“Now, to the Second Fleet. Unlike the First Fleet, who caught the brunt of the hurricane, the Second Fleet saw it approaching, being some distance behind the others. As a result they were able to avoid major damage from it, though a few ships were lost, but were instead blown off course by it.
“When the storm abated, they were too far from the course to correct it, especially since once they crossed the Prime Meridian they were forced back again. Land came in sight shortly thereafter, and rather than trying to find Merithyn’s paradise, their leader, the great warrior MacQuieth, decided to land there, in the inhabited country of Manosse. They and their descendants are there to this day.”
At the name, each of the three companions felt their palms go dry. Nearly everyone in Serendair had heard of MacQuieth, though the Firbolg knew more of him than Rhapsody did.
“MacQuieth was the Kirsdarkenvar, the bearer of Kirsdarke, the legendary sword of water. He was also said to be the master of that element; perhaps that is why his passage on the sea was safe. And of course he was a great hero, the king’s champion, the man who slew Tsoltan, the enemy leader in the Great War. He—”
“Llauron, hold up a moment, please,” Rhapsody interrupted nervously. Achmed’s face twisted into a scowl, and he exhaled in quiet frustration.
She did not see his irritation. “Could you explain what you just said about Manosse?” she asked. “They and their descendants? I don’t understand. You said that was fourteen centuries ago. Surely the First Generation Cymrians are all long dead.”
Llauron laughed. “One might feel confident in such an assertion, but one might be wrong. Singers; the guardians of accurate details. All right, let me elaborate.
“The First Generation had come from one of the five places where time began, the Island of Serendair. They crossed the Prime Meridian, which is the place the Earth demarks Time, and came to another place, where Time began—this land, the birthplace of the race of dragons—although the Second Fleet landed elsewhere.
“As a result, Time seemed to have no hold on them, and they did not grow old as other mortals did, but remained at the physical age they had been at the time of crossing over the Meridian. The exceptions were the children. They slowly continued to grow and age until they reached adulthood, and then remained there eternally.”
“Are you one of them?” asked Achmed bluntly.
Llauron laughed aloud. “Goodness, no, though I wish I could have the longevity and the power sometimes. You must think me very well preserved, young man. No, I’m afraid I’m not. Just an interested student of them.
“If you’ll bear with me, I’m almost done with the Second Fleet. A few of the ships, most notably those whose passengers were Ancient Seren and other firstborn races, traveled farther east, not wishing to be part of the western landmass that MacQuieth had chosen. They found instead a small, uninhabited island between the two continents, blessed with fair weather and temperate breezes from the trade winds and a warm sea current. It was a true paradise, and they chose to stay there and make their colony alone, separated from their countrymen. Their land is Gaematria, generally called the Isle of the Sea Mages.
“That leaves only the Third Fleet. Gwylliam’s Wave of ships waited until there was no one left on Serendair who was willing to be saved, then sailed into the east wind northward. But they landed well to the south of where Merithyn and the First Fleet had, along the southern coast of what are now the nonaligned states and the country of Sorbold.
“Unlike this rich and primeval forest, kept undisturbed from man for millennia by the dragon who ruled it, the places that the Third Fleet landed were hostile and unforgiving. Most of Sorbold is arid, and that which is not is mountainous or grassland steppes. In addition, those lands were inhabited by people who did not especially appreciate the presence of the Cymrians, and oftentimes sought to drive them back into the sea. The Third Fleet had to struggle to survive, always fighting for what they needed.
“They had two advantages, however. The first was Gwylliam himself. He was a practical man and a resourceful leader, skilled in the sciences, by nature and training a talented architect and engineer. Many of his clever inventions, coupled with his battle tactics, were the only things that allowed the outnumbered fleet to survive.
“The second was the choice Gwylliam had made to keep the army back until the last. This was fortuitous for several reasons: it had allowed the First Fleet to be seen by the dragon not as hostile invaders but as invited guests, it added to the security of the Island in its last days, and it gave Gwylliam a fighting force on the most difficult of the three Cymrian fronts. It was Gwylliam’s responsibility to see to the safety of the fleets, and he did as well as any man could. If evil followed them, there was no way he could have prevented it.”
“And did it?” Achmed sat forward in the firelight as he asked his question.
Llauron looked away for a moment. When he looked back his face was grave. “It may have; there was a prophecy to that effect.”
“A prophecy?”
The old man smiled reassuringly at Rhapsody, whose brow was furrowed. “Yes, there was a time in the Cymrian Age, before the Great War, when Manwyn, the Oracle of the Future, would occasionally spout predictions, oftentimes at meetings of the Cymrian Council. One of them was recorded after a long argument at one such council. Of course, I can only read the history, so I don’t know how accurate it is, but I memorized it long ago. Would you like to hear it?”
“Yes,” Rhapsody answered, feeling a sudden chill in the wind.
“Well, I’m afraid I’ve gotten a little ahead of myself. Let me retrench for a moment.
“Eventually the Third Wave Cymrians battled their way across the landscape, sometimes subduing their attackers, until they came to the mountains at the north edge of the Sorboldian desert. That mountain range was vast and forbidding, dividing the lands past it from the rest of the known world.
“Those lands were separated from the mountains by a deep canyon, but past it was a vast and fertile heath, and a hidden realm rich in soil and the treasures of the Earth. It was also uninhabited, and for many of the reasons I just stated, Gwylliam decided that this would be the place the Third Fleet would settle. He named it Canrif, the Cymrian word for century, because it was said that within one hundred years it would be the greatest civilization the world had ever seen.
“And, arguably, he accomplished the task. The fleet had contained immigrants of many different races, with many different needs, and Gwylliam met them all. The earth dwellers, the Nain and the Gwadd, made their homes within the endless tunnels of the mountains. Men found fields and meadows to live within and to farm on the Blasted Heath, and deeper within the Hidden Realm. The Lirin who had traveled with him set up villages within a dark forest they had discovered.
“In addition, Gwylliam built a vast and glorious city within the mountains themselves, devising great machines that filled the underground caverns with fresh air, as well as warmth in the winter. He and the Nain built giant forges that burned continuously, hammering out the steel for constructing his empire and the weapons to defend it.”
“Where are these mountains?” Achmed asked. “What are they called?”
“They lie to the east of the province of Bethe Corbair, the easternmost border of Roland. They also border Sorbold’s northern rim. The Cymrians called them the Manteids, but the Firbolg, who now live within them, call them the Teeth.”
“The Teeth?” Rhapsody asked incredulously.
“Yes, and should you ever see them, you’ll understand why. It is an accurate description. What was once the glory of Canrif is now the domain of the Firbolg; it is a dark and forbidding place.”
Grunthor looked unimpressed. “Oi would certainly ’ope so.”
Llauron smiled and took a sip from his silver snifter.
“Then one day, fifty years or so after they had landed, the First and the Third Fleets met up again. There was great rejoicing, and great confusion. The members of the First Fleet,
many of them formerly Gwylliam’s subjects, and their descendants, had sworn fealty to Anwyn, who had now been their lady for half a century. With the Second Fleet off in Manosse, still unaccounted for, it left a dilemma about what to do next.
“The Cymrians wished to be one people again, both for the sake of their original quest, the survival of their culture, and the new prospect of land domination. For between them, Gwylliam and Anwyn ruled all the lands of Roland and Sorbold, as well as Canrif. The Lirin were still apart, though they were Anwyn’s allies.
“Fortunately, a peaceful solution was reached. All the Cymrians met in a great council, the first of such meetings, and chose the two of them, Anwyn and Gwylliam, to rule the newly united realm as their lord and lady. Recognizing the possibility of dynastic power, the two decided to formalize their union and marry.”
“Did they love each other?” Rhapsody asked.
The Invoker looked at her oddly for a moment, the wind blowing the gray strands of his hair stiffly. “The writings do not mention that,” he said finally. “But between them they ushered in the Cymrian Age, the greatest time this land has ever known. And they reigned in peace and prosperity for more than three hundred years.”
“What about the prophecy?” Achmed asked.
“Oh, yes. I believe I’ve mentioned Oelendra to you. She had a tendency to be a bit paranoid, from what the writings say. Perhaps this was because she had not expected to shoulder the leadership of the First Fleet but was forced to do so when Merithyn died. She was convinced a great evil had followed on Gwylliam’s ship, and at the council, when the lord and lady announced their engagement, she asked Manwyn before the assemblage if her suspicions were true. Manwyn’s answer was this prophecy:
Among the last to leave, among the first to come,
Seeking a new host, uninvited, in a new place.
The power gained being the first,
Was lost in being the last.
Hosts shall nurture it, unknowing,
Like the guest wreathed in smiles
While secretly poisoning the larder
Jealously guarded of its own power
Ne’er has, nor ever shall its host bear or sire children,
Yet ever it seeks to procreate.
Silence fell as the four contemplated the augury. Finally Grunthor spoke.
“Oi’ve no idea what that means, Yer Excellency. Ya gonna give us a clue?”
Llauron smiled. “I have no idea either, my friend. As I said before, Manwyn was insane and sometimes muttered strange things. No one paid much attention to it at the time, but in hindsight, it may have been a prediction that an evil had come from the Island, one of ancient lineage—that’s the ‘among the first to come’ part, I think—and, though powerless upon arrival, would grow in strength until it took over the land.”
Rhapsody’s hands went suddenly cold. “And did that happen?”
The elderly face grew sad. “That’s hard to say, my dear. Ultimately it was Gwylliam and Anwyn themselves that brought an end to the Cymrian Age, raining death and devastation down on their own people.”
“How?” Achmed asked.
“I don’t know if there had been problems between them prior to the event which sparked it; I assume there were, as these things rarely come out of nowhere. Simply put, and without a lot of fanfare, Gwylliam struck her. History has never recorded why, but it is insignificant in the wake of the disaster that ensued. It has become known only as the Grievous Blow, more for the grief it brought to the Cymrian people than to either the lord or lady.
“Anwyn, furious, returned to her lands in the west and rallied her original subjects, the members of the First Fleet, to defend her honor. This represented an irrevocable tear in the nation, because the First Generation Cymrians and generations of their descendants had come to see themselves as a united people, loyal to both the lord and lady. But Anwyn was wyrmkin, meaning there was dragon’s blood in her veins, and she was not to be appeased by anything but Gwylliam’s death.
“In turn, when Anwyn’s army began attacking his strongholds, Gwylliam became blinded by hatred as well, and set out to destroy his estranged wife and her allies. It would be impossible to describe the seven hundred years of bloodshed that followed; you haven’t the time, and I haven’t the stomach. It would suffice to say that, as glorious as the birth and life of the Cymrian Age had been, its death was equally hideous.
“Gwylliam’s general was a brilliant, sometimes cruel man named Anborn. Anborn’s victories against the First Fleet and subsequently the Lirin, whom Anwyn had managed to convince to join her, made his name the most hated word in their language.
“And Anwyn’s army was responsible for the deaths of countless members of the Third Fleet, though the lines had blurred to the point where no one could tell who was winning, just who was dying. It would suffice to say that it was no one’s finest hour, and is why the distant descendants of the Cymrians who still live in these divided realms tend not to make their lineage public.”
Achmed broke into a smile. “So you’re saying that around here, the word Cymrian is synonymous with arse-rag?”
Rhapsody jabbed him viciously in the ribs, but Llauron merely smiled.
“To many, yes. Time has a way of blurring the memory, however, and there are those who know mostly of the great power the Cymrians wielded, and little of the destruction they wreaked upon the land. In some ways they are revered, probably because most of the Orlandan provinces—the provinces of Roland—as well as Manosse, and the Isle of the Sea Mages, are all ruled by descendants of Cymrian stock.”
“So ’oo won?” Grunthor asked.
“Well, no one, really. Anwyn killed Gwylliam, that much is known, or at least she claimed to have, and no one ever saw him again, so they tended to believe her. It would have taken someone of her power to do it, because of one important factor: Gwylliam was basically immortal, even more than the Cymrians themselves were.
“Unlike his subjects, who did not age or become ill, but could bleed as well as the next man, Gwylliam was impervious to damage in the new world. The writings speculate that this might have been because he had stayed to guard the retreat, had been the last to leave, the last to cross the Prime Meridian, and so the new world held no threat to him. The real reason is hard to say.
“Anwyn returned, triumphant, to the council, claiming victory and sole rulership of the Cymrians and their lands. To her shock the council cast her out and drove her from their realm. So, though she won the seven hundred years’ war, and destroyed her hated husband, in the end she was left with nothing. A colossal waste, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes,” said Rhapsody resoundingly. “What happened to her? Where is Anwyn now?”
Llauron drank the rest of his brandy and tossed the snifter back into the sack. “The writings say she retreated to a mountainous lair high in the crags of the White Peaks in the Hintervold, well beyond her former lands. Occasionally some poor unfortunate makes his way to see her, to gain knowledge of the Past; she was, after all, first and foremost gifted as a Seer. Whether they ever find her I do not know.”
“So where do things stand now?” Achmed asked.
“Well, the Cymrians, even after the war was over, were so damaged by it that they never really healed. It has been almost four hundred years, and the rift was never mended. Instead, they assimilated into the lesser cultures around them; a pity, really.
“The ties they had to the elements and to Time were the secret to their tremendous advances as a civilization. Without that, the realm has become divided, uneasy, and has regressed from its days of splendor in science and scholarship, the arts and international trade, architecture and medicine. We are a more primitive people as a result.
“Even the religions are divided. Where once we were of one faith, now the areas that most commonly allied with the First Fleet are the faithful of my theology, the belief system of the Filids, the stewards of nature. Most of Roland, however, are adherents to the religion of the All-God, some
times called the Creator. The head of that church is the Patriarch, whose basilica is in the holy city of Sepulvarta, to the south near Sorbold. Another pity. We both worship a single God; it seems a shame that even in this we are divided.
“And war will come again. Since the Great War ended there has been serious unrest, and though on the surface things are peaceful currently, that will eventually change. The last several decades have seen endless border skirmishes, incursions for no reason into villages and towns that result in horrendous destruction. Racial tensions are growing, and no one seems to know why these acts of terror occur, even, sometimes, those caught committing them. It’s all quite frightening.”
“What do you think can mend the rift, keep the war from escalating?” Rhapsody asked.
Llauron sighed. “I don’t know if anything can, my dear. When all this was laid at Anwyn’s feet, just before she was cast out of the council, her sister Manwyn tried to intervene, promising that there was hope for the eventual healing of the rift and for peace to come. But no one believed her; they knew she was trying to spare her sister from being disowned by her subjects.”
“What was this prophecy?” Achmed asked. Llauron closed his eyes, thinking. Then he spoke.
The Three shall come, leaving early, arriving late,
The lifestages of all men:
Child of Blood, Child of Earth, Child of the Sky.
Each man, formed in blood and born in it,
Walks the Earth and sustained by it,
Reaching to the sky, and sheltered beneath it,
He ascends there only in his ending, becoming part of the stars.
Blood gives new beginning, Earth gives sustenance,
The Sky gives dreams in life—eternity in death.
Thus shall the Three be, one to the other.
The Invoker gathered the rest of his belongings and the remains of the meal. When he was finished he looked at them again.
“This made as little sense to the council as it does, no doubt, to you. It was clear that these three saviors were Anwyn and her sisters, which was why the council suspected that it was a ruse to spare the Lady Cymrian from being ousted. Anborn, Gwylliam’s general, asked Manwyn in an ugly manner what it all meant, how the Three, as she called them, would be able to mend so great a rift. He got gibberish for an answer.