Prophecy: Child of Earth

30

Hours later, the bottle of Canderian brandy Rhapsody had bought for Achmed was empty.

“Did you happen to gain any insight into the mystery of who the host of the F’dor might be while you were gone?” The Firbolg king tossed the empty decanter into the fire.

“A little. I think I figured out what happened to Gwylliam based on what Oelendra told me. Do you remember that other body we found with his in the library, the one we thought was a guard?” The two Bolg nodded. “That was probably the host of the F’dor, the one that actually killed him. The host would have been far less formidable than Gwylliam himself, which is why the king was able to kill the guard before he succumbed to death himself. Remember how you suspected at the time there was a second guard?” Achmed and Grunthor nodded simultaneously again. “Well, undoubtedly there was. He or she was the innocent witness. And when the F’dor’s host died at Gwylliam’s hand, the demon-spirit took possession of the second guard and left the vault.”

Achmed nodded. “Makes sense.”

“I wish I could have found out who it is now,” Rhapsody said regretfully. “Oelendra actually has seen F’dor in a human host before, and has been looking more than a thousand years for this one with no luck. But I did find a few clues.”

“Such as?”

“Well, I’m fairly certain the second assassin in the basilica that night was the F’dor. I got the same vibrational reading from it that I did from the Rakshas. I assume that was a factor of them having the same blood.”

Achmed nodded. “Sounds right. Did you see any distinguishing marks?”

“I didn’t see his face, he was wearing a helmet. But I had seen the helmet itself, or one like it, before. It had horns on it. Do you remember when I rode out to meet the Lord Roland to sign the peace treaty?”

“Yes.”

“There was a benison there, the Blesser of Canderre-Yarim. He wore a horned helmet, and a sun symbol like the F’dor in the old world wore, although I couldn’t see the stone in the amulet up close.”

“That’s the uniform of the officers and nobility in Yarim. The ambassador wore the same type of tiling when their delegation visited.”

“Hmmm. I haven’t been to Yarim yet, but it’s got a reputation as a decadent place. That’s where Manwyn the Oracle, the Seer of the Future, lives.”

“Tell me about the benison,” said Achmed.

“He’s Tristan Steward’s younger brother, the newest of the five Orlandan benisons, and the weakest. I doubt he has much of a chance at the Patriarchy, given his ties to Bethany and his lack of experience.”

“Perhaps killing the old goat was the only way he could assure the title. If that ring contains the office, maybe Ian Steward’s plan was to take it from the Patriarch when he was vulnerable in the midst of his religious rite.”

“Maybe,” said Rhapsody uncertainly. “You know, it’s hard for me to imagine that a clergyman of that visibility could be the demon’s host. They spend so much of their time in the basilicas, on holy ground, that it seems impossible for them to be both demon and benison. The power of those sacred places would certainly thwart a demon, even an old-world one. The F’dor, if that’s what it was, couldn’t enter the basilica at Sepulvarta. It had to stop in the nave. The best it could do was throw a fiery shield to let the Rakshas escape.”

“Then maybe it’s one of the Orlandan nobles that the benisons share power with,” Achmed said, resting his hand on his chin. “If there was a tug of war between the clergy and the state, who would have been on the other end of the rope from the Patriarch?”

“That would be our old friend, the Lord Roland, Tristan Steward.”

“Ah, yes,” said Achmed, smiling. “Well, we can hope it’s him.”

“Why?”

“I hardly need to remind you what a dolt he is.”

“True.”

“But that could also be an act. F’dor are particularly good at deception. They can be as convincing as a Namer speaking truly, but their medium is the combination of lies, half-lies and a judiciously rare usage of the absolute truth.”

Rhapsody shuddered. “No wonder it felt at home among the Cymrians.”

“What makes you think it’s got to be someone powerful?” asked Grunthor finally. “Why wouldn’t it just stay out of sight?”

“It could be someone who is not in the public eye, but is still very powerful,” agreed Rhapsody. “The way the thing works is to bind itself to someone who is as powerful as it is or less; it can’t possess a soul of greater strength than its own. It uses that lifetime to grow in capacity, then takes over a newer, younger life of equal vitality. Given that it almost destroyed Ashe without breathing hard, I would say it’s a fair guess that it is almost at the apex of its power. Whatever else you think of Ashe, Achmed, you have to admit he’s someone to be reckoned with.”

“Yes, he is.” Achmed leaned against the wall. “I still think it’s Llauron.”

“Llauron is Ashe’s father.”

“So? If it’s the demon, it wouldn’t care who was standing in the way, even his son.”

“That’s not the point. Because Llauron has a son, it can’t be him, remember? ‘It shall bind to no body that has borne or sired children, nor can it ever do so, lest its power be further dispersed.’”

Achmed sighed. “You are assuming that what you think you know is true. Perhaps Ashe is a bastard; I’d lay a wager on that one. Believe me, Rhapsody, the depths of deception possible are beyond your comprehension. It’s probably better if you don’t even try to understand it.”

Rhapsody rose and gathered her things. “You’re probably right,” she said, kissing Achmed on the cheek. “I think it’s better for me to just decide how things are going to work out, and then they will. In a day or two I’ll go with you to the Loritorium, and to the Colony, to see if I can help with the Sleeping Child. Then I’ll let you know what comes to pass with Ashe. Now, if we’re finished, I think I’ll look in on the hospice. Is there anyone in pain who needs to be sung to?”

Achmed rolled his eyes. “As far as I’m concerned, there never is anyone who needs that,” he muttered.

Grunthor looked at him seriously. “Oi’d ’ave to take exception to that, sir,” he said. Rhapsody had once sung him back from the brink of death.

“That’s different,” the king scowled. “No one’s dying currently. She’s talking about easing the pain of Bolg with minor injuries. It’s a waste of time, and it makes them feel awkward.”

Rhapsody chuckled as she gathered the debris. “You know, Grunthor, you could help with the healing as well. You like to sing.”

The Sergeant’s expression was both amused and doubtful. “Oi believe you’ve ’eard the content o’ my songs, miss,” he said, scratching his head. “Generally they tend to be more on the threatnin’ side. And Oi don’t think anyone’s ever gonna mistake me for a Singer. Oi certainly got no trainin’ in it.”

“Content makes no difference at all,” Rhapsody said seriously. “It can be any kind of song. What matters is their belief in you. The Bolg have given you their allegiance. You’re their version of ‘The Last Word, to Be Obeyed at All Costs.’ In a way, they’ve named you. It doesn’t matter what you sing, just that you expect them to get well. And they will. I’ve always maintained the Achmed will do the same for me one day.” The Firbolg king rolled his eyes.

The giant rose. “All right, then, Yer Ladyship, Oi’ll go with you,” he said. “I can treat the troops to a few choruses of ‘Leave No Limb Unbroken’.”

The ambassador blinked nervously. The voice that spoke was light and pleasant, in marked contrast to the look in the red-rimmed eyes.

“Well, that was an unpleasant surprise; I do loathe surprises. But I’m sure there is a very reasonable explanation. Perhaps you’d like to enlighten me, Gittleson. Now, if I remember correctly, in the report of your ambassadorial call to the court of Ylorc you said that each of the Three was there when you visited, is that not so?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And when I quizzed you on what constituted the Three, you told me that it was the Firbolg king, his giant guard, and a young blond woman, am I right? That’s what you saw i|i Canrif?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Gittleson repeated apprehensively. “That was my report.”

“Well, that is the correct answer. It seems you did in fact meet the Three.

And yet when we arrived in Sepulvarta, one of them was there waiting for us in the basilica. Now, Gittleson, how could that be?”

“I don’t know, Your Grace.”

“Did she fly there, do you suppose? Hmmm?” The red tinge at the edge of his eyes darkened to the color of blood.

“I—I—I can’t explain that, Your Grace. I’m sorry.”

“And you positioned your escort so that they were watching the mountain pass, and the road out of Ylorc, as I instructed?”

“Yes, Your Grace. She did not leave the Firbolg realm alone or with the mail caravan. I don’t understand how she could have gotten to Sepulvarta before you. It seems—quite—impossible.” His words ground to an impotent halt under the withering stare from the icy blue eyes.

“And yet, Gittleson, she was there, wasn’t she, my son?”

A third voice spoke, a pleasant baritone, warm as honey. “Yes, indeed.”

“Your Grace, I—” A hand raised, and Gittleson fell silent, his protest choked off in mid-word.

“Do you have any idea what this setback has cost us?” The voice had lost its cultured edge, and now had grown icy, a cold, threatening whisper.

“She—she seemed as if she could pose no threat to anyone, Your Grace,” the ambassador stammered. Two sets of Cymrian-blue eyes stared at him, then looked to one another in silence. After what seemed like forever, the holy man spoke.

“You are an even bigger fool than I imagined, Gittleson,” he said, the aristocratic tone returning to his voice. “A blind man couldn’t miss the immense innate power in that woman. How could you possibly misjudge her so badly?”

“Perhaps he hasn’t,” said the Rakshas thoughtfully. “I would think that even Gittleson could not have been this wrong about her. In fact, I tend to think he would have stood, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, abusing himself if he had gotten within sight of her.” Gittleson swallowed the insult, grateful for the possible salvation that lay behind it. “Besides, if you had thought to ask me, I could have told you that she was in Tyrian not all that long ago.”

The reddened eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

“How old was the woman you saw?” the Rakshas asked the ambassador.

“Quite young,” Gittleson said hesitantly. “A girl, really. Perhaps fifteen or sixteen.”

The elder man sat forward. “Describe her further.”

“Thin, with pale blond hair. Sallow skin. Unremarkable in all ways, except for a quick touch with a dagger—she was playing mumblety-peg with one.”

Across from him the two faces contorted, one in a scowl, the other in a smirk. After a moment the holy man sat back in his desk chair.

“And if I were to tell you, Gittleson, that the woman in the basilica was painfully beautiful with a soul of elemental fire—

“She isn’t the one I saw in Ylorc, Your Grace.”

“Now, you see, Gittleson, you are already ahead of me. You have reached the same conclusion I was about to put forward.” The holy man poured himself a snifter of brandy.

“The Three rescued a girl from the House of Remembrance that fits your description,” said the Rakshas. “That’s probably who you saw.” He turned to his master. “Perhaps I should pay her a visit. We spent some time together; I think she was somewhat enamored of me, actually.”

“Has she seen your face?”

“Not fully. She might have caught a glimpse. I would be happy to look into it, Father, if you’d like. She’s undoubtedly our best chance to get back into the mountain.”

“Do that, but be careful. The Firbolg king is wily, and he may sense you far better than you think. Oh, and while you’re at it, I think it’s time to move our plan into its next phase. Take care of that while you’re there as well.”