A deep chuckle resonated in the ground, and she felt the wind pick up, as it did when she had visited Elynsynos. But instead of it lovingly caressing her hair, the way it had in the quiet glen outside the hidden cave, it blew her tresses around her face with a confident strength.
“Now, somehow I doubt that is the truth, my dear.”
She tried to keep from losing her temper. “You’re right; let me rephrase that. I have many unpleasant things I could undoubtedly say to you at this point, Llauron, but I’d rather not. Go away and leave me alone.”
“That’s better. I am sorry you’re so angry, Rhapsody; of course you have every right to be. I was just hoping you might be willing to extend some of your famous forgiveness to your father-in-law-to-be. I can’t very well ask your pardon if you won’t hear me out. You did say, after all, that we must forgive one another.”
“There are some things that are unforgivable.” Gwydion’s voice came from behind her, its tone harsh, startling her. “Leave the Lady alone, Father; you have no right to speak to her after what you’ve done.”
Rhapsody reached out for him. “Sam—
“He’s right, of course,” said the warm, cultured voice. “I certainly have no right to anything where either of you are concerned anymore. I was merely asking your indulgence.”
“Sam, why don’t you see if Achmed and Grunthor need any help with the crowd,” Rhapsody said gently. “I can take care of myself. Go on. Please.” Gwydion looked at her doubtfully, then reread her intention and walked away with a sigh of annoyance.
“He’s very angry still, and grieving,” Llauron said; it was as if the air and the earth both contained the sound of his voice. “I hope you can help him let go of his wrath, my dear.”
“I’m not sure I should,” she answered. “Perhaps it is better for us both to remember it.”
A deep chuckle rumbled through the earth. “You may think you want to, Rhapsody, but you don’t. You don’t have the stomach for it. I suspect you’ve had enough bad feeling to last you a lifetime. Given your life expectancy, that’s a lot of pain. You don’t seem the type to hold a grudge.”
“Well, if I ever have difficulty remembering why I don’t speak to you I can just conjure up the image of today, of Anborn crippled trying to save me, of Stephen dying so that the Cymrians could get out of the Moot, of the horrors that Anwyn visited upon us—I think I can remember. Time will tell if I am the type to hold a grudge.”
The voice in the wind seemed genuinely perplexed. “Why are you so angry with me? What have I done?”
She slapped her hand into the wind in exasperation. “Where were you? Why didn’t you help? You could have spared so many, these Cymrians you have claimed to revere, to cherish—why didn’t you take on Anwyn yourself? Surely you were in a better position than any.”
The wind sighed around her.
“She was my mother, Rhapsody.”
“Gwydion is your son. Anborn is your brother. Stephen was your friend. Those are your people. It hardly seems a worthy excuse.”
“Gwydion has you. Anborn has the friendship of many. Stephen, may the Creator bless him, had the love of a woman, two marvelous children, and everyone who ever met him. The Cymrians had each other, and many in their lives to give them meaning, connection. Anwyn had only me.” The wind blew warm through her hair. “I hope one day you will understand, and will extend me your forgiveness. I do hope one day to see my grandchildren. Surely you won’t deny me that, will you?”
“I doubt I will ever understand why you did any of the things that you did, but I don’t have to, Llauron,” Rhapsody replied. “You are in your own world now. One day, if we have children, and if they want to see you, that may come to pass.” Then her eyes turned a darker green. “But not if you try to manipulate us in any way ever again.”
“Understood. I think our worlds are separate enough to assure that won’t happen.”
“Let’s hope you’re right.”
The sonorous voice sighed in the wind. “Rhapsody, I must ask you to remember something.”
She looked over the rise at the Cymrian stragglers, standing about the Bowl in small groups, talking. “Yes?”
“Whether you realize it now or not, for all that you hated our last interaction, you will be faced one day with the same situation again.”
Her attention snapped back to Llauron, invisible around her. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” said the elemental voice of the wyrm, “that when you marry a man who is also a dragon, one day you will find that he is in need of becoming one or the other. If he chooses to let his human side win, you will eventually understand the pain of being widowed, as I have. And if he takes the path I chose, well, you have had a window into what both of you must do. I don’t mean to impinge on your happiness in any way, my dear, but these are the realities of the family you are about to marry into. I just don’t want you to wake up one day and feel you were misled.”
Rhapsody felt sour pain rise in her throat. The truth of his words, despite her desire to ignore them, was undeniable. His reasons for telling her were less clear; it was impossible to discern whether he was forewarning her of what she was to face, or trying to discourage her from entering into the situation in which she would have to do so.
She looked across the field at the base of the Bowl again, to where Gwydion knelt, surrounded by old friends, consoling the children of Stephen Na-varne and Rosella.
“Goodbye, Llauron,” she said, gathering her skirts. “I’ll see you at the wedding, I expect, or at least feel your presence.” She climbed down from the rocks and hurried across the Moot where her husband waited.
87
In the Great Hall of Tyrian atop Tomingorllo, amid the glad sound of silver trumpets, a solemn procession carried the chosen gift of suit to the display pedestal where the diadem had rested. It was carefully set in place, and revealed with great respect.
Out of all the rich gifts of state that were presented for the Lirin queen’s approval, gifts whose incalculable wealth showcased the treasuries and artistry of the nations whose leaders sought her hand, she had chosen a simple scroll, bound with a black velvet ribbon. It was sealed with an odd, thirteen-sided copper signet, said to be one of only two in the entire world.
The scroll was rumored to be a song unlike any other. As the queen was a musician unparalleled, it was widely believed to be beautiful to the point of magical if she had been moved to choose it above all other offerings. The plate beneath it, by way of announcement, bore the name GWYDION OF MANOSSE, LORD CYMRIAN.
During this meaningful and joyous ceremony, the queen, by custom, was absent; at least she was not noticed, lying on her stomach on the floor of the Grand Balcony, looking down and watching it all from underneath Gwydion’s mist cloak with him. It was a struggle for them both to refrain from giggling like maniacs as they had when, straight-faced, she had presented her betrothal choice to Rial and left his offices in a dead run before her composure collapsed.
The song was a gift for the eyes of the bride-to-be only. Gwydion had threatened to have the scroll hold the tender lyrics to one of Grunthor’s bawdy marching songs. Instead, when she opened it she found he had been putting the music instruction she had given him to good use; the carefully graphed staff carried the notes that spelled out Sam and Emily Always without a single error.
The bouquet of winterflowers he had presented her with at the same time remained in Elysian, opening a little more day by day, revealing petals of deeper red with each new layer. The bouquet was held in stasis by the magic of the place, and did not fade, remaining permanently suspended in glorious bloom. It was a true marvel, but one the queen did not feel the inclination to share with any other eye. Proof of being selfish again, she had told her chosen suitor, who had only smiled.