Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

In addition, Achmed had recognized the power in the initial meeting. Rhapsody was the one who greeted each of the arrivals, made them welcome, and explained to most of them why they had come. It left a positive impression and a desire in each of the erstwhile Cymrians to belong to whatever people she might be part of, thus ensuring her success in her mission of uniting this irascible population. The Diaspora only comprised a small number of the entire Cymrian populace, however; as time went by it seemed as though only thirty thousand or so Houseless descendants showed up; that meant the overwhelming majority of the group was still to come.

The Houses of the First, Second, and Third Fleets were meeting outside the Teeth, re-forming their loose alliances. Undoubtedly each was waiting for the stragglers from their lines to arrive, for the purpose of entering the Bowl with as impressive a show of numbers as possible. From the beginning they camped on the Orlandan Plateau, their fires at night making them resemble an invading army. The comparison made Rhapsody uneasy, but did not seem to concern either Grunthor or Achmed.

“It’s rather pathe’ick, in a way,” mused the giant Firbolg commander. “It’s like they think they’re impressin’ someone ’oo cares. Bloody childish, if you ask me.”

“Are you sure you really want to unite these idiots again?” Achmed asked

Rhapsody incredulously.

“Why?”

“Well, the stupidity level is so high already with the convocation that we already have, it seems almost dangerous to tempt Fate by putting so many empty heads in one place at the same time. I’m afraid we’re going to get sucked into a brainless vortex we won’t be able to escape from.” Rhapsody laughed.

“The Cymrians aren’t stupid, just obstreperous,” she said, cuffing him across the back of the head. “Besides, they’re here now. We have to make the best of it.”

“Oi doubt you’d like my suggestion for what to do with ’em,” said Grunthor gloomily.

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“Target practice, o’ course.”

It was a fine day to be alive, Tristan Steward observed as his war horse, chestnut coat and mane all but shielded from sight by its metal barding, crested a hilly swale in the steppes of the Orlandan Plateau. The wind was warm and sweet in summer’s advent, the earth beneath him fragrantly verdant. Riding at the head of a force one hundred thousand strong, ten thousand mounted, was the headiest sensation he ever remembered feeling, an exhilaration that was powerful, almost sexual. He had the sense that the very earth was moving with him as he rode, surrounded in the fierce vibration, the deafening sound of his army on the move, blackening the landscape behind him.

The closer the contingent came to the Manteids, the more powerful his excitement grew. While a number of those riding with him, commanders and foot soldiers alike, were responding, as he was, to the summons of the Cymrian horn, the vast majority, not being of Seren ancestry, were in full muster, primed, they believed, to lay siege to the Bolglands.

It had initially been awkward to observe the confusion that the tiny minority of Cymrian soldiers was evidently experiencing. The great Moot, the legends said, was a place of deep power, where the very land itself enforced the laws of the Council, an agenda of minimal civility and contained behavior wherein the many factions of the Cymrian kingdom had been able to meet and conduct the business of keeping peace and planning the building of the empire. It was therefore distressing to those of Cymrian blood among his troops to be riding with a martial intent.

Along the trans-Orlandan thoroughfare where it crossed into the Bolglands Tristan had been pleased to note empty guard posts, way stations normally manned by the brutes who maintained the border. He had not, in fact, seen a single Firbolg since entering the steppes that led up to the mountain range. The desolate plain seemed even more bleak than he had expected.

Pandemic illness could be a wonderful weapon.

He turned to McVickers, his knight marshal, who rode beside him, a grim expression on his somber face.

“How much farther, McVickers?”

“We should be within sight of the Moot tomorrow, m’lord.”

“Excellent!” Tristan Steward said, patting his horse. “We will encamp outside the Moot; those who are attending the Council will be dismissed in order to meet up with their Houses. Make certain all the troops know where to reassemble once the Council is over.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Tristan sighed happily. He put his head back, letting the sun shine down on his face.

All in all, a fine day to be alive.

Finally, after months of arduous waiting, the day of the Council dawned. There could be no mistaking the appointed time; the night before, the air in the Moot had grown suddenly still, the clamorous sound of tens of thousands of voices slipping into deep silence.

The sunset had been particularly spectacular on this, the last night of spring, the fiery hues of nightfall spinning into one last blood-red cloud that softened to the gentlest shade of rose -pink before disappearing over the rim of the world into darkness. The sky dimmed to azure, then cobalt, then inky black; the stars appeared timidly, as if reluctantly summoned by Rhapsody’s evensong. The Moot picked up the sound of her voice singing her vespers, as it had each night; this had become one of the only times during the long and noisy days that the assembled Cymrians routinely fell silent, listening raptly to the Singer greet the stars or the dawn.

On this night, as the last sweet note died away, a shower of shooting stars sped by overhead, drawing an astonished gasp from the crowd. Moments later, the collective intake of breath from the encampments on the other side of the Teeth could be heard; the Cymrian Houses had seen the omen as well, and acknowledged it. Deep within each breast, the understanding was clear. It was time to convene.

The night was a quiet one. Rhapsody eschewed her regular lodging within the Cauldron to sit vigil in the field, watching the smoldering fires of the exterior encampments be extinguished, one by one. Achmed and Grunthor had stayed with her, and she glanced over at them affectionately now. Grunthor was sitting with his enormous sword across his knees, his elbows resting on it, his chin in the tips of his clasped hands, musing intently. The burden of policing the small city-state that the Moot had become had fallen to him, and he had borne up under it without batting an amber eye, a particularly amazing feat, given that the only troops the king allowed him to use to police the plain were the soldiers who were Finders.

Achmed stood beside him, his gaze also targeted on the camp of the Cymrian Houses and the long caravan of travelers arriving to join them every day. His face was open to the wind, unhidden behind his usual veils, but it might as well have been for the lack of emotion on it. Nonetheless, Rhapsody knew at least part of what he was thinking.

It was this group of Cymrians that was responsible for his ugly attitude, this gathering that posed the threat of violence. These were the proud descendants of the ocean travelers, the city builders, the basilica architects, and the scholars of the Great Age of Civilization; they were also the children of the warring rulers, the marauding armies of rape and destruction, the silent conspirators, the traitors to humanity.

Despite Rhapsody’s confidence in them as a people, he had his doubts as to the wisdom of bringing them back together again, to ascending their line to the throne once more. He did not trust this population, even though technically he was one of them, perhaps more ancient than any. Still, Rhapsody had had aspirations just as unlikely for the Bolg, and, against all probability, she was being proved correct there. His words to her, and her answer, rang in his memory, words from a night long ago before she had gone off to help a desolate wanderer and had ended up in his arms.