Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

Gerald reached out to her once more, and once again she reared away. “It’s all right, Rosella,” the chamberlain said soothingly. “It’s all right.” The governess began to mutter to herself, incoherently now. When Gerald caught her eye again, it had clouded over, reflecting the light of the snow.

“The duke,” she whispered repeatedly. “The duke.”

Gerald Owen remained crouched for a long time, ignoring the screaming protest of his knees and back, not moving, until her muttering finally ceased. Afraid what she might do if he were to frighten her, he stood slowly and backed away. He put out his hand again.

“Rosella?”

“The duke,” she whispered. The terror on her face resonated in Gerald’s soul.

“I’ll get him,” he said. “Don’t move, Rosella.”

_As the door closed behind the chamberlain, the voice in the wind grew louder.

Now, Rosella.

It had been howling at her for hours, directing her to its will, berating her incompetence, her stupidity. It no longer threatened, no longer growled, only whispered softly in the darkness past the closed windows.

Now, Rosella.

The governess’s face hardened, and her trembling stopped. The pain in her frozen feet from when she had stood at the balcony edge in the snow ebbed until it vanished.

Slowly she rose and went to the sideboard. The heavy stopper of the decanter tumbled smoothly down the skirt of her dressing gown and onto the floor, where it spun in rolling circles under the table. The small shard of glass from where the fall chipped it twinkled in the reflected light.

She took a crystal snifter and righted it, then held it up in the dancing light of the snow. The curved bowl caught the illumination and held it in the glass like liquid moonlight.

Now, Rosella.

Rosella set the snifter on the sideboard, then opened the tiny drawstring of the cloth sack, damp and deeply wrinkled from the clutching of her hands. She upended the sack into the snifter, then took the decanter of brandy from the floor and splashed a finger of the liquid into the glass. She swirled the snifter slowly, watching the fine powder catch the currents in the brandy and vanish into them, then held the glass up to the snowy light again.

Now, Rosella.

She put the glass to her lips.

“If you love me, or my children, you won’t drink it.”

Rosella spun around. Lord Stephen stood before her in his nightshirt; in the light spilling from the hallway she could see Gerald Owen as well at the door.

“Give me the glass.”

“M’lord—”

“Now, Rosella.”

The words of her beloved master shattered the grasp of the voice in the wind that had wound around her mind. She reached out her hand with the glass; it was shaking violently.

Stephen took the snifter, gently prying her fingers from around the bowl. He walked to the cold fireplace and hurled it into the dark stones at the back, then returned to the sideboard.

“Who gave you the adder-flower extract?”

Rosella’s lip was trembling, but her gaze was clear.

“I don’t know, m’lord.”

“You don’t know ?”

“Forgive me, m’lord,” she whispered. “I can’t remember.”

Stephen felt his heart lurch. The words were the same; he had heard them spoken before. They came from the lips of a Lirin soldier, just before the hangman slipped the noose around his neck. The man had been caught, along with the rest of his party, slitting the throat of Stephen’s wife. He had continued to saw at Lydia’s neck, decapitating her, even as Stephen’s soldiers dragged at him, choosing to remain focused on his grisly task rather than to fight or escape.

Why ? Stephen had demanded, his voice breaking along with his heart, as he stood face-to-face with the man on the gallows. At least tell me why .

I don’t know, m’lord.

Who gave you the order?

I—can’t remember .

It had been the same with each of the soldiers executed that day, even to the last, whose sentence he had offered to commute in exchange for the information.

I can’t remember. I am sorry, m’lord.

The soldiers of the Sorbold column that had attacked the winter carnival had stood, staring blankly at the smoking ruins of the holiday festival.

Why?

I—don’t know, m’lord .

Who gave the order?

I can’t remember.

The woman standing before him was trembling violently. Stephen stared into her eyes, which were filled with dark terror and uncertainty, and felt for a moment he could see straight into her heart. He took her into his arms.

“All right, Rosella,” he said finally. “All right.” He gestured at Gerald Owen, who in turn opened the door and allowed the two guards who had been waiting outside in the hall at Stephen’s command to enter the library.

“Take her to the tower,” he said quietly to the chamberlain as the guards led her away. “Make her comfortable; do not treat her like a prisoner. She’s ill.”

“Shall I send word to Llauron, m’lord? Perhaps Khaddyr could do something for her.”

Stephen shook his head. “No. I have to think about this, Owen. Until I decide what to do, I’m not going to involve anyone else, not even Llauron.”

“I understand, m’lord.” Gerald Owen picked up the decanter and the small empty bag, bowed, and left the library.

Stephen sighed as the door closed.

“I wish I did.”

The morning light broke over the forest, shining through the flakes of quietly falling snow. All around them the woods were silent, and the absence of sound seemed to grow deeper with each step. Occasionally one of the children would whimper, or giggle nervously, but by and large even they felt the heavy stillness in the air and succumbed to it.

Oelendra stopped, and Rhapsody followed her lead, clicking softly to the mare. They were in a forest clearing, unremarkable in its appearance, with heavy woods around them on all sides, impenetrable to the eye. There was a solemnity to the place, a deep and ancient song of power that Rhapsody could feel in her bones. She looked at her friend.

Oelendra was casting her gaze around the forest, as if trying to discern a direction. Finally her eyes opened wider, and she pointed off into the distance.

“There ’tis, the alder with the split trunk. That was my landmark.”

Rhapsody followed Oelendra’s direction with her eyes until she, too, saw the tree, and she nodded. “How far is it from there?”

Oelendra shook her head. “I don’t know,” she answered quietly, her voice barely audible in the stillness of the clearing. “You’ll see what I mean in a moment. There’s a bend in Time around here somewhere; ’tis the best I can describe it. I had passed this way a thousand times before that night and I had never seen the Veil of Hoen.”

Rhapsody nodded and looked off into the distance again. The Veil of Hoen, the Cymrian word for Joy, was the doorway to the realm of the Lord and Lady Rowan, the entities Oelendra had told her about the first night they met. There was something mystical about these legendary people, the Keeper of Dreams and her mate, the Peaceful Death, something beyond Rhapsody’s comprehension. Had anyone but Oelendra related the tale of Ashe’s rescue to her, she would have suspected an unhinged mind or an excessive amount of ale, but Oelendra’s words were always carefully considered, and carried the ring of knowledge when she used them. The Lord and Lady, she had said, only intervened, only allowed guests, in cases of life and death. She swallowed, hoping they would consider this situation worthy.