Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

Ashe’s arrival caused more of a stir than any other, undoubtedly because it was still widely believed that he was dead. A wave of recognition had begun outside the Bowl as he approached, cresting as he entered. Amid loud rumblings and cheers he rode into the inner circle, surrounded by his kinsmen from the House of Newland, and stopped before the Summoner’s Ledge. He stared at Rhapsody for a moment, his face blank but a look of intense longing in his eyes. Rhapsody felt her heart tug as it had a year before when she looked out the window at him on the shore of Elysian’s lake, after their first night as lovers, then it twisted in self-condemnation. She looked quickly to see if his wife was there as well; a number of young women were in the first line of the contigent that rode behind them, but it was impossible to distinguish one that might be the new Lady Newland. Ashe bowed to her, then returned to the center of the Second Fleet.

Once he was back in position it was easier for her to take notice of how he was attired. He carried the staff of the Invoker; Rhapsody took grim satisfaction in the understanding that Khaddyr had been removed from office. Across his back flowed the mantle of mist that had hidden him for so long. Instead of vaporous darkness, however, it now appeared like the rampant azure waves of the ocean, drawing the attention it had once averted. Around his neck Crynella’s candle gleamed, illuminating the breastplate of armor of the Kirsdarkenvar, which glittered like blue-green fish scales in the golden radiance of the forenoon sun. But more than the armor, his hair caught the sunlight, and it made him look the quintessential picture of a great and noble lord, a king of ancient lineage. Rhapsody’s eyes glittered in the light as well. It was easy to see why she had been unworthy of him.

Achmed, Grunthor, and the Cymrian Bolg had joined the Diaspora, and now formed a separate group. They stood on an elevated rise to the east of the Summoner’s Ledge, assuming a position of honor as the hosts. Rhapsody turned to see how her friends were sizing up the most recent entrance and noticed fourteen cloaked and hooded figures grouped silently behind the Firbolg king. At first she felt her throat tighten with concern; she had not seen these Cymrians arrive, and had no idea which fleet, if any, they had come with. Then she noticed their thin hands, and the vague familiarity of their posture, so like Achmed’s. Achmed smiled, and a look passed between the two of them. Instantly her consternation melted away; these were Dhracians. Rhapsody felt a flood of joy to know that Achmed’s race was not extinguished after all.

A rumbling din removed the smile from her face. When her glance returned to the assemblage she found that the Bowl was in the throes of myriad arguments, disagreements, and outright hostilities. The fleets were bickering between and among themselves; a shouted exchange between the Nain and the Lirin was threatening to explode in violence. Rhapsody sighed in dismay; the Council had not even been called to order and already the Cymrians were on the verge of another war.

She took a deep breath and began to sing. With the same note as the Cymrian horn she intoned the ancient words of Gwylliam the Visionary that Merithyn had carved on the dragon’s cave, that the Cymrians themselves had inscribed on every marker along the trail of their journey toward reunion with each other in the new world.

Cyme we inne frið, from the grip of deaþ to lif inne ðis smylte land.

Like the ringing of the great bell of the carillon of Bethe Corbair, her song echoed through the Moot, the Bowl accentuating its resonance and drawing down the mutterings of discontent into silence. Two hundred thousand eyes fixed on her, standing on the Ledge above them, the star-crowned queen, the Namer, summoning the Cymrians and calling them to order. The assemblage stood, slack-jawed, staring at her in shock. The first to recover was Anborn, whose face broke rapidly into a broad smile; he sighed in relief, and with his exhale came tens of thousands of others. The tension in the air dissolved, and the silence became a respectful one.

“Well, wasn’t that pretty?” A harsh voice, thick with power and elemental depth like the crashing of waves or a roaring bonfire, echoed through the Bowl, shattering the placid silence. A gasp went up from the Council; the sound made Rhapsody’s blood run cold. She watched as the Cymrians moved rapidly away from the middle of the amphitheater.

At the center of the point of entry stood three figures. A path in the crowd had opened before them and had closed behind them; the hush that descended was fraught with fury and hatred. Three women stood at the core of the Bowl, tall as their father had been, holding themselves with silent dignity. The faces of the Cymrian assemblage were contorted with hate and fear.

Rhapsody recognized the first two of the sisters immediately. Rhonwyn was dressed in the black robe of her cloistered abbey; she was pale and fragile, and appeared lost in a dream. In contrast, Manwyn stood her ground defiantly, her flaming red hair streaming in the wind, her mirrored eyes reflecting the sunlight. But all attention was really on the third sister, a woman taller than Achmed or Ashe, not much smaller than Grunthor, with broad shoulders and a face that was intensely, almost painfully beautiful.

Anwyn’s appearance was not at all what Rhapsody expected; she was stunning, and frightening. Her skin was golden, as her father’s must have been; her face, though dazzling, was composed of features so hard they appeared to have been wrought in metal. And her hair was copper like Ashe’s; the sun that beat down from directly overhead glinted off it, blinding many in the Bowl. She cast her dragonesque eyes around the assemblage, eyes of a blistering blue that cut through any who dared to look into them. Her displeasure was evident.

Achmed watched her with great interest, at the ready. Among the powerful and ancient people assembled here, Anwyn alone had a compelling perfection that rivaled Rhapsody’s. He had watched the Cymrians, as a people, fall under Rhapsody’s spell, becoming totally enchanted with one look at her, or one spoken word. But where Rhapsody inspired love and longing, Anwyn’s appearance served to intimidate and spread fear. She knew it; it was obvious in the smile that came into her eyes a moment after she had surveyed the Council.

With the arrival of the Seers the assemblage was complete, and the Bowl became quiet. The deep timbre of the Nain king’s voice rumbled from within his ranks, tinged with annoyance.

“Who has summoned us here? By what right has this Council, broken a thousand years, been called into being again?”

Achmed looked up at Rhapsody on the Summoner’s Ledge. Her face was surprisingly serene, even with the arrival of the Seers, and her voice, when she answered him, was calm and sweet.

“I am the one who sounded the horn, Your Majesty.”

“By what right?” the ancient Nain demanded. “We are a Council no more, and many of us have no wish to return to being one.”

From within the Lirin contingent at the edge of the First Fleet, Oelendra’s voice rang out, cutting through the noise of the Bowl. “She is the Lirin queen, and the Iliachenva’ar,” she declared. At once discussion broke out again, murmured and muttered, particularly among the Nain.

“Irrelevant,” shouted Anwyn; silence fell immediately. “You have no right to have even touched that horn, girl. Those rights are reserved to the Lady or Lord Cymrian, as is the right to call this Council.”

“Nonsense,” Anborn bellowed from within the Third Fleet. “That is the horn of the Cymrians, made for use in time of need or to summon the Council, as is the right of any Cymrian soul. No restrictions were put on its use, it is not your personal possession.” His brazen tone resulted in the assemblage taking a collective breath and holding it.