Destiny: Child of the Sky

Destiny: Child of the Sky

by Elizabeth Haydon
Destiny: Child of the Sky

Destiny: Child of the Sky

by Elizabeth Haydon

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Overview

To stand against the F'dor—an ancient, vile being intent on destroying the world—a fellowship has been forged: Rhapsody, a Singer of great talent and beauty; Achmed, an assassin with unearthly talents; and Grunthor, a giant of jolly disposition and lethal skill with weapons.

Driven by prophetic visions, the three know that time is running short, know that they must find their elusive enemy before his darkness consumes them all. But after their final, brutal confrontation with the F'dor, their world crosses the threshold of disaster and faces utter oblivion. The action reaches a fevered pitch, achieving a crescendo of tragedy, love, and triumph of human spirit over world-shattering cataclysm.

With death at hand and the world crumbling at their feet, these three will finally discover their true Destiny.


Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781250240286
Publisher: Tor Publishing Group
Publication date: 05/19/2002
Series: The Symphony of Ages , #3
Pages: 560
Sales rank: 573,522
Product dimensions: 4.25(w) x 7.00(h) x 1.92(d)

About the Author

About The Author
As the daughter of an air force officer, USA Today bestselling epic fantasy author ELIZABETH HAYDON began traveling at an early age and has since traveled all over the world. She draws on the imagery of these visits in the Symphony of Ages series, and blends her love of music, anthropology, herbalism and folklore into much of her writing. Haydon is also a harpist and a madrigal singer (a singer of medieval songs). She lives with her family on the East Coast.

Read an Excerpt

1
 
YARIM PAAR, PROVINCE OF YARIM

In winter the dry red earth that had given Yarim its name was akin to desert sand. Granular specks of it hung heavy in the air of the decaying province, sweeping it like a vengeful wind demon, stinging with cold.
That blood-red clay-sand glistened in the first light of morning, sprinkled with a thin coating of crystalline frost. The frost painted the dilapidated stone buildings and neglected streets, dressing them for a moment in a shining finery that Yarim's capital had no doubt known long ago, an elegance that now existed only in memory, and for a few fleeting moments in the rosy haze of sunrise.
Achmed reined his horse to a stop at the crest of a rolling hill that led down into the crumbling city below him. He stared down into the valley as Rhapsody came to a halt beside him, musing. Looking down at Yarim from above gave him the opposite sensation to looking up at Canrif from the steppes at the edge of the Krevensfield Plain. While the Bolg were reclaiming the mountain, reaching skyward along with the peaks, Yarim sat broken, fetid, all but forgotten, at the bottom of this hill like dried mud left behind where a pond had been. Where once there had been greatness now there was not only decay, but diffidence, as if even the Earth were oblivious of the state of ruin that was Yarim. It seemed a pity.
Rhapsody dismounted first, walking to the edge of the hill's crest. “Pretty in the light of first sun,” she said absently, staring off beyond the city's walls.
“Like the beauty of youth; it's fleeting,” Achmed said, descending himself. “The mist will burn off momentarily, and thesparkle will be gone, leaving nothing but a vast carcass rotting in the sun. Then we'll see her for the aged hag she really is.” He would be glad to see the glistening vapor go; mist such as this hung wet in the air, masking vibration. It might hide the signature of the ancient blood that surged in the veins of the F'dor's spawn hidden somewhere amid all that standing rubble.
An inexplicable shiver ran through him, and he turned to Rhapsody. “Did you feel that?”
She shook her head. “Nothing unusual. What was it?”
Achmed closed his eyes, waiting for the vibration to return. He felt nothing now but the calm, cold gusts of the wind. “A tingle on the surface of my skin,” he said after a moment, when he could not reclaim the sensation.
“Perhaps you're feeling Manwyn,” Rhapsody suggested. “Sometimes when a dragon is examining something with its senses, there's a chill of sorts; a presence. It's almost like a—a hum; it tickles.”
Achmed shielded his eyes. “I had wondered what you could have possibly seen in Ashe,” he said sourly, gazing down into the morning shadows as they began to stretch west of the city. “Now I know. Manwyn knows we're here, then.” He gritted his teeth; they had hoped to avoid the notice of the mad Seer, the unpredictable dragonchild who wielded her Seren father's ancient power of vision and her dragon mother's control over the elements.
Rhapsody shook her head. “Manwyn knew we were coming before we got here. If someone asked her a week, or a day, or even a moment ago, she could have told him so. But now that we're here, it's the Present. Manwyn can see only the Future. I think the moment has passed. We're gone from her awareness.”
“Let's hope you're right.” Achmed glanced around, looking for a high rise of ground or other summit on which to stand. He spied a jutting outcropping of rock to the east. He set his pack on the ground, pulling forth a scrap of fabric that had once been soaked in the blood of the Rakshas, now dried to the same color as the earth in Yarim. “That's the place. Wait here.”
Rhapsody nodded, and drew her cloak closer as she watched Achmed lope over to the small hilly rise. She had witnessed his Hunting ritual once before, and knew that he required absolute silence and stillness of movement to be able to discern a flickering heartbeat on the wind. She clucked softly to the horses, hoping to gentle them into a quiet contentment.
Achmed climbed to the top of the outcropping and stood with nothing but the wind surrounding him on all sides, staring down into the skeletal city. Somewhere amid its broken buildings a tainted soul was hiding, one of the nine children spawned of the ancient evil through a systematic campaign of rape and propagation. The blood in his own veins burned at the thought.
With a single, smooth motion he pulled away the veils that shielded his skin-web, the network of sensitive nerves and exposed veins that scored his neck and face, casting a final glance back at Rhapsody. She smiled but did not move otherwise. Achmed turned away.
He knew Rhapsody was aware that because of his Dhracian heritage he was predisposed to disposal, not rescue, of anything that contained the blood of F'dor. This undertaking, should it prove successful, would undoubtedly be the first time one of his race would hunt a creature spawned of the F'dor and not exterminate it immediately upon capture.
The natural detachment that the Dhracians felt when confronting the malignant filth had deserted him, leaving him shaking with hatred. It was all he could do to remain calm, to keep from allowing his racial proclivities to roar forth, launching him into a blood rage that would culminate in the efficient, traceless slaughter of this demon-child and all its misbegotten siblings. He swallowed and began to breathe shallowly, trying to keep focused on the greater outcome.
That ancient blood, which pulsed softly now in the distance like a trace of perfume across a crowded bazaar, could eventually help him find the F'dor itself.
Achmed closed his eyes and willed the landscape from his mind, emptying it of conscious thought, concentrating on the rhythm of his own pulse. As always, when this moment of the hunt came, he could almost smell the odor of candle wax in the monastery where he was raised, could hear his mentor speak again in his memory.
Child of Blood, Father Halphasion had intoned softly in his fricative voice. Brother to all men, akin to none. The Dhracian sage, dead more than a thousand years now.
The hunt required of him a tremendous sacrifice, both mental and spiritual. It was in the power of those words that he had been able to divert his kirai, the Seeking vibration inherent in all Dhracians, to hone onto the heartbeats of non-F'dor, his own unique gift. Brother to all men. He had been known only as the Brother most of his life, a deadly relative to his victims, whose pulses had briefly shared a rhythm with his.
Let your identity die, the Grandmother had instructed him; the ancient guardian and mentor so recently gone. It was more than his identity, however. At the moment when he subdued his own vibration, even that part of him which might be called a soul disappeared without a trace, replaced by the distant, thudding rhythm of his target.
He once wondered casually what would happen if instead of emerging the victorious stalker, he were to die while following his kirai. The place to which his identity went while in the throes of the hunt was undoubtedly the Void, the great emptiness of space, the opposite of Life. He suspected, when he allowed himself to think about it, that should luck turn against him and his victim instead overpower and kill him, everything that had been part of his identity would dissipate instantly, shattering in that empty space into tiny particles that would burn out forever like firesparks, robbing him of any existence in the Afterlife.
It was a risk he could abide.
All thought receded, replaced by a distant thudding that grew ever louder with each breath.
The pulse was at the same time alien and familiar to him. There was a hint of the old world, a hum that had beat in the veins of every soul born on Seren soil; the deep magic in the Island of Serendair had a unique ring to it, and it permeated the blood of those whose lives had been brought into existence there. But this was only the slightest trace in the rhythm that made up the rest of the heartbeat.
When he had first learned to listen to his skin, he had heard a roar of drums. Countless chaotic, cacophonous rhythms had thundered directly into him, threatened to overwhelm him, to drown him like the echoes of waves in a canyon. Here he heard barely a whisper.
Because the blood that pumped through the demon-spawn's heart was almost totally of this world, he could not discern its rhythm, could not track it. The blood of the new world swirled around the evanescent flutter from the old world like ocean waves, like a windstorm of dried leaves in the last vestiges of autumn; and occasionally he could taste some of its traits. He chased them with his breath, tasted the mix and dip of tones, looking for the deep shadow tone he was hunting.
There would be warmth in a pulse-wave that broke over him—that must be from the child's unknown mother—followed by the chill of ice; bequeathed by its father, the Rakshas, the artificial being that had sired all these cursed progeny of its demonic master. There was something feral in there as well, something with red eyes and a wild, brutal nature. Rhapsody had said the F'dor used the blood of wolves and other night creatures when it constructed the Rakshas. Perhaps that was it.
Still, each passing moment the ancient rhythm grew slightly louder, a bit clearer. Achmed opened his left hand and held it aloft, allowing the gusts of wind to dance over his palm.
Each intake of breath became slower, deeper, each exhalation measured. When the pattern of his breathing matched that of the distant beating heart, he turned his attention to his own heart, to the pressure it exerted on the vessels and pathways through which his blood flowed. He willed it to slow, lowering his pulse to a level barely able to sustain his life. He drove all stray thoughts from his mind, leaving it blank except for the color red. Everything else faded, leaving nothing but the vision of blood before his mind's eye.
Blood will be the means, the prophecy had said.
Child of Blood. Brother to all men, akin to none.
Achmed held absolutely still, remained utterly silent. He loosed the pulse of his own heart, willing it to match the distant heartbeat. Like trying to catch a flywheel in motion, he could only synchronize with one beat in every five, then every two, until each beat matched perfectly. He clung to the tiny burr of the ancient blood, followed it through distant veins, chased its flow, gathered its ebb until from that whisper of a handhold he crawled into his victim's rhythm. Their heartbeats locked.
And then, as the trail became clear, as his prey became unerringly linked to him, another tiny, discordant rhythm shattered the cadence. Achmed clutched his chest and staggered back as pain exploded like a volcano inside him.
Over his agonized groan he could hear Rhapsody gasp. His body rolled down the rocky outcropping, battering his limbs against the frozen rock ledge. Achmed struggled to find consciousness, catching intermittent glimpses of it from moment to moment, then fading into darkness between. The two heartbeats he had found wrestled inside his own; breath failed him. He clenched his teeth. The sky swam in blue circles, then went black.
He felt warmth surround him. The wind that tickled his nostrils was suddenly sweeter. Achmed opened his eyes to see Rhapsody's face swimming among the circles.
“Gods! What happened?” Her voice vibrated strangely.
Achmed gestured dizzily and curled into a tight ball, lying sideways on the ground. He took several deliberate, measured breaths, the cold wind stinging his burning chest. He noted absently that Rhapsody was still beside him, but had refrained from touching him. She's learning, he thought, strangely pleased.
With the grind of sand in his teeth and a painful growl, he forced himself into a crouch. They sat in silence on the windy hilltop above the crumbling city. When the sun was overhead and the shadows shifted, Achmed finally looked up. He exhaled deeply, then rose to a shaky stand, waving away the offer of her hand.
“What happened?” Her voice was calm.
Slowly he shook the sand from his clothes, retied his veils, staring down at Yarim below. The city had come to life of a sort while he had been coming back to himself, and now human and animal traffic shuffled through the unkempt streets, filling the distant air with sound.
“There's another one here,” he said.
“Another child?”
Achmed nodded slowly. “Another heartbeat. Another spawn of some sort.”
Rhapsody went back to the horses and pulled open one of the saddlebags. She drew forth an oilcloth journal and brought it back to the rim of the hill.
“Rhonwyn said there was only one in Yarim,” she said, rifling through the pages. “Here it is—one in Sorbold—the gladiator—two in the Hintervold, one in Yarim, one in the easternmost province of the Nonaligned States, one in Bethany, one in Navarne, one in Zafhiel, one in Tyrian, and the unborn baby, in the Lirin fields to the south of Tyrian. Are you certain the second heartbeat belongs to one of the children?”
“No, of course I'm not certain,” Achmed spat crossly, shaking more grit from his hair and cloak. “And perhaps it's not another child. But somewhere near here is another pulse with the same taint to it, the same clouded blood.”
Rhapsody pulled her cloak even closer. “Perhaps it's the F'dor itself.”

Copyright © 2001 by Elizabeth Haydon

Reading Group Guide

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Elizabeth Haydon has traveled the world, sampling the cultures and gathering the experiences which add such extraordinary depth and authenticity to her fiction. She enjoys anthropology and is an accomplished herbalist, harpist, and madrigal singer. She lives with her family on the East coast, where she works as an editor in educational publishing. Her previous book, Rhapsody, has been optioned for film in a seven-figure deal.

ABOUT THE BOOK
The epic story that began with Rhapsody and continued in Prophecy builds to a shattering crescendo as the disparate races of the Old World and New are pushed toward devastating conflict by the twisted schemes of the demon F'dor.

Newly revitalized under the iron rule of the new king Achmed, and his giant master-at-arms Grunthor, the Firbolg civilization is quickly rebuilding the ruins of Canrif, their mountain fortress. Rhapsody is not there to witness this stunning rebirth, however, as she undertakes a critical mission: gathering together the demon-spawned children of the Rakahas, whose tainted blood carries the stink of the F'dor. Their blood is the only link to the demon itself, offering Achmed's Dhracian sensitivity its best chance to perceive the beast as it hides inside its human host.

But the F'dor is clever and powerful. Already, its poison seeps through the land, sowing mistrust and fear, turning neighbor against neighbor in an ever-increasing cycle of violence. As forgotten heroes and long-buried nightmares rise and walk together across the harsh and bleeding land, the Three Companions unite for the final showdown with the F'dor, confronting the destiny that was theirs all along. With a depth and enchanting richness only rarely found, Destiny offers an explosive and satisfying conclusion to one of today's most impressive fantasy trilogies.


Questions for Discussion

1. Throughout Destiny, Rhapsody is referred to as naïve, and many of her actions prove this to be correct. Yet, she has led a life that could hardly be called sheltered. How has she remained so pure of heart, and how does this innocence influence the story? Does it make her more or less vulnerable to the F'dor?

2. Of the Firbolg culture, the author writes: "Bloodied warriors could lie on the battlefield and die of non-mortal wounds while medical attention was directed to a laboring woman, in the belief that the infant was the Future, while the soldier was merely the present. Anything that was the Past did not matter, save for a few stories and the allencompassing need to survive." Is this an effective belief system for a civilized culture? How does this belief system help Achmed gain the Firbolg crown? How does this culture compare with other cultures?

3. Achmed, like all Dhracians, is literally a sworn blood enemy of the F'dor's demonic race, biologically predisposed to track the demons through the scent of their vile blood, just as certain species of animals seem to know dangerous predators instinctively. Do you believe that enemies are born or made?

4. In all her books, Elizabeth Haydon confronts many of the most profound questions of religion and faith. In Destiny, as Rhapsody and Achmed discuss the disappearance of the Wellspring of Entudenin, the Firbolg king says, "Have you ever noticed, Rhapsody, that when something miraculous and good happens it's a gift from the All-God, but when something baleful happens, it was man's fault? Perhaps everything that happens, good and bad, is just random chance." Is this statement consistent with Achmed's personality? Do you think Rhapsody would agree with his observation? Do you agree with his observation?

5. Speaking of the Cymrians, Llauron says, "Longevity that borders on immortality is as much a curse as a blessing, my son, maybe even more so." Discuss his contention, including how it relates to Rhapsody, Ashe, and Anborn, and to Llauron's own decision to attain his true dragon form.

6. Time is a dynamic and flexible dimension in Destiny, as Rhapsody's visit to the realm of the Lord and Lady Rowan illustrates. Before Rhapsody sets off, Oelendra warns that it may be hard to find her place in Time again. Yet, Rhapsody undergoes her ordeal and returns with apparently no ill effects. What character traits does Rhapsody have that allow her to endure, and keep her place in Time?

7. In the mystical realm of the Rowans, Rhapsody vividly dreams of her dead sister Jo, who tells her, "It's the connections that we make in life that allow us to know love in the Afterlife." How does this knowledge influence Rhapsody's actions with the children of the Rakshas? With the Cymrians at the Moot?

8. When Rhapsody is tricked by Llauron into saying he has been killed, she feels that her truthfulness is tainted and that she is no longer a Namer. Achmed argues that Truth is subjective, and she bears no responsibility for Llauron's misleading her. Is he correct? Is an unwitting lie really a lie? What other examples of Rhapsody being deceptive are in the book? How does she justify them?

9. Rhapsody is a most altruistic character; virtually everything she does is for the betterment of others. Achmed repeatedly insists he is the opposite, that he does things for his own purposes and in his own time. Yet, his actions often belie his claims. Discuss in depth the character of Achmed, paying close attention to how the author portrays his seeming contradictions.

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