“You will be ready when the time comes,” the mother reassures her son. But she doesn’t look at him when she speaks. She stares over his shoulder with a relaxed and distant gaze that reaches well past the horizon.
“Could there not be another way?”
“Ilryth…” She draws her attention back to her son and then to the tree high above. Ilryth’s mother’s mouth is set in a hard line of determination. But her eyes nearly overflow with sorrow. “Duke Renfal says that Lord Krokan wants women who are rich with life and who have held Lady Lellia’s grace in their hands sacrificed to him every five years. That was the knowledge he gave his life for. The other sacrifices haven’t worked; our seas grow more and more dangerous.”
“Yes, but why does it have to beyou?” He looks up at his mother.
She smooths hair away from his brow. In the arms of a mother, every man becomes a boy. “Because who is richer with life than the Duchess of Spears? Who holds a stronger grace in their hands than I, with Dawnpoint? Who better than a singer of the chorus?” She smiles but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “My duty is to protect our seas and our people at all costs—as is yours. You must take your oath so that my anointing might begin.”
“I don’t think I can…” He glances away in shame.
“Of course you can.”
“Do it.” A new voice enters the mix. A familiar one. I look over my shoulder. Behind me, farther back on the beach, is the Ilryth I know. A man grown.
He doesn’t have two legs and instead hovers, tail and all, as if suspended in water. He moves like he would in the sea, though here he soars through the air.
“Ilryth?”
Somehow, he doesn’t hear me. Perhaps he can’t see me, either, because he rushes past me to the young man.
“Ilryth, what is this place? What’s happening?” I try to call out to him.
Ilryth looms over his younger self, oozing disdain and hate as the young man pushes away his mother’s arms and assumes his position before the tree door once more. But he doesn’t lift his palms to the wood. Ilryth tries to push his younger self forward. The adult’s muscles ripple in the sunlight, bulging with effort. His brow is lined with rage. But the child might as well be sculpted from lead, he is oblivious to the straining of his adult self.
“Ilryth!” I shout.
“Do it!” he yells at his younger self. “Don’t delay! Don’t be the one that holds her back!”
“Now, swear your fealty to the old gods and to the Eversea that you are sworn to protect,” his mother instructs gently. “Take your oaths so that you may wield Dawnpoint.”
“Mother, I…” The young Ilryth hasn’t moved, oblivious to his older self.
The woman opens her mouth to speak again, but closes it with a sigh. Resignation softens her brow. Her head tilts just slightly.
“Very well,” she relents and kneels at his side once more. “It was too much to ask of you so young. No other duke or duchess has ever been asked to assume their role this early. If you are not ready to pledge your life to the Eversea and take up Dawnpoint as the Duke of Spears, then you don’t have to.”
“Loathsome, wretched, weak, coward,” Ilryth seethes. He grips his younger self’s hand, trying to press it directly against the tree. Still, he cannot influence anything in this world.
“Ilryth, is this your memory?” I dare to ask, thinking of no other explanation. He still does not hear me.
The younger Ilryth looks to his mother. Fear wells in the young man’s eyes. Vulnerability. He’s terrified, but also relieved. “Mother, are you certain?”
“Yes. This is a duty one must be ready for when they accept. It is an honor, not a bane.” The woman gives him a warm smile.
“But the anointing—” the young man starts.
“Does not takethatlong.” She wraps her arm around her son’s shoulders and helps him to his feet. “When I must begin in earnest, you will be nineteen. You will be ready to take Dawnpoint then, I’m sure of it.”
Despite his obvious efforts to contain his emotions, the young Ilryth’s eyes shine. His lip quivers slightly. “Are you ashamed of me?”
Somehow, even on land, even awkward and clumsy, the woman moves faster than I thought possible. She grabs her son behind the head and around his shoulders. In the same movement, she presses her lips to his forehead.
“No. Never, my boy.”
“Yes!” The older Ilryth continues to try to pry his younger self away. To force him to the tree to take up the mantle of duke. But his efforts are waning. His strength is leaving him. Instead his shoulders are slumping. “Yes,” he rasps, somewhere between rage and tears. “She will always be ashamed of you, you pathetic coward. It’s because ofyouthat her death meant nothing…that she couldn’t sever her mortal ties sufficiently to quell the rage.”
“Ilryth, that’s enough.” I take a step forward. Still no reaction to my presence.
