Some appeared to her in the elaborate vestments they wore to celebrate her rites in the temple; others came booted and spurred for travel, or sweaty and bloodstained, as if fresh from battle; they stood with their salt-white hair billowing and their red cloaks flaring, as though on board ship or standing in a high wind; they carried flails, or heavy iron maces, or long-bladed spears. They came to her with their twisted limbs, damaged faces, and other deformities; Scioleann and Vitré; the warlike Graelent, Ganhardin, and Náoiss; the subtle Iobhar; Goezenou of the heavy jaw and barren eyes; slender Dyonas, with the neat ivory horns shining on his brow; Camhóinhann, who alone matched her in stature, overtopping the others by at least a head.
The nine phantom priests waited silently for her to speak. So real did they appear, so immediately present, that their flat metallic eyes even reflected the red glow of the coals, the flickering torchlight. Yet three points of the star remained empty, signifying the three Furiádhin who had perished.
“Camhóinhann, Dyonas, Goezenou—you are not to go to Lückenbörg after all,” she commanded. “I have learned that this mysterious niece of mine is to be found much farther to the west, traveling with the armies of Skyrra in the Drakenskaller Mountains. Go there immediately.”
Those she addressed bowed low before her.
“And if,” she went on, a little archly, “if it should chance that anyone tries to interfere with your business in Skyrra, kill them without hesitation. Whoever they might be, high or low. Do not, this time, think to delegate the task, as was done at Saer. One of you must attend to it personally.”
The three priests exchanged questioning glances, not absolutely certain whether she meant a reproach, or wherein they had failed. Nor did she deign to elighten them, or to mention Sindérian by name, so confident was she that the young healer had been—or soon would be—utterly obliterated. The aniffath could not fail.
Indeed, in that moment, Ouriána’s confidence was very great. Drugged with the fumes, she felt big with the future, pregnant with possibilities. A bitter chill crept into the room, so that the flames seemed to exude cold, not light, and she felt the Darkness unfold within her.
Her green eyes turned black, and her pale face blanched whiter still, the skin pulling thin and taut over the bones of the skull. An ageless evil surveyed the Furiádhin out of the fathomless dark eyes. Then the illusion—if that was what it was—passed, and her beauty blazed up again, more vivid than before.
“Soon you will be at your full strength, the full complement of twelve once more complete,” she proclaimed, in a low, excited voice. “Three of your acolytes have gone into seclusion; the change burns in their blood. It cannot be long, now, before they are judged ready and worthy to take the final vows. And behold: as I foretold, as I have promised you, the twelve will be invincible!”
A tremor passed through the entire edifice of the palace, soundless, but nevertheless thrilling. Náoiss’s pale wings flexed, unfurled, showing transparent in the yellow torchlight. Shadows played across the elegant, commanding planes of Camhóinhann’s face, noble and eloquent even in ruin.
“Thäerie will fall, and the cities of the coast,” she continued. “We will paint the stones of the Great House at Pentheirie with the blood of the Pendawers. We will raze the walls of the Scholia on Leal and harry the Master Wizards across the face of the earth. As we move north and east, we will extend Our empire as we go.”
As the Furiádhin prostrated themselves in token of their obedience, she broke the spell that held them in thrall. The nine phantoms vanished, more suddenly than they had come, all of them gone in an instant.
Yet in her mind’s eye she could still see them: plying the seas, riding out like thunder across the land, laying waste to vast kingdoms. She could hear the hoofbeats of their mighty steeds, the crack of shattered stone as city walls crumbled, the roar of flames reaching up to the sky.
“The new age will come,” she cried out, to the Night, to the Universe. “In fire and in torment, perhaps, but it will come!”
About the Author
MADELINE HOWARD enjoys gardening, Celtic mythology, and working on the next Rune of Unmaking book. She lives in Nothern California with her family. The Hidden Stars is her first novel. For maps and a preview of the upcoming sequel, visit www.thehiddenstars.com.
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Books by Madeline Howard
The Rune of Unmaking
BOOK ONE: THE HIDDEN STARS
Forthcoming
The Rune of Unmaking
BOOK TWO
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE HIDDEN STARS: Book One of the Rune of Unmaking. Copyright © 2004 by Madeline Howard. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © DECEMBER 2006 ISBN: 9780061841149
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