Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

“Anborn ap Gwylliam, stop,” she commanded. The air in the room became instantly warm and still, and Anborn froze in midstep, his back to her. She could see rage swim through the muscles of his shoulders and could hear him breathe in angrily. “You will not harm him, Anborn. He is under my protection.”

“Really?” Anborn sneered, still not able to turn to face her. “And who will protect you now, Rhapsody? You can’t even protect yourself; that’s a bad position to be in alone with someone like me.” His voice pulsed with the unspoken threat.

“Tow will protect me, Anborn,” Rhapsody answered, her voice filled with humility and respect. “You will because you have, and you are noble of spirit. You had no reason to answer the Kinsman call in the freezing night, either, but you came.”

His shoulders became less tense, but still he could not move. “That’s different,” he said tersely. “I am sworn as a Kinsman; I have no allegiance to this abomination. Or to you.”

“Kinsmen come in all shapes and sizes, Anborn,” she said gently. “They come in all walks of life—some of them even are Singers. And some of them aren’t very tall; slight, even, you might say.” With that, she released him. “You have honored MacQuieth and the ancient warriors, as well as those who serve now. Sometimes the greatest feat of a soldier is to aid the helpless, and you have; I give you respect, and I thank you.”

General, first you must heal the rift within yourself. With Gwylliam’s death you now are the king of soldiers, but until you find the slightest of your kinsmen and protect that helpless one, you are unworthy of forgiveness. And so it shall be until you either are redeemed, or die unabsolved.

Anborn turned slowly and regarded her with a look she had not seen before. He dropped his eyes as if aware of her nakedness for the first time, then slowly returned to the corner and resheathed his sword. “You are one of the Three,” he said, the question unasked but present nonetheless.

“Yes,” Rhapsody answered, “and you have fulfilled the prophecy. May grace come upon you for it.”

If you seek to mend the rift, General, guard the Sky, lest it fall.

Anborn looked at her once more, his eyes free of the anger she had heard in his voice a moment before. He walked behind her and went to the closet, returning with a rough blanket and a garment slung over his arm. Without a word he handed her the blanket and helped her to stand. She wrapped it around herself; he lifted her from the tepid water and shook her to dry her off. Then he gave her the garment; it was a soft wool tunic of fern green, long of sleeve, pointed at the wrist and clearly cut to fit a woman, though one considerably bigger than Rhapsody. As she dried herself with the blanket and prepared to don the garment, Anborn left the cottage.

When he returned Rhapsody was dressed and drying her hair before the fire, which was burning steadily, though quietly. He was carrying a lumpy burlap sack from which he drew forth a winter apple and offered it to her. She smiled and accepted with hands that only trembled slightly.

“I want to apologize,” he said, looking down at her seriously. “I hope you’ll forgive me for any offense I’ve committed.”

“Well, the only one I can think of was saving my life, which is offensive only to some people who know me,” Rhapsody said, smiling again. “Anborn, just because my arrival here was foretold doesn’t mean I’m some kind of mythic person. I’m just a commoner with an extremely checkered past, and I prefer that you be yourself with me rather than treating me like some legendary thing I’m not. If you recall, at our first meeting you referred to me as a ‘freak of nature,’ and I didn’t hold that against you. So insult me if you want to—I’ll get past it.”

Anborn smiled; it was the first time Rhapsody had seen him do so without a sarcastic smirk, and she liked the way it looked on his face. “There is nothing common about you, Rhapsody. It’s my honor to have been able to help you. I think you’re warm enough now; why don’t you lie down and get some sleep?” He gestured toward the bed.

“Only if you promise to keep your knuckles out of my ribs if I do,” she said, grinning. The fire sparked more now, the flames burning certainly and surely. She went over to the bed, which was a hay mattress covered in burlap with a woolen coverlet, and slowly eased herself down onto it. “And if you promise to waken me for my watch. After all, you should have a turn to sleep on the bed as well.”

“We’ll see,” said Anborn noncommittally as he pulled the flask out of his pack. He passed it to her and she took a deep draught, coughing as the liquid scorched down her throat.

“What the blazes is this brekinr She handed it back to him and dabbed the beads of perspiration that burst onto her forehead with the sleeve of the green tunic.

Anborn laughed. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

Rhapsody looked at the green sleeve with interest. “This doesn’t look like it would fit you too well, Anborn. To whom does it belong?”

“It belonged to my wife,” Anborn said, settling into the musty chair. “She won’t mind you wearing it—she’s been dead eleven years now.” His voice held no trace of regret. “It looks far better on you, by the way.”

Rhapsody blinked at the callousness of his statement. “I’m very sorry,” she said, searching his eyes in the dark for hints of deeper sorrow. There were none.

-

“No need to be,” he answered directly. “We didn’t like each other very much. We didn’t live together, and I rarely saw her.”

Rhapsody took a bite of the apple; it was dry and withered, mealy with a heavy sweetness that hinted of riper, fairer days. The irony saddened her.

“But you must have loved her once,” she said, feeling like she was treading on sensitive ground but needing to nonetheless.

Anborn smiled at her, shaking his head. “No,” he said simply. “For such an intellectually gifted woman, Rhapsody, you can be charmingly naive.”

The shivers that had racked Rhapsody’s body had subsided to a mild occasional tremor, and she could feel her strength and heat begin to return. “Then why did you marry?”

Anborn took a deep sip from the flask. “She wasn’t an unattractive woman. Her family was an old one, and she was principled; if she ever cuckolded me, I never knew it, and I believe I would have. I was loyal to her as well, until she died.”

Rhapsody waited, but no more commentary was forthcoming. “That’s all?” she asked, amazed. “Why bother?”

“A fair question, to be sure,” Anborn answered, beginning to remove his boots. “I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for you.”

“Did you have children?”

“No,” he said; his expression and tone did not change. “I’m sorry to disillusion you, Rhapsody. You obviously know what my family is, and so know that we don’t have the most romantic history.

“All that fanciful hogwash about my grandparents is claptrap as well. Merithyn was seduced by Elynsynos because the human form she assumed was what she perceived in his heart was attractive, and the old boy had been at sea for years, anyway. She could have been a sheep, and he would still would have knobbed her.”

He looked over at Rhapsody, and the look on her face caused him to laugh out loud. “I’m sorry, dear, if I’m despoiling your fantasy. And if that’s not enough, I can assure you there was no love lost on Elynsynos’s part, either. He was the first Seren she had ever seen, and she wanted control over him.

“So, from the very beginning, sex and mating in our family has been about power and control, and it has remained thus. And I can’t foresee a time when that will change—dragon blood is pervasive, you know.” Rhapsody sighed deeply, knowing from personal experience how true his words were. “Sorry to disappoint you. I hope you’re not offended by what I said about Merithyn.”