Prophecy, Child of Earth (46 page)

It would do no good to try to remove the instrument, the Rakshas decided. It had become an intrinsic part of the tree itself, playing its namesong, the repeating melody sustained by the life within it. The will of the sapling was now tied to the same source as its mother, Sagia, had been, its vestigial roots sunk deep within the Earth, wound inextricably around the Axis Mundi. The song of the harp had broken his master's hold on the young tree, had healed it from its desecration.

There was no doubt in his mind about who had put it there.

Slowly he lowered his hood, letting the wind whip through the shining curls of red-gold hair, while he pondered what to do next. The one who was his master, his father, had been very specific about the need to monitor the Three and keep them contained, not to try to destroy any of them yet, at least up until the confrontation in Sepulvarta. That debacle had proven how badly they had misjudged the situation, thinking that each of the Three was occupied at the time of the assassination attempt. Its failure had been a serious setback, even more serious than the rout that had occurred here, at the House of Remembrance.

The Rakshas turned away from the tree and slowly paced the courtyard, trying to focus his limited powers of reason. Something nagged at the back of his mind, perhaps something from before his rebirth, something he had experienced when he was Gwydion. He couldn't put a context around the thought, so he returned to the place where that rebirth had occurred.

At the western edge of the garden stood a long, flat table fashioned of marble, the altar on which he had first come to awareness. He closed his eyes again, recalling the first words he had heard as his father prayed above him.

Child of my blood
. Y

The pulse of light, the pain of rebirth.

Now shall the prophecy be broken. From this child, will come forth my children.

The Rakshas closed his crystalline blue eyes, as he had then, against the intensity of the light in his memory. When he opened those eyes again, they were gleaming with that same light, but now the light was that of inspiration.

Quickly he crouched down in a feral stance, like the wolf whose blood had been added to his father's own to form him, and scratched at the earth beneath the altar.

He dug for some time until he finally came upon it, a root from the tree that still bore the pocked scars of its original pollution. The tree's savior had not found all the tap roots—she had probably not even looked beneath the altar when she had done whatever anointing she had undertaken to heal the tree. The Rakshas threw back his head and laughed aloud.

There was one left, one root still desecrated.

It was enough.

He glanced around quickly and scowled for a moment. Stephen Navarne's men had stripped down the slaughtering equipment, the vats that had been carefully erected to collect the blood of the children he had stolen. That blood had fed the tree then, had twisted it to his master's whim. There was no longer any here to be found—the place had been scoured clean of it.

His master had committed a good deal of his life's essence to bring him into being, he mused. It had been a blood sacrifice on the demon's part as well, and more; it was a substantial commitment of precious power that could wink out if it was not jealously guarded. By nature F'dor were only smoke, ephemeral spirits that clung desperately to a human body. The more power, the more
will
they expended, the more tenuous that hold became. With his limited abilities to reason, the Rakshas felt honored at the life offering his master had made to give him existence.

The Child of Earth that the legends of ancient demons said slept beneath the mountains of the Teeth was one of the two tools most critical to his master's plan.

The sapling's root had been the Fdor's way in—fed by the blood of innocents, connected to the power of the Axis Mundi, the centerline of the Earth itself, pulsing with ancient magic of incalculable strength. That root system ranged throughout the world, even into the flesh of the unassailable mountains. And it could be manipulated, or so his master believed. Surely reestablishing control over this holy tree's root was worth the commitment of more of his, and his master's life essence.

He tried to concentrate, tried to force his circumscribed intelligence to calculate the right answer. The repetitive music of the small harp jangled his thoughts, making focus impossible. He eyed the instrument angrily, then, as dawn crosses a valley, a smile spread slowly over his face, lighting each of the features it touched until it came at last to his eyes.

He had his answer.

With an arrogant flip of the wrist, a dagger was in his hand, a hand that no longer bore any sign that it contained a new thumb. Quickly he slashed his forearm twice, drawing deep, bright bands of red across the skin, and then turned his arm over to allow them to drip onto the exposed root. There was no real pain; such a trifling injury could not compete with the agony that constituted his waking life.

As the blood splashed the ground smoke began to rise. Scarlet and black against the night sky, it twisted into a tendril, then a spiraling column, catching the wind.

The ground began to smolder, then to burn. The Rakshas closed his eyes, listening to the deep voices begin to whisper, then to chant darkly, ominously, speaking in obscene countersigns, murmuring in pain.

The agony surged, roaring through him like hot lightning; he felt his head crackle with the intensity of it. The odor of burning flesh in fire crept into his nostrils, and he clenched his fists, knowing that the spilling blood was taking some of his master's power with it into the earth.

Bloody light filled the darkness, dancing frenetically to the chanting voices of F'dor spirits imprisoned in their deep vault within the Earth. The Rakshas struggled to stand upright in the waves of power pouring from his pulsing heart like blood from the artery he had opened.
I am merely the vessel
, he thought, pleased, as the ground beneath his trembling feet turned crimson.
But I am a, capable vessel
. He lost the battle with gravity and stumbled forward from his crouch, kneeling in his own burning blood.

When the root and the soil around it was soaked into red mud the Rakshas exhaled in exhaustion, then held the skin-flaps around his wounds together for a moment, sealing them shut again. He carefully reburied the root, whispering the words of encouragement he had routinely spoken over it when he was still Master of this house.

'Merlus," he whispered.
Grow
. "Sumat."
Feed
. "Fynchalt dearth kynvelt."
Seek
the Earth child
.

He stood slowly and watched in delight as the root swelled, engorged with tainted blood, then withered, dark and vinelike, before it slithered back into the ground and disappeared. He pulled up his hood, casting one last look around the old Cymrian outpost, and went to meet up with the one who was waiting for him.

vy runthor, stop hovering, I'm fine. Jo, make him stop."

Jo gave the giant a playful smack across the back of the head. "She says she's fine. Leave her alone."

'Oi 'card 'er," said the Bolg indignantly, "and Oi can also see 'er neck, thank you, lit'le miss. Ypu look like the loser in a game of Badger-in-the-Bag, Duchess.

You got your charmin' lit'le arse booted, didn't you?"

'I beg your pardon," said Rhapsody with a tone of mock offense. "I'll have you know he did not draw one drop of blood on me,
not one.'"

~

'Not above the surface of the skin, anyway," said Achmed with a smirk. "What do you think bruises are?"

'Aye, well, you should have seen him when it was over," said Rhapsody, pushing the giant hand away from her throat again. "Will you leave me alone?"

'If the Patriarch is such an almighty 'ealer, why didn't the old bastard fix your neck, miss? Oi like 'is mettle; if you'd come and stood by me, saved my 'airy arse, Oi would at least given you something for the pain."

Rhapsody smiled at her friend, genuinely touched by his concern for her. "I didn't give him a chance, Grunthor. I just wanted to get home as soon as I could.

Besides, the bruises are much better. Ten days' ride without incident does wonders for minor wounds."

'Still say Oi don't like it. We're a team, you and me. From now on Oi don't want none o' this galavantin' off by yourself. Got it?"

'We'll see. I don't intend to go anywhere anytime soon, but I do have something I need to discuss with you all."

Achmed nodded; she had briefed him thoroughly before the other two had arrived, telling him all about what she had learned in her travels, and giving him her take on the situation in Roland, on the incursions and the future reunion of the Cymrian states. He caught Grunthor up quickly while Jo opened some of the gifts Rhapsody had brought back with her. Finally, when they returned to the massive table, Rhapsody took a deep breath and crossed her arms.

'I've decided I want to help Ashe," she said. Jo smiled, Grunthor and Achmed looked at each other.

'

'Elp him what?"

'Help him get his soul back. Kill the demon that took it in the first place. Help him heal. Help him become Lord Cymrian, eventually, and help unite the Cymrian people."

'Stop," said Achmed. "Why?"

'I've had ten days to think about it, to sort things out. After being around him, and around the land, I think it's the right thing to do."

'Are you knobbing him?"

'You're a pig," Rhapsody retorted, holding her hands over Jo's ears.

'Too late; I heard him already," said Jo. "Well, are you?"

'No," said Rhapsody indignantly. "What's the matter with you three? I've helped you all at one time or another, and I'm not knobbing any of you."

'Well, it's not for want o' tryin' on my part, Oi can assure you."

'You be quiet. The Rakshas is going to be after us sooner or later, I expect, after the House of Remembrance and our confrontation in the basilica. And I can't believe you don't have the desire to hunt down and kill the F'dor, Achmed. I thought that was intrinsic to your race." The Firbolg king said nothing. "As for uniting the Cymrians, I think it makes some sense for us to take a role in the healing of the people who came from the same place we did."

'Well, that leaves me out," said Jo, rising from the table. "I came from Navarne, and as far as I'm concerned they can all die of the pox there. I'm going to bed. Do whatever you want, Rhaps; you know you can count on my help."

'Thanks, Jo." Rhapsody blew her a kiss as she left the room. Jo had little stomach for long political arguments.

Jo
turned out to be astute in her decision to leave, Rhapsody decided some hours later. They had argued and debated endlessly, getting nowhere. Even more than Achmed was suspicious of Ashe, he did not trust Llauron. Grunthor could not get past the idea of the Rakshas and Ashe being two separate entities.

'So you say this thing ain't 'im, it just looks like 'im, right?"

'Right."

'And 'ave you ever seen 'em together?"

'No," she admitted. "I think if the Rakshas had found Ashe, he would be dead, or, even worse, his soul would be the F'dor's entirely. Powerful as Ashe is, in a confrontation with the Rakshas he would be fighting against his own soul. He is damned either way, win or lose. That's the main reason he hides behind the mist cloak, I think."

'Ashe tole you this?" Grunthor asked suspiciously.

'No," Rhapsody admitted reluctantly. "I've pieced it together from my own observations, and what Elynsynos and Oelendra told me. And my visions."

'If you haven't seen 'em together, then 'ow do you know it ain't 'im just actin'

different?"

'I don't know it for sure," Rhapsody admitted again. "But I have seen them both, and watched them fight, and they seem very different."

'Naw. Not good enough. Oi think they're one and the same. Maybe Ashe don't even know it, but perhaps the Rakshas is nothing more than 'is own evil side."

'Let's go over this again," Rhapsody said, trying to maintain her patience.

"There are two possibilities. The first is that Ashe and the Rakshas are one and the same; that Gwydion died, for all intents and purposes, and the F'dor was able to reanimate him somehow, and use him as its servant."

'That would be my guess, miss."

'And if that's true, I just traveled safely across the better part of the continent with him, during which time he never once made a move to harm me." Her voice caught in her throat as she remembered the scuffle where he drew his sword on her. "Well, maybe once, but he didn't actually harm me."

Grunthor's amber eyes narrowed. "What does that mean?"

'Nothing. It was a misunderstanding. And obviously he did what he said he would do—he took me to where I asked to be taken, and then he left. If he was this twisted, evil minion of the F'dor, why didn't he just kill me when he had the opportunity, and thwart the prophecy?"

'Maybe 'e was following you to get an idea of your mission," the giant suggested. "Might be spyin' for the F'dor."

Rhapsody swallowed her frustration. "The second possibility, the one I believe to be correct, is that there are two beings, Ashe and the Rakshas. Ashe is Gwydion, and, despite what Oelendra and Stephen think, he's alive; he survived the F'dor's attack. He is wandering the world alone, in pain, trying to remain hidden so that it doesn't find him and take the rest of his soul. The Rakshas is a separate entity, a construct built around the piece that the F'dor took. It's made from ice, earth, and the blood of the F'dor, and probably some sort of feral animal. That's what the dragon said."

'But she didn't say Ashe and the Rakshas weren't the same, now did she, miss?"

'No."

'Then Oi think we can't take the chance that they are."

'Well, what would you have me do, then?" Rhapsody asked in exasperation.

'Oi say we kill 'im. And if we're wrong, and another one shows up, we kill 'im too."

Rhapsody paled; she knew the Bolg giant wasn't joking. "You can't go around killing people if you're not sure whether you're right."