Destiny: Child Of Sky (44 page)

'Very well, then. I assume you are aware of what happened to your own mother upon giving birth to the child of a partial dragon?“ Llauron could feel the blood drain from Ashe's face even beneath the hood. "I have spared you the details up until now—shall I give them to you? Do you crave to know what it is like to watch a woman, not to mention one that you happen to love, die in agony trying to bring forth your child, hmmm? Let me describe it for you. Since the dragonling instinctually needs to break the eggshell, clawing through, to emerge, the infant—"

'Stop,“ Ashe commanded, his voice harsh as acid. "Why are you doing this?"

'To answer your question, ingrate son. I know that you love her. I knew you would before you even met her—who wouldn't? How could you possibly resist her? And I also knew that somehow the training, and the natural stoicism of our family, has managed not to make an impression on you. You have always been moonstruck, babbling about your dead soulmate, pestering An-wyn for information about something that was only a dream.

'So when it became obvious that you had lost your heart to this one, I needed to step in to remind you that you have a responsibility that supersedes the heat of your loins, one that involves not only responsibly choosing a marriage partner, but also producing an heir. And that will, in all likelihood, mean that your mate will die, like mine did. Your child will be even more of a dragon than you were, so the chances of the mother's survival are not good. If your own mother could not give birth to you and live, what will happen, do you think, to your mate?

'You accuse me of hating you—how stupid you are being. It is, in fact, my love for you that has informed my actions. I don't wish you to suffer as I did. If the Lirin queen had accepted my proposal, I would have never suffered the pain I did when Cynron died; but life works out as it does. So instead I watched with horror the greatest sadness of my life in the face of what should have been my greatest joy.

And I don't wish for you to repeat my mistake, nor do I want to lose Rhapsody to our world. You would become ineffectual, and this place would be a darker one.

So strike out at me in your frustration all you like—the truth is, I am trying to spare you pain from which you may never recover."

Llauron heard no sound when he stopped speaking; it was as if all the air had gone out of the room. He turned slowly to face his son, who was standing rigid across the dark study. He took a step toward him, and watched as Ashe's body relaxed, a sure sign he had rationalized things in his mind.

'We will just forgo having children,“ he said, his voice tinged with sadness but weak with relief. "Rhapsody adopts every child she comes upon who needs her.

We won't be childless. There will be more than enough love in our lives, with or without them."

'Not an option,“ said Llauron coldly. "You know better by now. You have a responsibility to produce an heir, and it must be of the blood. How would a child without Cymrian lore rule a people so innately powerful? You were gifted with the line of MacQuieth, the blood of the Seren kings and the elemental ties of the Dragon; who else could assure that they will live in peace? Who else could undo the damage caused by both your grandparents?"

Ashe felt relief break, like an egg, over him. “Manwyn."

'What?"

'Manwyn. She has already foretold this. She told me clearly that, though my mother had died giving birth to me, that my children's mother would not die giving birth to them. She's safe, Father. Rhapsody is safe. The Seer has said so."

Llauron considered. “How do you know she was referring to Rhapsody?"

Anger sparked in Ashe's eyes. “Because, as I have told you, I will have no other than she. No other woman will bear my children; therefore, she is safe."

Llauron sighed. “I have only a short time left with you, Gwydion, so I will choose my last bits of advice to impart to you carefully, in the hope you will actually pay them some heed for once. Beware of prophecies; they are not always as they seem to be. The value of seeing the Future is often not worth the price of the misdirection."

'Thank you for the advice. In the meantime, I plan to stop living in the shadows of fear and take what is rightfully mine."

-

'Good, good.“ Llauron rubbed his hands as if to warm them. "Now, that's more like it. I am glad to see you are finally coming into your own, at peace with your destiny."

Beneath his hood, Ashe smiled. “That's not at all what I meant. What is rightfully mine is my own life, Father; I have been living it without any say in it for long enough. I will honor my destiny and my duty in the best way I know how—by doing whatever I can to make Rhapsody my wife and the Lady Cymrian. I cannot imagine there is another who would be better—you said so yourself."

Llauron sighed. “You're right, I did, didn't I? All right, then, a word of warning: remember your grandparents. Never raise your hand to her, and never let your personal quarrels harm your subjects."

'Of course not." Even without being visible, the insult Ashe felt was clear.

'Very well, then, since you seem to be set on it, and time is growing short, let me give you my blessing."

Ashe's mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?"

Llauron smiled, but there was a tinge of annoyance in his voice. “Now, Gwydion, don't spoil this tender fatherly moment. Kneel."

Ashe bent before him, and Llauron laid a hand on the coppery curls, a wistful look in his eyes. “First, be happy. Treasure her."

Ashe waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. “That's all?" he asked after a moment. “No lecture?"

Llauron laughed. “No, no lecture. I told you, time is growing short. Too many words dissipate the meaning. I do want you to be happy, and if you do as I suggest, I know you will be. Now, how's for a brandy? That's one aspect of humanity I shall miss; a good snifter of the golden elixir now and then."

Ashe walked with him to the cabinet as the warm light from the sunset began to shine on the floor in windowpane patterns of pink and gold.

'Now, Father, you don't need to live without that just because you're a dragon. I know a place where I can get you a large trough. You should be able to have a good slurp from time to time."

'Barbarian." The guards outside heard the sound of laughter emerge from behind the door, and sighed.

Herald Owen, the chamberlain of Haguefort, was on his way to his bedchamber to retire for the evening when he passed the library doors.

Though the double doors were closed, an icy gust of wind blasted from beneath them. Gerald stopped, surprised, and rested his hand against a mahogany panel; it was cold to the touch.

Perhaps the duke is up late, he mused, but discarded the thought as soon as it occurred. Lord Stephen had turned in for the night a few hours before, citing a need for rest in order to be ready to review the rebuilt barracks and the wall guard posts in the early morning hours with the master of his regiment. Gerald opened the door.

The shock of the cold air stung against his face and exposed skin. While not an elderly man, Gerald was long past youth's prime, and was more vulnerable to the aches and pains he had remembered plaguing his father in his later years. Like his father, Gerald never complained, seeing each twinge and spasm as something to be endured silently, with grace, so as not to distract the duke or the household staff who served under him in any way. He expected as much from the staff as well.

The vast, dark room was filled with shadows and slashes of white light reflecting through the towering windows from the sheets of snow that were writhing outside them. Those billowing shadows danced across the furniture in time to the music of the breeze. A discordant wail rose and fell as the wind whipped around the keep, fluttering the drapes of the open balcony door wildly. The fireplace was cold and dark; the ashes were lifeless.

Gerald entered the library and quietly closed the doors. The howl of the wind diminished somewhat, and the drapes settled back, rustling now instead of flapping. His footsteps were swallowed by the moaning wind as he crossed the enormous room to the balcony doors, passing through wide fields of snow shadows flickering on the polished marble floors and thick silk rugs.

When he reached the doorway he looked out onto the balcony. The stone benches were crowned with several inches of pristine snow, as was the wide stone railing, ornately sculpted, that ringed the semicircular balcony. The carpet of snow on the balcony floor, however, had been marred by numerous small footprints, not much larger than those of a child, dimpled impressions of toes that put him in mind of a distracted kitten's, leading to the edge and back again several times. There was no one on the balcony.

Gerald hurried out into the bitter night, covering his ears with his hands, and looked down at the ground below the balcony. The snow of the evergreen trees and the courtyard below was unmarred; an ice crust had formed, smooth and serene, dusted by crystals scattering before the insistent gale. Satisfied that no one had fallen, the chamberlain hastened back into the library, pushed the doors shut, and locked them. The cries of the wind softened to a distant keen.

Gerald Owen took out his handkerchief. He bent slowly and wiped up the crystals of snow that had accumulated on the library floor while the door was open.

He was rubbing his hands and halfway across the room again on his way back to the hallway when a white shadow, slightly more solid and stationary than the others, caught his eye. It was huddled amid the dancing shades on the floor next to the sideboard, trembling.

Gerald walked slowly over toward the figure. In the darkness her enormous eyes were even larger, her light brown hair hung in loose waves over her thin shoulders.

Her hands were clutching a small cloth sack; the duke's decanter of after-dinner brandy was sitting on the floor beside her, the glass stopper in her lap.

-

'Rosella?"

Upon hearing her name the woman in the white dressing gown looked up sharply.

Her eyes darted around the room madly, resting momentarily on Gerald's face, then dashed off again, as if pursuing flying objects only she could see. Gerald slowed his steps even more.

When he was within an armspan of her, the governess began whispering wildly.

'I do, I love the children, sir, I love them, and the duke, of course, the duke has my undying devotion as well. He does. I do, I love them all, would die for any one of them, you have to believe me, sir, I would, I would die for any of them. I love them."

Gerald crouched down before her and reached out his hand, but the girl shrank away. He withdrew it and spoke as gently as he could.

'Of course you do, Rosella, as do we all. No one would ever doubt your loyalty to Lord Stephen or the children."

Rosella's gaze came to rest on his face and remained there; within her eyes Gerald could see madness burning.

'I do, sir, I love them all."

'Yes, yes, of course you do."

'I love them."

'I know."

Outside the windows the wind picked up, howling furiously. Rosella's dark eyes darted away again, and she began to whimper like a frightened child.

Gerald reached out to her once more, and once again she reared away. “It's all right, Rosella," the chamberlain said soothingly. “It's all right." The governess began to mutter to herself, incoherently now. When Gerald caught her eye again, it had clouded over, reflecting the light of the snow.

'The duke,“ she whispered repeatedly. "The duke."

Gerald Owen remained crouched for a long time, ignoring the screaming protest of his knees and back, not moving, until her muttering finally ceased. Afraid what she might do if he were to frighten her, he stood slowly and backed away. He put out his hand again.

'Rosella?"

'The duke," she whispered. The terror on her face resonated in Gerald's soul.

'I'll get him,“ he said. "Don't move, Rosella."

_As the door closed behind the chamberlain, the voice in the wind grew louder.

Now, Rosella.

It had been howling at her for hours, directing her to its will, berating her incompetence, her stupidity. It no longer threatened, no longer growled, only whispered softly in the darkness past the closed windows.

Now, Rosella.

The governess's face hardened, and her trembling stopped. The pain in her frozen feet from when she had stood at the balcony edge in the snow ebbed until it vanished.

Slowly she rose and went to the sideboard. The heavy stopper of the decanter tumbled smoothly down the skirt of her dressing gown and onto the floor, where it spun in rolling circles under the table. The small shard of glass from where the fall chipped it twinkled in the reflected light.

She took a crystal snifter and righted it, then held it up in the dancing light of the snow. The curved bowl caught the illumination and held it in the glass like liquid moonlight.

Now, Rosella.

Rosella set the snifter on the sideboard, then opened the tiny drawstring of the cloth sack, damp and deeply wrinkled from the clutching of her hands. She upended the sack into the snifter, then took the decanter of brandy from the floor and splashed a finger of the liquid into the glass. She swirled the snifter slowly, watching the fine powder catch the currents in the brandy and vanish into them, then held the glass up to the snowy light again.

Now, Rosella.

She put the glass to her lips.

'If you love me, or my children, you won't drink it."

Rosella spun around. Lord Stephen stood before her in his nightshirt; in the light spilling from the hallway she could see Gerald Owen as well at the door.

'Give me the glass."

'M'lord—"

'Now, Rosella."

The words of her beloved master shattered the grasp of the voice in the wind that had wound around her mind. She reached out her hand with the glass; it was shaking violently.

Stephen took the snifter, gently prying her fingers from around the bowl. He walked to the cold fireplace and hurled it into the dark stones at the back, then returned to the sideboard.

'Who gave you the adder-flower extract?"