“There she stands, the Holy Warrior, the sworn enemy of the mythical demon. You’ve made quite a reputation for yourself, haven’t you, Oelendra? The passionate crusader, singular in her quest to deliver us all from the evil that Gwylliam unwittingly brought with him. Refusing the leadership, refusing the power, to concentrate on ridding the world of the F’dor. Aren’t you noble. How many have come to you, seeking to make your quest their own, to be ridden mercilessly, trained obsessively, then sent without exception to their deaths? Do you still weep for them, Oelendra? Do you mourn the loss of the flower of the Cymrians? When the power was yours all along to prevent it yourself?”
The silence in the Bowl grew heavier. Even as far away as he was from her, Ashe could see Oelendra’s jaw clench tighter, and the look of hate in her eyes grew more intense.
“Tell them, Oelendra, while you have them all here. Tell them how you knew, you knew the appointed time and place to kill it decades ago. Manwyn told you, in the presence of my son, exactly when and where you would need to be in order to destroy the demon, back when it was still weak enough to do so without the aid of the Three. Do you deny it?” Her eyes flashed and her voice grew harsher. “Do you?”
Two hundred thousand eyes turned to Oelendra. Her head was still erect, her back and shoulders straight, but something had left her eyes. “No,” she answered. Her voice was barely audible.
A sickening smile of victory crawled over Anwyn’s face. “I don’t think anyone heard you, Oelendra,” she taunted, drawing herself up straighter. “What did you say?”
Oelendra sighed inaudibly; Rhapsody could see the light go out of her face. “No,” she repeated. The breaking of her spirit was visible.
Murmurs of disbelief began to whisper through the Bowl, and there were mutterings on all sides. Anwyn was smiling gloriously at the humiliation of her longtime adversary.
“You knew it, and you refused to go. You shirked your responsibilities as Iliachenva’ar, not to mention those of the grand and glorious Lirin champion! Admit it, Oelendra; you were afraid, the state of which you allow no one else the benefit. You heard the warning, and the risk was too great, wasn’t it? So instead you allowed another to go in your place, another worth a thousand of yourself, to stand in your stead and endure the consequences. My grandson, the hope of the Cymrian peoples, an innocent, suffered indescribable agony, the loss of his very soul, because of your cowardice. Your inaction delivered him into its clutches! Do you admit it?”
“Stop it!” shouted Ashe. “Who are you to taunt her? You, who destroyed the Purity Diamond, our one weapon against it? I went alone against the demon; it was my decision. If I don’t hold her responsible for my fate, why should you?”
“Why?” Anwyn asked contemptuously. “Shall I tell him why, Oelendra? Perhaps he would be interested to know that he is not the only one you have delivered thus. Shall I tell him, tell all of them, of Pendaris?” Oelendra’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “Yes, Oelendra, perhaps you should tell them instead. Tell them how your husband died; tell them whether it would have happened had it not been for you.”
Oelendra’s face went white. Even from across the Bowl in his position at the head of the Second Fleet, Ashe could feel the breath leave her body, and he knew that this accusation was a new one, one that caused a fresh, deep wound. Anwyn let loose a crow of delight, and pointed at the warrior again. “This is why I should retain the title of Lady; I alone understand the Past, the history of the Cymrians! I alone know your secrets. Well, Oelendra? Tell them! Tell them who you have delivered to the F’dor in the Past; shall you deliver all of us to similar fates as well in the Future?”
The assemblage was now beginning to break into arguments and mutter loudly, far more bitterly and violently than they had before. Ashe looked across to Achmed and their eyes met. Between them a thought passed instantaneously: a riot was about to start. They both looked up to the Summoner’s Ledge at Rhapsody, but she was bent over, obscured from their view. When she stood again they could see she was rummaging through her pack. Her face was calm, and when her eyes met Achmed’s, she smiled.
Rhapsody took out her harp and began to play. Ashe instantly recognized the tune; it was the song she had used during his renaming ceremony. The melody echoed off the walls of the Moot, the vibration increasing with each bounce. Wherever it touched, the earth began to shimmer.
“Anwyn,” she said. Her word, spoken softly, drowned out all other sound in the Moot. The Seer turned to her with wrath in her eyes at the interruption. “Anwyn,” she repeated, “be silent.”
Anwyn’s mouth opened in shock; seconds later she recovered, and her face burned with rage, her body coiling like a serpent ready to strike. The muscles of her throat tensed as she prepared to reply, and her eyes met Rhapsody’s own with a hate unlike any the Singer had ever seen.
Rhapsody returned her gaze unblinkingly. Her face was serene, even glowing; the only sign that she was at all intent was the striking shade her eyes had turned. They were the color of spring grass, blazing with a light that caused even the Seer to hesitate for a moment. Then Anwyn spoke, or tried to; her mouth moved, but no words, no sound, came out.
Pity came into Rhapsody’s eyes as Anwyn clutched at her throat; otherwise her face remained serene. The woman roiled in rage, curling down into herself with a silent scream that had no echo; when she looked back at Rhapsody her anger was replaced with a fierce look of fear.
“You have yielded the floor by repeatedly demanding that another answer your questions; indeed, you have violated your office as Seer of the Past by demanding an answer for the Future. Anwyn ap Merithyn, tuatha Elynsynos, I rename you The Past. Your actions are out of balance. Henceforth your tongue will only serve to speak of the realm into which your eyes alone were given entry. That which is the domain of your sisters, the Present and the Future, you will be unable to utter. No one shall seek you out for any other reason, so may you choose to convey your knowledge better this time, lest you be forgotten altogether.”
She began to sing, and the faces of the throng of Cymrians went slack with wonder. Her voice was sweet but smoky, filled with sorrow, and her song spoke of their history, in all its horror and pain. The lyrics were Ancient Lirin, so not everyone in the gathering understood them, but those who did began to weep. The tears were not theirs exclusively, though; understanding of the words was not necessary to comprehend the message of the song.
The song told of war, the war of their homeland, and their flight in desperation to escape its destruction. It built to a terrible crescendo, then resolved into a sea aire, the story of their voyage to the new world, through the Great Storm, and the wonder of the discovery.
Ashe, himself weeping in awe, felt a smile come over his face as the song changed yet again. He realized that the song was a rhapsody, with movements unique to each tale in the legend; somehow the thought delighted him. He listened raptly as she sang of the wonder of finding the White Tree, of meeting the inhabitants, of reuniting the Three Fleets, and all the glory days of the Cymrian Age that built great cities, sought deep knowledge, and strove for the betterment of their people. Then, as the hearts of the masses were floating in poignant remembrance, their faces transfixed in proud memory, the tune changed again.
It became an insidious melody, secretive and dread, with discordant notes indicating breakdowns of the dreamlike aire that had preceded it. The light in the faces of the Cymrians faded, and their eyes darkened along with the music as she told of the Great War, of the destruction of Tomingorllo and the Lirin stronghold of Haner Til, the rout of the Third Fleet and the slaughter in Canrif and Bethe Corbair, and other stories of devastation and genocide that marked the blackest moments of the seven hundred years of senseless bloodshed. The pain in the song reflected in the faces of the people, and many of the tears turned to shuddering sobs. The tune became grueling, relentless, like the war itself, and just as it was about to break the spirit of the assembled Cymrians it resolved down into stillness, sustained by one long,
vibrating note.
From that one note soft harmonics blossomed, then simple strains, building into a concerto countered by a deep chant; the dark, simple mantra played on the harp lent depth to the fresh, springlike descant she sang over it. It was a symphony of rebuilding, of change and vigilance, of assimilation and staunch maintenance of tradition; it was the perfect portrait of the Cymrians as they were now. And as that became apparent, Rhonwyn, the frail sister, began to smile, and spoke.
“We are here,” she said, her eyes focusing for the first time. “It is now.”
Rhapsody’s music abruptly ceased. “You’re right,” she said to Rhonwyn with a smile of unsurpassed gentleness. “And so we must stop, for this is not your time, Anwyn.”
“What of the Future?!” a voice from the assemblage cried out. “Tell us! Give us hope!” The cry was taken up by the crowd; tens of thousands of voices calling for the rest of the song. The voices were as an earthquake rocking through the Moot.
“Tarry a moment,” Rhapsody answered them. “That belongs to us, not to her. Give Anwyn her due. She is leaving.”
The hate in Anwyn’s eyes was gone for the moment, replaced by tears of sorrow and marvel. She tried to speak again, but could not. She looked at Rhapsody’s face, a face that contained no gloat, no victory, just peace. The awfulness of her realization that she was no longer the only Cymrian Lady who understood their Past was clear to all who saw her; so was her amazement that the one who did had not lived it. For the first time in the memory of the Cymrian people, she bowed her head.
“My tribute to you is ended. Go now, m’lady of the Past,” Rhapsody said kindly. “Go and sort out your memories. We will be making grand new ones for you to count soon.”
Anwyn looked balefully at Rhapsody once more, then strode out of the Moot and disappeared.
Rhapsody’s eyes searched for Oelendra, and when they found her she smiled. She held her harp aloft like a weapon, and a look of singular understanding passed between them: This is what I meant, she was saying. There are many kinds of weapons, and all of them are powerful in their way and time. Oelendra did not return the smile; she nodded, turned, and disappeared into the crowd.
The roar that issued forth from the multitude swept over Rhapsody like a tidal wave. It resonated through her body and her soul, and in that moment, for the first time since she arrived, she felt completely one with them.
She looked out over the crowd for faces she recognized, and her eyes came to rest on Ashe. Sunlight had cracked through the cloud-blanketed sky, illuminating the red-gold hair until it burned like a raging fire. The searing blue eyes were visible even from a great distance, and she could see them focused on her, burning with an intensity that made her flush.
She felt suddenly awkward, suddenly too visible, and she glanced around for a place to recede to. But the stare on Ashe’s face was the same one worn by most of the crowd; everywhere she looked they gazed on her thus, making her long to disappear from the dais.
The clamor grew louder with each of the beats of her heart; they were calling for resumption of her song, pleading to hear the rest, imploring to know the Future. Rhapsody cleared her throat, surreptitiously wiping the perspiration from her palms.
“Don’t pass so quickly over the Present,” she said to the clamoring crowd. “Before you can determine what will be, it is necessary to determine what is now. I was about to answer your question about why you were all called, Your Majesty, when that minor interruption occurred.” A titter of laughter rolled through the noisy throng as she bowed to Faedryth, the Nain king, who smiled and nodded at her in return. “If you put any stock in the prophecy, you know that the death of the demon is the omen of unity and peace being restored to this land and to the Cymrian people. The demon is dead. It is time you put aside your differences and became one people again.”
A voice, filled with sadness, spoke up from the delegation of the Sea Mages. “How can you even hope that we might, after what we have just witnessed? Even before the she-devil came into our midst there was derision and hostility among this gathering. Is it not best that we just live among the people who were here before, become part of them and forget what we once were?” Murmurs of agreement and dissent swelled all around.
“But you have,” Rhapsody said. “The Cymrians do live among the people of their various lands. When you first arrived in this world you were a people set apart, refugees, a kingdom unto yourselves. That is no longer the case. Centuries of war and assimilation have changed all that. Look around you. Almost half of you here today came in answer to a summons you did not understand, unaware of who you were, and yet the power to call you as Cymrians, and the need to do so, is still strong. You—we—are part of the land in which we live, people of different nations, different races, kings and queens, princes and lords, standing here as equals, as Cymrians. If any good came from the horror of Anwyn and Gwylliam’s war, it is that we are no longer refugees but part of this land.”
“And why should we not just stay that way?” asked a small man within the group of Gwadd that stood in front of the Second Fleet. “We have endured so much warfare and bloodshed.”
“That is precisely why,” Rhapsody answered. “The Great War was horrific, but it is not really over. All around there are incursions and murderous raids that have brought this land to the brink of war again, only this time it will be much worse. Instead of fighting for the honor of honorless leaders, you will be fighting out of hate and prejudice; the seeds have been sown for four hundred years or more. You have the opportunity to form a Council now that recognizes the sovereignty of its various member kingdoms, yet works to maintain peaceful relations across the continent. Do you not owe this new land, the land that took you in when you were but storm-tossed refugees, at least that much? After all this place has given you? After all the horror you visited upon it?
“If I have one message for you it is this: The Past is gone. Learn from it and let it go.” Rhapsody swallowed hard to quell the knot that was constricting her throat and the tears that were filling her eyes; she was learning this lesson herself as she spoke to the people gathered below her.
She looked down at Anborn, smiling broadly at her from the center of the Bowl, a look of encouragement shining on his weathered face. “We must forgive each other. We must forgive ourselves. Only then will there be a true peace.” She glanced around for Oelendra but could not find her in the multitude; instead her gaze came to rest on Ashe, staring at her with an intensity that caused her heart to pound. “I know I am not one of you; I did not sail with any of the fleets, I left Serendair before a war there and arrived here after one. I have not suffered as you have, but even I have borne more than I can endure anymore. The Lirin have taken me in, made me at home, and I am honored to represent them to you.
“This Council can be a place where the nations of Tyrian and Sorbold and Roland can meet and confer, under the guidance of a Lord and Lady who recognize their independence, but have their sworn allegiance as High King and Queen. It would be their responsibility to guard a lasting peace. As it is, each of those countries is ruled by Cymrian stock now, as are the realm of the Nain, Manosse, and the Isle of the Sea Mages.
“I propose to you this: Keep your lands under their present stewardship, and unite as a Cymrian empire under a High Lord and Lady. Meet in Council to avoid war, promote peace, and make the nations great once more. Be one people, diverse in your makeup while united in your goals again as you were when you came to this land, but live up to Gwylliam’s words this time. If you will do this, I vow that the Lirin will fulfill the words of Queen Terrell and join you as another loyal nation-state in the next Cymrian Age.”
Again the roar of the throng swept over her; she struggled to bear up under it as though standing in the face of the winds of a hurricane. The assemblage was cheering now, applauding and calling out in assent. The rock ledge below her feet hummed as if alive with power, and in her soul she felt the collective agreement of the Cymrians confirmed by the eart
h itself from which the Bowl was carved. She laughed aloud in amazement; the Moot was a device by which the wisdom of the people was made obvious to the person chairing the Council, channeled up through the Summoner’s Ledge. The entire assemblage could make a choice without the need for ballots to be cast or counting to take place. A more sobering thought wiped the smile from her face a moment later; Anwyn and Gwylliam must have known when they stood on the Ledge the desires and wishes of their people. Apparently they were willing to subvert what they knew in order to get what they wanted. It was one more betrayal, and one that turned her stomach.
The assemblage had dissolved into excited chatter as the Cymrians began debating among themselves the next actions to take. Rhapsody held her hand aloft, blinking in shock at the complete and instantaneous silence that ensued.
“I am finished here now,” she said. “I have called you together; now you must work on your goals under more appropriate leadership. Is there one among you, or several, who are willing to take over the responsibility for chairing the Council now?” A hundred thousand pairs of eyes blinked at her words. “Come now,” Rhapsody said, a little more anxiously, “you have much work to do, many differences to resolve, and you can’t do it one hundred thousand at a time. Please; will someone at least take on the roles of speakers for each of the Three Fleets? And perhaps the regents of each principality or the sovereigns of the different countries can step forward and take the helm now? Those people can remain behind after the general session is complete and work on the specifics of the new alliance.”
The Cymrians in the assembled throng looked at each other. Achmed stepped forward.
“I will speak for the Firbolg,” he said, “both those of Cymrian descent, and the entire nation, as a potential member of the alliance.”