Prophecy: Child of Earth

27

The Great Basilica in Sepulvarta was the centerpiece of the city, with towering walls of polished marble and an overarching dome that was taller than any in the known world. It had seating for the thousands of souls that sought solace within its walls, though on this, the holiest of nights, it was completely empty.

Rhapsody had been shown around the basilica that afternoon, and had delighted in the beauty of its architecture. The myriad colors and patterns of the mosaics that graced the floor and ceiling, along with the exquisite giltwork on the frescoed walls and the windows fashioned in colored glass all contributed to its grandeur, but it was the sheer height and breadth of it that took her breath away. Even in Easton, the largest city on the Island of Serendair, there was nothing to even remotely compare to this; the basilica there held perhaps three hundred and was singular in that it had contained some pews for the richest of the faithful to sit during services.

The reason for this contrast, aside from a vast difference in the wealth of the respective lands, was that Serendair had been for centuries polytheistic, with many temples catering to the faithful of several different deities. At the time she left the Island it was only a recent event that the king and country had adopted a monotheistic approach, and the turnover was still resisted in many sectors. The use of the epithet “gods,” a word that was a simple oath to monotheists like Rhapsody’s family, had caused citizens to come to blows in the street. As the population embraced a single God, however, more and more of the old temples stood empty.

It was the same here on this night, but for a different reason. As the cleric had explained to her, the High Holy Day celebration was performed alone, witnessed only by the Patriarch, in keeping with the direct-channel practice of the religion. At the stroke of midnight the elderly priest would begin his rites at the altar, chanting and offering sacrifice for the protection of the faithful for another year. This act of renewal interested Rhapsody, as it was strikingly similar to the Filidic rituals of the seasons. Perhaps the two religions were not as antithetical as there members believed them to be.

For this night, the Patriarch had performed a simple ceremony naming Rhapsody his champion. The technical name he gave her was the Ordained Avenger, and she struggled to keep from laughing during the sober rite by which this name was bestowed on her. Then she became solemn, realizing that the word Avenger implied that she might fail in her guardianship, and be required to exact revenge on behalf of the Patriarch’s faithful. The prospect was too portentous to be contemplated; she preferred to concentrate on her successful stewardship to see the Patriarch through the night.

So she stood in the darkness of the basilica, Daystar Clarion at the ready in its scabbard, her eyes scanning the vast empty church for signs of movement. She was positioned in the lector’s circle, a gilded design painted on the marble floor in the shape of the star that crowned the pinnacle of the city, at the edge of the huge set of marble stairs that led up from the front of the basilica to the altar. The altar itself was a plain stone table edged in platinum that stood in the very center of the basilica on the cylindrical rise that was the sanctuary. Positioned thus, all the faithful could see the altar, and as a result she had a good vantage point for her guard duty.

The only light in the dark basilica was cast from the reflection of the star atop the enormous tower she had seen. Though the spire itself was on the other side of the city, its light source illuminated the basilica, shining down through the openings in the great dome above the altar. It cast the place in an eerie glow, turning the face of the Patriarch white as he set about preparing the altar for his ritual. Then he walked slowly, with a shaking gait, over to where she stood at the top of the sanctuary stairs.

“I’m ready, my dear.”

Rhapsody nodded. “Very well, Your Grace, commence your ritual. If anything should happen, try to keep going. I’ll be standing watch.” She smiled at the frail old man, who seemed both lost and strikingly noble in the voluminous robes of his order. She drew her sword, and he blessed her. Then he returned slowly to the altar and stared into the solitary beam of light descending from the dome.

When he began to chant, Rhapsody closed her eyes and concentrated on the notes of his sacred melody. They were in the pattern of a song of protection; this made sense to her, since the rite itself was a request for a year of protection for his faithful. She pointed Daystar Clarion at the Patriarch, holding it steady until she could catch one of the repetitive notes. Then, with a careful hand, she drew the musical tone in a circle around the altar, hovering over the cleric.

Like a floating ring of light in the air, the protection circle whirled around the altar and the Patriarch. It made the cone of light from the dome above shine more intensely and look as if it were almost solid around him. His voice seemed to grow a little stronger as the circle picked up on the tones in his chant and held them in a spinning ring. She sheathed her sword and stood respectfully, honored by the knowledge that few other than she had ever witnessed the ritual.

As Rhapsody watched she felt a prickle of heat behind her, and the small hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She turned around slowly to see two figures enter through the locked doors and begin to walk toward the central basilica. One figure stopped at the arch that led into the nave. She could see little detail except that it wore a great black cloak and a horned helmet of the same color. Around its neck in the distance she could make out a vaguely round symbol that seemed to be set in the center with a stone, the color of which she could not determine.

The second figure also wore a black cape, but it was thrown back to reveal armor of shining silver. It strode down the long aisle with an air of cocky confidence beneath which lurked a sinister, purposeful menace. Rhapsody heard the chant of the Patriarch grind to a halt, and the old man backed away from the altar, his eyes wide in fear. She crossed and stood as much in front of him as she could, hoping he would stay behind the altar that was between them, but instead he tottered forward and stood behind her.

When the walking figure got to the center of the church it threw its hood back and Rhapsody gasped. Outshining the silver armor was red-gold hair, bright as burnished copper, though in the dark it did not gleam metallically as it had in the sunlight of the hidden glen behind the waterfall. The handsome, hairless face she had last seen beneath a scrub of beard smiled broadly, and her heart cramped in the memory of the admonition she had given him to shave. Even at this distance she could see his blue eyes gleaming clearly at her. He came to a stop at the edge of the first row of pews and grinned at her.

“Hello, dear. It’s been a long time; I’ve missed you.” His words echoed in the open air of the vast basilica.

Rhapsody stared at him in disbelief. A single word formed silently on her lips.

“Ashe.”

“Oh, you do remember me, then? I’m flattered.”

Her voice was low and steady. “Leave now, and no harm will come to you.”

An ugly laugh escaped him. “How very generous. I’m afraid I can’t do that, but I can extend the same offer to you.” Slowly he dropped his cloak to the polished floor of the basilica and took a step toward her.

Rhapsody felt the bony hand of the Patriarch touch her shoulder. “Leave now, my child. I can’t ask you to make this sacrifice.”

Rhapsody’s eyes never left the handsome face that smiled at her as it had in her dreams since she first beheld it in the forest. She reminded herself that, whatever kindness he may have seemed to show her in the Past, he was now her adversary. Her stomach turned in sickening betrayal. She addressed the Patriarch without looking back. “You didn’t ask. I came unbidden, remember?”

Her opponent moved nearer. “Listen to His Grace, darling. This is not your fight. Go back home to the Firbolg lands; go pleasure the Lord of the Monsters. That’s something I could never understand; such a beautiful woman, such a horrible fate.”

“Stay inside the circle, Your Grace,” said Rhapsody, gently shrugging the trembling hand from her shoulder, watching her opponent’s approach. “Go about your ritual and don’t worry. Focus on your celebration.”

The crystalline blue eyes lost their insolent twinkle. “I tire of this game,” he said, his voice growing nasty. “The more you make me play it, the more I shall play with you after I kill him. I have waited a long time to have you, dear.”

Rhapsody’s face hardened with anger. “Come, then,” she said, her eyes narrowing, her voice calm and deadly. “I’ll try to ensure the experience is memorable for you.” Her hand came to rest on the hilt of Daystar Clarion.

“Promise?” he asked suggestively, moving slowly to the side, his hands open and at the ready. “I can hardly wait.” He drew a sword, one she had not seen before. It was black tempered steel slashed with a white band, and the air around him hissed as he raised it before him.

Rhapsody felt her sword in its scabbard and changed her grip ever so slightly, as Achmed had taught her, focusing her awareness on herself first. She was as strong as she had ever been, and as well prepared, and standing on sacred ground. She could feel with a sense that had run in her since the old days, in that seemingly other life, the protection of the basilica. It was the sense that this ground would not hurt her, even if she fell. Rhapsody closed her eyes and concentrated as Oelendra had taught her.

At the edges of her awareness, moving closer now, were the three others. The familiar sound of the Patriarch was channeling through the ring. The being farthest away appeared as an unfamiliar burning at the edge of her vision. Her immediate adversary, the one she had called Ashe, closed quickly, directly in front of her. Rhapsody searched it for blood close to the surface, any sign of weakness or injury. She found none, but saw that it did have the same vibrational signature in its blood as the figure in the back of the basilica. Strangely, it did not register on the vibrational grid in her mind as a man, but as a thing, a ghost or a machine about to attack her. It seemed no more alive than its sword, which meant that she did not know if she could kill it.

A Kakshas looks like whatever soul is powering it.

Elynsynos’s words echoed in her memory. Rhapsody opened her eyes and glanced at the figure in the back, grateful that she was on blessed ground, on this, the holiest night of the year, for surely the host of the F’dor itself must have been behind the shield of the horned helmet. She wished she could make out any detail, any clue of its identity, but instead her focus was drawn back to the foe approaching her now.

She moved slowly down the iridescent marble steps that led up to the altar, extending the arc of the musical cylinder that hovered above and about the Patriarch as she came to a stop on the bottom stair. From the altar behind her the faltering voice of the ancient cleric began to chant the solemn words that would mark his final High Holy Day ceremony.

At the back of the hall the figure with the horned helmet gestured impatiently. The warrior, now uncloaked, whom she had trusted, had traveled with, that she had fought beside, slept beside, charged across the aisle at her with murder in his eyes.

Peace descended on Rhapsody in the seconds before their impact. It was the calculated calm that she had always been blessed with in dangerous situations, tempered by her training and honed by the sword itself, as if time had slowed dramatically, and all angles, all functions, every plane and arc was clear to her, ready to put her in position. Her face was set with a look of deadly serenity; she took a deep breath and increased her concentration on the vibration of the musical circle and the man approaching her, who was reduced now to mathematical calculations and vectors. She no longer saw him as someone she knew; he was merely the enemy, and every fiber of her being, and the sword’s, was poised for its destruction.

“You will not get by me,” she said, speaking with a Namer’s authority.

Rhapsody saw his face in the half-moment before he struck, contorted with rage and smoldering with hatred. The eyes she had dreamt about were spewing fire, the pupils tiny pinpricks in blazing blue light, the vertical slits gone. She judged his strength and his body mass to be twice her own; she believed she held the advantage in speed and technique, though his weapon was unknown to her. His fury was greater; whether this would work to his advantage or hers, she had no idea.

She had seen him in combat before, but never like this. He moved with the speed and agility of a wolf, and the horrific snarl that issued forth from him was more feral than human. In only a moment he had closed the distance between them in the wide aisle and, circling his sword with his wrist, he was upon her.

She stood deliberately rooted in place as he crossed, leaving only enough time to draw Daystar Clarion before he would be on her, timing the flash the sword would produce as it appeared from its dark sheath to coincide with the passing of the apex of the musical circle above her. As his blade swung at her throat, aiming to decapitate her, she heard the sound Oelendra had spoken of, the whisper of the wind denoting that, live or die, she had attained the status of Kinsman by her act,of guardianship.

Without a sound, with the speed born of experience, she drew Daystar Clarion, holding it with all her strength in a path to intersect and parry his blow.

The sword came forth, blazing with a ferocious light, its brilliance magnified and dispersed throughout the basilica by the humming circle above her.

A ringing sound of metal in motion like a silver trumpet call rent the air. The sword clanged against the black weapon with the timbre of a great forge, its reverberation picked up and echoed by the bells of the basilica, causing a wave of sound that rocked the Spire and swept down over the land, shaking the very Pinnacle itself.

Rhapsody used his own strength and size against him to direct his strike to the floor. She dragged her blade across his side, and where it bit through his armor it flashed, searing him. She spun quickly back to her place between him and the steps leading up to the Patriarch, half expecting him to be down. Instead, he was there still, barely favoring his wounded side, almost on top of her. She had to block again, but this time aimed her counter at his eyes. Even as she felt the sword cut him once more he was pushing her, grasping at her with his sword hand while he raised the other arm to shield his face.

Rhapsody dodged, slipping from beneath his grasp. She wrenched herself around, trying to find an opening, but he was too close. With a sharp move she gripped Daystar Clarion with both hands and hacked his thumb from the hilt of the black sword. The weapon clattered to the ground, followed by the bleeding digit, as she elbowed him down the stairs. She took two steps up to give herself another view of the situation.

“You—will not—get—by me,” she repeated, catching her breath.

Rhapsody felt the anger of both adversaries deepen and intensify. Looking at their vibrational signatures, she could see them pulsate into a dark red flame, burning black with fury. The rage of the masked figure in the rear of the basilica seemed to be with the now very public nature of their confrontation; it glanced around the back of the basilica, hearing the sounds of response begin to issue forth from the land. Warning bells and shouts could be heard from the town below, growing in intensity through the formerly silent night.

The wrath of her opponent, however, was not directed solely at her. She could see an irate bewilderment in his eyes, as though he had somehow misjudged her abilities. The possibility of this seemed remote to her; certainly Ashe had been around her enough, and with her in enough combat, to accurately assess her skills. And he was aware of her training with Oelendra as well. Whatever his confusion, it was momentary. His face darkened with hate and he leapt at her, soaring through the air with an unnatural lupine grace and knocking her to the ground, pinning her beneath him.

Obviously he had determined himself outweaponed, so he set about pressing his physical advantage of size and strength. With his uninjured hand he grabbed her forehead and slammed her head backward into the marble stair. Rhapsody’s return sword blow glanced off him, but the heel of her free hand made contact with his nose, striking upward and drawing blood. What came out was more like lye than blood; it stung her eyes and burned her skin. It hissed as it contacted her flesh, sending stinging waves of pain through her entire body.

I

He remained locked onto top of her as they grappled, rolling off the stairs. She landed on her back and tried to rise. A gloved hand closed around her throat and gripped with crushing strength, smashing her to the floor again. Rhapsody felt the world darken for a second as her air was cut off. With his lower torso holding hers to the ground, he rose above her, pressing her even harder to the basilica floor. He was panting; blood filled one eye and poured from his nose, his face twisted in malignant fury.

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.”