Solemn as the ceremony was, Taliesin found it difficult to stand still while waiting for the procession to make their way through the sacred grove to the altar of their Goddess. A breeze rustled the branches overhead and ruffled his loose hair, and not for the first time, he wished he’d asked Rhiannon to either cut it or tie it back for him. But things had been hectic, and they hadn’t had the chance. As it was, in a house full of family, they’d barely had any time alone together. Maybe that was why he was so antsy. The start and end of mating season varied for individual dragons. Maybe his hadn’t ended yet.
Thinking those sorts of thoughts felt inappropriate standing beneath the Goddess’s statue, and he quickly banished them in favor of something more pious...or at least the situation at hand. While he’d settled on a title for his mother’s apprentice, presentation was just as important as the name itself, especially when the one presenting the name was a performer by trade. They hadn’t reached the altar yet. He could run through it again in his head.
“Taliesin.”
...Definitely still at the tail end of mating season if he was imagining her voice now. He pushed the stray daydream away and focused on his task. Arthur’s specialty was potion making. Taliesin would give a few words about his abilities and the concentration needed to perfect such a trade. He could include a few self-deprecating remarks on the matter too, so it wouldn’t get too dry. Arthur had to have heard stories about the disasters Taliesin often put together. He’d appreciate the laugh after such a taxing day.
“Taliesin.”
He tapped his heel impatiently. Or I can just keep it short to get back to my mate. Sweep her off her feet, steal her away from the party if she responded favorably... Aaaand he really needed to stop thinking about that. The Goddess was a patient being, but benign? Not always. It wouldn’t do to get Arthur’s name cursed day one just because his lizard brain wouldn’t shut up.
“Taliesin!”
He frowned. That one wasn’t like the other imagined invitations. This one sounded desperate. Taliesin turned his head as if he could pinpoint the source of the summons that had to be entirely in his mind. From the corner of his eye, he saw the grove’s sprites peeking out from behind the trees. Odd. The tree spirits always shied away from even small groups of worshippers. They only came out when Taliesin came alone to offer music to the Goddess.
One of the bark-like creatures beckoned to him. Taliesin glanced back at the procession. He couldn’t just leave his post, but if the tree spirits wanted him...
The veiled witches and warlocks took their positions at either side of the altar. The soft glow of the magic lights atop their raised staves cast a gentle brilliance over Arthur as he knelt before Taliesin. Again, Taliesin hesitated until his mother prodded him in the ankle with her toe.
“Arthur,” he began.
“Taliesin!”
He sucked in a sharp breath. She was crying. Somehow, Taliesin knew Rhiannon was crying out for him. He licked his dry lips and swallowed the lump in his parched throat. “Arthur,” he began again, “I bestow upon you the name of the Elixir Warlock. Whether it’s as mundane as cooking or magical as brewing liquid luck, you have shown both a love and talent for...”
His name on the wind made him falter. Rhiannon needed him. “You have shown both a love and talent for potion making. Thus, your name is Elixir Warlock. Congratulations on moving on to the next stage of your journey in magic.” Gertrude tilted her head in question at his stumbling and rush. Taliesin didn’t answer as he took the freshly carved staff and offered it to Arthur.
The graduated apprentice recognized the urgency plain as day on his face. He took it and bowed his head. “Thank you,” he said, hurrying through the motions required by centuries of tradition. “I will treasure the name you have gifted me.”
With that, the ceremony was over. Taliesin broke into a run much to the shock of those around him. Gertrude called his name, but he hardly heard her as the trees swallowed him. The Fae whispered to him, reporting to him what the expansive root system of the sacred ash trees had learned. Rhiannon stolen. Rhiannon bound and gagged. Rhiannon in the hands of that knight.
Fabric tore as Taliesin’s body exploded in blue scales. A roar erupted from his elongated throat. With a leap and a flap of his wings, a lithe dragon took to the air. Higher and higher, he climbed. Circling, he searched the plains surrounding the Witch City. There! Crossing the great expanse, avoiding the main roads, a galloping stallion threw up a cloud of dust under its thundering hooves.
Taliesin put on a burst of speed. His wings clamped close to his body, and he dove toward them. At the last second, just before the point of no return where he would crash into the ground, his wings snapped back open. He twisted midair and spun round to land before the horse, rider, and prisoner.
Faced with such an opponent so suddenly, the warhorse screamed and frothed as it reared back. The knight gripped the reins in one hand and shoved Rhiannon roughly against the saddle lest she fall. The cruel handling of his mate made something in Taliesin snap.
“Release her,” he snarled, teeth flashing. “Release my mate or suffer the consequences.”