The Weaver's Lament (5 page)

“I told all of you nothing but the truth,” Ashe said as a chambermaid entered with their meal. “Every one of you is my favorite, each in a different way, and each for a different reason.”

“If one believes Mimen, and one should, since she's a Namer, it also had something to do with timing,” Laurelyn noted as she leaned back to allow the chambermaid to set her plate, then nodded her thanks. “At any given point in the day, if one child was behaving especially well or especially badly, it made the choice of Favorite Child easy, she said. When will she be home?”

“Her message this morning said ‘soon,' without specifics. But our anniversary is a sennight hence; I cannot imagine her missing it.”

Laurelyn waited until the library door had closed behind the chambermaid.

“You must be referring to the one commemorating the first wedding you held in secret in the grotto of Elysian,” she said with a solemn expression but a sparkle in her eye. “Your public anniversary is closer to autumn.”

“I didn't realize you knew about that,” Ashe said, picking up his fork.

“You should; you're the one who told me about it, when we were exploring down in that grotto long ago.”

The Lord Cymrian sighed. “I am getting old. My mind is failing me daily.” A wicked gleam came into his eye. “How is Syril?” He watched as Laurelyn's clear, milky skin turned a rosier shade.

“He's well, thank you.”

Ashe put down his fork again, crossed his arms, and leaned conspiratorially across the table.

“So now that you have settled into your relatively new role as Invoker, will we at last be receiving tidings of an upcoming wedding in the new year?”

“No.”

He blinked in surprise. “No? Why, little bird? You have shown all the subtle signs of being in love for a decade now—is the bloom off the rose?”

Laurelyn sat back and dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin.

“Not at all,” she said sensibly. “We do not intend to wait until the new year. I had planned to ask you to marry us at the end of the family summit, given that everyone will already be gathered.”

Ashe laughed out loud and took her hand, drawing it to his lips. “Wonderful!”

“But you must keep this to yourself, Papa, and tell only Mimen until the last day.”

“Why?”

“Because I do not wish our news to overshadow or take away in any part from the summit. We have not been together as a family since Andret's Naming ceremony two years ago, and I'm sure there will be a lot of family business, glad and thought-provoking tidings to discuss.” She took up her glass again. “And besides, I have such a reputation for commonsensical behavior and a dowdy personal life that the surprise should be fun.”

“You are hardly seen among the family as having a dowdy personal life,” Ashe said in amusement, returning to his quiche. “It is a source of great pride to all of us that you have ascended to the office of Invoker after three hundred years as Gavin's Tanist.” His face grew solemn. “I'm sorry that so few of the family were able to attend his funeral and your investiture. Gavin was a great man.”

“It was to be expected,” Laurelyn said. “The new Invoker is invested within one turn of the moon after the pyre of the previous one, and it was the dead of winter, before First Thaw; it was not reasonable to expect many of them to travel under the circumstances. I was grateful to have both you and Mimen there. The Filidic order does not place as much emphasis on mourning passing as it does on celebrating arrival or transition. Gavin was not offended in the least, I am absolutely certain. I am also certain he will be looking on, if he is able, from the Afterlife with joy at my long-awaited wedding.”

“Speaking of which, is it proper for me to pronounce the wedding rites for the leader of the faith to which I am only a lowly adherent?” Ashe asked.

“Of course. I may be your Invoker, but you are my sovereign. And, more importantly, my father. There is no one in the world whose blessing I would rather have on my long-in-coming marriage.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “And after three hundred years of celibacy, it's particularly appropriate for my father to bless my union, wouldn't you say? Stupid rituals. When I've tended to all the rites that need my attention, I will raise that issue with the Filidic Council and see if I can eliminate that ridiculous situation for whomever becomes my future replacement. Celibacy is an unnatural state to force upon a nature priest, or, in fact, anyone, even an Invoker-in-waiting like a Tanist.”

Ashe's face colored in much the same way as hers had a moment before. He cleared his throat.

“Uh, well, you've been the Invoker for eight months now, little bird. I can't imagine why you would still be observing an—er—unnatural state.”

“Oh, trust me, I'm not,” Laurelyn said breezily, causing Ashe to break into embarrassed laughter. “Syril is of Cymrian lineage, but it's so many generations removed from the First that the longevity it grants will most likely be minimal. There's not a moment to waste.”

Ashe nodded reflectively. The gift of an expanded life span had been both curse and blessing to his family over the centuries, though at least at this moment in Time, death had taken none of his progeny from him. But his own third-generation Cymrian lineage and the blood of the dragon Elynsynos in his veins, coupled with the seeming stoppage of Time on Rhapsody, who had not aged a day in a thousand years, had meant that some of his grandchildren appeared considerably older than their parents and even their grandparents. Loss of friends and family members over time had been something that his family had become as pragmatic about as it was possible to be.

Still, he hurt for his daughter, realizing that she would never have what he and Rhapsody shared—a union lasting a thousand years.

And, given how quickly he seemed to be aging, he was not certain how much longer he would be enjoying that blessing, either.

“Well, I'm glad to hear it,” he said, finishing his lunch.

“That's one of you,” Laurelyn said, looking down at her plate to keep from laughing. “All the serving men and women who work in the Invoker's Palace have discreetly chosen to find other lodging for the time being. Apparently
they
aren't so glad to hear it—at least at night. The walls of the Tree Palace are not particularly soundproof.”

“Well, good for you both. I guess some things
do
run in the family.” Ashe swallowed as Laurelyn rose, folded her napkin, and came to him. She bent and kissed him, then went to where her staff stood, leaning against the wall, took it in hand, and turned to face him again.

“I must be off,” she said regretfully. “I hope to make it to the guesthouse in Tref-Y-Gwartheg by nightfall. My father worries incessantly about me if I ride by night.”

“You're absolutely right, he does,” Ashe said, rising as she walked toward the door of the library. “He also prefers you to ride with a regiment—or two—or four—”

“I'm the Invoker now, Papa,” Laurelyn said indulgently. “I command the forest roads. Please, stop worrying. I'm almost five hundred years old.”

“To me, you will always be the tiny child sitting alone in the garden, singing quietly to herself, the plants, and invisible fairies—my little bird,” Ashe said, his heart in his aged eyes as he stopped in front of her near the door. “Your brother made exceptional use of the Singing lore your mimen taught all of you in the form of True-Speaking, but you employed it in song, softly, making things grow, and bloom, and heal. You can't imagine how much I love you, how much I miss you—how proud I am of you. You won't ever understand, until you have children of your own.”

“What makes you think they were invisible?” Laurelyn asked, amused.

“What?”

“The fairies. They were never invisible to me, Papa.” She watched his eyes take on a gleam, and she came into his arms again. “Not sure if the ‘children of my own' path is for me—my sister's
daughter
has children of her own now, children who apparently bounced the stuffing out of their great-grandfather a few hours ago. We will see how things come to pass, one challenge at a time. Goodbye, Papa. My love remains with you.”

“Goodbye, Your Grace,” Ashe whispered in her ear. “My love goes with you, my little bird.”

He closed his eyes as she left the room, allowing his dragon sense to wash over her, following her down the stairs and out into the world beyond his protection. He went to the window seat beneath the large library window once she had mounted her gelding and had passed through the forest gate in the western wall of Highmeadow and sat, letting his inner sense follow her to the edge of its reach—about three leagues—until the cool green vibrations of her heartbeat were at last beyond his awareness.

A flash of red, like an explosion of blood behind his eyes, roared through him, sending a shock of heat and palpable anger with it.

Ashe closed his eyes tightly, but the image shot across his brain, narrated by the seething tones of the dragon.

An image of a massive, knuckled claw descending from the sky above the forest canopy.

Snatching Laurelyn from the saddle.

Get back here,
the voice in his head hissed.
Mine.

Ashe struggled to blot the image from his mind, breathing shallowly.

In a few moments it was gone, his brain his own again.

As a wave of despair crested inside him, he recalled the message he had received that morning.

I love you; I'll be home soon.

Please come home
now,
Emily,
he thought.
I can feel the strings of my mind unraveling without you here to bind them up again.

*   *   *

After they passed through the eastern wall of Highmeadow, Reynard, Goodeve, Mendel, and Corynth rode farther on until they came to a sheltered spot in he road. Reynard was the first to signal his intention that they come off the pathway, a neatly groomed forest thoroughfare that was maintained and guarded by the forces of the Alliance.

He sat up straighter in his saddle, amid the dusty shafts of sunlight streaking the forest floor through the canopy.

“I need help making sense of this,” he said quietly to the others. “Have we been ordered, or challenged?”

“It's not clear to me,” Corynth said, casting a glance around him. “There was no direction or timetable set.”

“How could there be?” Goodeve asked. “In all of the order that has been maintained for centuries, this is the one source of random mayhem. It's unpredictable.”

“Probably the reason for the old practice of Spring Cleaning,” said Mendel archly. “While history extols the aid that the Bolg have given to major battles throughout the second Cymrian era, the wildness, the primitive violence has never been bred out of them.”

“Their repulsive king takes great pride in that,” Goodeve said. “I have heard the briefings.”

“Are all of your seconds in place?” Reynard asked. He received three nods in response. “Then, given the conditions, it seems a visit beyond the southern Teeth, to the city-states, is in order.”

“We'll need reinforcements,” Mendel said.

The others nodded in agreement and returned to the forest road.

 

4

CENTRAL TYRIAN IN THE REPOSITORY OF LORE

Meridion was finishing up his paperwork from the symposium he and his mother had just conducted when he heard, or rather felt, her voice singing his true name, a complex mathematical series of notes that made up the essence of who he was on the deepest of levels. It was a skill known only to the Namer, one of the rarest of professions in the Known World, although he and Rhapsody had just spent the better part of a fortnight working and training with most of the rest of the Namers that now existed.

She had left two days prior to get to the southeastern border of Tyrian, the great forested realm of the Lirin, in order to meet up with her two best friends in the world, Achmed the Snake, king of the Firbolg and, on a far more personal basis, guardian to him and each of his brothers and sisters, and Sergeant-Major Grunthor, his and their godfather, so hearing her speak next to his ear as he was putting papers away was a bit of a surprise.

Meridion ap Gwydion, eldest son, Child of Time, pippin, please come to the Thornberry longhouse. I love you. Mimen

Her wordless song was light, with a merry tone, so he assumed the summons was a pleasant one rather than an alert.

Meridion chuckled at her use of the word
pippin
in her salutation, the Lirin word for
baby
. His assistant, Avriel, was energetically packing up his materials, her back to him, oblivious to Rhapsody's call.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on his namesong again, particularly the musical passage
Child of Time
.

Around him, Time itself seemed to slow to a halt.

Meridion glanced at his assistant, frozen between the threads of it.

He finished his work, jotting a quick note for Avriel, then went to the coat tree at the door of the Repository and took down his cloak and walking stick.

He turned around and glanced at his assistant again.

Avriel had not moved, nor had Time.

Satisfied, he left his office in the Repository of Lore, walking past the various men and women in the hallways, all motionless, and exited the building, taking the forest road, where he concentrated more intensely.

A cylindrical corridor of power opened before him. Meridion stepped over the threshold into it.

The trees of the forest seemed to rush past him in the blink of an eye, one moving blur, until he found himself outside the door of the longhouse to which he had been summoned.

Meridion stepped out of the corridor.

Then he closed his eyes and concentrated again.

Birdsong and the breath of the wind greeted him upon his exit, the dancing boughs of trees still in leaf, the passage of foot travelers in the distance, and all the other movement of life that had come to a halt while he was traveling.