Destiny: Child Of Sky (68 page)

She opened her eyes, and stared at the diadem. It sparkled with the colors of a billion rainbows, each facet of every tiny fragment of the diamond glittering with prismatic brilliance. The light and color it generated lingered when the heavenly illumination brought forth by Daystar Clarion disappeared. The dark room became bright with the radiance of the crown. Rhapsody looked over to Oelendra. She was staring at the diadem with tears in her eyes. As the Singer looked around she found those tears mirrored in Rial's, and the eyes of the ambassadors as well.

A sudden awkwardness came over her, a feeling as though she was intruding on a moment that was sacred to the people of this land. She was not one of them, would probably never be, even though they had made her welcome, and heard her out when she was criticizing the way they chose to govern themselves. Rhapsody's face turned red in the darkness, unnoticed by the transfixed Lirin. Her half-caste status roared up within her, embarrassing her; she felt the urge to run. Knowing it would be disrespectful to the process she had herself begun, she backed slowly away until she was next to the bench near the wall and sat down quietly again.

After several minutes Rial blinked, and reached his hand slowly above the case. He touched the glass and as he did the other ambassadors followed his lead. Then he spoke solemnly, in a voice deep with emotion, the promise to join the Lirin together beneath a single ruler, and pledged his life in his or her defense. The ambassadors added their voices to the pledge, as did Oelendra, the Lirin champion.

As the pledge ended they returned to silence.

Rial's eyes opened even wider, and he looked up across the room at Rhapsody. Her throat tightened under his stare.

'What have you done?" he asked in a scratchy voice when he could speak again.

Her palms began to sweat at the accusation. “I—I don't know. What's wrong?"

Rial pointed to the crown. “The diadem is not reflecting the starlight; it is generating this radiance on its own." Rhapsody blinked and shook her head. “Don't you understand? It is the fulfillment of the promise of Queen Terrell, under whose guidance the fragments of the Diamond were painstakingly collected and fashioned into the circlet. You have healed the Diamond, Rhapsody; you have returned the light of the stars to the stone."

Rhapsody began to tremble. “I—I'm sorry," she stammered.

Rial turned to Oelendra. “You are the only one among us who has ever seen the crown alive before," he said to the Lirin champion. “Is this as it looked in those days?"

The tears in the warrior's eyes spilled over and ran down her cheeks. “No," she said softly. “The crown has never looked like this. Only the Diamond in its original form held the light of the stars. Now the radiance of the crown surpasses the light it held when it was a single stone. If anything, its brilliance is magnified by its myriad pieces."

The urge to take flight consumed Rhapsody. She stood slowly, as silently as she could, while the others were staring, enraptured, at the diadem, and backed quietly toward the door. She had turned and crossed the threshold when her mentor's voice sliced through the air in the room as it had in the spring during her training sessions.

'Stop. Where do you think you're going?“ Reluctantly she turned around. "Get back here, Rhapsody."

Her trembling grew violent. "Oelendra, I—

'Don't be a coward.“ Her mentor's words were harsh but her eyes smiled sympathetically. It was the smile of someone who had undertaken many tasks against her will in a cause greater than herself. "Come over here."

'I can't,“ Rhapsody whispered. She could suddenly feel the call of the crown, stronger than that of the sword, coursing through her body. "Please; I need to go home."

Rial shook off his rapture and came to her, taking her hands gently in his own.

“M'lady, it would seem that you are home." He smiled at her encouragingly. “Don't be afraid. Do you doubt the wisdom of the. crown?"

'No." Her voice was so low as to be almost inaudible.

'Then subjugate yourself to its will. You are a child of the sky, Rhapsody. If the stars decide the Lirin need you, surely you would not turn your back on us? Your own people?"

'I've done all I know how to do,“ she stammered, looking around at the ambassadors. They were all staring at her now, with varying degrees of delight on their faces. "You don't understand. I'm a peasant."

The ambassador from the sea Lirin, a woman named Marceline, left the display and approached her. “You are the one who does not understand, m'lady," she said gently. “There is no such thing as a peasant among the Lirin. We are all children of the same sky that shelters us. You are as worthy as any to lead if you are called."

'It would be rather hypocritical of you to refuse to take the crown, given what you were exhorting us to do, wouldn't it?" added Hymrehan, the minister from the plains.

Oelendra appeared at her side and took her elbow. “Come," she said, kindly but firmly. “Let us see if the diadem has anything to add." She steered Rhapsody over to the case, releasing her arm and resting her hand lightly on the Singer's back.

“Don't be frightened. Open the case and see what, if anything, happens. Perhaps you were only needed to bring the starlight back to the crown, and it will choose another to wear it."

With hands that shook, Rhapsody opened the lid. Immediately the tiny stones of the diadem began to gleam even brighter, and, as if caught by the wind, swirled out of the case and above her head, circling like a halo of stars. The ambassadors took a step backward as the light from the glistening crown undulated over their faces, stinging their eyes for a moment, before it tempered into a glow above Rhapsody's head. In the brilliance Oelendra smiled and looked fondly at her student.

'Well, perhaps not."

Rhapsody dissolved into tears. “Please, please don't make me do this. I am pledged to serve, not to lead."

Rial touched her arm. “Don't be afraid, m'lady; we have all sworn to uphold you and help you in any way that we can, have we not, my friends?" The ambassadors nodded in unison, smiling. “You have my promise of whatever assistance you need."

'Now, what was your plan again?" said Temberhal seriously, his eyes twinkling.

"Agree to unite and swear our loyalty to a ruler who would recognize our independence. We did that. Pledge fealty to the crown and abide by its decision.

We did that as well, I believe."

'Yes,“ said Jyllian, the ambassador from Manosse to the court of Tyrian. "Then we were to see who the crown chose, and I believe we have. That just leaves the last step."

'Yes,“ said Hymrehan, smiling. "And what was that again, Jyllian?"

'Coronate her immediately."

Our benisons of the Patrician faith crowded impatiently outside the intricately carved door of black walnut wood, awaiting their audience with the leader of their faith, the first they had been invited to in more than two years. They were all nervous, but Philabet Griswold was particularly agitated, as Nielash Mousa, the Blesser of Sorbold, had managed to arrange a private audience a few moments before, and now was in with the Patriarch, undoubtedly sowing the seeds for his own ascension to the Ring of Sepulvarta. Griswold was struggling to contain his rage, and losing the battle dismally.

'How much longer are we going to be consigned to this infernal hallway?" he snapped at Gregory, the Patriarch's sexton.

'Not one more moment, Your Grace,“ Gregory replied dryly, taking hold of the door and opening it. "The Patriarch will see you now. Please remember, Your Graces, that he is in very poor health and should not be upset or aggravated."

Griswold glared at him, then strode rapidly into the room. The other three benisons nodded, and Lanacan Orlando patted Gregory on the arm as he walked past.

The room, customarily a cold place, had been heated, in the absence of a fireplace, with boiling water poured over piles of hot stones to keep the frail Patriarch from catching a chill. Clouds of steam rose and sank, passing like sky vapor over the silver star embossed in the floor, the room's only ornamentation.

In the heavy black walnut chair sitting atop a rise of marble stairs, looking frail and emaciated in his voluminous silver robes, sat the Patriarch, his bright blue eyes shining from within the prison of his failing body. In his clawlike hand, a hand which trembled violently, he was clutching a small scroll. He pointed to the five chairs that had been set up on the floor amid the rolling waves of steam, one of which was occupied by the Blesser of Sorbold.

'Please be seated, Your Graces," he said. Despite his fragile appearance, his voice was clear, if thin. The benisons sat down, Griswold taking the seat farthest from Mousa with an undisguised scowl.

The eyes of the Patriarch went from one man to another, then to Gregory, who handed him a small white card.

'Thank you—all for coming so quickly. I have three things to tell you, my—brothers in Grace,“ he said haltingly, consulting the card, then looking back to the benisons. "As you probably—suspect, my time in this world grows short, and so I—wish to limit what I have to say to those things—that most need saying. Here they are.

'First, I have spoken—at length with—the Blesser of Sorbold regarding the terrible—tragedy at the solstice festival in—Navarne, and have read the missives—from the Crown Prince and the one—dictated by the Dowager Empress. I am convinced—that this was an inexplicable and—isolated act of violence, similar to all the—others that have taken place over the last—score of years, and not an attack—sanctioned by the crown of Sorbold—or its benison.“ The Patriarch coughed deeply, then looked sharply at Philabet Griswold, who had begun to rise in protest. "It is therefore the—position of the Ring that—Sorbold should not be punished in any—way for this incursion beyond—what they have already suffered.“ "Your Grace—" Griswold sputtered.

'Second,“ the Patriarch continued, looking at his card, "the Ring has received an—invitation, as I imagine have you all, to the—coronation in Tyrian of the new Lirin queen.“ He looked up with a hint of a smile. "I want to go. And I'd like—all of you to come with me."

Ian Steward of Canderre-Yarim and Lanacan Orlando of Bethe Corbair looked at each other doubtfully. “But Tyrian is an adherent to the faith of Gwynwood, Your Grace," Steward said.

'Yes, which is under the—leadership of a new Invoker. But I have a great fondness for the—new queen; I owe her my life. And if there is not much more—of that life to be had, I wish—to spend it as I see fit. I invite you—to join me.“ Each of the benisons nodded, Griswold curtly, while Nielash Mousa avoided his glance. The journey that the Patriarch proposed would mark the first time he had set foot outside of Sepulvarta since his investiture. "Finally,“ the Patriarch continued, "I know you are—all very concerned with the issue of succession.“ He wheezed harshly, causing Colin Abernathy and Ian Steward to jump. "My decision—once it is made—will be recorded on this—scroll. It is my hope that—you will not resort to—letting personal interest affect the aftermath of my passing. The Creator—speaks only to the one who—is invested as Patriarch with—a clear conscience and a willingness to submit to His will. Remember this."

The hand holding the scroll began to tremble even more violently. The sexton stepped up to the throne and took the religious leader's hand.

'Do you wish to go back to the hospice now, Your Grace?“ he asked as he held a cup of water to the Patriarch's lips. The Patriarch took a sip, then nodded. "Very well, then, thank you, Your Graces, one and all. The coach departs in the morning at sunrise; I trust you can all be ready by then."

'One moment, Your Grace,“ Colin Abernathy called as the Patriarch rose to a shaky stand, ignoring the sexton's glare. "I see you are not wearing the Ring of Wisdom this morning; is there a reason?"

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 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 Candetre 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.