Elizabeth Haydon - Prophecy - Child of Earth

Within the ruins of the cavern of the Sleeping Child his second sight stopped. He could see the Grandmother there, surrounded by a veritable cage of hissing vines, poised to strike, one leg pinned beneath a fallen granite slab amid the buckled walls of the chamber. Her left hand was upraised, trembling with strain, her right one braced against the slab that held her captive. Rivers of poisonous lampfuel gushed over her, beginning to fill the cavern.

She seemed infinitesimal in size, dwarfed by the colossal vine that hovered menacingly above her, its massive offshoots swollen with rage, tangled within the remains of the chamber’s floor. Its roots were snarling now, coated with glistening lampfuel, lashing out at her, coming nearer to reaching her as she began to fail.

Then, just as his mind was absorbing the horror of the sight, the Grandmother turned toward him, and her eyes met his vision. A tiny smile, the only one he had ever seen her indulge in, came over the ancient face, wrinkled and lined with age and so many centuries of somber guardianship. She nodded to him, and with the last of her strength turned back to face the vine that was threatening to break the Thrall.

Achmed fought back the primordial rage that was singing through his blood in the presence of the race he hated with every fiber of his being. He choked back the bile that had risen to his constricted throat as the vision disappeared. Then he squeezed Rhapsody’s arm again.

“Light it,” he repeated in a low, deadly voice.

With a vicious tug Rhapsody pulled free from his grasp. “Let go,” she snarled.

Angrily Achmed grabbed for Daystar Clarion. “Damn you—” He pulled back in pain and shock as she drew the sword like lightning and raked it across his open palm, singeing the skin.

“Don’t ever attempt to wrest this sword from me unless you are prepared to draw your own,” Rhapsody shouted.

“Skychild?”

All three companions stopped, glancing around the Loritorium for the origin of the Grandmother’s voice. The fricative click, the sandy sound that Rhapsody had only heard in one other voice, was unmistakable. The single word came with great effort, spoken very softly.

It was Grunthor who found the source first. He gestured to Rhapsody.

“

“Ere, darlin’.” He was pointing to the Sleeping Child.

In a daze Rhapsody came to the altar of Living Stone where the child lay. She stared down at the smooth gray skin, the coarse brown hair so like high-grass in the heat of summer. Tenderly she ran her hand over the child’s forehead, brushing the clods of fallen dirt from her brow. She could feel a surge of power, a vibration issuing forth from the stone of the altar through the body of the Earthchild, tingling across the skin of her hand and speaking directly to her heart. She had to struggle to bring herself to answer.

“Yes, Grandmother?”

The Sleeping Child’s brow wrinkled with the effort of speech. Her eyes remained closed, grassy lashes wet with tears. Her lips formed the Grandmother’s last words.

“Light it.”

The ancient Dhracian’s voice had passed through the ground, as if the Earth itself had wished to serve as the stalwart guardian’s final messenger. It had traveled through the slab of Living Stone and through the Earth’s last living Child. The irony brought tears to Rhapsody’s eyes. The Grandmother would never hear the words of wisdom she had waited a lifetime for from the Earth-child’s lips. The only words the Sleeping Child would speak would be the Grandmother’s own.

Rhapsody looked up into the faces of her two friends. The men watched as her sorrowful expression hardened into a resolute one.

“All right,” she said. “I will. Get out of here.”

Without a word Grunthor gathered the Sleeping Child from the altar of Living Stone in his arms and nodded up the corridor that led back to Ylorc. He and Achmed ran a short distance up the tunnel.

When Grunthor was sure Rhapsody could still see him he turned toward the side wall, holding the body of the child in front of him, then stepped forward into the earth. The granite glowed for a moment as he passed through, then cooled into a rocky opening. Achmed followed Grunthor into the bunker the giant had made in the side of the corridor. He leaned back, signaled to Rhapsody, and when he saw her nod he stepped back inside. Grunthor gave the wall a strong shove, and the rock that had been cleared away to form the bunker slid liquidly back into position, sealing off their hiding place.

Slowly Rhapsody turned in a full circle, surveying for the last time the Loritorium as it had been. The pools of glistening silver memory shone, torch-bright, in the street, reflecting the flame from the firewell. She struggled not to be swallowed by the despair she felt at witnessing the end of what had once been such a noble dream, such a worthy undertaking. Scholarship and the search for knowledge, dying on the altar of greed and the lust for power.

When she was sure that her friends and the child were all the way inside the earthen bunker with the rock-seal tightly in place she drew Daystar Clarion, whispering a prayer to the unseen stars miles above her that she was doing the right thing.

In the lore-heavy air the flaming blade roared to life, singing its clarion call. It sent a silver thrill ringing through Rhapsody and the cavern around her; for an instant she was certain that the Grandmother had heard the melodic shout, and had taken heart from it. Rhapsody closed her eyes and concentrated, thinking back to another ancient woman, a warrior like the Grandmother, who had stayed, alone and unacknowledged, seeking to protect the world from the F’dor.

I have lived past my time, waiting for a guardian to come and replace me. Now that I have someone to pass my stewardship on to, I will eventually be able to find the peace that I have longed for. I will at long last be reunited with those I love. Immortality in this world is not the only kind, you know, Rhapsody.

The words of ultimate wisdom from the lips of the Sleeping Child.

Light it.

Rhapsody fought to conquer the nausea that was swelling within her. It didn’t matter that she was doing as the Grandmother commanded, or how necessary the imminent act was. She was going to be the agent of the last Dhracian’s death. She would be burning her alive. There was something more to it, something about the act of immolation that tugged at the edge of her memory, but she could not recall what it was, as if it had been removed from her mind. Rhapsody shook her head to clear the thought and concentrated on the sword.

Deep inside her she felt a swell of power, and strengthening of her spirit, radiating from her hands where she gripped the hilt of Daystar Clarion. The doubt and sadness of the Grandmother’s impending death burned off like dew in the blaze of the morning sun. She and the sword were one.

It is you, Rhapsody; I knew it from the moment I saw you. Even if you weren’t one of the Three, I believe in my heart that you are the one to do this; the true Iliachenva’ar.

Rhapsody stared at the gleaming flame of the firewell, listening to its song. Once she had passed through the fire in the Earth’s heart, the same fire that was the source of this flame. The fire had not harmed her; it had seeped into her soul until it was part of her.

It was most of her.

It would not harm her now. It awaited her command.

Rhapsody pointed Daystar Clarion at the well of fire. In the rippling flame she could see her own eyes reflected, eyes burning green, blending into the fire’s many hues.

Light it.

“Vingka jai,” she said, calling on her deepest lore as a Namer. Her voice rang with authority, filling the Loritorium’s cavern. Ignite and spread .