Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

“This chicken leg is a Bolg weapon that has no trade agreement to allow it out of the mountain,” Achmed snarled. “These designs are secret—being in Sorbold hands means it has been stolen , or planted here in the attempt to cast blame for this atrocity on Ylorc, just as was attempted last summer when chewed-upon bodies were tossed into the Moot!” He threw the weapon down on the pile again and glared off to the south, to the foothills of the southern Teeth that formed the northern border of Sorbold.

Ashe shaded his eyes and looked up in the same direction.

“Seems as if someone wants to start a war with you.”

“So it seems.”

Ashe leaned down and put an ear to the injured man’s chest. “He’s going to die if we don’t get him to a healer.”

Achmed began gathering up the weapons again. “So that seems as well.”

“That’s rather callous, even for you. I have no horse; will you help me get him to Sepulvarta?”

Achmed glared at him and gestured to the field. “There are two score of them running around here. Take one, and take him yourself.” He looked down at the face of the soldier; it was an old face, worn and weathered like a sailor’s, with a cruel wound across the eyes. “But I wouldn’t waste my time at the basilica in Sepulvarta if I were you. When Rhapsody was injured to the point of dying in autumn I took her there; the Patriarch and his priests were less than useless.” He eyed Ashe’s finger. “That, of course, was because Rhapsody gave you his Ring of Wisdom to heal you. You carry the office now; the Patriarch is just a figurehead. Why don’t you try to heal him yourself?”

The hooded man stared off into the wind, silent. A moment later he pulled off the leather glove that protected his left hand and took hold of the ring on the third finger. The ring was a plain one, a clear, smooth stone set in a simple platinum setting. Inside the stone, as though internally inscribed, were two symbols on opposite sides of the oval gemstone, resembling the symbols for positive and negative. Gently he took the hand of the injured man; it was a soldier’s hand, rough, thick-fingered and bloody. With great care he slid the ring on the smallest finger.

Both men watched intently for a moment. The dragon nature within Ashe’s blood hummed, curious, below the surface of his skin; he struggled to keep it at bay while trying to learn what it could discern. The dragon only felt a few small changes, a tiny improvement, not enough to keep the First Generation Cymrian alive much longer. Ashe judged that he might survive for a few days if he was kept sheltered, but not much more after that. Carefully he removed the ring from Shrike’s finger and returned it to his own, pulling on his glove again.

“The ring is not by essence a ring of healing, but of wisdom,” he said, rising. “It endows its wearer with the knowledge to enhance what one is already born to. The Patriarch, by study, and aptitude, and office, was a healer. He gave it to Rhapsody, who by nature and training is a healer, too. She was able to heal me with it. I am not a healer. It imparts to me wisdom in other matters.”

Achmed chuckled wryly. “Ah, yes, that’s right. It will advise you in your decisions as the Lord Cymrian if there is ever another Council called, as your father is hoping. And it has made you aware of the First Generation Cymrians still blessing us with their presence in this world—is that how you knew this man?”

“No. I have known him since boyhood. He is a great man, a kind man. He must be saved.” Ashe looked west across the Krevensfield Plain. “If there is no one to help him in Sepulvarta, the next nearest place is Bethe Corbair. There’s a basilica there, and the benison, Lanacan Orlando, is a renowned healer. Could you take him there? It is on the way to the Bolglands.”

Achmed bent and gathered the purloined weapons, fury blazing in his eyes. “No. I will not be diverted—actually I have already been delayed far more than I can tolerate. There is nothing more essential than for me to return to Ylorc and find out what is going on in my kingdom, if I still have one left. Take him yourself—or, better yet, take him to Gwynwood to your father’s Tanist. Khaddyr is said to be one of the greatest healers on the continent. If he can’t help this man, I doubt anyone can.”

“He’ll never make it to Gwynwood—it’s too far.”

“Then take him to Bethe Corbair yourself—I will support your hiding no longer. You’ve been healed, and your soul has been returned to you. What else do you want? One might think it more than a bit craven of you to continue walking the world in the luxury of anonymity when your friend here is dying.”

“With your permission,” came a growl from beneath them, “I would like to be taken to Anborn, if you please. And I’m not dying; that would be against orders.” A racking wheeze broke off his words as the old man slipped back into unconsciousness.

Achmed and Ashe stared down at the battered man at their feet, then looked to one another.

“Well, it appears the ring has given him wisdom in his lot as well, hasn’t it. Do you know where to find Anborn?” Achmed asked, wrapping the weapons in a pitch-stained saddle blanket from a dead war horse. Ashe considered for a moment, then nodded. “Sounds like a good plan. Well, I’ll leave you to your journey then.” He started back to his mount.

“Wait,” Ashe called. Achmed exhaled in annoyance and turned back once more. “Rhapsody—is she all right?”

“She told me that you were no longer keeping company,” Achmed retorted impatiently. “If so, her condition, and all other information about her, is no longer your concern. Forget her. She has forgotten you.” He mounted, slinging the bundle of weapons before him in the saddle, and spurred the horse to a gallop. A moment later he had ascended the swale to the west and was gone from sight.

Ashe waited for a moment, as if suspended in Time, then captured a passing gelding and brought it over to where Shrike lay, breathing shallowly.

“Do not fear,” he said to the unconscious man as he lifted him into the saddle. “I will see to it that you make it there.”

Chattered blasts of freshening snow rose into the air beneath the pounding of the gelding’s hooves. As it swirled up it blended with the clouds of mist emanating from Ashe’s cloak, forming a fragile white screen around him and his galloping mount. From a distance he and it appeared as little more than a gust of wind whipping the snow before him.

The southern forest rim crossed the borders of Navarne and Avonderre, areas that had seen some of the greatest bloodshed from random eruptions of violence. When Ashe had traveled through this place alone, it was always silently, on foot, carefully skirting whatever living beings registered on his dragon senses.

Now, with his body restored, his soul his own once more, he braved their notice, focusing all his attention on the wounded man sprawled before him across the horse’s back, and on locating his commander.

Shrike moaned intermittently as they traveled, whispering incoherently from time to time, otherwise lying silent across Ashe’s knees. Occasionally the dragon in Ashe’s blood felt the man’s pulse ebb, his breathing grow shallow. When this happened he rested his hand, with the Patriarch’s ring, near Shrike’s heart, wordlessly encouraging him to hang on to life long enough to reach Anborn.

The ring’s power seemed to be sufficient to sustain the man’s essence, to keep it trapped within its earthly shell, at least for the moment. Ashe shielded his eyes from the sting of the wind and the burn of ice crystals slapping his face, remembering the last time he had seen a First Generation Cymrian struggle with death.