Grunthor’s feet toed the line just outside the border of the tainted ground. He waited until he was securely standing on earth that had not been desecrated by the demon, and then became one with it, breathing in slow, measured breaths until even his body heat cooled to match the temperature of the street. He could feel the heartbeat of the Earth echoing through him, becoming his own.
Moments later two men hurried by, arguing in a congenial manner. They walked right past the giant Firbolg in front of the waste pile but did not give him as much as a glance. Rhapsody and Achmed turned to each other and smiled; that was a first, their shared grin seemed to say. Then he extended his hand, and she took it. Together they headed around the west end of the building, skirting the line of defilement that Grunthor had pointed out to them.
As they reached the southwestern corner of the basilica, Rhapsody pulled Achmed to a stop.
“Well, are you going to refuse to hear me out, too?”
A gloved hand came to rest on her face, then moved to her lips to silence her. Rhapsody marveled at the sensitivity of his touch, even through the thin leather sheath. No wonder he can feel the vibrations of the wind and hide, undetected, within them, she thought, smiling. His answer was soft.
“The time for words is past. We can’t keep the bastard waiting.”
“All right, then I won’t talk.” Her hand met his, and rested there; he looked at it, and then down at her, where their eyes met as well. Finally their lips met, softly; it was a first, too, as in the previous moment, a first that Rhapsody prayed did not also portend a last.
Her mouth clung to his a moment more, sharing a final breath; then she moved away. Achmed was already pulling up the hood of his cloak; it was the signal for her to round the corner.
She, in turn, pulled her hood down, and looked about the street. It was deserted, the night wind having picked up to a strong gale, blowing flecks of snow and debris in sheets of icy air across the dark city. Rhapsody turned the corner and walked quickly down the street along the southern side of the basilica, passing the vestry window, then turned the southeastern corner, heading for the main entrance into the eastern vestibule.
Gittleson watched out the small vestry window, unseen behind the heavy drape, his pale hands slick with nervous sweat, pallid in the half-light cast by the dimly glowing candles.
“She’s coming, Your Grace.”
The benison was standing in the nave, the central part of the basilica amid the benches where the faithful sat. His elderly hands lovingly caressed the back of a lustrous wooden pew, his smile glittering in the half-light of the candles that burned in the chandeliers above him.
“Good,” he said softly. “I’m ready.”
He walked down the side aisle to the polished marble steps that led up to the sanctuary where the stone altar stood and began to climb the stairs. Halfway up he turned and looked back at the vestry and the figure in the doorway, silhouetted against the light of the tiny dressing room.
“Close the door, Gittleson; you’re letting the light in.”
A gloved hand reached out and shut the door.
The benison turned back once more and climbed the rest of the steps, smiling to himself.
Rhapsody pulled on the handle of the main basilica doors, finding a stubborn resistance; it was heavily wrought iron, engraved with the holy symbols she had seen in Sepulvarta. Panic coursed through her, starting at the roots of her hair. The possibility that the basilica might be locked had not figured into her plan.
She tugged a second time and the door opened easily, as if held by an unseen butler. She looked about the vestibule but saw nothing except the poor boxes and rows of intention candles, a few of which flickered in the wind when the door opened. She stepped inside.
The air in the basilica was heavy and menacing, as if it objected to her presence. She took a step and felt a burning sensation within the toe of her boot; the defiled ground did not want her on it any more than she wanted to be there. Even moving through the air itself was a struggle. Rhapsody steeled herself and pressed on, heading for the portals that led into the main section of the basilica. The central sanctuary was visible at the edge of her vision through the doors. She walked silently to the end of the vestibule and stopped before entering the nave.
The figure in the dark red robe at the altar did not turn. “Come in, Your Majesty,” he said, a slight chuckle in his voice.
The air around her changed ever so slightly with the demon’s invitation. It was as if the invisible bonds that were holding her back had been released, the tainted ground suddenly willing to accept her footsteps. Rhapsody hesitated, unsure about walking on the desecrated ground that was the benison’s domain, then, in the absence of an alternative, stepped into the main part of the basilica.
It was vast and dark. Chandeliers of brass-bound oak hung from the towering ceiling, burning with the light of thousands of small, ineffectual candles. The basilica was austere, with benches of unadorned wood lining the nave. It was also windowless; the only aperture was the great opening in the ceiling beneath the lofty bell tower, the access to the wind that spiraled around the carillon. It rose in the darkness above the central altar.
A long balcony lined each of the four sides of the elevated section, led to by a circular staircase at each corner. The benches there were padded with dark fabric cushions, probably for the comfort of the hindquarters of the wealthier contributors among Bethe Corbair’s faithful.
Rhapsody stopped midway down the aisle and looked up to the sanctuary where the benison stood, still with his back to her. The slate floor of the basilica led up to polished marble steps, similar to the ones in Sepulvarta but dark, with veins of white and silver running through the stone. The steps ended in the semicircular apse at their top, the back wall of which was carved from ancient mahogany in rising columns lined with carefully placed holes, a natural pipe organ. Rhapsody could tell that the wind had not reached the back of the sanctuary in many years.
Finally the benison turned away from the plain stone altar and looked out across the basilica at her. She could see his eyes, even as far away as she was, gleaming in the half-light.
“Welcome, my dear, don’t stand on ceremony; approach, by all means. I have tea steeping for you here on the altar. When your two friends come they can share the pot as well.” He laughed softly at the look on her face. “Of course I was expecting you. I haven’t entertained one of Oelendra’s trainees in several decades, so this is a rare treat for me.” He turned away for a moment, then turned back, holding a teacup, which he extended to her, just as he had in her dream about the Patriarch.
In response she drew her sword. The blade flashed in the darkness of the church; the flames burned angrily, billowing up the length of Daystar Clarion like a brushfire.
The benison laughed. “Ah, yes, Daystar Clarion. Well, I am suitably impressed. I have to admit to being a little shocked at seeing you with it in Sepulvarta that night. None of Oelendra’s other young champions were ever entrusted with it. How ever did you pry it loose from her craven grip? None of the others knew who or where I was, either, until it was too late. Is that why? Did she give it to you because you were able to discern my identity?” He fixed his gaze on her, the whites of his eyes darkening to red around the edges. “Well, no matter. I assume you are aware that none of the four score or so of her noble knights ever returned to her, hmmm? They are some of my most prized possessions, if you will forgive the play on words.”
Rhapsody shook off the hypnotic effect of the sweet voice and came slowly down the aisle. A cold rage was building in her soul, and she tried to shake that off as well; it was interfering with her concentration. She was directly beneath the far side of the opening in the roof below the bell tower when his words made her stop again.
“But, then, you are intimately acquainted with the last one who tried, aren’t you, my dear? Gwydion must have thanked the stars for you. Who would have believed that one of the Three would take pity on him, human wreckag
e that he was, and take him to her heart? To her bed, eh?” The benison shook his head and chuckled softly, then looked back at her; even halfway across the nave Rhapsody could see him wink mischievously at her, the leer remaining in his elderly eyes. “Well, my dear, thanks to you, now he and I have some things in common. I give thanks for you, too; if not for you I would never have been able to confirm he was still alive, never would have found him again.”
Rhapsody closed her other hand around the sword’s hilt and raised it until it was pointed at the benison. Lanacan Orlando laughed aloud.
“Oh, please do, my dear, come; try and take me on my own ground. It really will be amusing, if patently unfair to you. Surely you are not that much of a fool, are you? We have, after all, stood in these places before, one of us at the altar, the other in the back of the basilica, helpless to do anything. But this time the roles are reversed, aren’t they, Your Majesty? It is you standing on my ground this time.”
“This is God’s ground, Your Disgrace.”
Rhapsody lifted the sword above her head and spoke its name.
Blinding light lit the bell tower and spilled into the nave, the legacy of the daystar for which the weapon was named. A moment later a silver trumpet blast rocked the basilica, a clarion call that shook the carillon tower, setting the bells to ringing frantically in an earsplitting cacophony.
The benison merely smiled. “Well, now, that was impressive.”
“Actually, it was a signal.”
The benison shrugged. “Too late. By the time the townsfolk get here you will be mine, and apologizing for disturbing them so rudely. My turn, now. Come to me.”
The static air of the basilica shifted against her skin. Heat, deep and primal, enveloped her, then seeped through her clothes and into her bones, making her heart beat faster, her blood run hot. The demon’s words of thrall, sweetly spoken in the benison’s soothing voice, caressed her, stroked her soul like a mother caresses a child.
Rhapsody shook her head again and clenched her teeth until her ears rang. The lush voice tickled against her eardrums, the warm words wrapping soothingly around her neck, sending a shiver, a silver thrill, down her spine. She closed her eyes, trying to throw off the effects of the demon’s words.
No, by the One-God, she thought to herself, anger mounting. I’ll not be your thrall. I am stronger than you, you piece of filth. She summoned her will, shook her head once more, violently, and the warmth of the demon’s thrall shattered like brittle sugar and dissipated into the crackling air. The red heat of anger flushed through her.
“I will come to you on my own terms,” she said evenly, struggling to keep her voice steady. “And when I do, I will drive my sword into your miserable heart, rip it from your body, set it on fire, and watch it shrivel into ashes. I will snuff your twisted essence and burn your evil soul in the flames of elemental fire as it was before your kind blackened it.”
The benison chuckled.
“Really? Now that is a brave boast, though a trifle unpleasant and crass in the mouth of a queen. You disappoint me, Your Majesty, truly you do. You pick up an ancient weapon—little more than a flaming toothpick, really—and think that as a result you know something of elemental fire?” He laughed again, his expression one of genuine amusement that resolved a moment later into a more contemplative expression that turned darker before her eyes.
“Allow me,” he said flatly, “to teach you a little of what you don’t know about fire.”
He made an absent gesture with one hand. A ball of black fire appeared in his palm, and he tossed it her way. As it approached it grew in volume, hissing menacingly as it picked up speed and power from the evil-tainted air around them, soaring toward her. The flames spread out like a black-orange net, reaching for her with eager, ragged firefingers.
Rather than dodge, Rhapsody opened her mouth and softly sang the note ela, the last in the ancient scale, her own Naming note. Her voice held steady as the tiniest of the carillon bells picked up the note and began to hum, unnoticed amid the others bells, still settling from the cacophony a moment before.
The air around her crackled and hissed with the sound, as if fighting it. She drew a quick circle in the air above her with the sword, trying to wrap the protection of the note, and the wind it called to, around herself. She did not fear the fire; it would not harm her.
The instant before the black fire impacted her, Rhapsody felt something shift within her. Fire had been her friend from the moment she had passed through it at the core of the Earth; it had absorbed into her soul itself, melding into her essence, tying her to the element irrevocably. From that time until this second she had not feared flame, because it had never sought to harm her, allowing her to pass, unscathed, through the hottest of infernos.
But in the fragment of a heartbeat before the fire hit her, Rhapsody felt her soul lurch. This was not fire, not really, not any fire that she knew, at least. It did not smell the same, mold the air as fire did; it was thin, acidic, evil, alive with malice and malevolence. It was the blinding, corrosive essence of hatred. And she knew, at that last moment, that she was not immune to its effects.
Slypka, she whispered.
The black fire dimmed slightly, but did not extinguish.
She had just enough time to avert her head to shield her eyes before the ball of black fire exploded, shattering the protection circle and igniting her clothing. With a gasp of pain Rhapsody staggered, patting herself frantically to snuff her smoking garments. The skin of her arms and legs stung violently from the contact and the searing flame.
Lanacan Orlando slowly closed his fist, his arm still outstretched, then twisted it suddenly. The acid from the black fire roared with anger, intensifying the heat, and against her will Rhapsody gasped again.
Pain shot through her, followed by cold shock. It had been so long since she had felt even hesitation, let alone caution, in the presence of fire, that she was caught totally off-guard by the damage it was doing to her. Still, at least a little of her immunity was in place; her skin stung deeply, but did not burn or blacken. Smoke poured out of her clothing, but her body still did not ignite.
The demon at the altar stared in amazement. Anger flooded his face, and once again he wrenched his hand, his eyes darkening to crimson at the edges. The elderly forehead of his human body furrowed; he clenched his fist even tighter, the muscles in his frail arm quivering, and twisted his arm once more.
A cry of agony was torn from Rhapsody’s throat as she sank to her knees, struggling to hold on to the sword. No, she thought desperately, No! I’m failing!. In the depths of her mind, she remembered the voice of the dragon in her dream.
What if I fail?
You may.
She struggled to rise, resting one hand on the floor. Instantly the smooth slate gave way beneath her palm; a tendril of a vine, smooth as glass, black as night with veins of white running through it, shot forth with the recoil of a whip and encircled her forearm, tightening in a stranglehold.
In the alley outside the basilica, through the earth itself, Grunthor felt Rhapsody fall.
67
The benison laughed aloud as another corded vine broke forth from the floor and lashed around Rhapsody’s leg, dragging her against the slate.
“Oh, my, won’t the Lirin be disappointed,” he said with mock sympathy. “After all that pageantry! So much effort went into the coronation, and indeed, it was a lovely event. Well, perhaps they will make a better choice next time.”
Rhapsody struggled in the grip of the demonic vines, kicking and pulling, with little result. Her skin prickled with cold fear as the memory of Jo’s gruesome death, and Llauron’s, came back to her; she could smell the hideous odor of the F’dor’s excitement, even as far as she was from the altar, the sickening smell of burning flesh. From the floor in every direction tiny glass-like thorns were emerging, crawling through the seams in the paving stones like streams of roaches, evil seedlings that in a moment would be vines themselves, binding her hopelessly,
strangling her.
Around her, Time seemed to slow; the magnitude of what loomed made her heart thud in a cadence that beat with the turning of the world. Failure could bring about the end of Time, she had said in the dream to Elynsynos. I cannot even contemplate it.
Another tendril grew in a sudden spurt, lunging for her neck. Rhapsody dodged out of the way, only to find her movements more severely restricted than she had imagined.
The vines bit deeper into her arm, into her leg, making her heart shudder and pulse arrhythmically. The dragon’s words whispered in answer, fading in and out with the irregular beating of her heart.
You are at the place where the beginning of Time had its ending. Just as surely the ending of Time will have its beginning here, as well. You cannot change it, though you may delay its coming.
Fighting back the panic, she wrenched against the tension and rolled to her side, slashing at the vine that bound her other hand with Daystar Clarion.
The sword flashed angrily in the darkness of the basilica; the black candle flames in the chandeliers roared back in sinister response. The benison crossed his arms and leaned back against the altar.
“You put on a good show, Your Majesty. First rate amusement. I fear it will end far too soon.” The benison leaned forward a little. “I am going to eat your soul, Rhapsody, and those of your Bolg friends who hover at the outer edges of my profane ground. Such a sweet soul it must be; I’m sure I will savor it. I think I will leave you alive while I do, so that you can watch each piece of it disappear down my throat and into the mouth of the Underworld.”
Focus, Rhapsody thought, don’t let him distract you. She blotted the demon’s words from her mind, honed her concentration, and, using her bound arm, pulled with all her might on the vine encircling it, stretching it as much as she could. With the other she struck the elongated binding with the fire sword, shattering it into a thousand shards.