JOURNEY OF THE SACRED KING III

by JANRAE FRANK

  "I cannot think of anything more that I can possibly do for your Twice-Born Son. Perhaps if I had a sample of the venom itself I could make an antidote."

  "I will send my swan-mays to catch one of the creatures and bring you its severed hands. The venom is in its fingers."

  "But even if I had an antidote, his life force is halved with the link broken. Dynanna refuses to let us bring her to him. She thinks he is dead and we are trying to trick her into coming to his sepulcher to claim his half of their shared soul that might be trapped there with his ghost. She escapes from us and runs away."

  "As it would be, unfortunately." Willodarus' eyes hooded, brooding. The rite by which Dynarien had been slain had been so dark and terrible. The god would never forget gathering all the shattered pieces that he could find and never getting them all – some had been stolen, locked in the Legacy of Waejonan. He had punished the Waejontori, but he had not punished them enough yet and they still held those pieces of his son's soul. The god shook himself loose and leaves of many colors fell about him, materializing out of the air. "Then you must find a way to bring them into physical contact."

  "I am trying, Holy One. I am very sincerely trying."

  "I know. With all that has been happening, Fusaaki, I have not even taken time to ask if your travels were successful. I know they were longer than we expected."

  Fusaaki looked up. "Hai."

  "Shall we talk about it?"

  "If it is your will, Holy One."

  "But you are reluctant?"

  "It gives me nightmares, Holy One. We were cornered, chased, trapped. We lost several gryphons."

  "But you came through and that is what mattered. How did you find the uncleansed lands?"

  "Two of the continents can be settled. The vegetation has returned. The taint has receded. Tiny species can be reintroduced. The predators there are huge, dangerous. There are also some tiny pockets of native sapients remaining, but in a twisted mutated state, horribly mutated. We managed to capture some and I examined them. I do not believe the genetic code can be repaired, even if we had lifemages to repair them."

  "I had hoped for better. You did not happen to find any of Ishla's little demon-eaters, did you? She's convinced that at least one of them must have survived the Age of Burning. They're very dangerous and she does not want one of them falling into the wrong hands. They're very impressionable when they're young."

  "No, Holy One. I found no demon-eaters."

  "Something else is bothering you?"

  "Yes, Holy One. The mage in Rowanhart. Because I was delayed he nearly died. I was only able to help him a little. Why is all this happening?"

  Willodarus sat down on one of the silver chairs. "Your faith is a wondrous thing, Fusaaki. And your loyalty even more so. However, even gods are not always good parents. We are not monogamous creatures. When we have gotten children, half the time we forget about them after a few years until they get our attention or some else reminds us or they become a favorite."

  "Like Dynarien and Dynanna."

  "Yes. Just so. We get so many things on our minds. So many demands. And those two rascals don't always think to call for help. Any way as I was saying. I have not been a good parent. The three brothers, Brandrahoon, Isranon, and Waejonan were my sons by my daughter. I did not know she was my daughter until many, many years later. As usual, I had not kept track. I suspect, knowing now that Galee escaped, that she must have completed their corruption. Had I been harder of heart and destroyed her in a decisive fashion..." Willodarus shook his head, like a dog shaking off water. "Wild creatures do not kill out of anger or hate, but only to survive. That is how I have always been. Now it is to my sorrow."

  * * * *

  "Queiggy?" Aramyn found him in his cellar, working steadily on his translation of the journal. "I've asked Mohanja to give you some time off. You look like you could use some rest."

  The yuwenghau had happily gone back to his old job as chief clerk the moment the palace was secured. He looked up, startled. "But, I don't want any. I want to do this translation."

  "That's just my point. You need a nice, pleasant place to work on that translation. Some place like Imralon."

  "But... I've never been there." Queiggy flushed, his cheeks brightening with his increasing uncertainty.

  "I know you don't Jump, but I'm certain you must know someone you can hitch a ride with."

  "It's a very long way if I took a gryphon."

  "No. You need to Jump. Gather up your translation and the book." Aramyn took a satchel from his shoulder. "Here are samples of all our attempts to make an ante-venom. Healer's notes. Dynarien's dying. Maybe something here or some information in that book can help him."

  "Dying?"

  "Galee. All ten fingers. Go. Now. No arguments."

  Queiggy lifted his backpack, which lay in a corner near the table, onto it and stuffed everything in. He did not bother with clothing, but pulled a pouch of coins from a drawer. Then he shouldered the pack and the satchel before walking out and leaving Aramyn to close up behind him.

  His head spun round and round, and he could scarcely think. People spoke as he passed, but he forgot to answer. Aramyn followed. Queiggy drew his focus together. He had not reached out to his father in centuries and was not even certain that he could do it any longer. His head sank until his chin rested on his chest. The air smelled clean and clear, all the darkness had lifted. Channadar reclined in Dragonfly's arms, wrapped up in a blanket against the autumn chill. With each passing day, Channadar appeared much improved – except for the arm, which he would never be able to use again. The Fae danced for them. They paused, watching Queiggy, but said nothing.

  "He leaves," whispered Channadar.

  "He gathers his power," Tiderider whispered back. "Feel it. Feel it gathering in waves."

  Queiggy walked into the Stalking Grounds, commanded the postern gate to reveal itself, and strode out onto the mountain. As he climbed, he began to Call. Queiggy found a sheltered spot and he Called and Shouted, extending his awareness through the sky and earth, for three days without result, calling first "Teakamon," and then "Willodarus." Finally he became a tree, giving himself over to the magic completely, and he shook his branches in rage and anger at their ignoring him when he might well have the key to saving Dynarien. For another three days he got no answer. Then he wept, his tears running down his trunk until they became a pool of amber beads.

  An iridescent sapphire hand scooped up the beads and smelled them. "Lovely. They are as sweet as your heart is kind. You are a very strange assassin. But, then you are actually a holy avenger. My husband's sons and grandsons rarely turn to Hadjys, Queig."

  "Grandsons – Mariko?" Queiggy's form swiftly shrank and shifted, his limbs dwindling to human again.

  She smiled at him with infinite gentleness. "Hai. You have something to save my son?"

  "Possibly. It's better than no chance at all." Queiggy quickly explained.

  "Better. Fusaaki can use this I think." She offered him her hand. "Work on your translation in Imralon with us, grandson of my husband."

  Queiggy put his hand in hers and they vanished.

  * * * *

  When Fusaaki returned to Dynarien's side later that day, he found Mariko and a strange yuwenghau waiting for him. "Who is this, Holy One?" he asked Mariko.

  "I have brought someone to help save my son," she replied.

  Queiggy unshouldered his satchel, handing it to Fusaaki. "The Guild was trying for an ante-venom. This is what we've produced so far. Also you'll find some vials of the original venom. I'm translating the creature's journal for more clues as to its nature."

  Fusaaki felt his energies renewed by hope as he accepted the little yuwenghau's offering. "Who do I thank?"

  "I am Queig, son of Teakamon."

  The healer clasped Queiggy's arms in thanks. "Now there is a chance for him."

  EPILOGUE

  Arruth visited Jysy that night. Jysy knew, finally, that the episodes were not true dreams.
Willodarus called them visitations. Jysy did not quite understand it, but she took his word for it.

  They sat on the beds in the suite they had shared in Creeya.

  "I have the whole west wing to myself now," Arruth told her. "No one lives here anymore."

  Jysy felt a chill run through her. When Arruth had been alive, the two sisters had been given to pranks – especially Arruth who had been quite audacious. Arruth had put the noodles down the front of Bryndel's pants while he was paying court to Talons before the betrothal. "What did you do?"

  Arruth laughed, making Jysy cringe. "I chased them out. I killed many of them." Arruth took Jysy into the outer room of their suite and showed her the bodies. "I want you to kill the children. I will haunt you until you kill the children. Bryndel's children."

  "I won't hurt them. I won't hurt Edouina!"

  The ghost chuckled. "I'll make you, and you can't stop me."

  Jysy screamed.

  Then she blinked at the bright sun – too bright and hot for autumn – piercing the east window of her room. She felt disoriented: she did not remember where she was. Tears ran down her face and she clutched at the light coverlet, sobbing. She woke a little more from the dream that was not a dream, realizing she was in her bed in the palace at Imralon. While it was chilly fall in Creeya, it was a very warm, humid spring on the far distant underside of their world where Imralon lay on the continent of Sealandia.

  Jimi reached her first, gathered her into his arms, and held her, letting her weep.

  "Arruth. It was Arruth again."

  "And who is Arruth?" Akira demanded, his tone severe as he entered the room, looking about for whatever or whoever had frightened Jysy in her bed. Her screams had awakened half the palace.

  "Her murdered sister. Her ghost anyway," Jimi said.

  When Akira left, Jimi wedged a chair under the doorknob. Then he returned, drew Jysy's nightgown over her head and began to kiss away the terrors.

  THE END

  SF/F/H FROM PAGETURNER EDITIONS

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