The ambassadors stared at her, dumbfounded. Finally Temberhal, the representative of Tyrian to Manosse, shook off his trance and addressed her politely.
“Precisely how would you propose we do that, m’lady?”
“First, agree to unite. Maintain your independent leadership under a ruler who agrees to recognize it, and swear loyalty to him or her. Can you all agree to that, at least in theory?” The ambassadors looked at each other, then nodded, one by one. “Good. Next, each of you pledge that fealty on the crown. It had always been seen as a judge of wisdom before; ask its assistance in choosing a worthy candidate now. Agree to abide by its decision. Then go back to your various lands and return with anyone you know to be an appropriate possibility for High King or Queen of all the Lirin, and see who it chooses. Coronate him or her immediately. Fair enough?”
Silence hung over the throne room for a moment, then the ambassadors returned to their discussions. This time the conversations seemed constructive, however, and Rhapsody looked to Oelendra, who smiled and nodded slightly.
She let loose a sigh, and stared out the center opening in the ceiling at the stars as they appeared in the deepening sky. She had sung the greeting to them softly on the frosty hillside outside the Great Hall as the sun was setting, causing the first break in the arguments inside. When she and Oelendra had turned to go back into the building they found the ambassadors gawking at them from the doorway. The peace was temporary, however, and a few moments later their fighting resumed again. Now at least they were talking pleasantly.
Oelendra rose as the ambassadors’ discussions continued and came over to her, sitting down next to her on the great circular bench.
“What’s your next move? If they don’t agree soon, that is?”
“I intend to starve them into compliance,” Rhapsody answered solemnly. “I told Rial not to allow any food to be brought here, and not to feed any of them, until they agree. Hardly a good way to achieve consensus, but I’m running out of patience. Next I’m going to stop feeding the fireplace and freeze them until they comply.”
Oelendra chuckled, and Rhapsody shook her head. “You know, Oelendra, this has been an eye-opening experience for me. I’m not sure what I expected to be able to assist with here, having no real place in this society myself, but whatever I had thought to accomplish I was wrong. I guess I’m not cut out for diplomacy or its facilitation.”
“Nonsense,” said Oelendra. “First off, what you bring, in addition to your other skills, is the very fact that you are not aligned to any of these factions. You can’t be seen as biased. In addition, you have no idea how remarkable it is that these people have even agreed to stay in the same room this long; it is undoubtedly a record. Whatever happens here, Rhapsody, that in itself is a tremendous accomplishment. It is not often that a warrior can act as a conciliator.”
“I don’t think I qualify as either, actually,” Rhapsody said seriously.
“Now stop it,” Oelendra said sternly. “We discussed this all the way to the court of the sea Lirin. You did not fail Llauron; he refused your service. The Iliachenva’ar needs to respect the customs of the religious leaders he or she protects, Rhapsody. There was nothing you could have done but what you did.”
Rhapsody looked away. She had not told her friend that Llauron was alive, despite her desire to confide the information to someone. She doubted she could even bring herself to tell Achmed or Grunthor, though she was certain Ashe would understand if she did. She rubbed her eyes, trying to soothe the headache pounding behind them. She was tired of carrying other people’s secrets. Her own were heavy enough.
“M’lady?” Rhapsody looked up to see Temberhal standing over her, the other ambassadors behind him. The noble epithet he had addressed her with always caused her to grimace, as the title she had, Duchess of Elysian, was given to her as a joke.
“Yes?”
“We have reached consensus. We agree to unite.”
Her headache vanished at the words, and she stood immediately and embraced Oelendra.
“Wonderful,” she said, smiling at Temberhal and the others, whose faces reflected her grin immediately. “Thank the stars. Now, first things first. Rial, let’s eat. I’m starving.”
After the palace pages had cleared away the supper utensils, the ambassadors took their places around the crown. As Lord Protector it fell to Rial to invoke the pledge, and he stood, looking ecstatic and nervous, with his hand on the glass case that the crown rested beneath.
Rhapsody smiled at him, the excitement of the moment in his eyes. She hoped secretly that the crown would ultimately choose him; she felt his wisdom and kindness would go a long way to bringing the fractured Lirin people back together again. Then a thought occurred to her.
“Rial, may I call starlight upon the crown to bless it before you begin?” She looked at him, his grin growing broader as he nodded, then around to the others, who agreed as well.
Rhapsody drew Daystar Clarion and felt the rush of power as the sword savored the moment. A brilliant light flashed as it came forth from its black ivory scabbard, causing the ambassadors and even Oelendra to shield their eyes.
Rhapsody walked to the center of the room and raised the sword to the night sky, closing her eyes. She began to sing extemporaneously, calling to the stars to bless the crown of their children with light and ancient wisdom.
In response, a beam of intense brilliance descended from the heavens through the circular opening in the ceiling, bathing the crown and its pedestal, as well as the ambassadors who stood around it, in white illumination brighter than the sun. With her eyes closed Rhapsody could feel its light, and a moment later heard a deep song begin within the throne room. It was the song of the crown, unheard for generations untold; its music reached into the hearts of all present, leaving them transfixed.
She opened her eyes, and stared at the diadem. It sparkled with the colors of a billion rainbows, each facet of every tiny fragment of the diamond glittering with prismatic brilliance. The light and color it generated lingered when the heavenly illumination brought forth by Daystar Clarion disappeared. The dark room became bright with the radiance of the crown. Rhapsody looked over to Oelendra. She was staring at the diadem with tears in her eyes. As the Singer looked around she found those tears mirrored in Rial’s, and the eyes of the ambassadors as well.
A sudden awkwardness came over her, a feeling as though she was intruding on a moment that was sacred to the people of this land. She was not one of them, would probably never be, even though they had made her welcome, and heard her out when she was criticizing the way they chose to govern themselves. Rhapsody’s face turned red in the darkness, unnoticed by the transfixed Lirin. Her half-caste status roared up within her, embarrassing her; she felt the urge to run. Knowing it would be disrespectful to the process she had herself begun, she backed slowly away until she was next to the bench near the wall and sat down quietly again.
After several minutes Rial blinked, and reached his hand slowly above the case. He touched the glass and as he did the other ambassadors followed his lead. Then he spoke solemnly, in a voice deep with emotion, the promise to join the Lirin together beneath a single ruler, and pledged his life in his or her defense. The ambassadors added their voices to the pledge, as did Oelendra, the Lirin champion. As the pledge ended they returned to silence.
Rial’s eyes opened even wider, and he looked up across the room at Rhapsody. Her throat tightened under his stare.
“What have you done?” he asked in a scratchy voice when he could speak again.
Her palms began to sweat at the accusation. “I—I don’t know. What’s wrong?”
Rial pointed to the crown. “The diadem is not reflecting the starlight; it is generating this radiance on its own.” Rhapsody blinked and shook her head. “Don’t you understand? It is the fulfillment of the promise of Queen Terrell, under whose guidance the fragments of the Diamond were painstakingly collected and fashioned into the circlet. You have healed the Diamond, Rh
apsody; you have returned the light of the stars to the stone.”
Rhapsody began to tremble. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered.
Rial turned to Oelendra. “You are the only one among us who has ever seen the crown alive before,” he said to the Lirin champion. “Is this as it looked in those days?”
The tears in the warrior’s eyes spilled over and ran down her cheeks. “No,” she said softly. “The crown has never looked like this. Only the Diamond in its original form held the light of the stars. Now the radiance of the crown surpasses the light it held when it was a single stone. If anything, its brilliance is magnified by its myriad pieces.”
The urge to take flight consumed Rhapsody. She stood slowly, as silently as she could, while the others were staring, enraptured, at the diadem, and backed quietly toward the door. She had turned and crossed the threshold when her mentor’s voice sliced through the air in the room as it had in the spring during her training sessions.
“Stop. Where do you think you’re going?” Reluctantly she turned around. “Get back here, Rhapsody.”
Her trembling grew violent. “Oelendra, I—”
“Don’t be a coward.” Her mentor’s words were harsh but her eyes smiled sympathetically. It was the smile of someone who had undertaken many tasks against her will in a cause greater than herself. “Come over here.”
“I can’t,” Rhapsody whispered. She could suddenly feel the call of the crown, stronger than that of the sword, coursing through her body. “Please; I need to go home.”
Rial shook off his rapture and came to her, taking her hands gently in his own. “M’lady, it would seem that you are home.” He smiled at her encouragingly. “Don’t be afraid. Do you doubt the wisdom of the crown?”
“No.” Her voice was so low as to be almost inaudible.
“Then subjugate yourself to its will. You are a child of the sky, Rhapsody. If the stars decide the Lirin need you, surely you would not turn your back on us? Your own people?”
“I’ve done all I know how to do,” she stammered, looking around at the ambassadors. They were all staring at her now, with varying degrees of delight on their faces. “You don’t understand. I’m a peasant.”
The ambassador from the sea Lirin, a woman named Marceline, left the display and approached her. “You are the one who does not understand, m’lady,” she said gently. “There is no such thing as a peasant among the Lirin. We are all children of the same sky that shelters us. You are as worthy as any to lead if you are called.”
“It would be rather hypocritical of you to refuse to take the crown, given what you were exhorting us to do, wouldn’t it?” added Hymrehan, the minister from the plains.
Oelendra appeared at her side and took her elbow. “Come,” she said, kindly but firmly. “Let us see if the diadem has anything to add.” She steered Rhapsody over to the case, releasing her arm and resting her hand lightly on the Singer’s back. “Don’t be frightened. Open the case and see what, if anything, happens. Perhaps you were only needed to bring the starlight back to the crown, and it will choose another to wear it.”
With hands that shook, Rhapsody opened the lid. Immediately the tiny stones of the diadem began to gleam even brighter, and, as if caught by the wind, swirled out of the case and above her head, circling like a halo of stars. The ambassadors took a step backward as the light from the glistening crown undulated over their faces, stinging their eyes for a moment, before it tempered into a glow above Rhapsody’s head. In the brilliance Oelendra smiled and looked fondly at her student.
“Well, perhaps not.”
Rhapsody dissolved into tears. “Please, please don’t make me do this. I am pledged to serve, not to lead.”
Rial touched her arm. “Don’t be afraid, m’lady; we have all sworn to uphold you and help you in any way that we can, have we not, my friends?” The ambassadors nodded in unison, smiling. “You have my promise of whatever assistance you need.”
“Now, what was your plan again?” said Temberhal seriously, his eyes twinkling. “Agree to unite and swear our loyalty to a ruler who would recognize our independence. We did that. Pledge fealty to the crown and abide by its decision. We did that as well, I believe.”
“Yes,” said Jyllian, the ambassador from Manosse to the court of Tyrian. “Then we were to see who the crown chose, and I believe we have. That just leaves the last step.”
“Yes,” said Hymrehan, smiling. “And what was that again, Jyllian?”
“Coronate her immediately.”
59
The Patriarch’s Manse, Sepulvarta
Four benisons of the Patrician faith crowded impatiently outside the intricately carved door of black walnut wood, awaiting their audience with the leader of their faith, the first they had been invited to in more than two years. They were all nervous, but Philabet Griswold was particularly agitated, as Nielash Mousa, the Blesser of Sorbold, had managed to arrange a private audience a few moments before, and now was in with the Patriarch, undoubtedly sowing the seeds for his own ascension to the Ring of Sepulvarta. Griswold was struggling to contain his rage, and losing the battle dismally.
“How much longer are we going to be consigned to this infernal hallway?” he snapped at Gregory, the Patriarch’s sexton.
“Not one more moment, Your Grace,” Gregory replied dryly, taking hold of the door and opening it. “The Patriarch will see you now. Please remember, Your Graces, that he is in very poor health and should not be upset or aggravated.”
Griswold glared at him, then strode rapidly into the room. The other three benisons nodded, and Lanacan Orlando patted Gregory on the arm as he walked past.
The room, customarily a cold place, had been heated, in the absence of a fireplace, with boiling water poured over piles of hot stones to keep the frail Patriarch from catching a chill. Clouds of steam rose and sank, passing like sky vapor over the silver star embossed in the floor, the room’s only ornamentation.
In the heavy black walnut chair sitting atop a rise of marble stairs, looking frail and emaciated in his voluminous silver robes, sat the Patriarch, his bright blue eyes shining from within the prison of his failing body. In his clawlike hand, a hand which trembled violently, he was clutching a small scroll. He pointed to the five chairs that had been set up on the floor amid the rolling waves of steam, one of which was occupied by the Blesser of Sorbold.
“Please be seated, Your Graces,” he said. Despite his fragile appearance, his voice was clear, if thin. The benisons sat down, Griswold taking the seat farthest from Mousa with an undisguised scowl.
The eyes of the Patriarch went from one man to another, then to Gregory, who handed him a small white card.
“Thank you—all for coming so quickly. I have three things to tell you, my—brothers in Grace,” he said haltingly, consulting the card, then looking back to the benisons. “As you probably—suspect, my time in this world grows short, and so I—wish to limit what I have to say to those things—that most need saying. Here they are.
“First, I have spoken—at length with—the Blesser of Sorbold regarding the terrible—tragedy at the solstice festival in—Navarne, and have read the missives—from the Crown Prince and the one—dictated by the Dowager Empress. I am convinced—that this was an inexplicable and—isolated act of violence, similar to all the—others that have taken place over the last—score of years, and not an attack—sanctioned by the crown of Sorbold—or its benison.” The Patriarch coughed deeply, then looked sharply at Philabet Griswold, who had begun to rise in protest. “It is therefore the—position of the Ring that—Sorbold should not be punished in any—way for this incursion beyond—what they have already suffered.”
“Your Grace—” Griswold sputtered.
“Second,” the Patriarch continued, looking at his card, “the Ring has received an—invitation, as I imagine have you all, to the—coronation in Tyrian of the new Lirin queen.” He looked up with a hint of a smile. “I want to go. And I’d like—all of you to come with me.” r />
Ian Steward of Canderre-Yarim and Lanacan Orlando of Bethe Corbair looked at each other doubtfully. “But Tyrian is an adherent to the faith of Gwynwood, Your Grace,” Steward said.
“Yes, which is under the—leadership of a new Invoker. But I have a great fondness for the—new queen; I owe her my life. And if there is not much more—of that life to be had, I wish—to spend it as I see fit. I invite you—to join me.” Each of the benisons nodded, Griswold curtly, while Nielash Mousa avoided his glance. The journey that the Patriarch proposed would mark the first time he had set foot outside of Sepulvarta since his investiture.
“Finally,” the Patriarch continued, “I know you are—all very concerned with the issue of succession.” He wheezed harshly, causing Colin Abernathy and Ian Steward to jump. “My decision—once it is made—will be recorded on this—scroll. It is my hope that—you will not resort to—letting personal interest affect the aftermath of my passing. The Creator—speaks only to the one who—is invested as Patriarch with—a clear conscience and a willingness to submit to His will. Remember this.”
The hand holding the scroll began to tremble even more violently. The sexton stepped up to the throne and took the religious leader’s hand.
“Do you wish to go back to the hospice now, Your Grace?” he asked as he held a cup of water to the Patriarch’s lips. The Patriarch took a sip, then nodded. “Very well, then, thank you, Your Graces, one and all. The coach departs in the morning at sunrise; I trust you can all be ready by then.”
“One moment, Your Grace,” Colin Abernathy called as the Patriarch rose to a shaky stand, ignoring the sexton’s glare. “I see you are not wearing the Ring of Wisdom this morning; is there a reason?”