Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

“You must be joking,” he said. He closed his eye again and shifted into a more comfortable sleeping position.

“Your point is taken,” said Rhapsody hastily, and the Council seemed to agree.

It took a moment before Longinotta could continue. Finally she spoke again. “That leaves Gwydion, son of Llauron, who now holds the rights to direct descendancy as his father would, and Anborn ap Gwylliam. The choice is between these two, without a clear favor going to either.” Instantly debate broke out all around the floor of the Bowl, the sound of arguments and discussions filling the air with noise.

“But Anborn led the armies against the First Fleet!”

“As Llauron did against the Third Fleet, is his heir any better?”

“Should not each person be judged on his own actions?”

“Anborn burned the outer forest of Tyrian! How can we be expected to forgive that?”

“And Anborn saved the Lirin in the attack of the Khadazian pirate fleet not seventy years afterward—or has that also been forgotten?”

“The favor of the Nain lies with Anborn,” said Faedryth with ringing authority, and much of the Moot fell silent. Then another voice spoke up.

“Not the Nain of Manosse. We stand by Gwydion.”

“We need a sign. Perhaps the Lady should consult the stars.”

“The stars tell me I should have been in bed hours ago,” muttered Rhapsody, and the multitude laughed uneasily.

“The Gwadd support Gwydion as well, he has always protected us, even while he was walking the world unseen.”

“Though admittedly, Anborn did save the Gwaddi village of Finidel fifteen years ago—”

“If we want the Lady to marry the Lord, perhaps we should ask her which one she likes better.”

“Again I tell you that Anborn holds the political and military—

“Aren’t we doing this to avoid the use of military—

“Of course Gwydion did serve well in the battle of—Rhapsody closed her ears to the discussions; she couldn’t stand them anymore. Despair welled in her heart and found its way into her eyes. Her gaze fell on Ashe, or Gwydion, as he was now being called. He was standing quietly, avoiding being drawn into the discussions of his worthiness. He had the same slightly sad expression on his face as she did, coupled with a look of complete indifference to the outcome of the discussions. Understanding dawned on her: he didn’t care for the position any more than she did.

Then, as she watched him, he looked up at her and smiled, and inadvertently she smiled back. His metallic hair reflected the torchlight, and his blue eyes gleamed at her. As in their days together, the look in those eyes caused her heart to leap. His scaled armor glistened in the soft misty light of Crynella’s candle, looking for all the world like moonlight on the ocean waves. In his left hand he held the white staff of the Invoker, the same hand that wore the ring of the Patriarch, and her words of long ago came back to her now.

Are you aware that the original religion was a combination of the practices of Gwynwood and Sepulvarta, and that it was the Cymrian split that forced the schism? If you are planning to heal the rift in the governance of the Cymrian people, why not heal the religious rift as well? I’ve witnessed holy rites in both churches, and they are much closer to each other than you may believe. Who needs a Patriarch and an Invoker? Why can’t you be both? Or why can’t the Lord Cymrian be the governing head of both sects, and leave the ecclesiastical rule to the leaders of each faction? Recognize the right for people to have different belief systems, but still be united as one monotheistic people.

He no longer looked to her as he had when they were lovers. Even knowing his face, she would not have recognized him as the cloaked vagrant that she had met on the streets of Bethe Corbair that morning, or as the lonely forester who had served as her guide and traveling companion. Indeed, now he looked to her every inch a king, a lordly figure standing at the head of his House, power radiating from him, a dragon at his feet; his image belonged on a crest or a shield, or in a court painting. Despite his obvious suitability, in a tiny corner of her soul she hoped he would be passed over, only because she did not wish to be forced to be near him.

She cast a furtive glance around for his wife, the woman he had been telling her about for almost a year, but saw no one standing near him. Rhapsody drove the selfish thought from her mind. He was the clear choice, and she knew it.

She felt eyes on her now, and looked up to see Anborn watching her intently. He, too, had been silent through the discussion of the Lordship, calmly watching the discourse. He had the appearance of a king as well, and he had seen her watching Ashe, she was sure of it. A calculating smile, with almost a hint of cruelty to it, came over his face. The look sent shivers down her spine. She had begun to recognize that reptilian expression on the faces of each member of the family; it was the look their faces took on when they were about to strike. The blood drained from her face as Anborn suddenly stood up and strode to the Speaker’s Rise. In the absence of another speaker, he took control of the floor.

“People of the Council!” he intoned loudly, causing the crowd to fall immediately silent. “I have heard countless recriminations cast on me for my role in the Great War, and I wish to spare my supporters any more effort defending me. To those charges I acknowledge my guilt. I was the general of Gwylliam’s armies; I did sack the Lirin wood and killed countless members of the First Fleet. And yet the loudest accusations I hear come from faces I saw across the fields of battle, guilty themselves, though perhaps not as talented at dispensing death as I. It was a war, a terrible war. Which of you who would find fault with me played no part in it yourselves?”

The silence of the Bowl remained unbroken. Anborn smiled; it was a victorious smile that sobered a moment later into a serious expression. “I performed my duty, not out of love for my father or hatred of my mother, but for the same reason my brother and all of you did: because I wanted to defend what I believed was worth defending. Caught up in the madness, I undoubtedly overstepped my bounds, and for that reason I apologize. To the Lirin and their new queen, I apologize the most, not only for the siege of their cities, but for the wrong done to them by my mother and father. It was not their war, but they suffered greatly for it all the same.

“In addition to our acts of cruelty in that war, however, there were countless tales of compassion, and I think that is because, in truth, we were only trying to serve what we loved and were loyal to. The only participants of which this is not true were Anwyn and Gwylliam themselves. We have heard much recrimination of my mother this night, and seemingly let my father’s crimes pass, but I tell you now, as his chosen heir and general, Gwylliam bore as much guilt for this war as my mother did. In truth it was he who started it, and his own pride allowed it to escalate as it did. So, as his heir and the speaker for the Third Fleet, his army, I apologize on his behalf to the First Fleet as well, for our crimes against them.”

A moment of awkward silence followed. Then Oelendra stepped forward.

“As speaker for the First Fleet, I accept your apology, and offer ours to the Third Fleet as well.” A rolling wave of acclamation went up, breaking as it crested into cheers and whistles. Anborn held the Council spellbound, and he knew it. He cleared his throat and continued.

“As our new Lady has said, we must forgive ourselves. I have tried to make up for those crimes by serving as best I could in the new countries and lands that have formed since the war. In Roland and Dronsdale, in the Nain realms and Sorbold, and many other kingdoms, I am known as a soldier and a leader of men. I speak to you as such tonight, not as Gwylliam’s heir or the Speaker of the Third Fleet, but as a man who has lived among more of the peoples of this country than any other. As such, there are several truths that have become apparent to me tonight.