Destiny: Child Of Sky (72 page)

'Do you remember what element the basilica in Bethe Corbair is dedicated to?"

Rhapsody thought for a moment, retracing her conversation with Lord Stephen. “I think it's the wind," she said at last. “Of course it is. Remember the sound of all those beautiful bells? You could hear them everywhere in the town."

'It's 'ard to get around that,“ Grunthor said. "But, o' course, nothin' is impossible."

'Right,“ said Rhapsody. "So what do we do now?"

'Well, Grunthor and I are leaving tonight or tomorrow to follow his caravan back,"

said Achmed, downing his remaining whiskey. “I asked Sylvia to let you know when and if the benisons take their leave; they should be easy to track."

'What about me?" the new queen asked indignantly.

'You're to stay here for the moment and get established in your new kingdom. If you leave immediately after being coronated it will arouse suspicion. We will scout to see what is going on; then we'll come back here and plan the sortie to kill it. It should give you a few weeks to get things in order. Fair enough?"

'I suppose,“ Rhapsody said, looking out the window. "Let's not wait too long, though, all right? I don't want the body count of innocents to be any higher than it already is."

Grunthor and Achmed exchanged a glance. It was one higher than she realized.

Blesser of Bethe Corbair was a patient man. He had always been so. Even in the days before the Taking, in the time prior to becoming the host of the demon, Lanacan Orlando had been a patient man. Not suited by temperament or position to fight for dominance with Mousa or Griswold, he had instead chosen the path of long-suffering, humble service in the hope that the Patriarch would see the depth of his commitment to the All-God and to the Patriarch himself. Instead, the years passed; he repeatedly accepted the Patriarch's sincere thanks for taking on the most onerous of tasks, loyally serving as the healer to the festering wounded of the armies, the low-life populations of Bethe Corbair and the farming villages of the Krevensfield Plain, while the power and prestige were routinely reserved for the more assertive and combative benisons. Lanacan waited for the Patriarch, a soft-spoken man with a distaste for strife, to ultimately reward him for all his good works, his mild manner, but it never came to pass. His only thanks for all that patience was the Patriarch's good opinion.

When finally Lanacan Orlando made his deal with the demon, he discovered that it, too, was patient. Unlike most of the others of its race, intent on mayhem and chaos at all costs, lusting for power and the friction of destruction, the F'dor that took him on, came into him like breath, remaining in his lungs like heavy vapor, clinging thickly to his blood, had a long worldview, a plan it was willing to wait to implement until all the pieces were in place. Over the years, as he grew more and more demonic, it seemed as if the F'dor's avarice might have even been tempered somewhat by the patience he had possessed before it possessed him.

Now, spring was coming. He stood in the thin snow of the Krevensfield Plain, the anger from being thwarted at such an important juncture still unabated, growing more fierce and furious, like a spreading fire, by the moment. The Patriarch had died in Tyrian, not in Sepulvarta. He had died without a successor, and, more important, without the Ring. Had he remained in Sepulvarta, where he had spent his entire life since investiture, the benison would have been the one to comfort him in his remaining days. To ease his transition from life to death, in Orlando's own time. To make sure all the pieces were in place for Orlando's ascension as the new Patriarch, which would give him the chance to crown his thrall King of Roland.

Well, no matter, he thought, trying to quell the screaming voice that burned in his ear. He has the armies.

Now, Tristan Steward, he whispered into the wind. Regin.

He waited until the command caught the west wind, then turned to his livery driver and the soldiers who served as his escort and smiled beneficently.

'Well, gentlemen, we are but a day from home. I can almost hear the sweet music of the bells of Bethe Corbair on the wind; shall we saddle up, then, and be off?"

Cristan Steward swung open the door just as McVickers, the new knight marshal of the united army of Roland, was preparing to knock.

'Come in, McVickers," he said thickly. The soldier stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He stood at attention, waiting for the prince to speak, but Tristan merely returned to his desk and the enormous pile of parchment documents he had been paging through. After a few moments, McVickers spoke.

'What can I do to be of service, m'lord?"

'You can stand there quietly while I get the maps together, McVickers." The prince's voice dripped with venom. The soldier inhaled deeply and remained at attention.

Finally Tristan found what he wanted. He spread the sheets out on the long table near the window and gestured impatiently to McVickers. The soldier came and stood by his side. He stared down at the maps that the prince was arranging on the table. Finally he spoke.

'Canrif, m'lord?"

'Yes,“ Tristan answered, smoothing the corner of an ancient map that was attempting to reroll itself. "The Bolglands."

'Sir?"

Steward's eyes glittered impatiently. "What is it you don't understand, McVickers?

I've summoned Stephen Navarne and asked him to bring from his museum the drawings of the internal tunnels and mountain passes that were built in the Cymrian times; I doubt there has been much structural revision. Most of the changes will have been to the outer defenses, to the outposts and perhaps in the field tunnels known as the breastworks."

'I—I don't understand, m'lord.“ McVickers stammered as the enormity of what the prince was contemplating began to dawn on him. "You—you aren't planning to—attack the Bolglands, are you, sir?"

The madness in Tristan's eyes shone brighter than the morning light outside the library window. He had been in a rage of sick disappointment ever since the coronation, when the Patriarch's untimely demise had caused a panic, and thereby prevented him from the private audience with the new Lirin queen he had been craving with anticipation. He had been forced to leave immediately with the benisons and the other provincial leaders, to return to Sepulvarta for the funeral.

Rhapsody had not attended; she had already said her goodbyes.

But at least she was now ensconced in Tyrian.

Out of the Bolglands.

Out of harm's way.

'Yes, McVickers,“ he said darkly. "Yes, I am. It's only a shell at this point, anyway; a plague of some sort has destroyed the army and most of the populace. Those Bolg that remain must be contained to ensure that the disease does not spread to Roland. Now gather your generals, and begin a muster. I want to leave as soon as all the provinces have sent their soldiers, when the last troops arrive from Yarim two months hence."

McVickers nodded, feeling the weight of an executioner on his neck as he did.

'Yes, m'lord."

The sheer scope of the cathedral, its massive domed ceiling overarching a hall the length and breadth of several city streets, only served to unnerve Achmed even more.

He had surprised Grunthor to the point of speechlessness when the Bolg king announced that he wanted to stay near the basilica of the Star for a few moments after the benisons had left, along with the weeping faithful, as night fell on the conclusion of the funeral rites for the Patriarch. Lanacan Orlando, who had passed up the service itself to remain behind in the Patriarch's manse, comforting the grief-stricken abbot and ordinates, had already departed to return to Bethe Corbair.

His coterie had headed north toward the crossroads of the trans-Orlandan thoroughfare, the roadway built in Cymrian times bisecting Roland from the seacoast to the edge of the Teeth. Achmed reasoned they could catch up with him easily by traveling overland. TOM know why he stayed in the rectory? Achmed had asked. Binding more thralls?

That, and he can't go into the basilica. It's blessed ground. The giant Sergeant-Major stood, still befuddled, at the back door in the dark vestibule near the entrance to the nave, the largest part of the basilica, where the faithful stood or sat during services. He kicked his toe through the debris left behind from the funeral, scattered feathers that had been used in the ceremony by the congregation to help speed the Patriarch's soul to the Light, soiled with mudfilth from the soles of ten thousand feet amid a sea of candle drippings and torn flower petals. Idly he wondered if any of the ashes from the Patriarch's body, set alight on the great brazier that had been erected on the altar, were mixed in with the grime that marred the beautifully crafted mosaics on the floor beneath his boots.

Achmed looked over his shoulder for the fifth time, assuring himself that he was indeed still alone in the vast cathedral, then reluctantly made his way down one of the main aisles to the sanctuary where the pyre-altar stood atop a platform above a great number of stairs. Outside the cathedral the bells of the enormous tower known as the Spire were tolling the endless death knell. When he reached the foot of the stairs he stopped, then cleared his throat nervously in the haze of smoke that still hung heavy in the air.

'I hate priests," he said aloud, his eyes fixed on the coals that had gone dark after being doused with holy water. He stared at the funeral brazier, from which a tendril of smoke rose questioningly.

Achmed rubbed the back of his neck as he spoke in the direction of the smoldering pile of brush and ash.

'I came to say that—I regret the way things came to pass,“ he said quietly. "I would have avoided it if there was any other way."

The cathedral echoed with silence except for the reverberations from the endlessly tolling bells.

'Your death saved her life. Though we never met, given the choice, I think you would have wanted it that way, too."

A sudden wave of discomfort flooded Achmed; he turned rapidly on his heel and hurried back down the aisle toward the shadowy vestibule. When he was almost at the end he turned once more to where the altar was now enveloped in darkness.

“Bye, Father," he said.

—

Her workout at the lists that morning had been particularly tiring, and Rhapsody had embraced her bath with thankfulness. She came into her bedchamber, refreshed and dressed in one of the simple, artful gowns the Lirin seamstresses had fashioned for her. The clothing was a pleasure to wear, causing the body to feel unrestricted and light, and the color matched her eyes perfectly.

With a deep sigh she fell back onto the bed and stared up at the graceful engilder trees that served as bedposts, to their intertwined branches that served to form the canopy, lacy leaves casting sunlit shadows in dancing patterns on the bed and over her. The fire roared on the hearth, driving the chill from the room and warming the trees, keeping them in a false state of summer, even in winter.

In the courtyard below she heard the echoing sounds of distant commotion, and she rose and moved to the window, wiping away the frost and looking to see what was happening. Far off at the edge of the palace walls she could see amid a vast number of Lirin guards a large cavalcade of visitors forming an uneven line. The line swelled and grew larger as more joined, jostling and laughing, spiced with the occasional sound of argumentative confrontation. Their noise was unmuffled by the cold; steaming vapors rose from the distant conversations.

Rhapsody drew a soft cloak around herself, pulled on her boots, and left her chambers, seeking Rial, now her viceroy and chief advisor. Over the short time of her reign she had come to rely on him almost exclusively to explain the intricacies of the court, and advise her in matters of state. She was confident he would know what was going on.

She found him near the wall, very close to the convocation, watching grimly as guards and palace clerks catalogued the visitors and the items they seemed, without exception, to have brought with them. She slipped up next to him and touched him on the sleeve.

'Rial, what on Earth is going on?"

Rial turned to her and quickly took her arm, steering her hurriedly away from the crowd. They walked until they came to the curved wall of the guard tower. When they were out of sight of the throng he took her hand and kissed it.

'Good morning, m'lady.“ He smiled down at her, his elderly face wrinkling into the kind expression Rhapsody had grown fond of. "I thought you were away on the practice fields." His breath formed an icy cloud in the air between them.

'I was, but there's only so much physical abuse I can take; Hiledraithe and Kelstrom took particular pleasure in beating me into submission today. What's happening? Who are these people?"

-

Rial sighed. “Suitors, Your Majesty."

'Suitors? Suitors for whom? I thought you told me that the Lirin did not have a marriage lottery, that women were free to choose their own mates.“ "They are, Your Majesty. These men are suing for your hand, or they are emissaries of lords who are."

Rhapsody walked to the edge of the tower and peeked around. The line had grown even fuller, and the boisterous sounds were becoming deafening. “You must be joking," she said, staring at the crowd. “There are scores of them."

'Hundreds, actually, I would guess. I am very sorry, m'lady. I had hoped to spare you the sight of them."

Rhapsody's face clouded over in dismay. “I don't understand, Rial; why are they here, on such a cold day especially? I didn't say I was seeking a suitor, did I?"

Rial offered her his arm; as she took it he led her back to the palace. "No, Rhapsody, but they are insidious. Normally within the first year we would have expected to see some of them, seeking to ally themselves with Tyrian by means of a marriage of state. Usually the first to arrive are the lords of the elder Lirin houses, since they have the early word when a new monarch is crowned; it was thus with Queen Terrell in the old times.