Destiny: Child of the Sky

83

A haze hung over the Moot; it was not merely the vaporous mist that collected in the Bowl each morning, owing to its low-lying topography, but a cloud of thickheadedness enhanced by the excessive intake and absorption of alcohol. The Great Cymrian Fog, as it was later jokingly known, lifted, as Ashe had predicted, around the same time as the sun came into position directly overhead, forcing even the most resilient of day-sleepers to squint and rise, to make ready for the second session of the Council.

“What a waste,” Rhapsody whispered to Gwydion as they surveyed the human wreckage stumbling and groaning below them in the Bowl as the attendant Cymrians set about becoming functional again. “I can think of a much nicer form of debauchery than drinking oneself into a stupor.”

“Hold that thought,” Gwydion replied, patting her “muffins.” Rhapsody had sought out Oelendra and privately told her the upcoming news. The Lirin champion’s eyes filled with tears and she hugged her queen with an embrace more maternal than any Rhapsody had .experienced since she left home. The new Lady Cymrian’s throat tightened for a moment, and when she pulled away, her eyes glimmered like those of her ancient friend.

She had dressed for the occasion in a gown of azure silk, fitted at the waist and sleeves before flaring into a full skirt, on which she had belted Daystar Clarion in a waist scabbard. Gwydion’s eyes had twinkled when beholding her in it, and he had brushed a kiss on her cheek. “What a beautiful dress; very royal.”

Rhapsody shook her head. “It’s camouflage. I’m hoping to blend in with the sky. Maybe they won’t see me and will leave me alone.”

The ovation that greeted the new Lord and Lady was more subdued than it had been the night before upon their selection, owing mostly to the headaches that excessive applause and whistling might cause the assemblage. The atmosphere seemed to clear up quickly, however, when Ashe took to the Rise and presented his Lady, then asked for a moment of attention for a portentous announcement.

“It is with great joy and consummate humility that I proclaim to you the wonderful news that the Lady Cymrian has graciously consented to be my wife.”

The Cymrian multitude was silent for a moment; then a wave of excitement swept through the Bowl, swelling into a roar of approval. Applause and acclamations in myriad languages rang out. The Mountain Knives, the contingent of Nain that Ashe had described on Midsummer’s Night the previous year, sent up a war whoop that rocked the Moot, causing the heads of many of their fellow Cymrians to feel as if they had split. Rhapsody smiled at the cheering crowd, the sun glinting off their armor and banners, gleaming with a radiance that bespoke hope for the new age.

A voice, recognizable to her from the day before as a heckler from the House of McLeod, shouted above the gleeful din.

“Gwydion ap Llauron, grandson of Gwylliam the Abuser and Anwyn the Manipulator; how did you gain this Lady? She is unlike your line, which is why she was so well affirmed. Can you assure this assemblage that no violence or coercion was used to reach this agreement?”

The roaring throng fell silent. Gwydion’s face turned white and his hands began to shake with a mounting fury. The joy that had been in his eyes a moment before disappeared in the wake of the insult, replaced by a dark, reptilian aspect. He had endured many affronts and slurs the day before on behalf of his family and his House, and had taken them all with goodwill, but the suggestion that he would raise a hand to his bride was more than he could endure. Before he could speak, Rhapsody took his hand.

“Well, I can,” she said, and her words bore the stamp of true speaking, as well as a hint of humor. “I’m happy to say that no, I didn’t have to resort to anything like that—he agreed pretty willingly, actually. So I guess I brought the sword and the thumbscrews for nothing.”

The crowd absorbed her words, then burst forth into gales of laughter and applause that rocked the sides of the Moot and echoed off the Teeth. It washed over Gwydion, sweeping his wrath away with it. He blinked as his anger passed, and looked down at Rhapsody; she was smiling up at him with a look of pure trust and confidence making her beautiful countenance ethereal. A grin crept back over his face, and Rhapsody took it in her hands, reaching up to kiss him before the eyes of the Council.

He drew her into his arms, and the cheering rabble faded into obscurity; it was as if they were the only two people there. Their lips met softly, then with more warmth, and as his body began to tremble Gwydion was aware again of the thunderous clamor from the assemblage; the tumult was shaking the ground beneath them. At least he thought it was the noise of the multitude; he knew it would have felt the same kissing her alone on the heath above Elysian.

The sweet scent of Rhapsody’s skin, the joy that permeated him in having her finally back in his arms, was perhaps responsible for the obscurement of his senses, the happy haze the shielded him from the growing rumble within the earth, counterbalanced by the eerie silence that had swept over the crowd and swallowed the cheering.

By the time he realized what was happening it was too late.