Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

It’s probably better if you don’t even try to understand it.

You’re probably right. I think it’s better for me to just decide how things are going to work out, and then they will.

It was Rhapsody who had made each of them what they were; she had called him the Pathfinder, and the gift of second sight was his. Grunthor, strong and reliable as the earth itself , she had said, the affection in her song marrying the Sergeant’s soul to the land. She was the optimism to his own cynicism, the hope to his doubt. We really are two sides of the same person , she had said. Whatever came to pass as a result of the convocation the next morning, what they had been to each other must be sustained. What she didn’t really know was that he had almost lost the memory of what his life had been like before she had come into it, renaming him and giving him the real key out of his past. He was unwilling to go back to that time.

Rhapsody was still awake and sitting vigil when the first ray of dawn broke. The sky had been lightening for some time, reversing the pattern of the blues that had come with the night; the inky darkness had given way to a rich cobalt, followed by the pale azure that signaled the coming of morning.

She closed her eyes and let the sunbeam touch her chest, filling her with the tone of its song. She smiled; it was ela . She quietly matched her voice to the note, then raised it in the aubade, the Liringlas love song of daybreak.

In the distance she heard a voice join hers, and even miles away she recognized it; Oelendra had come to the Moot. Then one by one she heard other voices take up the song, until more than ten thousand sang it, praising the sun as it rose in the sky. With Oelendra had come the Cymrian Lirin, some of Rhapsody’s own subjects, the descendants of those who had gone to dwell with their ancient counterparts in Tyrian rather than live in Gwylliam and Anwyn’s great cities. In her brief time as queen, Rhapsody had taught the aubade to Tyrian, and in turn the forest had taught it to them.

Farther off in the distance she could discern other voices, voices she had never heard before, take up the melody and add their own to it. Those faraway singers had a tone and inflection that matched Rhapsody’s own perfectly, and her heart leapt in the realization that Liringlas had come as well, arriving from the shores of Manosse across the sea, or from lands beyond the Hintervold.

She had just absorbed the understanding of this when a final chorus went up from the end of the vast caravan making its way through the fields of Bethe Corbair and into Ylorc. The minstrelsy of these singers held an ancient harmony that reached down into Rhapsody’s soul and made it ring as it never had. She turned away from the sun and shielded her eyes, trying to determine where the beautiful sound was coming from, but all she could see was an ocean of humanity wending its way to the Teeth, following a long, snaking procession.

When the last note finally died away, music of another sort began. Trum-. pets blasted across the plateau, and within the Bowl the sound of horns took up the call, heralding the arrival of the Cymrian Houses. It was a thrilling sound; the rich brass tones sent shivers up her spine, a feeling she had experienced only once before. The memory was an ancient one, from the old land, from the day that the youngest princess had been born in Elysian, the fortress of the Seren king.

Throughout the countryside, messengers had been sent to every small town to spread the glad news, and as they had approached her village they had sounded the great brass trumpet calls heralding the royal birth. Rhapsody had been a small child then, and had never heard such glorious music; she had dreamt about it for many weeks afterward, begging her parents for a horn of her own, waiting at the crest of the hill where she had seen the trumpeters in the hope that they would return again. They never had; Rhapsody’s eyes stung with the memory, and she smiled.

She turned back in time to see the first House, the House of Faley, entering the Bowl. Five hundred strong, they were mostly human, with some Lirin blood evident as well. They came on foot and on horseback, some walking alone, many clustered in small family groups, adults and children, at the head of the great procession of Cymrians. Rhapsody greeted the head of the House with a bow, and he in turn waved back at her exuberantly. When the Cymrians had first begun arriving in the Moot, she had made a point of welcoming each one, often staying past midnight to be able to make sure they were comfortable and clear on their reason for being here. But the increasing tide of humanity had made it impossible to continue the individual greetings, and now she could only nod to the head of each House as they entered the Bowl.

Like a dam bursting, a sea of people spilled into the Moot, some shouting with glee and calling to people that they recognized, others nodding at old adversaries with an air that bristled with resentment. They followed behind enormous banners that proclaimed their lineage, or took the form of a mob of differing backgrounds. These were the greater and lesser Houses, the last vestiges of the Cymrian Age, the descendants of the Three Fleets who had maintained their ties after the end of the war, the political structure on which the Council had been formed twelve centuries before.

Some of the larger, more prestigious Houses were filled with the nobles of Roland, Sorbold, and the lands beyond these countries. Rhapsody dropped a deep curtsy to Tristan Steward, Prince of Bethany, riding behind Lord Cunliffe, a minor earl in his court, who was actually the head of his House, the House of Gylden.

Down in the human sea beneath her Rhapsody caught sight of frenetic movement. Lord Stephen Navarne and his children were at the end of the procession from the House of Gylden, and all three were waving furiously at Melisande from atop her father’s shoulders. She smiled and waved back.

After the initial excitement that ensued with the entrance of the first Houses, the feeling in the air began to change. Groups began to sort themselves out not only by House but by the Fleet they or their ancestors had sailed with, or by race. When the Lirin processed in, they came directly to the foot of the Summoner’s Ledge and stood with Rhapsody. She came down to meet them, embracing Oelendra and Rial and some of her closer friends from Tyrian; a moment later she could feel silence fall and the eyes of many of the other Cymrians on her.

Oelendra felt their notice too. “Come,” she said, taking the queen’s arm, “let me help you with that gown Miresylle made for your welcome address.” Rhapsody agreed and led her off to the tent she had been occupying. Within the structure they could hear the noise pick up again, the occasional arguments growing heated and foul in the air as more and more of the Houses processed into the Bowl. Rhapsody sighed.

“The morning is young, there are still tens of thousands that have not entered yet, and already they’re bickering like children,” she said, opening the cloth bag that held her dress. “I hope they don’t kill each other before everyone gets here.”

Oelendra took hold of the train and the hem of the skirt to keep it from dragging in the dirt. “They won’t fight, not at Council; it is strictly forbidden by the power of the Moot. Remember, Rhapsody, the last time many of these people saw each over was across a battlefield. They need to sort out their differences themselves; it is long past time for it. It is more important that as the Summoner you are seen as neutral; that is the only way you will be able to command the meeting.”

Rhapsody nodded, then stepped out of her existing garments to don the gown. Miresylle was her favorite Lirin seamstress, a grandmotherly woman who knew every plane and angle of Rhapsody’s body perfectly, and could fit any garment to the queen without trying it on her.