The Lord Cymrian stood and offered her his hand.
“Come,” he said. “Let’s finish this.”
From the remains of the Summoner’s Rise, the new Lord and Lady Cymrian looked over the morning valley at the base of the Teeth, down on the people who had sworn fealty to them only the day before. The pain and loss were unmistakable, but so was the hope—even as Firbolg soldiers joined with the army of Roland in rebuilding and rescue, the refugees of Serendair and their descendants put aside old animosities and reached across the chasms of bitter years to begin rebuilding a new alliance of peace.
Rhapsody stared down at the horn in her hands. The casing was cracked, the magic that bound the storm-tossed survivors in promise broken, drained from it like the shine from tarnished metal. Still, there was good cheer in the air that surrounded it, a sense of hope and survival that had lasted through the death of the Island, the horror of the Great War, and even the rising of the Dead, to stand firm, a bellwether of a future that was strong and bright.
She raised the horn to her lips and sounded it; it was not a martial call, a call to battle, but rather a call of victory.
In return, the Cymrians below roared in affirmation, filling the summer air with the sound of their cheers.
She yielded the floor to Gwydion, who stood by her side, commending those who had fought bravely, blessing those who had been lost, and returning to the announcements he had been in the process of making when the Earth had sundered beneath them.
He hurried through his proclamations: the speakers for each representative group, and any other interested parties, were invited to stay to plan the merging and rebuilding of the Cymrian states. The rest of the group was excused, invited to return in a year’s time for the next Council, which would convene every third year thereafter. The wedding would take place three months hence, on the first day of autumn, at the sapling tree of the Oak of Deep Roots, growing in what had once been the House of Remembrance. He thanked the Cymrians for their attendance and participation, then seized Rhapsody’s hand and led her speedily off the rise before the crowd of well-wishers could sweep them away as they had tried two nights before.
On her way down the side of the rockwall Rhapsody looked up to see Achmed and Grunthor watching her. She smiled at them hesitantly: Grunthor stared at her, straight-faced, but Achmed gave her the hint of a knowing smile in return. Then she was gone, pulled out of the way of the swelling crowd.
From her hiding place on the lower ledge Rhapsody watched as the crowds slowly made their way out of the remains of the Bowl. It would take many days for the fields around the Moot to empty, she knew, between the reunions among Houses and old friends who tarried behind, renewing their ties, and the sheer logistics of moving a hundred thousand people and their belongings. She sighed; Achmed had handled things for her without complaint; she felt guilty at the prospect of leaving him with such a tremendous mess to clean up. She had sought him out before the announcement, securing his permission to have annual access to the Moot, but had been pulled away without forewarning him about her engagement. The dismay she had felt was still palpable.
She sensed a strange tingle on the surface of her skin, a static charge that buzzed in the strands of her hair and made her fingertips itch. Then she heard the voice, and a frown spread over her face.
“I hope you will allow me to extend my heartfelt congratulations, my dear, both on your appointment and your engagement.” The statement issued forth from the earth itself, or the air; she was uncertain as to which.
“Thank you,” she said, not knowing what to turn away from. “Please leave me alone, Llauron. I have nothing to say to you.”
A deep chuckle resonated in the ground, and she felt the wind pick up, as it did when she had visited Elynsynos. But instead of it lovingly caressing her hair, the way it had in the quiet glen outside the hidden cave, it blew her tresses around her face with a confident strength.
“Now, somehow I doubt that is the truth, my dear.”
She tried to keep from losing her temper. “You’re right; let me rephrase that. I have many unpleasant things I could undoubtedly say to you at this point, Llauron, but I’d rather not. Go away and leave me alone.”
“That’s better. I am sorry you’re so angry, Rhapsody; of course you have every right to be. I was just hoping you might be willing to extend some of your famous forgiveness to your father-in-law-to-be. I can’t very well ask your pardon if you won’t hear me out. You did say, after all, that we must forgive one another.”
“There are some things that are unforgivable.” Gwydion’s voice came from behind her, its tone harsh, startling her. “Leave the Lady alone, Father; you have no right to speak to her after what you’ve done.”
Rhapsody reached out for him. “Sam—”
“He’s right, of course,” said the warm, cultured voice. “I certainly have no right to anything where either of you are concerned anymore. I was merely asking your indulgence.”
“Sam, why don’t you see if Achmed and Grunthor need any help with the crowd,” Rhapsody said gently. “I can take care of myself. Go on. Please.” Gwydion looked at her doubtfully, then reread her intention and walked away with a sigh of annoyance.
“He’s very angry still, and grieving,” Llauron said; it was as if the air and the earth both contained the sound of his voice. “I hope you can help him let go of his wrath, my dear.”
“I’m not sure I should,” she answered. “Perhaps it is better for us both to remember it.”
A deep chuckle rumbled through the earth. “You may think you want to, Rhapsody, but you don’t. You don’t have the stomach for it. I suspect you’ve had enough bad feeling to last you a lifetime. Given your life expectancy, that’s a lot of pain. You don’t seem the type to hold a grudge.”
“Well, if I ever have difficulty remembering why I don’t speak to you I can just conjure up the image of today, of Anborn crippled trying to save me, of Stephen dying so that the Cymrians could get out of the Moot, of the horrors that Anwyn visited upon us—I think I can remember. Time will tell if I am the type to hold a grudge.”
The voice in the wind seemed genuinely perplexed. “Why are you so angry with me? What have I done?”
She slapped her hand into the wind in exasperation. “Where were you? Why didn’t you help? You could have spared so many, these Cymrians you have claimed to revere, to cherish—why didn’t you take on Anwyn yourself? Surely you were in a better position than any.”
The wind sighed around her.
“She was my mother, Rhapsody.”
“Gwydion is your son. Anborn is your brother. Stephen was your friend. Those are your people. It hardly seems a worthy excuse.”
“Gwydion has you. Anborn has the friendship of many. Stephen, may the Creator bless him, had the love of a woman, two marvelous children, and everyone who ever met him. The Cymrians had each other, and many in their lives to give them meaning, connection. Anwyn had only me.” The wind blew warm through her hair. “I hope one day you will understand, and will extend me your forgiveness. I do hope one day to see my grandchildren. Surely you won’t deny me that, will you?”
“I doubt I will ever understand why you did any of the things that you did, but I don’t have to, Llauron,” Rhapsody replied. “You are in your own world now. One day, if we have children, and if they want to see you, that may come to pass.” Then her eyes turned a darker green. “But not if you try to manipulate us in any way ever again.”
“Understood. I think our worlds are separate enough to assure that won’t happen.”
“Let’s hope you’re right.”
The sonorous voice sighed in the wind. “Rhapsody, I must ask you to remember something.”
She looked over the rise at the Cymrian stragglers, standing about the Bowl in small groups, talking. “Yes?”
“Whether you realize it now or not, for all that you hated our last interaction, you will be faced one day with the same situation again.”
Her
attention snapped back to Llauron, invisible around her. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” said the elemental voice of the wyrm, “that when you marry a man who is also a dragon, one day you will find that he is in need of becoming one or the other. If he chooses to let his human side win, you will eventually understand the pain of being widowed, as I have. And if he takes the path I chose, well, you have had a window into what both of you must do. I don’t mean to impinge on your happiness in any way, my dear, but these are the realities of the family you are about to marry into. I just don’t want you to wake up one day and feel you were misled.”
Rhapsody felt sour pain rise in her throat. The truth of his words, despite her desire to ignore them, was undeniable. His reasons for telling her were less clear; it was impossible to discern whether he was forewarning her of what she was to face, or trying to discourage her from entering into the situation in which she would have to do so.
She looked across the field at the base of the Bowl again, to where Gwydion knelt, surrounded by old friends, consoling the children of Stephen Navarne and Rosella.
“Goodbye, Llauron,” she said, gathering her skirts. “I’ll see you at the wedding, I expect, or at least feel your presence.” She climbed down from the rocks and hurried across the Moot where her husband waited.
87
In the Great Hall of Tyrian atop Tomingorllo, amid the glad sound of silver trumpets, a solemn procession carried the chosen gift of suit to the display pedestal where the diadem had rested. It was carefully set in place, and revealed with great respect.
Out of all the rich gifts of state that were presented for the Lirin queen’s approval, gifts whose incalculable wealth showcased the treasuries and artistry of the nations whose leaders sought her hand, she had chosen a simple scroll, bound with a black velvet ribbon. It was sealed with an odd, thirteen-sided copper signet, said to be one of only two in the entire world.
The scroll was rumored to be a song unlike any other. As the queen was a musician unparalleled, it was widely believed to be beautiful to the point of magical if she had been moved to choose it above all other offerings. The plate beneath it, by way of announcement, bore the name GWYDION OF MANOSSE, LORD CYMRIAN.
During this meaningful and joyous ceremony, the queen, by custom, was absent; at least she was not noticed, lying on her stomach on the floor of the Grand Balcony, looking down and watching it all from underneath Gwydion’s mist cloak with him. It was a struggle for them both to refrain from giggling like maniacs as they had when, straight-faced, she had presented her betrothal choice to Rial and left his offices in a dead run before her composure collapsed.
The song was a gift for the eyes of the bride-to-be only. Gwydion had threatened to have the scroll hold the tender lyrics to one of Grunthor’s bawdy marching songs. Instead, when she opened it she found he had been putting the music instruction she had given him to good use; the carefully graphed staff carried the notes that spelled out Sam and Emily Always without a single error.
The bouquet of winterflowers he had presented her with at the same time remained in Elysian, opening a little more day by day, revealing petals of deeper red with each new layer. The bouquet was held in stasis by the magic of the place, and did not fade, remaining permanently suspended in glorious bloom. It was a true marvel, but one the queen did not feel the inclination to share with any other eye. Proof of being selfish again, she had told her chosen suitor, who had only smiled.
“But who is there to marry us publicly?” Rhapsody asked Gwydion as they strolled in the garden of Tomingorllo. “You hold the offices of Invoker and Patriarch; there is no one above you in the religious hierarchy.”
Gwydion smiled. “You are not current in your information,” he said, kissing her hand as they walked. “While you were refusing to see me, I had to do something to keep from going insane, so I set about delegating some of those responsibilities.”
Rhapsody laughed. “Pretty certain of yourself, aren’t you? I thought you didn’t know if you would be confirmed as Lord Cymrian or not.”
“I didn’t. I still believed there should be others leading the religious factions directly. Besides, if you had married Anborn or Achmed I would have thrown myself into the sea anyway, so it wouldn’t have mattered.”
“So do you intend to remain the titular head of the order?”
“Yes, but I am nominating leaders of both factions who I think will be able to work together toward reunification. And even if it doesn’t happen, I believe there will still be a harmonious coexistence of both faiths.”
“Excellent. And whom did you choose to take on the office of Invoker?”
Ashe stopped and looked off into the distance. “Gavin. And I believe there is my candidate for Patriarch now, though of course the Scales of Jierna Tal will have to weigh him and find him worthy. He seemed mildly amused at the prospect. I asked him to come to Tyrian after the Cymrian Council so you could meet him; he’s new in the faith, but very wise. Come, let me introduce him to you.”
Rhapsody took his hand and followed him across the garden to where an older man was waiting. His beard was long enough to curl upward at the edges, with streaks of white and silver winning the battle for control within it over the insistent white-blond. Despite being somewhat advanced in years he was tall and broad-shouldered, and had a smile that Rhapsody could swear she had seen before, though from a distance she did not recognize him.
“Was he at the Council?” she asked as Gwydion picked up the pace.
“Yes; he was part of the Diaspora. I met him a few days before the Second Fleet arrived at the Moot. I asked him where he had come from, and all he would say was that it was both near and farther away than anyplace in the known world. We camped out together a few nights, and I was astounded at his wisdom and vision, and his extraordinary powers of healing. While we were there he tended to several people in the throes of great illness or pain, with amazing skill. He radiates great peace; I resolved to offer him the post if I was ever in a position to grant it to him. He seems to know of you; he asked if I knew you, but of course I couldn’t tell him anything except that I did. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
Rhapsody stopped still on the forest path, staring at the robed man. His lined face was wreathed in a smile that made her flush hot and cold with memories simultaneously.
“Constantin!”
He held out his hands to her, hands marred by time and the life he had led, and she hurried to him and took both of them in her own, kissing his cheek. Warmth flooded her face, as she thought back to their myriad, and occasionally unpleasant, experiences. His eyes were serene, however, and he looked at her knowingly and just smiled.
“Hello, m’lady,” he said in the deep voice she remembered. “I’m honored that you remember me.”
Rhapsody reached up, as if unable to stop herself, and touched his wrinkled cheek. I was gone behind the Veil of Hoen for seven years, and when I came out the snow had barely covered the hilt of the sword, she thought poignantly. I’ve been back now half a year. Gods, I’m amazed he’s still alive.
“I told you I would never forget you,” she said gently, “and I haven’t.”
Constantin kissed her hand. “Nor I you. Best wishes on your engagement. The Lord Cymrian is a lucky man.”
“Thank you,” Rhapsody and Gwydion said simultaneously. The Lord Cymrian drew her closer to his side.
“Constantin has agreed, if the Scales confirm him, to accept the office of Patriarch on Midsummer’s Night,” Ashe said. “And as such he will be the one to marry us, if you agree, Aria, in a joint ceremony with Gavin.”
Rhapsody smiled. “I certainly do. Thank you, Constantin.” She studied his face intently for a moment. “What made you decide to leave?”
His eyes darkened, and he looked deep into hers. “It was time,” was all he said.
Rhapsody remembered what Anborn had said about the wisdom not to ask more than she really needed to know. She turned to the Lord Cym
rian, who was watching their interaction with surprise. “I am delighted in your choice of a Patriarch, darling. He has studied with the best possible instructors and I know for a fact there’s not a drop of evil in him.” Her eyes sparkled wickedly and Constantin laughed. Gwydion looked puzzled.
“Come along, Sam,” Rhapsody said, pulling at her groom’s hand. “Let’s find His Grace somewhere to rest; he’s come from farther away than you think. And we’ll tell you the whole story. You may be surprised to learn how the new Patriarch had a hand in killing the F’dor.”
Gwydion stared at her in amazement before following them up the path. “You know, Rhapsody, you certainly know how to ruin a surprise.”
True to her word, Rhapsody had requested a simple dress, as she told Gwydion she would after the royal wedding in Bethany. It had only enough train to brush the ground two or so feet behind her, and left her shoulders open to the sun for the wedding taking place on the first day after the season dedicated to it had passed.
Despite the dress’s seeming simplicity, the seamstresses of Tyrian had worked endlessly on it. Miresylle had found a bolt of Canderian brushed silk, white with a gleaming blush undertone that touched off the sunrise coloring of Rhapsody’s rosy golden skin perfectly. It was trimmed judiciously, sparingly, a sign of true craftsmanship, as Rhapsody had explained to her incredulous groom, who wondered rudely aloud why she was having a seventh fitting for this allegedly simple dress.
“It’s not all covered with beadwork and lace; many seamstresses use that stuff to hide the imperfections in the fabric or the workmanship. Miresylle’s a perfectionist.”
Gwydion had taken his bride into his arms and kissed her. “I’m sure. And I’m sure I’ll like the dress, despite it being responsible for keeping you away from me so much.”
“You’re so time-greedy,” she scowled at him jokingly. “You’d probably prefer I didn’t wear anything at all.”
“How right you are.”