The mismatched eyes of the Bolg king continued to meet his gaze a moment longer, then broke away for a casual glance across the Krevensfield Plain. A hint of a smile took up residence on his lips.
“Nice of you to bring lunch,” he said dryly. “You still haven’t told me how you plan to force me to yield the mountain. It matters not. Go back to the Council, Tristan, and stop wasting my time.” Achmed turned and began to walk away.
The Lord Roland’s nostrils flared in fury, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. “I’m warning you one last time, monster—”
Achmed spun around faster than Tristan’s eyes could follow. The Lord Roland’s longsword flew end over end into a patch of muddy grass. Tristan felt the sudden pain of the viselike grip that had encircled his wrist before he saw the Bolg king’s eyes, smoldering with dark fury, a hairsbreadth away from his own. Behind him he heard the ring of swords as they were drawn, the creak of bowstrings as they were bent.
“Apparently neither of us is much for heeding the other’s warnings, then,” he said; he voice was low and calm, and audible only to Tristan. “If you recall, I warned you long ago in the quiet of your bedchamber, where I believed you might actually hear me, that if you crossed me you would learn what monsters are made of. Are you ready for the lesson now? Here, before your fellow imbecilic Cymrians? Are you ready to reenact the slaughter of Bethe Corbair, or perhaps the evisceration of the fourth column, for the entertainment of your friends?”
Tristan dragged his arm from the Bolg king’s clutches. “You pathetic, subhuman brute. Your army is dead, your mountain empty. You couldn’t defend your realm against the coming of night with lanternlight, let alone keep it from my soldiers.”
Beneath his ceremonial veils Achmed’s smile was apparent. “Really? An interesting theory. Shall we put it to the test?”
A silver blast of the horn rent the air, shattering the tangible tension that hung between them on the wind. Both men looked up to the rim of the Bowl to see Rhapsody on the Summoner’s Rise, staring down at them, no more than a tiny sliver of silver light glinting in the sun, casting a long shadow. The gems of the crown whirled above her head, visible even in the distance.
Achmed smiled even more broadly, seeing Tristan’s enraptured stare. “The Summoner beckons us, Lord Regent,” he said humorously. “Shall we ignore her call and have at it here, now? Or do you wish to baptize the Council by beginning it with the spilling of the blood of the poor, tattered remnants of my kingdom?”
He leaned forward confidentially. “Rhapsody is our primary healer here in the Bolglands, you know. She suffers agony at the loss of every Firbolg soul, every stricken brat. These were her people as well, Lord Roland. You know how she came to you so long ago, seeking to spare the Bolg from further slaughter at your hands. Are you ready to make her watch it again? Is this what you and your army have come for—another Spring Cleaning?”
Tristan’s eyes now held the gaze of the Bolg king. “Kiernan!” he shouted to his general.
“M’lord?”
“Encamp. We shall proceed after the Council.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
Tristan turned his back and bent to pick up his longsword. He wiped it on his cloak, then sheathed it sharply. As the order to encamp rolled in waves through the multitude of soldiers, he turned back to Achmed once more.
“When this Council is over, it will not only be the army of Roland, but the power and strength of this assemblage under my command.”
“Even better. There’ll be enough meat for supper.”
“I will have your lands before the next nightfall.” Tristan Steward signaled to his generals and his aides-de-camp, then strode through the great earthen gates of the Bowl of the Moot to join up with his House while the army settled in for siege.
Achmed watched until the Lord Roland had disappeared into the Moot, then turned to Grunthor.
“Good. I knew that her impossible beauty would come to some real use one day.” He glanced back at the mountains, cold and silent behind him. “I’m hearing grumbling from the Cymrian ranks already about Tristan and his army; many of them are quite angry about him bringing them to a Council of Peace.”
“Yeah.” Grunthor cast an eye at the encamped force blackening the landscape around the Moot. “Maybe they’ll fight it out among themselves. Seems to be workin’ out right nice.”
“Yes, it does. Well, then, let’s go celebrate by torturing ourselves.”
Grunthor nodded, and together they climbed to the upper rim of the Bowl to take their places as hosts of the gathering beside the Summoner.
74
The cry of the horns might have been the first signal Rhapsody and the other Cymrians had to alert them to the next group’s arrival, but Achmed had known of their coming for hours. His scouts and spies had warned him of their arrival, because when they first appeared on the horizon they had resembled an army more than a delegation, dressed as they were in uniform shining armor with banners flying high above them.
They were not human or Lirin; the men stood five to five and a half feet tall, with long flowing beards and well-muscled chests and shoulders as broad as that of a human man. The majority of the assemblage had never seen these people in their time, but had heard the old stories of the war and the Cymrian Age, and recognized them after a moment as the citizens who lived within and beyond the Night Mountain.
They were the earth dwellers, the Children of the Forge, the Nain who had come to the new world on the Cymrian ships but had chosen to live among others of their race far to the east. Much as Gwylliam had been taken to be the king of men, of both Cymrians and those who had occupied the lands before their arrival, so the leader of the Cymrian Nain had become the king of the Nain in the new world, and had remained so, maintaining the kingdom through the war until the two peoples blended. And he came as such now, Faedryth, king and Lord of the House of Alexander, both an ancient Cymrian of the First Generation, and the king of an indigenous people.
For centuries the Nain had lived in self-imposed isolation. They had fought in the war, primarily against the Lirin, had remained part of the Council but kept to themselves and the affairs of their own kingdom. The arrival of the Nain Houses caused a sudden silence, then a growing murmur as the repercussions of their attendance were widely discussed.
Once all of the delegation had arrived, the Nain positioned themselves across from the Lirin, whose Houses still stood together at the base of the Summoner’s Ledge. A tension began to pick up in the air. The crowds were now sorting themselves out by House, race, or the fleet with which their ancestors had sailed. The Bolg Cymrians stood with Achmed, who had placed himself, as host, on the lip of the Bowl behind Rhapsody.
Then the tension in the air grew palpable. Some of the Houses had been claiming members from the Diaspora upon arrival, as some of their own recognized distant cousins or other family members in the crowd. Now others were seeming to adopt members more freely, without certain knowledge of their lineage, but with more political ends in mind. This padding of the numbers caused the outbreak of many arguments, with tempers flaring and the occasional drawing of weapons being witnessed, despite aggression within the Council being forbidden. Rhapsody was distressed when she saw that this was able to happen, but realized that until she called the Council to order, none of them were bound by the laws that they would be required to respect once it was in session. She decided to do so as soon as possible.
A great roar went up from the assemblage, and Rhapsody stood on her toes to see what was causing the commotion. A moment later, a path opened in the sea of people within the Bowl and a figure, resplendent in shining black armor and riding a barded black charger, rode through. Rhapsody recognized the horse immediately. When the man stopped before the Summoner’s Ledge he removed his helmet and great cacophony ensued again; it was Anborn.
Even from as far away as he was, Rhapsody could see the smile that briefly crossed his face when their eyes met, and he winked at her. Then he dismo
unted and walked to the open center of the amphitheater and waited in silence. A crowd instantly began to form around him, some greeting him with quiet respect, others with open glee. Suddenly, more than ever before, she saw him as the general that he was, the great knight marshal of the Cymrians, rather than the surly dilettante she had gotten to know and like, and who might become her husband. He was a leader, born to it, and now she saw the command his presence drew. The Nain king crossed to him and clasped his hand in the gesture of old friends. Among the Lirin she could hear unpleasant rumblings and noticed glaring expressions and gestures of contempt.
With Anborn’s arrival the Houses began to split loosely into their respective Waves, the remnants of the fleets in which they had sailed to their new home. Even within the fleets themselves was great disparity; although the Cymrian Lirin primarily stood with the First Fleet, there were also many Lirin numbered among the Third Fleet, acknowledging the Wave with which they had sailed more than the side they had taken in the war. The Nain positioned themselves between Anborn and the delegation of the Third Fleet, who had settled in the southern section of the Moot, though a few could be seen sprinkled here and there throughout the other factions. The diminutive races, like the Gwadd, had separated out and were clustering together, away from the larger groups. Some of the Diaspora, even those who had been welcomed into other Houses, had begun to separate from the rest, forming their own crowd off to the edges. Rhapsody was not sure if they did so out of confusion, out of an alliance that had formed while they had waited, or out of the desire not to be associated with the feuds and hostilities that were evidently brewing. The guests had not all arrived yet, and already a fight was in the offing. She glanced over to Oelendra, who was dressed in simple chain mail and a flowing blue cloak, and rolled her eyes. Oelendra laughed in return.
A moment later the attention of both of them was drawn to the next group entering the Bowl. With their entrance an uneasy silence fell. Some of the members of the procession were Lirin, or looked like Lirin but with darker skin and a more ancient mien to them. Others were giants, as tall as Grunthor, but with a thin, lithe build. Their skin was golden and their faces were ancient; the sight of them caused Rhapsody to hold her breath. Though she had never seen one in all her days on the Island, she recognized these people as Ancient Seren, the legendary Firstborn of Serendair, who had all but died out long before she was born. The darker Lirin she guessed were the Kith, another of the Firstborn of the Island, a mysterious people of the ancient woods and primeval forests. It was this House she had heard singing the final chorus of her morning aubade.
Neither of the Firstborn races led this House. At the head of the procession was a man, broadly built like Anborn, but portly and soft where the knight marshal was muscular and well defined. His lineage was strikingly evident, the hawklike nose, the silver hair: this was Edwyn Griffyth, the oldest son of Anwyn and Gwylliam, who had left at the advent of the war in disgust and gone to live on the island between the two continents, Gaematria, the Isle of the Sea Mages. At last Rhapsody understood the lineage of the Sea Mages, and why they held such power. They were made up of Firstborn and their descendants who had chosen to live apart from the other Cymrians even before the start of the war, and had therefore been untouched by it, allowing for a millennium of their growth and prosperity as a civilization. They avoided both fleets and formed a distinctly separate group.
As the last of the Sea Mages had taken his place, the Second Fleet arrived. Rhapsody’s heart began to pound; Ashe was at their head, riding a gray stallion, leading the Houses into the Moot. Like the Nain they carried banners proclaiming their lineage, but they were wearing traveling clothes, not military garb. This last, largest fleet to arrive was the most heterogeneous of the three; all races were represented within its ranks, and there were substantial numbers of people of mixed blood. They took their place between the First and Third Fleets and did not mix ranks, though there were many greetings.
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 fri, fram the grip of deaþ to lif inne is 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.
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