‘Bwani!’ She cried out his name as she came. Then she relaxed, drifting into half-sleep. Patricia would not dare to sneak into her room tonight with Diomonna in such a foul temper.
Maya drifted into a disturbed sleep, where a gentle heart beat inside a great stone, and nine powerful Wizards were transformed into rock, their faces twisting in shock and fear as their cells transmuted in front of them. Then the goddess Aphrodite, weeping and bent with sorrow, was placing body parts carefully around the Circle of Nine. She had a bowl of blood with which she blessed the stones. In the early morning, just before moonset, Maya dreamt of an immense black crystal. Tethered to its planes as it slowly rotated were two Webx Elders. A young girl with silver-blonde hair was cleaning the crystal with an owl. She looked at Maya with contempt in her eyes, continuing to brush the owl against the crystal.
‘Don’t hate me, I’m not Imomm!’ Maya cried. The girl looked at her and smiled.
‘None of us will survive this tale,’ she replied. ‘If an owl can’t clean it, what can?’
*
To her dismay, Diomonna did not enjoy the night’s festivities in the Great Hall. She had dressed grandly for the feast, rouging her nipples in gold paint, and donning an elaborate skirt of spun Maja webs. She knew she looked her best, but who was there to appreciate her beauty? No-one who mattered, she thought sourly. The hall was packed with the usual crowd: Bogies, Hags, tree shape-shifters, elementals, devas and, of course, the ever-present Winskis.
On the surface, the Faery Queen appeared her normal vivacious self. She clapped her hands in appreciation to her favoured band of fiddlers, the Divided Seven. She laughed uproariously at the antics of the Winskis and the Bogies. She cheered when the Hags showed off their skills of Glamour, transforming themselves into beautiful maidens. She was gracious to the tree shape-shifters, devas and elementals who had joined them for the feast. But deep inside herself she felt immense sadness. Even the sight of a luckless Faiaite, who had wandered too far into Faery territory, dancing wildly to his death under the hypnotic influence of the deadly caramel Imomm juia, failed to lift her spirits.
The Great Hall’s interior sparkled. The ornate chandeliers, deer antlers adorned with jewels, the glistening treacherous Maja webs and huge piles of stolen treasure set the cavernous room aglow. But Diomonna felt dulled and unhappy. Patricia watched the Queen with her understanding Bluite eyes; she had more insight into the emotional wasteland within the Faery Queen than did most others.
Later that evening, as Diomonna prepared for bed, Patricia took over the task from the Faery servers of sweeping the great wings of the Faery Queen. Aura-and wing-brushing was a strict grooming discipline to which Diomonna adhered faithfully. Now she sat, eyes closed, trying to relax, as Patricia swept her wings gently with the tiny Faery brushes.
‘What ails my Queen?’ Patricia finally summoned the nerve to ask. ‘Is there anything old Patricia can do to aid my Queen?’
Diomonna sighed. ‘Heart sad. Mind sad. Stomach grey,’ she said. Patricia nodded.
‘Is it the tall white Maya that makes the Queen’s heart sad?’ she queried, despite already knowing the answer. Diomonna shook her head. Although she had come to love the brown-haired Bluite that she had stolen, she always kept a part of her heart detached. She knew the day would come when she would use the child as a bargaining tool against the Azephim, in a bid to gain control of the Eom. That way the Imomm’s rightful power in Eronth would be restored to them.
‘I know what it be,’ Patricia said quietly. A part of her mind mocked silently; even a Queen was not immune to the destructive forces of love. Diomonna looked slowly up at her with her enormous green eyes. ‘It be the root man that brings you this malaise of spirit. You remember him on this dark night when the screams of the Tomb Goddess echo through the known worlds, mourning for her slain lover.’ Diomonna’s wings shook slightly.
‘Your brain is failing, you aged, stinking Bluite. No nasty briar memory of the tree man. Hiss, claw.’ But the pain in her eyes told Patricia a different story — the truth.
CHAPTER SIX
The unholy partnership, departing from the strands of what darkness had previously spun. Birthing madness and blood. He rejoices. A candle flares in the darkness. Shadows are given false meanings. The hands that pull the strings draw the Ghormho tighter to his own dark web . . . and the Heztarra angels weep.
— Condensed from the Tremite Hook of Life, Column IX AOC X
Deep in the Wastelands the triple moons rose high over the spiral towers of the Azephim’s castle. A grey oppressive mist had already begun to gather around the castle, bangling it like a translucent grey snake. Further out in the desert could be heard the unidentified screaming of lost souls. Or perhaps, only the wind. Vultures sat in their thousands on the castle’s towers, their razor-sharp beaks and claws ripping eagerly into the dying and dead bodies impaled on the tower spikes. From the highest point of the tallest spike fluttered the banner of the Azephim, with its easily identifiable colours of yellow and purple.
In recent times, Ishran, the Ghormho of the Azephim angels, had demanded a constant supply of fresh bodies to sacrifice to Charmonzhla, the Persecution Angoli of the Azephim, who possessed Ishran’s every thought and deed. Growling Solumbis patrolled the borders of the castle, occasionally breaking into snarling fights with each other. There were few travellers who were courageous or foolish enough to journey into the hazardous Wastelands. Bored and restless, the Solumbi often had nothing to do but turn on each other.
Inside the alcazar, in the main receiving room, a banquet was laid out. Exotic fruits, transported on the lucrative black market between worlds by willing Solumbi, were displayed in a lavish spectacle. Great golden pans of maug, spiced reindeer hide and, to keep Black Annis, the ancient cannibal Hag, happy, a whole smoked Faian child, adorned with sprigs of parsley and lemon slices. Sati, the Dark Queen of the Azephim, paused, admiring the floral decoration that adorned the wooden table. White roses scattered among dark green ivy. Fenn’s contribution to the meal, Sati guessed. The girl was blest with many talents. It was easy to forget that she was of Bluite blood. No, Bindisore, Sati corrected herself, feeling the familiar anger sweep through her body at the memory of Fenn’s natural birth mother and Sati’s Bindisore sister, Emma.
There had been no love lost between the sisters. Sati was still racked with jealousy that a milksop of a Bindisore like Emma could conceive a child, while she, feared and respected in several known worlds, who had endured every foul potion and inane incantation by every Hag in Eronth, had remained barren as an unbudded maid.
She had abducted the child, causing Emma to die of heartbreak, and had reared her in the Wastelands, changing the child’s name from Maya to Fenn, which was the middle name of the eagle who had hatched Sati and Emma. The Azephim couple had brought the child up the Azephim way, the old warrior way. At least this was what Ishran and Sati liked to tell themselves and each other. In reality, Fenn was terribly spoilt.
Sati limped to the large stained-glass windows facing onto the gardens, her footsteps from her one good leg ringing on the wooden floors. Her other leg had been pulled from her body by Artemis, in vengeance for her theft of the magic girdle the Goddess had presented to Emma. It had taken Sati many seasons to learn to walk and fly with the use of only one leg.
She still found it painful to reflect on those days. Many Crones had died in the Azephim’s lower dungeons for failing to provide her with enough pain relief and adequate magical phantom legs. The agony of the physical pain had only been surpassed by the agony of the realisation she was now disabled, lamed. One more good reason to hate her dead sister and to curse her memory.
From the pane of clear glass, she could enjoy a view of their magnificent grounds that they had spent many Turns of the Wheel working upon. With its classical statues of mythological angels, water fountains, snake houses and carefully landscaped flower gardens, it was an idyllic oasis in the twilight world of the Wastelands, where very little of b
eauty flourished. Sati snarled with displeasure when she spotted Ishran, seated on a white lattice bench, his dark wings folded around him, oblivious to the darkening sky. No doubt he was communicating with the angoli Charmonzhla, she thought scornfully. All he seemed to be interested in these days was time spent in the company of the angoli. Sati, his duties in the Wastelands, even Fenn — nothing seemed to concern him. Sati snarled softly and, with a black claw, tapped irritably on the glass to him. He ignored her summons.
‘Hail, Jurma.’
Sati started. Fenn stood behind her, hair in long silver-white braids, unearthly magical eyes filled with wariness and love. She carried a small basket of fernery and white roses. ‘Oh Jurma! You’re not ready! Are you not going to apply some Glamour?’ Sati laughed, revealing file-sharpened teeth.
‘Glamour? Why would I waste good energy for the benefit of Black Annis? Anyway, how many times do I have to tell you, Fenn — don’t call me Jurma! It’s aging to have that thought pattern settle on you. Call me Sati.’ At Fenn’s expression of disappointment, Sati relented and focused on her Glamour. She shimmered, she shone, and then she stood before Fenn totally transformed. Gone were the yellow demon eyes, the filed teeth, the black scaly skin and feathers. Gone the thick coarse body hair, the corpulent, slug-like body. Now standing in its place was a vision. Glossy black hair fell in a black sheen to her waist. Her skin was flawless and porcelain-smooth, her eyes a dazzling light green. She wore a tight-fitting velvet dress of white, which left her full bosom half-exposed. Sati laughed in delight at Fenn’s excitement at the transformation. ‘Oh, Jurma— I mean Sati! You look beautiful. So radiant! Now I can hug you.’
Sati smiled, drawing Fenn into her arms, although, irrationally, she couldn’t suppress a short stab of pain that Fenn couldn’t hug her when she was in her natural state. What would happen to their relationship when her magical skills weakened and she could no longer use Glamour as frequently as Fenn demanded? She hated the thought of being banished to the Outerezt. Inwardly, she was furious at herself for displaying any vulnerability, although she knew Fenn couldn’t help her superstitions and her prejudices — her early beginnings had been with that loathsome piss-pore Bindisore sister of hers for a Jurma. Small wonder she disliked to look at the dark side of the Azephim face!
Sati held Fenn close to her, feeling her sparrow beat and sing inside her chest. It was a never-ending source of amazement to Sati that she felt so strongly for the child she had abducted from the Blue Planet. As a rule, the Azephim disapproved of any emotion from the heart chakra. Although Sati was Bindisore by birth, she had been betrothed to Ishran for so many Turns of the Wheel she had adopted many of the Dark Angel’s customs. The Azephim had studied the worlds dominated by the heart chakra and had long ago come to the conclusion that it was folly to follow your heart. Heart disease and cancers were common among these worlds, and so the Azephim had gradually made other organs of their bodies stronger in order to weaken the control of the heart in their systems.
But Fenn, with her laughter and her animated pale little pixie face, had somehow manoeuvred her way past the barriers that Sati had spent lifetimes constructing around her heart to protect herself. Sati recognised this weakness within and knew that one day it could prove fatal. She was filled with daily shame that she could feel such a life-threatening emotion. She even tolerated Fenn’s long silver-white hair, a colour she would normally associate with the putrid Faery worlds. Ishran had originally wanted Sati to dye it black, but Sati always refused when she saw how distressed Fenn became at the suggestion. Ishran had been disgruntled over the decision, but he too had come to accept Fenn’s Faery-coloured hair.
Thinking of Ishran made her tense, and nagging worries about him returned — his recent behaviour, his mood swings.
‘Sati? Are you all right?’ Fenn gazed up at her, and then her eyes followed Sati out to the gardens where Ishran sat, his head back, laughing. The angoli was clearly visible now, half floating, next to the angel. A little girl, one of the Looz Drem, a dead child who had died suddenly, and violently, sat further back from the pair. She played with a tiny black kitten that sat in her lap. The kitten’s head lolled uselessly to one side. Sati’s hands gripped the bone lace curtain, a creeping foreboding in her veins. Charmonzhla was whispering in his ear, and Ishran was listening intently His face, so beautiful and yet so cruel, was animated, filled with light.
‘Not again!’ Fenn groaned. ‘Why does he always spend so much time listening to that stupid Charmonzhla?’
‘Hush, Fenn,’ Sati reprimanded her, although she had verbalised Sati’s thoughts exactly. ‘The angoli is powerful and vengeful, and his name is not to be taken lightly.’ Fenn hugged Sati, feeling sad for the woman she had always thought of as Jurma.
‘Did you take your flight today?’ Fenn asked in an effort to cheer her up. Sati shook her head. Perhaps that was the reason for her despondent mood, Fenn thought. Sati had not indulged in her usual daily exercise of flying over Eronth. Her main birth gift was the ability to shape-shift into bird form and take to the skies. Today, however, she had been too engrossed in her preparations for the feast and her concerns for Ishran. Her eyes slitted with suspicion when she observed him laughing, holding his hands out to the angoli. She never saw such happiness when he communed with either Fenn or herself these days.
A vision of the cord that bound Ishran and her together came to her, exploding into dust, and she shuddered. ‘Time is a whore thief,’ she whispered to Fenn. ‘Time turns us all into memory, into sweet endless night.’ Fenn nodded, her amiable face unusually serious as she watched Ishran throwing his hair back, flirting openly, laughing.
*
Dinner that evening was a dismal affair. Black Annis, the ancient cannibal Hag, had arrived promptly, descending grandly from the night skies in her black swanmobile, but she had brought an uninvited guest with her: Bambi, a Sea Hag. Sati looked on in disbelief when the Azephim angel guards presented them in the Great Hall. It was a rare sight to see a Sea Hag on land, although the Tremite Scribes had hinted there would come a time when the sea beings would walk on Eronth earth freely. Bambi was a grotesque sight out of her natural element. Her red belly glistened, and her open stomach revealed rows of sharp, neat teeth. Poisonous spines ran along her back, arms and enormous crusher claws. Her brain was split, the right side dangling under her chin, and the left sitting pertly on top of her bulbous head. Her eyes were luminous, black and cold, and her green-and-black hair hung in tendrils to her knees. She reeked of the ocean.
Fenn stared at her, open-mouthed. Ishran had not bothered to descend to welcome Black Annis, and Sati dreaded his reaction when he discovered he would be sharing his dinner table with one of the Hags of the ocean.
Black Annis preened herself proudly before Sati, enjoying the sight of the Azephim Queen’s reaction. She grinned, revealing her fetid breath and blackened fangs, still flecked with gore from her last meal.
‘May I present Ms Bambi, Sea Hag and personal chambermaid to none other than Miss Stinking Bluite Mary of Faia!’
The two collapsed into giggles. Sati managed to control her facial expression. So the rumours were true — the Sea Hags had achieved the impossible and had managed to infiltrate Faia.
‘Is it not polite to inform your hostess if there be an unexpected guest, Black Annis?’ Her voice sent an icy breeze blowing in the dusty corridors of the castle. Black frost began to lace the windowpanes.
‘Pig’s balls!’ Black Annis spat rudely at Sati. ‘The creature eats no more than a mouse, anyways, so mefinks you would welcome her with open arms. As a sister.’ The pair collapsed again into another fit of hysteria.
Black Annis spotted Fenn, who was attempting unsuccessfully to hide behind Sati. ‘Oh there she be! Old silver-hair! My, ’aven’t you grown, Miss,’ she said, leering at her chest. ‘No’ too many turns of the moons afore Ishran will be handfasting you.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Sati snapped, feeling Fenn shrink with fear beside her. �
�You talk like a babbling fool from the Outerezt. You know damn well that Azephim do not handfast like common Faian peasants!’
The hideous creature beside Black Annis said, ‘Aye, but is the one you call Fenn not of the Faery race?’
Now Sati was truly offended. She drew herself up to her full height and began to unfurl her wings, only to be interrupted by Ishran’s appearance on the black oak balcony. For a second they all paused at the effect he made, standing bathed in light. He was an impressive sight and had obviously taken great pains with his Glamour tonight. His glossy black hair hung halfway down his back. His skin was white as snow and glowed with an unearthly sheen. His lips were full, sensual and red. He was dressed in a red jacket with a black cravat and black velvet trousers. Yet, more than his outward physical appearance, it was the charge of energy that radiated out in sparks from him that drew their attention. Sati thought she had never seen him look more beautiful — and more lost. It was as if the angoli were stealing his essence, and he was becoming more Charmonzhla and less Ishran. He spread his shiny black wings out to full span.
‘Hail! Welcome to the castle of Ishran the Ghormho!’ Then he spotted Bambi and his expression altered. Swiftly, he flew from the top of the balcony to the four of them below. Black Annis moved forward as though to protect the Sea Hag, but Ishran took the creature tenderly in his arms. ‘So, the whispers were true,’ he said. ‘The Sea Hags are among us.’
Sati looked on open-mouthed. Ishran had always plainly despised the inhabitants of the mysterious world beneath the waves. It made her nauseous to see him physically draped around one. The loathsome creature was quivering, her tentacles pulsating in excitement, her black eyes gleaming. Black Annis, realising that the danger was past, rubbed her bloated belly in anticipation.
Bride of the Stone: Circle of Nine Trilogy 2 Page 5
