder at the darkening clouds, rolling with bloody light.

“Llauron in his time could hold the whole of the forest,” she said in a low voice. “Recall the plague of yellow locusts, or the great midsummer storm ten years ago? He commanded the insects to be gone from Gwynwood; he told the winds to be still, and they obeyed. Something is wrong, Khaddyr. You should have been able to banish this menace from the outer rim of the wood. Yet still it comes; the forest is burning with its wrath! I beseech you, leave now and save yourself.”

Khaddyr pointed angrily toward the west, where the fire was beginning to spread through the trees.

“Go now, then,” he said tersely. “Quit this place, Lark, if you’re afraid. I do not fear the dragon. My power here is absolute—absolute! You saw me wrest it from Llauron, saw me take the staff from his lifeless hand. You are my Tanist; if you doubt me, then go. You no longer serve a purpose here.”

Lark’s face hardened in the light of the approaching flames. “All right, then. Deceive yourself. Stay here and burn with your absolute power—it will make a pretty pyre.” She whirled and ran through the hail of flaming leaves that were wafting about in ashes on the coming wind.

inferno’s rage burned ever closer, but still Khaddyr did not fear.

Faith, he intoned to himself. Stay the course.

His master’s words came back to him now, spoken softly in the shadows of the winter festival bonfires.

Unquestioned authority. Invulnerability. And Life unending.

Khaddyr gripped the staff even harder, trying to contain his excitement.

I will kill her, as I did Llauron, he thought, feeling the sweat from the heat and the arousal of power course through him. I will be the one to vanquish the mighty Elynsynos, to drive her back into the ether. I have the power now.

He laughed aloud.

“Let the dragon come!” he shouted to the burning sky. “Let her come!”

In reply the ground beneath him trembled. Khaddyr’s eyes flew open. The walls of fire that had now reached the Circle seemed to part, opening a dark corridor in the pulsing sheets of light.

Even surrounded as he was by searing heat, Khaddyr felt suddenly cold.

In the midst of the roaring flames and billowing smoke stood the shadow of a man. The hood of his cloak was thrown back, revealing hair that gleamed in the reflected waves of light like bright copper on a hearth. Other than the shining hair, all his physical features were wreathed in darkness. The fire seemed to dance around him as if he were no more than a shadow himself.

“It can’t be,” Khaddyr whispered. “Gwydion?” He has come back from the dead? he thought, his mind refusing the possibility.

The Invoker trembled as he rose, shaking with age and fear. He pointed the oaken staff of the Filids, Llauron’s staff, at the man in the center of the conflagration. “Slypka,” he whispered, willing the flames to extinguish.

The intensity of the fire dimmed a little, making the outline of the man somewhat more distinct. Khaddyr took a deep breath, then planted the staff in the parched grass next to him, leaning on it for support. When he could finally speak, his voice was calm.

“I command you by the power of the Circle, Gwydion ap Llauron, be gone from this hallowed wood,” he said. He inhaled again, the caustic smoke burning his nostrils and lungs. The lore of the forest, the power of Gwyn-wood, would banish the beast, he knew. His power now. He was the Invoker.

The dark figure did not move.

Khaddyr gripped the staff more tightly; the golden oak leaf at its tip glinted in the light of the inferno around them. “I am the true Invoker, Gwydion,” he said above the noise of the fire to the dark shadow with the gleaming crown of hair. “The ascension was justified under the laws of Buda Kai, in the presence of a Canwr as witness and herald. You cannot challenge me here; the moon is on the wane. It must be waxing to bless the results of a challenge. In addition, you would dishonor Llauron’s memory if you were to—”

The staff in Khaddyr’s hands burst into flame.

With a shriek the Invoker dropped the burning staff to the ground. In horror he watched it incinerate, the symbol of the office he had sold his soul to gain. It withered to ashes within seconds; they caught the smoky wind and disappeared, leaving only the gold leaf tip on the ground. After a moment it melted in the heat into a shining puddle that reflected the fire’s light.

The shadow-figure opened its eyes, and involuntarily Khaddyr gasped. Burning blue, as brilliant as the flames from the center of the Earth, two points of ferocious light appeared in the otherwise solid darkness of his face, beneath the blazing hair that blended with the leaping sheets of fire behind and above him. Khaddyr took a step back, trying to keep his terror from coloring his voice; he knew his face already showed it.

“Gwydion—”

“Who is the host of the demon?” The voice that issued forth from the shadow shook the earth beneath Khaddyr’s feet, causing him to stumble and fall to one knee. It was more a roar than spoken words, sounding in multiple tones of soprano, alto, tenor, and bass, crackling with the ferocity of high wind in fire.

A gagging sound came from Khaddyr’s throat, and nothing more.

“Tell me,” demanded the dark figure. The fire grew more intense, matching the heat in his voice.

“I—I don’t know,” Khaddyr choked.

The tree palace ignited, ripping into flame. The glass panes in the windows reflected the pounding light at the sky as the roof of each oddly angled wing burst open, showering sparks through the dormant gardens that surrounded Llauron’s keep. Flames climbed the tower that reached above the tree canopy, turning it to a blazing column of fire.

“Dear One-God,” Khaddyr whispered.

From the backdrop of rolling fire behind the man another figure ascended, hazy and ephemeral. Its serpentine head reached skyward, cresting above the burning treetops. Its eyes gleamed with the same ferocious blue light that stared from the shadow-man’s face, its enormous pupils razor-thin vertical slits that shrank even more as the inferno grew in strength. Great wings of shimmering copper scales, translucent in the light, stretched out over the Circle lands, casting dark blankets of mist as they unfolded. Its great hissing voice spoke in precise synchronicity with that of the man it hovered above.

“Who is the host?” The thunderous demand shook the very earth.

Khaddyr swallowed, tasting blood in the back of his throat. “Forgive me, Gwydion, I can’t. I fear you in life, but I fear him more in death. Have mercy.”

The shadow-dragon let out a furious roar. Over the cacophony of the burning forest and the screams of the evacuating Filids, it shattered the remaining panes of glass and shook the branches of the Great White Tree which stood alone, unscathed, in the midst of the fiery nightmare. The searing blue eyes in the human figure closed, disappearing back into the dark face again.

“I did not give you leave to die yet,” Ashe said, his words ringing in the multiple tones of the wyrm. He raised his arm and pointed at the Filid priest, the great healer, now prostrate on the forest floor.

“Luhtgrin,” he said in the language of the Filids. Invert. “Cartung.” Sustain.

Khaddyr felt his feet go numb. Then, a moment later, a shock of agony crippled his toes as they began turning at an impossible angle. He let out a scream as the skin rolled back, exposing nerve and muscle, vein and bone, then slowly continued up his legs. The horror of what was happening crept through his brain, making it go numb as well.

He was turning inside out.

Khaddyr screamed again, a high wail of shuddering terror.

“Tell me,” the dark figures demanded again in one voice, man and dragon. “Tell me or I will leave you like this, alive.” Khaddyr’s kneecaps popped sickeningly as they inverted.

“Stop, I beg you,” Khaddyr moaned.

The man-shadow and its second nature, the shade of the dragon, walked slowly through the burning grass and over to Khaddyr until it stood directly above him, the vast shadow of the wyrm hovering over him in the smoky air. By the time man and dragon-shadow reached him he was writhing in agony, the long bones of his thighs exposed on the bloody grass. With another popping, then a crunching sound, the genitals and hipbones twisted inside the quivering muscle and skin, the large arteries pulsing hideously.

Khaddyr was muttering incoherently. With a ringing sweep Ashe drew Kirsdarke from the sheath across his back and pressed the point into the old man’s throat. For a moment Khaddyr’s eyes cleared, and he stared at the rippling waves of the weapon, surging blue-white like ocean currents, running down the length of the ancient blade.

“Please,” he whispered as his chest cavity turned inside out, exposing his racing heart and struggling lungs. The wheezing, squishing, and hideous tearing sounds almost swallowed his words. “You’ll need—me, Gwydion. A—healer. Rhapsody will—need—

The sword point pressed deeper. “What about Rhapsody?” Ashe demanded; the multitoned voice shook the burning leaves from the singed branches above them. “What will Rhapsody need?”

“When—she—” Khaddyr panted. He turned and looked at his fingers, which had begun to turn inside themselves. “When—she—

From the depths of his exposed viscera a tiny root appeared. Within a heartbeat many others like it sprang forth and whipped around Khaddyr’s vital organs. The vines thickened quickly, forming ropy strands pocked with thorns that drew taut around the would-be Invoker’s heart and squeezed suddenly. A hideous stench billowed forth over the smell of the fire.

“What will Rhapsody need? Curse your soul, Khaddyr, who is the F’dor?”

Khaddyr let out a gurgling gasp, then turned one last time to Gwydion, his eyes glassy and sightless with pain.

“Kill me,” he whispered as beads of bloody sweat emerged from his brow. “Mercy—”

The shadow-man bent down near enough so that the Invoker could hear him. “Tell your master I am coming for him,” he said through gritted teeth.

The vine pulsed violently, and Khaddyr’s heart exploded, sending streaks of bright blood into the air, where the raging fire illuminated it into showers of red light.

Ashe stepped back as the vine recoiled, flipping Khaddyr over onto his exposed stomach and entrails. Within moments dozens of other vines shot forth, encircling him completely. Then, with a snap, Khaddyr was dragged, slamming over burning brush and trunks of decimated trees, into a large mound of blazing fire. The stench grew overpowering as his body hit the flames, and Ashe had to shield his eyes from the explosion of black fire that ensued.

The F’dor was claiming its own.

Q) or the second time that winter Ashe stood, spent, beneath the Tree amid the destruction of fire. The Filids moved about through the desolation like sleepwalkers, staring at the ruins of the tree palace, stepping in between the rubble, all that remained of the shining castle at the heart of the Circle.

At the edge of his senses Ashe could feel Gwen stepping carefully through the remains of the rooms she had once kept for his father, lost in the place she had once known better than any other. He closed his eyes and willed her presence from his mind; the dragon within his blood slept now, sated in its destructive rage. The awareness of his second nature stung, like a sore muscle.

The Filidic priests that remained loyal to Llauron stared dismally at the ruins of the holy circle of trees that ringed the Great White Tree. One of every known species had its place there before the fire, sometimes the last surviving specimen of a species. Now all that remained of the trees were blackened trunks and charred, ragged columns of ash pointing skyward like broken fingers.

Only the Great White Tree still stood, unscathed, undamaged, though it was stained with soot and ash. Its leafless boughs still gleamed in the diffuse sun, reached into the heavens despite the smoke that hung heavy in the air.

Fire shall not harm thee.

The wind picked up, tousling the red-gold curls of his hair. In its passing Ashe could hear his father’s voice.

Thank you, old boy.

Ashe turned and walked into the smoldering forest, on his way to find Lark and the others.