Destiny: Child of the Sky

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.”

“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.

“The first is that the responsibility for bringing the peoples of the new world together lies with us, for this is the new world no longer, but our home, and we are as responsible for its politics and peace as we were for the war that tore it asunder. And the people of this land do need a peace to be invoked, a peace that can only be brought to them by Cymrians. And we can only lead this land to peace if we are led ourselves by one who has lived among them as I have.”

Rhapsody’s throat began to constrict; Anborn was taking the Lordship before her eyes. There was nothing she could say.

“It has also been said that my House alone can provide that leader, and that is also true, for we hold the tie between the races and kingdoms. Only in the children of Anwyn and Gwylliam are the bonds of the old and new world united; only in the House of the Seren kings have the races been brought together. Only one man here knows armies and hospices, peasants and kings as if he were one of them. Only one man is descended of all the fleets, and holds both the offices of Invoker and Patriarch. He is descended not only of the First and Third Fleet, but of the Second as well. And so I, Anborn ap Gwylliam, son of Anwyn, do nominate Lord Gwydion ap Llauron ap Gwylliam, of the House of Newland, Speaker of the Second Fleet, son of Anwyn’s chosen heir, Kirsdarkenvar, to be the Lord Cymrian. He served no part in the war, but has served his whole life selflessly to heal the rift that it caused. Can any but he fulfill this role?”

A roar of agreement swelled through the Bowl and spilled out over the fields. It rolled up the Teeth and into the caves of the Bolg, disturbing their sleep yet again. It rang over the army of Roland, sending silver shivers of hope for peace through them, even as they lay encamped for war.

Through the Summoner’s Ledge Rhapsody could feel the Moot taking stock of the appellations and determining that Gwydion was in fact the overwhelming choice for the Lordship, and acclaimed him as such. But Ashe was staring at Anborn in shock. His uncle just smiled and held out his arms to him as though presenting him to the multitude.

“The House of Fergus abstains!” shouted someone from within the Second Fleet, and that group burst into laughter; apparently it was an old rivalry and more a joke than anything else. “Well, at least they didn’t object,” someone said to Ashe in a blaring, jovial voice.

The cheering grew louder, and a moment later the frenzied crowd swept Gwydion onto their shoulders and into a sea of celebration. Likewise, even more of them stormed the Ledge where Rhapsody stood, hoping to talk to her or touch her.

Rhapsody bolted. She ran down the ridge that led to the Summoner’s Ledge and threw herself into Grunthor’s waiting arms.

“Get me out of here,” she gasped.

The giant Firbolg nodded and carried her over the rocky outcroppings, shouldering his way through the crowd. When they got to a spot the Cymrians had not reached he put her down and walked beside her, blocking her from view. They headed together in quick step for the exit of the Moot that bordered on the entrance to the Cauldron.

As she made her way out of the Bowl, Rhapsody heard a voice calling her name; there was an urgency in it she could not ignore. She turned to see a woman, Liringlas, running to her, arms open. She was about the age her mother had been when she last saw her, and, though she looked nothing like her, Rhapsody felt her throat tighten all the same.

When she got within arms’ reach she held out both her hands, and Rhapsody took them, still having no idea who she was. The woman stared at her in amazement, but with none of the awe that made her feel freakish. There were tears in the woman’s eyes, and they glistened in the dark as they rolled over the fine lines that etched the rosy skin of her face.

“Do you remember me?” she asked softly. There was something familiar about her, but after a moment of study, Rhapsody still could not place her. The crowd of excited Cymrians was coming nearer.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t; I’m sorry,” she answered.

“It’s me—Analise,” the woman said, and she began to cry harder.

Rhapsody thought for a moment, and her eyes widened in amazement. It was the child Michael the Wind of Death had called Petunia, the one she had wrested from him. The last she had seen of her was on the day they had ventured together into the Wide Meadows, under the protection of Nana’s guards, to search out the leader of the Lirin that lived there. It had been a sad parting, but not the first or last time Rhapsody would say goodbye to someone she loved for his or her own sake. The Lirin had taken the child in warmly, and Rhapsody had long comforted herself with the image of her, sitting before the leader on her horse, waving goodbye and smiling, both she and Analise knowing that she would be well cared for.

Tears welled in her own eyes, and the women embraced tightly. Rhapsody’s tears turned to sobbing as she realized this was the first person from the Island that she had known who survived, aside from her two Bolg friends, someone who knew her in the first life. Rhapsody caught Grunthor’s eye, and drew Analise aside as he stepped between the two of them and the crowd pressing toward her, giving them some privacy.

In their ancient language they caught each other up; at least, Analise told Rhapsody her story and answered the questions the Lirin queen could not hold back. She had sailed with the Second Fleet, and had settled in Manosse, living quite happily and avoiding the war that had destroyed so much of the other two fleets. She had heard of the new queen’s coronation, and had determined to make the voyage anyway as a gesture of respect when she felt the call of the horn. She was astonished to find that the queen and the Rhapsody she knew were one and the same.

“I will never forget what you did for me,” she said, her face breaking under the weight of emotion.

Rhapsody shuddered. “Please do; I have tried to.”

“I can’t,” Analise said, her smile returning. “You saved me from a far worse fate than I could even imagine, Rhapsody. Because of you I found a happy life, and survived the war on the Island; I’m content in Manosse, and I have a family of my own now. I shall have to bring my grandchildren to see you later, to meet the woman to whom they owe their existence.”

Rhapsody looked embarrassed. “Please, Analise, don’t tell them that; I would love to see them, though. You are welcome in Tyrian any time you wish to come.” Exhaustion was setting in, and sadness was beginning to call to her soul again. She gave Analise a kiss, with the promise they would meet up the next day, and, when she was sure none of the celebrating Cymrians could see her, she tried to slip away in all haste for Elysian.

It didn’t work. There were thousands now, primed with wine and in the mood to celebrate, calling her name, cheering her. Rhapsody thought she had spoken at supper with the major people, but, looking around, she saw no end in sight of well-wishers and important heads of state. To greet them all would be impossible, and to deal with just the heads of House would take long past dawn. She had to get out of there.

The crush of admiring subjects was beginning to make Rhapsody nauseated. She felt trapped, and panic was coursing through her, causing her palms to sweat and her heart to race. As the wall of humanity began to rush toward her, she saw a coppery glint out of the corner of her eye; Ashe, who himself was surrounded by well-wishers, was attempting, as politely as he could, to make his way to her side. He caught her glance and signaled to her, then moved a little more through the crowd.

The prospect of speaking to him was more than Rhapsody could stand. She bolted again, and ran straight for Rial, whom she could see on the other side of the exit. As she approached him a broad smile appeared that was quickly replaced by a look of concern when he saw the expression on her face. He held his hands out to her and she ran into his arms.

“M’lady, what’s the matter?” He gave her a comforting squeeze, then pulled back from her to look into her eyes again.

“Please, Rial,” she gasped, more from anxiety than exertion, “get me out of here. Please; I’m going to break down if you don’t.”

Understanding took root in her viceroy immediately, and he executed a quick half-turn, pulling her under his arm as he did. His long red cape swung behind them both as they walked, and he spoke to her in a comforting tone, much like the one she used with frightened children.

“There, now, m’lady, don’t worry. You’ve had an exhausting day, and everyone will understand. I believe you put in enough time at the feast to be polite; we’ll get you away from here, and I’ll make your apologies to the assemblage.” He patted her hand gently as they walked, and she clutched his, hanging on for her sanity.