“And I for the Nain,” said Faedryth. Voices began to rise in agreement.
“I will represent the principalities of Roland,” came the voice of Tristan Steward, and there was general acclaim to his statement.
One by one, speakers stepped forward to represent various lands, races, and historical assemblies. Rhapsody looked around, trying to find Oelendra, but she was nowhere to be seen. Finally she nominated Rial to speak for the Lirin, citing his knowledge of the details of the war and his current status as viceroy of Tyrian. Ashe, as Chief of the House of Newland, was chosen to speak for the Second Fleet and the Cymrians of Manosse.
At last speakers had been nominated and confirmed for all groups but the other two Cymrian fleets. The cry went up from the Third Fleet.
“Anborn! We nominate Anborn ap Gwylliam!” The Bowl resonated with the agreement of the members of the fleet, though many from the First Fleet stared on in stony silence.
“Do you agree to this?” Rhapsody asked the Third Fleet as a point of procedure.
“We do,” came the answer in unison. The Lord Marshal stepped forward without a trace of his usual arrogance. As had each of the speakers before him, he bowed to the Summoner, but as he stood erect again Rhapsody saw him wink surreptitiously at her, and the reluctance she had felt about their impending marriage began to fade. Their relationship would be enjoyable, and uncomplicated. She was, in fact, growing to like him a great deal. She had not met Ashe’s eye when it had been his turn.
Finally came the last and most difficult question: who would speak for the First Fleet, the Cymrians who had fought for Anwyn, and their descendants? The largest number of survivors of the war were part of this group, though many had chosen to define themselves in other manners with other groups, as citizens of a specific country, or by race. There were many whispers and much muttering as the question was debated on the floor of the Bowl. Rhapsody stood patiently and waited for an answer, all the while wishing she had chosen more comfortable shoes. Then a shout came forth from a group of humans.
“I put forward Gwydion ap Llauron as speaker of the First Fleet as well.” The multitude began to clamor among itself again, the nomination attracting much discussion and support. Rhapsody stepped forward to ask the same confirming question of the First Fleet as she had of the Third, when Anborn interrupted in a voice that silenced the throng.
“I object,” he said.
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Anborn turned to Ashe as the crowd began to rumble with voices again.
“Sorry, boy; I don’t mean it as a personal attack. It’s a little more complicated than that, I’m afraid.” Ashe nodded brusquely, and looked to Rhapsody again. Far more complicated, he thought ruefully.
Arguments began to break out, not the violent threats of before, but debate as to who was the appropriate leader of the First Fleet. An occasional voice could be heard above the rabble.
“The right to the First Fleet belongs to Edwyn Griffyth, as Anwyn’s eldest son,” said Hyllion, a Lirin noble who had put forth a suit for Rhapsody’s hand. The First Fleet began to call for him.
“Lead us, Edwyn Griffyth!”
“Leave me out of this,” snarled Edwyn Griffyth, and the crowd grew silent for a moment. It was the first time the assemblage had heard him speak. “I would be far too tempted to lead you to the end of the Earth and push you off. A moment ago I almost believed, however foolishly, that there was hope for you all. But you are doing it again, the same blind servitude that led you to follow my mother to your devastation in the first place! Choose someone who speaks for you, not to whom you were sworn because of which ship your bloody ancestors crossed on! Save your oath of allegiance for the new Lord and Lady.” The assembled Cymrians began to murmur again.
“Oelendra, then,” suggested another voice, and there was a change in the tone of the rumblings. “She led us after the storm that took Merithyn, brought us safely to this land and established us in here in peace.” The crowd began to mutter in agreement, then took up her name as a chant.
“I decline,” came a quiet voice from the hillside away from the assemblage. Rhapsody looked up to see the ancient warrior standing apart from the others on the lip of the Bowl. She turned and began to walk away.
Rhapsody’s heart sank. She knew as Summoner it was her duty to remain neutral, but the words of encouragement were about to spill out anyway. She glanced down at Grunthor and smiled.
“We must forgive ourselves,” she repeated softly; her words echoed around the Bowl.
“Right,” said the giant Firbolg. “None o’ my bizness, o’ course, but Oi think you’re the perfect choice. If the fleet had listened to you, they never would have gotten into the stupid war in the first place. And if the Lirin had listened to you, neither would they, eh? And if ol’ Annie had listened to you, we’d all be ’ome havin’ supper and not tryin’ to put a bloody continent back together, now, wouldn’t we? So whaddaya say, miss? Give ’em one last chance to get it right this time.”
After a moment of stunned silence at the Sergeant’s speech, the First Fleet burst into cheers and began proclaiming her name even louder. Rhapsody blew Grunthor a kiss, then turned to Oelendra for her answer. Even as far away as she was Rhapsody could see a glint of tears in the warrior’s eyes.
“Very well,” she said, and the cheers turned to shouts of acclamation.
“Good,” said Rhapsody, blinking back tears herself. “Now, I suggest that the various speakers come together in one of the meeting rooms of Ylorc while the rest of us make merry and get to know each other. Perhaps that will engender goodwill enough to keep us through the next several days of session, through the selection of the new Lord and Lady, and the other work of rebuilding. You asked of the Future; we are making it here.” She picked up her harp again; there was a collective intake of breath from the Council.
“I’m not Manwyn, you know,” Rhapsody said, a glint of humor returning to her eyes. “I can only tell you what I think is possible; it’s your choice to make it true or not.”
She signaled to a small, golden-haired child within the Lirin delegation.
“Aric—you are the Future. Come and sing with me.” The child ran to the foot of the Summoner’s Rise.
She began to play again, this time a trippingly melodic tune. It was a Gwadd song from the old land called “Bright Flows the Meadow Stream,” a love song to the rolling hills and pasturelands that were the home of the diminutive folk. As she sang, a number of them came forward beside the golden-haired boy, along with the other smaller races with which they had interbred, and stood, transfixed, listening to her, a few endeavoring to sing along. The tiny pointed faces shone, the large, angular eyes glittered, and the slender forms of the Gwadd cast long shadows in the afternoon sun.
When the song had been taken up by that contingent she wove into it another, the only Nain song she had ever learned, which was a mining chant that was sung within the caverns as the people of the Night Mountain went about their endless labor, uncovering the treasures of the earth. The chant was picked up instantly by ten thousand Nain voices, voices deep and rich as the earth in which they lived. Rhapsody had chosen a key that would blend harmoniously with the Gwadd song, and as they sang together their voices resonated through the Moot, echoing through the bones of the gathered Cymrians.
One by one she added the songs of other lands, anthems and hymns, the simple farming songs the Filids sang while working in the fields, the sea chanteys of Serendair, joined by the voices of each group that recognized it as its own. The rhapsody of the Past she had sung in tribute to Anwyn had become a glorious symphony, its movements diverse as the people who stood in the Bowl before her, but beautiful in their unity. The faces of the Cymrians mirrored the brilliance of the afternoon sun that was sinking low beyond the Teeth, and in her heart, for the second time, she felt one with them, and the love she shared with Elynsynos for them as a people. It was like looking for one last time at the Patchworks in her homeland, the fields of grass and grain making
a beautiful quilt in the landscape below the sky.
At last the opus was finished, and silence took root in the Bowl as Rhapsody put her harp away. The gleaming aura of hypnotic power that had surrounded her since she braved the Fire at the Earth’s core seemed to be gone; now it hovered in the air of the Moot, brightening each of the souls that had heard the song, tying them together in a common bond.
She turned toward the west and began her vespers, singing to the setting sun and the evening star that glimmered above the tallest crag of Achmed’s mountains.
The evensong was picked up by tens of thousands of Lirin voices, many from the Tyrian contingent, but others from the various fleets, Roland and the Isle of the Sea Mages. It rang to the evening sky, echoing through the Bowl and over the Orlandan plains, through the Teeth and over the heath and beyond. They sang the sun down as the sky filled with glorious ribbons of orange and red, entwining through the azure blue of the western horizon, which reached out its arms into the fading darkness as if reluctant to leave.
When the echo of the last note had died away, Rhapsody shouldered her pack. “My service to you has now ended,” she said to the assemblage. “If you will have me among your ranks, I will be glad to join you now and leave the leadership of this Council to those whom you have chosen from among you.”
At the crest of the rising wave of acclamation, Ashe leapt forward from his place in the crowd and signaled to the departing Summoner.
“Your Majesty, may I have the floor?”
Rhapsody sighed wearily; she had been standing all day and her feet were sore. “You certainly may,” she said, grateful for the break. She sat down on a carved rock that functioned well as a stool near the back of the Ledge.
Ashe broke from the ranks of the Manossian contingent and ran to the Speaker’s Rise. He climbed to the highest crest and looked down at the sea of his fellow Cymrians, the red light of the setting sun making his hair gleam as though crowned with fire.
“As Speaker of the Second Fleet, I ask that we turn our attention at once to the matter of our leadership as a Council. As Anwyn said, with no Lord or Lady, we are not a Council. Gwylliam is dead, and I feel it is clear that though she still lives, Anwyn has proven herself unfit time and again to be our leader.”
To this there was a general murmur of consent. Even those present who had voted to keep her as Lady at the end of the war could not now agree to it. Time and Anwyn’s earlier behavior had guaranteed it.
“So,” Ashe continued in a louder voice, “to that end, I nominate Her Majesty, Rhapsody, Queen of the Lirin, as Lady Cymrian!” He had to shout to be heard over the commotion that erupted. “She is of the First Generation, but sailed with no fleet, and therefore has no preference for any one group over another. She is one of the Three of whom Manwyn spoke. Indeed, she is the Sky in the prophecy, the Liringlas, the one who encompasses all, that cannot be divided; the only means by which peace will come and unity will result. She has killed the F’dor, the ancient enemy of our people and bringer of so much woe since our flight from Serendair. She has united the Lirin and brought peace between them and the principality of Bethany, with whom they were on the verge of war. She has helped the Bolg enter a new age of peace and prosperity. As with the last of the kings of Serendair, she is of mixed blood, signifying a new unity between the races. She is foretold to be our Lady, Anwyn’s opposite, the one who can bring us together where Anwyn drove us asunder. And if that is not enough, she has managed to silence my grandmother, which by itself is an act worthy of high praise.”
Consternation had come into Rhapsody’s eyes at his initial words, but she was unable to interrupt him; she had recognized him and had yielded him the floor. As the throng began to laugh at his final words and cheer his suggestion she leapt to her feet, shock blanching her face.
“Are you out of your—”
“I second the nomination,” shouted Anborn, and the groundswell of roaring approval grew louder.
“Wait,” Rhapsody said, panic setting in. “I object.”
“Rhapsody, you are out of order,” said Ashe, a humorously wicked look in his eyes. “A motion has been made and seconded. As Summoner it is your responsibility to make sure that motion is put before the entire Council for a vote; now, kindly do so.”
Rhapsody glared at him in fury. Then she turned to the Council, and tried to keep the desperation she felt from showing through in her voice.
“Are there any more nominations?” The Council resolved into silence. “Any at all?” The stillness was broken only by a few quiet murmurs and whispered statements. “What about objections? Doesn’t anybody else object?”
“Apparently not, m’lady,” came Ashe’s voice again. “As a Council it seems we are of one mind; united as in the prophecy. Am I right?”
A thunderstrike of assent roared across the valley, and Rhapsody could feel the rock ledge she stood on vibrate with power as the cheering rumbled through the Bowl and up through her feet. She felt a surge, a strengthening of her soul and building of her body the like of which she had not experienced since she had passed through the fires of the earth. It was as though the Moot, responding to the unanimous voice of the Cymrian Council, was granting her the wisdom and fortitude she would need as their leader, a new bond with the people and the land. She finally understood what it meant to have a granted power: she was the Lady Cymrian. It was not what she had wanted, or expected; only the wisdom she had received from the joy of the assemblage prevented her from bursting into bitter tears.
“My friends,” roared Edwyn Griffyth, “let us celebrate!”
Ashe saw the look on Rhapsody’s face and felt his stomach twist. He turned to the crowd again.
“I can see that His Majesty, the Firbolg king, our host, has arranged a banquet on the field,” he said, pointing outside the Bowl to the tents Achmed’s forces had erected. “Let us break bread and return for the final session of the night when the moon has risen above the Teeth.” There was enthusiastic agreement, and the throng began to dissolve into chattering groups, mixing within each of the factions. Old friends met and wept, old enemies clasped hands, all in joyous celebration of the possibilities brought about by the new Cymrian Age, the new Council, the new Lady. He turned to look again at Rhapsody, to gauge how she was accustoming herself to the idea of her new role, but she was gone.
Bright torches and dim lanterns had been staked and strung across the wide fields at the foot of the Teeth, bringing a cheery light into the darkness of the early night. Tables laden with food had been set out, wine was passed around freely, and merry laughter resounded through the mountains and echoed over the heath above. The Cymrians had not gathered together in celebration since the wedding of Anwyn and Gwylliam, and the festive mood was infectious, goodwill roaring through the crowd like a strong wind.
Ashe looked around for Rhapsody at the supper. He could feel her presence there, and just as certainly felt her displeasure at what had transpired. When initially he had decided to make her Lady—it had been confirmed by the Patriarch’s ring on Midsummer’s Night the previous year, but he had actually determined it long before—he knew that her ingrained belief in an antiquated system of nobility would make it difficult for her to adjust to being royal. He fervently believed she would adapt, as she had to being the Lirin queen, but now, sensing the bile that she was carrying in her stomach and throat made him worry that perhaps he was wrong.
He had been unable to reach her during the meal. His fellow Manossians, and many members of the other fleets and the courts of Roland, stopped him at every turn, exclaiming with joy in the knowledge that he was still alive, welcoming him back. Comrades in arms from the battles he had fought in, as well as friends from long ago, and especially Lord Stephen, expected him to regale him with his exploits and fill in the gaps of the past twenty years for them. Rhapsody herself was swarmed with admirers; leaders of every principality, the nation of Sorbold, and the Nonaligned States sought a moment with her to establish ties even before she was c
oronated. Her face was serene and pleasant on the rare occasions when Ashe could catch a glimpse of it, but he knew her calm countenance belied the building agitation she was really feeling. Her eyes bore the signs of a deer in thrall or a cornered rabbit.
Finally the moon crested the tallest crag of the Teeth, and the horn sounded, summoning the Cymrians back to the business at hand. It took almost an hour for the assemblage to be called to order again, so insistent was the merriment. Rhapsody looked out over the Cymrian populace, the sea of diverse faces shining up at her in the glow of the full moon ascendant now above them. When the sun had risen on this day she had hoped to become one of them, this refugee population from her homeland, and now she was their sovereign; it was surreal to the point of bordering on the absurd.
She took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, willing herself to remain calm. She was addressing them now not as the Summoner but as their Lady; as a result when she moved forward to speak, silence fell like a curtain almost instantaneously.
“What shall we address first?” she asked the crowd. The question roared forth in many different phrasings, but the intention was universally the same.
“Who, then, shall be our Lord?”
Her selection and confirmation as the Cymrian’s choice of Lady had given Rhapsody a new understanding of the Cymrian people, and as a result she could discern their comments more clearly than she had before. Previously their shouts had seemed nothing more than the noise of a rabble; now they came forth as the spoken thoughts of individuals, crashing on her brain like waves on a beach. This must be a. little like having dragon sense, she thought. Ashe had described it as being acutely aware of the minutiae around him all the time; in a way she felt the same thing.
“The real question is, who holds the right?” asked a Nain warrior named Gar.
“The right lies with each of us; anyone can be Lord,” answered someone from the First Wave.