Goddess (46 page)

Eight years later…

Maliz seethed. He wished his smelly, lice-ridden body would die, forcing him to find a new host, but as long as it still breathed, he knew it was the best disguise for him. Frail and wizened, it required very little to keep alive, allowing him the opportunity to roam the city in his spirit form, watching helplessly as more of the dismaying changes were being made.

The Temples of Zarab—three of them—had been razed. Two had already been rebuilt in Lyana’s honour. Crown Herezah ruled. As much as it galled him, she was doing a worthy job. The child had grown strong and sturdy. Although he was the image of his beautiful mother, Maliz was sure that, as the boy grew and turned into a man, the truth of who sired him would be apparent. But the youngster was already incredibly beloved by his people and his so-called grandmother went to great pains to make him accessible so that his popularity was constantly fuelled.

Galinseans had stayed. Bloods had mixed. Already there were children running through the streets that were a product of both realms. Trade moved freely between the nations and the whole region was enjoying great prosperity. The harbour had never been busier and the new ‘Jewelled Road’, as it was known, had caravans regularly crossing the desert between Percheron and Romea.

And Lazar, Zarab rot him, remained as Spur, filling his lonely life with teaching the young Zar to ride, to fish, to hunt, and to fight with two swords.

Maliz had seen the fat eunuch’s head rotting on the tall spike outside the palace. Old Salmeo had had many enemies, it seemed, and he had remained there for years. When the spike had finally been taken down, it had been quietly removed and, unbeknown to the populace, was reerected in the gardens of the harem, supervising its now long-defunct and empty hallways and chambers, no doubt a final satisfaction for Herezah.

None of this mattered to him, however. He was in the dormant stage of his cycle when he was, in the normal way of things, victorious and spent. But, although glad to be in this phase, this time it was confusing. Had he won? He thought he had…and yet it had been years since he had felt that wonderful sense of power overwhelm and claim his body. And he had only owned it so
momentarily…a matter of hours, in fact. Even that was of no consequence, however, when he considered the lack of confrontation. The only conclusion he could draw was that Lyana had been scared off: perhaps she had decided to abort this battle, but that seemed unlikely. She may be no match for him, but she certainly didn’t lack courage and had always faced him bravely on previous occasions.

He thought that she’d been at her most cunning this time and was amused he’d been hoodwinked into believing she travelled in the guise of a newborn. A newborn who was heir to the throne of Percheron and Galinsea, no less.

Where was she? Oh, he could scream out to the heavens this evening! He’d been surviving in this pathetic excuse for a body for years now, waiting for a likely new host to come along but none had presented themselves so far. All had been as vile and wasted a creature as the man who presently carried him. He should have been Zar. He should have been living an exalted lifestyle by now, biding his time in a beautiful, pampered body.

His fury spilled, this particular evening, at the opening of the days of festivity in honour of Lyana. A new tradition that began with the first blow of the Samazen, almost always midsummer night during the summer solstice. It was a superstitious time, anyway, for the region and he had always hated it because people believed it
was a brief period when the pathways between worlds were open; when spirits from other planes could enter this one. It was all old women’s babbling! He relieved his pent-up fury into Lyana’s waters at the rim where land meets sea

‘I piss on you, Lyana, and all who love you,’ he said, his toes wet as the water lapped around them, the music of the festival loud in his ears.

Despite his anger he enjoyed the water’s mildness, its invitation to take a few steps further into its salty freshness. He felt guilty for even appreciating it, knowing the sea—like the other natural elements—were said to be owned by Lyana.

The notion irritated him that anyone would imagine something so powerful as the sea would answer to a fallen Goddess. He hawked a gob of spit as far as he could launch it. ‘And I spit on you, Lyana. If I could move my bowels I would do that right now too. All the wastes of my body I would give to you. I pay you homage with Zarab’s excrement.’ And he gave a high laugh in his old man’s cackle at his jest.

‘Ah, there you are.’

Maliz looked around, startled, to be confronted by a figure he realised he knew.

‘Salazin?’

‘My name is Razeen.’

Maliz felt his already frail body weaken with fear. ‘What are you doing here? I…you were dead. We left you in the desert!’

‘Or did I leave you?’ the young disciple asked, smiling fiercely in the moonlight.

‘What do you want?’ Maliz screeched, hating his pathetic, thin voice.

‘We have been looking for you, this night of all nights.’

‘We?’ Maliz asked, timorously, his tiny head swivelling in all directions but seeing no-one. ‘Why this night?’

‘Midsummer’s Night. Surely you above all would grasp its import. A night when anything is possible. When magic abounds…especially at the most potent of all locations…’ Razeen’s voice trailed off as he looked down.

Maliz followed his gaze to where the mild waters fizzed and babbled around his feet.

‘At the magical rim where land meets sea, and worlds collide,’ Razeen finished. ‘I could kill you now, but we wanted to do this the right way.’

‘You keep saying “we”. I see no-one but you.’

‘Us,’ Razeen said, gesturing towards the waters.

Once again Maliz followed the man’s gaze and was struck with horror to see a young girl floating among the waters. She was exquisite but wraith-like, her image one minute solid, the next faded. She glowed with golden light.

‘We meet again,’ she said, her voice young, her figure so small.

‘Lyana?’ he croaked. ‘But—’

She drifted closer to him. He shrieked in his
thin voice, shrinking back only to feel Razeen’s chest behind him.

‘There is no Iridor to trigger your rising now, Maliz. And Lyana doesn’t exist in this plane to help fuel your powers, either. You have only your faithless god to call upon and he doesn’t hear you.’

‘How can this be? How can
she
be?’ he begged.

‘There were two,’ Razeen explained, pushing the man forward into the water so that it now lapped at his bony ankles. ‘Zaradine Ana gave birth to two children. The second was Lyana. I helped to birth her in the desert beneath the howl of the Samazen and, as her mother kissed her farewell and died, I gave the infant to her guardian, Ellyana. It was midsummer that night too, Maliz. It is a time for great magics to occur. Worlds, planes, touch one another. The Goddess was immediately taken to another plane…perhaps you felt the dwindling of your powers from that moment on? She grew safe without your threat and you grew lazy without hers. Now she’s strong. She’s ready to have the fight you wanted. Except you are not strong and you are not ready. How ironic.’

‘No!’ Maliz howled, now up to his calves in the Faranel.

‘No-one can hear you. Everyone is at Lyana’s festival. But Lyana is here, Maliz. She has come to claim you.’

‘She has no substance. She cannot touch me.’

‘Oh, Maliz, how wrong you are. Once you are in her waters, she has all the substance she needs to
drag you down into its depths. No fanfare, no audience, no theatrical battle for you, demon. Lyana wants you to simply slip beneath the surface, joining her beloved Zafira and Pez, who you gleefully destroyed, but both of whom beat you at your own game. You know Iridor survived long enough to keep Lyana, Luc, Ana, and Lazar safe, don’t you? Oh, you didn’t? How gut-wrenching it must be to learn this now, having spent so many years suffering in your weakened guise.

‘First, her waters will suck away your life and cast your demon soul into its depths for ever. Then she will allow her fish to pick this stolen body of yours clean—cleansing it of your touch and laying its bones to rest serenely on her ocean floor, so you are nothing more than a dulled memory.’

‘Help!’ Maliz screeched although no-one could hear him, his voice as drowned by the laughter and happy celebrations, the fireworks and music of Lyana, as his body would be in the waters of the Faranel.

‘Don’t fight us, Maliz. This time Lyana wins. You have lost. Zarab has lost.’

‘Noooo!’ Maliz screamed.

‘Come, Maliz, come into my darkest depths,’ the girl called sweetly, dipping in the water and grabbing his hands.

No-one heard the soft gulp as the man slipped beneath the surface and the Faranel Sea swallowed him. But the silent witness greeted
Razeen as the warrior walked back up the sandy foreshore.

‘Tell me we are rid of him.’

‘It is done, Spur Lazar. The long vigil is over. Your daughter, the Goddess Lyana, has prevailed.’

Ah, the final volume…it is always such a relief and a pleasure to bring closure to a sprawling tale. It is especially satisfying for this writer who never has a plan—never knows what’s coming next—and works instead only to the vaguest storyline. I am always genuinely surprised that the end does miraculously arrive and all the threads of the story do somehow weave themselves back into the main tapestry…as if…well, by magic!

My thanks to the usual support crew on this series—Pip Klimentou, Sonya Caddy, Gary Havelberg, Judy Downs. Thank you to Matt Whitney for his great work with the maps, to Jodie Bignell for her beautiful jewelled bookmark design, and to Trent Hayes for his much valued work on my website and bulletin board that keeps me in touch with readers around the world. And there are so many others of you who have helped to begin pulling my work out of genre and into a more mainstream consciousness—thanks especially to Sue Hill, Jenny Newman, Margie Arnold, Samela Harris, Linda Eldredge, Bruce and Mandy Macky, and Monica McInerney.

Once again I am indebted to the booksellers of Australia who are so incredibly supportive and also to the team at HarperCollins, especially Stephanie Smith, Samantha Rich and Robyn Fritchley at Voyager as well as the fab team of sales reps right around Aust/NZ. You’re amazing!

The story is now unfolding across the world and that’s mainly due to the success of Percheron in Australia and so it’s to all the dedicated readers of fantasy that I owe my greatest debt of thanks. You are a wonderful bunch, who attend conventions, visit message boards, and spread the word. But especially my thanks to the team at the Fab Fantasy Club in SA, and to the gang at my bulletin board—now more than 700 of us. Thank you!

Finally my focus comes full circle to rest on the three people who put up with all the magic and mayhem associated with crafting these big books of otherworldly adventures and who constantly remind me that I do live on planet Earth. Thanks to my beloved Ian, Will and Jack for being my real world.

Fx

F
IONA
M
C
I
NTOSH
spent the first half of her life in Britain; she was raised and educated in the seaside town of Brighton before heading to London to work in PR and marketing. On a globetrotting holiday she discovered Australia and decided to stay. For the last couple of decades she has pursued a career in travel, roaming the world on the hunt for the planet’s best hot chocolate, and has made her home in Adelaide, where she lives with her husband and teenage sons.

You can find out more information about Fiona or chat to her on her bulletin board via her website: www.fionamcintosh.com

For information about Fiona McIntosh and her books, plus all the latest science fiction news, visit ‘Voyager Online’: www.voyageronline.com.au—the website for lovers of science fiction and fantasy.

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