The expression of sadness dissipated in the beast’s prismatic eyes into something more studied; it was a look Ashe recognized, though until now he had only seen it in his father’s human face. Llauron was regrouping, switching from the emotional, an area of admitted weakness, to the logical, which was his strength.
“So you are keeping me away from your child for his benefit?”
The headache behind Ashe’s eyes stabbed sharply, and he rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, trying to fight it off.
“And Rhapsody’s,” he said, wincing.
The dragon nodded thoughtfully. “And in your mind, it is better for your child to grow up never knowing his grandfather?”
“Sadly, yes.”
“How shortsighted of you.” The great gray dragon stretched his wings slightly, causing the ice crystals on the snow’s surface to whip into the air, the soft sting of the breeze blowing them into Ashe’s eyes. “Had it occurred to you that your child, conceived when your dragon’s blood is at the peak of its strength in you, will be more draconic than you were? He will have few of the race that is very much a part of his makeup to reach out to, to learn from; dragons as a race are rare enough. But those to whom the child will be related are few and far between—”
“He or she can learn from Elynsynos,” Ashe said tersely, annoyed to still be carrying on the conversation. “She is his great-great-grandmother, a pure wyrm, not wyrmkin like you and I. No one knows as well as she what it is like to be a dragon. I’m sure she will be delighted to tutor my child in draconic ways and elemental lore. And, above all else, she has never betrayed Rhapsody or me. So thank you for your—kind offer, but I believe we have that aspect of the child’s education covered.”
“My grandmother has not walked the world as a human being,” Llauron said smoothly, the silver scales in his hide winking in the dusty light of the glen. “She only took a human form—or, more accurately, a Seren one—to attract the notice of Merithyn. She may have knowledge of the ancient times that I did not have in human form, but since I have come to join the elements, I have learned those stories, too, Gwydion. And I do have much to impart—sure you cannot dismiss all that you learned of the world from me.”
Ashe inhaled sharply, taking the freezing air of the forest into his lungs, where it weighed heavily inside him. His wife’s words, spoken with a Namer’s truth at the council where they were chosen to rule over the Cymrian people, rang in his ears.
If I have one message for you it is this: the Past is gone. Learn from it and let it go. We must forgive each other. We must forgive ourselves. Only then will there be a true peace.
He let his eyes wander over the face of the ethereal beast hanging before him in the air, and on his every word. The dragon’s eyes twinkled with intelligence, but there was something more in them; Ashe could not be certain what it was, but for a moment it looked like longing, or something akin to it.
Involuntarily he thought back to his childhood, the earliest days he could remember, before a piece of Seren had been sewed into his chest, before his draconic nature had emerged, the days of innocence, when he was just a boy alone in the world with a father who loved to walk the forests with him, pointing out every sort of tree and plant, singing him sea chanteys and ancient folksongs, teaching him to sail and swim in the ocean that later in life became a part of him. To his shock, those good memories were still there, not obliterated as he had believed them to be by Llauron’s later selfishness and manipulation, his willingness to use his son, and, worse, Rhapsody, to his ends, however noble his intentions.
“I believe you sincerely want to be part of your grandchild’s life and upbringing, Father,” he said finally, wincing at the hope he could see taking root in the wyrm’s gray-blue eyes. “But, as valuable as the history lessons might be, there are other sorts of lessons that you tend to teach that are very much more dangerous and scarring. I wish things could be different—I’m sorry.”
He turned quickly and made his way through the forest, leaving Llauron’s misty form behind him.
The beast watched him go; Llauron’s dragon sense followed him for more than five miles, making note of the quickness of his son’s step, the flush of blood to his face, the tightness of his throat. Then, when Ashe was finally beyond his reach and his senses, he faded slowly into the wind again and disappeared, leaving only on the dry leaves of the forest the traces of gold that can be seen where dragon tears fall.
The Slaughter
27
The outer ring of the city was a maze of white and gray marble buildings set into the foothills of the mountains that eventually became the guardian hills of Sorbold to the south. Those buildings—houses, meeting halls, and museums—shone in the light of morning from a great distance, making the entire city seem to glow from the radiance.
If that were not enough to lend a holy, almost magical patina to the landscape, in the center of the city stood an enormous structure known as the Spire, the pinnacle of Lianta’ar, the great basilica of the Star, the most sacred of all the elemental basilicas. A feat of almost magical engineering, the base of the structure spanned the width of a city block, tapering upward a thousand feet in the air to the pinnacle, which was crowned with a glowing silver star. The shining summit was rumored to contain a piece of ether from the star Melita, the entity known in Cymrian lore as the Sleeping Child, which had fallen to Earth in the First Age of history. Its impact swamped the Island, leaving it half its previous size. Thereafter, the burning star had lain beneath the waves for four millennia, boiling the ocean above it, until at last it had risen and claimed the rest of the Island. But a piece of it had traveled with the Cymrian exodus, or so the legends insisted, and now lighted the top of the Spire, which gleamed day and night, visible from a hundred leagues away.
Lasarys and the two acolytes who had escaped the purge in the square of Jierna Tal had followed that light like a beacon. Knowing that if they were recognized on their way out of Sorbold they would have been returned to Talquist, who believed them dead and would make certain of that belief if he knew otherwise, they had traveled slowly and circumspectly, joining a foot caravan of pilgrims on their way to the holy city. The pilgrims had embraced them, having similarly anonymous travelers in their midst, and allowed them to remain in their company until the Spire came into view. Then the former priests set out on their own, looking to find the Blesser of Sorbold, their nation’s benison, Nielash Mousa, and tell him all that they had seen.
Now they stood at the city gates, the towering Spire casting a deep shadow over them. The priests, swathed in the robes of pilgrims, stood in silence, allowing the majesty of their holy city and its Spire to wash over them along with the crystals of ice that danced on the wind. The Spire was seen as the Patriarch’s direct link with the Creator, and so looking upon it was a bit like looking at the threshold of the Afterlife.
Lester was the first to gain his voice.
“How do we find the Blesser, Father?” he asked Lasarys nervously, watching the river of human traffic, most of it composed of acolytes and priests of the Patrician religion, streaming into the city gates along with merchants and tradesmen and beggars seeking alms. “None of us has ever been here before; in asking the way, we will doubtless be recognized, as the others here all seem to be of Orlandan blood.”
The elderly sexton shook his head. “Keep your eyes to the ground, my sons, and pray to the All-God to sustain us.”
Dominicus tucked his hands nervously into the sleeves of his robe and fell into place behind Lasarys with Lester. Together the three men approached the city gate.