Cymrian heritage was the dire and wonderful secret of the Finders. They had descended from those captured by the Bolg in the last days of Gwylliam’s reign, their longevity, their blue eyes all historic traces of the blood of the unfortunate victims who could not get out of Canrif in time when the Bolg overran the mountain.
Deep within the tunnels near the Hand, or at the forges, the hospice, the caves in which they dwelt, the Finders felt the call like silver lightning shock through their bones. To a one the bastard children of the Cymrian line put away tools or food, turned away from tasks, and headed out into the sunlight of the foothills, blind fish, squinting and shading their eyes.
Hours after she had sounded the clarion, had opened the Great Seal, Rhapsody was still in the trance of following the call. Achmed had recovered his breath and bearings. He was free from the pull of the horn, but sensitive enough to its power that the vacuum it created to summon and guide the Cymrians made his ears pop.
Grunthor had been surprised by the volume and breadth of the instrument, but felt little disturbance until the summoned Cymrians began to answer. So deep was the debt, so overweening the oath, that even the faithful dead wished to comply. All around him, across and within the plain, throughout the mountain, scratched the hum and shiver of bones shifting in the earth. In the tremendous, immobile, windless hush, the giant’s sense of the earth around him stretched like the view of a vast silent sea, where a single fin stands like a mast above the surface. Grunthor’s awareness was teeming, crawling with myriad tiny ripples of the scrape of marrowless bones against the rags of their death shrouds and interments in mass graves, or picked driftwood-clean under dustings of sand and sod. For the first time he understood the scope of the slaughter that had ensured the Cymrian legacy. As his sense gave way to his real vision of stillness over the earth, resurrection seemingly beyond the power of this artifact, he did catch some movement on the crags out of the corner of his eye. He stared east into the blinding morning light.
“ ’Ey, thanks a lot, Yer Ladyship; you’ve given me an infernal ’ead-ache.”
Rhapsody looked fondly at him as the rising sun touched his head, making him glow with radiant light like a mythic Firbolg god. “Sorry, Grunthor. It’ll go away soon.”
“ ’Ow soon?”
She glanced around as the image of the distant shores of Manosse faded from her mind, followed by the seacoast of Avonderre and the Nonaligned States, then Tyrian and Gwynwood, the Orlandan Plateau and Sorbold, finally leaving her with just the vast panoramic view at her feet. She shrugged and set the horn on the stone pulpit.
“My best guess? About two months.”
71
At the blast of the horn that sounded over the Bolglands, the inhabitants of what had once been Canrif ran in fear, hiding in their huts and caves, certain that the age of death had returned. The Bolg scurried about in fright, getting ready to retreat back into the recesses of the mountains where they had hidden for the centuries prior to the arrival of Achmed and Grunthor. They waited for the armies of men to come and raze their villages, anticipating the long-awaited vengeance for defying the legions of Roland.
From her high vantage point above the Bowl and the Bolglands, Rhapsody watched in sadness. She witnessed the panic as the Firbolg scattered across the Heath, taking shelter in the caves of the Teeth in terror, and her heart went out to them. The last thing she had hoped to inspire by sounding the horn was fear.
Slowly, though, a few moments after the sound had died away, she could see shadows emerge from the caves below and walk into the bright sun as if transfixed. There was only a relative handful of them, a few hundred or so, drawn out by the sound of the horn, and they came slowly, looking around as if lost. All of them eventually turned toward the Bowl of the Moot and came there, trying to satiate the need that had risen in them to do so. They stood, bewildered and confused, looking dazed.
“What’s going on?” Rhapsody asked Achmed, who was staring down at his subjects below. A glimmer formed in the Firbolg king’s eye, and a smile crawled across his face.
“I believe your invited guests have arrived. Behold the first of the Cymrians to answer the call.” He glanced over at Rhapsody; their eyes met, and they shared a smile.
Grunthor had already begun to descend from the Ledge, and now the other two followed slowly, careful not to unbalance any of the rocks on the cliff. Once she arrived on the flat central floor of the Bowl Rhapsody waited while the king and the Sergeant-Major debriefed the dazed Firbolg, trying to determine why they had found the call compelling. There had been no record of any Bolg traveling from Serendair, so the likelihood of them being descendants from any Fleet seemed remote.
Finally Grunthor and Achmed returned. Rhapsody hurried to hear what they had discovered.
“Well? Why did they come?”
Achmed looked annoyed. “I told you before, they’re Cymrians, or at least descended from them. At the time the Bolg invaded Canrif there were still diehards that didn’t want to give up Gwylliam’s fortress or the lands they had fought to keep for seven centuries. In case you couldn’t guess, when they went up against the Bolg they lost. These are the descendants of the Cymrians who were taken as slaves by the Bolg. I imagine the captives didn’t live long past giving birth to the ancestors of these few stragglers.” Rhapsody nodded.
“They call themselves the Finders, because they have an ancient directive that was spoken onto them. Apparently, as Gwylliam lay on the library floor, bleeding his life out behind a puzzle lock that none of them could open, the speaking tubes we used to subdue this mountain were open. Those Bolg of Cymrian blood knew that his voice was a command they could not disobey; their ancestors had sworn centuries before to come to the king in his time of need. But they couldn’t find him; they couldn’t find what he was asking for, because the horn was in the vault of the library with him. So all these years, all these generations, they have been waiting for the Voice to sound again, to tell them what to do. They also have a propensity to find Cymrian artifacts, hoping with each new one that it’s what the Voice was calling for.”
“Well, perhaps they should be accorded guard duty, then, as both Firbolg and Cymrian; is that all right with you, Grunthor?”
“Oi think it would be an honor for them, Yer Ladyship; Oi ’ave to give them the ‘one false step and you’re my dessert tonight’ speech, though.”
“I think, for the time being, they should be the only Bolg visible when the Cymrians arrive,” Achmed noted. “What do we need to do next?”
“We wait, I guess. I think I’ll go and greet our first guests.”
The king nodded. “I have a suggestion.”
Rhapsody had begun walking toward the Bolg. She stopped and turned for a moment. “Yes?”
He looked her up and down; she was attired in her standard work clothes, a white cambric long-sleeved shirt, soft tan suede vest and brown pants. “You complained that living in the Bolglands never afforded you the opportunity to wear any of those extravagantly expensive gowns of yours. Given the amount you depleted from my treasury to purchase the damned things, you may as well wear them; this seems as good a social occasion as any.”
Her face lit up. “Oh, what fun! Which one do you think I ought to wear first?”
“Oi ’appen to like green or brown, but if I might, I suggest you stay away from red until there are more people ’ere. You don’t want any o’ the Bolg to think you’re injured from a distance. Makes you a target.”
Rhapsody sighed. Suddenly she missed Tyrian, where, whatever anyone’s opinion of her, they never thought of her as food.
Each day more travelers would arrive. Some rode into the Bowl on horseback or in carts, but by and large they were wanderers, like the disoriented Firbolg, without any idea where they were or why they felt compelled to come. They were part of the Cymrian Diaspora, the great group of disenfranchised descendants of the Cymrian Houses that had been divided by Anwyn and Gwylliam’s war. Another incalculable loss, thought Rhapsody
as she looked in their eyes, seeing the confusion and fear. How many generations of Cymrian children must have been separated from their Houses as a result of that conflict, yielding a population that never even knew its own lineage? She greeted them gently, and made them welcome, settling them into the tents and huts Achmed had erected at her request while she was in Tyrian.
A problem occurred almost immediately. For reasons Rhapsody couldn’t understand, the flustered Cymrians seemed drawn to her as compulsively as they had been to the Moot. Upon meeting her they stood, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, staring, unable to break their gaze. They followed her around ceaselessly, eventually forming large human herds, only able to tear themselves away when Grunthor interdicted. Achmed found it all extraordinarily amusing. She had rationalized it, as was her wont, into something that had nothing to do with her own charismatic charms, but rather had decided it was an effect of the horn she had sounded.
He had manipulated the situation himself. At his suggestion Rhapsody came each day dressed in a gown more stunning than the day before, dresses fashioned from shimmering silks, gleaming satins, and beautiful brushed linens from Sorbold and Canderre, places well known for their exquisite textiles and artistic dressmaking. The couture accentuated her beauty, and guaranteed that those who came into the Bowl were mesmerized by her. The crowning effect of the halo of whirling stars that the diadem became when placed on her head only made things worse. It was an interesting experiment in the harnessing of power for the Firbolg king, and a tool that he thought might come in handy should the Council meeting get ugly. He had no doubt that it would.
In addition, Achmed had recognized the power in the initial meeting. Rhapsody was the one who greeted each of the arrivals, made them welcome, and explained to most of them why they had come. It left a positive impression and a desire in each of the erstwhile Cymrians to belong to whatever people she might be part of, thus ensuring her success in her mission of uniting this irascible population. The Diaspora only comprised a small number of the entire Cymrian populace, however; as time went by it seemed as though only thirty thousand or so Houseless descendants showed up; that meant the overwhelming majority of the group was still to come.
The Houses of the First, Second, and Third Fleets were meeting outside the Teeth, re-forming their loose alliances. Undoubtedly each was waiting for the stragglers from their lines to arrive, for the purpose of entering the Bowl with as impressive a show of numbers as possible. From the beginning they camped on the Orlandan Plateau, their fires at night making them resemble an invading army. The comparison made Rhapsody uneasy, but did not seem to concern either Grunthor or Achmed.
“It’s rather pathe’ick, in a way,” mused the giant Firbolg commander. “It’s like they think they’re impressin’ someone ’oo cares. Bloody childish, if you ask me.”
“Are you sure you really want to unite these idiots again?” Achmed asked Rhapsody incredulously.
“Why?”
“Well, the stupidity level is so high already with the convocation that we already have, it seems almost dangerous to tempt Fate by putting so many empty heads in one place at the same time. I’m afraid we’re going to get sucked into a brainless vortex we won’t be able to escape from.” Rhapsody laughed.
“The Cymrians aren’t stupid, just obstreperous,” she said, cuffing him across the back of the head. “Besides, they’re here now. We have to make the best of it.”
“Oi doubt you’d like my suggestion for what to do with ’em,” said Grunthor gloomily.
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Target practice, o’ course.”
72
Ylorc Border
It was a fine day to be alive, Tristan Steward observed as his war horse, chestnut coat and mane all but shielded from sight by its metal barding, crested a hilly swale in the steppes of the Orlandan Plateau. The wind was warm and sweet in summer’s advent, the earth beneath him fragrantly verdant. Riding at the head of a force one hundred thousand strong, ten thousand mounted, was the headiest sensation he ever remembered feeling, an exhilaration that was powerful, almost sexual. He had the sense that the very earth was moving with him as he rode, surrounded in the fierce vibration, the deafening sound of his army on the move, blackening the landscape behind him.
The closer the contingent came to the Manteids, the more powerful his excitement grew. While a number of those riding with him, commanders and foot soldiers alike, were responding, as he was, to the summons of the Cymrian horn, the vast majority, not being of Seren ancestry, were in full muster, primed, they believed, to lay siege to the Bolglands.
It had initially been awkward to observe the confusion that the tiny minority of Cymrian soldiers was evidently experiencing. The great Moot, the legends said, was a place of deep power, where the very land itself enforced the laws of the Council, an agenda of minimal civility and contained behavior wherein the many factions of the Cymrian kingdom had been able to meet and conduct the business of keeping peace and planning the building of the empire. It was therefore distressing to those of Cymrian blood among his troops to be riding with a martial intent.
Along the trans-Orlandan thoroughfare where it crossed into the Bolglands Tristan had been pleased to note empty guard posts, way stations normally manned by the brutes who maintained the border. He had not, in fact, seen a single Firbolg since entering the steppes that led up to the mountain range. The desolate plain seemed even more bleak than he had expected.
Pandemic illness could be a wonderful weapon.
He turned to McVickers, his knight marshal, who rode beside him, a grim expression on his somber face.
“How much farther, McVickers?”
“We should be within sight of the Moot tomorrow, m’lord.”
“Excellent!” Tristan Steward said, patting his horse. “We will encamp outside the Moot; those who are attending the Council will be dismissed in order to meet up with their Houses. Make certain all the troops know where to reassemble once the Council is over.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
Tristan sighed happily. He put his head back, letting the sun shine down on his face.
All in all, a fine day to be alive.
Finally, after months of arduous waiting, the day of the Council dawned. There could be no mistaking the appointed time; the night before, the air in the Moot had grown suddenly still, the clamorous sound of tens of thousands of voices slipping into deep silence.
The sunset had been particularly spectacular on this, the last night of spring, the fiery hues of nightfall spinning into one last blood-red cloud that softened to the gentlest shade of rose-pink before disappearing over the rim of the world into darkness. The sky dimmed to azure, then cobalt, then inky black; the stars appeared timidly, as if reluctantly summoned by Rhapsody’s evensong. The Moot picked up the sound of her voice singing her vespers, as it had each night; this had become one of the only times during the long and noisy days that the assembled Cymrians routinely fell silent, listening raptly to the Singer greet the stars or the dawn.
On this night, as the last sweet note died away, a shower of shooting stars sped by overhead, drawing an astonished gasp from the crowd. Moments later, the collective intake of breath from the encampments on the other side of the Teeth could be heard; the Cymrian Houses had seen the omen as well, and acknowledged it. Deep within each breast, the understanding was clear. It was time to convene.
The night was a quiet one. Rhapsody eschewed her regular lodging within the Cauldron to sit vigil in the field, watching the smoldering fires of the exterior encampments be extinguished, one by one. Achmed and Grunthor had stayed with her, and she glanced over at them affectionately now. Grunthor was sitting with his enormous sword across his knees, his elbows resting on it, his chin in the tips of his clasped hands, musing intently. The burden of policing the small city-state that the Moot had become had fallen to him, and he had borne up under it without batting an amber eye, a particularly amazing feat, given that the only troops the kin
g allowed him to use to police the plain were the soldiers who were Finders.
Achmed stood beside him, his gaze also targeted on the camp of the Cymrian Houses and the long caravan of travelers arriving to join them every day. His face was open to the wind, unhidden behind his usual veils, but it might as well have been for the lack of emotion on it. Nonetheless, Rhapsody knew at least part of what he was thinking.
It was this group of Cymrians that was responsible for his ugly attitude, this gathering that posed the threat of violence. These were the proud descendants of the ocean travelers, the city builders, the basilica architects, and the scholars of the Great Age of Civilization; they were also the children of the warring rulers, the marauding armies of rape and destruction, the silent conspirators, the traitors to humanity.
Despite Rhapsody’s confidence in them as a people, he had his doubts as to the wisdom of bringing them back together again, to ascending their line to the throne once more. He did not trust this population, even though technically he was one of them, perhaps more ancient than any. Still, Rhapsody had had aspirations just as unlikely for the Bolg, and, against all probability, she was being proved correct there. His words to her, and her answer, rang in his memory, words from a night long ago before she had gone off to help a desolate wanderer and had ended up in his arms.
It’s probably better if you don’t even try to understand it.
You’re probably right. I think it’s better for me to just decide how things are going to work out, and then they will.
It was Rhapsody who had made each of them what they were; she had called him the Pathfinder, and the gift of second sight was his. Grunthor, strong and reliable as the earth itself, she had said, the affection in her song marrying the Sergeant’s soul to the land. She was the optimism to his own cynicism, the hope to his doubt. We really are two sides of the same person, she had said. Whatever came to pass as a result of the convocation the next morning, what they had been to each other must be sustained. What she didn’t really know was that he had almost lost the memory of what his life had been like before she had come into it, renaming him and giving him the real key out of his past. He was unwilling to go back to that time.