Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

Rhapsody laid a hand on the duke’s chest, feeling for the beating of his heart.

“M’lord?”

There was no response; the skin beneath her hand was cold. Her fingers went to his throat.

“M’lord?”

The pulse was as weak as she had ever felt on a living man, in his eyes she could see the distant reflection of the mist from the Veil of Hoen.

“Aria—please—”

“Daddy?”

The sound of Melisande’s voice brought a memory back to Rhapsody. The last time she had spoken with Lord Stephen was outside of Haguefort, in the arms of a bitter wind, as she heralded Llauron’s supposed death. He had smiled in the way he always did, causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle affectionately.

-

Ton know, Rhapsody, we’re practically family. Do you think there will ever be a time when you might address me just by my first name’?

No, m’lord.

Rhapsody sat up straighter, thinking. She had once sung Grunthor back from the brink of death, though as far as she could see Stephen was even more grievously injured.

“Stephen,” she sang, leaving her hand over his heart. “Stephen; stay here, with us.” She turned to Ashe, whose eyes were gleaming. “What is his name, Sam? His full name?”

“Stephen ap Wayan ap Hague, thuatha Judyth.”

She repeated the name, singing in tune with the fragile beating of the duke’s heart. Stay your hand from him, m’Lord Rowan , she thought, singing with all the powers of her Naming ability. Leave him here, in this place, just a little while longer .

She chanted his name over and over again, singing until the sun rose, her voice hoarse and tattered. As the sword tip of dawn pricked the horizon, she focused straight into it, trying to draw the warmth of the sun into Stephen to keep his body from cooling, to keep his brightness with her in the world she knew. In that sliver of blindness Rhapsody caught the silhouette of the Lord Rowan. For her, he might wait, stay his hand, however broken and torn Stephen was, commute the death sentence of any of the Cymrians who had traveled from their lives in the present to face the resurrected feud. She could mend them, repair, rename, and spare them all. And she turned away in relief, to see still scattered among the wounded, being carried off like bits of firewood, the thousands that had been pulled from rest by Anwyn.

Her ministrations would be wholly different, could raise them to life for peace, resurrect them to higher service. She imagined them smiling, imagined Stephen at the door of the museum.

And wept at the temptation, and at the incalculable loss.

“No,” she said between her tears. “I can’t do it, Sam. I can’t. He will have to cast his own lot, make his own passage through the Gate, or choose to stay on this side of it. I can sing him to the path, but he has to choose it. If Death has decided to take him, I have no more right to try and dissuade it than Anwyn did.”

“Aria—”

“No,” she said, her voice stronger. “I can’t call him back through the Gate. He has those he loves on both sides of it. If he chooses to slip away to that rest, who am I to force him to remain? He has reason to stay, and reason to go. We must be humble and reverent in the face of whatever choice he and Death make between them.”

She took Ashe’s hand, and he bowed his head over it in grief. They stood watch, hoping that Stephen would begin to breathe again, to inhale the color of the sunrise into his cheeks. But as each moment passed, his skin grew more alabaster, his hands colder.

As dawn crested the clouds, the light left the duke’s eyes. Rhapsody looked to the horizon, and thought she saw a brief glint of a smile within the shadow from beyond the Veil of Hoen.

“Receive him kindly, m’Lord Rowan,” she whispered into the morning wind. Beside her Ashe began to weep.

Rhapsody looked over her shoulder at the white faces of Rosella and the children. She put her hands out to them.

“Quick! Come quickly!”

Gwydion Navarne’s hand was icy as she grasped it and pulled him and Melisande in front of her, wrapping her arms around them, pointing off into the rising sun.

In the shadow of golden light edging over the horizon they could see the outline of their friend, their lord, their father, standing straight again, broken no more. His shadow, long and black before the sunrise, stretched out to them. The radiance of the morning light caused his hair to shine, golden.

Beside him was another shadow, slighter, darker, backlit by daybreak.

“Who is that?” Melisande asked, shielding her eyes.

Rhapsody pulled her closer, smiling through her tears. “Your mother.”

Softy she began to sing the Lirin Song of Passage, weaving his name— Stephen —into the ancient dirge. The growing light of dawn seemed to stop brightening, holding steady for a moment.

Ashe recognized what she was doing. He reached out and touched Melisande’s face, then rested his hand on Gwydion Navarne’s shoulder.

“Bid him farewell,” he said to the children. His voice had regained its strength; there was wisdom in its tone. Gwydion Navarne raised his head and stared off at the horizon.

“Goodbye, Father,” the boy said softly. Melisande waved, unable to speak. Behind them, Rosella dissolved into grief.

In the depths of memory Gwydion recalled his father’s words at the passing of Talthea, the Gracious One.

Time holds on to us all, Gwydion. Like all mortal men subject to the whims of Time, he struggles to stave off death as long as possible, because he does not know it for the blessing it sometimes can be. For you, and for me, Time goes on.

Gwydion raised his hand to the rising sun.

Numbly Rhapsody sang, light spilling into her eyes now, her head buzzing, her heart frozen, a dam against the pain she knew was to come. She wondered if the wisdom that the Moot had granted her was giving her the strength to maintain calm for the sake of Stephen’s children, for the sake of the Cymrian people. For Ashe’s sake.

For her own sake.

Behind the fading shadow in the sun she could see others, scores of them, standing in the distant light of a glade, peaceful and green, behind the Veil of Hoen.

She brought the dirge to its end.

“Goodbye, Stephen,” she said. “I’ll take care of them for you.”

In a burst of glory, the sun crested the horizon fully, illuminating the sky to a brilliant blue. The wind came up, the wind of morning, dispersing the smoke from the smoldering ashes.

Rhapsody looked around at the dawn shining hazily through the desolation and smoke of the fields around the ruin of the Great Moot. The soldiers of

Roland and of Ylorc were moving among the Cymrians like living men among sleepwalkers.

The Lord Cymrian stood and offered her his hand.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s finish this.”

From the remains of the Summoner’s Rise, the new Lord and Lady Cymrian looked over the morning valley at the base of the Teeth, down on the people who had sworn fealty to them only the day before. The pain and loss were unmistakable, but so was the hope—even as Firbolg soldiers joined with the army of Roland in rebuilding and rescue, the refugees of Serendair and their descendants put aside old animosities and reached across the chasms of bitter years to begin rebuilding a new alliance of peace.

Rhapsody stared down at the horn in her hands. The casing was cracked, the magic that bound the storm-tossed survivors in promise broken, drained from it like the shine from tarnished metal. Still, there was good cheer in the air that surrounded it, a sense of hope and survival that had lasted through the death of the Island, the horror of the Great War, and even the rising of the Dead, to stand firm, a bellwether of a future that was strong and bright.