Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

This dress was fashioned from antique Cymrian silk left over from long before the war; it was silver with a gold cross-warp in the fabric, giving the gown the effect of either color, depending on the angle at which the person beholding her was standing. Miresylle had fashioned it with dozens of tiny buttons up the back and on the sleeves. Oelendra assisted Rhapsody in closing the dress and brushing out the swirling skirt before turning her around to observe the overall result. The Lirin champion inhaled involuntarily; the view was breathtaking. The ancient material glowed in the light from the diadem, which reflected in the queen’s eyes, face, and shining golden hair. Oelendra’s eyes teared at the sight, but dried a moment later at the look of consternation that had frozen on Rhapsody’s face. “What’s the matter?”

Rhapsody turned away from her and slipped into her shoes. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

The emerald eyes that met her silver ones were set in a calm face, but they held a depth of worry that vanished instantly and was replaced with serenity. “It’s nothing, Oelendra,” she repeated. “The material across my abdomen is a little tight, that’s all. Miresylle must have forgotten how my belly swells after I eat:.”

Oelendra’s face clouded over. “When did you eat last, Rhapsody?”

“I had supper last night. Please don’t worry, Oelendra. It’s just off by a little; she hasn’t seen me in a while. Perhaps she just forgot.”

Oelendra nodded, a practiced tranquillity taking its place on her face as well. “Undoubtedly. Now, shall we get back to the Council?” Rhapsody belted on Daystar Clarion and took her hand, and they left the tent, embracing once more before Oelendra went to join the ranks of the Lirin. Rhapsody took her place again at the top of the Summoner’s Ledge, looking down onto the growing gathering.

Most of the Cymrians assembled so far were human, or Lirin, or a combination of both, but occasionally she would notice people from other races she had not seen since she left Serendair, or had never seen before at all.

The first that she observed was a small figure wandering near the base of the Summoner’s Ledge, looking around as if for shelter. It was a Gwaddi woman, not even four feet tall, with enormous green-gray eyes, a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones, and caramel-colored hair that was braided and hung long down her back. Her build was slender, like that of the other members of her race, with proportionally larger hands and long, narrow feet. She seemed ill at ease among the humans she was surrounded by, but before Rhapsody could call the Gwadd to her she was gone, lost in the crowd. Rhapsody choked up at the sight of her; she had feared the small, gentle people had been destroyed in the cataclysm or the Cymrian War and, was greatly relieved to know her fears were at least partially unfounded.

After that she would note other races represented, men and women of unique build and features; tall, dark Lirinesque humans with eyes blacker than the previous night had been, willowy people with hair and skin that was gold like wheat in summer fields, squat, wide men with broad shoulders and long silver beards, a group of running children with silver-blue coloring that shone in the sun like light on the sea, all interspersed with humans and Lirin in the colorings of their nations. There was a uniqueness to them, a beauty that stirred Rhapsody’s soul, making her feel protective of them as if she had known them all her life, though she was not one of them. She thought back to what Elynsynos had said to her about the Cymrians and smiled at the wisdom of the dragon.

They were magic; they had crowed the earth and made time top in the proceed. In them all the elements found a manifestation, even if they didn’t know how to lue it. There were dome of race that had never been deen in thede parts, Gwadd and Liringlas and Gwenen and Nain, Ancient Seren and Dhracians and Mythlin, a human garden full of many different and beautiful kinds of flowers. They were special, Pretty, a unique people that deserved to be cherished and kept safe.

Rhapsody wondered where they had been hiding, these other races of people from a land that had been lost for a millennium. She didn’t have time to muse on the question long, for from the east came a new blare of trumpets and hoofbeats heralding the arrival of a new group of Cymrians.

Grunthor watched the army of Roland come, his eyes shielded from the glare of the sun by the blade of his enormous poleax, Sal, short for Salutations.

If he was growing more unnerved by the seemingly endless march of wave upon wave of Orlandan soldiers blackening the hilly swales at the feet of the Teeth he gave no outward sign of it; instead he remained immobile, his face transfixed in an aspect of utter concentration. He was counting.

“At least ten thousand cavalry; another ten times that on foot,” he reported.

Achmed nodded. He stood, the newly finished cwellan of ancient Cymrian materials slung across his back, his arms folded, watching the forces of Roland spreading throughout the foothills around the Moot.

“Well, we knew it would come sooner or later,” he said dispassionately. “I have to admit, I never thought Tristan had it in him to raise such a large force so fast, nor did I believe he was ambitious enough to risk the ire of the Cymrians by bringing it to the Council.” He spat on the ground, then looked south reflectively. “Have you heard anything from your scouts concerning another incursion force coming from Sorbold?”

“No, sir.” Grunthor looked his way. “Ya got a feelin’ we’re in for more than this?”

Achmed nodded again. “Vast and dangerous as a force this size will be, it doesn’t seem to be enough to have inspired the vision Rhapsody had before we left for Yarim. She saw the mountain streams running red with blood, the earth black beneath the sky. I would think at least the Sorbold army would have to join the fray before we would be gravely outmatched enough for that sort of scenario to be brought about.”

“Roland ’as five squads of ballista, and five hundred catapults,” Grunthor said. “We could be in for a rough time of it, depending on what they plan to do.”

The Bolg king spat on the ground again, trying to cleanse his mouth of the bitter taste of bile.

“Well, let’s go call Tristan’s bluff, and find out what exactly those plans are.”

The Prince of Bethany had just finished giving preliminary orders to his Lord Marshal and was briefing his generals when the scouts sent up the signal he had been waiting to hear.

The Firbolg king was approaching.

He tried to contain his excitement, but his hands were trembling with it. He had seen the monster standing on his lofty perch that morning as he processed with his House into the Moot for the opening of the Council. As the noise within the Moot swelled, signaling that the meeting would soon commence, he had slipped away for long enough to see to his army before the Summoner called the meeting to order.

And, as luck would have it, he had just enough time to break the spirit of the Bolg warlord who approached now with his enormous knight marshal, doubtless unnerved by the sight of the occupation army of Roland.

Tristan Steward stood defiantly, trying not to allow the smile of triumph . he felt consistently spreading over his face from being seen. When the Bolg king was a few feet from him he came to a halt, the black robes of his garments snapping in the stiff wind. There was no fear in his mismatched eyes, only an insolent smirk. The Bolg king cast a condescending glance around the field behind Tristan.

“I hope you brought your own stores to feed your little friends. The invitation was only extended to Cymrians; it’s bad enough to have to provide for that group of wastrels. I will not extend hospitality to tagalongs.”