Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

Instead, as it had on the night she had called it to life, the diadem itself coronated the new queen. She stood before the silver pedestal and slowly opened the case. The sparkling gemstones roared to fiery life at her touch. The gleaming jewels became transparent and whirled out of the case and above her head, causing even those who had seen the sight before to stare in awe. When the radiance settled into a halo pattern of ethereal light, she looked up at Achmed and smiled, receiving a nod in return. Then she glanced at Oelendra and held her head high. The Lirin champion bowed slightly, an approving look in her eyes.

Rial knelt and spoke the ancient benediction, used in coronations that predated the arrival of the Cymrians to the continent.

“Inde aria, tiron seth severim vur amasmet voirex.” May the stars give you their eyes and wisdom to lead us as they would if they could speak.

With the exception of the honor guard the assemblage knelt and repeated the words of the Lord Protector.

The sheer absurdity, the preposterousness of it all that Rhapsody had been secretly feeling melted away. She bowed her head and added her own prayer that she be worthy of these people who believed in her.

When the ceremony was over the assemblage dissolved into soft cheers and quiet applause, then laughter and embraces. Rhapsody hugged Oelendra first, then Rial, as she made her way across the circular room to where Achmed was waiting. She took his hands and kissed him on the cheek.

“Well, I survived, with your help,” she said, smiling at him.

“You prevailed, and on your own,” he answered pleasantly. “I just kept you from escaping before you went ahead with what you wanted to do anyway.”

Her eyes went to the strange sunlike brooch on his robe. “This is a nice pin,” she said absently. “Is this a new Bolg emblem?” She reached out to examine it. Achmed took her hand quickly and kissed it. Rhapsody blinked in surprise.

“Don’t touch,” he said chidingly.

“Your Majesty,” came Rial’s voice from across the Great Hall, “your guests are waiting below.”

The courtyard of Newydd Dda was filled past overflowing. Lirin citizens and the guests of state crowded the streets of Tyrian City, spilling into the vast forest clearing that surrounded the walls of the palace, hoping for an opportunity to view the newly crowned queen. Delegations of Lirin had come from each of the factional areas, from Manosse and the plains, from the cities in the Nonaligned States and the sea. Roland and Sorbold were represented, as were the Nonaligned States, Ylorc, and the lands beyond the Hintervold. Achmed was astonished; it seemed impossible that the word could even have reached those places so fast, and yet here they were, representatives from each, lining up to greet or bless Rhapsody.

He glanced back at her now, descending the hill in her heavily carved sleigh; a look of serenity was in her eyes that belied the panic he knew she felt at the sight of the throng below her. Grunthor rode before her; where the Lirin had found the horse they had given him for the procession he had no idea, but it was more than half the size of the sleigh itself.

He had managed to slip into the front of the procession as it came down the hill so as to afford himself as much time as possible to assess the crowd near where she would be standing. Assassination was not likely, given the number of trained Lirin guards that had secured the entire city, removing all weapons and potential instruments of damage. When he tried to enter the city that morning they had weighed the flute he carried as a gift for the new queen, leery of its heft. Only the intercession of Rhapsody herself had allowed his entry back into the city after he had left her room the night before. Despite the inconvenience, Achmed was pleased at the effectiveness of her protectors.

He leaned up against the palace wall and waited for Grunthor to pass. The Princes of Sorbold and Bethany were the first in line; Achmed smiled to himself at the irony. He would have been among them had he not been designated the equivalent of her family and invited to the private ceremony. Had he been in that company he would have been the most pleasant of the first three people to honor her.

Her antagonistic interaction with Tristan Steward was legendary throughout Ylorc, and the Prince of Sorbold was a hostile, dried-up old man who was waiting impatiently for his even-more-ancient mother to die so that he might finally succeed her. Rhapsody had met him only once, and she was too annoyed by his petulance to notice that he was utterly smitten with her. After she had left on her journey with Ashe to find Elynsynos the prince had sent emissaries to Achmed demanding her hand; the Bolg king had gloated at the prospect of sharing the news with her upon her return, knowing that the pyrotechnics display from her wrath would be worth inviting guests to watch. He had never told her.

Behind the princes were the Orlandan dukes, Martin Ivenstrand of Avonderre and Stephen Navarne, the Regents of Yarim and Bethe Corbair, and Cedric Canderre, who had nodded politely to him upon entering the courtyard, Stephen signaling his intent to meet up later. The dukes were followed by a small contingent from Gwynwood of Filidic priests of insignificant rank who had come in the effort to represent the religion in the apparent absence of Khaddyr the Invoker and his minions.

The priests were being repositioned by the chamberlain and her staff owing to the arrival a few moments before of another contingent. A gasp had gone up when the group had stepped forth from the enormous carriage that had been escorted under guard from the gates of Tyrian.

From the carriage had stepped the Orlandan benisons, Ian Steward of Canderre-Yarim, Lanacan Orlando, the Blesser of Bethe Corbair, and Colin Abernathy, whose See encompassed the Nonaligned States to the south of Tyrian. They were followed by the Blesser of Sorbold, Nielash Mousa, the only one in the robes of his country, colorful and striking in contrast to the pale holy garments of Roland. At length the Blesser of Avonderre-Navarne, Philabet Griswold, stepped out, a haughty smile on his face. He reached into the carriage and gently assisted a frail man in a tall miter and golden vestments. It was the Patriarch of Sepulvarta.

Though it was unlikely he had ever been seen by anyone present, the

Patriarch’s identity was obvious to all. It was his arrival that had caused the gasp to go up from the crowd. After a moment of shock, a smattering of applause began to ring out here and there, then swelled into a polite ripple, finally building into a wave that brought glad shouts with it.

As the Patriarch slowly tottered forward, his benisons and the Orlandan dukes stepped back to allow him access to the front of the receiving line. The two princes, who had been vying to be first, yielded their positions in the queue to him; if there was any resentment, it was well disguised. The Patriarch shook his head and bowed slightly, indicating that they should stay at the front of the line. Nielash Mousa and Philabet Griswold stepped to either side of him, assisting him up the steps of the reviewing stand. The other benisons fell in line behind him, followed by the dukes, then all the other guests of honor and the people of Tyrian.

The crowd swelled as Rhapsody’s procession reached the edge of the city wall, waiting for the queen and her honor guard to emerge and ascend the dais to begin receiving the blessings and greetings of her well-wishers.

The honor guard was approaching the reviewing stand when suddenly the world shifted around Achmed. The exposed nerves and veins of his skin-web stung, then throbbed to pulsing life; the rhythm of his pulse .began to pound in unison with another, one very close by. A moment later it was gone, then back again, moving.