Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

The villagers from the outlying settlements, fearing just that, had swarmed in waves to the protection of the Circle, seeking shelter beneath the arms of the Great White Tree. Almost as quickly they left and returned to their homes when the flames broke along the forest roads, sparing the villages, hospices, and training settlements of the foresters who plied the Cymrian Trails as pilgrimage guides. At least one peasant was heard to remark at the power of the new Invoker, a dominion so ever-present that even the element of wildfire did not touch his faithful.

Blessed be ye, Your Grace.

Khaddyr stood beneath the Tree and watched them go.

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—”