Destiny: Child Of Sky (25 page)

'Impossible," Shrike murmured. His face grew even paler.

Ashe smiled, and reached into the pocket of his cloak. He drew forth a small pouch, loosened the drawstring, and shook something small out into his hand. It caught the light of the fire in the same manner his hair had. He held it up before Shrike's eyes. It was a thirteen-sided coin, struck in copper, oddly shaped.

'Do you remember this?“ he asked. "You gave it to me years ago, when I was just a lad, to jolly me out of my boredom on a Day of Convening."

The ancient man craned his neck with great effort, then collapsed back against the tree trunk again. “I remember." He pulled the rough blanket up over his shoulder with fingers that trembled. “I can recall each time I have beheld you, Lord Gwydion, because it gave me endless joy to do so. Each time—I—looked at you I saw your grandfather, Gwylliam, at his—noblest, your grandmother, Anwyn, at her most wise. You were our hope, Gwydion, the promise—of—a brighter future for a war-torn people. Our solace. Your death was the end of hope for me—and for all the Cymri-ans." The strain of speech overwhelmed him, and Shrike coughed, then went silent.

'Forgive me, Grandfather,“ Ashe said softly. "I have carried the knowledge of the injury my deception has caused my family and friends. I regret any pain it has caused you as well."

Shrike coughed again, this time more violently. “Why, then?"

'It was not of my doing, at first. Then it was out of necessity. I cannot explain it past that. But you are right; to continue to hide now is cowardly. I will do it no more."

Shrike smiled wanly. “You intend to remove the shield from your face, then?"

Ashe smiled in turn, and rested his forearms on his knees. “When it suits me."

'Does it suit you now?"

Ashe laughed. “Can you see me?"

The ancient man snorted with annoyance and pain. “Bugger you for toying with me in my last moments. Are you willing to stand in the sight of Time, and let your name be on the wind, or not?"

Ashe's face grew solemn, and his dragonesque pupils contracted. “Yes," he said.

Shrike inched up a little higher against the tree and smiled. “Then I have recompense to offer you after all, Lord Gwydion."

The night seemed to grow darker around the small fire. Shrike's eyes gleamed more brightly; it was as if he had drawn the light out of the air into himself, and now sat, staring into the flames, lost in thought.

Ashe waited silently, observing him closely. Though the ancient man's damaged eyes had taken on new life, his skin was growing grayer. The dragon in his blood could feel Shrike's body waning, his life ebbing away slowly, even as his soul grew stronger in the fire's light.

Finally, when the wind had died down and the night had become silent enough that the snow itself could be heard falling in soft whispers on the frozen ground, Shrike spoke.

'My sword,“ he said quietly. "Is it still here?"

Ashe rose and went to the gelding, standing twenty paces away in a copse of trees, blanketed against the snow. He unbound the curved scabbard from the saddlebag and brought it back to Shrike, putting it carefully into his hands. The old man's heart beat stronger as he touched it.

'Thank the gods," he murmured. With great effort he eased the weapon from its sheath and held it up before his eyes. It was an ancient blade of modest manufacture and without ornamentation, old and battered as its bearer. Ashe recognized the curve of it; it was a sailor's cutlass, shortened in the same manner as the swords from the Cymrian ships that lay in the dusty display cases of Stephen's museum.

Shrike watched the fire's reflection in the dark steel a moment longer, then turned back to Ashe.

'Listen closely, son of Llauron, and I will repay your kindness.

'I met your grandsire, King Gwylliam, on the—day—the last ship of the Third Fleet set sail. I was a hand on the Serelinda, the vessel which—carried the king away from the Island for the last time." Shrike leaned against the rotten trunk and closed his eyes, exerted by the effort of the speech.

'Rest, Grandfather,“ said Ashe gently. "I'm certain there will be at least a moment to talk once we reach lodging and patch you up a bit. Surely Anborn won't throw me out right away; you can tell me your story when you are feeling better."

Shrike's eyes snapped open, blazing with intense fire. “You're a bigger fool than I thought, Gwydion ap Llauron," he muttered. “What know you of moments?" He struggled to sit up taller and glared at Ashe. “I am the Lord of the Last Moment, the Guardian of That Which None Shall See Again, so—named—by your own grandsire. Are you saying that there is none such in your own past? Nothing you would—give your very soul to see again, just once?"

-'

Ashe's strange blue eyes blinked in shock at the harsh response. “No," he said after a moment, “I would certainly not say that. There are any number of things I can think of that I would give a great deal to change if I could." He looked away from the fire and out into the darkness, broken only by the ebb and flow of waves of crystalline snow.

Shrike snorted contemptuously. “I said nothing of change," he muttered, breathing more heavily. “I cannot alter Time for you, Lord Gwydion, any more than I could for your grandsire." He leaned back on one elbow, and brushed the snow from his head. “Now, do you wish to hear my tale or not?"

'Forgive my rudeness. I am listening."

The old man exhaled deeply, and drew in a ragged breath. He tilted the sword to reflect the firelight again, then looked off into the sky above him, his eyes looking past the falling snow to another night, another sky.

'Your grandsire was a man given to changeable moods, Lord Gwydion,“ he said finally. "Even before he had his vision foretelling the destruction of Serendair, the sailors told stories of his famous temper, his ready laugh that could turn to fury or despair in a heartbeat, then back again a moment later. Given that he was about to lose his birthright, and all that set him apart from any other mortal man,'twas not surprising that he was in the clutches of a thick gloom the day we set sail, leaving the Island behind forever." Shrike paused, and Ashe handed him the waterskin, from which he took a deep drink. Shrike capped it and handed it back, finally looking at his listener again.

'The seas were boiling, the fire beneath them raging, in the heat building from the Sleeping Child,“ he said, his eyes darkening in memory. "We were sore afraid that we would not make it out in time, all but His Majesty, who only leaned despondently on the stern rail and watched morosely as we pulled out of port for the last time, the Serelinda pitching fore and aft like a cork on the sea. 'Twas a miracle we were not torn apart in the crosscurrent." Ashe, a sailor himself, nodded.

'No one dared beckon the king away from the rail, though there was word passed among the crew that his retinue feared he might go over the side. His greatest friend, Lord Hague, remained ever at his side, talking with him, keeping him tranquil; there never was a man with more of a gift for calming your grandsire than he, Gwydion."

Ashe smiled and nodded silently. Hague had been a direct ancestor of Stephen Navarne, his best friend in life when life was still his own. Perhaps more than blue eyes ran in Cymrian royal families.

He took in breath as silently as he could so as not to distract the ancient Cymrian from his tale; Shrike's breathing had grown stronger, his lapses between words less frequent, as if the tale, and the memory it told, was sustaining him. There was a power in his voice that filled Ashe with awe, as if he was hearing history relate itself.

'As we neared the rim of the horizon, the king became even more anxious, pacing the deck and wringing his hands. He kept his eyes to the south, watching the Island ebb and return with the fallowing of the ship, panicking each time he thought it was gone from his sight forever. Even its return a moment later did not seem to calm him. 'Twas painful to watch.

'Finally, when he lost sight of it, with no return on the upwave, he grew hysterical.

Madness was in his eyes, Gwydion. A score of sailors and noblemen hovered nearby, awaiting his pitch, for surely it was coming. Hague rested his hand on the king's shoulder, and Gwylliam collapsed in despair.

'I was a lookout in those days. These eyes were once sharp enough to pick out a tern in the sun a hundred leagues away; they're still a damned sight finer than most men's, I can assure you. I was standing watch in the crow's nest, and it was from there that I watched all the carryings-on.

'Gwylliam was moaning like a man on his deathbed, ranting at Lord Hague. 'I've had my last sight of it, Hague; it's gone, gone forever now. What I would give to see it just once more, Hague, just once more!' Sad it is, to see a man suffer the death of all he has been, had ever hoped to be. Couldn't watch it; I had to look away, and as I did, I caught the sight of Balatron's highest peak, on the north side of that purple mountain range, gleaming in the rays of the setting sun.

'I called down to your grandsire, Gwydion, shouted the bearings for him to see it again. The first mate handed him a spyglass, and evidently the king was able to sight it, too, for he grew most excited and joyful, rising out of that pit of hopelessness like a seagull on an updraft.

'He stared into the distance a good long time, becoming contemplative again, and when at last he lowered the spyglass he looked up to the crow's nest. His bright blue eyes sighted on me, and he called from the deck, 'Ho, my fine man, come down so that I may thank you!' And when your king calls you so, you scurry down with all due haste." Shrike chuckled, lost in the pleasant memory, and Ashe smiled.

He could almost feel the salt spray, smell the scent of the waves, hear the creak of the decks, watching the excitement in the old man's eyes.

'When I reached the deck the king was smiling again, something I had not seen since he boarded, had never seen, in fact, since I had not had occasion to meet him, or even see him before. I confess his first words to me gave me pause—'Have you a sword, my good man?' Given his wild swings of mood and temper, I was fearful for a moment that my life was in danger, that he was somehow angry with me.

Nonetheless, I surrendered my cutlass to him, as one does when the king commands.

'He asked my name, and I give it to him. 'Kneel, Shrike,' he says, and I prepared for my beheading. Imagine my surprise when instead he taps me lightly on both shoulders, and dubs me'the Lord of the Last Moment, the Guardian of That Which None Shall See Again,' with his thanks. Coulda knocked me over with a breath, lad."

'I can imagine," Ashe said, chuckling. He shook the accumulation of snow from his cloak.

Shrike's face lost its smile. “I believe when he said it he was making jest, Lord Gwydion. But it was a strange moment, not just because of his own unpredictable mood, but because of the time we were caught up in. We were at the end of an age, the last age of the first place where Time began, being flung about on a boiling sea beneath which a star was rising. And even if all that weren't the case, a king's word is a strange and powerful thing. At the time it was said in jest, but later I came to realize that an oath, no matter how it is given, has the ability to command Destiny."

Ashe's face lost its smile. He thought back to all the times when Rhapsody had patiently explained to him the need for a Namer to speak only the truth, to be wary of what was said, even in jest, because words could become reality.

Shrike began to wheeze again. “The long and the short of it is that I am, in fact, Lord of the Last Moment, Lord Gwydion, the guardian of—that which none will ever see again. I found over the years that I could show your grandsire that momentary glimpse of our homeland again, and again, because he had given me the power to do so. It gave him great solace in his darkest times." He pulled the blanket closer to his neck, his hands trembling. “Your grandmother, now, she didn't appreciate my doing so. She felt only she should be able to look back into the Past, that being her domain."

'I'm not surprised,“ Ashe said dryly. "Anwyn is a dragon; she believes everything on Earth is hers exclusively."

'She learned otherwise."

'At incalculable expense,“ Ashe muttered, then stopped as he saw the pain on Shrike's face. "Forgive me, Grandfather. I'm certain your efforts brought Gwylliam great comfort, and I am glad you were able to give him sight into his lost moment."

Shrike gave in to a racking cough, then turned his tattered eyes once on Ashe.

“And I can do so with you as well. Now, do you still wish to wait until I have been returned to Anborn?"

'If you can show me the last sight of Serendair, it would be most interesting,“ Ashe said. "But I would not risk your health further for such a vision."

Your last moment, you idiot,“ Shrike growled. "Something lost to you, that you have seen, that none will ever see again. Do you have such a moment in your memory?"

Ashe sat up straighter in the fire's light. Silence reigned for a time in the hidden woodland camp, broken intermittently by Shrike's heavy breath and coughing.

When Ashe spoke again, his voice was soft.

'Yes,“ he said slowly. "I believe I do."

Shrike nodded, then gestured weakly toward the low-burning fire. “Then move me nearer, lad."

Ashe rose, setting his waterskin down on the frozen ground. He slid his forearms gently beneath Shrike's arms, and carefully pushed him closer to the burning coals.

Shrike grunted his approval when he was near enough, and Ashe returned to the log on which he had been sitting, watching the old man intently.

With great effort the ancient Cymrian raised his battered cutlass and held it so that it reflected the firelight.

'Look into the fire, Gwydion ap Llauron ap Gwylliam tuatha d'Anwynan o Manosse."

Quickly Ashe's outstretched hand shot out. “Wait, Grandfather; if you are to show me something in the fire, desist. I'll forgo the sight."

'Why?"

Ashe laughed bitterly. “Suffice to say that I don't trust the element. I would not wish any memory of mine to be visible to its denizens."

Shrike coughed deeply, then shuddered. "I cannot show you the Past without reflecting it to you in one of the Five Gifts, the primordial elements. In their power alone can something as fleeting as old—memory be held for a moment. We are nowhere near the sea; the stars are hidden by the snow, and the Earth—sleeps now.