Destiny

by Elizabeth Haydon

  “It can’t be,” Khaddyr whispered. “Gwydion?” He has come back from the dead? he thought, his mind refusing the possibility.

  The Invoker trembled as he rose, shaking with age and fear. He pointed the oaken staff of the Filids, Llauron’s staff, at the man in the center of the conflagration. “Slypka,” he whispered, willing the flames to extinguish.

  The intensity of the fire dimmed a little, making the outline of the man somewhat more distinct. Khaddyr took a deep breath, then planted the staff in the parched grass next to him, leaning on it for support. When he could finally speak, his voice was calm.

  “I command you by the power of the Circle, Gwydion ap Llauron, be gone from this hallowed wood,” he said. He inhaled again, the caustic smoke burning his nostrils and lungs. The lore of the forest, the power of Gwynwood, would banish the beast, he knew. His power now. He was the Invoker.

  The dark figure did not move.

  Khaddyr gripped the staff more tightly; the golden oak leaf at its tip glinted in the light of the inferno around them. “I am the true Invoker, Gwydion,” he said above the noise of the fire to the dark shadow with the gleaming crown of hair. “The ascension was justified under the laws of Buda Kai, in the presence of a Canwr as witness and herald. You cannot challenge me here; the moon is on the wane. It must be waxing to bless the results of a challenge. In addition, you would dishonor Llauron’s memory if you were to—”

  The staff in Khaddyr’s hands burst into flame.

  With a shriek the Invoker dropped the burning staff to the ground. In horror he watched it incinerate, the symbol of the office he had sold his soul to gain. It withered to ashes within seconds; they caught the smoky wind and disappeared, leaving only the gold leaf tip on the ground. After a moment it melted in the heat into a shining puddle that reflected the fire’s light.

  The shadow-figure opened its eyes, and involuntarily Khaddyr gasped. Burning blue, as brilliant as the flames from the center of the Earth, two points of ferocious light appeared in the otherwise solid darkness of his face, beneath the blazing hair that blended with the leaping sheets of fire behind and above him. Khaddyr took a step back, trying to keep his terror from coloring his voice; he knew his face already showed it.

  “Gwydion—”

  “Who is the host of the demon?” The voice that issued forth from the shadow shook the earth beneath Khaddyr’s feet, causing him to stumble and fall to one knee. It was more a roar than spoken words, sounding in multiple tones of soprano, alto, tenor, and bass, crackling with the ferocity of high wind in fire.

  A gagging sound came from Khaddyr’s throat, and nothing more.

  “Tell me,” demanded the dark figure. The fire grew more intense, matching the heat in his voice.

  “I—I don’t know,” Khaddyr choked.

  The tree palace ignited, ripping into flame. The glass panes in the windows reflected the pounding light at the sky as the roof of each oddly angled wing burst open, showering sparks through the dormant gardens that surrounded Llauron’s keep. Flames climbed the tower that reached above the tree canopy, turning it to a blazing column of fire.

  “Dear One-God,” Khaddyr whispered.

  From the backdrop of rolling fire behind the man another figure ascended, hazy and ephemeral. Its serpentine head reached skyward, cresting above the burning treetops. Its eyes gleamed with the same ferocious blue light that stared from the shadow-man’s face, its enormous pupils razor-thin vertical slits that shrank even more as the inferno grew in strength. Great wings of shimmering copper scales, translucent in the light, stretched out over the Circle lands, casting dark blankets of mist as they unfolded. Its great hissing voice spoke in precise synchronicity with that of the man it hovered above.

  “Who is the host?” The thunderous demand shook the very earth.

  Khaddyr swallowed, tasting blood in the back of his throat. “Forgive me, Gwydion, I can’t. I fear you in life, but I fear him more in death. Have mercy.”

  The shadow-dragon let out a furious roar. Over the cacophony of the burning forest and the screams of the evacuating Filids, it shattered the remaining panes of glass and shook the branches of the Great White Tree which stood alone, unscathed, in the midst of the fiery nightmare. The searing blue eyes in the human figure closed, disappearing back into the dark face again.

  “I did not give you leave to die yet,” Ashe said, his words ringing in the multiple tones of the wyrm. He raised his arm and pointed at the Filid priest, the great healer, now prostrate on the forest floor.

  “Luhtgrin,” he said in the language of the Filids. Invert. “Cartung.” Sustain.

  Khaddyr felt his feet go numb. Then, a moment later, a shock of agony crippled his toes as they began turning at an impossible angle. He let out a scream as the skin rolled back, exposing nerve and muscle, vein and bone, then slowly continued up his legs. The horror of what was happening crept through his brain, making it go numb as well.

  He was turning inside out.

  Khaddyr screamed again, a high wail of shuddering terror.

  “Tell me,” the dark figures demanded again in one voice, man and dragon. “Tell me or I will leave you like this, alive.” Khaddyr’s kneecaps popped sickeningly as they inverted.

  “Stop, I beg you,” Khaddyr moaned.

  The man-shadow and its second nature, the shade of the dragon, walked slowly through the burning grass and over to Khaddyr until it stood directly above him, the vast shadow of the wyrm hovering over him in the smoky air. By the time man and dragon-shadow reached him he was writhing in agony, the long bones of his thighs exposed on the bloody grass. With another popping, then a crunching sound, the genitals and hipbones twisted inside the quivering muscle and skin, the large arteries pulsing hideously.

  Khaddyr was muttering incoherently. With a ringing sweep Ashe drew Kirsdarke from the sheath across his back and pressed the point into the old man’s throat. For a moment Khaddyr’s eyes cleared, and he stared at the rippling waves of the weapon, surging blue-white like ocean currents, running down the length of the ancient blade.

  “Please,” he whispered as his chest cavity turned inside out, exposing his racing heart and struggling lungs. The wheezing, squishing, and hideous tearing sounds almost swallowed his words. “You’ll need—me, Gwydion. A—healer. Rhapsody will—need—”

  The sword point pressed deeper. “What about Rhapsody?” Ashe demanded; the multitoned voice shook the burning leaves from the singed branches above them. “What will Rhapsody need?”

  “When—she—” Khaddyr panted. He turned and looked at his fingers, which had begun to turn inside themselves. “When—she—”

  From the depths of his exposed viscera a tiny root appeared. Within a heartbeat many others like it sprang forth and whipped around Khaddyr’s vital organs. The vines thickened quickly, forming ropy strands pocked with thorns that drew taut around the would-be Invoker’s heart and squeezed suddenly. A hideous stench billowed forth over the smell of the fire.

  “What will Rhapsody need? Curse your soul, Khaddyr, who is the F’dor?”

  Khaddyr let out a gurgling gasp, then turned one last time to Gwydion, his eyes glassy and sightless with pain.

  “Kill me,” he whispered as beads of bloody sweat emerged from his brow. “Mercy—”

  The shadow-man bent down near enough so that the Invoker could hear him. “Tell your master I am coming for him,” he said through gritted teeth.

  The vine pulsed violently, and Khaddyr’s heart exploded, sending streaks of bright blood into the air, where the raging fire illuminated it into showers of red light.

  Ashe stepped back as the vine recoiled, flipping Khaddyr over onto his exposed stomach and entrails. Within moments dozens of other vines shot forth, encircling him completely. Then, with a snap, Khaddyr was dragged, slamming over burning brush and trunks of decimated trees, into a large mound of blazing fire. The stench grew overpowering as his body hit the flames, and Ashe had to shield his eyes from the explosion of black fire that
ensued.

  The F’dor was claiming its own.

  For the second time that winter Ashe stood, spent, beneath the Tree amid the destruction of fire. The Filids moved about through the desolation like sleepwalkers, staring at the ruins of the tree palace, stepping in between the rubble, all that remained of the shining castle at the heart of the Circle.

  At the edge of his senses Ashe could feel Gwen stepping carefully through the remains of the rooms she had once kept for his father, lost in the place she had once known better than any other. He closed his eyes and willed her presence from his mind; the dragon within his blood slept now, sated in its destructive rage. The awareness of his second nature stung, like a sore muscle.

  The Filidic priests that remained loyal to Llauron stared dismally at the ruins of the holy circle of trees that ringed the Great White Tree. One of every known species had its place there before the fire, sometimes the last surviving specimen of a species. Now all that remained of the trees were blackened trunks and charred, ragged columns of ash pointing skyward like broken fingers.

  Only the Great White Tree still stood, unscathed, undamaged, though it was stained with soot and ash. Its leafless boughs still gleamed in the diffuse sun, reached into the heavens despite the smoke that hung heavy in the air.

  Fire shall not harm thee.

  The wind picked up, tousling the red-gold curls of his hair. In its passing Ashe could hear his father’s voice.

  Thank you, old boy.

  Ashe turned and walked into the smoldering forest, on his way to find Lark and the others.

  58

  Tyrian

  Each of the hills in Tyrian City contained a piece of the sprawling royal complex, culminating with the throne room atop Tomingorllo. At the base of the first hill, Newydd Dda, were the main hall and some of the living quarters of the nonexistent monarch and his counselors. It was here that Rhapsody had arranged to meet with Rial, the Lord Protector of Tyrian.

  She stood with Oelendra in the great rotunda, admiring the craftsmanship and architecture. Unlike the simple, austere design of the Great Hall atop Tomingorllo, the main palace at the base of Newydd Dda was the showpiece of Tyrian, the place where ambassadors were once housed and international business conducted. It was set within a vast courtyard, surrounded by a massive wall with stone guard towers, far outstripping even the grandeur of the keep of the Lord Roland in Bethany. Rhapsody’s eyes, healing from the bitter, mistaken tears she had recently shed, took in the sights with wonder.

  The rotunda itself contained an enormous circular hearth at its center, the fire of which warmed the expansive palace and its wings, keeping them at the perfect temperature year-round. The palace had been built around many tall trees that now grew within it, as did a wide variety of verdant plants and flowers, all of which were kept in a constant growing season by the heat circulating from the main hearth, imparting the feel of a conservatory.

  A faceted crystal screen circled the hearth, and the prismatic reflections that bounced off it and around the main hall had a hypnotic effect on Rhapsody. She and Oelendra sat down on one of the cushioned wooden benches that faced the fire and waited for the Lord Protector to meet them.

  Her eyes wandered over the intricately carved woodwork of the palace, polished to a mirrored shine for no one in particular. The floor was a giant mosaic of brightly colored marble, the patterns of which honored the formerly united factions of the Lirin, abstract representations of the sea, the plains, the forests, and the cities of Manosse. She had just returned from visiting two of these factions. The news was not promising.

  Rhapsody looked up to see Rial striding toward them, smiling. The women rose as he approached, a fond look in his eyes. He took Rhapsody’s hand and bent over it, then bowed to Oelendra, who returned the gesture.

  “Welcome back, Rhapsody,” he said, gently pulling her hand into the crook of his arm. “How was your visit to the plains?”

  “Disturbing, I’m afraid,” she replied as the three of them walked toward Rial’s offices within the eastern wing of the palace. “The violence against the plains Lirin is apparently even worse than it is here; their lack of cover provides greater opportunity for random attack, as I expected. Their army is well trained but small; the incursions are escalating.”

  “Did they ask for assistance?”

  “No, they were uncomfortable requesting help from the forest, even though they were once part of Tyrian. An alliance makes perfect sense; Tyrian can spare some of its guards to reinforce the army of the plains, and in turn they can guard your southern border.”

  “But will they agree?”

  Rhapsody sighed. “I don’t know. I guess it depends on how compelling they find my proposal to reunite.” Rial held open the door to his tiny office, neatly kept but overflowing with manuscripts and scrolls.

  Rhapsody looked around and shook her head. “Rial, since there’s no king currently, why don’t you move into the huge office that was kept for the monarch? It doesn’t make sense for you, the person who handles all the trade and ambassadorial agreements, to be wedged in here with a shoehorn like this when that big one across the hall is standing empty and has been for a hundred years.”

  Rial offered the women the two chairs, leaning himself on the edge of the desk, and laughed. “You know, Rhapsody, you may vaguely resemble the Orlandan Cymrians, but you certainly talk like a Lirin.”

  Rhapsody smiled at him. The Lirin, in spite of their tradition of monarchy, were an egalitarian society. No marriage lottery existed; both men and women served in the army, as guards and ambassadors. Succession was granted to the oldest child, not the oldest son, and each monarch had to be confirmed by the joint Lirin council and by the diamond-shard crown itself. It was a monotheist and a monogamist society, one that fit Rhapsody’s values perfectly.

  “Thank you,” she said sincerely. Then a thought occurred to her. “Interestingly enough, Lord Tristan Steward once informed me that, while I looked like a Cymrian, I had the manners of a Bolg.”

  “Coming from a Cymrian, that’s high praise, even if he doesn’t know it,” observed Oelendra dryly. Rial and Rhapsody laughed.

  “So how do you suggest we proceed?” Rial asked, settling into the chair behind his desk.

  “Well, I think we should meet in the throne room in council with all the Lirin ambassadors. The power of the demon is growing because it is somehow able to temporarily bind soldiers of each faction to missions of murder they don’t remember. I’m sure this is true of the human incursions into Lirin lands as well. So the first step is to resolve the petty differences between the various Lirin factions and bring them back together. That way the F’dor will have fewer camps it can divide against each other.”

  “And then?”

  “Second, we meet with Tristan Steward and his dukes. We form an alliance with Roland.”

  Rial whistled. “I’m afraid you don’t understand the difficulty of what you are suggesting, my dear.”

  “Yes, and that’s precisely why she has the wisdom to want to try it,” Oelendra said, smiling at Rhapsody. “Sometimes what’s needed is a new eye that has not been informed of all the reasons why success is impossible.” Rial nodded.

  “The Bolg and Roland already have a treaty; Sorbold has one with both of those lands, and with the Lirin as well. The Nonaligned States have their own problems, but the demon doesn’t seem to be focusing too much there, though I predict they are next. Whoever is starting these incursions has access to the soldiers of each land. Once we are aligned we can flush that person out. It really can only be one of a handful of people, who can move from camp to camp, unchallenged.”

  “Prostitutes? Merchants?”

  “Perhaps,” Rhapsody said, nodding.

  “What about Anborn ap Gwylliam?” asked Oelendra. “He has the access you mention among all lands, even the Nonaligned States and the countries past the Hintervold. He has fought on and against all sides. Who better to pass among them unsuspected?”

  Rhap
sody thought of her rescue at the Kinsman’s hands, his rough but careful ministrations to her after he had saved her from the storm. Her stomach tightened at the thought of his duplicity, but she couldn’t deny its possibility. Then a more frightening thought occurred to her. If Anborn was the demon, she had slept alone in his hut, been vulnerable in his presence. Perhaps she herself had been bound, might be his thrall even now, unwittingly. The idea was too much to contemplate.

  “We can’t rule out anyone at this point,” she said, rising. “Well, what do you say, Rial? Is it worth a diplomatic parlay?”

  Rial smiled. “It is, Rhapsody, if only for the opportunity to watch you wrap those hardboiled curmudgeons around your finger.”

  Curmudgeonly was far too nice a word to describe the behavior of the Lirin ambassadors, Rhapsody decided many hours later as darkness came to the land. They had been arguing nonstop since the first two had arrived in the Great Hall at the top of Tomingorllo, and as each successive representative had joined the discussion it had become proportionally uglier. Finally she rapped on the wooden bench for their attention.

  “This is ridiculous,” she said, exasperation in her voice. “I can almost understand this kind of behavior in Roland; they have so many conflicting lines of succession, Cymrian and not, that it almost excuses them acting like children at a birthday party fighting over the extra sweetmeats.

  “But you, ladies and gentlemen, confound me. You are Lirin, the longest-lived of all the races common in these lands. You have seen centuries of conflict and bloodshed. You have witnessed it yourselves, not through the words of legend, but through your own eyes, in the deaths of your own relatives. What is it going to take to awaken you to what’s happening here? Soon it will be unnecessary for the enemy to destroy your lands; you will do it to yourselves! This should be the easiest group to convince, but you seem intent on arguing about nothing.

  “The only thing you appear to agree on is that you don’t trust Roland, and its Cymrian lineage, despite the fact that many of your own people are of that lineage, too. Very well, let me ask you this: if it was Anwyn who destroyed the Diamond, leaving your line of succession unclear, why would you want that to continue? The ancestors of Roland will keep you divided and weak forever. Rise above it! Choose one among you who can see these people not as plains Lirin, or sea Lirin, or forest Lirin, or Manossian Lirin, but Lirin! This should be simple.”