by Lara Morgan
Veila’s lips thinned. ‘Your love of wine has clouded your mind for too long.’
‘Veila!’ Cyri’s voice was firm. ‘Do not be so quick to judge. Azoth is powerful, even now without the Birthstone, and squabbling amongst ourselves will not save us.’
‘At least now you do not argue with me over his return,’ Veila said turning to him. ‘You believe now it is him.’
The Consul’s lips thinned. ‘Now I have no choice.’
‘Stop.’ Rorc stepped between them. ‘What’s done is done.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘We must decide what to do.’
There was a pause as both Consul and Seer looked at each other.
‘He is right,’ Veila said. ‘Thank you Commander, you are ever the voice of reason.’ Her eyes went to Cyri. ‘We must work together. Azoth has Shaan now; there can be no doubt that she is the key. He may be able to find the Stone through her. What will we do if he finds it?’
‘We must find him first,’ Rorc said. ‘Veila, do you have any idea where he would go?’
She frowned. ‘No.’
‘Could you find him in the Void?’
‘No, it is too dangerous,’ Cyri protested. ‘He killed the dream seer, he could kill Veila.’
For all his stern words, the Consul was deeply fond of the Seer, perhaps more than fond. Rorc saw the protective fear in his eyes, the hand possessive on her shoulder.
‘It is too dangerous for her not to try,’ he said carefully.
Veila put her hand over the Consul’s. ‘It’s all right. I must try, Cyri, and he may be too distracted at the moment to notice me.’
Clearly unhappy, Cyri said, ‘Just a short questing then’.
Morfessa rose from his chair. ‘I will check on the Guardian and Nilah. The sun will rise soon, I must prepare Nilah to meet with the Council of Nine. She was drinking at an inn in the common quarter when the guards found her,’ he avoided look at Rorc. ‘I have given her a tonic that should see her sober.’
The Commander’s expression was forbidding. ‘It seems better, then, to keep Nilah out of this for now,’ he said. ‘I doubt she has the capacity to take charge of this. We should handle this ourselves.’
‘I agree,’ Cyri said.
‘Will the Guardian live?’ Rorc asked Morfessa.
He hesitated. ‘I don’t know. When I last checked, she’d fallen into a deep state of unconsciousness. I couldn’t reach her.’
It was the worst news. Rorc felt things slipping from his grasp. The last thing they needed now was to have Arlindah die. Nilah was vain and self centred, he could not see her making the decisions that needed to be made.
Veila saw his fears. ‘Nilah must at least be seen to be stepping in to the breach left by her mother’s illness,’ she said.
‘Yes.’ Morfessa looked as worried as Rorc had ever seen him. ‘I will prepare her to speak to the Council. It’s her place as the heir. If Lorgon is going to confine the Free Landers and, most likely petition to have them searched, then she must at least appear to be controlling things.’
‘But say nothing to her about what has happened here tonight,’ Rorc warned. ‘This is not something the Council needs to know just yet.’ He turned and made for the glass doors.
‘You are going after him yourself?’ Cyri said and he turned. ‘I cannot sit here and wait. Besides, I need to find that fool Balkis before he gets himself killed but if any of my men return with Azoth . . .’
‘We will prepare a cell,’ Cyri said. ‘hopefully one able to hold him.’
‘Be careful,’ Veila said.
Rorc nodded to her and, with a last glance at Cyri, left the room, exiting through the same doors Azoth had taken a short time earlier.
It was warm and still outside and moisture hung heavily in the air. He glanced up at the sky. The stars shone with a cold brightness between the swathes of cloud. It wouldn’t be long until the pale light of the sun drove the stars away. His eyes were dry and weariness made his shoulders tense, but with practised effort he ignored it, hurrying down the quiet streets. He was sure this resurrected god would be making for the Dome and his serpents, so he headed down toward the traders’ quarter and turned up the steep road that led to the yards.
A breeze blew in from the sea, lifting his hair, and he stopped, turning to stare down at the city. He could smell the faint acrid taint of smoke. He searched the rooftops and squinting, saw a wisp of grey drifting above the streets of the seafarers’ quarter – it was coming from the area near the Red Pepino. Too coincidental. Cursing, he turned and ran back down toward the city, his gut tight with apprehension. He was too far away, if it was the Red Pepino he’d never get there in time. He changed his course, cutting through an empty market square and heading for the temple to take a muthu.
The courtyard was silent when he arrived, the guard on duty barely awake as he sprinted through the doors, shouting at the man to get the main gate open. The guard hardly had time to scramble upright and push open the heavy wooden gate before he had mounted a beast and kicked it into action, its hooves clattering on the stones as he urged it out of the stable and into the streets. Lamplights winked on in the windows behind him as he disappeared down the dark avenue toward the seafarers’ quarter.
Following a narrow twisting street between dilapidated buildings, he strained his gaze at the sky. Wisps of smoke, more visible now, were drifting across the rooftops and the smell of burning grew. A door opened and a man peered out, sniffing and looking down the street. Others appeared, looking out from upper-storey windows. The sound of raised voices came to him and with it the unmistakable crack of burning wood.
Clinging on bareback, he urged the animal on. With galloping strides they left the street and turned down an alley that led to the back of the inn. Billows of black smoke were rising in the air and a crowd of people were heading toward it. Using the muthu to push through, Rorc clattered up to the back gate then jumped off and, leaving the animal with a street boy, ran toward the fire. Smoke was pouring from upper-storey windows and dark figures silhouetted against the sky, were jumping out of a window onto the roof of the inn’s storage shed.
Screams came from inside and no one seemed to be doing anything to help, they were merely milling about looking bewildered. His heart pounding, Rorc scanned the crowd for Torg and Tuon, but couldn’t see them. Recognising one of the whores, he strode over and clasped her arm.
‘Torg and Tuon, where are they?’ he demanded.
The woman looked up at him in fright. ‘I don’t know. I think they were downstairs. Aren’t they out?’
Rorc didn’t answer her. He grabbed the man nearest him. ‘You! Go find the city guard.’ The man quailed as he saw who had spoken and, turning, bolted out of the gates running for the guard station.
‘You!’ Rorc jogged over to three younger men. ‘Two of you find some buckets, fill them with water from the well. Start dousing the storage shed and that end of the inn.’ He pointed to where the women were jumping from the window. ‘We’ve got to stop the fire from spreading. Get some others to help. And you,’ he pointed to the tallest and strongest, ‘Come with me.’
The two men went off to do his bidding while Rorc ran toward the back door of the inn, the young man at his heels. Smoke was pouring out of every crevice now and long streaking cracks were forming in the rough render of the walls. Popping and creaking noises came from inside along with the whumping rush of fire.
‘Help me with the door,’ he shouted over the noise, coughing as smoke blew down his throat.
The door was locked and the metal handle too hot to touch, so they stood back together and started to kick it. Made of heavy black wood, it held for a while, rattling in its frame under their attack. The noise of fire increased and a terrible fear seized Rorc that he wouldn’t be able to get the door open, that he wouldn’t be able to get them out. With a roar, he launched himself at the door kicking it as hard as he could again and again, until finally with a sharp splintering crack, it gave way.
The young man beside him fell back as heat rushed out, but Rorc only held a forearm in front of his face and, sweeping aside the remains of the door, leaped inside. Flames were running up the walls and across the roof, and the air was thick with smoke. Coughing and choking he almost tripped over Torg’s body lying near the doorway.
‘Here!’ he yelled to the youth outside and bent down. He knew Torg was dead the moment his hand felt the knife in his chest.
‘Drag him out,’ he shouted. The heat from the flames was intense and he crouched low trying to keep below the smoke. Flames crackled and he could smell his own hair singeing, but he moved further into the room searching for Tuon.
He found her curled up on the floor near a cracked water urn, the moisture-soaked clay had retarded the flames so far, but even as he approached fire danced on the wall near her head like a living thing, daring to get close enough to burn her.
‘Tuon’ he shouted hoarsely. A sudden ferocious fear seized him, and savagely he kicked a chair from his path and ran to pick her up. She was limp in his arms, her head lolling back as he staggered from the burning building, coughing smoke.
Dropping to his knees outside on the hard-packed earth, he put his head to her breast. Her heart was still beating. Intense relief ran through him. There was an ugly bruise near her temple, but she was alive. He kneeled there looking at her face in the flickering orange light. With rage and fear, the thought hit him that a moment more and she may have been dead.
‘Commander.’
He looked up to see a Hunter approaching.
‘Sir, we found this.’ He held up a scrap of green silk. It was from the dress Shaan had been wearing.
‘He was here,’ Rorc said in a hard voice.
‘Yes. Balkis sent me to find you. He says he’s headed to the yards.’
‘He means to take a serpent.’ Rorc rose to his feet. ‘Here.’ He passed Tuon gently into the arms of the Hunter. ‘Take this woman to the temple.’
‘Commander.’ The man accepted his burden and Rorc pointed to Torg’s body a short distance away. ‘And have the city guard take him there also. The Sisters will know what to do. I’ll go after Balkis.’
Rorc turned and ran back to get the muthu, fury giving him energy, despite smoke burning in his lungs. He had no doubt that Azoth had almost killed Tuon and had murdered Torg. The Isles’ man had been of great value to the Faithful and, more than that, he had been his friend. He would find him and, be he man or god, he was determined Azoth would suffer.
Shaan ran. The first glow of the rising sun was touching the flat rooftops above them, but it was a dim light. Thick cloud was starting to drift over the city and there was no wind; the sound of her breathing seemed to be all around her.
Azoth made no noise as he ran beside her, intent on looking forward, as though he could bring their destination to him by his will alone. Occasionally he glanced at her, and whenever he did she felt lighter, happier, and would increase her pace matching his stride. She couldn’t quite remember where they were going or why, but she was sure if she followed Azoth and pleased him that all would be well.
They ran past shuttered homes, and then up a slowly increasing slope where the street was wider, curved and lined with trees and gardens. Azoth veered off and took a smaller path through the trees. They had run for some time, moving in a circular route, before Shaan saw ahead of them a high wall and a closed wooden gate. She realised vaguely that the wall was the one that surrounded the serpent yards, but she was confused about how they had arrived there; but it was a fleeting thought that fluttered in her mind for a moment then left as she waited patiently for Azoth to open the door.
Using some force he pushed it open and they passed through. Shaan saw the white stone of the Dome through the trees. A slight throb started in her temple as they drew closer, and a sudden clear thought that she should not be here pierced the fog surrounding her mind. She stopped, confused, and looked around. What was she doing here? She rubbed her eyes. Who was that man?
Azoth had reached the workers’ entrance in the Dome wall when he turned sharply and looked at her. His brows drew together and, muttering a curse, he ran back. Shaan stared at him and was seized by a sudden sense of danger. Her heart leaped and she turned to run, but he was already on her.
He grasped her wrist. ‘Come,’ he whispered and pulled her after him toward the Dome.
But Shaan’s mind was suddenly clear. ‘No!’ she shouted and struggled in his grasp. Bits and pieces started coming back to her. Balkis flying through the air, the Red Pepino, Tuon hitting the floor and Torg . . . Torg falling, a knife and the rush of fire.
‘No!’ she screamed and planted her feet, desperately twisting.
With economic efficiency Azoth stopped, turned, and slapped her a stinging blow across the face, then he slung her over his shoulder and continued into the Dome. Dazed, Shaan watched as they passed into the gloom of the outer hall. Azoth moved quickly, heading straight toward the spiralling ramp that led to the upper crells.
She tried to clear her head. The sun was not fully risen, but still there should be workers in the Dome. She took a breath to shout, but her mind was suddenly assailed by the presence of Nuathin.
Arak! The serpent’s cry pounded through her skull. Shaan clutched at her head, bouncing painfully against Azoth’s shoulder as he ascended. Nuathin, she tried to send back, but the serpent overrode her mind and she was assaulted with an overwhelming wave of yearning. She could barely see and pain sliced through her mind as the serpent swamped her with his own emotions. He is here! Nuathin screamed, the pain of it ripping into her. He feels us, he knows us, he . . . the serpent paused, and then suddenly whispered: Will he show us the old paths again? Shaan, still reeling, was unable to respond. She blinked and tried to restore her blurred vision. Her skull ached and Azoth’s shoulder dug into her stomach.
Then suddenly he was putting her down. Her feet hit hard floor and she saw Nuathin cowering on the very edge of his crell, staring at Azoth. The serpent’s crest was pulsing a deep red and the colours lit up the walls, painting the stone with the light. His eyes flashed and had changed to a deep purple, not unlike Azoth’s own.
Shaan tried to send the serpent her thoughts: Nuathin. Go, fly. She had a sudden protective urge for the old beast. But either she had not mind voiced properly, or he was ignoring her, for he continued to stare, mesmerised, at the man beside her.
She glanced at Azoth and her insides clenched with fear. His height and breadth seemed to have expanded and a covetous light shone in his eyes. It was the same as when he had first called to her in Morfessa’s room. Power radiated from him and he no longer looked human.
‘My semorphim,’ he spoke softly to Nuathin’s mind in a low sensuous tone. The skin on Shaan’s arms pebbled. She could understand him, though he spoke a language she had never heard. She wanted to run but could not, the timbre of his mind voice sang in her blood, and warmth spread through her. Without knowing why, she fell to her knees.
‘I have wept tears of loss for you for millennia.’ Azoth slowly approached the serpent. ‘My own, my children, barred from me. But I have returned for you.’ He held out a hand to the serpent and in amazement, Shaan watched a tear slide from Azoth’s eye. ‘Come, carry me and mine. We will be family again, all of us.’
His voice was hypnotic and full of such sorrow that Shaan felt tears slip from her own eyes. Nuathin’s crest pulsated with colour, rapidly changing from red to blue then green and orange, swirling along his neck. His great sides heaved in and out and his hot breath pushed back her hair. He stared at Azoth for a moment and the air between them became charged with energy then suddenly he turned and launched himself off the ledge and, with a flap of his wing, headed for the roof.
Azoth turned triumphant shining eyes to her. ‘Come.’ He reached down and pulled her to her feet, heading up the ramp to the rooftop.
Confused, she followed, letting him lead her the short distance to the outer door. She was finding it hard to breathe. T
he effect of his voice clung to her, but more than that was the effect of his words. Something in her had reacted as though in recognition. There had been a deep pull inside, a wrenching of what she believed. Me and mine. Was she his? Azoth pushed open the rooftop door and she squinted in the light of the sun’s first rays.
Nuathin was already waiting for them. Her heart pounded and for a moment she stopped, uncertain, and Azoth turned and came to her. Looking down, he brought up his hand and caressed her jaw, tilting her head up to look into his eyes. He smiled and Shaan trembled at what she saw.
‘Come,’ he whispered, and she felt again the pull, deep inside, that demanded she be with him.
‘Good.’ His smile widened and he drew her gently with him over to the serpent.
Nuathin looked brighter, sleeker and somehow younger. He turned his head to look at her as Azoth helped her climb onto his enormous back to sit between his wings. Azoth himself then leaped gracefully up in front of her and she wrapped her arms around his middle as if in a dream.
‘Shaan!’ A voice shouted and Balkis burst through the opening to the platform. His sword was unsheathed and his blond hair streamed out behind him as he ran toward her.
‘Stop!’ he cried and reached a hand out to her.
His eyes sought hers and for a brief moment their gazes met. Shaan felt the glamour that surrounded her slip and something moved inside her at the fierce desperation on his face. Had he come for her? She unclasped her hands.
But then Azoth spoke: ‘Fly, semorphim,’ he commanded and the serpent crouched and sprang into the air.
The force made Shaan’s stomach drop, and she locked her hands around him as they sprang upward. Her hair whirled around her in the updraft and she looked down through the fluttering strands to see Balkis standing, staring up at her, as Nuathin carried them away.