Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

“If there is to be fire from the Sky, it shall not serve your hateful will, Anwyn. Let any fire that would rain down from the Sky bring the end of strife, and seal the beginning of a new era of peace.”

Child of the Sky.

Below them, in the Bowl of the Moot, the enormous rift in the ground rumbled and widened, splitting deeply. The bodies of the Fallen crumbled and rolled into the opening grave like pebbles rolling down a hillside.

The light from the dragon’s fiery breath splashed over the four standing on the Summoner’s Rise. The sound of rage, ancient, more powerful than the ages, screamed in the air around them. The beast, bleeding from one eye and the severed claw, surged through the air, soaring over the Moot; she inhaled, drawing in breath like the wind of a hurricane, preparing to discharge her fire in the direction of the Summoner’s Rise.

At that moment, Rhapsody spoke the name of the star.

The blast that descended shook the Rise, and the Moot itself. With an unearthly roar the fire of the star, the pure, unbridled element of ether that preceded the birth of all other elements, rained down from the sky and struck the dragon as she hovered in the air, poised to strike. The beast arched, illuminated by a light brighter than the sun, then fell, spiraling, into the rift of earth in the Moot floor, the grave that had erupted like a spider pustule with the Disinterred and which Grunthor had widened.

As Anwyn sank beneath the crust of earth Grunthor closed his eyes and shrugged, pushing his hands together as though molding ethereal clay. The floor of the Moot shuddered, then closed rapidly, filling in the place where Anwyn had fallen. The crumbled sides of the Moot gave way, tumbling in upon themselves, forming a great mound of earth and rock in the middle of the floor of the Bowl.

Rhapsody spoke the name of the star again; this time light, clear and pure, descended from the star, washing over the Moot, sealing the ground beneath which the dragon lay.

In the distance she was aware of the thundering noise of war dimming to silence. As the starlight faded she looked across the dusky sky and saw that the Fallen had slipped, tumbling back into the Earth, back to the Past, leaving behind confusion but no more battle.

She turned to Gwydion and threw her arms around him, holding tight as he returned her embrace, then in turn embraced both of her companions, two men who shared her history, her life, and her future.

“It’s over,” she said simply. “Now the work begins.” the night passed Achmed and Grunthor sorted through the rubble of the fields with Rhapsody and Ashe, reassigning troops, destroying ghoulish remains that still quivered with malice, assigning healing units, working to calm the populace that was still in shock.

In the glow of the thousands of campfires now burning amid the devastation, Achmed came upon Tristan Steward. The Lord Roland was uninjured but silent, gazing into the distance at the Moot, his sobbing wife leaning on his arm for support.

The Firbolg king stared down at the regent, an expression close to pity in his eyes. Tristan Steward finally looked up at him.

“Do either of you require medical assistance?” Achmed asked. The Lord Roland shook his head. The Firbolg nodded, then turned to leave.

“Wait,” Tristan Steward said. His voice came out in a weak whisper. Achmed stood silently as the regent rose shakily, then brushed the grime from his hands. He stared at the Firbolg king without speaking. Finally Achmed grew impatient.

“Well?”

“The—the army—my army—

“Yes?”

The Lord Roland lapsed into silence.

“It was inspired that you brought them here in a gesture of goodwill,” Achmed said as pleasantly as he could. “Now that, like my army, their allegiance is to Rhapsody, it was good that they were here to witness her investiture. Is that what you were trying to say?”

Tristan Steward’s mouth dropped open, then shut resolutely.

“Yes,” he said.

“I thought so. Excuse me,” Achmed said. He turned and walked off into the night with Grunthor and his aides-de-camp.

Rhapsody moved among the injured with Krinsel, the Finder midwife, tending to the wounds of both human and Bolg alike. The Cymrians had largely been spared, thanks to the armies of Roland and Ylorc, and the work of Ashe and the soldiers he had enlisted to hold back the Fallen while the rest escaped.

She was tying up the broken arm of a dark Cymrian, a man of the race known as Kith, when Rial appeared at her side, a somber expression on his face.

“M’lady?”

Rhapsody glanced up at her viceroy and smiled, the expression draining from her face at the look in his eyes.

“What is it?”

Rial extended his hand. “Come, please, m’lady.”

She took his hand and followed him in the dark over the broken field to a place where the body of a beautiful black stallion lay, twisted back upon itself. At the stallion’s side bent Faedryth, the Nain king, beside Oelendra, also crouched on the ground. Rhapsody stared at the dead horse and began to tremble.

“No,” she whispered. “Oh, gods, no. Anborn.”

The king of the Nain looked up at her, blood oozing from a gash to his forehead. “He’s alive still, barely,” Faedryth said sadly. “His back is broken.”

“No,” she said again as she stepped over Faedryth’s legs and bent between him and Oelendra. “Anborn? Gods, what have I done to you?”

The Cymrian general was propped up against the chest of his friend, the Nain king, covered with Rial’s red cloak. His face was ghostly white beneath the dark hair of his beard, but he managed to feebly strain his arm toward her. She reached to take his hand.

“You’ve—redeemed me,” he said, his voice soft and ragged. “Through you Manwyn’s prophecy has—been fulfilled. I have found the slightest of my kinsmen. I caught the sky when it fell. You have helped me—mend both the rift within—myself, and the one I caused—so long—ago—among my fellow Cymrians. See? I am tended by both Lirin and Nain; who—would have thought it possible?”

Tears streamed down her face as she tenderly took the rugged hand between her own and rested her cheek on it. Anborn reached out with some pain and stroked her hair.

“I would gladly give my life—or my legs—in your service, m’lady,” he said with great effort. “It is my honor to be—sworn to you.”

“Rhapsody! Rhapsody !”

Ashe’s voice sounded over the crackle of the fire, the whine of the wind, carrying with it the sound of desperation and fear.

Anborn patted the side of her face.

“Go—to him,” he said.

“When I come back I will tend to you,” she said, rising. “I will employ every skill I have as a Singer to heal you.”

Anborn smiled and waved her off.

“Go,” he said.

Rhapsody looked over the fields of injured and dying, great splits of earth where the field had once been fallow. She followed Ashe’s voice on the wind, back toward the doors of the Moot where only a day before the Cymrians had processed in with so much hope.

Lying beyond the doors, in a place where many had fallen, Ashe was bent over the broken body of Lord Stephen Navarne, his best friend. Rhapsody hurried to his side.

“Help him—Aria, please; don’t let me lose him again,” Ashe choked. He patted Stephen’s face, trying to revive the duke, whose blue-green eyes stared into the next world.

Rhapsody sank to her knees on the gory earth next to the men. Her eyes went from Lord Stephen’s pale face to the hill above where he lay. Gwydion Navarne, her oldest grandchild, stood, a look of forced bravery on his face, his arms around his sister, Melisande, who wept as if her heart would break. Rosella stood with her arms around both of them, a look of terror in her eyes.