by K J Taylor
Ocax had been watching her. “Do not be afraid, Laela,” he said, as if he were reading her mind. “You are one of his children.”
Laela glanced at him. “I’m a Northerner.”
“But you do not have Northern eyes,” said Ocax. He smiled and touched her cheek. “I have never seen such eyes as yours. They are as blue as the sky. Like the eyes of Xanathus.”
“My mother was a Southerner,” said Laela.
“Then you are a child of Xanathus,” said Ocax. “Women are sacred to him; they give life, as he does.”
“But my father was a Northerner,” said Laela. “I figured since I was halfway Southern an’ halfway Northern, I could choose my own god.”
“And which god have you chosen, Laela of Tara?”
Laela hesitated. She had been going to say the Night God, but something stopped her.
“If you spoke to Xanathus, you would know which god was yours,” said Ocax.
Laela shook herself. “The gods ain’t exactly known for bein’ talkative.”
“But Xanathus can speak to you,” said Ocax. “Here, in this Temple. If you wish it.”
“How?” Oeka interrupted.
Ocax bowed to her. “There is a ritual, Sacred One,” he said. “A rite which calls Xanathus to speak. If your human would like to, she can perform it. I will help.”
“That is a matter for my human to decide,” said Oeka.
“What ‘ritual’ is this?” said Laela. “How’s it work?”
“It is simple enough,” said Ocax. “All you need do is cast a certain herb into the sacred flame. I will perform the chant, and before long, Xanathus will appear to you.”
Stuff and nonsense, thought Laela. But she couldn’t help but be curious all the same. She looked at the golden statue, and then at the priest. He had an odd, twitchy look about him and his eyes were bloodshot, but she didn’t believe that he would ever try to assassinate anyone. Vander had told her a few things about the priesthood in his home country, and nonviolence was supposedly one of their most important principles.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s do it.”
The priest smiled. “Wait for me.”
He went away through a door hidden behind the statue and returned a few moments later holding a small, woven bag. Laela stood close to the altar as he asked her to, her hand resting on Oeka’s head.
“You should stand back, Sacred One,” said Ocax. “A griffin does not need to breathe in the holy smoke.”
Oeka huffed to herself and moved away.
“Now.” Ocax gave the bag to Laela. “Take this, and cast it into the flame. Do not be afraid.”
“Right.” Laela opened the bag and peered inside. It was full of something dried and shredded-it looked vaguely like meat.
“Fungus,” said Ocax. “Gathered from the rocks in the Valley of the Wind. It has magical properties.”
Laela sniffed it and grimaced; it didn’t have a very strong smell, but for some reason it made her head spin. “So I just throw it in the bowl there?”
“Yes. The smoke will open your mind and allow Xanathus to speak to you.”
“It ain’t dangerous?”
“No.” He smiled. “I have done this many times. It was this ritual that first called me to become a priest.”
“All right then.” Laela reached over and tipped the entire contents of the bag into the flame. The dried fungus went up at once, but the oil soaked into it and made it burn slowly instead of vanishing. At once, smoke began to rise from the bowl-thick, yellowish smoke.
Ocax looked horrified. “You were only supposed to throw in a pinch!”
“Sorry-” Laela began, but in that instant the smoke hit her nostrils. It poured into her lungs, and in a heartbeat it had spread through her entire system. She turned to Ocax, asking for help, but she couldn’t tell where he was. Her head began to spin. She turned around, wide-eyed. Her head felt as if it were growing larger and larger, floating toward the ceiling. Everything around her had turned yellow, full of tiny sparks like pollen. Oeka wasn’t there any more, but that didn’t matter; Laela had forgotten all about her. She’d forgotten about Arenadd, too, and Yorath, and home. Everything fled out of her mind in an instant, and she was flying, suspended in a delicious cloud of sweet yellow fog.
She grinned; her mouth seemed to be out of her control and wanted to do nothing else.
Humming inanely to herself, she turned to see if the altar was still there. It was, and the statue was still there, too. Only now, it was moving.
Laela squinted at it. “Here, why are you movin’?” She giggled. “Are yeh bored? Want t’come out an’ get some air an’ that?” She giggled again and couldn’t make herself stop.
Very slowly, the statue straightened up. In its hands the bowl had become a ball of pure golden flame, so bright it hurt to look at.
Laela stopped giggling. She backed away. “What. .? No. . stop. . I don’t like this. .”
The statue came toward her, its golden feet clanging on the stone. The face had lost its distant smile. Now it was alive, moving and changing its expression.
Laela tried to back away further, but her feet suddenly refused to move. The light hit her face, burning straight through her eyes and into her skull. She threw up her hands, trying vainly to protect herself. “No! Stop! Stop it! Go away! Help!”
The statue halted. She could hear it breathing; deep, rumbling, metallic breaths. Laela, it said.
Laela turned her head away. She was trembling in fright. “Leave me alone.”
Laela, the voice said again. Look at me.
It was impossible to disobey. Laela raised her head and saw those blank blue eyes, staring straight at her. “No. .”
Laela, said the statue. My child. Do you know me?
“No,” said Laela. “No, I don’t know. . I don’t. .”
The statue raised a golden hand, holding it out. It was glowing with heat. Then perhaps you know them.
Laela turned, and saw a point of light in the fog-three points of light, growing brighter. The fog moved around them, gathering inward as if the lights were drawing it in. Forming shapes.
Laela saw the first of them emerge, and her entire body went cold. “You. .”
The ghostly shape of Bran smiled at her. “How’s my little girl then, eh?”
Laela reached out to him. “But you’re. .”
“. . with Gryphus now,” he said. “Laela. .”
She looked at the fog beside him and saw another shape. A woman’s shape. And on his other side, a man. The woman had long hair and a kind face, but there was no smile on it. Something had left a deep and terrible slash in her throat, and blood had soaked into the front of her gown.
The man who was with Bran looked more like a boy to Laela, but that was probably because of his eyes-they were round and bright blue, like a child’s. His hair was blond and tousled, and his face peppered with freckles. But he, too, had a ghastly wound on his throat, and his face was as pale as death.
Bran came closer, reaching out with a pale but still big hand. “Laela,” he said. “These two wanted t’come see yeh.”
Laela cringed at the sight of them. “Why?”
Bran put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “This is your mother, Laela.”
The woman smiled sadly. “Laela. My little Laela. How you’ve grown.”
Laela stared at her, more frightened than anything else. “Mother. .?”
“Yes,” said the woman.
“I never knew yer name,” Laela mumbled.
“Flell,” said the woman. “I am Flell. Flell of Eagleholm. Lady Flell.”
“Lady?” Laela blinked. “Dad, yeh never said she was a. .”
“I was a griffiner,” said Flell. “At Eagleholm. Like my parents.”
Laela looked at Bran. “Why didn’t yeh tell me, Dad? Why. .?”
“It was too painful t’talk about,” said Bran. “I didn’t think. . didn’t see how it would help yeh t’know it.”
“Laela,�
� said Flell. She moved away from Bran and came closer, her feet making no sound on the floor. “Laela.” Her hand reached out. It was soaked in blood. “Laela, my sweet daughter. .”
Laela wanted to get away from her. “Why are yeh here, Mother? What d’yeh want?”
“I want to know why,” Flell whispered.
“Why what?”
“Why you’re here,” said Bran.
“Why you’re worshipping the Night God,” said Flell.
“Why you’re with him,” said the boy.
“Arenadd is my King,” Laela told them boldly. “An’ he’s my friend.”
“Laela,” said Bran. “He murdered your mother.”
Laela faltered. “What. .?”
Flell put a hand to her throat. “He killed me in Malvern,” she said softly. “As I tried to defend your cradle from him.”
“No,” said Laela. “Stop it.”
The boy shoved his way forward. “Don’t you understand?” he sneered. “The man you’re living with killed your entire family. Your mother. Your grandparents. Your uncle.” His expression twisted. “I’m your uncle, ashamed to admit it though I am.” He touched his throat and added, half to himself, “He killed me in the Sun Temple.”
Laela stared at him. “Who are yeh?”
He drew himself up. “I am Lord Erian Rannagonson.”
“Erian. .?” Laela laughed weakly. “This is stupid. I ain’t got no uncle, an’ certainly not Erian Rannagonson.”
“You miserable little traitor,” Erian snarled. He turned on Flell, pointing accusingly at her face. “I told you! I told you when I first saw the squealing little brat in your arms. Told you to smother it before it grew up. But you didn’t listen, and now it’s grown up into the Dark Lord’s lap-dog. A shame on our entire noble line!” He put his hands to his throat, squeezing until blood oozed over his fingers. “By Gryphus, I’m glad I died rather than see our father’s blood defiled by being mixed with that filth.” And he spat.
Each word felt like a stab to the heart. For a moment, all Laela could do was gape in horror, but the Northern ferocity that had come from her father rose up inside her, and she went hot with rage. “Now look here!” she yelled. “I never got no say in who my dad was, any more’n you did.” She sneered. “An’ them’s fine words comin’ from a bastard anyway, Erian.”
Bran and Flell laughed uproariously at that. Erian gaped, and then scowled and turned away with a curse.
Flell became serious. “Laela,” she said. “There’s no shame in your heritage. I loved your father with all my heart, and I believe that he loved me. But listen to me now. We were allowed to come back to speak with you so that we could warn you.”
“You’re in danger, Laela,” said Bran. “Terrible danger.”
“What d’yeh mean?” said Laela. “What danger? Oeka can protect me if anythin’. .”
Flell touched her shoulder, but she couldn’t feel it. “Don’t you understand? You, Laela, are the last of the line of Baragher the Blessed. The only descendant of Lord Rannagon, who the Dark Lord killed in Eagleholm. His mistress commanded him to destroy all his surviving relatives-and that included you.”
“After Rannagon, he killed his son, Erian,” said Bran. “Then his daughter. An’ her daughter. .”
“Me?” said Laela. “He was meant to kill me? But he didn’t. .”
“No.” Bran looked away. “Not you. I saved yeh. Carried yeh away from Malvern before he could finish it.”
“You’ve got to get away from him, Laela,” said Flell. “Run away. Never let him find you! If he ever realises who you really are, he won’t rest until he’s killed you.”
Laela’s fists clenched. “No,” she said. “I won’t.”
They stopped at that. “Laela, he’ll do it,” said Bran. “Yeh don’t know him like we do. Yeh haven’t seen what he can do.”
“I have,” said Laela. “I’ve seen it.”
“Then get away!” said Flell. “For gods’ sakes, save yourself!”
“No,” said Laela. “I don’t believe it. He wouldn’t hurt me. Never. Not for anythin’. I know it.”
Erian returned. “You don’t know anything, half-breed. He’s a murderer.”
“He’s-”
My child. Listen. Gryphus’ voice rose above them all, deep and powerful. Light glowed all around, and the statue appeared again, standing with the three ghosts. You do not understand, he said. You see the world with Southern eyes. Your nature is of the day. You are the Risen Sun, the last survivor of the sacred blood. My grace is on you, as it is on all your family. You alone can stop him.
From somewhere far, far away, a voice came drifting. “. . Laela. .?”
“I don’t want t’stop him,” said Laela. “All he wants t’do is protect his people.”
The Shadow That Walks must be punished! said Gryphus. He must perish for his crimes, before his mistress uses him again!
The distant voice came again, calling plaintively. “Laela. .?”
Erian turned to look out at the temple interior, now beginning to show through the fog. “You’re wasting your time, Master,” he said. “She’s her father’s daughter.”
“Laela. .?” The voice sounded louder now, calling out. A living voice.
Laela looked at the ghosts and realised they were beginning to fade. “What about my father?”
Your father is dead, said Gryphus. A cruel death, at the end of a cruel life.
“Laela. .?”
The vision was disappearing; the fog thinned, and Gryphus’ light dimmed.
Flell was crying. “He’ll kill you. He’ll kill you if you don’t get away.”
Laela! Gryphus came close, urgent now. You must not listen to the Night God’s lies. If you do not accept your destiny, your soul will be cast into darkness forever. You must believe this! The Dark Lord has no heart; he cannot love, he cannot feel. He does not care for you, and he will destroy you.
Laela opened her mouth to shout at him, to tell him to leave her alone, but in that moment, as he began to vanish at last, she looked past him and saw the dark, gaunt shape, slowly and painfully lurching toward her. Calling her name. “Laela. . Laela. .”
She looked into the eyes of Gryphus again, and said, “He came for me. He came into your Temple, just for me. Even though it hurts him. He cares.”
Gryphus looked solemnly at her, and vanished. Beside him, Flell disappeared, too, and Bran faded. Only Erian was left; a vague shape in the air, outlined in fog.
Laela saw Arenadd clearly now. He walked like an old, old man, shaking in every limb. His breath sounded like a death rattle.
She reached out to him with the beginning of a smile, and started to speak, to tell him she was safe, that she was going to take him out of this place and get him home, where he could rest, and she would look after him. .
Erian had seen him, too. “You son of a bitch,” he breathed. “Come back to look for me, have you?” He charged, fading with every step, his war-cry a distant howl of wind. He raised the vague outline of a sword, and stabbed it into Arenadd’s chest.
Arenadd jerked suddenly, lurching backward as if a real sword had struck him. Laela saw him put his hands to his chest.
There was blood on his fingers.
Laela ran toward him. “ARENADD!”
The floor jerked under her and turned sideways to hit her in the head, and the world slid out of her grasp.
25
Half-Breed in Charge
Laela opened her eyes, and groaned. The first thing she noticed was the heat; her entire body felt as if it was in an oven. She was in bed, and the sheets were stuck to her with sweat. The instant she moved, sickening pain slammed through her head. The pain rose with every heartbeat, as if each thud were driving a spike into her forehead. Her vision flashed red.
She rolled onto her back, and the effort of doing just that nearly paralysed her. She lay there, gritting her teeth as the pain spread through her body. Her stomach felt as if it were on fire, and her lungs burne
d with every breath.
Oh, gods, she thought. I’m dying.
A few moments later, a harassed-looking Amorani woman appeared. She said nothing and helped Laela drink some water. The water felt like a blessed gift from the gods themselves; Laela gulped it down and sighed as it cooled her down from the inside out.
When the cup was empty, she managed to rasp out a few questions, but the woman only glanced briefly at her and said nothing. Most likely she didn’t speak Cymrian, and Laela was too confused to try griffish. She accepted another cup of water and watched resignedly as the woman left.
The water had helped her to wake up, though, and she lay still and tried to think. The memory of what had happened in the Temple came back slowly, but it felt confused and unreal.
Laela put a hand to her forehead. It was slick with hot sweat. Maybe she’d been sick. A fever. She’d had fevers in the past, and they always made her have strange dreams.
But I did go to the Temple, though, she thought. That was the last clear memory she had. She didn’t remember getting sick at all.
Something had happened in the Temple. There’d been someone else there. . She’d talked to them. . A priest? And he’d. . done something. .
The pain rose sharply in her head, and she hastily shut her eyes and stopped thinking.
When the pain had faded again, she opened her eyes and yelled.
Oeka hissed in alarm and moved away from the bed. “Laela! What is wrong?”
Laela sat up. “Openin’ my eyes an’ finding a huge beak shoved in my face didn’t do my heart no favours,” she mumbled. “What’s goin’ on?”
“You are in the. . place where the Amoranis bring the sick and wounded,” said Oeka.
Laela lay down again, very carefully. “Did get sick, then.”
“You were very bad,” said Oeka. “They were afraid you would not recover.”
“Had the weirdest dreams,” said Laela. The pain in her head was fading now.
Oeka cocked her head. “I am not surprised. The fungus the priest burned is a very powerful drug, and you took many times the safe amount.” She paused. “Many who burn as much as you did go insane and do not recover.”
