Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

“Ahem, yes, well, let it be known to all present that I am, or at least was, Llauron, son of Anwyn and formerly the Invoker of the Filids.”

“Are you here to claim the Lordship, then?” asked Edwyn Griffyth. “Goodness, no,” said the dragon. “That would be rather silly, now, wouldn’t it? None of the crowns or robes of state would fit. No, whatever rights or claims on that sort of thing I gave up when I gave up my humanity.

I am here to let you know that I have passed those rights and claims on to my son, who has earned them on his own through his acts of selfless bravery in defending the members of all the fleets against the treachery of the F’dor, and by avenging my, er, death at the hands of the traitor Khaddyr, who was in league with that demon. Is that acceptable to the assemblage?”

“Do you expect an honest answer while you look like that?” asked Anborn, unimpressed.

“Oh. Well, this is what I am now, but your point is well taken.” With that the great serpent began to diminish until he no longer filled the Bowl with his presence. The ethereal glow of his former state vanished and he became solid, appearing in the form of a dragonlike lizard of fifteen or so feet in length. He crawled over the floor of the Moot, causing the Cymrians to scatter in all directions, and took his place by Ashe’s feet, where he settled down in the grassy dirt and got comfortable. He glanced up in amusement at his son, who looked mortified.

“Sorry, my boy, it’s a family tradition: parents in our line live solely to be an embarrassment to their sons.” Ashe sighed.

“Which is why Anborn and I have no heirs,” said Edwyn Griffyth testily.

Rhapsody watched as the Cymrians slowly made their way back to the center of the Bowl, leaving a wide circle around Ashe and the attendant dragon at his feet. She felt a smile come over her face at the sight in spite of herself, and Ashe looked up and met the smile with his own. It was just the sort of situation they would have taken great pleasure in laughing about together, nestled under the covers of her bed in Elysian, whispering and giggling outrageously in the shadows of the firelight. The shared thought caused them both to lose their smiles a moment later and look away, albeit for different reasons.

The discussion resumed again. For a while the alternatives to the House of Gwylliam came up again, different factions putting forth many different candidates for the Lordship until Rhapsody was sure they were further away from reaching a decision than they had ever been. Eventually even Achmed and Grunthor were brought up as possibilities, which confirmed her assessment.

It was perhaps Achmed’s nomination as a prospect that brought the conversation back on course. He stated emphatically to the Council that, if selected as Lord, he would cede the power back to Rhapsody; he saw no reason to have a Lord at all.

“You’ve selected a leader, and now you want to subordinate her to another,” he said disdainfully. “There is no such thing as a successfully shared authority. If the Lord and Lady disagree, who traditionally has the final word?”

“The Lord,” answered Longinotta, a Gwaddi woman of the First Generation who had served as sergeant-at-arms in the court of Anwyn and Gwylliam.

Achmed nodded. “You see? If she is your choice, respect her enough to let her lead you. Why complicate things unnecessarily?”

“Nonsense.” The voice of Tristan Steward echoed through the Moot, breaking the debate and bringing all conversation to a halt. “You are missing an obvious choice, someone who has experience at sharing power equitably and successfully.” He stared at the assemblage pointedly.

“And who would that be, Tristan?” Stephen Navarne asked guardedly. The expression on his face indicated that he feared he already knew the answer.

Tristan turned to Lord Cunliffe, the head of his House, and nodded. Lord Cunliffe cleared his throat.

“It seems—well, appropriate that we select Tristan as the new Lord Cymrian,” Cunliffe said haltingly. “He has done a marvelous job as the Regent of Bethany, providing leadership in a leaderless time, making the army strong again.” Tristan Steward leaned over and murmured something in Lord Cunliffe’s ear. “Right, of course. In addition to all his other sterling virtues, the Lord Roland would be a fine match for the new Lady Cymrian, respecting her authority and helping her to make the right decisions. He is a man of great integrity. Tristan Steward should be the Lord Cymrian.”

“Tristan Steward should be devoured by weasels!” thundered Edwyn Griffyth in a booming voice that echoed off the Moot. “Tristan Steward is a man of great integrity ? Tristan Steward is a jackass!” Not a sound could be heard as Gwylliam’s eldest son rose to a stand and pointed his staff at the trembling Lord Roland.

“How dare you bring an army, any army, not to mention a force of that size, to this place? Are you just the most arrogant man in history, or are you merely an idiot of titanic proportions? This is a place of peace, of Council. Every Cymrian, even those not extensively schooled in our history as you must have been, knows the law of the Moot. Aggression is strictly forbidden in this place! How dare you come as if to lay siege? I denounce you, man. I would rather take the lordship myself than see it in your hands, and I believe I’ve been clear about how much I want that to happen. Step back, you fool. Make ready to break camp and crawl back to Roland as soon as the Lady dismisses the Council.”

A wave of hooting laughter and applause swelled through the Moot and crested, then vanished as the Lady Cymrian stood up.

“Stop that,” she said severely. “The Lord Roland has been elected the Speaker for the provinces of Roland, a rather significant piece of the new Cymrian Alliance. His role is an important one, and I will be listening very carefully to his counsel during the meetings with the Speakers after the general session concludes. I look forward to meeting with him after he has sent his army home. And I don’t want to hear of anyone consigned to be devoured by weasels.” She stared with exaggerated severity at Edwyn Griffyth; the Sea Mage chuckled and bowed deferentially. Rhapsody sat back down.

Edwyn Griffyth’s comments sparked an entirely new debate, the result of which was the determination, by general consensus, that the Lordship should go to one of Anwyn and Gwylliam’s heirs. Grunthor walked out of the talks in disappointment, but Achmed merely shrugged. He looked up at Rhapsody, who was lying on her stomach on the Ledge, her head cradled in her arms.

“You are exhausting the Lady Cymrian,” Rial said angrily. “Let us either call an end to this session unresolved, or make a choice. This is ridiculous.” A general murmur of consent rippled through the crowd.

“If we are going to follow the Right of Kings, the Heir Presumptive is Edwyn Griffyth,” said Longinotta. “He has refused the title, is that right, m’lord?”

“I’m not sure what more I can do to make that any clearer,” said the leader of the Sea Mages with an annoyed growl.

“The Right then goes to the remaining heirs, without regard to order,” Longinotta continued. “That would leave Llauron—

Llauron had grown weary of the discussion and had stretched out, partially coiled, behind his son at the head of the delegation from the Second Fleet, under the banner of the House of Newland. To all appearances he seemed asleep, yet when his name was suggested his eyelid opened a crack, sending an eerie blue light across the floor of the Bowl as the fire of his eye settled on the tiny sergeant-at-arms. The metallic scraping of scales could be heard as he stretched out on the ground, uncoiling slightly, and his voice, dignified but cold and reptilian, issued forth. It sent shivers down the spines of almost all who heard it.