by Susan Faw
Marea pulled out an amulet tucked under her shirt and clutched it in her right hand, the hand of the bleeding arm. It helped to rest the arm across her chest and clutching the stone gave her something to cling to, to keep the arm as still as possible. The amulet of the High Priestess connected her to the temple, to the spirits of the temple, but it remained cold and lifeless in her hand. It had only sung to her one time, when she’d been granted access to the temple on that first occasion. She had picked up the necklace where it lay on a tray just inside the door. It had flared to life and forms had emerged from it, swirling around the common room and around her before fading away. It had not spoken to her since. Yet, she clung to the memory, to the fact that she could still enter even if the temple did not light up like it had for the girl.
Marea swayed in the saddle. Blood loss, she knew it instinctively. She would have to stop to rest soon, but there was no safety here. There was no place to hide. She was weak from lack of blood and weary, her body slowing down. She could not keep up the pace, yet she knew the soldier was still on her trail—she could sense it.
She closed her eyes and prayed to her ancestors, prayed as she had never prayed before. She reached out to the gods of her people. “Temple of the ancestors, I know I have not prayed to you in a long time and I have been negligent in singing your praises, but I pray to you now. Ancient Ones, if I truly am the anointed one, if I am truly chosen, then show me your will. Am I to die to make way for the girl? Help me…please show me my path! Show me your will!”
The amulet trembled in her grip and waves of energy vibrated so sharply through the stone that Marea’s fingers numbed and she dropped it with a gasp. The amulet had never done that before. The crystal flashed a ball of blue flame which enveloped her, horse and all. With a clap of thunder, she was gone.
Chapter 35
Answered Prayer
AVERY FOUGHT THE DARKNESS that pervaded the room as she struggled within the Charun’s slimy grasp. The stink of death surrounded the Charun, and she fought against the tug of the underworld. It pulled at her soul, at the essence of her being, dragging her down with the dry rattling breaths of one long dead. Avery fought the drag and the pull with every ounce of her strength.
Achak kicked and squirmed in the grip of the second Charun. Suddenly, it was enveloped in a skin of blue fire that slid Achak’s entire body, encasing it.
Avery screamed as she writhed in the grip of the Charun, but Achak did not. Instead, he stilled, and the blue flames solidified and parted from his body to reform in the air above his head as a pure spirit phoenix. Its talons, beak, and eyes were ice blue flame. The feathers of the spirit guardian danced in an invisible breeze as the bird lifted into the air. The Charun gripping Achak hesitated, its focus distracted by the spirit bird.
The phoenix began to sing a mesmerizing song that froze the pair of Charun. They began to sway in response to the song, bewitched by the melody, and their grips loosened. With a jarring screech, the guardian dived at the Charun holding Avery and tore at its face with talons of ice that hissed and steamed. It screeched, the noise of good steel sharpening on a grinding wheel. Sparks flew from the Charun, and then it imploded, sucking the blackness back to the hell of its home.
Avery fell to the floor of the cave at the sudden release, and the phoenix swung back to the remaining Charun. Avery raised her head just in time to see Achak picked up by clawed hands as dark as night. The Charun raised Achak above his head and flung him at the glowing phoenix. He passed straight through as it had no corporeal substance. He struck the wall on the far side with a sickening crunch and a howl of pain. The phoenix flickered, then dived at the Charun, grabbing it by its exposed throat, and pulled. Black sulphuric blood bubbled and burned as it spilled onto the floor of the cavern and with a second bang, the Charun imploded.
“Achak!” Avery stumbled over to his side, avoiding the flashing ooze that pitted the marble floor.
Achak moaned, clutching at the leg crumpled and twisted impossibly against the wall. He looked at it and then swiftly away, as bile rose in his throat. He clung to consciousness by a thread.
“Shh!” commanded Avery, as she gently felt along the length of his leg. The femur was twisted under her hands, the sharp edges ridged under her fingers. It was broken in one, possibly two places. “Lay back. I need to splint this.” She searched the interior of the cavern, looking for something to use, and her eyes fell on a several carved wooden staffs leaning against a wall in the corner. A straw mattress provided an aged blanket riddled with holes that separated easily in her hands. She tore it into long strips of cloth along the grain of the weave. Once she had enough strips piled in her lap, she retrieved a pair of staffs and ran back to Achak, who now slumped against the wall, unconscious. Avery dropped the staffs and wrappings, then laid Achak out on the stone floor. Straightening his leg, she coaxed the bones into alignment then placed the staffs alongside the break to judge the proper length. She pulled her knife from its holster and sawed at the wood, shortening staffs to the right length. The strips of cloth wrapped the leg from hip to ankle. Avery bound it so tightly that it could not shift. She crisscrossed the strips and tied off the tails, then stood to look at her work. Something about the cave prevented her touching the healing she was capable of. It was like there was a blanket over the cave, isolating it from the natural world around them, smothering her connection with the natural world from which she drew her power.
Rising to her feet, Avery walked to the entrance of the cave and peered out into the rift, to see who might be around. The passageway was empty. Silently, she moved along the path, listening for any indication that a guard remained, slowly edging her way to the opening of the bowl. A contingent of Flesh Clan warriors with their backs to her stood guard at the gap in the rock. Quietly, she withdrew, then spun around and ran back down the rift to Achak. She was about halfway back to the cave when suddenly the runes on her skin flared hot, and she cried out as the power of the temple surged within her skin. She lurched to a halt when with a flash of energy that made sparkling motes of light dance in her vision Marea appeared, swaying on the back of her horse. Marea gasped with shock at the sight of Avery, then slipped sideways and fell from her saddle, slumping onto the ground. Avery shuddered, rubbing her hands over the prickling tattoos to soothe her skin, then ran over to Marea and knelt beside her. She placed her hand on the woman’s fevered brow. She was abnormally pale-faced, anemic with blood loss. Avery ran her hand over Marea’s forehead and murmured under her breath.
Marea’s eyes fluttered open. When she saw Avery, she reached up with her bloodied right hand and grasped the front of her tunic. “I beg your forgiveness, Mother! I have betrayed you! I was jealous. I wanted to hold onto power when I was only a caretaker. I realize that now. I prayed to the gods to save me, and they brought me to you.” She sobbed. “Forgive me. You are the true High Priestess. Forgive me!”
“Shh, hush now,” said Avery, prying Marea’s stiff fingers off her tunic. “Shh. We are one people. Unity is what is needed. The past is done. I need your help to unite the people. Now lie still, and tell me what has happened.”
“Sharisha is dead! We were attacked by a legion squad, and she died defending me. He shot her with an arrow.” Her lips trembled. “I do not know how many have survived. Perhaps they are all dead but if not, Mother, they are coming this way!” The blood from the cut on her arm dripped onto Avery’s lap as she helped Marea to a sitting position.
Avery grimaced. She had not trusted Sharisha, but she had not wished her harm. She had taken care of her in her own way. “Let me try to heal you. Here, lie still.” She placed her hands over the wound and closed her eyes. She sensed the jagged edges of the cut where the flesh was torn and reached out with her mind to pull the raw ends together. Then with a flash of her own soul, she knit the flesh back together. Without conscious thought, she willed it to be whole. The skin wriggled and stretched, and then it was still. Other than the dried blood, not a hint of the wound remained.
Avery opened her eyes and sighed, tired from her struggles with the Charun and the exertion of healing the deep wound. Marea stared at the arm, a bemused but sad twist to her lips. “Sharisha was the most powerful with healing, but she could not hold a candle to you, Mother. Thank you.”
Avery stood and pulled the older woman to her feet. She led the way back to the cave. Marea ducked under the threshold and gazed around with reverence. “No one has entered the Sacred Caves except for the guardians in eons. I’ve never been in the caves. The war with the Flesh Clans prevented any such thing.” She wandered around the cave, a childish wonderment on her face. “I do not know what these objects do. Do you, Mother?”
“Yes,” said Avery simply. “These objects of magic were placed here by my sister or sisters, a long time ago.” Her eyes flashed. For a moment, an ancient knowing entered her gaze, as though she looked at the objects through a different pair of eyes. Marea dipped her head and did not inquire further.
“We are trapped here at present, Marea. There is a Flesh Clan contingent at the end of the passage.” She gestured toward the bowl. “We need a distraction to draw them away from here. Do you think you could do this? It will be very dangerous. You have the advantage of them not knowing you are here. They will be surprised to see you exit this sacred place, when they did not see you enter.” She reached into her tunic and pulled out the vial that Aossi had given her. “Perhaps this will help. It will hide you from your enemies. You must lead them away from the valley. Do not return for me. There is something I must attend to in here.”
“What of Achak?” Marea wandered over to look at the injured man.
“He is needed here. I will heal him in time.”
Marea nodded. “Then let me depart. I will create an illusion, a trick of the mind. They will follow me, thinking it is you.”
“Go with my blessing, Marea, and thank you.”
Marea lifted Avery’s hand and kissed the back of it and then left the cave.
***
Marea exited the cleft of the rock and did not bother to disguise herself. The Flesh Clan warriors, on seeing her, quickly surrounded her and ordered her to halt. Marea reined in, and with an imperious tone commanded, “Take me to Hototo, now.”
The warriors exchanged looks over their drawn swords. Clearly, they did not expect to be commanded, nor did they believe that Hototo wished to speak to a Spirit Clan priest. They made no move to lead her to her requested destination.
Marea sat on her horse like a queen, regally surveying the men as though they were her escort, part of her entourage. “Better yet, take me to whom Hototo serves. I would speak to his master.”
A tall red-bearded man stepped forward, motioning toward the grey stones at the far end of the valley. “Follow me.” He took the lead and Marea urged her horse into a quick walk, following Red Beard, the balance of warriors trotting at her side, easily keeping up to the pace of her mount. Her thoughts drifted back to the cave, and she glanced down at her blood-stained tunic. A flash of sorrow for the loss of her seeker—for the loss of her loyal companion, Sharisha, drifted across her thoughts—but then her will hardened.
You are far too trusting, Avery. I will not bow to you so easily. You know nothing of the politics of this world or who serves whom. You will kneel to me in time, as a chained and controlled servant of the temple. Spirit Shields should not be allowed control of world events. They are servants of the people, not rulers...not even one descended from the gods.
As she rode, her hand slipped inside her pocket, and she pulled out the vial given to her by Avery. With a derisive snort, she tossed it away onto the grass of the meadow. It tumbled and rolled and then made a clunk sound as it hit the base of one of the tall upright stones in the grass.
Chapter 36
Genii’s Vision
GENII BENT OVER THE STONE SCRYING POOL, the waters dancing with internal light that bounced and shimmered off the stone walls and ceiling of the windowless room. He was watching a battle between the Charun, sent to restrain two intruders within the Crystal Cave, a woman and her companion. They struggled in the grip of the Charun, the woman familiar to him somehow. But it was the runes that covered her head and neck and the exposed portions of her arms that intrigued him. They were runes of power, runes of healing, runes of time and distance. Runes of nature and balance. He had never seen so many runes in one place, let alone on a person.
The man seemed to ripple and then a phoenix rose into the air, a spirit guardian of such rarity that it took Genii by surprise. Those creatures born of flame were usually associated with his mistress. To see one attuned to a mortal was highly unusual. Times were changing; Genii felt it in the air.
The phoenix attacked the Charun with blue-bladed talons of spirit. Spirit was the soft underbelly of the Charun, their one vulnerability. Being created from the souls of the dead, they could only be slain by another soul. The phoenix is a worthy opponent, and my mistress would be pleased to hear of this. But he did not call her. Instead, he wiped away the scene and returned to the image he had been watching earlier. He had not been sent to spy on the cave, but he had been curious where the Charun were being sent, seeing as everyone had been recalled and tasked to the creation of a lava idol. With the solstice only a day away, there was no time to lose and to spare even two of the Charun was startling.
The surface of the scrying pool calmed and reflected the image of Artio, riding at the head of a column of men and women, clad in Flesh Clan warrior garments. A covey of priests flocked around her, keeping a respectful distance from her side. Genii leaned in to better study her features. They had softened since the last time he’d seen her, some of the wildness of the bear fading into a hearty, healthy young female, but more muscular and shapelier than the Artio that stirred in his vague and scattered memories.
Straight-backed and fierce, she led her servants through a hilly terrain that resembled the early reaches of the sacred slopes. By nightfall, they would be nearing his mistress’s realm. He felt a stirring in his chest that he associated with the human condition called fear and another that he associated with…love. He disliked the feelings intensely, yet he knew it was not for himself that he feared. Artio’s return would not be greeted with warmth. He knew his mistress intended to slay the bear goddess once and for all. His fear thumped in his chest, gripping his imaginary heart in a tight fist. He could not let that happen. Artio must not be harmed. And yet, she walked into a trap. She did not know of his mistress’s plans. But how could he warn Artio? He couldn’t leave the caves. Frustration overwhelmed him. Angry at himself, Genii snarled at the image in the pool. At one point, Artio’s head swiveled. For a moment, he thought that she saw him, that she was staring straight into his eyes…but then she looked away, expression unchanged.
His hand slapped the surface of the scrying pool, and the image transformed once again. This time his mistress came into view. Helga sat astride a midnight-black horse at the edge of the legion encampment, hidden by the deep shade of the tall pines. Face hidden in a matching-coloured cloak, she was indistinguishable from her mount. For one moment, she was barely visible, but then the illusion faded as black curls of smoke obscured her. She vanished, only to reappear without her horse inside a large tent. Fine furnishings decorated the tent, and a tall straight-backed chair with cushions sat on a raised dais. She stood frozen for a minute, observing the room, and then glided forward on feet that did not touch the ground to hover over a figure lying prone on the floor. Dressed in grey robes and laced boots, the man sported a long white beard. Blood trickled out of his nose and stained the rare and expensive carpet beneath him.
Helga lifted her imaginary skirts and walked around the wizard, examining him, then she paused and straightened, hearing activity in a curtained-off room of the tent. She smiled maliciously, then took her boot and roughly rolled the unconscious wizard over. A small bag with a drawstring tumbled out of his robes. She bent down and picked it up, loosening the fastenings to peer inside. A sto
ne and a crystal were the only objects in the small bag. She pocketed them for later inspection.
On the ornate chair, she spied one of the items she had come for. She plucked the straw doll from the cushions where it had been tossed, and it followed the bag of stones into a deep inside pocket of her cloak.
Helga silently approached the partition of canvas that drifted softly in the air currents of the tent interior, and paused just outside the room. Inside, bodies writhed and danced in the age-old pagan ritual, entwined and absorbed and oblivious to the outside world.
Helga raised her hands and summoned a wicked obsidian knife, the blade twisted and razor-sharp, the glass formed of the very fires that fed the furnace under Genii’s feet. Helga paused for a moment longer, listening for the guards, and then entered the room. She was still wreathed in shadows.
When she paused by the bed, a woman ceased her activities and cried out in shock, “Great Mistress!” She scrambled to separate herself from the man, but before she could move, the blade flashed and buried itself between Alcina’s breasts. Alcina’s face froze in shock, and then she crumpled sideways on top of the man. The man caught her, but before he could do anything further, before he could utter a sound, the blade slashed across his own throat. With a great gushing, Darius gurgled his last, his eyes rolling back into his head.
Helga stepped back to avoid the blood now flowing freely onto the feathered mattress and then wiped the blade off on the coverings pushed to the end of the bed. Once all blood was removed, she began to search the room.
She spied the other doll, her brother’s doll, sitting on a table beside the bed, underneath a discarded garment. With a pleased chuckle, Helga picked it up and pocketed it, then left the room without a backward glance.
When she reached the wizard, the knife vanished, and she reached down to touch his shoulder. He became wreathed in the same smoke and both vanished, only to reappear on the back of her horse in the entrance to her abode.