Destiny: Child of the Sky

87

In the Great Hall of Tyrian atop Tomingorllo, amid the glad sound of silver trumpets, a solemn procession carried the chosen gift of suit to the display pedestal where the diadem had rested. It was carefully set in place, and revealed with great respect.

Out of all the rich gifts of state that were presented for the Lirin queen’s approval, gifts whose incalculable wealth showcased the treasuries and artistry of the nations whose leaders sought her hand, she had chosen a simple scroll, bound with a black velvet ribbon. It was sealed with an odd, thirteen-sided copper signet, said to be one of only two in the entire world.

The scroll was rumored to be a song unlike any other. As the queen was a musician unparalleled, it was widely believed to be beautiful to the point of magical if she had been moved to choose it above all other offerings. The plate beneath it, by way of announcement, bore the name GWYDION OF MANOSSE, LORD CYMRIAN.

During this meaningful and joyous ceremony, the queen, by custom, was absent; at least she was not noticed, lying on her stomach on the floor of the Grand Balcony, looking down and watching it all from underneath Gwydion’s mist cloak with him. It was a struggle for them both to refrain from giggling like maniacs as they had when, straight-faced, she had presented her betrothal choice to Rial and left his offices in a dead run before her composure collapsed.

The song was a gift for the eyes of the bride-to-be only. Gwydion had threatened to have the scroll hold the tender lyrics to one of Grunthor’s bawdy marching songs. Instead, when she opened it she found he had been putting the music instruction she had given him to good use; the carefully graphed staff carried the notes that spelled out Sam and Emily Always without a single error.

The bouquet of winterflowers he had presented her with at the same time remained in Elysian, opening a little more day by day, revealing petals of deeper red with each new layer. The bouquet was held in stasis by the magic of the place, and did not fade, remaining permanently suspended in glorious bloom. It was a true marvel, but one the queen did not feel the inclination to share with any other eye. Proof of being selfish again, she had told her chosen suitor, who had only smiled.

“But who is there to marry us publicly?” Rhapsody asked Gwydion as they strolled in the garden of Tomingorllo. “You hold the offices of Invoker and Patriarch; there is no one above you in the religious hierarchy.”

Gwydion smiled. “You are not current in your information,” he said, kissing her hand as they walked. “While you were refusing to see me, I had to do something to keep from going insane, so I set about delegating some of those responsibilities.”

Rhapsody laughed. “Pretty certain of yourself, aren’t you? I thought you didn’t know if you would be confirmed as Lord Cymrian or not.”

“I didn’t. I still believed there should be others leading the religious factions directly. Besides, if you had married Anborn or Achmed I would have thrown myself into the sea anyway, so it wouldn’t have mattered.”

“So do you intend to remain the titular head of the order?”

“Yes, but I am nominating leaders of both factions who I think will be able to work together toward reunification. And even if it doesn’t happen, I believe there will still be a harmonious coexistence of both faiths.”

“Excellent. And whom did you choose to take on the office of Invoker?”

Ashe stopped and looked off into the distance. “Gavin. And I believe there is my candidate for Patriarch now, though of course the Scales of Jierna Tal will have to weigh him and find him worthy. He seemed mildly amused at the prospect. I asked him to come to Tyrian after the Cymrian Council so you could meet him; he’s new in the faith, but very wise. Come, let me introduce him to you.”

Rhapsody took his hand and followed him across the garden to where an older man was waiting. His beard was long enough to curl upward at the edges, with streaks of white and silver winning the battle for control within it over the insistent white-blond. Despite being somewhat advanced in years he was tall and broad-shouldered, and had a smile that Rhapsody could swear she had seen before, though from a distance she did not recognize him.

“Was he at the Council?” she asked as Gwydion picked up the pace.

“Yes; he was part of the Diaspora. I met him a few days before the Second Fleet arrived at the Moot. I asked him where he had come from, and all he would say was that it was both near and farther away than anyplace in the known world. We camped out together a few nights, and I was astounded at his wisdom and vision, and his extraordinary powers of healing. While we were there he tended to several people in the throes of great illness or pain, with amazing skill. He radiates great peace; I resolved to offer him the post if I was ever in a position to grant it to him. He seems to know of you; he asked if I knew you, but of course I couldn’t tell him anything except that I did. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

Rhapsody stopped still on the forest path, staring at the robed man. His lined face was wreathed in a smile that made her flush hot and cold with memories simultaneously.

“Constantin!”

He held out his hands to her, hands marred by time and the life he had led, and she hurried to him and took both of them in her own, kissing his cheek. Warmth flooded her face, as she thought back to their myriad, and occasionally unpleasant, experiences. His eyes were serene, however, and he looked at her knowingly and just smiled.

“Hello, m’lady,” he said in the deep voice she remembered. “I’m honored that you remember me.”

Rhapsody reached up, as if unable to stop herself, and touched his wrinkled cheek. I was gone behind the Veil of Hoen for seven years, and when I came out the snow had barely covered the hilt of the sword, she thought poignantly. I’ve been back now half a year. Gods, I’m amazed he’s still alive.

“I told you I would never forget you,” she said gently, “and I haven’t.”

Constantin kissed her hand. “Nor I you. Best wishes on your engagement. The Lord Cymrian is a lucky man.”

“Thank you,” Rhapsody and Gwydion said simultaneously. The Lord Cymrian drew her closer to his side.

“Constantin has agreed, if the Scales confirm him, to accept the office of Patriarch on Midsummer’s Night,” Ashe said. “And as such he will be the one to marry us, if you agree, Aria, in a joint ceremony with Gavin.”

Rhapsody smiled. “I certainly do. Thank you, Constantin.” She studied his face intently for a moment. “What made you decide to leave?”

His eyes darkened, and he looked deep into hers. “It was time,” was all he said.

Rhapsody remembered what Anborn had said about the wisdom not to ask more than she really needed to know. She turned to the Lord Cymrian, who was watching their interaction with surprise. “I am delighted in your choice of a Patriarch, darling. He has studied with the best possible instructors and I know for a fact there’s not a drop of evil in him.” Her eyes sparkled wickedly and Constantin laughed. Gwydion looked puzzled.

“Come along, Sam,” Rhapsody said, pulling at her groom’s hand. “Let’s find His Grace somewhere to rest; he’s come from farther away than you think. And we’ll tell you the whole story. You may be surprised to learn how the new Patriarch had a hand in killing the F’dor.”

Gwydion stared at her in amazement before following them up the path. “You know, Rhapsody, you certainly know how to ruin a surprise.”

Urue to her word, Rhapsody had requested a simple dress, as she told Gwydion she would after the royal wedding in Bethany. It had only enough train to brush the ground two or so feet behind her, and left her shoulders open to the sun for the wedding taking place on the first day after the season dedicated to it had passed.

Despite the dress’s seeming simplicity, the seamstresses of Tyrian had worked endlessly on it. Miresylle had found a bolt of Canderian brushed silk, white with a gleaming blush undertone that touched off the sunrise coloring of Rhapsody’s rosy golden skin perfectly. It was trimmed judiciously, sparingly, a sign of true craftsmanship, as Rhapsody had explained to her incredulous groom, who wondered rudely aloud why she was having a seventh fitting for this allegedly simple dress.

“It’s not all covered with beadwork and lace; many seamstresses use that stuff to hide the imperfections in the fabric or the workmanship. Miresylle’s a perfectionist.”

Gwydion had taken his bride into his arms and kissed her. “I’m sure. And I’m sure I’ll like the dress, despite it being responsible for keeping you away from me so much.”

“You’re so time-greedy,” she scowled at him jokingly. “You’d probably prefer I didn’t wear anything at all.”

“How right you are.”

Gwydion himself had been faced with a sartorial dilemma. Though the design for his wedding garment was easy enough to come by, he had been besieged with gifts from the various family factions, fighting units, and political groups to which he had belonged over his lifetime, each an emblem or a symbol of his honored status, conferred on him with the expectation that he would wear each of them at his wedding. Rhapsody had gone into a giggling fit as he indignantly displayed them, spread out on the vast meeting table in the Great Hall of Tyrian. The table was over twenty feet in length, and every inch of it was covered with some sort of item he needed to exhibit somewhere on his person.

“You had better start eating; you’ll need to add to your size ten times over,” she laughed, her eyes taking in the hundreds of hats, daggers, staves, ceremonial swords, crowns, and codpieces littering the table. She picked up one of the twenty-one signet rings in a pile in the middle of the spread. “Now let’s see; one on each finger, one on each toe, and one on your—

“Don’t say it,” he threatened jokingly. “That might be even more uncomfortable for you later that night, my dear. I might choose the one with the biggest prongs.”

“This gift is my very favorite,” Rhapsody said, lifting a hideous Nain war mask. “Do they really wear these things in battle?”

“Yes, and worse.” He looked around the table and sighed in dismay. “I’ll look ridiculous if I wear any of these emblems, Aria. If I wear some of them, I risk offending anyone whose symbol I didn’t choose. And if I wear none of them, I will offend everyone. What am I going to do? Is it too late to elope?”

“We did that already, remember? This is just the official ceremony; you and I already did the important one alone.” She smiled at him, hoping to ease his distress. “Here, I’ll take care of it. Let’s sort through these things together, and you can tell me who they’re from and what they represent.”

A month later, on the morning before the wedding rehearsal, she presented him with a velvet-covered box.

“This is for all your patience with the endless fittings of my wedding dress,” she said as he kissed her. “Open it and see if it solves your dilemma.”

In the box was a segmented necklace of state, a chain-like series of uniform hexagonal pieces wrought in red-gold, jointed together to a length that would drape about the neck and shoulders, inlaid with the symbols of each of the groups that had presented him with emblems to wear. Even the hideous war mask of the Nain of the Sardonyx Mountain had been painstakingly rendered in tiny gems and enameled scrolling on one of the small segments; Gwydion had burst out laughing at the thought of the jeweler working long hours to find a colored stone the same hue as the mucus dripping from the miniature war mask’s nostrils.

“As with everything about you, it’s perfect,” he said, drawing her close.

“Oh, good. So does this mean I’m to be spared from those big prongs now?”

“All but one.”

Gwydion lugged the bucket to the door of the hidden room behind the waterfall and heaved the cleaning water outside into the grass. How does she do this? he wondered incredulously as he sank into his comfortable old chair with a groan. He had helped her clean house in Elysian, but somehow that had been a pleasure. Gwydion shook his head and laughed. Being branded with a hot iron might be a pleasure, as long as she was there to hold his hand.

The memory of drowsy summer mornings a year before came back to him, the scent of coffee brewing and spicy aromas floating by, accompanied by the smell of soap and the sweet sound of singing. She had always been up before dawn, tidying Elysian, pressing clothes, tending her gardens, long before normal people had cracked an eyelid; it was the farm girl in her, she had said as he protested, pulling her back into bed if she came close by. These memories of simple domesticity were among his favorite, images of normalcy and sanity in a world run amok. He signed, anticipating the return of those days with glee.

He looked around his room and felt a sense of satisfaction. The messy man-cottage was spotless, the new double bed gleaming under the fresh satin bedspread he had bought for her in Navarne. He had carted all the new furnishings here himself by night to maintain the hidden room’s security, a sort of western Elysian, a place they could be alone when in these provinces.

This place needs a woman’s oversight—or a ma-id, she had said. The first he had provided by duplicating many of the comfortable accessories and ornaments she had used in decorating Elysian; even now the cottage was unrecognizable in its warmth and charm. The second he had assured by spending four hours on the day before his wedding sprucing up the place; it had taken her about half an hour to produce better results that day a year and a half before, but he knew she would appreciate the effort.

Gwydion rose with a creak and made a final inspection. The wine was in the chilling bucket, the crystal goblets on the table, the fire laid with sweet-smelling spices, waiting to be set ablaze. He would need to build a room with a tub if they were to use this place in winter, even though the prospect of Rhapsody’s warmth heating the waterfall’s pool amid the snow was tantalizing. He pulled out the finishing touch, a sackful of pink and white rose petals he had convinced her to work her magic on without telling her why. She had spoken the words to preserve their freshness and given him an odd look; he imagined the expression on her face the next night as he scattered them across the bed and the floor, leading to the threshold.

A romantic dragon; isn’t that a contradiction in terms’?

Yes. Do you love me anyway’?

Always.

When the bed was covered with the petals he took one more look around. Then he left the cabin and locked the door carefully, whistling all the way back to where he had hidden the horse and cart.

The Lirin had decorated the forestlands of Tyrian and Gwynwood in the traditional manner for the wedding, with bells, reed flutes, and windchimes dangling from the trees, through which bright streamers had been laced. Maypoles had been erected in the forest along the way from the Lirin city to the Great Tree, also tied with ribbons that were peppered with thousands of crystals, a gift from the Cymrian Nain. As a result, the forest was bathed in colored light, casting a rainbow glow on the setting and, eventually, the guests.

And, as improbable as it was, the morning of the wedding the grounds and gardens of the House of Remembrance bloomed in a vast scarlet carpet of winterflowers, a gift from a Child that slept, safe now, in the arms of her mother the Earth.

In addition to the traditional decorations, Ashe had sought the aid of some of the palace servants in tying muslin love knots about the bedchamber of the Lady Cymrian and throughout the halls of Stephen’s keep where she was staying. With the excruciating detail born of a dragon’s memory he re-created the scene in which they had met, that simple, beautiful summer night at the foreharvest dance. Rhapsody awoke on the morning of her wedding to a room full of fresh-cut pine and fir boughs and sprays of late-summer flowers, many of which were of the same kinds that had adorned the tables and barrels that night. She sat up in bed and blinked in amazement at the accuracy with which he had duplicated the adornments that the people of her farming village had used in the old land, then laughed aloud. In the night he must have stolen into the room himself; she was covered by his cloak, and her bed was strewn with willow leaves. On top of the cloak rested a thin black velvet ribbon in which was tied a heart-shaped silver button.

Oelendra sat on a chair in the bedchamber of the bride and watched the flurry of preparations in amusement. Rhapsody was sitting on the floor in her undergarments, patiently adjusting the hem of Melisande Navarne’s dress, while the Lirin chambermaids sat on the bed behind her, plaiting pearls into her hair and looking disconcerted every time she moved. Sylvia had positioned herself near the door, as deliveries were arriving every few minutes, all the while swatting at the queen’s Firbolg grandchildren, who were busy leaping from couch to couch and scattering her belongings across the room.

“They’re eating the flowers from the hair wreaths, m’lady,” the chamberlain said.

Rhapsody nodded. “I know. Please try to keep them from getting the ribbons stuck between their teeth.”

When her eldest child attendant was finally turned out properly Rhapsody rose. Her hair had been intricately braided in tiny patterns, pulled back off her face, but hung in a long fall down the back, sectioned intermittently with tiny white flowers and sprigs of rosemary for wisdom. She gave Oelendra a flustered grin, then followed the chattering chambermaids to the place where the wedding gown hung. Miresylle, the dressmaker, helped her into it with a look on her face that matched that of a midwife delivering a royal infant Finally, after many adjustments, the queen stood erect and turned, and the Lirin attendants stepped back in awe. Oelendra’s amused smile grew warmer. She had not believed that anything could make Rhapsody any more beautiful than she already was, but she now saw that she was mistaken. She set her mind to the puzzle of whether the enhancement came from the perfect dress, gleaming white with a hint of blush rose shining through, or from the look of happiness that shone in the bride’s eyes.

Sylvia clapped her hands decisively. “All right, out with you all, now,” she said to the children and the chambermaids. The resulting flurry allowed Oelendra the moment she had been awaiting. She went up behind Rhapsody, who was attaching her earrings in front of the looking glass, and rested her hands on her shoulders.

The bride smiled at her friend in the glass, then turned to embrace her. Oelendra held her tightly for a moment, then moved to the dressing table and dropped a key on it. Rhapsody gave her a puzzled smile.

“What’s that?”

“The key to my house,” Oelendra said, adjusting the neckline of her own gown. “I told you that it was your house now as well.”

Rhapsody nodded. “But why would I need a key? I would only come there when you’re home.”

Oelendra kissed her cheek and went to the door. “Just in case you want to spend some time alone with your husband, away from the palace. You look beautiful, darling; and happy. I will remember this sight and treasure it always. Now, don’t tarry; your groom awaits.” She smiled, then took her place in the procession.

Rhapsody brushed out her skirt once more and looked around her. She was surrounded by the people she loved, and would be more so momentarily. Her grandchildren—the Navarnes, the children of Hoen, and the Firbolg—were decked out identically in white silk and adorned with flowers. Rial was in her procession, as was Oelendra, who was standing as her witness. Achmed and Grunthor stood, dressed in full regalia, ready to escort her down the aisle. Anborn, on his litter born by two Nain soldiers, waited to be carried in. And glimmering in the ether, hanging within the air and unseen by any but herself, were two great dragon shapes, multicolored eyes glittering at her lovingly. She thought how Jo would have laughed at the sight and blew her sister a kiss, knowing she was there too, unseen.

“All right,” she said to the strange assemblage. “Here is where we begin.”

“This is perverse.”

Lady Madeleine Steward, wife of the Lord Roland, stepped quickly out of the way of the wedding procession to avoid continued contact with the grinning child who had patted her jewel-encrusted gown as he passed by. The hairy little face was grisly beneath its floral wreath; in the Lady’s opinion there was something obscene about dressing Firbolg brats in wedding finery, not to mention including them in a royal ceremony.

The Lady Roland had not been very happy for the past three months, ever since her husband had accompanied her home from the Cymrian Council, blithering happily about ceding his sovereignty to the new Lord and Lady. It had been a matter of pride for Madeleine that she had married into the highest House in the land, and now that was being subordinated to an admittedly handsome man with metal hair and a woman who was escorted down the aisle on the arms of a monster and the rudest creature she had ever met. Her world was capsizing, and Lady Madeleine could only sit helplessly by and observe the nightmare.

Tristan Steward scowled at his wife. “Shhhh,” he whispered fiercely, then turned back to watch the Lady Cymrian’s face take on the same glow as the Lord’s as they pledged their union.

The wedding, by royal standards, was a small one. Though it was strange to be standing in the open air beneath the Sagian Oak in what was once the courtyard of the House of Remembrance rather than in the basilica in Bethany or Sepulvarta, there was something charming about the ceremony. He smiled sadly as he watched the new Patriarch bless the marriage with the Invoker of the Filids.

It was impossible to keep his gaze on Madeleine’s face, twisted in the throes of disapproving disgust, when he could be looking at Rhapsody’s. He turned back to look at it again. Certainly there were all the regular features that made her countenance well worthy of appreciation, even at the risk of his own wife’s irritation, but it was really the way she looked at the Lord Cymrian that made it impossible to take his eyes off her. The expression on her face was unguarded, and was fixed in the aspect of a woman utterly in love and consummately happy.

Tristan sighed. He wished someone would once look that way at him, if only just once more. He knew that now that Prudence was gone, it would never happen, and it made the day darker for a moment, even as the merry bells in the trees and from the newly rebuilt tower pealed in celebration when the pair were united in a kiss.

Rhapsody was talking to Constantin under the shade of the towering engilder trees when she felt someone’s intense gaze come to rest on her back. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a vertical white line standing totally still, focusing on her. Rhapsody turned to give the image clearer attention and broke into a warm smile; it was Oelendra. The Lirin warrior had discarded the gown she had worn earlier at the wedding and redressed in a white robe of undyed wool, one much like the priests at the Tree wore. Oelendra smiled in return, but there was a look of significance in her eye that made Rhapsody’s other thoughts come to a halt.

“Will you excuse me?” she asked Constantin.

The bright blue eyes in the wrinkled face smiled. “Of course, m’lady.”

Rhapsody lifted the hem of her wedding gown and stepped over the rocks that bordered the forest path on which she stood. As she did, the figure in the distance shook her head and held up her hand, bringing Rhapsody to an abrupt stop. Oelendra waved, and then walked off slowly into the woods, in the direction of the Veil of Hoen. She turned once more and smiled at the bride, bathing her with a loving look of unsurpassed warmth. Then she walked away into the forest and disappeared from view.

“Rhapsody? What’s wrong, darling?” Ashe’s voice spoke warmly next to her ear.

Rhapsody turned to her husband and smiled up at him, unaware of the tears that rolled down her cheeks. “Nothing, Sam. Nothing is wrong at all.”

Gwydion looked off into the distance, then closed his eyes for a moment. “Was that Oelendra? I can barely make her out.”

“Yes. Look as well as you can, Sam; I don’t expect you will see her again, at least not it this world.”

Gwydion brushed the tears from her cheeks. “Are you all right?”

Rhapsody nodded. “Of course. How can I help but be happy for her? Tonight she’ll sleep beside Pendaris again.”

Achmed stood under the leafy boughs of an ancient oak tree, uphill from the dance floor that had been cleared in the gardens of the House of Remembrance. The members of a small but skilled orchestra from Navarne had positioned themselves across from where he stood musing, and they had set about filling the air with cheerful music, providing a welcome and appreciated break for the musicians of Tyrian. The Lord and Lady had taken almost immediately to the floor, to be joined by hundreds of their guests, and now, hours later, the forest still rang with the glad sound of celebrating people moving gracefully to the rhythmic strains of the music.

Grunthor came over, grinning, winded from his turn on the dance floor with the bride. “Watch out for ’er, sir, she’s a demon at the waltz,” he said, mopping his gigantic brow. “Oi got the method figgered out, though; you let her stand right on your feet—it don’t ’urt, she don’t weigh no more than a feather—and that way you can avoid trompin’ on ’er gown. She does look most vexed at you if you do that.”

Achmed took a sip of his brandy and smiled. “Thanks for the tip.”

Grunthor tucked the handkerchief into the pocket of his dress uniform, and rubbed the back of his neck as they both turned to watch the dancing. It was hard to miss Rhapsody, small as she was, even in the enormous crowd of revelers. Her face was shining with an ethereal light, and her laughter rang like the bells in the trees of Tyrian and the forest of the White Tree; those dancing within ten or so feet of her routinely stopped just to watch her as if entranced. She was being waltzed around by Rial now, but when, from time to time, her husband managed to steal her for a turn, her face outshone the sun.

“She looks ’appy, eh?”

“Yes, she does.”

Grunthor looked down at his friend. “ ’Ow you ’oldin’ up?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” said the Bolg, “Oi always got the impression you had a soft spot for ’er, if you take my point.”

Achmed took another drink, saying nothing.

“Course, it’s none o’ my bizness, sir, but what are you gonna do about it? Oi mean, why did you just let ’er go?”

Achmed smiled as the waltz ended and Rhapsody made a deep bow to her partner, who looked startled for a moment, then joined her in merry laughter. Edwyn Griffyth swept Gwydion aside jokingly and took her into his arms for the next dance as the orchestra shifted into the Lirin pennafar, a traditional dance of celebration. “Who said I am going to just let her go?”

Grunthor’s brow wrinkled as he looked down at the Firbolg king. “Oi think you might be a li’le late, don’t you?”

“No, actually, I’m early.”

“How you figger?”

Achmed leaned against the tree they were standing under. “All this is temporary. Ashe is a dragon, and of Cymrian blood, so he is very long-lived, but he is not immortal like the three of us. And as his longevity stems from his dragon blood, sooner or later he will confront the same problem Llauron did. He will grow more and more wyrmlike, until he eventually turns his back on his humanity, including his beloved wife, and goes off to commune with the elements.”

Understanding was beginning to dawn on Grunthor. “And then she’s yours?”

Achmed glanced up at him. “What none of you understand is that, in a very important way, she is already. She’s the only other one who knows it.”

“She does?”

“Yes.” He drained the last of his brandy. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe it’s my turn to dance with the bride.”

Grunthor shook his head as Achmed made his way down the hill. He was standing beside Rhapsody just as the dance ended, and the Sergeant watched in amusement as she looked up at the Firbolg king and smiled broadly, nodding in delight and taking his hand. He wasn’t sure what was more amusing: the sight of Achmed dancing the mazurka, or the look on Gwydion’s face as Achmed nimbly swept his bride out from in front of him and danced her away.

As the first star appeared it was greeted by a chorus of Lirinsong, then by a tempest of fireworks lighting the heavens around it. Gwydion watched the display from the top of a hilly rise beneath a willow tree, his beautiful, finally official wife leaning on his shoulder and watching the sky with him.

She sighed deeply and looked up at him, her eyes gleaming with the memory of another starry night, another willow tree.

“You know, I’ve decided something, m’lady,” he said as he leaned over and kissed her.

“Yes, m’lord?”

“The only way I intend to watch the stars from now on is by seeing their reflection in your eyes.” He kissed her again as a new shower of sparks went up, lighting her face and gleaming in her hair.

“As you wish.” The clamor from down the hill grew; the wedding guests were growing impatient, waiting for the next round of toasting and music. Rhapsody sighed again. “How much longer is this supposed to go on? We’ve been celebrating all day.”

Gwydion stood and pulled her up with him. “The nice thing about being in charge is that you get to say when you can leave,” he said, smiling down at her and remembering the rose-petal-strewn bed waiting for them in the room behind the waterfall. “Let’s go drink to our collective happiness, and then depart to start experiencing some of our own. Does that sound good to you?”

“Very good.”

Above them a golden shower of sparks ignited, brightening the darkness, to fall a moment later, slowly, drifting to earth on the warm wind. Rhapsody put out her hands with childlike delight and tried to catch some as they fell; tiny star-like embers coming to rest in her palms, gleaming between her fingers, like the dream she had had so long ago, on the other side of the world, and of Time. The light sparkled brilliantly on the diamonds of her wedding ring. The significance of the moment was lost on all but one, the one who had been with her there, under those stars, half a world away, who waited with her now, smiling, as the tiny lights gleamed brightly in her hands before burning out.

She turned to him and saw the last few floating sparks reflected in the deep chasms of the vertical pupils of his eyes, then reached up and kissed him, setting off a roar of applause from the bottom of the hill. “Ryle hira,” she whispered to him. Life is what it is.

“Nol hira viendrax,” he answered, smiling. And I am grateful for what it is.

They hurried down the hill, hand in hand in the starry darkness, running excitedly to begin the rest of their lives.