Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

But Colin Abernathy didn’t have to. His services were held in an enormous arena, an unblessed basilica, where he tended a congregation of many diverse groups of followers—Lirin from the plains, Sorbold citizens too far from their own cathedral to make the pilgrimage, seafarers in the fishing villages ever farther south, and a general population of malcontents.

Abernathy had been the second choice to succeed the last Patriarch, losing out to the current one, and so was long known to grumble about the leadership of the church. If he was the F’dor’s host, he would be looking around to find a younger host body soon, Llauron knew. But the Invoker was more inclined to believe that the beast clung not to a member of the clergy, but to one of the provincial leaders, which opened the possibility of it even being his dear friend Stephen Navarne.

The fourth benison chose a moment of great fanfare to disembark from his carriage. Philabet Griswold, the Blesser of Avonderre-Navarne, who held sway over the great water basilica Abbat Mythlinis, was younger than either of the two elderly benisons, while still old enough to claim the wisdom of advanced years. He was pompous and self-important; Llauron found his arrogance alternately infuriating and amusing. Griswold had made no secret of his desire to be Patriarch, and had waited until the holy anthem of Sepulvarta was being played to alight from his carriage. His timing was impeccable; it seemed as if the anthem were playing in his honor.

The dark face of Nielash Mousa, the Blesser of Sorbold, resembled a thundercloud as he stepped out of his coach a moment behind Griswold. Their rivalry for the Patriarchy, long kept secret for political purposes, was now all but an open contest for the clerical throne of Sepulvarta. Mousa had come up from his arid land, braving the snow and bad traveling conditions for the opportunity to gain exposure at the winter carnival. His basilica was the only one of the five elemental cathedrals not within the territory of Roland; Terreanfor, the temple of earth, lay deep within the southern Teeth in Sorbold, hidden within the Night Mountain. His candidacy for the Patriarchy was an uphill battle, and Llauron knew it. The contest between Mousa and Griswold was shaping up to be a bloody one.

“Ah, Your Grace, I see you’ve arrived safely! Welcome!” Stephen’s voice carried tones of genuine pleasure, and Llauron turned, smiling, to greet the young duke.

“Good solstice, my son,” he said, clasping Stephen’s hand. He surveyed the festival grounds, with their bright pageantry set against the pristine field of virgin snow under a clear blue sky. “It looks to be a marvelous fête, as always. What is the official snow sculpture this year?”

“They’ve done a scale model of the Judiciary of Yarim, Your Grace.” Llauron nodded approvingly. “A beautiful building, to be certain. I shall be fascinated to see how they managed to make the snow hold up in minarets.”

“May I offer you a brandy? Count Andrew Canderre has brought a fine supply, and a special cask in particular.” Stephen held out a silver snifter. “I saved you some of the reserve.”

The Invoker’s face lit up, and he took the brandy happily. “Bless him, and you, my son. Nothing like a little warmth in the depth of winter.”

“I see your chiefs are here as well; very good,” said Stephen, waving to Khaddyr as the healer came into sight from behind the white guest tents. “Is it possible that I actually see Gavin among them?”

Llauron laughed. “Yes, indeed, the planets must be aligned this solstice, and Gavin’s schedule allows him to be here; amazing, isn’t it?”

“Indeed! There he is, behind Lark. And Ilyana, there with Brother Aldo. I’m so glad you all could make it.”

Llauron leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially into Stephen’s ear. “Well, the place is crawling with benisons. I had to bring all the Filidic leaders just to prevent a possible mass conversion away from the True Faith.”

Tristan Steward extended his hand to his fiancee and assisted her gently down from their carriage, struggling to keep from losing control and tossing her, face-first, into the deepest snowbank he could find.

I’ve died, and the Underworld looks exactly like this one, only I am doomed to spend Eternity in the constant presence of this soul-sucking witch , he thought wearily. What damnable evils could I have possibly committed to deserve this ? He had learned a new skill, the skill of half-listening, on the trip from Bethany to Stephen’s keep, and since Madeleine’s endless nattering had shown no sign of abating, even as she descended the steps of the coach, he employed it now.

He glanced about the ground of Haguefort and the fields beyond, glistening in the fair light of midmorning. Nature and Stephen had done well by each other. Sparkling jewels of ice, left over from the storm of the previous night, adorned the branches of the trees that lined the pathways of the keep, frosted with cottony clouds of fresh snow. Stephen, in turn, had decorated Haguefort’s twin guardian bell towers with shining white and silver banners proclaiming the symbol of his House, and had dressed the tall lampposts that were carefully placed throughout the keep’s courtyard and walkways with long spirals of white ribbons, which spun slowly like sedate maypoles in the stiff breeze. The effect was enchanting.

In the distance the fields had been groomed for the sleigh races and other contests of wintersport, with large tents erected to house the cookfires and the thousands of common folk from outside the province. Bright banners in every color of the rainbow adorned the rolling fields down to the newly built wall that his cousin hoped would offer protection to his lands and subjects. Tristan could see the enormous bonfire pit being stocked with dry brush for the celebratory blaze that would take place on the last evening, a conflagration for which the festival’s host was famous.

The bite of the fresh winter wind stung his nose, and he caught the scent of hickory chips burning. It was a smell that reminded him of childhood, and the festivals of Stephen’s father. As boys he and his cousin and their friends, Andrew Canderre, the Baldasarre brothers, Gwydion of Manosse, dead twenty years now, and a host of others had looked forward to the solstice each year with an excitement unmatched by any other event. His eyes burned with the poignant memory.

More painful than any other in their sweetness were the memories of Prudence. His childhood friend, his first lover, a laughing peasant girl with strawberry curls and a wicked sense of humor, his confessor, his conscience. In the days of his youth she was part of the Wolf Pack, as he and his friends were called, participating with them in the sled races and the tugs-of-war, the pie eatings and the snow battles. Matching them, besting them. Stealing the hearts of his mates. Prudence. How he had loved her then, with a young boy’s innocence blossoming into something deeper.

-

Tristan’s throat caught as he and Madeleine passed Haguefort’s main portico, the place where in those days Prudence had waited for him at night to slip away from his family’s guest rooms within the keep, where the nobility stayed. He could always spy her from the balcony, a glint of shining red-blond curls in the torchlight, waiting for him, and him alone. Even years later, when the dukedom passed to him, and she was his servant, she still awaited him in the portico, watching furtively, giggling madly when he finally slipped away to her, finding a hiding place to make secret love among the thousands of drunken revelers, celebrating their youth, their bond, their lives.

How he loved her still. Her brutal death at the hands of the Bolg had taken the joy out of him, joy he had never realized really always belonged to Prudence, that he was merely borrowing. Without her his days were filled with melancholy and guilt, because it was his own selfishness that had brought about her death. He had sent her into the jaws of the monsters, and she had never returned.