Destiny: Child Of Sky (71 page)

He steadied himself, chasing the elusive threads of identity through the currents of air, over the landscape of the wind. The voice of the Grandmother, his Dhracian instructor in the thrall ritual, spoke in his mind. Let your identity die.

Achmed nodded infinitesimally, willing his heartbeat to slow. Within your mind, call to each of the four winds. Chant each name, then anchor it to one of your fingers.

Eien, Achmed thought. The north wind, the strongest. He opened his first throat and hummed the name; the sound echoed through his chest and the first chamber of his heart. He held up his index finger; the sensitive skin of its dp tingled as a draft of air wrapped around it.

Jahne, he whispered in his mind. The south wind, the most enduring. With his second throat he called to the next wind, committing the second heart chamber.

Around his tallest finger he could sense the anchoring of another thread of air.

When both vibrations were clear and strong he went on, opening the other two throats, the other two heart chambers. .Leuk. The west wind, the wind of justice.

Thas. The east wind. The wind of morning; the wind of death. A net of wind.

Hear, O guardian, and look upon your destiny: The one who hunts also will stand guard, the one who sustains also will abandon, the one who heals also will kill, the Zephyr, the last Dhracian sage, had said in the last Dhracian prophecy. Beware the Sleepwalker, for Blood will be the means to find that which hides from the wind.

Time to stop hiding, Achmed thought silently. Come out and play, you bastard.

He cast the invisible net outward, toward the place where he had felt the demonic rhythm. Around him the sensitive nerves of his face felt the stinging breeze die down for a moment as the winds knotted together in a snare.

Then the scent, the heartbeat, the position all came together.

He had found the F'dor.

Now that he had finally identified the demon's host he knew he could get a clean shot off, but without any weapon to follow the first strike, it was likely there would not be a single survivor in this entire assemblage should he yield to the screams of his blood, his nature, and fire the blowgun into its back. His dart might be fatal to the human but it would not kill the demon. It would either flee the dying body of the host or turn and destroy everyone, starting with Rhapsody, unarmed in her beautiful gown. He tried to make eye contact with Grunthor as he raised the blowgun.

'Bye, Father," he whispered as he put the flute to his lips.

Grunthor, for his part, had seen Achmed move, swinging the flute down out of sight. He was close enough to Rhapsody to touch her in one step; he could easily step between her and any threat he saw or sensed. Achmed's movement disturbed him, but he suspected he was the only one on the dais who had noticed. Rhapsody herself had only looked to her honor guard once, when the contingent from Gwynwood had approached.

The Sergeant tried to discern the nature of the threat and of whom Achmed was suspicious. He looked carefully at each of the two princes at the head of the line.

They greeted the queen and stepped down without obvious incident. The next group was that of the Patriarch and a handful of his ben-isons.

Again, Grunthor tried to read the faces and movements of the guests, but saw no weapons or hostility evident. The Patriarch was a special favorite of Rhapsody's.

He was very frail, and depended on many hands to keep his organization and himself alive. Rhapsody had defended him against the Rak-shas some months back, and had said that she thought the F'dor might have been involved in the attack. It seemed unlikely that he was either himself possessed by the demon or able to detect it.

Grunthor looked quickly for Achmed again and could not find him.

Rhapsody was embracing the Patriarch emotionally; he was whispering a blessing into her ear.

Delight came over her face as she gently released him and their eyes met. They smiled at each other.

The Patriarch stepped back with the support of his benisons to let them make their personal greetings.

Suddenly he jerked sharply and collapsed into the benisons' arms.

A unified gasp rose from the crowd.

Grunthor reacted like lightning and interposed himself between Rhapsody and the commotion. He knew that men did not fall that way when something inside broke, and silently cursed Achmed's timing. Even though he could not see him, he knew the assassin's work.

'Step back, Yer Majesty," he said gently; he could feel her lifted off the ground as Anborn spun behind him and swung her to the back of the dais, adding his own body as a layer between her and the crowd. Grunthor, satisfied that she was out of the way, waded into the small flock of horrified benisons clustered around the body.

'

'Ere,“ he said roughly, "let me." Swiftly and effortlessly he lifted the dying Patriarch and moved him from the floor to a table several steps away where gifts of state had been set. With a sweeping action of his elbow the table was cleared and the old man settled on the surface like a feather coming to rest, the heavy dart from the back of his neck removed without a trace. As Grunthor had hoped, all of the benisons followed, praying for and ministering to their fallen leader as soon as they arrived, several of them in tears.

Lanacan Orlando, the Blesser of Bethe Corbair, was the first there, whispering words of comfort. He began immediately ministering to the dying man, checking his heart and wrists. Philabet Griswold and Nielash Mousa were next; both shoved the first benison aside and began immediately whispering in either of the dying man's ears, pleading with him to come to con sciousness long enough to name his successor. Abernathy and Ian Steward stared blindly at the commotion, Abernathy muttering prayers under his breath.

Orlando angrily moved Mousa out of the way and went back to his ministrations.

Frustration seemed to hamper his movements; his famed power of healing was not working. He checked the old man's breast, opened the robe particularly wide, felt his wrist, and became more agitated and irritated than resigned as the fact of imminent death became obvious.

'Stand back." The voice, as clear as a bell, rang through the courtyard, sending the crowd into stunned silence. Rhapsody used Anborn to push through the benisons and moved directly to the Patriarch's side as he rested on the table. Grunthor quickly cut off any approach from the other side. She looked to her chamberlain.

'Sylvia, get my harp immediately."

The chamberlain tapped a page on the shoulder and pointed; the young boy ran off at breakneck speed. The new queen bent over the frail man, who was curled like a baby bird fallen out of the nest, and took his hand.

'Your Grace, have you anything to say to these men?" She nodded at the benisons.

The old man blinked his eyes; with great effort he shook his head. He reached shakily inside his robe and felt around awkwardly, then pulled out a parchment scroll and placed it in her hand. “Very well; Anborn, please escort the various benisons to a place they can pray undisturbed."

The Cymrian warrior stepped in front of the table and herded the benisons into a close, protesting mass. He walked forward, moving them out of the way, ignoring their arguments for access to their dying leader.

The Patriarch gestured wordlessly at the scroll in Rhapsody's hand. She held it up before his eyes.

'Do you want me to read this aloud?" she asked quietly. The Patriarch nodded.

'Very well," she said. She gently released his hand that was clutching her own in the rictus of impending death and unrolled the scroll.

'Hear me,“ she said; her voice carried the timbre of a Namer. "I hereby herald the last missive of the Patriarch of Sepulvarta. It states: in the matter of succession, let the Ring and the Scales decide."

The crowd began to murmur as the benisons, to a one, stood in shocked silence, turning alternate shades of angry red or ghostly pale. A moment later the page returned with Rhapsody's harp; he held it aloft and it was passed from hand to hand until it reached Anborn, who gave it to the queen.

'Grunthor, can you help me up here?" she asked, pointing to the table. The Bolg lifted her easily off the ground and onto the tabletop, where she sat and drew the Patriarch's head and shoulders into her lap. She made him as comfortable as she could and began to play softly, struggling to keep the tears out of her eyes. The old man smiled at her. At last he spoke.

'I—I'm sorry, my child,“ he rasped, struggling to breathe. "I didn't know it would—come now. I didn't—mean to ruin—

'You've ruined nothing,“ Rhapsody said reassuringly. "Singing your dirge and witnessing your Last Words is an honor for me. I will herald them, and add them to the lore, so that they will live forever, and your memory through them. That we are together as you leave for the light is the best gift you could give me. Rest." She stopped playing long enough to brush the shock of silver hair out of the eyes that were clouding over, reflecting the sun. Then she began plucking the strings of the harp again, crooning a sweet, wordless melody.

The Patriarch's breathing became labored. Rhapsody had seen enough death to know that it was at hand; she bent down to his ear and one tear fell from her glistening green eyes onto his face.

'My Last Words—speak them for me,“ he whispered. "You—know them."

'Yes," she said in return. She put her hand on the dying man's chest, and let his voice sound through her own, deep, rich and resonant as it must have sounded in his youth.

'Above all else, may you know joy."

A blissful smile came over the cleric's face, and he closed his eyes. Rhapsody's song became stronger, and when he drew his last breath she began the Lirin Song of Passage, singing as sweetly as she could for the old man who loved the sound of the harp.

The cloudy day became slightly brighter as the bonds of the Earth loosened, just for a moment, long enough to allow the soul of the Patriarch to pass easily through.

Except for the tiny surge of sunlight, the crowd was unaware of its passage, but Rhapsody could see it, and she blew a kiss skyward. Then she looked over at the benisons, standing in stunned silence off in the corner. Ian Steward and Colin Abernathy were clutching each other's hands, trembling and pale; Lanacan Orlando stood silent, his face a stoic mask, while Philabet Griswold and Nielash Mousa were barely in control of their rage.

'Your Graces, one and all, perhaps this would be a good time to lead us all in prayer." cAchmed poured himself an extra-large glass of Canderian whiskey, and passed the bottle to Grunthor. The Sergeant looked at his king for a moment, then put the bottle to his bulbous lips and took a swig.

The day had been a nightmarish one. Rhapsody's skills as a Namer had served to keep the frightened assemblage calm, and she had stayed in the courtyard well past midnight, comforting those in mourning and greeting each of the well-wishers who had come to witness her coronation. Now she was taking a bath, hoping to wash away the effects of the chaos that had been her coronation ceremony. Her Firbolg friends sat before the fire in her chambers, discussing the next move before she came out again.

'You don't think she noticed the dart?" Achmed took another deep swallow, clenching his teeth as the burning liquid ripped down his gullet.

'Definitely not,“ said Grunthor, taking another swig. "She thinks the old goat dropped dead on 'is own, as 'e said 'e was gonna months ago."

'Good. Let's keep it that way. I doubt she would appreciate it if she knew her friend's death was a diversion." He saw a scowl cross Grunthor's face, but the giant said nothing.

-

A moment later Rhapsody came into the main chamber in her dressing gown, her hair wet, with a drying cloth in her hand. She went to the fire, which crackled as she approached, and bent over before it, drying her hair with the drying cloth.

Finally she shook her head, the semi-dry tresses falling around her face, rosy from the bath and the firelight. Then she came to Grunthor and took the bottle out of his hands, taking a swig and handing it back to him. She sat on his knee.

'Soon no one is going to want to come to any party I give,“ she said. Grunthor chuckled; Achmed merely smiled. Her eyes darkened. "Thank you both for all your help today. I would never have made it through without you."

'It was a little worse than you think,“ Achmed said, swallowing the rest of his whiskey and pouring himself another splash. "Our friend from the Vault of the Underworld decided to come to your party.“ Rhapsody looked at him questioningly. "I discovered who the F'dor is today."

Rhapsody sat straight up, almost falling off Grunthor's knee. “Who?"

Achmed set his glass down. His face grew solemn in the firelight. “Lanacan Orlando, the Blesser of Bethe Corbair."

'Are you certain?" she asked, her eyes widening.

'Absolutely. I could smell him when the Patriarch's contingent got out of the carriage. I traced him and caught his heartbeat; it's him, the demonic knob."

Rhapsody leaned back against Grunthor's shoulder, deep in thought. “Well, that makes some sense. The Patriarch said Lanacan was the priest he would send to heal the injured and bless the armies; that gave him access to them when they were completely open to him. He could bind them as he was blessing them, planting the seed for them to erupt in murder later on, that bastard. Oelendra suspected Anborn because he had the very same kind of access."

'

'E's been on our bloody doorstep all this time,“ muttered Grunthor as Achmed took the whiskey bottle and poured another glass. "No wonder 'e volunteered to be our personal cleric. Thank goodness we Bolg are godless pagans on our way to eternal damnation in the Afterlife."

Achmed nodded. “Well, the good news is that I don't believe he knows we're on to him. The Patriarch's timely, er, untimely demise covered my finding out, so we didn't have to move against him."

'Yeah, what a coincidence," muttered Grunthor. Achmed shot him an acid glance.

Rhapsody was looking puzzled. “Something still doesn't make sense to me," she said, taking another sip from the bottle. “I know that the benison holds services every week in the basilica in Bethe Corbair. All the benisons do, each in his own See., except for Colin Abernathy, because the Nonaligned States don't have a basilica. Those basilicas are sanctified ground, blessed by the elements themselves; I can't believe it is within the power of even the mightiest demon to circumvent something like that. If he were to desecrate the holy ground in some way to allow himself to be able to even stand on it would be resanctified immediately by whatever element it is consecrated to."