Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

She raised the horn to her lips and sounded it; it was not a martial call, a call to battle, but rather a call of victory.

In return, the Cymrians below roared in affirmation, filling the summer air with the sound of their cheers.

She yielded the floor to Gwydion, who stood by her side, commending those who had fought bravely, blessing those who had been lost, and returning to the announcements he had been in the process of making when the Earth had sundered beneath them.

He hurried through his proclamations: the speakers for each representative group, and any other interested parties, were invited to stay to plan the merging and rebuilding of the Cymrian states. The rest of the group was excused, invited to return in a year’s time for the next Council, which would convene every third year thereafter. The wedding would take place three months hence, on the first day of autumn, at the sapling tree of the Oak of Deep Roots, growing in what had once been the House of Remembrance. He thanked the Cymrians for their attendance and participation, then seized Rhapsody’s hand and led her speedily off the rise before the crowd of well-wishers could sweep them away as they had tried two nights before.

On her way down the side of the rockwall Rhapsody looked up to see Achmed and Grunthor watching her. She smiled at them hesitantly: Grunthor stared at her, straight-faced, but Achmed gave her the hint of a knowing smile in return. Then she was gone, pulled out of the way of the swelling crowd.

From her hiding place on the lower ledge Rhapsody watched as the crowds slowly made their way out of the remains of the Bowl. It would take many days for the fields around the Moot to empty, she knew, between the reunions among Houses and old friends who tarried behind, renewing their ties, and the sheer logistics of moving a hundred thousand people and their belongings. She sighed; Achmed had handled things for her without complaint; she felt guilty at the prospect of leaving him with such a tremendous mess to clean up. She had sought him out before the announcement, securing his permission to have annual access to the Moot, but had been pulled away without forewarning him about her engagement. The dismay she had felt was still palpable.

She sensed a strange tingle on the surface of her skin, a static charge that buzzed in the strands of her hair and made her fingertips itch. Then she heard the voice, and a frown spread over her face.

“I hope you will allow me to extend my heartfelt congratulations, my dear, both on your appointment and your engagement.” The statement issued forth from the earth itself, or the air; she was uncertain as to which.

“Thank you,” she said, not knowing what to turn away from. “Please leave me alone, Llauron. I have nothing to say to you.”

A deep chuckle resonated in the ground, and she felt the wind pick up, as it did when she had visited Elynsynos. But instead of it lovingly caressing her hair, the way it had in the quiet glen outside the hidden cave, it blew her tresses around her face with a confident strength.

“Now, somehow I doubt that is the truth, my dear.”

She tried to keep from losing her temper. “You’re right; let me rephrase that. I have many unpleasant things I could undoubtedly say to you at this point, Llauron, but I’d rather not. Go away and leave me alone.”

“That’s better. I am sorry you’re so angry, Rhapsody; of course you have every right to be. I was just hoping you might be willing to extend some of your famous forgiveness to your father-in-law-to-be. I can’t very well ask your pardon if you won’t hear me out. You did say, after all, that we must forgive one another.”

“There are some things that are unforgivable.” Gwydion’s voice came from behind her, its tone harsh, startling her. “Leave the Lady alone, Father; you have no right to speak to her after what you’ve done.”

Rhapsody reached out for him. “Sam—

“He’s right, of course,” said the warm, cultured voice. “I certainly have no right to anything where either of you are concerned anymore. I was merely asking your indulgence.”

“Sam, why don’t you see if Achmed and Grunthor need any help with the crowd,” Rhapsody said gently. “I can take care of myself. Go on. Please.” Gwydion looked at her doubtfully, then reread her intention and walked away with a sigh of annoyance.

“He’s very angry still, and grieving,” Llauron said; it was as if the air and the earth both contained the sound of his voice. “I hope you can help him let go of his wrath, my dear.”

“I’m not sure I should,” she answered. “Perhaps it is better for us both to remember it.”

A deep chuckle rumbled through the earth. “You may think you want to, Rhapsody, but you don’t. You don’t have the stomach for it. I suspect you’ve had enough bad feeling to last you a lifetime. Given your life expectancy, that’s a lot of pain. You don’t seem the type to hold a grudge.”

“Well, if I ever have difficulty remembering why I don’t speak to you I can just conjure up the image of today, of Anborn crippled trying to save me, of Stephen dying so that the Cymrians could get out of the Moot, of the horrors that Anwyn visited upon us—I think I can remember. Time will tell if I am the type to hold a grudge.”

The voice in the wind seemed genuinely perplexed. “Why are you so angry with me? What have I done?”

She slapped her hand into the wind in exasperation. “Where were you? Why didn’t you help? You could have spared so many, these Cymrians you have claimed to revere, to cherish—why didn’t you take on Anwyn yourself? Surely you were in a better position than any.”

The wind sighed around her.

“She was my mother, Rhapsody.”

“Gwydion is your son. Anborn is your brother. Stephen was your friend. Those are your people. It hardly seems a worthy excuse.”

“Gwydion has you. Anborn has the friendship of many. Stephen, may the Creator bless him, had the love of a woman, two marvelous children, and everyone who ever met him. The Cymrians had each other, and many in their lives to give them meaning, connection. Anwyn had only me.” The wind blew warm through her hair. “I hope one day you will understand, and will extend me your forgiveness. I do hope one day to see my grandchildren. Surely you won’t deny me that, will you?”

“I doubt I will ever understand why you did any of the things that you did, but I don’t have to, Llauron,” Rhapsody replied. “You are in your own world now. One day, if we have children, and if they want to see you, that may come to pass.” Then her eyes turned a darker green. “But not if you try to manipulate us in any way ever again.”

“Understood. I think our worlds are separate enough to assure that won’t happen.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

The sonorous voice sighed in the wind. “Rhapsody, I must ask you to remember something.”

She looked over the rise at the Cymrian stragglers, standing about the Bowl in small groups, talking. “Yes?”

“Whether you realize it now or not, for all that you hated our last interaction, you will be faced one day with the same situation again.”

Her attention snapped back to Llauron, invisible around her. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” said the elemental voice of the wyrm, “that when you marry a man who is also a dragon, one day you will find that he is in need of becoming one or the other. If he chooses to let his human side win, you will eventually understand the pain of being widowed, as I have. And if he takes the path I chose, well, you have had a window into what both of you must do. I don’t mean to impinge on your happiness in any way, my dear, but these are the realities of the family you are about to marry into. I just don’t want you to wake up one day and feel you were misled.”