Destiny: Child of the Sky

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.

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.

Tes, 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 braincase 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 wo.uld 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 sensation in the air around him; it clenched like the grip of a fist, and his heart, lungs, and chest were suddenly crushed 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 polearms 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.

What happened to Jo was not your fault. If anyone is to blame, it’s me.

He had come to her from the darkness, after Ashe had left. Maybe he had been stalking the Teeth as he had been when he found Jo.

Khaddyr’s smile was sickeningly knowing as he pointed at her abdomen.

Well, time will tell. We will see who is the whore of the demon.

The subsonic voice of the demon laughed once more. “And to think, all this time you didn’t know you were pregnant. Well, I suppose that’s fair; the seed was planted a long time ago, but it was the word I just spoke that made it begin to grow. Surely you didn’t think you were the only one with the ability of Naming, did you? No, certainly not—you’re far too modest, aren’t you, my dear? So charming. You will be a wonderful mother, Rhapsody, at least while the child is in your womb. It’s a shame that you won’t live through the delivery.”

The voice her in mind was replaced for a moment by Manwyn’s voice in her memory.

“Me an unnatural child born of an unnatural act. Rhapsody, you should beware of childbirth: the mother shall die, but the child shall live.

Her hands grew clammy, her grip on the sword loosened.

“Yes, my dear, it’s true. You are carrying my child, like the others. Only yours will favor his father more, I think; having been held as a dormant seed for so long, it has had the chance to steep in my blood, like the tea here on the altar. The more time that passes before the mother’s blood takes hold, the more its demonic nature gestates.”

Rhapsody began to tremble. Her time at the Rowans had been almost seven years; if there was any truth to the F’dor’s words, the child would be totally demonic.

“And isn’t it just a splendid irony: the beautiful star-mother, savior of lost children, patron saint of the demon-spawn, the Sky in the prophecy of the Three who comes from the Past itself to unite and heal the wounds of this orphaned population; you, Rhapsody, you will give birth to me again! It is you that will bring the F’dor back into this world. You are the doorway through which I will return, the one who will keep the evil alive. Oh, isn’t this rich! What could be more perfect?”

The sword clattered to the floor.

Grunthor stared at her; Rhapsody’s face was colorless, her eyes wide and staring blindly, almost the way Jo’s had looked in the moment of her death. She shook uncontrollably, her hands moving to her abdomen.

He could feel the demon’s strength growing as each second passed. He looked wildly over at Achmed, who was beginning to sweat from the exertion of maintaining the Thrall ritual. No sound came from the benison, but a smile was creeping over his elderly face, a face with eyes that burned like the fires of the Underworld, staring maniacally now at Rhapsody.

Beneath his feet the Earth began to tremble; when it began to scream Grunthor could feel it, its pain running like acid through his veins. He knew instinctually that something was very wrong; the tide was turning against them, and he didn’t have any idea why.

The sleeves on his arms began to feel warm; within seconds they were on the verge on igniting into flame. Agony seared him, burning his skin where it was touching the monster. The old man had begun to thicken, it seemed; the fragile elderly body was becoming more tensile and ferociously strong as each second passed. The stench of the grave issued forth from the benison’s mouth, choking him, burning his eyes.

Grunthor’s heart was pounding loudly, its rhythm counterbalanced by a fear he had never experienced. He knew in a moment the beast would shatter his arms.

And then be free.

He grunted in pain as the cloth of his shirt began to smolder, trying to keep his eyes clear of the acrid smoke. He looked over at Achmed and gasped.

The Dhracian had sunk to his knees; blood was pouring from his nose and ears. His normally swarthy skin was pale as death, and his limbs trembled violently in the effort to maintain the Thrall ritual. He was gasping for air, the sounds from his shredded throats coming out gargled and unsteady. The veins in his neck vibrated, ready to explode. As panic began to consume him, his eyes darted back to Rhapsody.

She was staring at the benison, her face shiny with sweat, her eyes soulless, staring into another place.

Gods, he thought, the bastard’s enthralling ’er.

“Yer Ladyship?” he choked, trying to catch her eye. Rhapsody stared right past him, her eyes locked with the demon’s. The metallic taste of blood was in his mouth.

He could feel his strength waning, knew that any second the demon would break free. His head was pounding with the sounds of dark voices chanting and the pressure of his own blood.

A thud and the sound of metal against stone; Achmed had fallen to the ground, prone, blood pooling beneath his chin. His chant had grown almost too weak to hear, his upraised hand trembled, threatening to close. His forehead was creased in chasms that throbbed visibly, ready to burst.

His last sight of Achmed vanished in a curtain of black as his own blood came to a boil; with the impact of a battering ram the demon broke free, tossing him across the basilica and slamming him into the sanctuary wall.

Woozily he put his hand to his head, trying to stanch the agony. He fought the unconsciousness that was threatening to close in, letting fury take its place. Grunthor reached into the part of his soul that was tied to the earth. The marble floor and the ground beneath it, so recently tainted, hummed in response.

“Old ’im for me, he thought.

Even from across the sanctuary he could feel the earth below the demon’s feet soften. The pain in his head ebbed at the sight of the benison, now sinking into the mud that a moment before was marble, struggling to maintain his own concentration now. The maniacal gleam in his eye faltered, and the smile dimmed as he tried to pull free.

Grunthor inhaled deeply as the earth hardened again, trapping the demon. He could see that Achmed had only a few more moments in which he would be able to maintain the Thrall ritual.

He turned on his knees and crawled to a stand, using the wall, stained with his own blood, as support, then lumbered back to the inner sanctuary and grasped the benison’s arms again.

The demon didn’t even struggle. It turned its full gaze onto Rhapsody, its eyes boring holes in her soul.

The voice in her ear grew louder.

“Ah, Rhapsody, I can see you’re happy; you’ve always loved children, haven’t you? And to think you feared that you were barren, didn’t you? I know what’s in your heart, you know; I can see your deepest secrets, because I am in there, too. You really should be more careful for whom you spread your legs, my dear; sometimes what they leave behind is more than the momentary pleasure is worth.”

The warm voice sank even deeper into her ears.

Now, come to me.

Against her will, she took a step forward.

Her mind began to scream in agony. She fought the sound of the sweet voice, blinking to drive the words out from behind her eyes, but found her hands frozen. Involuntarily she took another step forward.

That’s right, the benison’s voice encouraged gently. Come to me, Rhapsody.

Within her heart the words resonated. There was a comfort there, a security. The benison would not harm her. She longed to obey his command. A desire, primal, almost sexual in nature, flushed through her, heating her blood. She took another step.

Come to me, dear one, the voice encouraged; the tone like that of a lover. Warmth surrounded her, like the darkness of a mutual bed. Rhapsody felt a thrill run up her spine, leaving her skin tingling.

Come to me, the father of your child, indeed, your child itself. I am both, your child and, your child’s father, and you love me. Together we have made this child. You would never hurt your own child, would you?

She shook her head.

No, of course not. Come, bring me the sword—

!” Grunthor bellowed, shattering the benison’s words. “Get your pretty ’ead out o’ your arse and pay attention, or Oi’ll rip it off and stick it on my poleaxe!” voice of her first trainer was like a beacon in the deepening darkness; it brought Rhapsody out of her trance and drove the silent utterances of the demon from her mind. An older, far more entrenched loyalty roared through her, evaporating the momentary possession the demon’s words had anchored in her mind. The voice of the Sergeant rang through her clearly.

She was sworn to him. She had named him long ago.

The Lord of Deadly Weapons.

Her friend.

The Ultimate Authority, to Be Obeyed at All Costs.

She shook her head as if shaking off sleep, then looked to the floor next to her where Daystar Clarion lay, smoldering impotently. She bent and picked up the sword, then rose and strode purposefully across the marble floor of the sanctuary. The eyes of the benison widened in fear.

The blade of the sword sprang to life in her hand, and the shimmering flame leapt as she doubled her grip. Rhapsody raised the sword over her head, point down. The demon struggled against the bonds of Grunthor’s massive arms, but it was a futile effort. Next to her, Rhapsody could hear the strange music of Achmed’s Thrall ritual grow louder, and Grunthor’s voice emerged from behind the benison.

“

“At’s a girl; Oi got ’im, Yer Ladyship. A good clean blow, now.”

The demon looked into her face and saw no fear there, just a serene, deadly calm. As their eyes met, understanding passed between them.

I will see you soon, the benison said in her mind.

“Perhaps sooner than you think,” Rhapsody replied.

She drove the ancient sword, the weapon of kings and champions, the blade that had slain invincible enemies and united a nation, deep into the heart of the demon, and pulled it down with all her strength to split the chest and sever the base of the spine. The noxious, caustic stench of the F’dor billowed out of the benison’s body as burning blood splashed the sanctuary steps.

Lying prone on the marble floor of the sanctuary, Achmed slowly raised his head. His upstretched hand, around which the net of the four winds was anchored, began to smoke as a spray of the burning, black-red blood spattered the palm. His thin lips pulled back in a grin despite his agony. A gurgling laugh mixed with the sound of the Thrall ritual.

Just as I have your blood on my hands now, one day I will have it so again.

The demon screamed; it sounded more of fury than pain, and it clawed wildly at Rhapsody as she twisted Daystar Clarion in its abdominal cavity and pulled it free. Grunthor strained from the exertion of holding it in place; the benison managed only to look up into Rhapsody’s eyes with a glare of blistering cold before the giant Firbolg hoisted its bleeding body out of the marble floor of the basilica. He looked at her and they exchanged a nod. Then, with all his strength, Grunthor heaved the twitching carcass onto the altar beneath the opening in the ceiling.

At the same moment Rhapsody summoned starfire from the heavens through the open bell tower.

With a ferocious roar the ethereal flames descended onto the altar, blasting the Three back out of the sanctuary and consuming it. The screams of the demon were inaudible over the noise of the firestrike, but Rhapsody could feel them in her mind. The human form twisted and shriveled for a moment before disappearing in the blinding fire. Then, seconds later, everything was as it had been before, albeit blackened from the flame.

Rhapsody stared at the burned-out sanctuary, seeking any sign of survival, any piece that might have been spared by the starfire, but saw nothing but smoke and ash. In the distance the bells of the town began tolling urgently, and panicked voices could be heard in the night.

Grunthor opened his arms, and Rhapsody ran into his embrace, holding on to him with all her remaining strength. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she gasped.

“Why? You did great, darlin’, just like Oi taught you. You lost focus for a moment, but that ’appens to the best o’ us, eh, sir?”

From the floor where he lay Achmed weakly raised his head. “It certainly does.” He was watching her closely, even as Grunthor pulled him to a stand, then wrapped a supportive arm around him.

“Come on, Yer Ladyship,” Grunthor urged, putting her down. He took her gently but insistently by the arm. Rhapsody stopped long enough to wipe the blood from the floor and the wall with her cloak, then followed them through the vestry, stepping over Gittleson’s body and into the street, where they waited in the darkness to join the throng of townspeople hurrying to see what had happened in the basilica.

Some hours later, when the sexton had finally cleared the basilica and locked the doors, the Three emerged from the shadows to examine the sanctuary again. Rhapsody closed her eyes and listened for the music of the bells, which still tolled the all-clear that had been ringing for almost an hour. It was sweet and in tune, with a clarity she knew indicated that the wind was passing through the bell tower freely again.

“It’s clear,” she said to her companions. “The ground is being resanctified. How does it feel, Grunthor?”

“It’s ’ard to tell yet, but the taint is definitely dissipatin,” he said, bending to touch the floor. “Oi’d say it’s gettin’ there; guess those bells need the clappers back to fix it totally proper. Now, you, miss; ’ow are you doin’? You ’ad me worried for a moment, you know.”

She reached out her arms, and her gigantic friend lifted her off the ground in a relieved embrace. “I’m fine. I really am,” she said, looking down into his amber eyes.

“Oi’m not sure Oi believe you.”

“Well, you should.” Rhapsody hugged Grunthor tightly for a few moments more, then reached up and kissed his monstrous cheek. “Grunthor, will you go and see about an exit route now? I have to talk to Achmed alone.”

Grunthor looked at Achmed, who nodded. “All right, Yer Ladyship, Oi suppose Oi can take care o’ that if you want.” He set her down gently and patted her head, then headed down the marble steps of the sanctuary.

“Grunthor?”

He turned and looked back at her. “Yes’m?”

“I love you.”

A wide smile crossed his broad face. “The feelin’s mutual, miss.” He clicked his heels and turned once more for the door of the basilica.

Rhapsody waited until the giant Bolg had left the church, then looked at the Firbolg king. There was a look of amusement on his face that vanished when she turned to him. She studied his eyes intently, and as she did the pain and fear she was feeling crept back into her own. Achmed saw.it immediately.

He took her into his arms, and Rhapsody clung tightly to him, trembling. Wordlessly he passed his hand over her back, waiting for her to speak. She could tell without doing so that he understood fully the depths of her fright. He held her for a long time, and the immediacy of the panic passed.

“You know,” she said when she looked up again, “we really are two sides of the same coin.”

“I know.”

She nodded, lost in thought for a moment. Then she looked into his face again.

“Is there a limit to what you would do for me if I asked?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.” She moved out of his arms and down the steps of the sanctuary, her arms clutching her middle as she stared over the vast space of the basilica at the candelabras burning down into darkness. She sat on the step, to be joined by Achmed a moment later. They waited in silence for a long while, watching the basilica darken, listening to the noise of the crowd outside die down.

I just -want it to be over. I just want to sleep peacefully again.

You want it to be over—it will never be over, Rhapsody.

Finally she looked at him, and her eyes were shining, but not with her customary emotions.

“In the old world, in the course of practicing your profession, did you ever have occasion to kill quickly, with little pain?”

“Yes. That was how I tried to do it most of the time.”

“Of course, it would be.” She looked away again and her eyes scanned the damage in the balcony and to the benches. “I may have need of your services soon, after the Cymrian Council.”

Achmed nodded. “For whom?”

Rhapsody looked him directly in the eye. “Myself.”

Achmed nodded again. He understood.