Destiny: Child Of Sky (4 page)

He felt warmth surround him. The wind that tickled his nostrils was suddenly sweeter. Achmed opened his eyes to see Rhapsody's face swimming among the circles.

'Gods! What happened?" Her voice vibrated strangely. Achmed gestured dizzily and curled into a tight ball, lying sideways on the ground. He took several deliberate, measured breaths, the cold wind stinging his burning chest. He noted absently that Rhapsody was still beside him, but had refrained from touching him.

She's learning, he thought, strangely pleased.

With the grind of sand in his teeth and a painful growl, he forced himself into a crouch. They sat in silence on the windy hilltop above the crumbling city. When the sun was overhead and the shadows shifted, Achmed finally looked up. He exhaled deeply, then rose to a shaky stand, waving away the offer of her hand.

'What happened?" Her voice was calm.

Slowly he shook the sand from his clothes, retied his veils, staring down at Yarim below. The city had come to life of a sort while he had been coming back to himself, and now human and animal traffic shuffled through the unkempt streets, filling the distant air with sound. “There's another one here," he said. “Another child?"

Achmed nodded slowly. “Another heartbeat. Another spawn of some sort."

Rhapsody went back to the horses and pulled open one of the saddlebags.

Mie drew forth an oilcloth journal and brought it back to the rim of the hill.

'Rhonwyn said there was only one in Yarim," she said, rifling through the pages.

“Here it is—one in Sorbold—the gladiator—two in the Hintervold, one in Yarim, one in the easternmost province of the Nonaligned States, one in Bethany, one in Navarne, one in Zafhiel, one in Tyrian, and the unborn baby, in the Lirin fields to the south of Tyrian. Are you certain the second heartbeat belongs to one of the children?"

'No, of course I'm not certain,“ Achmed spat crossly, shaking more grit from his hair and cloak. "And perhaps it's not another child. But somewhere near here is another pulse with the same taint to it, the same clouded blood."

Rhapsody pulled her cloak even closer. “Perhaps it's the F'dor itself."

The inside of the carriage was a haven from the blistering sun, dark and reasonably cool. He longed to disembark, to feel the wheels roll to a final stop, so that he could at last step out into the light and searing heat of the Sorboldian desert, where the earth held the fiery warmth of the sun even at the onset of winter.

From the sound of it, that moment was almost upon him. He stretched the arms of the aged body he now occupied, the human vessel that had been his host for many decades, feeling the weakness that time had rendered upon him. But not for much longer.

Soon he would be changing hosts again, would be taking on a newer, younger body. There would be a bit of an adjustment, as there always was, a transition he recalled clearly even though he had not made one in a very long time. Just the thought of it made his arthritic hands itch with excitement.

With that excitement came the burning, the flare of the fire that was the core of him. It was the primordial element from which all of his kind had come, and to which they would one day return. All in good time.

It was best not to contemplate it at the moment, he knew. Once the spark of anticipation had ignited it became more difficult to hide his nether side, the dark and destructive spirit of chaos that was his true form, clinging to the flesh and bone of the human body only out of necessity. It was at moments of excitement that the malodor was strongest, the stench that clung to him and the others of his race, the smell of flesh in fire. And in the thrill of expectation the color of blood would rise to the edges of his eyes, rimming them red.

He willed himself to be calm again. It would not do to be discovered on so important a mission. It would not do to be seen as anything other than the pious religious leader that he was.

He leaned forward as the carriage came to a shuddering halt, then sat back against the pillowed seat, breathing shallowly.

The door opened, spilling blindingly bright light into the dark chamber, along with arid heat.

'Your Grace. We have arrived in Keltar'sid. His Grace, the Blesser of Sorbold, has an honor regiment here to greet you."

He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight. Keltar'sid was the northern capital of Sorbold, the mustering ground for the Sorboldian armies that fortified the northern and western fringes of the Teeth. It was a city-state of soldiers, a most intimidating place unless one was traveling under the banner of a church or religious sect.

It was exactly where he wanted to be.

'How very kind,“ he said. The cultured voice of his human host felt silky to his ears. His demon voice, the one that spoke internally, without traveling on the wind, was much harsher, like the crackle of an ominous flame. "Express our thanks while I alight, please."

He smiled and waved away the hands extended in the offer of assistance and stepped out of the carriage; his was a somewhat elderly body, but spry and still with some remnant of youth's vigor. He had to shield his eyes from the gleam of the sunlight. Though fire was his life's essence, it was a dark fire, a primordial element that burned black as death, not bright and cheery as bastard fire did in the air of the world above. He could tolerate the sunlight, but he did not like it.

A contingent often Sorbold guardsmen stood at a respectful distance, their swarthy faces set in masks of somber attention. He smiled beneficently at them, then raised his hand in a gesture of blessing. He struggled to appear nonchalant. This moment was, after all, what he had come for.

Softly he whispered the words of ensnarement, the sub-audible chant that would bind the men to his will, if only temporarily. Anything more long-lasting would require more extensive eye contact, more direct interaction, than would be appropriate between a visiting holy man and a troop of foreign guardsmen. To ensnare one permanently he would need to take some of the soldier's blood, but all of them appeared healthy and without wounds that needed a healer's blessing. Ah, well.

The threads of the snare, invisible to all eyes but his own, wafted toward him on the warm wind, anchored shallowly within each of his new servants. He caught the threads with a subtle gesture that seemed nothing more than the hand motions of his blessing. He could see that the thrall had taken hold in their eyes; the glimmer of dark fire within them that his prayer had summoned was evident in the glint of the sun. He smiled again.

This was, after all, the sole outcome of the visit to Sorbold he had intended.

Anything else that resulted from the long and arduous journey was a boon.

He already had what he wanted.

The column leader approached, followed by four men bearing the poles of a white linen canopy—Sorbold was known for its linen—and another low-level aide-de-camp carrying a tray with a water flask and a goblet.

The soldier bowed from the waist.

'Welcome, Your Grace." With a gesture he directed the other armsmen around the visiting holy leader. They immediately raised the canopy to shield him from the sun, eliciting a warm smile and a twinkle in blue eyes without even a trace of red.

He accepted the goblet of water and drank gratefully, then returned it to the tray.

The soldier carrying it withdrew a few steps to be out of the way, but near enough if the guest of state had need of it.

'I'm afraid I bear awkward news," said the column leader haltingly.

'Oh?"

'His Grace, the Blesser of Sorbold, has been detained at the sickbed of Her Serenity, the Dowager Empress. The benison extends his fervent apologies, and directs me to offer you escort to the basilica at Night Mountain, where he will be returning once the empress is no longer in need of his aid. I am directed to make you and your retinue comfortable."

The soldier's black eyes glittered nervously, and the holy man suppressed a laugh.

The Sorboldian tongue had little familiarity with the language of courtly and religious etiquette, primarily because the culture itself had little familiarity with such concepts. The Sorbolds were a rude and plainspoken people. The column leader doubtless had undergone intense study to be able to communicate in this manner, and was uncertain about his fluency in it.

'You are most kind, but I'm afraid that is quite impossible. This was only to be the briefest of visits, as I need to return to my own lands shortly. The winter solstice approaches, and I am planning to attend the carnival in Na varne."

'His sincerest apologies for any inconvenience," the column leader stuttered again.

“Please instruct me in how I may accommodate you. I am at your disposal, Your Grace."

The holy man's eyes gleamed in the filtered light of the canopy. "Ah, you are?

How very generous. What is your name, my son?"

'Mildiv Jephaston, leader of the Third Western Face Column, Your Grace."

'Well, Mildiv Jephaston, I am exceedingly glad to know that you are at my disposal, and I will indeed take you up on that very gracious offer, but at the moment there is nothing I require save escort back to the Sorbold-Roland border."

'As you wish, Your Grace. The benison will be most disappointed that he missed your visit."

'As am I, I assure you, Mildiv Jephaston." He patted the soldier's shoulder compassionately, then blessed him as he had the others.

In the distance he could see the infinitesimal flicker of black fire, repeated many hundred times over in a sea of dark eyes, as all who were bound by oath to this column leader were now in his thrall as well. Armies were his favorite prey, just because of their myriad ranks of fealty—ensnare the leader, and all his followers, and their followers, were yours are well. Ah, loyalty is a wonderful thing, a mindless snare of steel, so very easily manipulated, he thought jubilantly. Though so difficult to overcome when not offered freely.

'He had hoped to show you the basilica at Night Mountain.“ The soldier swallowed dryly. "He knew you had not seen it." The tone carried his real meaning. The benison's offer of entrance into the most secret of the elemental temples, Terreanfor, the Cymrian word meaning Lord God, King of the Earth, the basilica of Living Stone, was a great and prestigious honor, one that had only been made rarely.

Hidden deep within the Night Mountain, a place of consummate darkness in this realm of endless sun, the basilica was doubtless the most mystical of the holy shrines, a place where the Earth was still alive from the days of Creation. His refusal of the tour, no matter how polite, was dumbfounding to the Sorboldian soldiers. He choked back another laugh.

Fools, he thought contemptuously. Tour nation's generous offers be damned, as you will soon be. He could not visit the temple even if he wanted to. The basilica was blessed ground.

His kind could not broach blessed ground.

'I am extraordinarily sorry to be unable to take advantage of the Blesser's invitation,“ he said again, nodding to his own guards. His retinue returned to their carriages and mounts in preparation for leaving. "Night Mountain is many days to the south of here, I believe. A visit would delay me too greatly. So again, I thank you, but I'm afraid I must decline. But please do extend my best wishes to the benison, and to Her Serenity for a speedy recovery."

He turned briskly and hurried back into the dark silence of the coach. The Sorboldian soldiers stared after him in dismay as his footman shut the door briskly and the carriage began to roll out of sight. The enormous linen canopy that had shielded their visitor a moment before hung flaccidly in the breeze-less air, like a dispirited flag of surrender.

The winter carnival was a tradition in Navarne, held in honor of the solstice and coinciding with holy days in both the Patriarchal religion of Sepulvarta and the order of the Filids, the nature priests of the Circle in Gwynwood. The duke of the province, Lord Stephen Navarne, was an adherent to the former but a well-loved friend of the latter, and so at his example the populace of the province, divided almost equally between the two faiths, put aside religious acrimony and differences to make merry at the coming of snow.

In earlier years the festival had sprawled as far as the eye could see over the wide rolling hills of Narvarne. Haguefort, Lord Stephen's keep and the heart of the celebration, was located atop a gentle rise at the western forest's edge with a panoramic vista of farms and meadowlands stretching to the horizon in all three other directions. Some of the other Orlandan provinces, notably Canderre, Bethany, Avonderre, and even faraway Bethe Corbair, had long since given up their own solstice celebrations in order to combine their festivities with Lord Stephen's revels, largely because Stephen was unsurpassed as a merrymaker.

For two decades the young duke, whose Cymrian lineage was far removed but still granted him some of the exceptional vigor of youth enjoyed by the refugees of Serendair, had opened his lands at the first sign of winter, decreeing the contests and prizes for that year's festival amid trumpet calls and flourish not often seen in Roland during this age. The Cymrian War had brought the pageantry of the First Age, the age of building and enlightenment, to a shattering end, leaving this, the Second Age, colorless and dreary, as most struggles for survival and rebuilding tend to be. Lord Stephen's revels were the only regular exception to that dull tendency.

Like his father before him, Stephen understood the need for color and traditional secular celebration in the hardscrabble lives of the peasantry of his duchy. To that end he devoted his attention first to the safeguarding of his subjects' lands and lives, then to that of their spirits, believing that a dearth of joy had been largely responsible for the troubles the land had suffered in the first place.

Each annual festival proffered a new contest: a treasure quest, a poetry competition, a footrace with a unique handicap, along with the traditional games of chance and sport, awards for the best singing—Lord Stephen was an enthusiastic patron of good singing—recitation and dance, sleigh races, snow sculpting, and performances by magicians capped by a great bonfire that warmed the wintry night and sent such sparks skyward as to challenge the stars.