Prophecy, Child of Earth (44 page)

Rhapsody's arms sprawled out to her sides, and pain coursed through her. She was overwhelmed with the nauseating stench that filled the air like a poisonous cloud around them; it seemed to issue forth from his blood. She didn't struggle in his grasp, but slowly, imperceptibly slid her arms up above her head until they were directly over it, her abdomen and chest vulnerable to him but shielded by the mail shirt of drangonscales. His grip on her throat grew stronger; he now clutched her neck with both hands, having risen to almost a sitting position, his legs astride her, his genitals out of reach of her knees.

'What a shame," he panted, bouncing hard on her abdomen. "It had been my intention for a long time to have you in this very position, but I think we both would have enjoyed my original plans a little more." His words were labored, and his breathing shallow. "Well, no matter. I think I will take your body with me and have you anyway. It probably will be more enjoyable than if you were alive; at least you won't be talking. And all this time I had been so looking forward to sodomizing you; just the screams alone would have been music to my ears. Oh well."

Rhapsody concentrated on his helmet. As her consciousness ebbed and returned she thought she had a fix on the seam in his mail at the neck. With infinite patience she rotated the hilt of the sword in the palm of her sword hand and brought both hands together, resting her free one on the pommel. She summoned her strength, and the strength of the sword, and when she felt they were in harmony she exhaled all her breath and went limp in his grasp, letting the sword fall out of her hands to the basilica floor.

He gave her neck another crushing squeeze, then relaxed his grip, his hands moving to his bleeding face. He raised up on one knee, reaching for her sword.

As he did Rhapsody called in her mind to the sword. Daystar Clarion leapt back into her hands and she bolted forward, driving the blade point-first into the slit in his cuirass. She hit the mark with such accuracy that the force carried him backward, Daystar Clarion lodged in the mail at his throat.

An ugly, choking gasp came out of his mouth, and his eyes opened wide in surprise and pain. Rhapsody saw that the pupil of his bloodless eye was now dilated and round. She pulled the sword from his neck with a strong backward motion, then slashed him across the knees, causing him to fall backwards. He scrambled on his elbows,' trying to grasp his sword, but she swept it out of his reach with Daystar Clarion, sending it spinning into the aisle behind them.

'I am sorry to disappoint you," she said, following his retreat. "If it's sodomy you're longing for, I'd be happy to oblige. Roll a little to one side." She waved the sword at him threateningly, then sensed its harmonic vibrations suddenly jolt. She felt shame; in her fury she was taunting him while he was compromised. It was unseemly behavior for a Kinsman, and the Iliachenva'ar. "Hold still, and I will end it quickly," she said in a kinder tone. She raised the sword, pointing it at his throat.

Suddenly from the back of the room she heard a roar. She barely had time to roll clear of the wall of flame that leapt between her and her bleeding enemy. Out of the floor an inferno of black fire had risen, smoking with the same hideous stench that burned in his blood. The wall of heat and flame climbed as high as the top of the altar, surrounding her on all sides. Rhapsody was powerless to break through. This was not natural fire; it hissed and snarled with an evil intent that was tangible, and on the other side of the burning wall Rhapsody could see hasty movement.

She summoned her lore around her like a cloak and was preparing to broach the fire when it vanished. The two assassins were gone. The Patriarch, still chanting in a wavering whisper, was almost at the conclusion of his rite.

Rhapsody remained standing respectfully, breathing shallowly, still drawn, until the cleric finished. As he descended from the altar and came down the steps to her, she sat down, rubbing her fingers over her bruised throat. Her head throbbed as her body slowly began to recognize the pain it had bought as a result of the fight.

The Patriarch's voice shook with alarm. "Child! My child! Are you all right?"

He was quaking so violently Rhapsody feared he would pitch down the altar steps.

'Yes, Your Grace, I'm fine," she said, struggling to her feet and holding out both hands to the frail old man. She steadied him; his eyes were wide with concern, but seemed without fear.

'Let me see your throat," he said, pulling the collar of her jerkin aside and examining the swelling purple marks. "You look terrible."

Rhapsody winced as his fingers brushed her neck. "Yes, but he looks worse, and that's what counts."

The Patriarch cast a glance around the basilica. "Where did he go?"

She was leaning over now, breathing slowly, trying to control the mounting pain. "I don't know. He turned tail and ran, with help from his ugly friend."

'Friend?"

'Yes, there was another one, wearing a horned helmet. I'm fairly sure he was the one that called the fire."

'Fire? I can't believe I missed all this. I heard the roar, but by the time the rites were over, the only thing left here was you. Protecting me has cost you dearly. It might have cost your life."

Rhapsody was touched by the anxiety on his face. She gave him a comforting smile. "That you weren't distracted is as it should be, Your Grace; it means we both were attending to our duties. You were able to successfully complete the ritual?"

'Oh, yes. The High Holy Day celebration is complete. The year is safe, and, with the All-God's help, this time next year another will be in my place. I can go peacefully now. Thank you, my dear, thank you. If not for you, I—" He was staring at the floor, his mouth opening and closing silently, no words coming forth.

Rhapsody patted his hand. "It was my honor to stand as your champion, Your Grace." The doors of the basilica opened, and cacophony swept in, as guards, soldiers, acolytes and townspeople rushed to check on the Patriarch. As the mob swarmed into the basilica, Rhapsody sheathed her sword and knelt down before the cleric.

'I'll guard the office in the ring for you, Your Grace, until there is another in your place. Pray for me, that I may do so wisely."

'I have no doubt that you will," said the old man, smiling down at her. He rested his hand on her head, asking a blessing in Old Cymrian, the sacred language of his religion. Rhapsody hid her smile, remembering the last times she had heard the tongue used in the old land. What were now mystical holy words were once the vernacular of cursing guards and the advertisements of prostitutes, they had been screeched by bickering fishwives and slurred by drunkards. Yet pronounced now, solemnly and with awe, they were as meaningful to her as any Lirin song. Finally, his last blessing was a simple statement that she had heard attributed to the Ancient Seren as a child.

'Above all else, may you know joy."

'Thank you," she said, smiling. She rose, with some difficulty, bowed, and prepared to take her leave. As she turned to go, the Patriarch touched her shoulder.

'My child?"

'Yes, Your Grace?"

'When the times comes, would you, perhaps, consider—" His voice trailed off into awkward silence.

'I'll be there if I can, Your Grace," she said softly. "And I'll bring my harp."

U^Vadeleine Canderre, Lord Cedric Canderre's daughter, was the sort of woman genteel people often described as "handsome." Her face was pleasant enough, its features correctly balanced into the perfect aristocratic aspect that only centuries of exclusive breeding could produce. The skin of that face was dewy and fashionably pale, the eyes a famous shade of hazel. The hue was an allowable variant on the traditional azure blue or aquamarine of the Cymrian royal and noble lines. ¥

While the color of those eyes was attractive, the shape of them, and the expression they usually held, was not particularly so. Small and closely set, Madeleine's eyes routinely seemed to be conveying displeasure. Perhaps this was because, as a rule, she was routinely displeased.

That displeasure was more than slightly evident this morning, even as she sat in her carriage, preparing to return to her father's lands. Tristan Steward sighed. He had come down to bid her goodbye an hour before, and still she was here, methodically listing all the problems that needed to be worked out before that auspicious moment a few months hence when she would join herself, inexorably, to every aspect of his life for Time Immemorial. The idea was causing him to grow more nauseated by the moment.

'I still don't understand why you won't go to Sepulvarta and see the Patriarch yourself," Madeleine whined, rifling through the many pages of her list of notes.

"Surely he will make an exception and marry
us;
after all, you
cm
the only Prince of the highest House in all of Roland. What could possibly be more important, Tristan?"

'I believe the man is dying, dearest," Tristan answered as patiently as he could.

Would, that the- same could be said
—he thought bitterly.

'Nonsense. Word all over is that he just survived an assassination attempt in the basilica on the High Holy Day. If he's hale enough to live through his own murder attempt, he can stand in front of the altar, perform the Unification ritual and bless the most important marriage in the land."

Tristan swallowed angrily. He, of course, was familiar with the news, but from different sources, and for different reasons. The Patriarch's rescuer had been a slight, slender woman, according to the gossip among the prostitutes who serviced his guards, or so Prudence had said. A woman with the face of an angelic spirit, with the warmth of a raging fire in her green eyes. He had no doubt there could only be one.

'I'll consider it, Madeleine," he said curtly, snapping the carriage door shut. He leaned in through the open window and gave her a peck on the cheek. "Leave your list with the chamberlain, and I'm sure he'll see to your other concerns. Now, travel well. We don't want to keep your father waiting; you know how he worries."

Tristan turned his back, too late to miss the shock that flooded his fiancee's face, and gestured to the quartermaster, who whistled to the coachman. The carriage lurched forward, Madeleine's startled expression visible only a moment longer before the coach jolted away out of view.

»-,' thought you were never going to come."

'Prophetic words, no doubt. Once I'm married I can assure you that I never will again, at least in the manner I do with you."

Prudence tossed a pillow at the Prince, smacking him squarely in the chest. "It's not too late," she said, smiling. "Madeleine's finger is still ringless, as is her neck.

Wring one and not the other."

'Don't tempt me."

The gentle smile faded from Prudence's face. "Stop whining, Tristan. If you can't stomach the thought of spending the rest of your life with that—woman, grow a spine and break the engagement. You're the bloody Lord Roland. Nobody's forcing you to marry her."

Tristan sat heavily on the edge of his massive bed, and began pulling off his boots.

'It's not that simple, Pru," he said. "The marital pool from which I can draw is very limited. Lydia of Yarim had promise, but she also had the very bad taste to fall in love with my cousin Stephen Navarne and marry him; lost her life in the process."

A painful shock ran up his spine to his neck as Prudence's foot connected with his back.

'An ugly thing to say, Tristan, and beneath you, even when you've spent a month with Poisonous Madeleine and are toxic as a result. Lydia was killed in an unexplained incursion, as so many others have been over the years. It could happen to anyone; it does all the time, in fact. To imply that Stephen was in any way at fault—"

'All I'm saying is that it is ridiculous for a duchess to be traveling with so small a contingent, in pursuit of a pair of baby shoes for Lady Melisande. I didn't say Stephen was at fault. I just think he could have taken better care of his family, of the woman he loved."

'Hmm. Well, what about that Diviness in the Hintervold—what was her name?

Hjorda?"

Tristan dropped the other boot to the floor and began to unlace his trousers.

"Not Cymrian."

'So? I thought all you needed in your fiancee's background was royalty, nobility, or even landed gentry. The Diviner is royalty in the Hintervold. What difference does it make if his daughter is Cymrian or not? That might actually work to your advantage, given what most of the population thinks about you Cymrians, no offense."

Tristan rose and slid his trousers off, then turned to face her. She was propped against the gauzy white pillows, beneath the drapes of royal blue velvet that hung about his bed. Her strawberry ringlets cascaded over the shoulders he noticed had grown bonier with time, as age stretched her skin and reap-portioned her flesh from the silhouette of a young girl into the shape of an older woman. It was a sight that never failed to make his throat tighten with many emotions, none of them pleasant. He looked out the window.

'Madeleine is the daughter of the duke of Canderre and the cousin of the duke of Bethe Corbair," he said, staring at the fields beyond the courtyard, ripe and green in the heat of summer. "Stephen Navarne and I are cousins. Unce we are wed, I will have family ties to every province in Roland except Avonderre."

'So? Why is that important? You're the Lord Regent now without it."

I want to be prepared, in case there is a call to reunite the provinces of Poland under a Lord Cymrian again. There are those who feel it might be a way to end the violence that is plaguing the realm from the coast to the Bolg-lands, and in Tyrian and Sorbold as well. There might be a call."

Prudence rolled her eyes and sighed. "There might be a call to have the sky painted yellow, too, Tristan, but I wouldn't saddle myself with a woman who is the stuff of nightmares in anticipation of it if I were you."

The Lord Roland smiled in spite of himself, and pulled his long tunic off, dropping it to the floor on top of the pile of rumpled clothing. "Madeleine's not that bad, Pru."