The Eunuch's Heir (43 page)

HEARING THE
commotion, Wolfram froze, expecting to hear someone coming for him, but the shouting died down after a moment, and he stole another glance into the temple. Melody touched her fingertip to Deishima’s blood and stroked a line of red down each cheek. She moaned in a way almost ecstatic, her body arching, and the light in the temple shifted, a chill wind rushing down over Wolfram’s back, down to the altar. The women’s garments fluttered, gems tinkling together, sending flashes of light that danced across Deishima’s dark skin. Faedre laughed, raising her hands as if welcoming an unseen presence. When Melody again drew breath and lifted her head, her hair rippled and shimmered, silver with the light of the absent moon.

With a hard smile showing her teeth, Melody held something out to her brother. Warily, Alyn looked over his shoulder, where Wolfram couldn’t see, then to her. “This has gone far enough, Melody, your tricks and your teasing. I’m through.”

“But you promised me, on our Name Day, you promised we could stand together.”

“So I did—I promised to pretend, but this has gone beyond make-believe.”

“Are you frightened? You, the Voice of the Lady? But there’s nothing to it, is there? We cannot be the Two, you and I. It’s all in fun. Take up the knife. Do you doubt that the Lady will prevent anything…unwholesome?”

In answer, he looked at Deishima, and Wolfram tensed, seeing the blood that pooled too quickly in her hand.

Staring back at his sister, Alyn said, “It’s not a game, it’s a sacrifice.”

Melody laughed, the gemstones of her elaborate headdress shaking off sparks of torchlight. “What is the life of one heathen, more or less? Will you call down the wrath of the Lady upon me? Do you have that power, Alyn, or has She left you, here in the dark?” She reached the knife across the altar, level with Deishima’s shoulder, to tap her brother’s chest.

Alyn flinched, but did not step away. “She speaks through me, Melody, She does not act, nor force my actions, you know that.”

“I can feel the power already, Alyn, flowing through me,” she said, her body seeming to glow in the darkness of the temple. “Jonsha is here, within me. She will grant me all that I desire. Let Ayel become you, and you and I can be gods upon the earth!”

“No,” he shouted, “Melody, no, listen to yourself, oh, Finistrel in the Stars, you have been so deceived.”

She drew back the blade, changing her grip. “No, my brother, it’s you who have been deceived.”

On the roof, Wolfram waited for her to strike, but she did not.

Alyn’s expression grew somber, his hands gripped together. “This is why I lost you, why I can’t feel your presence, even now, even when I am looking straight at you, Melody, I do not see you.”

“You never have,” she spat back, adding something in Hemijrani.

Two men stepped from the ranks and caught Alyn’s arms. He struggled, but only briefly—he’d refused even to be trained with a sword. “You said I could not be forced.”

She merely smiled.

Much as he would like to see something horrible happen to Alyn, Wolfram knew the time had come. As Melody raised her hands, Wolfram dropped his rope.

For a moment, all eyes were again on the sky, then Deishima curled and rolled from the altar, the rope coiling on
it and spilling over. Catching hold and wrapping one knee around it, Wolfram let himself down.

In a barely controlled fall, he slid down the rope and landed on all fours, raising his head with his best grin. “Have I missed much?”

Lunging forward, Faedre called out, but Wolfram leapt up. His foot caught Alyn in the chest, knocking him back into their arms, out of range of Melody’s blade.

Beyond them, he caught a glimpse of Fionvar, held by many hands, ringed about with knives, and clamped his teeth shut on an oath. It didn’t matter, he told himself, whatever happened, it had to be done.

Wolfram spun to face Melody. “I’ve been waiting so long to do that.”

“Take him,” she said, her voice deep and strange, but Wolfram held up his hands.

“You didn’t want him, did you? You never wanted him, Melody.” Sinking back to his knees, Wolfram murmured, “Can you forgive my blindness, sister, in not seeing you?”

Her hard gaze wavered. “Why should I? The way you’ve gone after that girl, Wolfram, why should I forgive you anything?”

“Do not listen to him, Melody, you know what we must do,” Faedre urged, her hands upon the altar now.

Esfandiyar rose up then with Deishima in his arms. She sagged against his grip.

“There she is!” Melody crowed. “Don’t you want her now?”

Wolfram kept his gaze upon her, roving over her body until his very silence became an answer. “This power you offered, Alyn doesn’t need it. He doesn’t need to strike down his enemies, he has no wrongs that cry for justice. Give it to me, Melody, let me stand beside you. There is nothing I have ever wanted more than this.”

From the Cave of Death, Fionvar howled, “Wolfram, no!”

Faedre hissed, “Silence him,” but Melody raised a single hand and the moon impossibly glowed in her eyes.

Again, Fionvar had ruined everything, his concentration most of all. Wolfram could not turn to be sure if his father was alive or dead. Silence throbbed in his ears.

The pulse beating at her throat, Melody stared at him.

In his skull, the demon tore and ranted. His body ached with stillness. Tension knotted his shoulders as he awaited her words.

But she gave him no words. Instead, a dizzying smile grew on her lips, her features suddenly alight.

Released, Wolfram jumped to the floor and straightened, the heat of her body so near he burned.

In a soft and thrilling voice, she told him, “All your enemies, brother, your queen, your father, anyone who’s ever hurt you, we will take such a revenge that the stars will shiver to hear them scream.”

He reached out and wrapped his arms around her.

For the first time, he held her close, every curve of her melting into him, his face buried in the soft darkness of her hair. The heat within him stirred, and the demon howled. Too long she had sought this embrace, and he had denied her. Wolfram brought his lips to hers, kissed her gently, then passionately as she trembled.

Her arms enfolded him, the flat of the blade pressing along his spine. The chain clinking softly, his hands roved over her body, his left hand crept up her thigh and stroked her waist, then cupped her breast.

Melody whimpered at his touch, an exhalation of fire on his cheek.

Wolfram’s fingers inched between their heartbeats and found a small lump keeping them apart. He shut his eye.

With one swift, short stroke, he slipped the bear claw free and tore it across her throat.

UNDER THE
dark sun, Ghiva, small and light on his feet, danced away from Lyssa’s blade and started a high-pitched chant.

In the circle all around them, others took up the chant,
a paean to their sun-god. Its rhythm swelled with stamping feet, and Lyssa shook her head, trying not to be drawn in.

She leapt a low swipe at her legs, but felt a stinging slash across her thigh as she spun to the attack.

Gleeful, Ghiva skittered away.

More like a game than a duel, the bout circled first one way, then the other.

Used to fighting men of her own height or more, Lyssa found herself cutting high, then with too much force, passing him by.

Whenever she missed, the little man gave a call of victory that his audience took up until it echoed all around her.

Still, their relentless rhythm pursued her. Her legs moved to its beat, and she cursed.

Ghiva again ducked her blade, blocking the hammer with his sword as he rolled below her defenses.

Catching her ankle, he toppled her to the earth and sprang up, the audience hooting their delight.

Lyssa tumbled, hitting hard, but letting the roll take her away from him a moment. In the dark sky, a ring of fire shone, with stars glittering all around it. “Oh Lady of the deepest seas,” she murmured, quoting the Morning Prayer. “Sweet Finistrel wake my heart at dawning.”

Rising, she smashed the hammer against the flat of her sword, a ringing blow that shocked the ears and shook the chanters. Her ears, never the best, echoed with that blow, and she sang out her own song, the Lady’s prayer.

Snarling, Ghiva came on.

Oblivious to the sounds around her, Lyssa submersed herself in the fight, watching the enemy, the way he bounced foot to foot.

Bringing her sword in short, she cut him a backhanded blow to his arm, and his face twisted with curses she could not hear.

Lyssa laughed.

Tumbling and bounding like an acrobat, Ghiva tried to draw her eye.

Watching his middle, Lyssa maintained her focus, singing louder.

Unlike her king, or even her brother, Lyssa had never been musical. The notes and the voices meant nothing to her. She mumbled her way through the prayers even to this day. Fortunately, no one expected her to lead a congregation with her brash, too-ragged voice. Now, with daylight turned to darkness, her voice rose in its defiance. All the strength in her body backed the words, and yet more, for her voice carried from the castle to the trees.

High up on his tower, Dylan’s spirit soared to hear her. The desperate throng on the Bernholt road halted their flight, and those who huddled in the city temples took up the prayer.

Gwythym, gathering his men to assault the temple, hesitated and looked to the sky, which seemed full of song even in its darkness.

Then the prayer gave way to cheering. Overhead, the darkness ringed with fire began to ebb away, rays of sun shooting free to warm the day.

Heedless of the cheering, Lyssa saw her shadow growing, springing out from her feet as if it would join her in battle. Laughing aloud, she leapt again to the offense.

Stumbling, Ghiva ducked her and hacked at her arm.

Her sword flew wild, clattering to the ground.

Blood spattered the earth, and Lyssa fell.

As he came on, she thrust the hammer out with both hands, deflecting the killing blow, and rolling out of the way.

He kicked her as she rolled, then dropped to his knees, catching her leg.

Breathing hard, Lyssa tried to twist away.

Then the sword was back in her hand. The hammer blocked, and she forced herself up, driving the sword through his chest.

The shout of triumph died in Ghiva’s throat as Lyssa pushed him back.

From beneath her doom she rose, shaking him off her sword and raising her chin.

Hemijrani men, unused to even looking at a woman, feared to meet her eyes. The sun warmed her back as she turned a slow circle, the men falling back, their knives wavering. Dawsiir, still on his knees where he had found her sword, gazed up at her with something like awe.

Seeing his face, Lyssa laughed. “Thank you.” Sticking the hammer back in its loop, she thrust out a hand.

Cringing at first, Dawsiir looked her up and down. Then he accepted, his dark hand sliding into hers, and she drew him to his feet.

Grinning to the crowd, she said, “So, who’s next?”

BLOOD WELLED
between them, and still Wolfram held Melody to his chest, his face buried. For a moment as her heart still beat, he felt a terrible rush of power, as if all the fire of the sun coursed through him, and he lifted his head.

Her lips gasped blood onto his shoulder. Anguish wrenched her face, and her eyes searched for a savior.

“We have no time for this!” Faedre shouted.

Melody’s brown eyes, as warm as summer evenings, drained of beauty even as he stared, and Wolfram shuddered, letting his hand fall, the bloody claw dangling again between them as he lowered her to the floor.

For a moment, the Hemijrani host gaped, their upraised knives gleaming like vicious grins.

Slowly, Wolfram rose, turning to the altar.

“You,” Faedre whispered, her face gray. “You killed her.”

Barely breathing, Wolfram gave a single nod.

“But she was Jonsha—she carried the power of the moon. How could this be?”

The silence of the gathering broke into cries of fear and of anger. On the altar of Death, Fionvar knelt with the knives at his throat, his face drained of color.

“Oh, by the Two, I have said that something terrible would occur today!” Esfandiyar wailed, pulling Deishima closer as if he clung to her for comfort.

“Quiet!” Faedre shrieked, but Esfandiyar’s head shook as his body quivered.

“It will not matter, you said, if the offering would be in
jured. We shall cleanse and heal her, you have told me. You made me torture her. The things you made me do to her—even Ayel cannot defend me!”

“You bastard,” Wolfram growled. Flipping the chain into a loop around his fist, he smashed the priest’s face.

Deishima tumbled aside as Esfandiyar coughed blood, a gold tooth flying free to strike the floor.

Shocked into motion, the dark soldiers lining the benches sprang down and moved as one against him. For a moment, he glanced down at Deishima. “Hide,” he told her, and she scrambled under a bench, clutching her cut arm to her chest.

Turning, he leapt again to the altar and took his rope in hand. Catching up one of the golden swords, Wolfram pushed off from the altar, swinging into the faces of his enemies.

Whooping like a madman he flew at them, sweeping the sword in great swaths.

Someone caught the end of the rope, but Wolfram dropped free, landing hard amidst the benches and rolling under.

At the Cave of Death he rose, flashing his father a grin as his captors jumped to the fight.

Wolfram smote off a hand, the knife still in its grip and spun, putting his back to the altar.

Freed, Fionvar jumped down beside him, snatching his sword back and skewering the man who’d held it.

At the center, Faedre called out her orders, even as her followers gathered to her, clamoring for explanations and blessing.

A wobbly head rose from the floor, and Alyn drew himself up, a hand pressed to his forehead.

“Go for the doors!” Wolfram yelled.

Alyn swung around in a circle, a storm gathering in his eyes.

Hacking one of the soldiers, Wolfram shouted, “Run, you bloody fool!”

At last, Alyn responded, vaulting the fallen benches and eluding the distraught soldiers.

From outside, something boomed against the barred door.

“Thank the Lady,” Fionvar muttered.

At the altar, Faedre spun to the door, eyes wide, then disappeared into the fray. By now, some of the Hemijrani had dropped their weapons, beseeching aid from above, where the sky grew ever lighter. Some crowded the doors, pressing too close to allow them to open while others struggled with the deserters or thronged at the Cave of Death, eager for a try at the obvious enemy.

Esfandiyar, borne up by his followers, shrieked in pain, flailing and spewing blood.

The doors boomed again, causing new cries from those packed against them.

Pushing back his attacker, Wolfram ducked a blade and crouched, searching for some sign of Deishima.

Suddenly, the floor was pulled from beneath him, and he fell, his head jarring on stone, his last view was the threshing of dark legs and a far away splash of crimson silk.

HIS BREATH
in short bursts, pain building with each stroke of his weary arm, Fionvar cursed under his breath. He should have kept his mouth shut, then maybe Melody didn’t have to die. Gwythym shouted outside the doors, trying to organize his crew. The small courtyard afforded little room for a battering ram, but they were doing what they could, praise the Lady.

Bumping hard against the altar, Fionvar cursed, then felt a cut to his upper arm. Quickly he glanced to the side.

Wolfram had vanished, a scowling Hemijrani in his place.

Fionvar ducked and drove upward with the sword, slashing the man’s leg open. Beneath those bare feet lay the golden sword Wolfram had used. Blood streaked the floor back beneath the cloth.

Yanking it up, Fionvar dove underneath, tumbling into the tunnel.

“Goddess’s Tears!” He coughed in the cloud of dirt his entrance had sent up. Rolling onto his knees, he rose, aching
in every joint, his chest heaving. “I’m too old for this,” he muttered. “Wolfram! Blast you, Wolfram, are you here?”

An ominous groan shivered the supports around him and Fionvar froze.

The precarious construction of branches and stones quivered.

Holding his breath, Fionvar crawled out onto the path, his eyes slowly adjusting.

Down below, he caught a flash of movement. A figure draped in cloth bent to the ground, then rose.

As she turned, he caught the glint of Faedre’s eyes and her slender, nasty smile.

Staring directly up at him, she stuck out her foot and tilted it this way and that, like a new dance step.

Wolfram lay senseless at her feet.

Fionvar scrambled up.

With a laugh, she set her foot against Wolfram’s ribs and shoved him over the edge.

“No!” Fionvar launched himself down the slope.

Wolfram’s legs rolled over the edge, and for a moment he dangled, his right arm caught up somehow.

Fionvar’s heart jumped to his throat.

The chain at Wolfram’s wrist had been bound to a tall support staff. Even as Fionvar ran, the staff jerked free of its moorings and tumbled over the edge.

The structure shuddered.

With a shout of laughter, Faedre turned and ran for the tunnel.

All around him, branches and stones began to fall, smashing into the sides of the pit or splashing below.

Throwing down his sword, Fionvar leapt. Joining the rain of debris, he struck the cold, dark pool and went under.

In a moment, he found the surface and took a great gasp before plunging in again. Something hit his back, forcing out the breath, and he gagged, sucking in the muddy water.

To the surface again, narrowly avoiding a falling timber. Fionvar took a deep breath and dove in, stroking hard toward the unknown bottom.

His outstretched hand struck on a slender pole, wedged sideways. Keeping his grasp, he swam along it.

A spasm of horror flashed through him. A cold hand had brushed his face.

Fionvar found the chain, knotted through with a bit of cloth. His numb fingers worked at it. His head buzzed, and his concentration wavered. Still, he clung to the chain. Just as he cursed his abandoned sword, Fionvar recalled the knife. He jerked Wolfram’s boar knife free from his belt, hands shaking as he sawed at the cloth.

At last, it separated. Grabbing Wolfram’s limp arm, Fionvar kicked off for the surface.

They exploded out of the water, Fionvar gasping as he pulled Wolfram, resting his son’s head on his shoulder. Hugging his son to him, Fionvar found the disintegrating path. Screams from above echoed all around him as the floor gave way.

Tiles and bodies filled the air, smashed aside as the main altar plunged through them, sending up a wave that threatened to shake Fionvar into the water all over again.

Crawling, then staggering, Fionvar dragged Wolfram up the path, down the tunnel, at last into open air, collapsing outside the little tent.

Choking, he spat out mouthfuls of mud, then pushed himself up and rolled Wolfram over. The old shirt he wore had torn, exposing the scars on his chest and the discolored marks where the tiger’s teeth had sunk deep. He had lost the patch, leaving the smooth skin vulnerable, connecting the trio of scars that cut his eyebrow and cheek. Mud smeared his face and his false blond hair. Manacles enclosed both wrists and one ankle.

Fionvar pulled his son into his arms, rubbing his back, then slapping. “Breathe, bury you, Wolfram, just breathe!” Warm trails of tears streaked down his cold cheeks. The dirt in his mouth tasted of death and failure. The screams and rumbles from the temple faded away as he hunched over Wolfram’s still, cold form.