Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

“Be off with you, then, man. I’ve wounded to tend to.”

“Very well.” Ashe retrieved his gloves from the fire iron, then went to the door and opened it. “I just thought that perhaps you might wish to ask my name.”

Anborn’s eyes, clear as the azure sky, grew suddenly dark. His gaze came to rest on Ashe for the first time. After a moment he motioned to his followers. “Leave us,” he said to the men at the table without breaking his gaze away. “Tend to Shrike.” Hurriedly the armsmen climbed the stairs and disappeared into the room at the top, the last one up closing the door resoundingly.

When the men were gone, Anborn allowed his glance to wander over the curtain of mist that shrouded Ashe from normal sight.

“Close the door,” he commanded. Ashe complied. “I dislike games of the mind and the men who play them,” the general muttered darkly. “I assumed you were trying to keep your identity hidden, and offered you the respect of allowing you to do so. It is rare that anyone toys with me, and even more than rare, it is unwise. Who are you?”

“Your nephew.”

Anborn snorted. “I have none such.”

Beneath his hood, Ashe smiled. “My name is Gwydion ap Llauron ap Gwylliam tuatha d’Anwynan o Manosse,” he said patiently. “But you may address me as ‘Useless,’ if you’d prefer; you generally did.”

Anborn’s sword was in his hand; the movement that put it there was invisible to Ashe’s eyes, though the dragon in his blood sensed it and could follow the arc of electric sparks the motion left hanging in the air.

“Reveal yourself.”

Carefully Ashe took the edge of his hood in hand. He pulled it back slowly, watching the reflection from his shining copper hair catch the firelight and reflect in Anborn’s widening eyes. Almost as quickly the azure eyes narrowed again, retaining the gleaming light. He did not sheathe his sword.

Ashe could feel the weight of Anborn’s gaze as it assessed his face, could feel the same dragon sense that ran in his own blood, tiny pinpricks of energy where Anborn’s inner nature made note of the changes in his nephew’s physiology. The examination lingered longest in his eyes, eyes that had taken on reptilian pupils since the last time his uncle had beheld him. He stood as still as he could, waiting for Anborn to finish, trying to ignore the panic his own dragon sense felt at the intrusion. Finally the ancient Cymrian warrior spoke.

“Your father has been claiming for twenty years that you were dead,” he said in a tone touched with menace. “My wife’s mourning dress for your funeral was encrusted with a king’s ransom of pearls to honor the tragic passing of the Heir Presumptive; the cost of the blasted thing damn near beggared me.”

“Sorry about that.”

“How woefully inadequate. I suppose your inadequacy should be no surprise. You are, after all, spawned of Llauron. What transformed you thus?”

Ashe shook off the sting of the slight. “That matters not. What does matter is that I am here, and though I choose not to be foolhardy, I will hide no more. Not from any man, nor any demon.”

“Cocksure as always. I guess even death, or its proximate, cannot change a reckless fool.” Finally Anborn sheathed his sword. He returned to the table, where he took up his tankard and downed the contents, then looked back at Ashe again. He refilled the mug.

“I’d be a little more wary than that if I were you, Gwydion. Your newly won wyrmdom will make you all the more savory a target than you were before.”

“It also makes me a more formidable one.”

Anborn laughed harshly and took another drink, but said nothing. Ashe stood by silently, waiting for his uncle to speak again. Finally Anborn gestured at the door.

“Well, then, what keeps you? Be off.”

Ashe was taken aback, but gave no outward sign of it. He watched Anborn’s gaze grow in fierce intensity as he wiped the ale roughly from his lips with the back of his forearm. The air in the room became warmer, drier, with an undertone of threat.

“Did you want something else?” Anborn demanded.

“I thought perhaps we could put aside old enmities and talk.”

“Why?” Anborn slammed the empty tankard down. “I have nothing to say to you, whelp of my once-brother. Why would I waste another moment in fruitless conversation when my supper’s growing cold, my man-at-arms needs looking in on, and there’s a bedwench upstairs, awaiting my attention?”

Ashe took hold of the door cord. “I can’t imagine.” He pulled his hood back up.

Anborn’s eyebrows drew together as his nephew opened the door. He reached hurriedly into his pocket and drew forth a small cloth sack, which he tossed at Ashe’s feet.

“There. That should pay you for your trouble.”

With a sweep of his foot Ashe kicked it back to him. The air in the room hissed on the verge of cracking.

“Keep it. Your offer of it disappoints me.”

Anborn laughed menacingly. “Not enough? I’d forgotten you would know the contents of the sack, down to the last coin, with your inner sense. Name your price, then, so that I may be rid of you.”

Ashe struggled to keep his voice calm, though the jeering tone had enflamed the dragon, and its wrath pounded behind his eyes. “You may be rid of me by the mere request of it. Not precisely the warm family reunion I had pictured, but I will depart if that is what you wish, Uncle.”

“What did you expect, Gwydion—a lawn fête held in your honor? You and your accursed father have been lying to me for a score of years.” The general drained the tankard.

“It was necessary.”

“That may be. Further contact with you, however, is not. The truth be told, nephew, while I bear you no enmity, I felt little sorrow at the loss of you. Your return may bring joy to your confederates, to Navarne, to your mother’s House in Manosse, but to me it means nothing. I couldn’t care less what happens to you now. I am in your debt for the return of my man-at-arms. If you have a boon to ask, do so, and I will grant it if I can. Other than that, I have no need of your company. Be on your way.”

Ashe pulled up his hood. “As you wish, Uncle,” he said simply. “You deserved to know the truth about me, and now you do. Goodbye.” He opened the door and disappeared into the snowy mist.

Anborn waited until he could no longer hear the hoofbeats of Gwydion’s horse, then took another long draught from the tankard. He watched silently as the fire burned down to coals, snapping and hissing in impotent fury. Then he rose slowly, wiped the ale from his lips, and made his way up the rickety staircase to the room above.

In the pale light of a rusty lantern his men stood around the hay mattress, quietly tending to his armsman and friend. Shrike’s tattered eyes opened when Anborn came to the foot of his bed, darting quickly from man to man until their gaze came to rest on the general. He winced in pain as he turned to his fellow armsmen.

“Leave us,” Shrike said, his voice a ragged whisper.

The armsmen looked questioningly to Anborn, and he nodded silently. They quickly gathered the basin and the bloody cloths that had served as bandages, and quietly left the room.

The general took a clean cloth and soaked it in the water of the pitcher on the floor. He crouched down beside Shrike’s bed and gently wiped the dried blood from his eyes. Shrike turned, and fixed his failing gaze on his commander.

“Thank the gods I lived to see you again,” he said haltingly.

“Indeed I shall,” Anborn replied, smiling slightly.

“Get—the—cutlass.”

“Later,” Anborn said. “Rest now.”

“Bugger later,” Shrike scowled. “It may never come. This may be the last time I can show you, m’lord—Anborn. Would you pass up that opportunity?”