Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

Llauron considered. “How do you know she was referring to Rhapsody?”

Anger sparked in Ashe’s eyes. “Because, as I have told you, I will have no other than she. No other woman will bear my children; therefore, she is safe.”

Llauron sighed. “I have only a short time left with you, Gwydion, so I will choose my last bits of advice to impart to you carefully, in the hope you will actually pay them some heed for once. Beware of prophecies; they are not always as they seem to be. The value of seeing the Future is often not worth the price of the misdirection.”

“Thank you for the advice. In the meantime, I plan to stop living in the shadows of fear and take what is rightfully mine.”

-

“Good, good.” Llauron rubbed his hands as if to warm them. “Now, that’s more like it. I am glad to see you are finally coming into your own, at peace with your destiny.”

Beneath his hood, Ashe smiled. “That’s not at all what I meant. What is rightfully mine is my own life, Father; I have been living it without any say in it for long enough. I will honor my destiny and my duty in the best way I know how—by doing whatever I can to make Rhapsody my wife and the Lady Cymrian. I cannot imagine there is another who would be better—you said so yourself.”

Llauron sighed. “You’re right, I did, didn’t I? All right, then, a word of warning: remember your grandparents. Never raise your hand to her, and never let your personal quarrels harm your subjects.”

“Of course not.” Even without being visible, the insult Ashe felt was clear.

“Very well, then, since you seem to be set on it, and time is growing short, let me give you my blessing.”

Ashe’s mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

Llauron smiled, but there was a tinge of annoyance in his voice. “Now, Gwydion, don’t spoil this tender fatherly moment. Kneel.”

Ashe bent before him, and Llauron laid a hand on the coppery curls, a wistful look in his eyes. “First, be happy. Treasure her.”

Ashe waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. “That’s all?” he asked after a moment. “No lecture?”

Llauron laughed. “No, no lecture. I told you, time is growing short. Too many words dissipate the meaning. I do want you to be happy, and if you do as I suggest, I know you will be. Now, how’s for a brandy? That’s one aspect of humanity I shall miss; a good snifter of the golden elixir now and then.”

Ashe walked with him to the cabinet as the warm light from the sunset began to shine on the floor in windowpane patterns of pink and gold.

“Now, Father, you don’t need to live without that just because you’re a dragon. I know a place where I can get you a large trough. You should be able to have a good slurp from time to time.”

“Barbarian.” The guards outside heard the sound of laughter emerge from behind the door, and sighed.

Gerald Owen, the chamberlain of Haguefort, was on his way to his bedchamber to retire for the evening when he passed the library doors.

Though the double doors were closed, an icy gust of wind blasted from beneath them. Gerald stopped, surprised, and rested his hand against a mahogany panel; it was cold to the touch.

Perhaps the duke is up late , he mused, but discarded the thought as soon as it occurred. Lord Stephen had turned in for the night a few hours before, citing a need for rest in order to be ready to review the rebuilt barracks and the wall guard posts in the early morning hours with the master of his regiment. Gerald opened the door.

The shock of the cold air stung against his face and exposed skin. While not an elderly man, Gerald was long past youth’s prime, and was more vulnerable to the aches and pains he had remembered plaguing his father in his later years. Like his father, Gerald never complained, seeing each twinge and spasm as something to be endured silently, with grace, so as not to distract the duke or the household staff who served under him in any way. He expected as much from the staff as well.

The vast, dark room was filled with shadows and slashes of white light reflecting through the towering windows from the sheets of snow that were writhing outside them. Those billowing shadows danced across the furniture in time to the music of the breeze. A discordant wail rose and fell as the wind whipped around the keep, fluttering the drapes of the open balcony door wildly. The fireplace was cold and dark; the ashes were lifeless.

Gerald entered the library and quietly closed the doors. The howl of the wind diminished somewhat, and the drapes settled back, rustling now instead of flapping. His footsteps were swallowed by the moaning wind as he crossed the enormous room to the balcony doors, passing through wide fields of snow shadows flickering on the polished marble floors and thick silk rugs.

When he reached the doorway he looked out onto the balcony. The stone benches were crowned with several inches of pristine snow, as was the wide stone railing, ornately sculpted, that ringed the semicircular balcony. The carpet of snow on the balcony floor, however, had been marred by numerous small footprints, not much larger than those of a child, dimpled impressions of toes that put him in mind of a distracted kitten’s, leading to the edge and back again several times. There was no one on the balcony.

Gerald hurried out into the bitter night, covering his ears with his hands, and looked down at the ground below the balcony. The snow of the evergreen trees and the courtyard below was unmarred; an ice crust had formed, smooth and serene, dusted by crystals scattering before the insistent gale. Satisfied that no one had fallen, the chamberlain hastened back into the library, pushed the doors shut, and locked them. The cries of the wind softened to a distant keen.

Gerald Owen took out his handkerchief. He bent slowly and wiped up the crystals of snow that had accumulated on the library floor while the door was open.

He was rubbing his hands and halfway across the room again on his way back to the hallway when a white shadow, slightly more solid and stationary than the others, caught his eye. It was huddled amid the dancing shades on the floor next to the sideboard, trembling.

Gerald walked slowly over toward the figure. In the darkness her enormous eyes were even larger, her light brown hair hung in loose waves over her thin shoulders. Her hands were clutching a small cloth sack; the duke’s decanter of after-dinner brandy was sitting on the floor beside her, the glass stopper in her lap.

-

“Rosella?”

Upon hearing her name the woman in the white dressing gown looked up sharply. Her eyes darted around the room madly, resting momentarily on Gerald’s face, then dashed off again, as if pursuing flying objects only she could see. Gerald slowed his steps even more.

When he was within an armspan of her, the governess began whispering wildly.

“I do, I love the children, sir, I love them, and the duke, of course, the duke has my undying devotion as well. He does. I do, I love them all, would die for any one of them, you have to believe me, sir, I would, I would die for any of them. I love them.”

Gerald crouched down before her and reached out his hand, but the girl shrank away. He withdrew it and spoke as gently as he could.

“Of course you do, Rosella, as do we all. No one would ever doubt your loyalty to Lord Stephen or the children.”

Rosella’s gaze came to rest on his face and remained there; within her eyes Gerald could see madness burning.

“I do, sir, I love them all.”

“Yes, yes, of course you do.”

“I love them.”

“I know.”

Outside the windows the wind picked up, howling furiously. Rosella’s dark eyes darted away again, and she began to whimper like a frightened child.