Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

Perhaps a lonely immortality was not so much of a threat after all.

I doubt I will even live to see the end of what is coming now, let alone forever.

Achmed’s voice spoke to her in the darkness of her memory.

He’s damned, like the polluted Earth. She hurtles through the ether, bound even the gods don’t know where, carrying inside, deep in her heart, the first and last Sleeping Child, the burden whose birth may be its mother’s ending.

As am I , she thought morosely.

When finally Rhapsody left the lair of the lost sea to head off on her last mission to unite the people of this new land, Elynsynos wept.

After several weeks of furious, mindless travel, the rising sun found Rhapsody sitting on the crest of the cwm . The Great Moot of the Cymrian Council had once been a glacial lake, formed by the freezing and thawing of ice on the mountain faces of the Teeth when they were young. The glacier had carved the Bowl of the Moot as a vessel for the melting tears of the great wall of moving ice. As the land warmed, the lake had sunk into the earth or sent its water skyward, dried by the sun, leaving the amphitheater hewn into the mountainside. It was a place of deep power, and Rhapsody could feel it now as she sat on its brow, looking around the Bowl, watching the dawn fill the Moot with rosy light.

Spring had come while she was in the dragon’s lair; she had emerged to find the snow all but gone, the trees in the advent of full bud. The desolate dust that was the floor of the Bowl in the height of summer was now green and lush, with new spring grass forming a verdant carpet along the floor and up into the terraced sides. It waited, having been deserted for centuries, as if in anticipation.

When the intense gold light of the top slice of the sun crested the horizon Rhapsody glanced behind her, having felt shadows fall on her shoulders. It was the other two-thirds of the Three; they had remembered to come.

They stood in silence behind her, looking around. She remained where she sat, watching the morning light come to the strange outcroppings of rocks that formed the natural features of the Moot. Gwylliam’s manuscripts had mentioned the two most significant characteristics. The first was the Speaker’s Rise, a towering pulpit sculpted from the limestone by what must have been a twisted blanket of ice millions of years before. As a result of the inconsistent erosion it had a curving natural pathway that spiraled to the top where a speaker could stand erect and be seen by the entire assemblage. In addition, that speaker could be heard clearly all around the Moot, owing to the intrinsic acoustics of the place.

The second attribute was known as the Summoner’s Ledge. It was a long, wide horizontal sheet of slate, flat but for a vertical rock outcropping that resembled a pulpit, balanced between two great slabs of rock, at the summit of the tallest of the bordering hills around the Bowl. From this vantage point someone could see all of the vast Orlandan plain stretching out at his feet, as well as the entirety of the Bowl, with the shadow of the Teeth at his back. It was the best possible point at which to sound a call that would echo over the land and beyond, vibrating within the earth itself, to reach the ears of those whose past and future was tied to the horn. Rhapsody shuddered; it was a long climb up to the unstable-looking place, and a longer fall down from it.

The Bowl itself was immense, larger than the gambling complex in Sorbold. What nature had not sculpted into the geologic bowl, the Cymrians had, although so many centuries had passed since it had been used as a gathering place that it was difficult to discern what was the work of natural forces and what was the work of man. A series of rising ledges had been hewn into the earth around the circumference of the Bowl, following the glacier’s lines, to allow seating for tens of thousands. Enormous wedges had been cut from some areas of the Bowl’s side to give access and egress from the arena. Though overgrown and forgotten by all but Time, it was the perfect place for a convocation. The air within it hung heavy with moisture and foreboding.

“Well? Are ya ready, Duchess?” The low rumble of the Sergeant’s voice rent the air and shattered the heavy silence.

“I suppose so,” she said, looking east to where the bottom rim of the sun was just clearing the mountain.

“That’s inspiring,” said Achmed with a wry smile. “You’re acting as the Summoner, and you’re not even certain you want to do it? Why are we bothering?”

“Because it’s time,” said Rhapsody with a long sigh as she rose. “Roland is a land ripe for war, as is Sorbold. The Lirin are united, but there is no one leader who can guarantee a treaty with them on behalf of the human realms. The only place not on the verge of bloodshed is Ylorc.”

“Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Oi think it’s sad,” said Grunthor with a melancholy tone in his voice. “Oi finally got myself an army to be proud of, and no one wants to come out and play.”

Rhapsody patted his shoulder. “Well, think of it this way, Grunthor; if the Cymrians do select a Lord and Lady, and do as good a job of it as they did before, you should have lots of opportunity for armed conflict, and with a bigger, more powerful opponent; you’ll have everyone in Roland, Sorbold, Tyrian, and possibly the Nonaligned States as well to play with.”

“Oh, goody.”

“Well, let’s begin the show,” Achmed said. He handed Rhapsody the slim box that contained the Cymrian horn.

Rhapsody’s eyes twinkled in the clear morning light. “Now, that would be Doctor Achmed’s Traveling Snake Show, if I’m not mistaken.” She cast a glance at Grunthor; it was a reference he had made on the Root long ago. The giant Bolg grinned.

She opened the box and carefully took out the horn, then began the slow, careful climb to the top of the Summoner’s Ledge, its stone pulpit casting a long shadow in the morning light.

Achmed and Grunthor followed her up, and the Three stood in awe for a moment, mesmerized by the view from the Ledge. From the observatory at the top peak of the Teeth the world had appeared at their feet; now, as they stood on the high rim of the Bowl, it still stretched out below them, but it was impossible to feel distanced from it, as one did in the mountains. As far as the eye could see a fertile panorama swept out before them, the landscape turning from brown to chartreuse almost before their eyes. It was a stunning sight, and to Rhapsody a humbling one. A high wind blew across the plain below them and over the Ledge around them; it was a cleansing wind, strong and cold, carrying with it a scent of hope and destiny. She closed her eyes, raised the horn to her lips, and sounded it.

A silver blast, like a bugle call but richer, shattered the air and the stillness of the morning. It reverberated off the Teeth and the hills below, rolling in a wave of music over the land, spreading like the ripples in a pond. Rhapsody could feel the music ringing through her, forming a bond from her feet through the stone she stood on, which in turn echoed through the Bowl itself.

Suddenly she understood why she needed to remain within Canrif. The Summoner was the instrument through which the horn tapped into the power of the Moot. It was much like the call she had sent on the wind to Ashe long ago, the summons that brought him to Elysian, to her. The horn issued a compelling invitation, tied to the person who winded it. The Summoner was the directional point, much as the gazebo in Elysian had been. By the Summoner’s remaining within the range of the Bowl the vibration was sustained, and the call held constant until all the Cymrians had arrived, an invisible thread they could follow to find Canrif again, wrapped inexorably around each of their hearts.