Rhapsody was still awake and sitting vigil when the first ray of dawn broke. The sky had been lightening for some time, reversing the pattern of the blues that had come with the night; the inky darkness had given way to a rich cobalt, followed by the pale azure that signaled the coming of morning.
She closed her eyes and let the sunbeam touch her chest, filling her with the tone of its song. She smiled; it was ela. She quietly matched her voice to the note, then raised it in the aubade, the Liringlas love song of daybreak.
In the distance she heard a voice join hers, and even miles away she recognized it; Oelendra had come to the Moot. Then one by one she heard other voices take up the song, until more than ten thousand sang it, praising the sun as it rose in the sky. With Oelendra had come the Cymrian Lirin, some of Rhapsody’s own subjects, the descendants of those who had gone to dwell with their ancient counterparts in Tyrian rather than live in Gwylliam and Anwyn’s great cities. In her brief time as queen, Rhapsody had taught the aubade to Tyrian, and in turn the forest had taught it to them.
Farther off in the distance she could discern other voices, voices she had never heard before, take up the melody and add their own to it. Those faraway singers had a tone and inflection that matched Rhapsody’s own perfectly, and her heart leapt in the realization that Liringlas had come as well, arriving from the shores of Manosse across the sea, or from lands beyond the Hintervold.
She had just absorbed the understanding of this when a final chorus went up from the end of the vast caravan making its way through the fields of Bethe Corbair and into Ylorc. The minstrelsy of these singers held an ancient harmony that reached down into Rhapsody’s soul and made it ring as it never had. She turned away from the sun and shielded her eyes, trying to determine where the beautiful sound was coming from, but all she could see was an ocean of humanity wending its way to the Teeth, following a long, snaking procession.
When the last note finally died away, music of another sort began. Trumpets blasted across the plateau, and within the Bowl the sound of horns took up the call, heralding the arrival of the Cymrian Houses. It was a thrilling sound; the rich brass tones sent shivers up her spine, a feeling she had experienced only once before. The memory was an ancient one, from the old land, from the day that the youngest princess had been born in Elysian, the fortress of the Seren king.
Throughout the countryside, messengers had been sent to every small town to spread the glad news, and as they had approached her village they had sounded the great brass trumpet calls heralding the royal birth. Rhapsody had been a small child then, and had never heard such glorious music; she had dreamt about it for many weeks afterward, begging her parents for a horn of her own, waiting at the crest of the hill where she had seen the trumpeters in the hope that they would return again. They never had; Rhapsody’s eyes stung with the memory, and she smiled.
She turned back in time to see the first House, the House of Faley, entering the Bowl. Five hundred strong, they were mostly human, with some Lirin blood evident as well. They came on foot and on horseback, some walking alone, many clustered in small family groups, adults and children, at the head of the great procession of Cymrians. Rhapsody greeted the head of the House with a bow, and he in turn waved back at her exuberantly. When the Cymrians had first begun arriving in the Moot, she had made a point of welcoming each one, often staying past midnight to be able to make sure they were comfortable and clear on their reason for being here. But the increasing tide of humanity had made it impossible to continue the individual greetings, and now she could only nod to the head of each House as they entered the Bowl.
Like a dam bursting, a sea of people spilled into the Moot, some shouting with glee and calling to people that they recognized, others nodding at old adversaries with an air that bristled with resentment. They followed behind enormous banners that proclaimed their lineage, or took the form of a mob of differing backgrounds. These were the greater and lesser Houses, the last vestiges of the Cymrian Age, the descendants of the Three Fleets who had maintained their ties after the end of the war, the political structure on which the Council had been formed twelve centuries before.
Some of the larger, more prestigious Houses were filled with the nobles of Roland, Sorbold, and the lands beyond these countries. Rhapsody dropped a deep curtsy to Tristan Steward, Prince of Bethany, riding behind Lord Cunliffe, a minor earl in his court, who was actually the head of his House, the House of Gylden.
Down in the human sea beneath her Rhapsody caught sight of frenetic movement. Lord Stephen Navarne and his children were at the end of the procession from the House of Gylden, and all three were waving furiously, Melisande from atop her father’s shoulders. She smiled and waved back.
After the initial excitement that ensued with the entrance of the first Houses, the feeling in the air began to change. Groups began to sort themselves out not only by House but by the Fleet they or their ancestors had sailed with, or by race. When the Lirin processed in, they came directly to the foot of the Summoner’s Ledge and stood with Rhapsody. She came down to meet them, embracing Oelendra and Rial and some of her closer friends from Tyrian; a moment later she could feel silence fall and the eyes of many of the other Cymrians on her.
Oelendra felt their notice too. “Come,” she said, taking the queen’s arm, “let me help you with that gown Miresylle made for your welcome address.” Rhapsody agreed and led her off to the tent she had been occupying. Within the structure they could hear the noise pick up again, the occasional arguments growing heated and foul in the air as more and more of the Houses processed into the Bowl. Rhapsody sighed.
“The morning is young, there are still tens of thousands that have not entered yet, and already they’re bickering like children,” she said, opening the cloth bag that held her dress. “I hope they don’t kill each other before everyone gets here.”
Oelendra took hold of the train and the hem of the skirt to keep it from dragging in the dirt. “They won’t fight, not at Council; it is strictly forbidden by the power of the Moot. Remember, Rhapsody, the last time many of these people saw each over was across a battlefield. They need to sort out their differences themselves; it is long past time for it. It is more important that as the Summoner you are seen as neutral; that is the only way you will be able to command the meeting.”
Rhapsody nodded, then stepped out of her existing garments to don the gown. Miresylle was her favorite Lirin seamstress, a grandmotherly woman who knew every plane and angle of Rhapsody’s body perfectly, and could fit any garment to the queen without trying it on her.
This dress was fashioned from antique Cymrian silk left over from long before the war; it was silver with a gold cross-warp in the fabric, giving the gown the effect of either color, depending on the angle at which the person beholding her was standing. Miresylle had fashioned it with dozens of tiny buttons up the back and on the sleeves. Oelendra assisted Rhapsody in closing the dress and brushing out the swirling skirt before turning her around to observe the overall result. The Lirin champion inhaled involuntarily; the view was breathtaking. The ancient material glowed in the light from the diadem, which reflected in the queen’s eyes, face, and shining golden hair. Oelendra’s eyes teared at the sight, but dried a moment later at the look of consternation that had frozen on Rhapsody’s face.
“What’s the matter?”
Rhapsody turned away from her and slipped into her shoes. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
The emerald eyes that met her silver ones were set in a calm face, but they held a depth of worry that vanished instantly and was replaced with serenity. “It’s nothing, Oelendra,” she repeated. “The material across my abdomen is a little tight, that’s all. Miresylle must have forgotten how my belly swells after I eat.”
Oelendra’s face clouded over. “When did you eat last, Rhapsody?”
“I had supper last night. Please don’t worry, Oelendra. It’s just off by a little; she hasn’t seen me in a while. Perhaps she just forgo
t.”
Oelendra nodded, a practiced tranquillity taking its place on her face as well. “Undoubtedly. Now, shall we get back to the Council?” Rhapsody belted on Daystar Clarion and took her hand, and they left the tent, embracing once more before Oelendra went to join the ranks of the Lirin. Rhapsody took her place again at the top of the Summoner’s Ledge, looking down onto the growing gathering.
Most of the Cymrians assembled so far were human, or Lirin, or a combination of both, but occasionally she would notice people from other races she had not seen since she left Serendair, or had never seen before at all.
The first that she observed was a small figure wandering near the base of the Summoner’s Ledge, looking around as if for shelter. It was a Gwaddi woman, not even four feet tall, with enormous green-gray eyes, a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones, and caramel-colored hair that was braided and hung long down her back. Her build was slender, like that of the other members of her race, with proportionally larger hands and long, narrow feet. She seemed ill at ease among the humans she was surrounded by, but before Rhapsody could call the Gwadd to her she was gone, lost in the crowd. Rhapsody choked up at the sight of her; she had feared the small, gentle people had been destroyed in the cataclysm or the Cymrian War and was greatly relieved to know her fears were at least partially unfounded.
After that she would note other races represented, men and women of unique build and features; tall, dark Lirinesque humans with eyes blacker than the previous night had been, willowy people with hair and skin that was gold like wheat in summer fields, squat, wide men with broad shoulders and long silver beards, a group of running children with silver-blue coloring that shone in the sun like light on the sea, all interspersed with humans and Lirin in the colorings of their nations. There was a uniqueness to them, a beauty that stirred Rhapsody’s soul, making her feel protective of them as if she had known them all her life, though she was not one of them. She thought back to what Elynsynos had said to her about the Cymrians and smiled at the wisdom of the dragon.
They were magic; they had crowed the earth and made time stop in the process. In them all the elements found a manifestation, even if they didn’t know how to use it. There were some of races that had never been seen in these parts, Gwadd and Liringlas and Gwenen and Nain, Ancient Seren and Dhracians and Mythlin, a human garden full of many different and beautiful kinds of flowers. They were special, Pretty, a unique people that deserved to be cherished and kept safe.
Rhapsody wondered where they had been hiding, these other races of people from a land that had been lost for a millennium. She didn’t have time to muse on the question long, for from the east came a new blare of trumpets and hoofbeats heralding the arrival of a new group of Cymrians.
73
Grunthor watched the army of Roland come, his eyes shielded from the glare of the sun by the blade of his enormous poleax, Sal, short for Salutations.
If he was growing more unnerved by the seemingly endless march of wave upon wave of Orlandan soldiers blackening the hilly swales at the feet of the Teeth he gave no outward sign of it; instead he remained immobile, his face transfixed in an aspect of utter concentration. He was counting.
“At least ten thousand cavalry; another ten times that on foot,” he reported.
Achmed nodded. He stood, the newly finished cwellan of ancient Cymrian materials slung across his back, his arms folded, watching the forces of Roland spreading throughout the foothills around the Moot.
“Well, we knew it would come sooner or later,” he said dispassionately. “I have to admit, I never thought Tristan had it in him to raise such a large force so fast, nor did I believe he was ambitious enough to risk the ire of the Cymrians by bringing it to the Council.” He spat on the ground, then looked south reflectively. “Have you heard anything from your scouts concerning another incursion force coming from Sorbold?”
“No, sir.” Grunthor looked his way. “Ya got a feelin’ we’re in for more than this?”
Achmed nodded again. “Vast and dangerous as a force this size will be, it doesn’t seem to be enough to have inspired the vision Rhapsody had before we left for Yarim. She saw the mountain streams running red with blood, the earth black beneath the sky. I would think at least the Sorbold army would have to join the fray before we would be gravely outmatched enough for that sort of scenario to be brought about.”
“Roland ’as five squads of ballista, and five hundred catapults,” Grunthor said. “We could be in for a rough time of it, depending on what they plan to do.”
The Bolg king spat on the ground again, trying to cleanse his mouth of the bitter taste of bile.
“Well, let’s go call Tristan’s bluff, and find out what exactly those plans are.”
The Prince of Bethany had just finished giving preliminary orders to his Lord Marshal and was briefing his generals when the scouts sent up the signal he had been waiting to hear.
The Firbolg king was approaching.
He tried to contain his excitement, but his hands were trembling with it. He had seen the monster standing on his lofty perch that morning as he processed with his House into the Moot for the opening of the Council. As the noise within the Moot swelled, signaling that the meeting would soon commence, he had slipped away for long enough to see to his army before the Summoner called the meeting to order.
And, as luck would have it, he had just enough time to break the spirit of the Bolg warlord who approached now with his enormous knight marshal, doubtless unnerved by the sight of the occupation army of Roland.
Tristan Steward stood defiantly, trying not to allow the smile of triumph he felt consistently spreading over his face from being seen. When the Bolg king was a few feet from him he came to a halt, the black robes of his garments snapping in the stiff wind. There was no fear in his mismatched eyes, only an insolent smirk. The Bolg king cast a condescending glance around the field behind Tristan.
“I hope you brought your own stores to feed your little friends. The invitation was only extended to Cymrians; it’s bad enough to have to provide for that group of wastrels. I will not extend hospitality to tagalongs.”
Tristan Steward’s mouth dropped open. He had long cherished the thought of the moment when he would arrive with his army at the gates of Ylorc, a hundred thousand strong, and wipe the smug smile off the nightmarish face of the creature that had threatened him so long ago. The smile did not appear to be moving. It appeared set in stone, in fact.
Abruptly he closed his mouth and studied the Bolg king’s face. It was a face that had recently witnessed the devastation of his kingdom, had certainly borne the grimace of anguish while surveying the thousands of dead, the mass burials. He remembered his history lessons of endemic disease in Roland and Sorbold; one of his ancestors was said to have been driven mad and committed suicide in the wake of the plague that gutted his duchy.
Then again, the loss of a kingdom of monsters to the ravages of disease was doubtless not as devastating an experience as it would be were they actually human beings. Perhaps the Bolg king was pragmatic in his losses because he didn’t value the lives of the Bolg any more than humans did. Easily won, easily lost.
“I wished to notify you, as a courtesy, what remains of your populace may evacuate peaceably before we take the mountain. When the Council is over I will be occupying Canrif.”
The fiendish smile grew broader. “You personally? Canrif is a very large place, Tristan. You’re a little fat around the middle, but I doubt even you would require an entire kingdom to house your corpulent body. I do have an extra-large hut I can make available to you, if you’re finding your field accommodations uncomfortable. But I’m afraid all the guest suites are occupied. Rhapsody took care of those arrangements.”
At the mention of her name, Tristan Steward’s face flushed; it was all Achmed could do to keep from laughing aloud. He leaned forward conspiratorially.
“She assigned the ambassadorial quarters to the guests she felt most significant or of important statu
s. I didn’t see your name on the list—you aren’t even the head of your House, are you? Even if you were, given what she thinks of you, I doubt you’d be assigned a room. But, as I said, I do have a large hut you can sleep in for the duration of the Council.”
A vein in the Lord Roland’s forehead was pulsing so that Achmed thought it might burst. Tristan’s nostrils flared; he took a step toward the Bolg king and dropped his voice to a murderous whisper.
“You arrogant bastard. I gave you a chance to spare your people from further bloodshed, and you insult me. I shall enjoy crushing you and every last one of your monstrous subjects beneath my heel. I will purge Canrif of every last vestige of you, down to the rancid air you have breathed into the mountain. I will make it fit for habitation by human beings once again, once every trace of your infestation is cleansed.”
He could see the man the Bolg called the Glowering Eye regarding him seriously through his veils.
“And with what precisely do you intend to enforce this threat?”
Tristan Steward stared at the Firbolg king for a moment as if he were daft. The swell of soldiers at the crest of each rolling rise of earth blackened the land. Perhaps the monster couldn’t see properly in the glint of the sun radiating off their weapons and armor, a hundred thousand strong.
“I’m sorry,” he said with mock apology. “Did I fail to introduce you to the united army of Roland?”