“The stars tell me I should have been in bed hours ago,” muttered Rhapsody, and the multitude laughed uneasily.
“The Gwadd support Gwydion as well, he has always protected us, even while he was walking the world unseen.”
“Though admittedly, Anborn did save the Gwaddi village of Finidel fifteen years ago—”
“If we want the Lady to marry the Lord, perhaps we should ask her which one she likes better.”
“Again I tell you that Anborn holds the political and military—”
“Aren’t we doing this to avoid the use of military—”
“Of course Gwydion did serve well in the battle of—”
Rhapsody closed her ears to the discussions; she couldn’t stand them anymore. Despair welled in her heart and found its way into her eyes. Her gaze fell on Ashe, or Gwydion, as he was now being called. He was standing quietly, avoiding being drawn into the discussions of his worthiness. He had the same slightly sad expression on his face as she did, coupled with a look of complete indifference to the outcome of the discussions. Understanding dawned on her: he didn’t care for the position any more than she did.
Then, as she watched him, he looked up at her and smiled, and inadvertently she smiled back. His metallic hair reflected the torchlight, and his blue eyes gleamed at her. As in their days together, the look in those eyes caused her heart to leap. His scaled armor glistened in the soft misty light of Crynella’s candle, looking for all the world like moonlight on the ocean waves. In his left hand he held the white staff of the Invoker, the same hand that wore the ring of the Patriarch, and her words of long ago came back to her now.
Are you aware that the original religion was a combination of the practices of Gwynwood and Sepulvarta, and that it was the Cymrian split that forced the schism? If you are planning to heal the rift in the governance of the Cymrian people, why not heal the religious rift as well? I’ve witnessed holy rites in both churches, and they are much closer to each other than you may believe. Who needs a Patriarch and an Invoker? Why can’t you be both? Or why can’t the Lord Cymrian be the governing head of both sects, and leave the ecclesiastical rule to the leaders of each faction? Recognize the right for people to have different belief systems, but still be united as one monotheistic people.
He no longer looked to her as he had when they were lovers. Even knowing his face, she would not have recognized him as the cloaked vagrant that she had met on the streets of Bethe Corbair that morning, or as the lonely forester who had served as her guide and traveling companion. Indeed, now he looked to her every inch a king, a lordly figure standing at the head of his House, power radiating from him, a dragon at his feet; his image belonged on a crest or a shield, or in a court painting. Despite his obvious suitability, in a tiny corner of her soul she hoped he would be passed over, only because she did not wish to be forced to be near him.
She cast a furtive glance around for his wife, the woman he had been telling her about for almost a year, but saw no one standing near him. Rhapsody drove the selfish thought from her mind. He was the clear choice, and she knew it.
She felt eyes on her now, and looked up to see Anborn watching her intently. He, too, had been silent through the discussion of the Lordship, calmly watching the discourse. He had the appearance of a king as well, and he had seen her watching Ashe, she was sure of it. A calculating smile, with almost a hint of cruelty to it, came over his face. The look sent shivers down her spine. She had begun to recognize that reptilian expression on the faces of each member of the family; it was the look their faces took on when they were about to strike. The blood drained from her face as Anborn suddenly stood up and strode to the Speaker’s Rise. In the absence of another speaker, he took control of the floor.
“People of the Council!” he intoned loudly, causing the crowd to fall immediately silent. “I have heard countless recriminations cast on me for my role in the Great War, and I wish to spare my supporters any more effort defending me. To those charges I acknowledge my guilt. I was the general of Gwylliam’s armies; I did sack the Lirin wood and killed countless members of the First Fleet. And yet the loudest accusations I hear come from faces I saw across the fields of battle, guilty themselves, though perhaps not as talented at dispensing death as I. It was a war, a terrible war. Which of you who would find fault with me played no part in it yourselves?”
The silence of the Bowl remained unbroken. Anborn smiled; it was a victorious smile that sobered a moment later into a serious expression. “I performed my duty, not out of love for my father or hatred of my mother, but for the same reason my brother and all of you did: because I wanted to defend what I believed was worth defending. Caught up in the madness, I undoubtedly overstepped my bounds, and for that reason I apologize. To the Lirin and their new queen, I apologize the most, not only for the siege of their cities, but for the wrong done to them by my mother and father. It was not their war, but they suffered greatly for it all the same.
“In addition to our acts of cruelty in that war, however, there were countless tales of compassion, and I think that is because, in truth, we were only trying to serve what we loved and were loyal to. The only participants of which this is not true were Anwyn and Gwylliam themselves. We have heard much recrimination of my mother this night, and seemingly let my father’s crimes pass, but I tell you now, as his chosen heir and general, Gwylliam bore as much guilt for this war as my mother did. In truth it was he who started it, and his own pride allowed it to escalate as it did. So, as his heir and the speaker for the Third Fleet, his army, I apologize on his behalf to the First Fleet as well, for our crimes against them.”
A moment of awkward silence followed. Then Oelendra stepped forward.
“As speaker for the First Fleet, I accept your apology, and offer ours to the Third Fleet as well.” A rolling wave of acclamation went up, breaking as it crested into cheers and whistles. Anborn held the Council spellbound, and he knew it. He cleared his throat and continued.
“As our new Lady has said, we must forgive ourselves. I have tried to make up for those crimes by serving as best I could in the new countries and lands that have formed since the war. In Roland and Dronsdale, in the Nain realms and Sorbold, and many other kingdoms, I am known as a soldier and a leader of men. I speak to you as such tonight, not as Gwylliam’s heir or the Speaker of the Third Fleet, but as a man who has lived among more of the peoples of this country than any other. As such, there are several truths that have become apparent to me tonight.
“The first is that the responsibility for bringing the peoples of the new world together lies with us, for this is the new world no longer, but our home, and we are as responsible for its politics and peace as we were for the war that tore it asunder. And the people of this land do need a peace to be invoked, a peace that can only be brought to them by Cymrians. And we can only lead this land to peace if we are led ourselves by one who has lived among them as I have.”
Rhapsody’s throat began to constrict; Anborn was taking the Lordship before her eyes. There was nothing she could say.
“It has also been said that my House alone can provide that leader, and that is also true, for we hold the tie between the races and kingdoms. Only in the children of Anwyn and Gwylliam are the bonds of the old and new world united; only in the House of the Seren kings have the races been brought together. Only one man here knows armies and hospices, peasants and kings as if he were one of them. Only one man is descended of all the fleets, and holds both the offices of Invoker and Patriarch. He is descended not only of the First and Third Fleet, but of the Second as well. And so I, Anborn ap Gwylliam, son of Anwyn, do nominate Lord Gwydion ap Llauron ap Gwylliam, of the House of Newland, Speaker of the Second Fleet, son of Anwyn’s chosen heir, Kirsdarkenvar, to be the Lord Cymrian. He served no part in the war, but has served his whole life selflessly to heal the rift that it caused. Can any but he fulfill this role?”
A roar of agreement swelled through the Bowl and spilled out over the fields. It roll
ed up the Teeth and into the caves of the Bolg, disturbing their sleep yet again. It rang over the army of Roland, sending silver shivers of hope for peace through them, even as they lay encamped for war.
Through the Summoner’s Ledge Rhapsody could feel the Moot taking stock of the appellations and determining that Gwydion was in fact the overwhelming choice for the Lordship, and acclaimed him as such. But Ashe was staring at Anborn in shock. His uncle just smiled and held out his arms to him as though presenting him to the multitude.
“The House of Fergus abstains!” shouted someone from within the Second Fleet, and that group burst into laughter; apparently it was an old rivalry and more a joke than anything else. “Well, at least they didn’t object,” someone said to Ashe in a blaring, jovial voice.
The cheering grew louder, and a moment later the frenzied crowd swept Gwydion onto their shoulders and into a sea of celebration. Likewise, even more of them stormed the Ledge where Rhapsody stood, hoping to talk to her or touch her.
Rhapsody bolted. She ran down the ridge that led to the Summoner’s Ledge and threw herself into Grunthor’s waiting arms.
“Get me out of here,” she gasped.
The giant Firbolg nodded and carried her over the rocky outcroppings, shouldering his way through the crowd. When they got to a spot the Cymrians had not reached he put her down and walked beside her, blocking her from view. They headed together in quick step for the exit of the Moot that bordered on the entrance to the Cauldron.
As she made her way out of the Bowl, Rhapsody heard a voice calling her name; there was an urgency in it she could not ignore. She turned to see a woman, Liringlas, running to her, arms open. She was about the age her mother had been when she last saw her, and, though she looked nothing like her, Rhapsody felt her throat tighten all the same.
When she got within arms’ reach she held out both her hands, and Rhapsody took them, still having no idea who she was. The woman stared at her in amazement, but with none of the awe that made her feel freakish. There were tears in the woman’s eyes, and they glistened in the dark as they rolled over the fine lines that etched the rosy skin of her face.
“Do you remember me?” she asked softly. There was something familiar about her, but after a moment of study, Rhapsody still could not place her. The crowd of excited Cymrians was coming nearer.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t; I’m sorry,” she answered.
“It’s me—Analise,” the woman said, and she began to cry harder.
Rhapsody thought for a moment, and her eyes widened in amazement. It was the child Michael the Wind of Death had called Petunia, the one she had wrested from him. The last she had seen of her was on the day they had ventured together into the Wide Meadows, under the protection of Nana’s guards, to search out the leader of the Lirin that lived there. It had been a sad parting, but not the first or last time Rhapsody would say goodbye to someone she loved for his or her own sake. The Lirin had taken the child in warmly, and Rhapsody had long comforted herself with the image of her, sitting before the leader on her horse, waving goodbye and smiling, both she and Analise knowing that she would be well cared for.
Tears welled in her own eyes, and the women embraced tightly. Rhapsody’s tears turned to sobbing as she realized this was the first person from the Island that she had known who survived, aside from her two Bolg friends, someone who knew her in the first life. Rhapsody caught Grunthor’s eye, and drew Analise aside as he stepped between the two of them and the crowd pressing toward her, giving them some privacy.
In their ancient language they caught each other up; at least, Analise told Rhapsody her story and answered the questions the Lirin queen could not hold back. She had sailed with the Second Fleet, and had settled in Manosse, living quite happily and avoiding the war that had destroyed so much of the other two fleets. She had heard of the new queen’s coronation, and had determined to make the voyage anyway as a gesture of respect when she felt the call of the horn. She was astonished to find that the queen and the Rhapsody she knew were one and the same.
“I will never forget what you did for me,” she said, her face breaking under the weight of emotion.
Rhapsody shuddered. “Please do; I have tried to.”
“I can’t,” Analise said, her smile returning. “You saved me from a far worse fate than I could even imagine, Rhapsody. Because of you I found a happy life, and survived the war on the Island; I’m content in Manosse, and I have a family of my own now. I shall have to bring my grandchildren to see you later, to meet the woman to whom they owe their existence.”
Rhapsody looked embarrassed. “Please, Analise, don’t tell them that; I would love to see them, though. You are welcome in Tyrian any time you wish to come.” Exhaustion was setting in, and sadness was beginning to call to her soul again. She gave Analise a kiss, with the promise they would meet up the next day, and, when she was sure none of the celebrating Cymrians could see her, she tried to slip away in all haste for Elysian.
It didn’t work. There were thousands now, primed with wine and in the mood to celebrate, calling her name, cheering her. Rhapsody thought she had spoken at supper with the major people, but, looking around, she saw no end in sight of well-wishers and important heads of state. To greet them all would be impossible, and to deal with just the heads of House would take long past dawn. She had to get out of there.
The crush of admiring subjects was beginning to make Rhapsody nauseated. She felt trapped, and panic was coursing through her, causing her palms to sweat and her heart to race. As the wall of humanity began to rush toward her, she saw a coppery glint out of the corner of her eye; Ashe, who himself was surrounded by well-wishers, was attempting, as politely as he could, to make his way to her side. He caught her glance and signaled to her, then moved a little more through the crowd.
The prospect of speaking to him was more than Rhapsody could stand. She bolted again, and ran straight for Rial, whom she could see on the other side of the exit. As she approached him a broad smile appeared that was quickly replaced by a look of concern when he saw the expression on her face. He held his hands out to her and she ran into his arms.
“M’lady, what’s the matter?” He gave her a comforting squeeze, then pulled back from her to look into her eyes again.
“Please, Rial,” she gasped, more from anxiety than exertion, “get me out of here. Please; I’m going to break down if you don’t.”
Understanding took root in her viceroy immediately, and he executed a quick half-turn, pulling her under his arm as he did. His long red cape swung behind them both as they walked, and he spoke to her in a comforting tone, much like the one she used with frightened children.
“There, now, m’lady, don’t worry. You’ve had an exhausting day, and everyone will understand. I believe you put in enough time at the feast to be polite; we’ll get you away from here, and I’ll make your apologies to the assemblage.” He patted her hand gently as they walked, and she clutched his, hanging on for her sanity.
78
Ashe struggled to remain upright, such was the swell of the crowd. He endeavored to smile at each person who grabbed his shoulder, took his hand, or clapped him on the back. He knew Rhapsody would expect as much from him, and it was only her potential disapproval that kept him from drawing his sword and slashing a path clear to her through the annoying jackasses that barred his way.
The cacophony of voices and cheers was giving him a headache; he could not wait to be rid of this place and in her arms. It was a moment that he had waited for more than half a year, and if he was kept from it one moment longer, he was afraid of what might ensue.
As he broke free of another pocket of humanity he looked to where Rhapsody had been. She was gone.
He whirled around and let his dragon sense loose, but he couldn’t feel her. He knew immediately she must have returned to Elysian, but then a chill swept over him as he realized this might not be the case. Rhapsody had been to many strange places in their time apart, and had learned tec
hniques to hide herself even from him. Maybe she wasn’t there at all.
At any rate, he didn’t have the time to misguess, as he had after Llauron’s pretended death; if he should take the time to track her to the wrong place, the night would be gone before he caught up with her, and the Council would resume before he had given her memory back. He could not allow that to happen.
His eyes scanned around for clues and came perchance upon Oelendra. She had made her way out of the crowd and was walking slowly on the rim toward the night. He dashed for her and caught her arm, the words exploding before he could engage in any polite pleasantries.
“Where is she?”
Oelendra looked at him regretfully. “Congratulations, my Lord Cymrian. My best wishes to you for every good thing—”
“Where is Rhapsody? Oelendra, tell me, or by the gods, I’ll—”
Oelendra’s eyes narrowed. “Or you’ll what? Don’t start out on the wrong foot, m’lord.”
“I’m sorry, Oelendra,” Gwydion replied, subdued. “With one notable exception, there is no one I owe more to than you. But if you think I am going to be kept from my wife for one more second—”
“Did you ask her before you named her Lady?”
Gwydion’s face froze. “What do you mean?”
“Did you bother to ask her, or even tell her about what you planned to do?”
“When?” he asked incredulously. “I haven’t even bloody seen her for three months, Oelendra. I have gone slowly insane, waiting for permission to talk to my own wife, and it has never come.”
“Perhaps there’s a reason for that.”
“There are undoubtedly many reasons, but none of them matter. I have to see her, Oelendra, I have to see her right now. Before anything else goes wrong, before Anborn presses his claim to her, or Achmed; gods, I have to tell her the truth. Please, please help me. Did she go back to the Cauldron? Or did she go to Elysian?”
Oelendra looked into his eyes; they were already touched by new wisdom, the look of a true king. But deeper, and more encompassing, was the look of utter fear and despair of a frightened husband; the look of a man about to lose his soul. Her heart went out to him, but her honor stood between him and the information he needed.