“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.”
“Besides, she’s the Iliachenva’ar. If she can take down the demon, it seems likely she can defend herself.”
“Well said. It makes sense that they be married, then, particularly because it solves the issue of succession.”
“Hold.”
The voice of the newly named Lady rang throughout the Moot. It had deserted her in the tumult that had led to her being confirmed into a position she felt unqualified for; now it had returned with a vengeance as her blood boiled.
“Aren’t you all very presumptuous. How dare you speak about me as if I were a brood mare? Do you think that you own me now, that you suddenly have the right to decide my destiny in all aspects of my life? I find it extremely offensive that you would instinctively assume that I am even available for an arranged marriage. How do you know that I am not married now? No one asked my marital status. And even if you had, how do you know whether or not I have promised myself already? For all your potential, you can be a most infuriating people. If you feel the need to make this choice for your Lady, she will not be me. I gladly will yield my title before any more discussion of this nature ensues.”
Rhapsody strode to the end of the Summoner’s Ledge and tried to climb down. As before, when Anwyn was attacking Oelendra, she found herself unable to leave the rock ledge as shouts of dissent rose all around her.
“No!” came the cry from the Moot; the repeated calls modulated on the wind, resembling the sound of booing at the Sorboldian arena. The clamor receded as Anborn hurried to the top of the Speaker’s Rise.
“Forgive us, m’lady,” he said, smiling; the tone in his voice was commanding, ringing with the timbre of one who had long been accustomed to addressing an army. “In the excitement of being a united people again we fell into our old pigheaded, arrogant ways. The Third Fleet, and I believe our fellow Cymrians, humbly recognize your right to make this choice yourself.” He turned to the crowd. “Am I right?”
The roar of agreement would have unbalanced Rhapsody and possibly knocked her off the ledge if she had been able to leave it. She struggled to stand upright and looked at Anborn. He was still grinning at her, and she returned his smile uncertainly; there was something in his expression that unsettled her. Within herself she felt a strange tug, and she looked around the crowd in the torchlight to find Ashe staring wildly at her. His face was frozen in an emotion that resembled panic; it was painful to see. She looked away quickly.
“Atta girl, Yer Ladyship,” Rhapsody heard Grunthor whisper in the crowd. She turned his way and summoned a smile.
“All right, then,” she said, clearing her throat. “Let’s try this again.”
77
The tiresome arguments went on until almost midnight. Rhapsody’s head throbbed at the monotony of the speakers from throughout the Council repeating and refuting each other.
“Why not have two Ladies and no Lord?”
“Equal representation of the sexes in the seat of power, I believe.”
“I have no desire to be ruled by a Nain Lord!” yelled one of the Lirin during the point when Faedryth was being considered for the Lordship.
“And I have no desire to sit in the flower garden of an all-Lirin court!” responded an annoyed Nain.
“Then we must find someone with ties to all the races,” Oelendra said.
“And someone whose birth lies on this side of the world, not the other,” said one of the tall golden people with Edwyn Griffyth. “Otherwise the union of the people with the new land will not be symbolized.”
“I would leap from this Ledge to my death if I could,” Rhapsody sighed. “I want the Lord Cymrian to be someone who can fix this stupid thing so I can leave when I want to.”
The Cymrians looked up at their new Lady in horror, then decided she was throwing in a joke to break the mood. They laughed uproariously before going back to their monotonous debate. They don’t know me very well, Rhapsody thought. She looked around the Bowl absently and caught the eye of Ashe, who was smiling up at her sympathetically. She turned her attention promptly back to the Council.
“There is only one line that holds the ties between the old world and the new one, and that is the line of Anwyn,” Oelendra was saying. Her statement had caused a shocked silence; her enmity with Anwyn was well known and recently demonstrated. “What other blood binds the ancient peoples of Serendair, oldest of the old world, with the blood of the dragon whose essence was inured in this land? Firstborn mixed with Firstborn. What is more, that line carries the Right of Kings through the blood of Gwylliam. He was the descendant of the Seren high king, lord of all the races.”
“Then you are saying to trust once more in the line that has brought us to ruin?” asked Nielsen, a Sorboldian duke.
“I am saying that they are the only House which has bonds to us all, and that perhaps they, more than any other, might learn from the wrongs of their ancestors,” Oelendra answered.
“But who then?”
“The Right of Kings went from eldest son to eldest son,” a human from the Third Wave said. “That would mean Edwyn Griffyth.”
“Apparently you haven’t been listening,” the High Sea Mage said, his silver eyebrows drawing together. “I have no desire to rule anyone or anything. If I am selected, I will flee to the highest mountain or deepest sea and hide from you until you go off and kill yourselves again. I will never—let me repeat that for the conveniently deaf among you—never accept the title of Lord Cymrian.”
Rhapsody sighed inwardly. Not being born to rulership, she had had no idea that outright refusal was an option. She would have to make note of that.
“Then the title would have fallen to Llauron, but, of course, he is dead,” said the same man who had proposed the elder brother.
“Well, in a way that’s true,” said a deep, cultured voice resonating from the rock all around that formed the Bowl. It could be felt in the feet of everyone standing within the Moot, and caused the debates to choke off into stunned silence. “But I came anyway; I hope no one minds. I heard the call as well, after all.”
“What kind of stupid trickery is this?” demanded Gaerhart of the Second Fleet.
“No trickery whatsoever, I assure you,” came the answer. From within the living earth itself a great iridescent gray shape emerged; a moment later it took the form of a vaporous serpent over a hundred feet long. Huge wings unfolded from its sides, and the glitter of silver and copper shone in its scales. Its size was hard to determine, being coiled, but as it raised its immense head Rhapsody could tell that its mass was close to that of Elynsynos. Enormous arms lifted its forebody off the ground as it rose and surveyed the Cymrian assemblage, all but a handful of whom had fallen back in utter panic at the sight of it. A great hot wind blasted them as it spoke, and they closed their eyes, trembling in
fear.
In response the dragon opened its own eyes to reveal two vast orbs that shone like blue fire. The Cymrians fell to the ground in fear, all except the Three and the heirs of Anwyn.
“You become more like Mother every time I see you,” Anborn said to Llauron with a smile. Edwyn Griffyth eyed his middle brother in contempt.
“Good to see you, too,” the dragon replied. “Glad you could make it to the Council, Ed.”
“I am regretting it more by the moment,” answered Edwyn Griffyth, making no attempt to disguise the disgust in his voice. “Hasn’t anyone bothered to tell you that grand entrances are only for court occasions?”
“And I consider this one. I am here to express my best wishes to the new Lady Cymrian, and my congratulations to the assemblage for their wisdom in selecting so well.” The giant wyrm made a bow in Rhapsody’s general direction, but the Lirin queen and new Lady Cymrian did not respond; instead she stared straight at the dragon without comment, all the while avoiding looking directly into his eyes. The dragon cleared its massive throat, a sound that sent shivers up a hundred thousand spines.
“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.
“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.”
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