When they emerged from the fiery inferno, Quimonmen opened his eyes to a sight that made him gasp in amazement. A huge, magnificent tower of light rose in mid-air. In front of the tower was a courtyard filled with dead bodies from different worlds. There were species the little Faery King had not even known existed. Enormous vultures of light, similar to the ones Quimonmen had just seen, patrolled the grounds. In contrast to the vultures in the previous world, these birds were silent. The air was hushed and reverent. There was no odour of putrefaction from the great piles of dead bodies, as the birds took it in turns to pull flesh from the heap of corpses. On high trestle tables raised up above the dead, lay rows of women, knees open, giving birth. In their hands they each clutched a vulture feather.
Quimonmen looked at Medea, a question in his eyes, but she motioned him to be silent. Her warning was not necessary. The Wezom King knew instinctively not to break the silence of the sacred place. The Towers of Silence had been mentioned briefly in some of the older Winski songs, but he had taken it to be a place of myth. This was rumoured to be the highest plane the vultures could reach, and it was said that from the towers had first come what was later to be known as angels, before the angels had crossed to the Heztarra Galaxy.
He stood, mouth wide open, forgetting to be afraid as he gazed at this world of mist and silence. Two vultures approached and stood in front of Medea and Joshua, dipping their long necks to them. Medea and Joshua bowed deeply, while Quimonmen found himself prostrating to the ground, hoping his army would never find out that he had submitted before a vulture. A long silence followed as the two birds studied the group, walking around them and sniffing them. When they finally stopped, another bird came over with a large bone and feather in his beak. Quimonmen looked on with interest as Medea took the bone and feather from him. It perplexed the Wezom King that everyone else seemed to know what was happening. Medea bowed deeply again, and then she and Joshua walked off to the serpent chariot, indicating Quimonmen should follow.
Once the three of them were inside the chariot Medea took the reins off the serpents. Three vultures from the Tower of Silence positioned themselves in front of the chariot, then flew high into the mist. The serpents followed.
Higher and higher they flew into the air, until Quimonmen’s head felt as if it would burst. He found it difficult to breathe and began clutching the seat and panting. To his surprise, he felt Joshua’s wing stroking his back and instantly, his respiratory distress ceased. Higher and still higher, now they were so high their breath hung in the air and even Medea was shivering, gooseflesh on her arms. Before them appeared a tranquil lake, with a small island in the centre of the water. The waters of the lake were pink and blue, and the countryside around the lake seemed only half formed. Aside from ghostly images of trees and shrubs there was also a wet quality to the scenery, and Quimonmen found when he focused on one thing for any length of time, it vanished before his eyes.
Joy filled his body as he gazed upon the lake. Warmth spread from his toes to his head and he felt euphoric. I must be in Paradise, he thought to himself as he gazed upon the bleak scene. He longed to spend the rest of his days on that simple little island in the midst of that pink and blue lake.
The chariot thudded to the ground and the three disembarked. The air seemed to shimmer and sparkle around them. A strange melodious singing rang out. Quimonmen had never heard such a sweet, sad sound in his life.
‘Oh most beautiful of fabulous creatures!’ Medea called, and both Joshua and she prostrated themselves on the ground. It took Quimonmen a moment to register what he was looking at. He had been so absorbed in enjoying the delicious sensations the lake and the island gave him, he hadn’t noticed what was actually in front of him. It was a bird, covered in shining feathers of red and gold, seated on top of a pile it had made of sticks, stones and cinnamon. A small lick of fire was beginning to heat up the pyre and the phoenix sang sweetly as it stared the three visitors in the eye.
‘Think of life. Think of life!’ Medea yelled to Quimonmen who was standing there with his mouth hanging open. He could not believe the phoenix — for centuries held to be a great symbol of hope, and the continuity of life — was directly in front of him on its death pyre. The bird was so much more beautiful than he could ever have visualised and so much smaller! It hardly seemed possible a tiny bird, living on such an isolated island could have inspired so many myths, songs and quests.
The smoke was beginning to rise, and the Wezom King swayed on his feet as the sweet death song of the phoenix began to intensify in meaning. Death no longer frightened the little king. Even the thought of pain, that great friend of death that often accompanied Hecate, failed to concern him. His eyes were half closed, thinking how nice it would be to go to sleep. His chubby sweaty little body suddenly seemed too tight for him. He longed to shrug it off. The eyes of the phoenix blazed into his, branding him with a silent message as it continued to sing.
He felt a sharp pain in his shoulder and he jumped. Joshua had bitten him with his beak. Life! Life! Think Life! The urgent command came into his mind. There was a part of the Wezom King’s mind that remembered the reason for the instruction. Many creatures who had witnessed the glory of the holy phoenix were so overcome by its beauty and sadness, they had fallen dead in sympathetic tribute. But the part of Quimonmen that normally cared very much about life, no longer seemed to exist. He ached for the bird as he saw with horror the flames begin to lick at its glistening, perfect body.
The song of the phoenix rose in a magnificent crescendo as the flames rose higher around its body. It seemed inconceivable a creature of such beauty could be destroyed so easily, so quickly by the fire. The smell of burning flesh, of agony of singed feathers reached them. One last final note of song and the phoenix was gone.
When the flames died down, all that remained was a charred black body. One moment, two, five, then a note of triumph sounded from the charcoal body. Two gleaming, red and gold wings shot out from the burnt carcass and then a new perfect phoenix emerged from the blackened shell of the previous bird. It shook its body out, gave the three spectators an enigmatic glare, and then hopped along the pyre to begin another beautiful song. Quimonmen cheered, punched the air, and beat his chest in an unbridled demonstration of admiration for the rebirth of the fabled bird.
Medea, however, wasted no time in rushing over to the pyre. With her bare hands she raked through the scorching ashes, gathering what remained of the previous bird and scooped as many ashes as she could into a large mojo bag dangling from around her waist.
Their flight back to the Towers of Silence seemed briefer than the journey out. The three communicated little, lost in their separate thoughts and in the pleasant melancholy that witnessing the rebirth of the phoenix had inspired. When the serpent chariot landed and Joshua alighted, Quimonmen, forgetting his earlier fear of the vulture, was sad to see him leave. He had shared a sacred moment with the enigmatic bird and it formed a link between them. The Wezom King wondered if he would ever have the appropriate vocabulary to express to the Wezom tribe how magnificent the phoenix had been. No Faery song or poem had ever managed to capture it, he realised. Joshua, however, did not seem to share these sentiments. He shook off his feathers and rejoined his feathered cronies without a backward glance of farewell. Quimonmen waved goodbye to him nevertheless, and in no time the bird was lost in the crowd of hushed vultures.
It was only when they were safely in the air away from the Towers of Silence that Quimonmen dared to ask the question that had been worrying him. Why was it Joshua had not died instantly in sympathy upon witnessing the phoenix’s death? Didn’t the old writings claim this fate befell all animals who saw the phoenix die?
Medea smiled. ‘You have no idea where you have been or who Joshua is, do you?’ she said. ‘Did you not realise, fat little kitten, that Joshua died a long, long time ago? His body is well beyond death.’
Quimonmen nodded, not minding the goddess calling him a fat kitten this time. He suddenly fe
lt very sleepy, very self-important, and very excited about his adventures and the fact he now possessed the magical phoenix ashes that could resurrect Diomonna. He snoozed briefly, snoring softly as the snake chariot glided through the sky.
When he was jolted out of his slumber by the chariot landing, Quimonmen opened his eyes in confusion. It took him a second for him to get his bearings. He was in Eronth, but he was outside Faia. Why had Medea not returned him to the Hollow Hills? He had wished to arrive in style, making a grand entrance, giving a royal wave from the serpent chariot, like a great hero returning home from a mythical quest.
Medea read his thoughts. ‘One errand to perform for me, king of kittens, before you get to kiss your corpse awake.’ Quimonmen didn’t like the sound of having to perform a favour for this unpredictable goddess. He was hungry and wanted his dinner. He pricked up his ears.
‘Shellhome is just across that pathway.’ She pointed to a makeshift path that led over a grassy bank. ‘I want you to deliver the feather and bone to Khartyn the Crone. Tell her to meditate upon the meaning of them, and that they are a gift from Medea. Come now, little kitten!’ she chided, seeing his face fall. ‘For everything given by the gods, a price is demanded. Your queen can rest a little longer in the Underworld while you deliver these.’ She handed him the bone and feather, which seemed heavy to the Wezom King.
‘No throwing them away now,’ warned Medea. ‘I am all-seeing, and my wrath is mighty. You do not wish to challenge me.’
Quimonmen didn’t. He looked into her wild, beautiful face and wondered at his stupidity in trusting a goddess.
Medea leant forward unexpectedly, making him jump as she kissed him on the lips. ‘Be careful when you rouse the sleep of the dead,’ she said. ‘They do not always delight in having their dreams disturbed.’
The Wezom King looked around nervously as he waited for Khartyn. He had never been inside Shellhome before and he was disappointed to observe the reception hall did not match up to the glowing descriptions he had been given in the past. The hall failed to interest him with its fountains and watercolour paintings. There was not one severed head to be sighted to liven the decor. He had heard of vast queues of beings from all the known worlds waiting patiently in grand staterooms to consult with Mary, the High Priestess of Faia.
Quimonmen could not restrain himself from chuckling over the fate of the Bluite High Priestess. There was very little love between the Faery tribes and Mary. She despised the Faeries for their bloodthirsty hunting games, and they in turn loathed her for trying to ban their ancient customs. Quimonmen’s only disappointment was the villagers had burnt her; he would have liked to have souvenired her head for his trophy wall.
He was standing, eyes half closed, enjoying the pleasurable fantasy of the High Priestess’s head on his wall and the acclaim such a prize would bring him, when he became aware of a piercing, disapproving glare. He opened his eyes to see the black-clothed figure of Khartyn the Crone watching him. He sniffed the air, seeking for a sign of danger, but the Crone made no move towards him, continuing to observe him coldly. Behind her at the doorway, two men watched with a hand upon the swords around their waists.
The Wezom King wondered if he had walked into a trap. They were two of the Circle of Nine, he could smell their energy. Adrenaline swept through his body, urging him to flee, but the thought of Medea’s feral eyes and the consequences of what would happen if he disobeyed her orders forced him to hold his ground. He dipped his wings and beat his chest in a mark of respect.
‘Merry Meet, Crone, most loved among Wezom Faeries,’ he began in a quavering voice. The milky-white eyes of the Crone never wavered for a moment in their intensity.
‘What does a Wezom Faery want of the Crone?’ she asked in a haughty, silvery voice that sent shivers down Quimonmen’s spine.
‘Not a Faery, Great Crone, but King of the Wezoms,’ Quimonmen said quickly.
She shrugged and pursed her lips impatiently. ‘Does the King have a point to his visit?’ she enquired, ice splintering from her tongue.
Quimonmen paused, disconcerted by her hostile tone. He had not expected this chilling reception from Khartyn, who was known for her kindness, strength and fairness when dealing with all the inhabitants of Eronth. Unsure of how to proceed, he pushed the feather and vulture bone towards her. His wings fluttered slightly as she held out her gnarled hands for them and examined them closely.
‘Where did the King of the Wezoms come by these?’ the Crone said, turning them over in her hands and up to the light to examine them closer. ‘Is the head of the vulture upon your wall now?’
Quimonmen beat his chest and noticed the two guards at the door made a move to draw their swords. ‘Medea!’ he gasped out, convinced he was about to suffer a heart attack through fear. ‘Medea sent them to you and said you would know what to do with them!’ Panicking that she was about to decide she wanted his head as a trophy, the Wezom King vanished.
‘Are you all right. Crone?’ Steppm called, moving forward from the doorway. ‘What did the Wezom King want with you?’
‘What was it that he passed to you?’ Edwen asked, coming forward to inspect what Khartyn held in her hand. ‘You must be wary with Faery folk, they can enchant objects and we know the Wezom have been spotted with the Sea Hags.’
‘Wezom and Imomm’s only true allegiance is to themselves,’ Khartyn said. She attempted to disguise the feather and bone from Edwen’s eyes, but he spotted them.
‘A vulture bone and feather? So you . . .’
The Crone smiled, running her hands along the bone. ‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘It is time for me to act. The Dreamers have spoken.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
From Words comes knowledge
Knowledge creates eternity
Death is impossible
— ERONTH QUOTE
‘I forbid it!’ Bwani pounded the table again in the receiving lounge where Edwen had summoned him. Khartyn raised an eyebrow at him and he ran his hands through his hair. ‘I am sorry, Old One,’ he said. ‘Truly I mean no disrespect, but I am concerned for you.’
‘Your concern is touching, but misdirected!’ Khartyn snapped. ‘A law much greater than yours has decreed I do what I must and your tongue must be still!’
Bwani glanced around the small, pastel-coloured room where the wizards sat at the table listening intently to the argument. Maya was also there; the air was thick with tension between her and Claw and they avoided each others’ eyes. ‘You are a fool if you trust Faery folk,’ he said.
‘Am I to trust the Circle of Nine?’ Khartyn said. ‘You were not turned to stone for naught. The Wezom King was just the messenger. Do not confuse him with the message.’
‘You will not face the Lightcaster on your own!’ Bwani yelled, Maya put her hand on his arm, trying to soothe him. ‘Do you think I will sit back and watch you throw away your life so carelessly, Old One?’
Khartyn drew herself up so she was standing over Bwani. ‘You tend to your own garden,’ she said softly. ‘I will face him because I must. It is me he is after.’
‘Do you think sacrificing yourself to him will bring Rosedark back?’ Claw spoke from the end of the table.
For a horrible moment Maya thought the Crone was going to cry. Her mouth twitched nervously and her face creased up. Her voice was softer when she spoke again. ‘It is no sacrifice, young Claw, for I have the feather and bone from the vulture spirits.’
‘Untested superstition!’ Edwen protested. ‘Old Mother, we beg you to consider the consequences of your actions. You are needed here. If the Lightcaster kills you we are left even more defenceless against the darkness that sweeps Eronth.’
‘Edwen is right,’ Maya spoke. ‘We need all Crones at Shellhome so we can plan the best course of action to take against the Eom, the Sea Hags and the glass Faery the messenger birds keep referring to. Your duty is here, Khartyn, not putting yourself in danger by facing the Lightcaster. How do you know the Wezom King spoke truly? Faery wo
rds are not to be believed so readily! Their tongues can spin fantastical lies. I have lived among them. Old Mother, you have not . . .’
Maya was interrupted by a banging at the window. A miniature owl was hurling his body against the glass. With a cry, Khartyn moved across the floor and opened the latch on the window to the bird. She recognised him at once.
‘Horus!’ she exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here? Where is Rudrnay?’
The little owl looked exhausted. He collapsed into Khartyn’s palm and lay there hooting weakly to the Crone. ‘Quickly!’ Khartyn snapped to Edwen, sitting nearest the door. ‘Fetch him some water from the kitchen servers!’
Edwen, horrified at being asked to wait upon an owl, opened his mouth to tell Khartyn to call for a server, but one look at the Crone’s face and he meekly left the room.
Horus was a sorry sight as he lay in Khartyn’s palm. His normally glossy, perfumed feathers were wet with sweat. He was bleeding from a wound on one leg and from his ear opening. His breath came in quick panting bursts and his eyes were wild with fear.
‘Hold on, Horus!’ Khartyn said. She placed him upon the table and began sweeping her hands over his body. Flashes of green light erupted from her palms. The dandy owl was obviously in shock of some kind, and Khartyn was worried it might kill him. Her mind raced to think why an Athena owl would have flown all the way here from the Tremite Scribes’ Hall of Records. Had something happened to Rudmay?
A Fire in the Shell: Circle of Nine Trilogy 3 Page 34
