The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (19 page)

She conferred with her priestesses
and made plans for the night. From them she learned that her various talismans
weren’t the only ones to have drained more swiftly than they should have. All
of her sisters reported the same phenomenon. Something seemed to be blocking the
light, even tainting it, yet none of the priestesses could posit a theory why.

Niara had a suspicion.

You
are now irrelevant
. She felt certain that the Moonstone was close. She
could feel a great power, and though it did not radiate Grace and Light as it
should, it
felt
like the Last Gift. She
had been to Hielsly numerous times over the years, and she knew the Moonstone,
knew how it made her feel, like a vibration in her soul. It was here. Vrulug
possessed it. But it was . . . changed.

Niara mounted her mare and prepared
to depart for the Temple.
She hated to leave the wall, but there was no more she could do there, not now.
She needed to revive the charms on her stones, commune with Illiana and launch
her most desperate plan. Raugst was drenched in evil, just as she was drenched
in light. But if her light was finite, then so was his darkness.

Before she left, she saw him climb
into his carriage and ride off for the castle.
Good
, she thought. There she might catch him alone.
My plan might just work
.

Astride her new white mare, Brieni,
Niara rode for the Temple.
As her horse’s hooves clattered on the streets, she saw townspeople and
refugees gathered in groups, in courtyards, on terraces, in gardens and on
rooftops. Some had their heads bowed, eyes closed; some had their eyes wide
open; some chanted; some sang; some said nothing; but one and all prayed,
prayed to Illiana and Brunril and Egran and Dulas and all the other
Omkarathons, praying for deliverance from Vrulug and his hordes. Niara heard
their prayers rising all around her, and they strengthened her, hardened her to
her purpose. She would give her people the deliverance they sought, no matter
the cost.

It was a hot night, and she’d
worked hard over the last few hours, so she was sweating as she reached the Temple, entered through
the grand white archway and passed into the high main hall, gleaming and ivory.
She wore the bloods of several men, as well as an equal number of Borchstogs,
which she felt tainted the Temple
much as Raugst had done, so she stripped and bathed in the hot baths in the
temple interior, where she finalized her plan. She would commune with Illiana,
then go to Raugst at the castle and end this matter. It would cost her half of
herself and condemn her to a mortal life without Grace, bereft of the Light. She
would no longer be the Niara she had known all her life. She would have to
rediscover herself. Perhaps, she thought, she would then be closer to the
people of Fiarth . . . if she dared reveal what she had lost.

But in all likelihood what she was
about to attempt would kill her, so any speculation past tonight was wasted
effort.

She finished bathing, taking her
time to caress her skin as she did so. She felt its smoothness, its perfection—and
not in idle pleasure but in sadness. Soon, should she survive this war, this
perfection would ebb, her skin would wrinkle, her body would wither and at last
become dust like the rest of humankind. It was no small thing she was giving
up. If it could save Fiarth, though, it would be worth it.

She dried, dressed, and ascended
the spiral stairs that mounted to the highest chamber of the most lofty tower
of the Temple,
its walls all of veined white marble. It was a smallish room, with a simple
white altar at the far end, and ornate white columns lining the sides: her
private sanctuary to Illiana. She lit all the candles in the room, and there
were a thousand. Usually she used her powers to do this, but she must conserve
them now, so she used matches instead. It took longer, but at last the
sanctuary glowed with light, and she knelt before the white altar and sparked a
white stalk of incense.

She closed her eyes, clasped her
hands, and sent out her thought:
Illiana,
Mother of the Moon, Goddess of my people, hear me if You would. Tonight shall
be the last time I ever speak with You in such wise. I do not know if what I am
about to do is right or if it will even work. If I fail, and I have given away
my heritage for naught, then Thiersgald will not have my abilities in the days
ahead and the people here will fall that much sooner.

Even now, if she strained her ears,
she could hear the screams of the Fiarthans borne on the hot night winds. Vrulug
and his hellspawn were having a grand time, and Niara tried not to hear, tried
to close her mind to it so that she would not lose her bond with her Mistress.

And the Mistress
was
there, she could feel it. She was
like a weight on the other end, a fullness. Excitement began to course through
Niara, despite the direness of the situation. Rarely before had she felt that
connection. Then something happened that she had
never
felt before.

Illiana answered.

It was like a gentle smile in
Niara’s mind, and she imagined the Goddess’s face, beautiful but sad, blue eyes
twinkling.

Daughter,
I am here.

Niara’s mind went blank. It was
only with difficulty that she remembered to breathe and take a deep lungful of
air.
Mother! I . .
. She fumbled for
words, thoughts. Then it was as though Illiana reached through time and space
to touch her shoulder, and she felt lighter and cleaner, and clearer, all over.

Be
well, Daughter. Know that you do the right thing. At least, I can see no other
course for you. Would that I could help, but I am weak and must stay here to
safeguard the Sleeper.
There was tenderness in her voice as she mentioned
Him. She must love Him dearly, Niara thought dreamily.

I
understand, Mother
, Niara sent.
You’ve
helped me enough. By the holy light of the Moon You created to plague the Dark
One even at night, You have helped. Through Your teachings of peace but
strength, You have helped. I can ask no more of You.

Thank
you, my daughter.

But
is it possible, what I aim to do? Am I mad to think it can be done, that the
wretched filth that is Raugst can be salvaged and placed at Your service? Is it
mere hubris to think I can do such a thing?

There was a pause.
He is a thing of Gilgaroth. He has no Grace
in him, and only one with Grace can serve me.

Niara nodded.
But I have Grace. If I were to give my Grace to him, every bit of it .
. .

You
would have none left.

But
will it work?

I
do not know, daughter, but I am proud of you. Know that. Remember: for your
plan to work, not only must Gilgaroth’s chain be removed from about Raugst’s
neck but in that very instant a guiding hand must be placed on his shoulder. Everything
hinges on teaching him the ways of the Light while he is still lost and
masterless.

I
will do it, Mother.

Good.
Now go with my love. Your task comes upon you sooner than you had planned.

What
do You—?

The connection faded. Niara could
feel that the weight on the other end had vanished. Illiana had returned to her
duties, tending to Brunril the Sun-God in his eternal slumber.

A shadow spilled into the
sanctuary. Niara could feel him, smell him. Like before, he was a stain, a
cancer on this place. She would have felt him sooner had her thoughts not been
distracted.

Slowly, making him wait for it, she
stood and turned to face him.

He was tall and dark, covered in
bloods, both red and black, and his black beard was wild and matted. His dark
eyes blazed, and he stank of death as he crossed beneath the archway toward
her. A draft swept in through the terrace doorway, driving some of the stink
away, but it was a warm wind and Niara did not shiver. She felt hot, her blood
a burning river within her.

“Raugst,” she said.
Has it really come to this? Can I truly go
through with it?
What would Giorn say?

Tall and dark Raugst was, a thing
of primordial passions and tempers, and there was no give in his eyes. After
hours of spilling blood, his own blood was up. “Niara,” he said. He spoke it
like a curse, as though the very word haunted him.

He approached her, and she could
feel his heat now more than ever. He loomed over her, letting his musk surround
her, disorient her. The image of Giorn rose inside her. She pushed it aside.
There is no Giorn
.
Giorn is dead. I must do this thing, for the good of the living.

Raugst seized her in his arms and
pressed her to him. In that moment, surrounded by his smell, she knew she had
wanted him. She also knew that that was merely a physical response to his
physique and manner that she could not control, though, and so she forgave
herself. She held no love for him, no tenderness, for he was a fell creature,
and so she still had her pride.

“How was your Mistress?” he asked,
his lips an inch from hers. His thick arms encircled her waist, crushing her
against his body. He was warm. “Did she bid me hello?”

He did not wait for a response but
kissed her savagely.

She could have resisted, could have
fought back. She did not. She wanted to, she truly did, it was her natural
instinct to fight, but she forced herself to relax, to open to him. More, she
made herself respond, to kiss him back.

And there, right there in the inner
sanctuary of Illiana, a place of Light and Grace, surrounded by a thousand
candles dancing in the hot breeze, he lowered her to the white marble floor and
ripped off her silken clothes as though he were some savage beast on the hunt. Despite
herself, she gasped as he kissed her breasts, her nipples, as he ran his tongue
over her body, up to her throat, her cheeks, down her slim belly, down below
her navel, kissing her white thighs, then tasting the cleft between them.

“Yes,” she moaned, cupping his
thick wavy black hair in her slender white fingers. “Yes.”
No! Do not enjoy it
.

She helped him shrug off his
clothes, and blood, kept warm and liquid by his body heat, spattered the holy
floor, spattered her smooth white belly. At last he pried open her legs and
plunged inside her. He filled her, and she cried out, both in pain and
pleasure.

“Yes,” she gasped.

“Yes,” he moaned, staring down at
her, lust and something more than lust in his gaze. “
Feel
me, woman.”

He thrust inside her, and she cried
out again. He thrust slowly, again, again, then more rapidly. She arched her back,
pressing her belly to his. She rocked her hips, grinding against him, opening
herself to him. He squeezed her breasts, bit them, kissed the hollow of her
neck.

A fire filled her, thrilled her,
coursed throughout every inch of her body. In the sanctuary of her goddess,
still aglow from the first commune ever with that same divinity, she allowed
herself and the temple to be violated, gloriously, by this very demon of
Illistriv, as outside his armies ringed the city and the screams of men rose
into the night. At last she could hold out no longer, but shuddered long and
well, even as he kept thrusting inside her.

As if stimulated by her pleasure,
he exploded inside her. Trembling, trembling, tears—
tears,
she marveled—standing out in his eyes, he collapsed on top
of her.

She ran her hands through his hair,
kissed him, held him close.

“I knew it,” he gasped. “I knew you
wanted me.”

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

“Damn you, woman.”

“Raugst.” She tilted his face up,
stared into his eyes. He was weak, spent, his energies exhausted.
Now,
she thought.
It must be now.
This is what she had saved her energies for. This
is what she had allowed herself to be profaned for. She had not planned on
doing it here, in this light-fused place, but it would make it all the easier. It
might not kill her as she had half-supposed it would.

Yet she hesitated. If she did this
thing, there could be no taking it back. She would never be the same again, and
it might not even work. She sighed.
I
will just have to take that chance—it’s the only one we have.

“Kiss me,” she said.

He pressed his lips to hers, and
she tasted herself upon them.

She plumbed that well of Grace
within her, dredged up all that Light, all that power, harnessed it in one
great shining, golden wave that threatened to tear her apart at the seams it
was so bright, and channeled it into him through their kiss, through her
fingers, through their carnal union.

She could not kill him, she knew. He
was too powerful for that. His darkness was simply too strong. Instantly, it
rose up inside him and fought her, shielding him from the assault.

She had anticipated that, and so
she did not attack
him
. She attacked
the
darkness
.

It hadn’t expected that. Neither
had he. As soon as she funneled her light into him, letting it flow from her
mouth into his, and from her palms into his chest and shoulder, he started,
then relaxed, a lazy half-grin on his face. She could feel it against her lips.
Doubtless he thought she was repeating the same attack as before.

But no. This time she tried
something new. She blasted his darkness with her light, flooded him with it,
even as she was still flooded with his juices. Indeed, he was still inside her.

She blasted the darkness. Spent as
he was, weakened by his exertions, his emotions, and by the very nature of this
place, he could not prevail. He was infused with the taint of Oslog. It
drenched him, every particle of him. He was literally soaked in evil. She
disintegrated it.

She kissed him, cupping his head in
her hands, shoving his lips against hers, wrapping her legs tight about his
middle, not letting him tear himself away, as he now tried to do, struggling,
thrashing—she pressed him to her and flooded him with the Grace of Illiana. She
shone a lantern into the dark caves of his being, and the shadows retreated. She
summoned all of her energies, every last ounce, for he was mightier than she
was, and poured it all into him.