The frail old man stood straighter, releasing for a moment his grip on the arm of the sexton. A mischievous light came into his eye.
“Indeed, Colin. One might think that—at my age and in my condition, undertaking—such a journey could only be done against the counsel of wisdom. It can only be—judged a very unwise idea, and detrimental to my health and continued existence.” He leaned forward a little and dropped his voice to a whisper.
“But I want to do it anyway!”
He took hold of Gregory’s arm again, and took a few steps toward the marble stairs, then looked over his shoulder one last time on his way back to his sickbed.
“Please rest assured, Colin, and all of you, that the Ring will be there when the new Patriarch is ready to ascend the throne, whoever he may be.”
The Regent’s Palace, Bethany
The office of the Lord Roland was cold, the coals of the fireplace having been allowed to burn down during the night. Tristan Steward sat before it, a glass of whiskey in one hand, the vellum invitation in the other, pondering his life and the next move in improving it.
The Lirin had chosen a queen for the first time in almost a century. Their choice came as no surprise to him.
He stared at the calligraphed missive and gulped the remaining liquid, clenching his teeth as it stung the length of his gullet. What a colossal waste, he mused, turning the invitation over in his hand idly. I wed a beast to add Canderre to my holdings, when I could have married my heart’s desire and gained sovereignty over Tyrian in the process, something he knew had never been accomplished at any time in history. Sad.
Well, he had a year to make it right. To return Madeleine to her father’s house and dissolve their union would surely cause tremendous uproar among the royal houses of Roland; Cedric Canderre would doubtless wish to have him ostracized from their mutual circles, even to the point of withdrawing his troops from the alliance. But one factor not currently in place would change everything; within the year he would be king.
Timing was everything.
The Lord Roland rose resolutely and shouted for his ambassador.
“Evans! Evans!”
When the old man appeared, still in his nightshirt, at the library door, Tristan Steward was already giving orders to scurrying servants. He paused long enough to look over his shoulder at the veteran ambassador.
“Evans, pack your court essentials. We have a coronation to attend.”
At the Phon River Crossing in Bethany
The Patriarch’s massive coach rolled to an abrupt stop in the darkness.
The holy man sat up straighter as the small window in the front of the carriage opened, revealing the face of one of the four coachmen, and leaned forward, making a gesture for quiet to forestall the driver from wakening the Patriarch and the other four benisons who slept on the small couches that lined the carriage’s inner walls.
“What is it, my son?” the holy man asked.
“The bridge is compromised, Your Grace; ice has broken through the main support brace. We are going to have to turn around and proceed north to Fisher’s Landing; that’s the closest place to cross the Phon.”
The holy man nodded, and the small window closed again.
He looked contemptuously around at the other men, snoring raggedly in disparate rhythms and varying degrees of glottal ugliness. Each of them was wrapped in the arms of sleep, something he had not experienced for as long as he could remember.
Since summer or perhaps before, he had found himself without the need of slumber, passing his days and nights in a state of heightened awareness, the human body he inhabited tiring occasionally, but never succumbing fully to unconsciousness. Instead his mind was adrift during quiet moments in a sort of meditation, a hazy pattern of thoughts and dreams that took the place of both sleep and true wakefulness. He was, in a way, a virtual sleepwalker, ever watchful, waiting for the day when sleep would end altogether.
And the nightmare would begin.
It was almost time.
60
Southwestern Navarne, at the Edge of the Forest of Tyrian
Oi ’ad no idea you made flutes,” remarked Grunthor as he watched the dying fire in the midst of their camp at the edge of Tyrian. “You really are a man of ’idden talents, sir.” He looked into the darkness of the forest and guessed that at their usual pace they would arrive a day ahead of the coronation.
Achmed slowly turned a sharply tapered auger deeper into the long, lacquered instrument he had found in a brass-bound chest in Gwylliam’s treasure vault.
“I don’t like the idea of being unarmed. This flute is a gift for Rhapsody, an antique, I think. And if it isn’t one already, it’ll look like one when I’m finished with it.” His voice clicked in a rhythm to match the cuts he made.
Understanding came into Grunthor’s voice. “ ’Oo do you expect a problem from at the coronation?”
“No one. Anyone. The Lirin take their ‘no weapons’ rule very seriously. When I picked this up I felt it could serve as a staff, but I want to be ready in case of someone coming unannounced.” Grunthor nodded. “Though I expect the Lirin to guard her well, I want to be prepared in case there is a slipup.”
“What kind o’ darts do you plan to use in your ’flute’?”
“The heavy ones. That’s why the inside needs to be grooved.”
“It’ll sound like hrekin.”
“She won’t care. It’s the thought that counts. Particularly if it keeps her alive.”
The travelers worked at their respective tasks for a long while, finishing some time after the fire ring had gone completely dark. Grunthor fed the horses a few paces away and blanketed them for the night, then moved to the protected area between Achmed’s watch position and the fire circle, preparing to go to sleep. He looked in the Firbolg king’s direction and could almost see him. “Is she gonna know about the flute’s other use?”
“No. And she won’t need to if you can get the darts out of the bodies before she sees them.” Achmed moved slightly lower down on the ground. “It’s important that she doesn’t. She’s come into her own now, and if she’s to win the life she wants then she has to feel she’s on her own.”
An annoyed sigh came from where Grunthor lay, and a low growl was distinct in the giant’s reply. “Oi ’ate deceivin’ ’er. You all live with such lies, I don’t know ’ow you stand yourselves.”
“All of us except you, my friend; I know. The problem with telling the truth about some things is it would mean telling it about everything. The lies are how we can stand ourselves. I almost hope you live long enough to see what I mean.”
Grunthor, long accustomed to the sound of the startling voice, was already asleep.
The Lirin Palace at Newydd DDA
Rhapsody looked out the window of the balcony into the darkness of the courtyard. All day and far into the evening hours the preparations had been made, the trees of Tyrian’s forest garlanded with winter flowers and wind chimes.
A dais had been built in the courtyard, making use of the existing reviewing stands and positioned so that the guests of honor could walk easily past the newly coronated queen. The persistent hammering and sawing outside her window made Rhapsody think of the sound of gallows being built, an apt image, given that, more than anything, she felt like a prisoner about to be executed in the morning.
She opened the large windowed doors to let in the night air now that the sounds of construction had abated. The curtains snapped in the breeze as the wind blew in, filling her bedroom with the sweet scent of a warm winter night. The leaves of the engilder trees that formed the canopy of the bed rustled above her as she sat down on it disconsolately, wishing she were back in Elysian.
The curtains billowed again in the wind, and a cloaked figure stepped out of the shadows on the balcony and came into the room. Rhapsody looked up, startled at the breach of security. Then her face broke into a broad smile of relief, and she jumped from her bed and ran to meet the intruder.
“You
came! I was hoping you would. I’m so glad to see you I can’t even begin to tell you.”
“Scaffold’s almost done,” Achmed said with a wry smile. “There’s still time to escape.”
“Don’t tempt me; I was hoping you would talk me out of making a break for it.” Rhapsody took his cloak and hung it in her closet.
“There are no more new worlds to run to,” Achmed said, helping himself to the decanter of brandy on the sideboard. He filled a heavy crystal glass.
Rhapsody shuddered. The memory of the Root was still strong, even all this time later. “I thought you were here to cheer me up.”
“Window’s open; we can go,” he said, dropping into one of the velvet wing chairs before the fire.
“So why are you getting comfortable?”
“Because it seems to me time to get comfortable.” Achmed looked at the fire; it was burning tentatively. “You have to pick a place to live eventually; this seems as good as any for you.”
Rhapsody sighed. “Wonderful. Now I’m being evicted from Elysian. Did you come all the way here to take my duchy back?”
“Of course not.” Achmed took a swallow. “You’ll need it now more than ever.”
Rhapsody went back to the window and closed the doors to the balcony. She turned and leaned against them, crossing her arms and regarding Achmed with a long look. “Why does this feel so strange? Is this a sign that it’s ill advised?”
“I’d be much more worried if it didn’t feel strange to you,” he said. “Your natural instincts would be clouded. If you are on edge that’s a good sign that you are going into this with your eyes open at least.”
She came over to his chair and bent down next to him, taking his chin and making him look at her. “Help me,” she said.
He stared at her unsympathetically. “You don’t need my help. You have everything under control. You have armies if you need protection. You have counselors if you need advice. You have a treasury if you need more clothes and baubles, though the gods only know why you would; you certainly depleted my coffers acquiring the ones you already have. What more help can I give you?”
“Tell me I’m doing the right thing.”
“No. You already know it. You’re not receiving a crown tomorrow; you already have it whirling above your head. If you want to cancel the ceremony, call it off”. Nobody sees a problem here but you.”
“That’s it? That’s your best advice?”
He chuckled. “I gave you my best advice long ago: Tuck your chin; you’re going to get hurt, so expect it and be ready; you may as well see it coming. It applies to more than battle and tactics.”
Against her will, Rhapsody smiled. “I suppose. Can you stay?”
“A moment ago you were asking me why I was making myself comfortable.”
“That was because I was still hoping you would take me away with you.”
“You have to be the one to decide if you’re going to stay or go. I won’t do it for you.”
Rhapsody sighed again and walked back to the window. She stared out into the darkness of the courtyard, but could not make out the dais or the reviewing stand. She leaned her forehead against the coolness of the glass.
“I’ll stay.”
Behind her back, Achmed smiled. “Either way, whenever you’re ready, just turn around. I will always be right behind you.”
Uh, m’lady, may I trouble you for a moment?”
Rhapsody tied the belt on her silk dressing gown and opened the door to her chambers. “Yes, Sylvia?” She shielded her eyes from the morning sun pouring through the window near the door.
The chamberlain, an older woman who Rhapsody liked immensely, was clutching her hands nervously. Her almond-shaped eyes, obsidian-black in the coloring of the Lirin of the cities, blinked rapidly in the morning light as she tried to speak in a calm voice.
“There’s a—a gentleman here to see you, who says he’s an invited member of your honor guard.”
Rhapsody took both of the woman’s hands comfortingly. Perhaps it was Anborn; his gruffness often had an intimidating effect on people. “What’s the matter?”
“He’s, well—” The chamberlain stammered anxiously. “He’s big, m’lady.”
A delighted smile broke over the queen-to-be’s face. “Oh, of course! Please show him in directly.”
Sylvia blanched. “In here, m’lady?”
Rhapsody patted the woman’s cheek. “It’s all right Sylvia; he’s an old friend, one of my dearest. Please bring him in.” Sylvia stared at her, then nodded and vanished. A moment later, the enormous grinning Firbolg came into her room. Rhapsody ran into his arms in delight.
“Grunthor! I’m so glad to see you.”
“The feelin’s mutual, miss,” the Sergeant replied, returning her embrace. He set her down carefully and clicked his heels. “Oi thank you for includin’ me in the ’onor guard.”
“Including? They’re under your command.”
Grunthor smirked in amusement. “Oh, goody. Oi’m sure they’ll love that.”
Rhapsody laughed. “Well, it certainly will be fun to watch. There has to be something enjoyable about this godawful day.”
“Now, now, let’s ’ave none o’ that,” said Grunthor seriously. “This is an important day, it is; Oi’ve thought you deserved somethin’ like this all along, after you got dragged away from ’ome and all. Your forest certainly is a pretty one. Are you ’appy ’ere?”
“As happy as I can be away from you and Achmed, I suppose,” Rhapsody said, offering him the breakfast tray. “Are you hungry? Is there anything here that looks appealing?”
“Got any o’ the li’le Lirin-filled ones?” the Bolg asked solemnly as he poked one of the pastries with his claw. “They’re my favorite.”
“Not funny,” Rhapsody said even as she laughed again.
Grunthor surveyed the untouched tray, then helped himself to some of the delicacies. “You ’aven’t eaten a bite, Yer Ladyship; now, come on, eat somethin’. You’ll faint in the middle o’ your own ceremony.”
“Good,” said Rhapsody, putting down the tray. “Maybe they’ll think I died suddenly and they’ll crown someone else. Besides, I don’t faint, unfortunately.” She picked up a biscuit and took a bite.
A knock sounded on the door. “Are you ready, m’lady? The procession is forming.”
“Mllmckmt,” Rhapsody mumbled, her mouth full of pastry. She swallowed quickly. “I’ll be ready in a moment, Sylvia.” She stripped off her robe unself-consciously in front of Grunthor, smoothed her petticoat, and ran to the closet. The exquisite gown that the seamstresses had worked on endlessly hung on a satin hanger. She eased it carefully down and stepped into it.
“Here, Grunthor, fasten that bottom stay, will you please?” She handed him the buttonhook. He was staring at it helplessly when Sylvia knocked and entered. She was holding a glistening strand of tiny pearls, a gift from the sea Lirin, to entwine in the intricate braid in Rhapsody’s hair.
“Let me do that,” she said hurriedly, buttoning the bottom closures on Rhapsody’s gown. “Turn around, m’lady, and let’s have a look at you.”
Rhapsody obeyed. Both the Firbolg giant and the small Lirin chamberlain looked at her in wonder. Her beautiful hair was delicately woven in the front into patterns resembling tiny golden flowers, pulling the front tresses back and exposing her exquisite face. The remainder was swept into a soft coil at the back of her head, secured with a pin that contained the sand-grain-sized pieces of the Diamond that had been too small to use in the making of the crown.
The dress itself was a wonder. It had been perfectly matched to her figure and coloring, shimmering iridescently, made from a silken fabric containing all the colors of the rainbow, yet at the same time glimmering white. The Lirin seamstresses knew how to dress a Lirin body better than any others did, and they had accentuated her form by tailoring the gown to her slender lines. The long sleeves pointed at the base of her wrists, the waistline dropped elegantly below her abdomen before flarin
g into a skirt that draped perfectly to the floor. A cape of white satin attached to the shoulders of the dress, both for ornament and to keep her warm in the winter chill. The toes of tiny matching slippers peeked out as she turned.
“Ya look great,” said Grunthor enthusiastically. “Now let’s get goin’. Oi’ve never been in charge of an ’onor regiment before. Don’t want to be late.”
The coronation ceremony itself was attended only by the high-ranking Lirin from the forest, sea, plains, cities, and Manosse, and Rhapsody’s closest friends and honor guard. Grunthor had been selected for that duty rather than as a guest because the guard were the only persons exempted from the weapons ban, and Rhapsody knew he would be lost without his weapons.
In addition to her giant Firbolg friend, she had asked Anborn, despite Oelendra’s raised eyebrow, and Gwydion Navarne, the son of Lord Stephen, to serve in the honor guard as well. Anborn appeared delighted, in spite of the fact he was serving under a Bolg and with a lad of thirteen. He winked scandalously at Rhapsody when she entered the rotunda of the palace at Newydd Dda, making a rude curving gesture with his hands to indicate she looked appealing. Rhapsody laughed, grateful to him for breaking the solemnity that was threatening to make her bolt in panic.
She kissed Gwydion Navarne, her first adopted grandson, and watched as his face turned the color of Rial’s scarlet cape. He was trembling with excitement, having been put in the company of the legendary Cymrian hero and the massive Sergeant-Major who had entertained him while they waited by showing him the proper way to pick nits from skin-folds and other private places. A silvery horn sounded, heralding the arrival of her sleigh.
The great doors of the low palace at Newydd Dda were thrown open. Rhapsody watched as four matching roans of irregular coloring pulled an ornate sledge of intricately carved wood in front of the doors and came to a precise halt there. Roans were steeds the Lirin valued highly, particularly those of especially mottled coloring, as they were well camouflaged in the forest and easily hidden. They were beautifully curried and braided, their breath forming clouds of steam and ice crystals in the frosty air.
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