Rhapsody, Child of Blood (58 page)

Once again Dartralen had been given hospice duty by the Abbot when the wounded soldiers arrived. And once again, despite his seniority, and his age, and his skill at healing, Simon had been relegated to the rites of preparation—also known as housecleaning—while Dartralen smugly tended to the injured, that clumsy butcher.

He was struggling to put the malicious thought out of his mind when the peasant woman approached him. Simon pointed the way to her proper place, the outer Ring, but she had apparently not heard him.

'Ordinate?" The voice was soft and warm, like the breath of the fire itself.

When he looked up his heart lurched into his throat.

Standing before him, clothed in the brown sackcloth of a peasant, was Beauty itself, a woman with eyes as deep and green as the emerald depths of the sea, and hair the color of the sun, glistening in the winter wind. A warmth radiated from her; he had been around the Holy Brazier long enough to recognize its source. This must be the Fire Spirit, the harbinger of death in the Ancient Lores, now come for him. The exertion of cleaning must have been greater than he thought.

And when this angelic escort had come for him, he was thinking jealous thoughts, arrogant thoughts. His heart sank into the Earth. He was damned.

'Sweet Creator. Now?" he asked, his voice tremulous.

The beautiful apparition blinked. "Are you unwell?"

Simon struggled to rise. "Ah, forgive me. I—I mistook you for someone else." He closed his eyes, praying that mistaking ° her for a peasant would not make his punishment in the Afterlife even more painful.

The vision bowed respectfully. "I was wondering if I might impose upon you to instruct me in the lore of this basilica? I am from far away."

Simon's trembling grew more violent. Ah, that's it, he thought, his eyes casting about wildly to see if anyone else was witnessing his imminent demise. I'm being tested,. Only a few of the faithful were scattered in the Rings, lost in prayer or meditation. Another hooded peasant was wandering the basilica, making note of the frescoes and mosaics on the walls and floor.

Well, he thought grimly, my place in the Afterlife depends on this moment. I am being judged on my priestly comportment, and how well I am versed in religious ritual and rite. I may as well expend every effort of which I'm capable.

'It would be my pleasure," he said, making the attempt to smile benevolently, choking back his fluttering heart as it tried to escape through his throat. "This way."

Chank you," Rhapsody said, folding her hands inside the sleeves of her robes as the ordinate did. This was much easier than she had expected, especially after his initial reaction.

The look of utter terror on the ordinate's face when he first looked up had made her stomach clench in cold nausea. It was a reaction she had seen a few times before, in Stephen's servants, in the guards at the House of Remembrance, among Llauron's followers. It was Anborn, the great Cymrian general, who had summed it up most succinctly.

Ah, now I know who you are; you're Rhapsody, aren't you?

How did you know that?

There could only be one such freak of nature.

Even Khaddyr, who as a healer had seen people in all degrees of illness and decay, had stared at her.

I thought perhaps she would interest you, as I am at a loss to define what she is.

I've never seen a Lirin like that.

Whether it was her Liringlas appearance, or something that had happened to her in her walk through the fire that had made her appear freakish, she seemed to evoke responses that she did not recognize.

Occasionally she saw something that almost resembled awe, an emotion she had seen in another form back in the brothel. Either way, she would need to learn to live with it, probably -391

much the way Achmed did—by remaining hidden. Rhapsody pulled her hood back up and followed the sweating ordinate.

He began by leading her directly to the brazier.

'This is the holy flame-well of Vrackna, Lord All-God, Fire of the Universe," he said carefully.

Against her will Rhapsody went pale, then swallowed, an action that caused the nervous ordinate even more consternation. She had forgotten the misuse the Cymrians had made of the ancient evil fire god's name. The ordinate struggled to regain his composure.

'The—the basilica—is, of course, consecrated to the Creator. It is unique in that it is dedicated to one of His five children, the element of fire. The flame within this Brazier comes directly from the heart of the Earth, the fire at the core of the world."

Rhapsody smiled but did not look at the fire for fear she would begin to weep or stare, entranced by the leaping colors. Instead she nodded to Achmed, who hovered nearby.

'This is my associate," she said, gesturing to the Dhracian to join them. "I believe he is interested in what you have to say as well."

A beneficent smile now frozen firmly in place, the ordinate turned to greet Achmed, who dropped the veil from in front of his face and grinned. Rhapsody had just enough time to grab the cleric's arm as his eyes rolled back and he lurched forward.

Death's angel had apparently not come alone.

'This is my associate," the apparition said softly. "I believe he is interested in what you have to say as well."

Simon had steeled himself, expecting another vision of supernatural countenance, perhaps a lesser spirit of the fire. Instead the face that stared back at him, silhouetted against the Brazier's leaping flames, was a face born of nightmares. The eyes, piercing with the look of the Soul-stealer, stared into his own. The mouth, a twisted line in the pocked skin's surface, contorted into a leer in greeting.

As the world grew dark around him, Simon knew that this was his fate if he failed, the demonic other side of the angelic coin. Instead of ascending to the Afterlife in the arms of the Fire Spirit, he would be choked in the clutches of this denizen of the Underworld who laughed at him now. Good and evil, battling for his soul where he stood.

With his last clear thought, he wished desperately that he had paid more attention to the lessons of the Ancient Lore, now no longer part of the dogma. Simon began to tremble violently, then pitched forward as the blood rushed from his head.

A strong, warm hand gripped his forearm, and he was uplifted again. As Simon raised his head he inhaled the fragrant scent of the Fire Spirit's hair, and found himself staring into the hypnotic eyes, green and verdant with life.

'Ordinate?" The smile she gave him had a ring of encouragement to it, and he took heart. Perhaps she was not dissatisfied with his answers after all.

She leaned closer, the sweet scent of her skin making his head feel light again. "You needn't fear him," she whispered. A blessing, Simon thought gratefully. My faith, and the All-God's harbinger, will protect me.

He struggled to a stand. "I'm fine. I'm sorry. Now, where was I? Yes, of course. The faithful of the See of Bethany attend services here, using this gift of the Creator to center their thoughts, to purify them, to make their prayers worthy of offering up to the Patriarch."

The Fire Spirit nodded. "And these?" She extended a graceful arm and pointed to the frescoes and mosaics that decorated the basilica's walls.

Simon summoned the strength to stand alone. He pointed to the fresco of a young man in red robes and a horned miter painted on the northern wall of the innermost Ring.

'That is a portrait of His Grace, Ian Steward, the Blesser of Canderre-Yarim. He is the benison of the See for which this is the basilica."

'Tristan's brother?" asked the demon. His voice was as dry as black fire, with a haughty undertone to it.

Simon shuddered. He did not want to be responsible for aiding in the damnation of his sovereign in any way, though it was of little surprise to him that the demon was intimately acquainted with the prince.

Simon cast a glance around for Brentel, the other ordinate assigned to preparation duty, but he had disappeared, probably into the reliquary or the vestry. He looked backed to the Fire Spirit, who was, by her expression, also anticipating his reply.

'Ye—yes," he stammered. The angel nodded, as if pleased; it gave him a sudden jolt of courage. He turned to the other mosaics.

Chese are artistic representations of the birth of Fire," the ordinate said, nervously wiping the sweat from his shining pate.

Rhapsody followed his outstretched arm. A series of mosaic images graced the other three walls of the basilica's Innermost Ring. In the first, on the eastern wall, an image of the sun appeared in the distance behind a shooting star, blazing across the black tiles that represented the void of the universe. The globe burned brightly, flames dancing across its surface.

'The Earth was formed when a piece of the star that is our sun broke off and streaked across the void, coming to rest in orbit about its mother," the ordinate intoned. His eyes sought hers anxiously, and though she had no idea why he was seeking her validation, she smiled and nodded. He relaxed visibly and turned to the south.

'Fire burned, unchecked, on the Earth's surface. In the absence of ethereal fuel, however, Fire could not sustain itself and sank into the Earth, forming its core, where it burns to this day in the purest of its forms." The mosaic captured, in tens of thousands of tiny tiles, the image of the Earth, now dark at the surface, a red spiral leading down to the center, where it glowed intensely.

Achmed and Rhapsody followed the ordinate to the last of the picture-walls, the stylized image of the sun with the coiled red center from the amulet, the image he himself wore on his chest.

'This is the symbol of the F'dor, the primordial race that existed long before the birth of mankind. They were the children of fire, the ancient culture that it originated, that sprang from it.

'It was the F'dor that tamed fire, at least a little, and gave it to mankind for its use in protection, in the warming of homes in winter, in the forging of weapons. The F'dor, now long deceased, were the forefathers of steel, of hearths, of every way in which we now make use of this holy and powerful element, one of the original gifts of the All-God."

The ordinate's words ground to a halt as he caught the expression on Achmed's face. He quickly looked back at Rhapsody, who smiled again.

She extended a hand to the cleric, who took it, still shaking.

'Thank you. I think we should be going now."

The ordinate collapsed in a faint. Rhapsody barely had time to stop him from slamming his head into the paved mosaic of the basilica floor.

'What on Earth is the matter with this man?" she asked as they propped him against the inner wall of the basilica beneath the F'dor symbol.

'Nothing," Achmed answered, casting a glance above him at the mosaic. It's something within the Earth, he thought.

Rhapsody was uncorking her flask of brandy. She held it to the unconscious man's lips and poured a little down his throat. The ordinate sputtered, spilling a little of the flask's contents down the front of his robe, but did not regain consciousness. She gave him a little more, then recapped the flask.

'There; I hope that helps," she said.

'Well, it might temporarily," Achmed said with a smirk. "Clerics who tend shrines of fire are generally forsworn from alcohol, for obvious reasons. I imagine he will have a hard time explaining the reek of brandy on his clothes when he wakes up."

He saw concern cloud her eyes, darkening them. "Let's go," he said impatiently, forestalling Rhapsody from any further attempt to wake him. "Don't worry about him, he'll come up with something. These people are almost as good at self-delusion as you are." He pulled her to a stand.

'What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

'Come with me now, and I'll tell you once we're outside the city walls," he said. He gave her hand another tug, and together they bolted from the basilica, walking quickly away and blending into the crowded streets.

<5imon fought to waken, and lost. In his few fragmented moments of awareness he could recall the scent of the Fire Spirit's sweet skin, and the warmth of her hands as she tilted his head back.

He had seen the moment of his own death. The Fire Spirit had taken his hand.

Thank you, she had said. I think we should be going now. At least she had chosen him; he had won salvation, not the damnation of the demon with the nightmare face. The world had gone dark.

Then his head was in her hands, and the burning liquid ripped down his throat, searing him with molten fire. He had gasped, had tried to fight it, only to find that her ministrations had filled him with a sense of well-being, a warmth that lulled him to sleep, easing his fear and his distress. At least it had until the Abbot found him.

The sound of delight she had made when she first sighted the shop could have come from a two-year-old, it was so full of childlike joy. The sound had a music that stopped him in his tracks, had made her pleading impossible to resist. It was a dangerous sound, one that he would be wary of from now on.

,' want to send some gifts to my grandchildren, and I deserve a new harp, she had said, I keep leaving all my stringed instruments behind.

It had taken an inordinately long period of time for her to choose another, however.

The noise of the street, and the vibrations that the foot and cart traffic were generating, made his head throb. He was preparing to go into the shop himself to drag her out when she appeared at the door, disheveled and flustered, a decided look of anger in her eye.

'Bastard," she muttered, handing him the three-stringed instrument she was lugging.

'Excuse me?"

'Not you, him," she spat, gesturing at the shop door, then smoothing her hair back under the hood again.

'What happened?"

'Apparently harps aren't the only things his fingers want to pluck," she said angrily as they walked away from shop, joining the flow of human traffic again.

Achmed snickered as he passed the instrument back to her. "How did you react?"