Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

Ashe’s strange blue eyes blinked in shock at the harsh response. “No,” he said after a moment, “I would certainly not say that. There are any number of things I can think of that I would give a great deal to change if I could.” He looked away from the fire and out into the darkness, broken only by the ebb and flow of waves of crystalline snow.

Shrike snorted contemptuously. “I said nothing of change,” he muttered, breathing more heavily. “I cannot alter Time for you, Lord Gwydion, any more than I could for your grandsire.” He leaned back on one elbow, and brushed the snow from his head. “Now, do you wish to hear my tale or not?”

“Forgive my rudeness. I am listening.”

The old man exhaled deeply, and drew in a ragged breath. He tilted the sword to reflect the firelight again, then looked off into the sky above him, his eyes looking past the falling snow to another night, another sky.

“Your grandsire was a man given to changeable moods, Lord Gwydion,” he said finally. “Even before he had his vision foretelling the destruction of Serendair, the sailors told stories of his famous temper, his ready laugh that could turn to fury or despair in a heartbeat, then back again a moment later. Given that he was about to lose his birthright, and all that set him apart from any other mortal man, ’twas not surprising that he was in the clutches of a thick gloom the day we set sail, leaving the Island behind forever.” Shrike paused, and Ashe handed him the waterskin, from which he took a deep drink. Shrike capped it and handed it back, finally looking at his listener again.

“The seas were boiling, the fire beneath them raging, in the heat building from the Sleeping Child,” he said, his eyes darkening in memory. “We were sore afraid that we would not make it out in time, all but His Majesty, who only leaned despondently on the stern rail and watched morosely as we pulled out of port for the last time, the Serelinda pitching fore and aft like a cork on the sea. ’Twas a miracle we were not torn apart in the crosscurrent.” Ashe, a sailor himself, nodded.

“No one dared beckon the king away from the rail, though there was word passed among the crew that his retinue feared he might go over the side. His greatest friend, Lord Hague, remained ever at his side, talking with him, keeping him tranquil; there never was a man with more of a gift for calming your grandsire than he, Gwydion.”

Ashe smiled and nodded silently. Hague had been a direct ancestor of Stephen Navarne, his best friend in life when life was still his own. Perhaps more than blue eyes ran in Cymrian royal families.

He took in breath as silently as he could so as not to distract the ancient Cymrian from his tale; Shrike’s breathing had grown stronger, his lapses between words less frequent, as if the tale, and the memory it told, was sustaining him. There was a power in his voice that filled Ashe with awe, as if he was hearing history relate itself.

“As we neared the rim of the horizon, the king became even more anxious, pacing the deck and wringing his hands. He kept his eyes to the south, watching the Island ebb and return with the fallowing of the ship, panicking each time he thought it was gone from his sight forever. Even its return a moment later did not seem to calm him. ’Twas painful to watch.

“Finally, when he lost sight of it, with no return on the upwave, he grew hysterical. Madness was in his eyes, Gwydion. A score of sailors and noblemen hovered nearby, awaiting his pitch, for surely it was coming. Hague rested his hand on the king’s shoulder, and Gwylliam collapsed in despair.

“I was a lookout in those days. These eyes were once sharp enough to pick out a tern in the sun a hundred leagues away; they’re still a damned sight finer than most men’s, I can assure you. I was standing watch in the crow’s nest, and it was from there that I watched all the carryings-on.

“Gwylliam was moaning like a man on his deathbed, ranting at Lord Hague. ‘I’ve had my last sight of it, Hague; it’s gone, gone forever now. What I would give to see it just once more, Hague, just once more!’ Sad it is, to see a man suffer the death of all he has been, had ever hoped to be. Couldn’t watch it; I had to look away, and as I did, I caught the sight of Balatron’s highest peak, on the north side of that purple mountain range, gleaming in the rays of the setting sun.

“I called down to your grandsire, Gwydion, shouted the bearings for him to see it again. The first mate handed him a spyglass, and evidently the king was able to sight it, too, for he grew most excited and joyful, rising out of that pit of hopelessness like a seagull on an updraft.

“He stared into the distance a good long time, becoming contemplative again, and when at last he lowered the spyglass he looked up to the crow’s nest. His bright blue eyes sighted on me, and he called from the deck, ‘Ho, my fine man, come down so that I may thank you!’ And when your king calls you so, you scurry down with all due haste.” Shrike chuckled, lost in the pleasant memory, and Ashe smiled. He could almost feel the salt spray, smell the scent of the waves, hear the creak of the decks, watching the excitement in the old man’s eyes.

“When I reached the deck the king was smiling again, something I had not seen since he boarded, had never seen, in fact, since I had not had occasion to meet him, or even see him before. I confess his first words to me gave me pause—‘Have you a sword, my good man?’ Given his wild swings of mood and temper, I was fearful for a moment that my life was in danger, that he was somehow angry with me. Nonetheless, I surrendered my cutlass to him, as one does when the king commands.

“He asked my name, and I give it to him. ‘Kneel, Shrike,’ he says, and I prepared for my beheading. Imagine my surprise when instead he taps me lightly on both shoulders, and dubs me ‘the Lord of the Last Moment, the Guardian of That Which None Shall See Again,’ with his thanks. Coulda knocked me over with a breath, lad.”

“I can imagine,” Ashe said, chuckling. He shook the accumulation of snow from his cloak.

Shrike’s face lost its smile. “I believe when he said it he was making jest, Lord Gwydion. But it was a strange moment, not just because of his own unpredictable mood, but because of the time we were caught up in. We were at the end of an age, the last age of the first place where Time began, being flung about on a boiling sea beneath which a star was rising. And even if all that weren’t the case, a king’s word is a strange and powerful thing. At the time it was said in jest, but later I came to realize that an oath, no matter how it is given, has the ability to command Destiny.”

Ashe’s face lost its smile. He thought back to all the times when Rhapsody had patiently explained to him the need for a Namer to speak only the truth, to be wary of what was said, even in jest, because words could become reality.

Shrike began to wheeze again. “The long and the short of it is that I am, in fact, Lord of the Last Moment, Lord Gwydion, the guardian of—that which none will ever see again. I found over the years that I could show your grandsire that momentary glimpse of our homeland again, and again, because he had given me the power to do so. It gave him great solace in his darkest times.” He pulled the blanket closer to his neck, his hands trembling. “Your grandmother, now, she didn’t appreciate my doing so. She felt only she should be able to look back into the Past, that being her domain.”

“I’m not surprised,” Ashe said dryly. “Anwyn is a dragon; she believes everything on Earth is hers exclusively.”

“She learned otherwise.”

“At incalculable expense,” Ashe muttered, then stopped as he saw the pain on Shrike’s face. “Forgive me, Grandfather. I’m certain your efforts brought Gwylliam great comfort, and I am glad you were able to give him sight into his lost moment.”