“I will, Mistress. I promise.”
“That’s a promise I will hold you to.” The older woman leaned forward and kissed her on both cheeks. “Good–bye, Chrysallin.”
Once through the door and atop the landing platform, the Ard Rhys and her attendants moved to the fast clipper that Isaturin had prepared and by which he stood waiting. He was to come with Paxon on this journey, and only the two of them would witness Aphenglow’s passing from the Four Lands. The Captain of the Druid Guard, Dajoo Rees, and his Troll companions were already aboard and would act as crew. To all who might witness it, this leaving appeared to be just another of many, and not the last. Only the handful gathered at the airship knew the truth.
At the ramp prepared for her boarding, Aphenglow turned to Keratrix and took his hands. “Good–bye to you, young one. You were everything I could have hoped for in a scribe and a confidant in these final years. I hope you will think well of me once I am gone, and that you will remember I tried to be kind to you.”
“You were unfailingly kind, Mistress,” the scribe managed to say before breaking down.
She took him by his shoulders and hugged him momentarily before turning back to Paxon. “Help me to board,” she ordered.
It was done in moments. Standing with the Ard Rhys and Isaturin, Paxon watched the Trolls raise the light sheaths and release the mooring lines. He heard the diapson crystals begin to power up, snugged down in their parse tubes, warm with the flow of energy siphoned down by the radian draws. He watched the sails billow out in the midday breeze, and then they were lifting away, rising into clouds banked overhead, thick and fluffy against a deep blue sky. Below, Paranor’s walls and towers grew small against the green of the surrounding forests, and as the airship shifted course south, they faded and were gone.
“The last time,” Aphenglow whispered, mostly to herself, though Paxon heard the words clearly.
Isaturin moved away toward the bow, leaving the Ard Rhys with the Highlander. Paxon watched him go. He had noted the other’s deep reticence during their boarding, and he believed the High Druid was dealing with these final hours in the best way he knew how–but still he was struggling, his path uncertain. Paxon could not blame him. His own emotions were edgy and raw, his sense of place and time rocked by his own reluctance to accept the inevitable.
The airship flew south toward the Kennon Pass, navigated the narrow fissure that split the Dragon’s Teeth, and descended into the borderlands of Callahorn before turning east to follow the wall of the mountains, tracking the blue ribbon of the Mermidon River far below. No one spoke, himself included. There was a surreal aspect to what was happening, a sense of suspension of time as they made their passage. The day eased through the afternoon and on toward sunset, but even knowing their destination did nothing to help dispel the unreality that wrapped the cause of their journey. Paxon kept thinking the same thing, unable to absorb the words fully, incapable of finding a way to accept them.
The Ard Rhys is dying. We are taking her to her final resting place. After today, she will be gone forever.
There had never been a time in the collective memory of living men and women when Aphenglow Elessedil hadn’t been a part of their lives. She had been as immutable and enduring as the land itself–a presence unaltered by events or the passing of the years. That she would one day die was inevitable, but it always felt as if it would never be this day, or the next, or any day soon. The constancy of her presence was reassuring and, in some sense, necessary. Her life had been a gift. Her tenure as Ard Rhys had been marked by accomplishment. She had been instrumental in saving the Four Lands from the creatures of the Forbidding when they had broken free. She had reformed the shattered Druid Order when all but two were killed and made it stronger and more effective than it had been in years past. She had brokered a peace that had lasted for more than a century between the Federation and the other governments of the Four Lands. She had made the Druids relevant and acceptable again in the eyes of the Races.
Her entire life had been given over to her duties as Ard Rhys. There had been two men in her life, but both had come to her in her early years, and both had been all too quickly lost. It was said that the loss of her sister Arling had been even worse, leaving her so bereft she had never been able to love again, and had supplanted that need with a deeply ingrained dedication to her work. It was said that, with her own family lost, the Druids had become her family.
All this Paxon Leah had gleaned from stories told and writings read–from Druids and common folk alike–and instinctively he knew it to be true. Knowing her confirmed most of it. The rest only added trappings to the legend she had become, wrapped in a mantle of history that would remain long after she was gone, survived by a legacy that would now be passed on to Isaturin. Paxon wondered at what this must feel like to the other man. Everything he did would be measured against what she had done. Everything he was or would become would be compared with her memory.
He would not wish that on himself, he thought. He would not wish that on anyone.
They were seated in front of the pilot box now, watching the sky grow slowly darker ahead of them as the sunset approached–passed now beyond the Runne River, where it turned south to reach the Rainbow Lake; beyond the city of Varfleet, as well; beyond everything of Paranor and the Druids but the airship on which they rode deep along the Dragon’s Teeth toward the broad expanse of the Rabb Plains, which could be seen stretching away toward the distant purple wall of the Wolfsktaag.
Then they were shifting north toward a gap in the Dragon’s Teeth where Aphenglow had told Paxon a path led upward into the jagged peaks to the Valley of Shale and the Hadeshorn.
“I want you to come with me when I go,” the Ard Rhys told him suddenly, leaning close so she could be heard without having to raise her voice over the wind. “Just you and me and Isaturin.”
He nodded his agreement, wondering at this, but not willing to question it openly. Why was he being asked to go? Was she worried for her safety? Was the presence of her successor not enough to reassure her?
Then they were down, the mooring lines fastened in place, the light sheaths brought in, and the radian draws unhitched. The hum of the diapson crystals faded as the parse tubes were hooded, and a deep silence descended as everything came to a standstill.
With Paxon’s help, the Ard Rhys climbed to her feet and moved over to the railing. Dajoo Rees had already opened the gate and lowered a rope ladder. He tried to help her climb down, his great hands reaching for her, but she brushed him aside and navigated the ladder on her own, beckoning Paxon and Isaturin to follow.
“The rest of you will please remain aboard,” she called back. “Thank you all for your service. Please do for Isaturin what you have done so faithfully for me. I will carry my memories of you with me when I am gone and will cherish them always.”
The Trolls muttered in response and clasped fists to their chests as a sign of respect. Stone–faced, expressionless, huge, and terrible creatures they could be, yet Paxon could discern a softness in the looks they cast after her.
Once down, the Druids and Paxon set out on the trail that led into the mountains. Isaturin carried torches to help light their way when darkness closed about them. They would be walking for much of the night to reach their destination, and moon and stars alone might not provide enough light to reveal their passage. Paxon worried that the trek might be too much for the Ard Rhys, and he had already accepted that he might have to carry her before it was over.