“Melly? But not me?”
“Right. We will get to that in a moment.”
Gwydion nodded numbly, his every nerve screaming inside. They are sending me away, he thought, his mind reeling at the thought.
“Second,” Ashe continued, oblivious of his consternation, “Rhapsody and I would like to reinstitute the winter carnival this year.”
Gwydion’s nausea grew exponentially. The winter carnival had long been a family tradition at Haguefort, something his father had relished hosting, on the days that spanned the winter solstice. Each year a great festival was undertaken, coinciding with holy days in both the Patriarchal religion of Sepulvarta and the order of the Filids, the nature priests of the Circle in Gwynwood, the two faiths of the continent. The festival lasted for three days, marked with games of winter sport, feasting, singing contests, minstrelsy, and dozens of other forms of merrymaking.
The last of the carnivals had taken place four years before and had turned into a bloodbath. The horror of it was still raw in Gwydion’s mind.
“Why?” he asked, unable to contain his revulsion.
“Because it is time to get back to the business of living,” Rhapsody said gently. “Your father loved that celebration, and understood how important it was to the folk of his province, and in fact all of Roland. It is the one time of year that the adherents of the religion of Sepulvarta and that of Gwynwood convene for a happy purpose; that is critical to advancing understanding between both sects. And besides, we have an announcement to make; that seems like the best place to make it.”
“What announcement?”
“Third,” Ashe said, “we have decided, after deep discussion and consultation with a few of our most trusted advisors, that you are ready to take on the full mantle of your inheritance, as duke of Navarne.”
Gwydion stared at his guardians in silence.
“That is why we are offering to take Melisande with us,” Rhapsody said quickly. “Once you take on the responsibility of the duchy, there will be much for you to accustom yourself to, and caring for your sister, as much as we know you are willing to do it, should not be a distraction to you. Our new home is less than a day’s journey on horseback anyway; she can come and see you whenever either of you wish.”
Ashe came over to the young man and stood in front of him, looking down gravely into his eyes.
“Your seventeenth birthday is the last day of autumn,” he said seriously. “You have more than proven yourself worthy of being fully invested as duke; you are both brave and wise beyond your years. This is not a gift, Gwydion; it is both your birthright and a title you have earned. I need you as a full member of my council, and Navarne needs a duke who looks out for its interests as his main concern. Anborn believes you to be ready, and that is high praise indeed. My uncle is not the quickest to offer support or praise; if he feels you merit the title, there are few that will gainsay it.”
“But there may be some who do,” Gwydion said, his heart still racing.
“None,” Rhapsody said, smiling. “We have met already, and all agree. We’re sorry for keeping you waiting in the hall, but the council needed to be able to speak freely. You would have been flattered to hear what they said. No one objected.” She glanced at Ashe; Tristan Steward, Gwydion Navarne’s cousin, had expressed concern, but in the end had acceded and given the idea his support.
“And even if there are, that is something you may as well become accustomed to,” Ashe said. “It is the lot of a leader to be questioned; it is the sign of a good one when that leader takes the praise and blame with equanimity, without being swayed too far from what he believes by either of them. So, what say you? Shall we call in Melisande so that she can witness the first moment of her brother’s investiture?”
Gwydion walked over to the window where Rhapsody had stood and pulled the drape back, causing a bevy of winterbirds that had been perching in the nearby trees to scatter noisily. He gazed out over the rolling green fields of his ancestral estate, scored by a twelve-foot-high wall his father had built to fortify the lands around the castle. The townspeople had begun to move their dwellings within the wall, turning it from the once-pristine meadow into a village, as Stephen had predicted would happen. It was an ugly reality: the trading of innocence and beauty for safety and security.
“I suppose this is childhood’s end,” he said, his voice tinged with melancholy.
Ashe came to the window and stood behind him. “In some ways, yes. But one could make the case that your childhood ended long ago, Gwydion. You’ve seen more loss in your young life than any man should have to see. This is just a formal recognition that you’ve been a man for some time.”
“Your father never truly lost the innocence of childhood, Gwydion,” Rhapsody said. “He had seen the same kinds of early loss that you have—his mother, your mother. Even your godfather—for many years Stephen believed Ashe to be dead. But he had you, and Melly, and a duchy to be strong for. He could have embraced the darkness of melancholy, and he would have had every right to do so. He chose instead to laugh, to celebrate, to live in the light instead of the darkness.” She rose slowly. “That choice is yours as well, as it is for each of us.”
Gwydion turned back and regarded his guardians. They were watching him closely, thoughtfully, but in their eyes was the silent, common understanding of people who had taken on leadership reluctantly, at great personal sacrifice. He knew that they had both lost much, too—most everyone in the world they had ever loved. In their loss, they clung to each other.
Something his godfather had said to him on their wedding day three years before came to mind.
If your grandmother were to have her way, she would abandon all of the trappings and the power and live in a goat hut in a remote forest somewhere. Grow herbs, compose music, raise children. And with but one word from her, I would move the mountains with my hands to make it happen.
Then why don’t you? Gwydion had asked.
Because there are some things that you cannot escape, for they are inside you, Ashe had said, putting on his wedding neckpiece. One of them is duty. She is needed in the positions she has been given, as I am. His eyes had twinkled. But on the day when we are no longer specifically needed, I will ask for your help in building that goat hut.
Gwydion met the eyes of the Lord and Lady Cymrian.
“I’m honored to accept,” he said simply.
Rhapsody and Ashe smiled in response.
“Know that we are here for you, always,” Rhapsody said.
“Let us go share the good news, shall we?” Ashe added, crossing to the door of the small room and opening it. “We have a festival and an investiture to plan.”
On his way down the aisle of the Great Hall behind the Lord and Lady Cymrian, Gwydion Navarne paused long enough at Anborn’s seat to lean in and utter one word.
“Apprenticeship?”
The Lord Marshal broke into an evil grin.
“I told you it wasn’t so,” he whispered back as the duke-to-be walked past.
Through Ashe’s announcement, Gwydion kept his eyes fixed on the Lord Marshal’s face. It remained frozen in the same formal aspect, a court face, Ashe would have called it, immutable and showing no emotion, giving no indication of his thoughts one way or the other. But in the Cymrian hero’s azure eyes Gwydion thought he saw more—sympathy, perhaps; he and Anborn had forged a strong bond, and he knew that Anborn disdained titles and court responsibilities, valuing instead his freedom from duty. Given the sacrifices he had made as a young man in the court of his father and mother, Gwylliam and Anwyn, and the war his father forced him to lead against his mother, Gwydion well understood Anborn’s distaste for titles and the responsibilities they carried. The Lord Marshal had long counseled Gwydion to stay away from them until he could avoid them no more; now that day had come.