Destiny: Child of the Sky

61

The courtyard of Newydd Dda was filled past overflowing. Lirin citizens and the guests of state crowded the streets of Tyrian City, spilling into the vast forest clearing that surrounded the walls of the palace, hoping for an opportunity to view the newly crowned queen. Delegations of Lirin had come from each of the factional areas, from Manosse and the plains, from the cities in the Nonaligned States and the sea. Roland and Sorbold were represented, as were the Nonaligned States, Ylorc, and the lands beyond the Hintervold. Achmed was astonished; it seemed impossible that the word could even have reached those places so fast, and yet here they were, representatives from each, lining up to greet or bless Rhapsody.

He glanced back at her now, descending the hill in her heavily carved sleigh; a look of serenity was in her eyes that belied the panic he knew she felt at the sight of the throng below her. Grunthor rode before her; where the Lirin had found the horse they had given him for the procession he had no idea, but it was more than half the size of the sleigh itself.

He had managed to slip into the front of the procession as it came down the hill so as to afford himself as much time as possible to assess the crowd near where she would be standing. Assassination was not likely, given the number of trained Lirin guards that had secured the entire city, removing all weapons and potential instruments of damage. When he tried to enter the city that morning they had weighed the flute he carried as a gift for the new queen, leery of its heft. Only the intercession of Rhapsody herself had allowed his entry back into the city after he had left her room the night before. Despite the inconvenience, Achmed was pleased at the effectiveness of her protectors.

He leaned up against the palace wall and waited for Grunthor to pass. The Princes of Sorbold and Bethany were the first in line; Achmed smiled to himself at the irony. He would have been among them had he not been designated the equivalent of her family and invited to the private ceremony. Had he been in that company he would have been the most pleasant of the first three people to honor her.

Her antagonistic interaction with Tristan Steward was legendary throughout Ylorc, and the Prince of Sorbold was a hostile, dried-up old man who was waiting impatiently for his even-more-ancient mother to die so that he might finally succeed her. Rhapsody had met him only once, and she was too annoyed by his petulance to notice that he was utterly smitten with her. After she had left on her journey with Ashe to find Elynsynos the prince had sent emissaries to Achmed demanding her hand; the Bolg king had gloated at the prospect of sharing the news with her upon her return, knowing that the pyrotechnics display from her wrath would be worth inviting guests to watch. He had never told her.

Behind the princes were the Orlandan dukes, Martin Ivenstrand of Avonderre and Stephen Navarne, the Regents of Yarim and Bethe Corbair, and Cedric Canderre, who had nodded politely to him upon entering the courtyard, Stephen signaling his intent to meet up later. The dukes were followed by a small contingent from Gwynwood of Filidic priests of insignificant rank who had come in the effort to represent the religion in the apparent absence of Khaddyr the Invoker and his minions.

The priests were being repositioned by the chamberlain and her staff owing to the arrival a few moments before of another contingent. A gasp had gone up when the group had stepped forth from the enormous carriage that had been escorted under guard from the gates of Tyrian.

From the carriage had stepped the Orlandan benisons, Ian Steward of Canderre-Yarim, Lanacan Orlando, the Blesser of Bethe Corbair, and Colin Abernathy, whose See encompassed the Nonaligned States to the south of Tyrian. They were followed by the Blesser of Sorbold, Nielash Mousa, the only one in the robes of his country, colorful and striking in contrast to the pale holy garments of Roland. At length the Blesser of Avonderre-Navarne, Philabet Griswold, stepped out, a haughty smile on his face. He reached into the carriage and gently assisted a frail man in a tall miter and golden vestments. It was the Patriarch of Sepulvarta.

Though it was unlikely he had ever been seen by anyone present, the

Patriarch’s identity was obvious to all. It was his arrival that had caused the gasp to go up from the crowd. After a moment of shock, a smattering of applause began to ring out here and there, then swelled into a polite ripple, finally building into a wave that brought glad shouts with it.

As the Patriarch slowly tottered forward, his benisons and the Orlandan dukes stepped back to allow him access to the front of the receiving line. The two princes, who had been vying to be first, yielded their positions in the queue to him; if there was any resentment, it was well disguised. The Patriarch shook his head and bowed slightly, indicating that they should stay at the front of the line. Nielash Mousa and Philabet Griswold stepped to either side of him, assisting him up the steps of the reviewing stand. The other benisons fell in line behind him, followed by the dukes, then all the other guests of honor and the people of Tyrian.

The crowd swelled as Rhapsody’s procession reached the edge of the city wall, waiting for the queen and her honor guard to emerge and ascend the dais to begin receiving the blessings and greetings of her well-wishers.

The honor guard was approaching the reviewing stand when suddenly the world shifted around Achmed. The exposed nerves and veins of his skin-web stung, then throbbed to pulsing life; the rhythm of his pulse .began to pound in unison with another, one very close by. A moment later it was gone, then back again, moving.

He gulped a breath of the cold winter wind, hoping for clarity but instead breathed the air of the old world, of his life before, and it sickened him; it weighed in his lungs like stagnant water. He looked around, and for the first time in either life felt the crowd reel, felt it press against him like ocean waves; like he was adrift in strong surf. He had lost sight of Grunthor, of the wall he had been leaning on, of his whole awareness of existence in this land.

Just as suddenly, he came around. Instead of fighting the drowning feeling caused by the smell, he drew it in deeply. He opened his mouth and hands and eyes to the scent as he had in the old, hunting days, and it rushed into his mind like a flash fire:

F’dor.

He had come upon it. It was here. He shook his head to clear his mind and eyes, and found himself exactly in the spot he had been in before he detected his enemy. The shared blood rhythm pounded in his veins, beat in his chest like a drum of war, then moved again.

Grunthor had dismounted and was passing him at that moment on his way to the reviewing stand. Achmed touched him on the elbow. Without looking, the giant leant down to a practiced and discreet distance to hear his words.

“It’s here, the Rakshas’s master is here.”

Grunthor sought Achmed’s eyes for an indication of direction, and saw them wide and taut, still scanning the crowd. He was looking with more than his eyes, breathing the particles of odor and breath and identity that wafted on the winter wind, matching them to the blood he had absorbed. The other two members of the honor guard passed him, Anborn eyeing Achmed sus piciously as he walked by. The scent, the malodor of burning human flesh in fire grew stronger, then vanished again as the breeze picked up.

Rhapsody was on the reviewing stand now; the dais had been built to allow her to enter from the back to avoid struggling through the crowd in front of her. Anborn, Gwydion Navarne, and Grunthor took their places behind her, the Bolg Sergeant immediately in back of her. His eyes went from Achmed to the crowd, awaiting the Dhracian’s signal.

Achmed needed to get closer, but knew that if he could feel the demon’s presence there was a chance the demon might feel his as well if he wasn’t careful. He searched the courtyard for a good alcove in which he might be able to watch unobserved.

As he moved he wrapped a leather strap over the holes of the long flute and tied it off, hiding it in the moving folds of his cloak. The cold metal darts had been fashioned into an elaborate brooch that bounced dangerously, tantalizingly over his heart, the pin Rhapsody had commented on. He could feel the sharpness of the poisoned missiles sticking through the fine, thin Lirin ceremonial tunic he wore at Rial’s insistence. As he moved closer to the dais, the scent of the regular air thinned and gave way to the acrid odor of the F’dor. It stood out in the open air of the courtyard much more vividly than it would have in any basilica.

Achmed drew the scent into his throat and across his palms. He closed his eyes and sought to match his heartbeat to that of the F’dor and hold it this time. At once he had it, beating in rhythm with his own, but it was still impossible to tell who it belonged to in the swelling crowd. The tension of the occasion mingled with the incense and the overabundance of rich fragrances worn by the emissaries from over a dozen different lands. He fought to tease out the ancient scent from all the ephemeral ones, to trust in his blood to feel the threads that tied the nightmares of this world to the horror of the last. Intently he tasted for that bitter tang and felt for the fearsome beat. He locked his own on to it.

Tristan Steward and the Prince of Sorbold had each kissed Rhapsody’s hand and wished her well, moving off the platform and into the circle of their own guards. The Patriarch and his five benisons were approaching her now, each ready to bless her as well.

Suddenly Achmed’s heart lurched, and he could see for a moment through the demon’s eyes. It must be in the Patriarch’s group, or near enough to her to touch her; only the other members of the honor guard were close enough.

At the same time his eyes melded with those of the F’dor he could see into its mind as well. There was no intent here to assassinate; it had come to bind the new queen to itself, to enchant her. He could feel it ready to spring, focused, hungry, to possess Rhapsody as it had bound the others. Given the choice, he knew she would have vastly preferred death.

Fear coursed through him and his momentary tie with the demon vanished; it was all Achmed could do to suppress a shout at Rhapsody to run, and take whatever risks would come from revealing themselves to it in this crowd of victims. It would be useless to do so, however; it was like trying to get a bride’s attention from across a town square in the moments right after her wedding. He had to come up with another way to stop the F’dor from getting too close, preferably without letting it know he had discovered it.

He steadied himself, chasing the elusive threads of identity through the currents of air, over the landscape of the wind. The voice of the Grandmother, his Dhracian instructor in the thrall ritual, spoke in his mind. Let your identity die.

Achmed nodded infinitesimally, willing his heartbeat to slow. Within your mind, call to each of the four winds. Chant each name, then anchor it to one of your fingers.

Eien, Achmed thought. The north wind, the strongest. He opened his first throat and hummed the name; the sound echoed through his chest and the first chamber of his heart. He held up his index finger; the sensitive skin of its dp tingled as a draft of air wrapped around it.

Jahne, he whispered in his mind. The south wind, the most enduring. With his second throat he called to the next wind, committing the second heart chamber. Around his tallest finger he could sense the anchoring of another thread of air. When both vibrations were clear and strong he went on, opening the other two throats, the other two heart chambers. .Leuk. The west wind, the wind of justice. Thas. The east wind. The wind of morning; the wind of death. A net of wind.

Hear, O guardian, and look upon your destiny: The one who hunts also will stand guard, the one who sustains also will abandon, the one who heals also will kill, the Zephyr, the last Dhracian sage, had said in the last Dhracian prophecy. Beware the Sleepwalker, for Blood will be the means to find that which hides from the wind.

Time to stop hiding, Achmed thought silently. Come out and play, you bastard.

He cast the invisible net outward, toward the place where he had felt the demonic rhythm. Around him the sensitive nerves of his face felt the stinging breeze die down for a moment as the winds knotted together in a snare.

Then the scent, the heartbeat, the position all came together.

He had found the F’dor.

Now that he had finally identified the demon’s host he knew he could get a clean shot off, but without any weapon to follow the first strike, it was likely there would not be a single survivor in this entire assemblage should he yield to the screams of his blood, his nature, and fire the blowgun into its back. His dart might be fatal to the human but it would not kill the demon. It would either flee the dying body of the host or turn and destroy everyone, starting with Rhapsody, unarmed in her beautiful gown. He tried to make eye contact with Grunthor as he raised the blowgun.

“Bye, Father,” he whispered as he put the flute to his lips.

Grunthor, for his part, had seen Achmed move, swinging the flute down out of sight. He was close enough to Rhapsody to touch her in one step; he could easily step between her and any threat he saw or sensed. Achmed’s movement disturbed him, but he suspected he was the only one on the dais who had noticed. Rhapsody herself had only looked to her honor guard once, when the contingent from Gwynwood had approached.

The Sergeant tried to discern the nature of the threat and of whom Achmed was suspicious. He looked carefully at each of the two princes at the head of the line. They greeted the queen and stepped down without obvious incident. The next group was that of the Patriarch and a handful of his benisons.

Again, Grunthor tried to read the faces and movements of the guests, but saw no weapons or hostility evident. The Patriarch was a special favorite of Rhapsody’s. He was very frail, and depended on many hands to keep his organization and himself alive. Rhapsody had defended him against the Rakshas some months back, and had said that she thought the F’dor might have been involved in the attack. It seemed unlikely that he was either himself possessed by the demon or able to detect it.

Grunthor looked quickly for Achmed again and could not find him.

Rhapsody was embracing the Patriarch emotionally; he was whispering a blessing into her ear.

Delight came over her face as she gently released him and their eyes met. They smiled at each other.

The Patriarch stepped back with the support of his benisons to let them make their personal greetings.

Suddenly he jerked sharply and collapsed into the benisons’ arms.

A unified gasp rose from the crowd.

Grunthor reacted like lightning and interposed himself between Rhapsody and the commotion. He knew that men did not fall that way when something inside broke, and silently cursed Achmed’s timing. Even though he could not see him, he knew the assassin’s work.

“Step back, Yer Majesty,” he said gently; he could feel her lifted off the ground as Anborn spun behind him and swung her to the back of the dais, adding his own body as a layer between her and the crowd. Grunthor, satisfied that she was out of the way, waded into the small flock of horrified benisons clustered around the body.

“Ere,” he said roughly, “let me.” Swiftly and effortlessly he lifted the dying Patriarch and moved him from the floor to a table several steps away where gifts of state had been set. With a sweeping action of his elbow the table was cleared and the old man settled on the surface like a feather coming to rest, the heavy dart from the back of his neck removed without a trace. As Grunthor had hoped, all of the benisons followed, praying for and ministering to their fallen leader as soon as they arrived, several of them in tears.

Lanacan Orlando, the Blesser of Bethe Corbair, was the first there, whispering words of comfort. He began immediately ministering to the dying man, checking his heart and wrists. Philabet Griswold and Nielash Mousa were next; both shoved the first benison aside and began immediately whispering in either of the dying man’s ears, pleading with him to come to con sciousness long enough to name his successor. Abernathy and Ian Steward stared blindly at the commotion, Abernathy muttering prayers under his breath.

Orlando angrily moved Mousa out of the way and went back to his ministrations. Frustration seemed to hamper his movements; his famed power of healing was not working. He checked the old man’s breast, opened the robe particularly wide, felt his wrist, and became more agitated and irritated than resigned as the fact of imminent death became obvious.

“Stand back.” The voice, as clear as a bell, rang through the courtyard, sending the crowd into stunned silence. Rhapsody used Anborn to push through the benisons and moved directly to the Patriarch’s side as he rested on the table. Grunthor quickly cut off any approach from the other side. She looked to her chamberlain.

“Sylvia, get my harp immediately.”

The chamberlain tapped a page on the shoulder and pointed; the young boy ran off at breakneck speed. The new queen bent over the frail man, who was curled like a baby bird fallen out of the nest, and took his hand.

“Your Grace, have you anything to say to these men?” She nodded at the benisons. The old man blinked his eyes; with great effort he shook his head. He reached shakily inside his robe and felt around awkwardly, then pulled out a parchment scroll and placed it in her hand. “Very well; Anborn, please escort the various benisons to a place they can pray undisturbed.”

The Cymrian warrior stepped in front of the table and herded the benisons into a close, protesting mass. He walked forward, moving them out of the way, ignoring their arguments for access to their dying leader.

The Patriarch gestured wordlessly at the scroll in Rhapsody’s hand. She held it up before his eyes.

“Do you want me to read this aloud?” she asked quietly. The Patriarch nodded.

“Very well,” she said. She gently released his hand that was clutching her own in the rictus of impending death and unrolled the scroll.

“Hear me,” she said; her voice carried the timbre of a Namer. “I hereby herald the last missive of the Patriarch of Sepulvarta. It states: in the matter of succession, let the Ring and the Scales decide.”

The crowd began to murmur as the benisons, to a one, stood in shocked silence, turning alternate shades of angry red or ghostly pale. A moment later the page returned with Rhapsody’s harp; he held it aloft and it was passed from hand to hand until it reached Anborn, who gave it to the queen.

“Grunthor, can you help me up here?” she asked, pointing to the table. The Bolg lifted her easily off the ground and onto the tabletop, where she sat and drew the Patriarch’s head and shoulders into her lap. She made him as comfortable as she could and began to play softly, struggling to keep the tears out of her eyes. The old man smiled at her. At last he spoke.

“I—I’m sorry, my child,” he rasped, struggling to breathe. “I didn’t know it would—come now. I didn’t—mean to ruin—

“You’ve ruined nothing,” Rhapsody said reassuringly. “Singing your dirge and witnessing your Last Words is an honor for me. I will herald them, and add them to the lore, so that they will live forever, and your memory through them. That we are together as you leave for the light is the best gift you could give me. Rest.” She stopped playing long enough to brush the shock of silver hair out of the eyes that were clouding over, reflecting the sun. Then she began plucking the strings of the harp again, crooning a sweet, wordless melody.

The Patriarch’s breathing became labored. Rhapsody had seen enough death to know that it was at hand; she bent down to his ear and one tear fell from her glistening green eyes onto his face.

“My Last Words—speak them for me,” he whispered. “You—know them.”

“Yes,” she said in return. She put her hand on the dying man’s chest, and let his voice sound through her own, deep, rich and resonant as it must have sounded in his youth.

“Above all else, may you know joy.”

A blissful smile came over the cleric’s face, and he closed his eyes. Rhapsody’s song became stronger, and when he drew his last breath she began the Lirin Song of Passage, singing as sweetly as she could for the old man who loved the sound of the harp.

The cloudy day became slightly brighter as the bonds of the Earth loosened, just for a moment, long enough to allow the soul of the Patriarch to pass easily through. Except for the tiny surge of sunlight, the crowd was unaware of its passage, but Rhapsody could see it, and she blew a kiss skyward. Then she looked over at the benisons, standing in stunned silence off in the corner. Ian Steward and Colin Abernathy were clutching each other’s hands, trembling and pale; Lanacan Orlando stood silent, his face a stoic mask, while Philabet Griswold and Nielash Mousa were barely in control of their rage.

“Your Graces, one and all, perhaps this would be a good time to lead us all in prayer.”

Achmed poured himself an extra-large glass of Canderian whiskey, and passed the bottle to Grunthor. The Sergeant looked at his king for a moment, then put the bottle to his bulbous lips and took a swig.

The day had been a nightmarish one. Rhapsody’s skills as a Namer had served to keep the frightened assemblage calm, and she had stayed in the courtyard well past midnight, comforting those in mourning and greeting each of the well-wishers who had come to witness her coronation. Now she was taking a bath, hoping to wash away the effects of the chaos that had been her coronation ceremony. Her Firbolg friends sat before the fire in her chambers, discussing the next move before she came out again.

“You don’t think she noticed the dart?” Achmed took another deep swallow, clenching his teeth as the burning liquid ripped down his gullet.

“Definitely not,” said Grunthor, taking another swig. “She thinks the old goat dropped dead on ’is own, as ’e said ’e was gonna months ago.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way. I doubt she would appreciate it if she knew her friend’s death was a diversion.” He saw a scowl cross Grunthor’s face, but the giant said nothing.

A moment later Rhapsody came into the main chamber in her dressing gown, her hair wet, with a drying cloth in her hand. She went to the fire, which crackled as she approached, and bent over before it, drying her hair with the drying cloth. Finally she shook her head, the semi-dry tresses falling around her face, rosy from the bath and the firelight. Then she came to Grunthor and took the bottle out of his hands, taking a swig and handing it back to him. She sat on his knee.

“Soon no one is going to want to come to any party I give,” she said. Grunthor chuckled; Achmed merely smiled. Her eyes darkened. “Thank you both for all your help today. I would never have made it through without you.”

“It was a little worse than you think,” Achmed said, swallowing the rest of his whiskey and pouring himself another splash. “Our friend from the Vault of the Underworld decided to come to your party.” Rhapsody looked at him questioningly. “I discovered who the F’dor is today.”

Rhapsody sat straight up, almost falling off Grunthor’s knee. “Who?”

Achmed set his glass down. His face grew solemn in the firelight. “Lanacan Orlando, the Blesser of Bethe Corbair.”

“Are you certain?” she asked, her eyes widening.

“Absolutely. I could smell him when the Patriarch’s contingent got out of the carriage. I traced him and caught his heartbeat; it’s him, the demonic knob.”

Rhapsody leaned back against Grunthor’s shoulder, deep in thought. “Well, that makes some sense. The Patriarch said Lanacan was the priest he would send to heal the injured and bless the armies; that gave him access to them when they were completely open to him. He could bind them as he was blessing them, planting the seed for them to erupt in murder later on, that bastard. Oelendra suspected Anborn because he had the very same kind of access.”

“

“E’s been on our bloody doorstep all this time,” muttered Grunthor as Achmed took the whiskey bottle and poured another glass. “No wonder ’e volunteered to be our personal cleric. Thank goodness we Bolg are godless pagans on our way to eternal damnation in the Afterlife.”

Achmed nodded. “Well, the good news is that I don’t believe he knows we’re on to him. The Patriarch’s timely, er, untimely demise covered my finding out, so we didn’t have to move against him.”

“Yeah, what a coincidence,” muttered Grunthor. Achmed shot him an acid glance.

Rhapsody was looking puzzled. “Something still doesn’t make sense to me,” she said, taking another sip from the bottle. “I know that the benison holds services every week in the basilica in Bethe Corbair. All the benisons do, each in his own See, except for Colin Abernathy, because the Nonaligned States don’t have a basilica. Those basilicas are sanctified ground, blessed by the elements themselves; I can’t believe it is within the power of even the mightiest demon to circumvent something like that. If he were to desecrate the holy ground in some way to allow himself to be able to even stand on it would be resanctified immediately by whatever element it is consecrated to.”

“Do you remember what element the basilica in Bethe Corbair is dedicated to?”

Rhapsody thought for a moment, retracing her conversation with Lord Stephen. “I think it’s the wind,” she said at last. “Of course it is. Remember the sound of all those beautiful bells? You could hear them everywhere in the town.”

“It’s ’ard to get around that,” Grunthor said. “But, o’ course, nothin’ is impossible.”

“Right,” said Rhapsody. “So what do we do now?”

“Well, Grunthor and I are leaving tonight or tomorrow to follow his caravan back,” said Achmed, downing his remaining whiskey. “I asked Sylvia to let you know when and if the benisons take their leave; they should be easy to track.”

“What about me?” the new queen asked indignantly.

“You’re to stay here for the moment and get established in your new kingdom. If you leave immediately after being coronated it will arouse suspicion. We will scout to see what is going on; then we’ll come back here and plan the sortie to kill it. It should give you a few weeks to get things in order. Fair enough?”

“I suppose,” Rhapsody said, looking out the window. “Let’s not wait too long, though, all right? I don’t want the body count of innocents to be any higher than it already is.”

Grunthor and Achmed exchanged a glance. It was one higher than she realized.