Destiny: Child Of Sky (10 page)

He listened. A moment later he could hear them coming, footfalls and sounds of alarm approaching from the journeymen's quarters.

Achmed looked quickly around the room, gauging the shadows. A deep one hovered near the farthest kiln, next to which stood rows of pottery in various stages of firing, forming a dark labyrinth. He ducked into the shadow as the pounding of boots drew nearer.

Into the room spilled a cadre of men, more than a dozen, many heavyset, most of them trying to adjust sleep-blind eyes to the destruction in the firing room. Those at the head of the group exclaimed in shock at the upended cauldron and the oozing hill of hardening slip that had been dumped onto the floor. From their initial exchanges Achmed could tell that they believed they had been summoned because of what seemed to be a disastrous accident.

Then they discovered Omet, bound and gagged behind the broken pallets.

During the pause that followed while the journeymen, now armed, searched the room, Achmed reached behind his back and silently drew his cwellan, the asymmetrical crossbow-like weapon of his own design, loading it with disks without a sound. He slid quietly along the wall near the maze of shelves, wanting to be in position as soon as the cadre realized he was there.

It took longer than he expected. Almost a full minute passed before the muttering came to an abrupt halt, and one of the thinner men made a dash for the bell.

Achmed stepped out of the shadow and fired, sending three razor-sharp disks, thin as butterfly wings but made of serrated steel, through the back of the would-be messenger's neck, severing his spine and all but decapitating him. The body spun in a half-circle to the ground, the blade he carried clattering against some of the stone molds on the dirt floor. Two more of the journeymen died a moment later, felled by the deadly disks. Then Achmed stepped back into the shadows once again.

Like rats when a lantern is suddenly unhooded the journeymen scattered, fleeing to all corners of the firing room. Achmed counted them silently; he had seen thirteen come in, and had dispatched three. Ten remained for him to deal with.

Odds he liked.

He crept quietly through the shadows that writhed on the wall leading up to the alcove, passing the place where the bound apprentice still remained behind the pallets. Achmed paused long enough to stare down at the boy, still hog-tied—the journeymen had not bothered to release him—and held a finger to his lips. The apprentice did not move or cry out, but merely blinked, signaling his understanding.

Slowly Achmed circumvented where the boy Rhapsody had called Omet sat, stepping around the broken pallets and the outer reaches of the new hill of mud.

The shadow of a man with a long knife lurked in the opening of the alcove, waiting for Achmed to pass so he could stab from behind.

Achmed leaned against the outer wall, listening to the ragged breathing of the journeyman on the other side of it. He measured the shadows from the fires of the four remaining vats of slip and the two open kilns, waiting until one particularly bright one flickered against the wall. As the light surged he passed his fist through it, casting an elongated shadow into the alcove.

As he expected, the journeyman lunged, taking a wide swipe at the shadow, missing any solid target but encountering Achmed's swift kick in the shins instead.

The man stumbled, then teetered on the edge of the well shaft, his eyes bulging wide. His arms circled wildly; then, losing his battle against the forces of gravity, he toppled headfirst into the well shaft. A shriek embarrassingly void of male characteristics followed him down, ending in an impressive crescendo of clattering pails and shattering pallets.

Rhapsody's voice echoed up the well shaft, distant.

'What's happening up there?"

Achmed pivoted and fired the cwellan into the far corner by the double doors, sending silvery disks spinning through the fireshadows, catching the light. A heavyset body slumped in the doorframe.

•'Dropped something,“ he called down the well. "Sorry. Keep going."

'Try to be quieter,“ the faraway voice echoed. "Someone will hear you."

Achmed stepped back over the bound apprentice and took cover behind the second kiln's open door near the labyrinth of shadows where he knew more of the journeymen lurked.

'Wouldn't want that," he said under his breath.

A growl of anger erupted behind him. Achmed ducked and dodged the charging man's attack, knocking him unconscious with a blow to the head.

-

He crouched behind a wire rack, waiting, stilling his breathing until it was almost nonexistent. These opponents posed so little challenge that he turned his mind to avoiding the waste of supplies. He would wait, patient, until the remaining seven were all positioned in simultaneous view.

One round for the rest of them, at the most two, he thought. Conserves disks that way.

When Rhapsody first crawled into the tunnel she felt no harkening back to their passage along the Root at all. Unlike the dank darkness of Sagia's sheath, which was uneven in its height and full of stringy, hairlike minor roots called radix, the catacomb had been carefully and evenly tiled, more closely resembling one of the aqueducts in Canrif, part of the enormous ventilation and water-collection system Gwylliam had designed and built into the mountain. In addition, the warm glow of Daystar Clarion's flames, burning low and steady above the murky water through which she was crawling, made the tunnel walls shine as bright as day.

She pushed all thoughts of confinement and depth out of her mind, concentrating instead on the ethereal light below the flames of the sword. So focused was she on the sword, so intent on keeping her panic in check, that she barely caught sight of the two glittering eyes in the distant darkness up ahead.

As soon as she saw them she stopped; the flames of the sword, deeply bonded to her through her tie to elemental fire, roared to life with her excitement.

A shriek of pain and fear echoed up the catacomb as the slave child, night blind from digging and living in the endless dark, covered his eyes and scurried away, sobbing in horror.

Quickly Rhapsody sheathed the sword, dousing the light, feeling remorse for not realizing what dread the glowing radiance might be bringing to those who lived in this place of endless night.

'It's all right,“ she called softly up the tunnel. "It's all right. I'm sorry."

Only silence and the sound of trickling water answered her.

Now blind herself, she felt along the died floor, conscious now of the rats that skittered along the edge of the tunnel, the snakes that swirled in the deepest parts of the flow, the worms. In the absence of the light the vermin began to return.

The smooth skin of a snake that darted over her hand put her in mind of the sluglike, carnivorous larvae that infested the root of Sagia, calling forth a deep shudder from within her memory. Rhapsody swallowed and crawled forward, struggling to see in the absolute blackness. Ahead of her she heard scuffling movements, larger than rats, she thought, but perhaps not just large rats.

Her internal bond to the sword, now housed in its scabbard of black ivory, seemed tentative, distant. Black ivory was an impenetrable material; no vibra tion passed through it, preventing anything held within a vessel made of the material from being scryed upon, an important measure of safety for the Ili-achenva'ar. The disadvantage was that the power of the sword did not reach her, did not tie its strength to her, as it did when Daystar Clarion was unsheathed in her grasp.

Tentatively Rhapsody passed a hand through the murky water on the floor ahead of her, shuddering inwardly again, and pressed forward. The walls of the tiled tunnel began to feel closer, tighter than they had in the light; in her ear she could hear her own voice whispering her confession to the giant Sergeant-Major, then a stranger, now one of her dearest friends, in the dank tunnel along the tree root.

I'm Lirin. We don't do well underground.

Oi can see that.

Her stomach rushed into her mouth, and she fought down her gorge as the world around her began to spin.

How did it feel to you? Elynsynos, the ancient dragon, had queried in her sonorous, multitoned voice. Were you, Lirin as you are, comfortable there, within the Earth, separated from the sky?

Her own reply came out in a whisper now, as it had then.

It was like a living death.

Her arms began to tremble. Balanced as she was on her hands and knees, her elbows shuddered under the strain, then buckled for a moment, causing her to lurch forward and splash, chest-first, into the fetid water, banging her chin on the wet tunnel floor.

Hurriedly she righted herself again. She wanted to shout to Achmed, as she had when the sword was still lighting the passageway, just to hear his voice, but realized immediately that she could not panic and call for help. The slave children hovering somewhere beyond her in the dark tunnel were still, for the moment, perhaps as frightened of her as she was of the catacomb, the snakes, the rats. One sign of weakness on her part, however, and they might take the opportunity to attack her as a group, pressing a clear advantage on this home turf, this dark land that they inhabited. She had no doubt that they were hard, brutal, toughened by the cruel life they were forced to lead.

They could tear her to pieces.

Her heart began to race. She thought desperately of Grunthor and his tie to the earth, wishing mindlessly that he were there. Child of Earth, Manwyn's prophecy had declared him.

The Three jatle come, leaving early, arriving late,

The lifeage of all men:

Child of Blood , Child of Earth, Child of the Sky.

If their speculation was right, and she, Achmed and Grunthor were the Three in the divination, then she was the Child of the Sky—the term Lirin used to describe themselves. It's wrong, wrong for me to be here, she thought woozily, fighting growing nausea. She should be out in the open air, beneath the stars, singing her aubades and vespers to the sky.

-

Death was in the air; she could feel it hovering, squalid, thick. Had a child died in this place, perhaps many of them, succumbing to the backbreaking work, the vile conditions, the lack of air? Or was it her own death she could feel coming for her?

She could sense the children closer now. Had they summoned the courage to come for her?

Coward, she thought as her trembling grew stronger. The Iliachenva'ar, the bringer of light into darkness. Struggling to keep from curling up like a babe in the womb.

Mama—my dreams are chasing me. Come to my bed; bring the light.

The words of the Liringlas aubade, the morning love song to the sky, found themselves in her mouth. Shakily she began to sing, softly chanting the words her mother had taught her, words she had sung for many days with Oelendra, her mentor, words born in a place deep in her soul that was old as the ages.

In that deep place she felt a flicker of warmth, a pulse of light, as if she had physically touched the bond she had to the sword. The thought gave her courage, and she began to sing a little more strongly, loud enough to hear the notes echo slightly off the black tunnel walls ahead of her.

Then, a moment later, she heard another echo, softer than the first, and in a different voice, a voice that was familiar but not recognizable. A high voice, a frightened voice.

A child's voice.

Mimen?

The word rang in her ears; it had come forth, spoken haltingly in Ancient Lirin, the language of the Liringlas, her mother's people. Its meaning was unmistakable.

Mama-?

Rhapsody raised her head up. In the tunnel ahead of her she could almost make out the silhouette of a head, shoulders—thin they seemed; scraggly. Or perhaps it was just her imagination; the darkness was so complete that her eyes could not focus.

She felt a great exhalation of air come out of her, breath she had not known she had been holding.

'Nay,“ she said softly. "Hamimen." Grandmother.

'Hamimen?"

'Aye,“ she replied, louder, a little more clearly, still in the ancient tongue of the Liringlas. "What be your name, child?"

'Aric." The outline of the head vibrated in the dark.

'May I bring the light, Aric? Dimmer this time?"

A scuffling sound; the head retreated.

'Nay! Nay!"

Beyond him, in the tunnel ahead, a rustle of movement.

'Aric, wait! I've come to take you out of the darkness—all of you."

Silence.

Desperation was beginning to claw at her throat. “Aric?"

There was no reply.

Rhapsody slid her hand over the hilt of the sword. She gripped it tightly, then gently pulled, loosing the blade from the scabbard just a little. She exhaled slowly, gathering control of herself; with the return of her calm, the sword burned evenly, and only the slightest of flickers issued forth from the scabbard.

The nightmares of the tunnel receded, leaving just the tiled aqueduct once more in dimmer light than before. Up ahead at the edge of the glow, two even smaller tunnels branched out, no doubt the area in which Achmed had said the children were sleeping.

She inched forward slowly, keeping the sword by her side, and peered into the branching tunnels. They ended in alcoves, where dirt)' scraps of cloth, perhaps used at one time for blankets, now floated in the filthy water. Rhapsody tried not to recoil from the overwhelming stench of sewage.

Huddled at the end of the alcove was a yellow-haired child, long of bone and translucent of skin, trembling in fear. Rhapsody's throat went dry in memory; it was the same ethereal complexion, the same slender angles that had once graced her mother's face. And yet there was something more, something almost feral, a hint of his inhuman father.

'Aric,“ she said gently, "come to me."

The child shook his head and turned his face toward the wall.

Rhapsody crept forward another few paces, then looked down at her arms. The water on the floor of the tunnel was now up to her elbows.

Impatience, spurred by fear, took over. “Aric, come now!" The child only quivered more violently.