Bride of the Stone: Circle of Nine Trilogy 2

by Josephine Pennicott

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked. But Rashka chose to ignore her. She was sniffing the air, obviously reading messages cryptically wafting to her on the wind, for she would twitch her lips at times in a grimace that could possibly pass for a smile.

  ‘Please! Can’t you slow down a bit?’ Fenn protested. ‘I am having trouble keeping up with you!’

  She had expected a caustic comment about how unfit Eronthites were, compared to the mighty Azephim race, but, to her surprise, none was forthcoming. Instead, Rashka stopped for a second, continuing to sniff the breeze while Fenn tried to catch her breath.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Fenn snapped, unable to see what would be worth looking at in the nightmare world that she now inhabited.

  ‘We will go to the Uluree, and light a blessing candle for you,’ Rashka said. ‘It is a sign of respect for the priests of the Uluree, and they will be expecting you to perform it.’ Fenn found it difficult to read the look Rashka gave her. It was faintly contemptuous, as if she were infuriated that one of Faery blood should accompany her, but there was something else in her steady glare. What was it? Fenn wondered.

  As they walked into mists of nothingness, houses began to form themselves out of the silent void. All of them were white stone, and totally unlike the architecture of the Azephim castle in the Wastelands. Outside each house, wreaths of white roses were hung, and fire torches flared. As they walked together, their shoulders nearly touched. The streets were white and cobbled and well worn, and slowly Fenn became aware they were passing down a long winding boulevard. White statues of Heztarra angels lined the street. There was no nature in this silent world, not a single leaf blowing idly on the ground. On the front step of one house sat an animal that Fenn had never seen before. It had the body of a small lion and the head of a large snake. A flame of blue fire shot from its mouth as they passed. Fenn stared at it with great interest, but Rashka just kept walking, ignoring the Faery’s curiosity.

  There were other angels walking in the mist, making Fenn start when they first materialised. They were all walking silently in the same direction Rashka was leading her. Many carried flowers in their hands. They all wore colourless cloaks, and were sometimes hard to see in the white mist. A bell chimed in the far distance. Fenn felt a small wave of nausea, and she paused.

  ‘Tired again?’ Rashka mocked.

  Fenn shut her eyes for a second. She felt giddy and disorientated. ‘I’m feeling sick,’ she blurted out. Her skin was clammy, and she could feel bile rising in her throat.

  Rashka looked momentarily horrified. ‘Well, for Alecom’s sake, don’t throw up when we reach the Uluree. If you’re going to be sick, then do it here.’

  Violent spasms clenched Fenn’s stomach, and she leant over and vomited a pea-green mess near where Rashka was standing. At least she had the pleasure of making the angel curse and jump out of the way. Almost instantly, the vomit seemed to be sucked into the ground.

  ‘Where has it gone?’ Fenn asked, wiping her mouth and feeling ashamed. Rashka’s eyes were even more hostile, if that were possible.

  ‘The Web has taken it into itself,’ she said. ‘Do you think you will be able to control yourself in the Uluree? Because I warn you, Faery, it is a holy place, and if you go throwing your guts up all over it, the priests may well slit your throat in the fountain.’

  She wasn’t joking, Fenn realised, sneaking a glance at her steely face. Perhaps it would be easier for it to end like that. Ishran had told her that the Uluree was a favoured killing place of the Azephim, and countless Bluites and Faiaites had been tortured to death in the great fountain. But the thought of Jessie’s distress if she did not return stopped her train of thought. If the old dog died — a huge lump mushroomed in her throat at the thought — then she might contemplate offering herself as a sacrifice to the Uluree. The peace of death had to be preferable to life in this grim hell.

  As they drew closer to the Uluree, the bone architecture became more ornate and, despite herself, Fenn had to admire the workmanship of the temples and the darntis. There were elaborate white dragons, cherubs and serpents, screaming demons, sows and great rearing horses. It seemed as if every animal and angelic being was represented. Some of the buildings were hundreds of feet high, and yet intricate carvings of roses, angels and animals still adorned every surface. Rashka snarled softly, her eyes shining, and Fenn realised the Azephim was revealing her pride in the Uluree.

  ‘Feel honoured, Faery!’ she snarled. ‘This is the first time I know of that a stinking Faery has trod on Uluree ground. Of course many have been carried here as sacrifices.’

  Fenn’s eyes were wide as she studied the magnificent works of art that surrounded her. In front of her, a group of Azephim angels were making offerings before the enormous stone fountain that dominated the Uluree. Ishran had described it lovingly to Fenn as the finest example from the Black Ages of Azephim architecture. In the centre of this fountain, a gigantic marble bull gored a screaming pig. Naked stone nymphs surrounded the dying pig, witnessing the act in silent adoration.

  Then Fenn noted with horror that the waters of the geyser were red. There had been a recent killing in the fountain. The grisly scene flashed into her consciousness: a head floating, a severed arm, black blood and gore. Hair, tangled and long, wet with blood. Bluite, it had been Bluite. Another wave of nausea gripped her, and she had to fight to control the vomit threatening to rise. Priest-like angels in purple and yellow gowns lovingly placed white candles and orchids into the fountain of blood. One of the nymph’s eyes opened. Fenn stared at her, mesmerised; they were chips of blue. Her stone mouth opened, and she sang:

  Hail the Sow — the purified swine,

  All the darkness inside you is mine;

  Walk into darkness unto the place allowed;

  Goodness feeds quietly on swine;

  All hope left behind you,

  Never alone — you are always mine.

  Fenn stood closer to Rashka. The realisation came to her that perhaps they meant to sacrifice her. Despite her earlier death wish, the thought that she might be facing death nearly paralysed her with fear.

  A priest turned, sensing their presence in the square. He motioned to the angel priest next to him, and he too turned and faced Fenn and Rashka. The large group of Azephim also stopped their communion to stare.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Fenn hissed to Rashka.

  ‘Shut up, Faery! Show some respect for the Uluree!’ Rashka growled.

  The priest motioned to Rashka. ‘Bring her forward,’ he said.

  ‘By Alecom’s claws, what is going on?’ Fenn said.

  Rashka began to shove Fenn forward, without answering. The Azephim throng stood back, making a pathway for Fenn to approach the priests.

  They were ancient, their skin paper-thin, pale blue, and translucent. Fenn had no idea such an old Azephim existed outside the Outerezt. Their eyes were the colour of palest cream, and half the scales that covered their faces and bodies were worn away. There was an air of great weariness about them, but also an excitement that flickered eerily in their eyes. The stone nymph turned her head and regarded Fenn again.

  ‘Fenn of the Imomm tribe of Eronth,’ she said in a tiny, lilting voice that whispered through every crevice of the Uluree. ‘We baptise you in the name of Alecom. We give you the secrets of the Uluree. We pay joyful homage to the dark seed within you. EESSHHAAAAA!!!!!’

  The last words were spoken in a scream, and Fenn found herself beginning to rise slowly up into the air. She cried out in shock, and felt a dark green energy flung towards her from the priests. The energy settled around her, sedating her. Levitating above the watching angels, she soon was over the fountain. The nymphs were holding each other and laughing. Then she was dropped, into the fountain of blood, into a nightmare world of pain and death. Centuries of sacrifices had left a massive thought pattern of horror and pain. It rushed through her in a mass of snarling teeth, and her inner organs screamed silently as the energy passed. The fountain beg
an to bubble around her. The bloody water was churning, turning her over in a mass of body parts.

  Then she was pulled from the fountain, totally dry, and was floating in the air once more. Light pulsated from her; she became aware of energies she had been oblivious to before. She could see the soul of every piece of stone and brick that comprised the Uluree. White ash was dripping softly onto the stonework. It became clear that inside the marble bull was an intelligence helping to control events in the Web. A family pack of lynxes watched with hostile eyes from a nearby doorway.

  She was aware for the first time, as she floated safely to the ground, that Rashka’s hostility masked a faint sympathy, but also a savage jealousy. Clear, too, came the knowledge that not all the angels in the Web were in adherence to Seleza; that some believed that Rashka, the Glazrmhom, should rule over Kondoell and there were schemes to achieve this goal among this minority group. But most of all, she became aware, with a chilling realisation, of the large white egg that lay within her womb.

  *

  Seleza’s head was still floating in the restoration tank when Fenn and Rashka returned from the Uluree.

  ‘She won’t see you when she’s not attached!’ Rashka insisted, standing protectively before the tank.

  ‘I don’t care!’ Fenn retorted. ‘I need to talk to her, and I need to talk to her now!’

  ‘Don’t think that you can order me about in my own home, stinking Faery! You may have the Ghormho egg in your belly, but the fact remains you are still an Imomm Faery. Repulsive and stinking, and as soon as you hatch that egg, I am going to kill you slowly!’

  ‘Well, you won’t have to worry about that, will you?’ Fenn snapped back, nearly hysterical. ‘No-one ever survives the hatching if they are not of the Azephim race! I’m going to die anyway, thanks to you Goddess-deprived hell Hags!’

  ‘Silence!’ The order, coming from the tank, caused them both to jump. Seleza’s eyes opened under water, and she stared at Fenn.

  ‘Rashka, be silent! Fenn, calm yourself. No doubt it has come as a shock to find you are carrying the Ghormho’s egg. But why did you think that we brought you back with us to the Web? Yea, it is true, no-one has ever managed to fully hatch an egg who is not of the Web, but then the Ghormho has never managed to implant his seed before.’

  Rashka laughed scornfully. ‘Trust Ishran to plant it into a stinking Faery! Only he could manage that disgusting act!’

  Fenn shot her a look of hate. Seleza ordered her server to remove her head from the tank, and she was attached back onto her body before she spoke again.

  ‘I will do all I can for you, Fenn,’ she said softly. ‘I promise you I will not let you die without attempting everything I can to save you.’

  Rashka snorted, and Seleza silenced her with her hand. ‘It has never been achieved before, no,’ she continued. ‘But I will gather the best midwives. I am contacting the Heztarra Galaxy to help us. I will also work closely with the Eom as well, that it may help keep you alive and deliver the egg.’

  Fenn dropped onto a small sofa, and sat with her head bowed. ‘I saw how big it was inside me,’ she said in a small, flat voice. ‘It’s going to burst me when it comes!’

  Seleza crossed to her, and knelt before her. Fenn found herself looking into eyes tinged with sadness. ‘The Ghormho will pay for what he has done to you,’ she promised.

  ‘I will hunt him,’ Rashka vowed. ‘I will follow him to the Blue Planet, where he has fed, and rip out his sparrow.’

  Seleza dug her claws into Fenn’s hands, and a silver fluid leaked into her bloodstream. ‘That will help to calm you,’ she said. Fenn instantly dropped into a stupor.

  ‘Carry her to her room,’ Seleza ordered the server. She turned to Rashka, shaking her head. ‘Why did the Nymph Priestess allow her so much vision?’ she remonstrated. ‘She should never have seen the egg! If she knows, she won’t approach the hatching calmly.’ Rashka bit at her claws.

  ‘It would be difficult to be calm if you knew your belly and genitals were about to explode out when the egg hatches,’ she agreed, smiling. Seleza watched as the server left the room, Fenn looking tiny and delicate, with her silver-white hair spraying to the floor as she lay in the server’s arms.

  ‘In the name of Alecom, even if the hatching turns her to fire and to ash, I need that egg!’ she said. Rashka yawned, pretending disinterest in the subject, but her jealousy leapt like a crazed Bluite inside her.

  I should kill her, she thought. Devour her in the night, leave no trace of her and her stinking dog. Then there can be no Ghormho egg to hatch!

  Her mind raced as she watched Seleza leave the room to check on Fenn. There was no other option. Fenn would have to be killed before she could reach the Hatching Grounds.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Thorns fall from their lips.

  An unholy pact is made.

  The Dark Queen’s belly is as cold as winter.

  Her heart is ice — her touch brings death.

  The Winged Ones are driven underground to lie beneath the frosty sky.

  Blood, silken and pure, is spilled.

  Hecate waits — and smiles.

  — Condensed from the Tremite Book of Life, Column CX III

  When Gwyndion re-emerged through the portal, he was momentarily thrown to find himself in a room full of strangers. As his vision cleared, he realised that the alarmed white faces staring at him were, in fact, familiar friends. He saw Khartyn, Rosedark and Ano, and someone else . . . the Webx stared at the being that stood between Rosedark and Khartyn. His heart told him instantly who it was, although his mind rebelled.

  ‘Samma?’ he breathed. The radiant being who stood in front of him nodded, her large, elongated dark eyes shining with tears. Her hands fluttered slowly in the Webx greeting, and automatically he returned the gesture. She was Webx! His mind screamed the knowledge. ‘Yea,’ she said softly, and her eyes never left his face. Her entire expression was still the countenance he used to love in his meerwog’s eyes. ‘You have returned me to myself with your courage and love, for which I shall be eternally grateful.’

  Gwyndion moved towards her, now oblivious to the fascinated spectators in the room. Khartyn was smiling broadly, a look of joy on her face, as she clasped Rosedark’s hands. Ano had momentarily forgotten his troubles and was shaking his head in wonder. The Crones, who had been attending to Mary, listened intently. The soft breathing of the faraway Scribes could be heard as they frantically recorded the event. Gwyndion and Samma, lost to everything but themselves, stared deeply into each other’s eyes, while branches grew from their bodies and they began to touch each other shyly.

  ‘How?’ Gwyndion asked her in a voice cracking with emotion. ‘Was it Shambzhla? Did the Sea Hag commit this outrage against the Webx?’

  Samma shook her head, and her leaf-green hair splayed out around her. ‘Nay,’ she said. ‘Long before Shambzhla. My transmutation occurred before the explorers from the Heztarra Galaxy had walked the waves to discover Zeglanada. Before then there had been a race of Webx who had seeded a small colony. I was one of that colony. The Seefaxomill people worked with the Eom, desperately wanting its energy for their own. I was part of an experiment in transmutation that the ancient Sea Hags attempted. There was a great battle between the Seefaxomill and my tribe, and we were entirely destroyed.’

  Her eyes filled with pain as she recalled the event. ‘For a long time, I lived as a meerwog on Zeglanada, having to adjust to life in the meerwog pack. I looked meerwog, and acted meerwog, but I still thought and felt like a Webx. They were long, difficult seasons. I suffered extreme loneliness. Then Zeglanada was colonised again by Webx, and I was instrumental in getting the meerwog population to trust the Webx so we could live with them as pets.

  ‘Endless seasons passed, and I lost all hope that I would ever be returned to my natural form. I would sit for countless hours by the ocean, listening to the taunts of the Merpeople. I knew that the Seefaxomill people had long gone, and a new Warrior Sea Hag
had taken their place: Shambzhla. I had foolishly hoped this new leader would return my soul to me. But Shambzhla refused to sacrifice the fish who carried my soul in its belly, despite all my attempts to communicate with her telepathically.

  ‘Gradually, I had come to accept I would be a meerwog for eternity. Then you were sapspawned, Gwyndion, and Tanzen and Rozen selected me to be your personal meerwog. Finally I had found a friend, and someone to love me.’

  Gwyndion stared at her, momentarily lost for words. ‘You were, you are, everything to me,’ he said at length. Droplets of sap oozed from his eyes as he finally began to express his grief. ‘There is no-one in all the worlds who knows, as you do, who understands what it was like to endure the Day of Ashes and be a prisoner of the Imomm in the Hollow Hills. I love you, I will always love you, no matter whether you have the form of Webx or meerwog.’

  The two Webx moved into each other’s arms, silver-white hair and green hair merging. They became impossible to distinguish from each other as they embraced and began to communicate in a timeless language that did not need words.

  ‘Well!’ Khartyn said, blowing her nose noisily. ‘By the sands of the Dreamers, I have heard some strange and wonderful stories in my time, but that is one of the most beautiful. Don’t you think so, Rosedark?’

  Rosedark nodded, although there was a slight shadow in her eyes at the thought of what might have been.

  Gwyndion suddenly remembered the other point of his mission, and he broke the embrace to produce the glass jar containing Mary’s tongue.

  A loud cheer broke out in the room. ‘Hail, Gwyndion!’ the Crones called. ‘He will be celebrated in myth for eternity. Hail the Webx for the great good they have done Eronth!’ Gwyndion thought his heart would burst with joy. Finally, things looked as if they were going right in his life. Proudly, he held out the glass jar to Ano, who shook with excitement. Khartyn took it from him, and surveyed it carefully. She moved towards the bed, where Mary lay, apparently unconscious, looking fragile and defenceless. Instructing the Crones to open her mouth widely, Khartyn unscrewed the jar and took out the tongue, having trouble holding it at first. Quickly she put it into Mary’s mouth, struggling to hold it firmly and muttering an incantation under her breath. There was a tense silence in the room. Gwyndion could sense the Sea Warrior Queen listening, and he shivered with fear.