Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

As her pounding heart returned to a regular rhythm, she had a vision of Elynsynos, and a question she would one day ask her.

Why? Why me? Why was this onerous responsibility given to me?

Rhapsody struggled to stand, listening for the dragon’s answer.

Because you are not alone.

A ferocious roar, a war-scream of horrific intensity, echoed through the dark, windowless basilica, causing the chandeliers to swing violently and the bells in the tower to pick up the cry and resound with it. The roar was followed by the sound of crashing objects and the heavy thudding of approaching footfalls.

In response, the benison raised his arms. The tainted ground burst forth into a sea of dark flame, leaping walls of blinding fire that surrounded the demon, engulfing the entire basilica.

A bellow of pain swelled from behind the fiery wall, clutching at Rhapsody’s heart. It was Grunthor; she knew the sound of his agony in her soul, having heard it once before.

A wave of intense heat that crackled with menace washed over her. Adrift for a moment on the burning tide of fiery air, she shielded her eyes with her forearm, trying to catch a glimpse of Grunthor’s shadow to the demon’s left, where he was supposed to enter at the second signal. But everything was lost in a black inferno, the demon, her friend, the nave of the basilica. It was like being once more at the core of a very different Earth, an Earth where the F’dor had triumphed. Anger burned cold in her soul at the thought of how that possibility was now at hand.

The tide was about to come in; whether it would come in on a fair wind or a sea of blood.

Do you understand now what you are fighting for? Life itself.

Tes, and more. The battle that is being waged is not just for this life, but for the Afterlife. In this you must not fail.

She stood straighter and changed her grip on Daystar Clarion a little, remembering how Achmed had once counseled her to do so.

First, however you initially grasp the sword, change your grip a little, so that you focus on how you’re holding it. Don’t take your weapon for granted.

The hilt of the weapon in her grip felt as if it was part of her hand, an extension of her body. Tis as it should be .

As Oelendra’s voice rang in her mind, Rhapsody thought of her mentor, of all she had endured, and all the others before and after her, who had given their lives, their souls, their sanity in the age-old battle against this demon. This kindly benison brewing tea on the altar was nothing more than the most recent incarnation of an evil so ancient that it had existed prior to the races of man, to the formation of land masses, of cities, of nations; all of history crumbled next to the time it had existed, sowing lies, wreaking death, biding its time until it could release its fellows from the Vault of the Underworld, and awaken the Primal Wyrm, devouring all of Life itself in one horrific cataclysm of chaos. So many souls its victims, so many fallen in its wake. The distant voices of those who had stood against it, living and dead, cried out to her on the windless air, rang through the handle of the sword, echoing in her blood. Rhapsody’s mouth opened of its own will, and from her lips came their words.

No more. No more.

A fireball of black flame was building in the inferno’s rage, like an avalanche coming down upon her. Above the wailing howl of the fire she could hear the demon laughing.

Rhapsody swallowed, then closed her eyes against the approaching fireball, resting the flaming sword against her heart. The pure heat of the elemental fire warmed her soul, helping her clear her thoughts, even as death loomed. She took a deep breath, concentrating with the clarity derived from the sword, and softly sang a single note— ela —the note to which she was attuned, that all her life had given her wisdom, discernment in uncertainty. The clarity of it, pure and sweet, sounded over the fire’s bellow, piercing the roar, silencing the laughter, as the smallest bells of the carillon began first to hum, then to ring, then to peal strongly, firmly. No more , they tolled, ringing without clappers, echoing with nothing more than the power of the Namer’s voice. No more .

The rolling wall of fire was on her now. She could feel the acid of it stinging her eyelashes, the malevolence in its flames chanting in dark voices, distant, squealing in rage, in pain, in futile fury.

With a consistent crescendo she increased the power of the note, hearing more and more of the bells respond to her call. Strength swelled within her; with a powerful thrust she held the sword aloft, channeling the note through it with all her breath. As the black flames of the Underworld broke around her she heard the deepest and largest of the bells begin to vibrate and then to ring, clapperless, filling the basilica with harmonious music and instantly dispelling it of the demon’s evil taint.

Rhapsody sheathed her sword. The wind blew in and down the tower, billowing her hair all around her as the fire disappeared.

The benison stood in furious silence and more than a little pain, absorbing the ringing of the one hundred forty-six bells that now sang with ela . The ground around him was no longer desecrated, but beginning to resanctify, and with it he could feel the draining of his power.

He opened his mouth to speak the words of damnation.

But couldn’t find them in his memory.

Lanacan closed his eyes and concentrated. There was another sound here, a far older and more terrifying one. The bells in the tower grew quiet as the sword was sheathed, leaving the alien vibration humming alone. It was a sandy sound, one that had not been in his memory in this lifetime, in this world; it tugged at the back of his mind, scratching within his temples. It was growing louder; his head began to throb, as though his skull were no longer a sufficient container for the brain that was swelling in rhythm to the noise. It was a sound that whispered death.

Cold sweat prickled his skin. The bells must have cracked the braincase of this body somehow, broken his skull; the girl had found a tone to kill his host persona. He glared at her, standing straight in the darkness of the aisle below him, her arms at her sides. In the half-light she looked like the legends of the Windchild, with her golden tresses billowing around her. He burned the image into his mind. He would need to remember her when he found another body to become his new host, to find her and destroy her.

Then a more cheerful thought occurred to him.

She would make a marvelous host herself.

He fought the searing headache that blinded him intermittently, struggling to hold fast to the idea and to consciousness. If he could bind her, she wo.uld be the perfect instrument for his final ascension.

He had planned to take her as a thrall at her coronation, and would have tried, had the old fool not decided to die just then. But now, with the body he had inhabited for decades suddenly useless, failing as he stood there, he thought of what power would be at his feet as the Lirin Queen, the Iliachenva’ar, the possessor of a beauty so seraphic that it could blind nations with one look. He had inhabited women before, and found it disappointing to be socially less powerful than the male personas in which he had lived. But this woman was stronger than any host he had ever bound to, man or woman. Excitement coursed through him as he prepared to feign death, knowing that it would bring her near to investigate. He raised his hand before him and prepared for his spirit to escape its body.

The scratching sound suddenly extended into a six-note scale, hanging monotonously in the air to his right. Lanacan felt a clutching sensation in the air around him; it clenched like the grip of a fist, and his heart, lungs, and chest were suddenly crushed in a viselike pressure. With great effort he turned toward the sound.