“Do so, then, nephew,” said Anborn. “I am happy not to be in your place this day; you will not know how painful this moment really is until years from now, when the pages of history are written about it. Believe me when I tell you this.” The Lord Cymrian’s voice was steady, kingly. “Very well— this is my decision, made in concert and with consent of all present, pending their assent,” he said. “Anborn has always been best in the command of men. If you will agree, Uncle, to take up the mantle you cast aside centuries ago, and again serve as Lord Marshal to the forces of the Alliance, it would put the best leader in the field. You also have personal friendships among some of our more tentative allies—the Nain, the Icemen of the Hintervold, the Blesser of the Nonaligned States—all of these at one time or another were brothers-inarms of yours. Though there is no need to drag any of those allies into this war if they are not needed, it would be good to know that we can count on their loyalty if they are—loyalty either to the Alliance or its military commander.”
“As you wish, nephew,” Anborn said. His voice was quiet and circumspect, with none of the condescending tone in which he generally spoke, especially about things martial. “It therefore falls to me to hold the land itself,” Ashe went on. “The draconic part will guard the Tree and serve to sustain the shield of the world. That which is man, the Lord Cymrian, must fight to protect the people who dwell upon that land. In the name of Llauron, my father, and that of Elynsynos, my great-grandmother, I will do both. I will call the Council of Dukes at once, and take over command of all of the provincial armies, putting them under Anborn’s direct command.”
“Tristan Steward will not like that,” Gwydion Navarne said. “I believe he has expected to be given that post as Lord Regent.”
“He will think otherwise when he sees the scope and scale of what we are up against,” said Ashe. “But we do not have time to wait for the gathering of the provincial forces, if what you suspect is coming is nigh, Your Grace. Anborn should accompany you back to Sepulvarta immediately, taking with you all of the forces you can muster from the outposts and garrisons in southeastern Navarne and southern Bethany. I will draft up articles of command that will give you authority to conscript any military forces you can reach; there should be almost ten thousand along that route, give or take however many are in the process of guarding mail caravans.” The Patriarch nodded. “That seems wise. I would hope that you would not leave Roland vulnerable to aid Sepulvarta; that would be a fool’s errand.”
“Indeed,” said Ashe. “Anborn, will ten thousand be sufficient for your rescue of the holy city?”
“More than enough to break a siege, if one has begun,” said Anborn. “But I have to tell you, Nephew, that I suspect they will not be of the caliber needed to do so. I have been warning you for three years, since you took on this bloody lordship, that war was coming, and that preparations needed to be made.”
“And I heeded you,” Ashe said patiently. “You may be pleasantly surprised, Uncle.”
“I am never pleasantly surprised,” the Lord Marshal muttered. “The very concept of surprise is an innately unpleasant one.”
“I will conduct the strategic aspects of the war—the defense of the Middle Continent and the rest of the Alliance— from the fortress at Highmeadow. I will send ships immediately to our allies in Manosse and Gaematria across the Wide Central Sea, to alert them to what is happening and request their aid; Talquist has the naval advantage, but with their assistance, we can even the field. “I will also heed the wisdom of my wife, much as I fear my own repercussions of our decision,” Ashe went on. “I will entrust her, and our son, to Achmed, king of the Firbolg, who is not only our ally but her dear friend, for the purpose of safeguarding her and Meridion from whatever evil seeks him. Rhapsody has agreed to go to Ylorc with Achmed, and to aid him in the development and utilization of the instrumentality he calls the Lightcatcher, a remaking of Gwylliam’s Light-forge designed and built by the Nain before the Cymrian War, for the purpose of protecting the lore it uses. The Bolg king reaffirms his commitment to the Alliance, though makes no promises of troop involvement, and asserts that the use of the instramentality will be for the defense of the said Alliance, if and when possible. Have I characterized your position correctly, Achmed?” The Bolg king snorted. “For the purposes of history, certainly. History means nothing to me; I have yet to see an example of it that I have believed.”
“Perhaps this will be the first, then,” Ashe said mildly. “Rhapsody, Lirin queen and Lady Cymrian, has asked Rial, Viceroy of Tyrian, to expand his role to Lord Protector and to see if the diadem in Tomingorllo assesses him to be worthy of the kingship in her stead. She reiterates her primary fealty to Tyrian, second only to that of the Alliance as a whole.” The Lady Cymrian exhaled and nodded her agreement. “I cannot tell you how sad this makes me, m’lady,” Rial said. “I remember fondly the day you picked up that diadem, made from the shattered pieces of the Purity Diamond, destroyed by Anwyn in a pact with the demon against her husband. It came to life in your hands, a symbol of the unity you would bring to the Lirin kingdoms—and the Cymrian Alliance. To think that you may have to give it up to protect both of those entities now is tragic.”
Rhapsody shook her head. “I’m giving up nothing, Rial. In my heart I will always be a daughter of Tyrian, whether I wear the diadem or a kerchief on my head. I only wish I could have brought about an era of peace to that united kingdom, rather than having to take up arms to defend it once again. At least this time the Lirin have Anborn fighting on their side, and not against them. That alone is worm the loss of the crown.”
“What is to come will change us all in ways we cannot even contemplate now,” said Ashe. “But know this—it will surely come to pass. We cannot avoid it, but at least we are united in our determination to stand together against it. In this way, the second Cymrian era could not be more different from the first.” Anborn nodded. “And we will prevail. In this way, it could not be more different, either.”
“Glad as I am to have you with us, Lord Marshal, even you cannot hold back the raging ocean; its will cannot be stopped,” Rial said somberly. “The best you can do is build a seawall and keep patching it. With any luck the storm will pass before it gives way.”
“I’d rather think of a way to drain the sea,” Anborn muttered. “But, as I can’t, sandbag duty it is.”
“Yes,” said the Patriarch, rising with the others as the council meeting came to an end. “But on that day when you discover such a way to drain the sea, I am with you, bucket in hand.” As he ambulated noisily down the corridor leading away from the Great Hall, with its many porticos and side hallways, Anborn reached effortlessly behind the drape of an alcove where a small stone statue of Merithyn the Explorer was displayed and grasped a handful of gold ringlets, dragging then-owner’s head out from behind the heavy velvet swath. A high- pitched gasp echoed up the Grand Staircase to the floors above. “Ah, yes, you do make a fine little spy, don’t you now, m’lady?” he said with exaggerated courtesy, smiling at the shock in the glittering black eyes. “But apparently your assets are not as valuable as you thought. Keep working at it, though.” He released her curls and patted her head affectionately, then made his way down the rest of the hallway, the clunking metallic sound of his walking machine reverberating through the whole of the quiet keep. The girl remained in shock, still watching him, until the echoes faded into silence again. Then she hurried back to the buttery in the dimness of night, the light from the great lamps seeming to cause her shadow to lengthen, her hair to darken and fade into the gloom.