Circle of Nine: Circle of Nine Trilogy 1 (31 page)

Edward-Julian Rhone, formerly of Wiltshire, England, had been entranced by the Faeries in the Hollow Hills. All in all the boy regarded his predicament with wildly mixed emotions. The enormous maja spiders and the Bogies and Hags had terrified him. The little Winskis had provided endless delight with their iridescent bodies and their sparkling wings, although their sly bites and pinches made him cry.

He had also been fascinated by the strange loveliness of the wood man that they had imprisoned in the corner and the lovely colours that radiated around him. The midwives had cared for him as best they could, considering their own disorientation and fears. The food that the Faeries had fed to him constantly was the most delicious that the child had ever tasted, even the Hags no longer terrified him as much after a few days of constant gorging on the sweet Faery delicacies. He missed his family terribly, especially his twin sister, but as time passed it became an effort to remember their faces.

Now Edward was beginning to feel an icy fear creep over his spine as he was led further into the cold damp earth by the beautiful winged girl-woman. The light was becoming dimmer and a foul smell was making him feel sick. Numerous bones and strange, unidentifiable objects hindered his halting steps.

‘No delaying! No delay!’ the girl-woman kept hissing at him.

Edward began to sob with fear. The hard ground in front of him was moving, rippling. A looming shadow appeared on the wall opposite him. Monstrous, huge. A smell of something rotten. Something dead. A scream burst from the terrified child.

‘I’ve delivered the tithing! The small one arrives!’ screamed the Faery Queen at the darkness.

With a savage shove she pushed the hysterical child toward the shadow. Screams. The sounds of flesh being torn to pieces, a skull being split open. Then sucking, oozing, eating noises. Silence.

*

Gwyndion awoke. There was no memory of his dream. He knew she was there before he turned his head. Enormous tiger-green eyes, full silver lips, perfect rouged breasts, and in her hands pink rosebuds. She scattered the petals onto his skin, his body, his face. The perfume overwhelmed his senses. She stared at him, her gaze unearthly. Even with the odour of Faery that clung to her that the roses could not mask, he longed for her. A slight moan escaped him. Her finger stroked his lip tenderly and then she placed her mouth on his. He was vibrating and then orgasming under the power of her kiss. Their tongues moved together more rapidly. He felt himself swelling, petals opening out, wanting her. To be one with her totally. He moaned and she moaned back. His hands moved to her breasts where she had rouged her now fully erect nipples. His hands held and kneaded them with rough urgency. Then she abruptly broke the contact between them. Vanished into air. Erotic. Twisting. Aching. Shadows.

*

Gwyndion’s feet gingerly felt out the earth, testing. He needed to go to soil. He needed to rest and collect his scattered thoughts and attempt to balance his emotions. His body still continued to ache with desire for the Faery Queen. Roots swiftly extended from his feet and took hold in the earth gratefully. Instantly the Webx picked up a conversation between a hazel and an oak tree. Groaning to himself, he attempted to move out of their range, then he heard a faint urgent whispering . . . he paused . . . he was hearing his own name called. His root cap pushed toward the source curiously. He listened to the communication, at first with utter disbelief and then with rising joy. The plant who had called the Webx wound around his roots quickly before he could change his mind. The two merged as one. Winding itself quickly around the Webx’s body, the plant burst from the soil. The shootling’s body was overmassed by the plant. When they spied him, Winskis began screaming, attempting to flee. Bogies vanished in mid-flight. Majas and Faery animals froze and slowly faded to nothingness like a worn and ancient photograph. The midwives were snatched up by quick-thinking Imomm before they too vanished. Open Faery mouths posed in silent screams. The kingdom vanishing, dissipating. The harpist fell also, still playing into the void. In the middle of the silent chaos stood Diomonna — her mouth open in a silent scream, arms open wide to him, vanishing into the air, while Gwyndion stood crying for her, his arms outstretched, covered by his saviour the four-leaf clover, the only known plant that could break the Faery’s spell. The dream was over.

When they came to, Samma and Gwyndion were lying together. Only a faint odour of Faery and the red pansies still crowning the meerwog’s hair remained as proof that they had ever entered that dangerous kingdom. Overcome with joy, they embraced each other, Samma weeping unashamed tears that her master had broken the spell.

Yet for many seasons after, the pair entwined clover around their wrists and paws. Gwyndion also placed a little bell around Samma’s collar for protection against the Faeries. They avoided all toadstool and mushroom rings and favoured Faery trees and flowers. But Samma remained miserably aware of the numerous nights Gwyndion awoke flecked in sweat, his body burning for the Faery Queen, and they would shiver together as they heard the soft cry of Faery voices.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Evil and pure his heart filled with longing
(death is his kiss, his baptism of fire).
Charmonzhla hears his cry,
The angoli opens his heart,
Destroys him with stone hands,
Places his lips on the Ghormho
And fills him with the poison of love.
In the land of the one moon
The Ghormho’s shadow falls
And a neophyte fallen from grace
Waits hungrily for his cold caress.

— Condensed from the
Tremite Book of Life
, Column VXXII

W
hen Ishran’s feet trod the familiar, ancient, white cobblestone streets of the Web it felt for the first time as if he was entering the world of the damned. Fellow Azephim brushed past him, heads bowed, wings drooping, flattened, unseeing and uncaring that Lord Ishran the Ghormho had returned. He gazed upon the familiar opaque world, his beloved home where he had grown up since his egg. Columns of white statues of Heztarra angels lined the familiar winding lanes and the larger boulevards. The statues’ eyes appeared to mock him, and Ishran thought uncomfortably to himself that even these stone beings had more life-force inside them than his fellow Azephim.

An albino lynx snarled from a doorway, hissing venomously her displeasure at his trespass. So near her home, well fed, he had nothing to fear. He was the Ghormho. Still, his feet quickened their pace, the sound of his Bluite-skin boots ringing through the city of living ghosts.

He realised he had drawn near to Uluree, the centre of Kondoell, a popular Azephim meeting place and scene of many well-attended public executions. Even death did not flower here, however. Uluree was still and silent, the spaces mocking him with their emptiness, the secret that they held. For an unforgivable moment Ishran’s eyes filled with water. A terrible plague had fallen upon Kondoell.

The angels that walked so vacantly past him appeared to be devoid of soul. There were no salutations befitting his rank. Their eyes had looked straight through him with no hint of recognition, no palms raised in greeting in respect of a fellow angel. His city was dying.

Perversely he somehow enjoyed the melodrama of the moment, feeling himself shaking with emotion, his immense wings rustling as he continued to walk around the strangely empty Uluree.

In the old days, the days of Eom, Uluree had been filled with light, with love. Magnificent angels walked hand in hand. Angels mounted angels and copulated furiously with savage screams and gasps of pleasure. Bluites and Faiaites were stripped naked and driven through the crowds, screaming as the angels tortured them. Numerous witches had been burnt in the Uluree over the centuries. Death had frequently danced wildly here, purifying, giving light and beauty and freedom. Turning all to ash. Now death was entrapped in angels’ bodies and moved slowly in grotesque, shambling circles.

He felt someone was watching him and turned quickly — there was no-one. But the impression lingered. The bone architecture that comprised the temples of the Uluree appeared to mock him. Foolish, weak Ishran! Overfed and useless Ishran! The Azephim raised his hands to his face in agony. Why had his other-host Seleza permitted this? Had she lost all reason? All power? In despair he marched to the enormous ornate fountain that eclipsed the Uluree, a classic of the Black Ages of Azephim architecture. A large marble bull gored a screaming stone pig while naked nymphs looked on in adoration. In the waters of the fountain floated white candles and orchids. Were the priests still laying the blessing flowers out? Ishran, longing for any signs of normalcy, fervently hoped so. He dipped his hands into the milky water, blessing himself in the Azephim manner. The last time he had stood at the sacred fountain there had been an orgy of feeding. A dozen, maybe more, Azephim gorging themselves on thirty defenceless Bluites. They had held them as the humans screamed and splashed the holy waters. Their enormous wings fluttered and the waters turned to red as they feasted on their hysterical prey. Ishran sighed deeply, a nostalgic melancholy creeping through his bones.

The stone mouth of the nymph nearest him opened and she sang.

I come now unto the place allowed,
Hail Great Sow,
All that is darkness is mine.
Oh Beautiful One,
Blessed are you purified by swine,
Never alone, you are always mine.

Ishran backed slowly from the fountain, his eyes never leaving the jewel eyes of the nymph as he inched slowly from the Uluree. Finally, finding the courage, he allowed his wings to unfold to their full span and he flew as hard as he could.

Something terrible had happened to his people.

In the silence of the Uluree a quiet laughter followed. Wind blew and the bone buildings wept.

*

When Seleza swept into the receiving quarters, Ishran was momentarily taken aback by his other-host’s appearance. After his shocking introduction to Kondoell, he had not known what to expect from his other-host. Had he expected her to be one of the walking dead angels that had passed him by so silently? If so he was disappointed. His other-host was radiant with health and, if anything, appeared more powerful than ever. Conscious of the servants hovering within hearing distance, Ishran hesitated on how to voice his concerns of the plague that had submerged the streets of Kondoell. As always in Seleza’s presence, Ishran found himself reduced to feeling like an awkward, useless baby angel. He could feel her scanning him as soon as she entered the room and he groaned inwardly; there was no escaping her ruthless antennae.

Impressions passed fleetingly between them: her displeasure that he did not make his kills quicker and cleaner, and his habit of hunting even when he was not hungry; her anger and shame that he was still with a Bindisore, Sati. These combined with his private, throbbing failure that he could not, despite all his effort, activate the Eom. Even more embarrassing was his inability to impregnate his wife with his seed. Desperately he attempted to shut her out of his centres, to close himself down, but relentlessly Seleza persisted, her mind keeping his open as she probed mercilessly. His eyes roamed the receiving quarters, trying to block her out, to distract himself. He focused on the elegant bone sculptures that Seleza indulged herself with. The ivory enchanted mirrors that Ishran had learnt to scry from since he was an angoli. An albino lynx snarled at him from its seat near the entrance to the room, hatred in its eyes. Quartz crystal lined the walls. The room smelt of dried, musty blood. No comfort, no warmth. He winced as pain shot through his head. Seleza smiled cruelly as she continued to probe. Finally satisfied, she let out a long sigh and sat on her ornately carved bone sofa facing him.

‘So! You have already visited the Uluree!’

Ishran became aware of an audible tension in the room. Whether it emanated from the servants or from his other-host he could not decipher. He wondered if she knew of the ghostly statue that had sung to him. He decided that from the day he had first begun to sprout his wings there was very little that happened in Kondoell that his other-host did not know of.

‘What has happened to them?’ he asked, deciding to ignore the hovering servants, nervously flicking his long dark hair back from his face.

Seleza stared into space, her hands bearing the enormous Dragon-eye ring that she loved to wear. It was an ancient bribe from the Faia dragons, an attempt to stop the slaughter of their kind by the ferocious Dark Angel invaders.

‘Something terrible has happened to our people. A hatching of evil in the Web. A plague walks freely among us and daily I see the vitality of my subjects diminish. We have become a cursed race!’

Ishran stared at her in horror. He realised then what he should have observed in the beginning when she first made her entrance. Seleza had applied her Glamour with unusual thickness, and now he was beginning to see through the illusion that she had so skilfully woven. She was pallid, dark shadows were etched heavily in charcoal smudges under her eyes; the Azephim Queen looked worn out, aged. He began to feel fear clutch at his stomach in little pinches. Seleza smelt the fear at once and smiled wearily.

‘Did you not notice the protective symbols we placed at the Panchion’s doorway? Poor Ishran! Never fear, my beloved Ghormho, I am not ready for the Outerezt quite yet!’

Ishran, who actually hadn’t noticed any symbols, nodded mutely, longing to just spread his wings and fly away from the hell he had walked into. Despairingly he wondered if he had already contacted the deadly virus. If so, he too would soon join the walking dead. Seleza watched him coldly, mentally condemning him for his selfishness.

‘Why is it so?’ he managed to stammer out.

Seleza shrugged. ‘We have never recovered from the loss of the Eom.’

Her eyes filled with a remembered pain. Ishran helped himself to a glass of blackberry wine from a proffered tray. He was aware the servant was listening intently and he was surprised at his other-host’s lack of discretion in front of the electronic maids. He became aware that his other-host was waiting for him to speak. Expecting him to offer . . . there was a short silence while he concentrated furiously on the colour of the wine. It was like deoxygenated blood.

‘Perhaps a Hag has cursed you, or one of your poisoners is betraying you. Or when the Wizards penetrated the Web they carried with them some alien virus which has just begun to hatch! Even a Bluite! They can carry many strange germs and parasites! You know how foul the air is on their stinking blue world! It crawls with deadly micro-organisms and fungi; no wonder they live such short and miserable lives! Perhaps a Bluite carried across for sacrifice has infected us.’

‘Perhaps.’

His other-host’s voice was cold and he felt vulnerable and pathetic. There was little he could do but bear the brunt of her contempt for him. He could see himself through Seleza’s eyes: the first egg, the Ghormho. Yet he had still failed to impregnate his wife, not to mention all the Bluites he had mated with in a vain attempt to implant his eggs. He knew how the Azephim Queen disapproved of male angels attempting to mate with other species. Inevitably it meant death for the unfortunate female. In Azephim history, there had been no female found who could safely incubate and pass the black angel eggs without dying. The sacrifices were a different thing and tolerated by Seleza, as she accepted that the angels needed to feast on the flesh of others. But she was firm in her conviction that angels should never attempt to crossbreed. Sati, Ishran reflected sadly, had never had a chance with her bigoted mother-in-law. Seleza read these thoughts, and stood up abruptly.

‘Come!’ she invited. ‘Let us stroll together in the Hatching Grounds!’

Ishran narrowed his eyes, instantly suspicious. Seleza only ever invited him into the Hatching Grounds for matters of utmost importance. He tensed, unsure of whether to incur her wrath by bringing up the subject of the Eom himself. Instead he obediently followed the flowing black silk gown of his mother to the Hatching Grounds.

*

The Grounds were situated in the rear garden of the Panchion. White water fountains marked the entrance surrounded by white spider-hair ferns. In the air throbbed the white rays of Kondoell, acting as an efficient alarm system for the angels, plus a means of communication. Enormous statues of mythical Azephim angels adorned the exterior of the Grounds. As a tiny angoli, Ishran had loved to stand and contemplate these historical stone winged beings. He knew all their histories.

Gwhyzemonna
—
instigator of many great wars in all the known worlds. Divine angel of war and organised crime.

Hermzeza
—
fetus destroyer and child killer. Slayer of the innocents. The Abraham whisperer. Here she stood, her huge wings outstretched, a Bluite child grasped firmly in each stone hand.

Ezihhiam
—
angel of false prophets. All religions in the known world were touched by his sly whispers. Where he walked, great truths became contaminated. His tongue was the forked tongue of a serpent, in his hands he clutched a flame. Lit at regular intervals by the Azephim watchers to signify the divine truth
—
there are no gods, only angels.

However, Ishran’s personal favourite had always been the miniature angoli.

Charmozehla — there he stood in his perfect divine nakedness. Holding his hands out in supplication. Charmozehla, the persecution angel. For one so young he was indeed mighty. Under his winged direction religions had been destroyed, women had been oppressed, witches had been burnt, Jews had been gassed, and Africans had been enslaved. Wistfully, Ishran stared up into the angoli’s beautiful, tiny face and uttered a silent prayer.

‘Charmozehla! Help me achieve the will! Lend me your strength, your power. Guide me so that the will be done on this world and in all the known worlds!’

For a second Charmozehla’s eyelids appeared to flutter. Ishran was conscious of a peculiar sensation in his chest, a faint aroma of jasmine. But the moment passed and he became aware Seleza was looking at him sarcastically.

‘Praying to your gods, Ishran?’ she mocked.

Ishran coloured slightly, knowing his other-host’s derision of looking for guidance and help outside yourself.

Before Ishran had sprouted wings, shortly after his hatching, Seleza had supplied him with a mantra.
An Azephim doth not seek — he finds. An Azephim doth not supplicate to false gods
—
he is. An Azephim knoweth all lies within, both truth and lies. No light without shadows. No love without sin.

Yet here he was, the Ghormho, disappointing her again, caught in the act of praying. Wings drooping, he followed her meekly into the Hatching Grounds.