Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

Gittleson looked back down at the list he had made in the marketplace. Everything Rhapsody had bought he had already enumerated.

“Yes, Your Grace. Then she left the market and went off to the back alleys.”

“Ah, well. At least our little meeting will be brief, and then we can get down to the business of playing with her. Obviously I can’t enjoy the full benefit of her—charms, but there’s nothing to stop you, now is there, Gittleson? The Rakshas said she was lightning in a bottle, the eighth wonder of the world. Once she has her instructions, she’s yours for the night.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

The benison turned in the vestry and put on his shawl. “Don’t drool, Gittleson; it’s unbecoming.”

The giant Bolg shook his head vigorously. “Oi still don’t like it.” Rhapsody patted his arm reassuringly. “I know, I know you don’t, Grunthor, but it’s for the best. Tell him, Achmed.”

The mismatched eyes looked at her coolly. “I never tell Grunthor what to think. You should know that by now.”

They had been arguing for the past ten minutes, the Sergeant objecting strenuously to the concept of Rhapsody going in first, alone. She sighed deeply. “You’ll be right there, outside the northern door, and Achmed will be right outside the vestry entrance on the south. I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll be alone too long in there—

“What choice do we have?” she interrupted desperately. “If you don’t follow the plan, he’ll know you’re both here, and he’ll put two and two together and get Three, if you take my meaning. I’ll tell you what, Grunthor; I will stay on the floor of the nave until you get there. I won’t even go near the stairs of the sanctuary until you have him. All right?” The Bolg regarded her seriously. “Ya promise?”

“I promise.”

“Nowhere near ’im? You’ll stay far enough away that ’e won’t be able to look in your pretty li’le face an’ turn you against us?”

Rhapsody stood on her toes while pulling his head down to her. She kissed the great green face. “Nowhere near. I told you, I’ll wait until you have him. I’m sure he can’t possess me from across the basilica.”

Achmed smiled sourly. “I had no idea you were such an expert on demons and their range of possession, Rhapsody. Let’s hope your knowledge is more accurate than those arrows will be.” The two Bolg stepped into the shadows that had swallowed the cobbled alleys, checking the direction of the wind before heading up the streets to the center of the city, where the basilica stood, waiting for them in the night.

“Why? What’s wrong with my arrows?” Rhapsody hurried to catch up, but her friends did not answer; they were as silent as the darkness into which they had melted.

When they reached the northern side of the basilica where the sexton routinely dumped the rubbish for the ashman, Rhapsody reached out and grabbed Grunthor by the elbow.

“There’s something I have to tell you, Grunthor.”

The Sergeant looked down into the diminutive face and smiled broadly. He could tell what she was going to say by the look in her eyes; Rhapsody was as transparent to him as Canderian crystal.

“Nope,” he said gruffly, pulling his arm away. “Ya ’ad your chance; it’ll ’ave to wait till afterwards.”

“It can’t,” she said anxiously. “It’s important, Grunthor.”

He smirked. “Oi guess you’ll just have to live through this, then, and tell me when we’re done, eh, miss?” He ignored her tug on his sleeve and walked away, pausing long enough next to Achmed to allow a look to pass between them. As always, their communication transcended the spoken word. Then he strode away into the shadows that surrounded the pile of sand and ashes.

Rhapsody stared after him in dismay. For a moment she could pick him out, standing in front of the enormous mound of waste from the fires of the basilica. Then she was no longer sure she could discern in the dark what was earth and what was Grunthor. She blinked, and any vestige of differentiation was lost. He had blended into the dirt and ash as easily as he had into the darkness a moment before.

Grunthor’s feet toed the line just outside the border of the tainted ground. He waited until he was securely standing on earth that had not been desecrated by the demon, and then became one with it, breathing in slow, measured breaths until even his body heat cooled to match the temperature of the street. He could feel the heartbeat of the Earth echoing through him, becoming his own.

Moments later two men hurried by, arguing in a congenial manner. They walked right past the giant Firbolg in front of the waste pile but did not give him as much as a glance. Rhapsody and Achmed turned to each other and smiled; that was a first , their shared grin seemed to say. Then he extended his hand, and she took it. Together they headed around the west end of the building, skirting the line of defilement that Grunthor had pointed out to them.

As they reached the southwestern corner of the basilica, Rhapsody pulled Achmed to a stop.

“Well, are you going to refuse to hear me out, too?”

A gloved hand came to rest on her face, then moved to her lips to silence her. Rhapsody marveled at the sensitivity of his touch, even through the thin leather sheath. No wonder he can feel the vibrations of the wind and hide, undetected, within them , she thought, smiling. His answer was soft.

“The time for words is past. We can’t keep the bastard waiting.”

“All right, then I won’t talk.” Her hand met his, and rested there; he looked at it, and then down at her, where their eyes met as well. Finally their lips met, softly; it was a first, too, as in the previous moment, a first that Rhapsody prayed did not also portend a last.

Her mouth clung to his a moment more, sharing a final breath; then she moved away. Achmed was already pulling up the hood of his cloak; it was the signal for her to round the corner.

She, in turn, pulled her hood down, and looked about the street. It was deserted, the night wind having picked up to a strong gale, blowing flecks of snow and debris in sheets of icy air across the dark city. Rhapsody turned the corner and walked quickly down the street along the southern side of the basilica, passing the vestry window, then turned the southeastern corner, heading for the main entrance into the eastern vestibule.

Gittleson watched out the small vestry window, unseen behind the heavy drape, his pale hands slick with nervous sweat, pallid in the half-light cast by the dimly glowing candles.

“She’s coming, Your Grace.”

The benison was standing in the nave, the central part of the basilica amid the benches where the faithful sat. His elderly hands lovingly caressed the back of a lustrous wooden pew, his smile glittering in the half-light of the candles that burned in the chandeliers above him.

“Good,” he said softly. “I’m ready.”

He walked down the side aisle to the polished marble steps that led up to the sanctuary where the stone altar stood and began to climb the stairs. Halfway up he turned and looked back at the vestry and the figure in the doorway, silhouetted against the light of the tiny dressing room.

“Close the door, Gittleson; you’re letting the light in.”

A gloved hand reached out and shut the door.

The benison turned back once more and climbed the rest of the steps, smiling to himself.

Rhapsody pulled on the handle of the main basilica doors, finding a stubborn resistance; it was heavily wrought iron, engraved with the holy symbols she had seen in Sepulvarta. Panic coursed through her, starting at the roots of her hair. The possibility that the basilica might be locked had not figured into her plan.