Both hands free now, she dodged a serpent-like strike from the vine aiming for her neck, then slashed it at the base. A blast of pure fire from the sword issued forth as she hit the mark, a brilliant sunburst in a world of darkness, cauterizing the tendril, which withered within seconds to dust.
The snare around her foot tightened viciously and yanked, pulling her off balance on the roughened, broken floor. Rhapsody concentrated, taking the hilt in both hands, and brought the blade down on the vine with all her might. The spray of fragmenting slate stung her as the vine exploded in a hail of fire and stone.
As her pounding heart returned to a regular rhythm, she had a vision of Elynsynos, and a question she would one day ask her.
Why? Why me? Why was this onerous responsibility given to me?
Rhapsody struggled to stand, listening for the dragon’s answer.
Because you are not alone.
A ferocious roar, a war-scream of horrific intensity, echoed through the dark, windowless basilica, causing the chandeliers to swing violently and the bells in the tower to pick up the cry and resound with it. The roar was followed by the sound of crashing objects and the heavy thudding of approaching footfalls.
In response, the benison raised his arms. The tainted ground burst forth into a sea of dark flame, leaping walls of blinding fire that surrounded the demon, engulfing the entire basilica.
A bellow of pain swelled from behind the fiery wall, clutching at Rhapsody’s heart. It was Grunthor; she knew the sound of his agony in her soul, having heard it once before.
A wave of intense heat that crackled with menace washed over her. Adrift for a moment on the burning tide of fiery air, she shielded her eyes with her forearm, trying to catch a glimpse of Grunthor’s shadow to the demon’s left, where he was supposed to enter at the second signal. But everything was lost in a black inferno, the demon, her friend, the nave of the basilica. It was like being once more at the core of a very different Earth, an Earth where the F’dor had triumphed. Anger burned cold in her soul at the thought of how that possibility was now at hand.
The tide was about to come in; whether it would come in on a fair wind or a sea of blood.
Do you understand now what you are fighting for?
Life itself.
Yes, and more. The battle that is being waged is not just for this life, but for the Afterlife. In this you must not fail.
She stood straighter and changed her grip on Daystar Clarion a little, remembering how Achmed had once counseled her to do so.
First, however you initially grasp the sword, change your grip a little, so that you focus on how you’re holding it. Don’t take your weapon for granted.
The hilt of the weapon in her grip felt as if it was part of her hand, an extension of her body.
’Tis as it should be.
As Oelendra’s voice rang in her mind, Rhapsody thought of her mentor, of all she had endured, and all the others before and after her, who had given their lives, their souls, their sanity in the age-old battle against this demon. This kindly benison brewing tea on the altar was nothing more than the most recent incarnation of an evil so ancient that it had existed prior to the races of man, to the formation of land masses, of cities, of nations; all of history crumbled next to the time it had existed, sowing lies, wreaking death, biding its time until it could release its fellows from the Vault of the Underworld, and awaken the Primal Wyrm, devouring all of Life itself in one horrific cataclysm of chaos. So many souls its victims, so many fallen in its wake. The distant voices of those who had stood against it, living and dead, cried out to her on the windless air, rang through the handle of the sword, echoing in her blood. Rhapsody’s mouth opened of its own will, and from her lips came their words.
No more. No more.
A fireball of black flame was building in the inferno’s rage, like an avalanche coming down upon her. Above the wailing howl of the fire she could hear the demon laughing.
Rhapsody swallowed, then closed her eyes against the approaching fireball, resting the flaming sword against her heart. The pure heat of the elemental fire warmed her soul, helping her clear her thoughts, even as death loomed. She took a deep breath, concentrating with the clarity derived from the sword, and softly sang a single note—ela—the note to which she was attuned, that all her life had given her wisdom, discernment in uncertainty. The clarity of it, pure and sweet, sounded over the fire’s bellow, piercing the roar, silencing the laughter, as the smallest bells of the carillon began first to hum, then to ring, then to peal strongly, firmly. No more, they tolled, ringing without clappers, echoing with nothing more than the power of the Namer’s voice. No more.
The rolling wall of fire was on her now. She could feel the acid of it stinging her eyelashes, the malevolence in its flames chanting in dark voices, distant, squealing in rage, in pain, in futile fury.
With a consistent crescendo she increased the power of the note, hearing more and more of the bells respond to her call. Strength swelled within her; with a powerful thrust she held the sword aloft, channeling the note through it with all her breath. As the black flames of the Underworld broke around her she heard the deepest and largest of the bells begin to vibrate and then to ring, clapperless, filling the basilica with harmonious music and instantly dispelling it of the demon’s evil taint.
Rhapsody sheathed her sword. The wind blew in and down the tower, billowing her hair all around her as the fire disappeared.
The benison stood in furious silence and more than a little pain, absorbing the ringing of the one hundred forty-six bells that now sang with ela. The ground around him was no longer desecrated, but beginning to resanctify, and with it he could feel the draining of his power.
He opened his mouth to speak the words of damnation.
But couldn’t find them in his memory.
Lanacan closed his eyes and concentrated. There was another sound here, a far older and more terrifying one. The bells in the tower grew quiet as the sword was sheathed, leaving the alien vibration humming alone. It was a sandy sound, one that had not been in his memory in this lifetime, in this world; it tugged at the back of his mind, scratching within his temples. It was growing louder; his head began to throb, as though his skull were no longer a sufficient container for the brain that was swelling in rhythm to the noise. It was a sound that whispered death.
Cold sweat prickled his skin. The bells must have cracked the brain-case of this body somehow, broken his skull; the girl had found a tone to kill his host persona. He glared at her, standing straight in the darkness of the aisle below him, her arms at her sides. In the half-light she looked like the legends of the Windchild, with her golden tresses billowing around her. He burned the image into his mind. He would need to remember her when he found another body to become his new host, to find her and destroy her.
Then a more cheerful thought occurred to him.
She would make a marvelous host herself.
He fought the searing headache that blinded him intermittently, struggling to hold fast to the idea and to consciousness. If he could bind her, she would be the perfect instrument for his final ascension.
He had planned to take her as a thrall at her coronation, and would have tried, had the old fool not decided to die just then. But now, with the body he had inhabited for decades suddenly useless, failing as he stood there, he thought of what power would be at his feet as the Lirin Queen, the Iliachenva’ar, the possessor of a beauty so seraphic that it could blind nations with one look. He had inhabited women before, and found it disappointing to be socially less powerful than the male personas in which he had lived. But this woman was stronger than any host he had ever bound to, man or woman. Excitement coursed through him as he prepared to feign death, knowing that it would bring her near to investigate. He raised his hand before him and prepared for his spirit to escape its body.
The scratching sound suddenly extended into a six-note scale, hanging monotonously in the air to his right. Lanacan felt a clutching sens
ation in the air around him; it clenched like the grip of a fist, and his heart, lungs, and chest were suddenly crashed in a viselike pressure. With great effort he turned toward the sound.
There stood a tall, hideous figure in black robes, singing the excruciating song. Its tongue was clicking with an insectoid buzz in the back of its throat, the noise issuing forth past the lips that were struggling not to smile. Its thin, gloved right hand rose slowly and stopped rigidly in front of him, palm up. The loosening of the bonds to his human body, which he had been metaphysically untying, as he had so many other times, stopped immediately.
The creature’s left hand, similarly gloved, came up next to its side and extended out, its fingers pulsing in rhythm to the beating of his demon-human heart. Each jerking flick of the digits caused him horrific pain. Then the hand began to revolve, wrapping its metaphysical moorings around its palm like a kite string. The creature tugged, drawing the four winds into a strangling net around him, choking him with all the force the physical and metaphysical worlds could muster.
The benison screamed, unable to move, unable to flee. He was trapped.
Let me guess; you’ve heard o’ Dhracians but you never met one before; right?”
Lanacan Orlando’s eyes, the only part of his body still able to move, darted to his other side. Standing there, casting a shadow that covered the altar completely, was an enormous monster in mail, hilts, and pole-arms jutting from behind him. It was the queen’s honor guard, the gigantic monster that had swept the Patriarch out of his way, preventing him from searching further for the missing Ring that held the dying man’s office.
In two steps the great Bolg was upon him, twisting his human arms behind his back and locking him into an even more immobile position. The giant wrenched him off the ground, causing pain to roar through the host body that was now as ensnared as his demonic soul was.
“Ya know, in my not-so-limited experience, Dhracians think o’ demon-scum like you as appetizers,” said the Bolg cheerfully. “But for me you’ll be dessert.”
Fury raged through the benison’s heart. The street urchin known as Jo, for a time in his thrall, had told the Rakshas about the giant and the king, but only that they were both Firbolg. Obviously she had never known of the existence of the Dhracian race, let alone been able to identify one, particularly one of mixed blood. There was something vaguely familiar about this particular Dhracian as well, a power that was beyond defiance.
To struggle was useless, Lanacan knew. His mind began rapidly scanning the situation, seeking a vulnerable area, a way to turn the tables. He looked down from the sanctuary at the small woman who was now approaching, coming down the aisle silently. Inwardly the benison smiled.
It was time to play the trump card.
“All right, now, miss,” his physical captor said to the Lirin queen as she came nearer to the square central sanctuary. “Rip ’is ’eart out. Oi’m starvin’.”
Rhapsody untied the hood of her cloak. The tiny stars of the crown of the Lirin, hidden within the fabric of the hood, caught an updraft of the now-clean wind blowing down the bell tower all around her and whirled into place over her head. Even as far as she was from the benison, now tangled securely in Grunthor’s crushing grip, she could see the light of the blazing diamond shards glitter in his eyes. F’dor feared diamonds, she knew, though somehow she could not convince herself that the gleam she saw in those eyes was terror. It looked more like excitement to her.
She walked slowly toward the apse, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure all three of the men could hear it.
The benison stared down at her from the sanctuary. His hand had been caught raised before him, frozen in midair, when the Thrall ritual began, doubtless with the intent of calling down black fire on her, an intention that would never come to pass.
The demon gestured slightly at her with one of his fingers.
“Virack urg caz,” he said in a warm, sweet voice that made no audible sound. “Conceive.”
Deep within her abdomen Rhapsody felt a twitch, then a twinge of pain. The muscles of her belly contracted, and between her legs she felt a hideous burning sensation.
“Merlus,” he whispered. His lips did not move. “Grow.”
She lurched forward from the cramp that erupted within her abdomen. Then her muscles relaxed and she felt a cold motion begin to seep through her, moving outward from her middle, spreading throughout the inner cavity. Rhapsody shook off the sensation and crossed to the altar steps.
“You only think you’re angry at me, you know, my dear,” said the voice in her mind. “It’s really Gwydion you should despise. In a way it is he that handed you over to me, and you don’t even know it yet.”
Rhapsody shoved the hateful words out of her mind as she continued in her path to the steps. She concentrated on Ashe, the warm twinkle of his dragonesque eyes, the gentleness of his smile. She tried not to think of the depths of his suffering at the benison’s hands, because her fury would return, burning behind her eyes and blinding her to the higher cause of her mission. She set her foot on the first step.
“You think of him as my victim, don’t you? You couldn’t be more wrong. His soul was a willing captive. It really wasn’t difficult to sway him at all, you know. Your lover is a very creative and ingenious man, although I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that. Much of the Rakshas’s proclivity for rape and ritual torture came from the inspiration of the soul it carried; did you know that? Being a celibate cleric, you certainly don’t think I could have taught it that level of sexual knowledge, do you? No, that was all Gwydion.”
The eyes of the old man in Grunthor’s grip sparkled wickedly.
“And such pleasure the twisted nature of his soul gave to my toy when it was alive. The Rakshas particularly enjoyed violating your sister. She was such a willing victim. She lay right down on the heath and opened her legs, you know; she certainly didn’t act like any of the others. She wanted him, my dear. At least that should bring you comfort as you mourn her untimely death. She relished her own rape.
“Of course, I don’t even think you can accurately call it rape when the woman pulls the one who is ravaging her inside herself and rides him, now, do you? Obviously I’m no expert, but I would venture to say an unwilling woman doesn’t rock her molester with her body, thrusting her hips and moaning his name, becoming frustrated when he slows down.
“I have to admit I became aroused myself listening to him talk about how he pleasured her with his tongue, drinking the juice of her excitement. You do know why she was aroused, don’t you? It wasn’t just his hands between her legs, his mouth on her breasts, Rhapsody. It was you! It was the belief that she was rutting with your lover! Who would have guessed that someone so close to you could hate you so much that she would give herself over to your paramour, let him seduce her willingly to get back at you, even at the expense of her own life?”
Hatred coursed through Rhapsody, flushing her face and making her blood run hot, but at the edge of her mind she felt a pang of doubt. She remembered the hard expression on Jo’s face, the direct look in her eyes as she told her tale.
I’m not seeing anyone. Actually, you’re seeing him.
Jo, what are you talking about?
It was Ashe. I had sex with Ashe. The night of the meeting, when I ran out of the council room, and he came after me—he found me on the heath. He didn’t tell you, did he? I thought not. He probably told you he couldn’t find me, didn’t he? Scum. I tried to make him leave, but he wouldn’t. And, well, we did it. Actually, although I enjoyed it a little at the time, it was pretty grisly overall. I don’t think I’ll ever get the image of his face as he was knobbing me out of my mind. Honestly, Rhaps, I don’t know what you see in him. Don’t you have anything better to do than let him rut on you?
Rhapsody’s stomach knotted with the cold feeling of betrayal she had not felt at the time. She had been too worried about Jo, too concerned to think of anything but her sister, to even imagine the act itself. But now
the picture came into her mind of the two of them together on the heath, pumping away in the highgrass, moaning in the throes of mutual orgasm.
Her heart twisted in sickening anger as she drew Daystar Clarion again with a ringing sweep and began to climb the steps of the altar, a murderous look on her face. The benison smiled when he saw it, and Rhapsody felt a click inside her. She could hear Oelendra’s admonition ringing in her ears.
Let your hatred pass; he will use it against you. Your reason for destroying him should be the child’s future, not her past. If you keep that fixed in your mind, you will do it because ’tis the right thing to do, not out of revenge. There is more power in the former than the latter. ’Tis something I cannot do; my hatred is too entrenched, but you, Rhapsody, you have the chance to set things right. Don’t let the atrocity of his actions ruin your focus.
Rhapsody took a deep breath and relaxed. She stepped onto the sanctuary floor, crossing to position herself before the benison, and heard the voice in her head again.
“Don’t be jealous, Rhapsody; the Rakshas liked it so much better with you than with your sister.”
Rhapsody stopped in midstride.
“What, you didn’t know? Well, I’m not surprised. They did look identical, your two lovers. How fortunate for me that you fell in love with the son of Llauron; it made it so much easier for the Rakshas to have you. You don’t think it was always Gwydion who took you, did you? Once your sister told my creation about the two of you, it was easy. It is, after all, very dark in the Teeth at night, isn’t it, my dear?”
The silent voice in her mind laughed, and the sound echoed off her brain, making her head pound. Her stomach heaved as the memory of Jo’s last night swam before her eyes, the shrieking wind on the mountain pass in the impenetrable dark, her blind climb up the crags to the sheltered arch.
It’s probably just that my first time was a little, well, a little rough, a little violent.
The blood drained from her face as she remembered her desperate, almost violent lovemaking with Ashe that night against the mountain face, the usual tenderness lost to ferocious intensity and fierce pain. It was Ashe. Or was it? It can’t be, she thought in panic, but the laughter in her mind grew louder as she realized she hadn’t seen his face, and even if she had she might not have been able to discern the difference anyway in her despair and the howling wind.