Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

Consternation had come into Rhapsody’s eyes at his initial words, but she was unable to interrupt him; she had recognized him and had yielded him the floor. As the throng began to laugh at his final words and cheer his suggestion she leapt to her feet, shock blanching her face.

“Are you out of your—”

“I second the nomination,” shouted Anborn, and the groundswell of roaring approval grew louder.

“Wait,” Rhapsody said, panic setting in. “I object.”

“Rhapsody, you are out of order,” said Ashe, a humorously wicked look in his eyes. “A motion has been made and seconded. As Summoner it is your responsibility to make sure that motion is put before the entire Council for a vote; now, kindly do so.”

Rhapsody glared at him in fury. Then she turned to the Council, and tried to keep the desperation she felt from showing through in her voice.

“Are there any more nominations?” The Council resolved into silence. “Any at all?” The stillness was broken only by a few quiet murmurs and whispered statements. “What about objections? Doesn’t anybody else object?”

“Apparently not, m’lady,” came Ashe’s voice again. “As a Council it seems we are of one mind; united as in the prophecy. Am I right?”

A thunderstrike of assent roared across the valley, and Rhapsody could feel the rock ledge she stood on vibrate with power as the cheering rumbled through the Bowl and up through her feet. She felt a surge, a strengthening of her soul and building of her body the like of which she had not experienced since she had passed through the fires of the earth. It was as though the Moot, responding to the unanimous voice of the Cymrian Council, was granting her the wisdom and fortitude she would need as their leader, a new bond with the people and the land. She finally understood what it meant to have a granted power: she was the Lady Cymrian. It was not what she had wanted, or expected; only the wisdom she had received from the joy of the assemblage prevented her from bursting into bitter tears. “My friends,” roared Edwyn Griffyth, “let us celebrate!” Ashe saw the look on Rhapsody’s face and felt his stomach twist. He turned to the crowd again.

“I can see that His Majesty, the Firbolg king, our host, has arranged a banquet on the field,” he said, pointing outside the Bowl to the tents Achmed’s forces had erected. “Let us break bread and return for the final session of the night when the moon has risen above the Teeth.” There was enthusiastic agreement, and the throng began to dissolve into chattering groups, mixing within each of the factions. Old friends met and wept, old enemies clasped hands, all in joyous celebration of the possibilities brought about by the new Cymrian Age, the new Council, the new Lady. He turned to look again at Rhapsody, to gauge how she was accustoming herself to the idea of her new role, but she was gone.

Bright torches and dim lanterns had been staked and strung across the wide fields at the foot of the Teeth, bringing a cheery light into the darkness of the early night. Tables laden with food had been set out, wine was passed around freely, and merry laughter resounded through the mountains and echoed over the heath above. The Cymrians had not gathered together in celebration since the wedding of Anwyn and Gwylliam, and the festive mood was infectious, goodwill roaring through the crowd like a strong wind.

Ashe looked around for Rhapsody at the supper. He could feel her presence there, and just as certainly felt her displeasure at what had transpired. When initially he had decided to make her Lady—it had been confirmed by the Patriarch’s ring on Midsummer’s Night the previous year, but he had actually determined it long before—he knew that her ingrained belief in an antiquated system of nobility would make it difficult for her to adjust to being royal. He fervently believed she would adapt, as she had to being the Lirin queen, but now, sensing the bile that she was carrying in her stomach and throat made him worry that perhaps he was wrong.

He had been unable to reach her during the meal. His fellow Manossians, and many members of the other fleets and the courts of Roland, stopped him at every turn, exclaiming with joy in the knowledge that he was still alive, welcoming him back. Comrades in arms from the battles he had fought in, as well as friends from long ago, and especially Lord Stephen, expected him to regale him with his exploits and fill in the gaps of the past twenty years for them. Rhapsody herself was swarmed with admirers; leaders of every principality, the nation of Sorbold, and the Nonaligned States sought a moment with her to establish ties even before she was coronated. Her face was serene and pleasant on the rare occasions when Ashe could catch a glimpse of it, but he knew her calm countenance belied the building agitation she was really feeling. Her eyes bore the signs of a deer in thrall or a cornered rabbit.

Finally the moon crested the tallest crag of the Teeth, and the horn sounded, summoning the Cymrians back to the business at hand. It took almost an hour for the assemblage to be called to order again, so insistent was the merriment. Rhapsody looked out over the Cymrian populace, the sea of diverse faces shining up at her in the glow of the full moon ascendant now above them. When the sun had risen on this day she had hoped to become one of them, this refugee population from her homeland, and now she was their sovereign; it was surreal to the point of bordering on the absurd.

She took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, willing herself to remain calm. She was addressing them now not as the Summoner but as their Lady; as a result when she moved forward to speak, silence fell like a curtain almost instantaneously.

“What shall we address first?” she asked the crowd. The question roared forth in many different phrasings, but the intention was universally the same.

“Who, then, shall be our Lord?”

Her selection and confirmation as the Cymrian’s choice of Lady had given Rhapsody a new understanding of the Cymrian people, and as a result she could discern their comments more clearly than she had before. Previously their shouts had seemed nothing more than the noise of a rabble; now they came forth as the spoken thoughts of individuals, crashing on her brain like waves on a beach. This must be a little like having dragon sense , she thought. Ashe had described it as being acutely aware of the minutiae around him all the time; in a way she felt the same thing.

“The real question is, who holds the right?” asked a Nain warrior named Gar.

“The right lies with each of us; anyone can be Lord,” answered someone from the First Wave.

“But the Lord Cymrian was Gwylliam, a descendent of the ancient Seren kings. Should we not choose again from that House? It was the House that led us safely from the Island,” said Calthrop, another of the Nain contingent.

“And it was also that line that led us into warfare,” said Harklerode, one of the soldiers in the army of Canderre.

“The mistakes of one man should not condemn his descendants.”

“Nor should the glory of one’s ancestors decide one’s worthiness.”

“The Lady is First Generation. Should not the Lord have been born in these lands? With the blood of these people in his veins? Is that not why we chose to follow the Lord and Lady before? Because he was of the old line and she of the new?”

“But they were married, should not we have the Lord and Lady married once more?”

“The Lord and Lady were married to ensure a reunification and alliance.”

“It was the marriage that caused the war, if you remember.”

“We must have a married Lady and Lord. No one with the wisdom necessary to be selected Lord by this Council would be fool enough to strike our chosen Lady, as Gwylliam did; he’d have the entire population demanding his blood.”