And Faraday and I must face him as one. Azhure finally understood. The power of the Mother and of the Stars.
Yes.
The further she rode into Aldeni, the more the wind lost its bite and the more the snowdrifts lessened. It was cold and bitter, but it was only winter, not GorgraePs calculated evil. Azhure laughed, and kicked Venator into even greater efforts.
Axis was closer, she could feel it, and now the hounds ran with their noses constantly to the ground.
They were silent.
They were tracking.
She and Adamon continued to talk. Adamon, I have heard of this Fire-Night, from both the Sentinels and from StarDnfter. A night, long ago, when the fire fell from the sky and the Star Gods walked the earth. Their fire created the sacred lakes.
Yes. Older gods than us, Azhure. Adamon turned yet another partridge on its spit and Azhure grimaced slightly. Truth to tell, she was becoming a trifle tired of roast partridge. The Nine are yet young; still learning, still developing. The Star Gods who fell during the night of fire crashed and burned. We do not know what became of them.
He offered Azhure a piece of the bird, but she shook her head and Adamon smiled to himself. She was almost ready. / am glad you have mentioned Fire-Night. Azhure, you must give Axis a message from me.
Certainly. If I can help him.
Adamon glanced at her sharply. You must.
Azhure sighed. Yes. What is the message?
Whatever happens in the next few months, he must be in the Earth Tree Grove for Fire-Night. The Avar still celebrate Fire-Night, held in the third week of Rose-month.
Why must he be there?
Azhure’, the Avar will be instrumental in the making of the Rainbow Sceptre, and the Rainbow Sceptre can only be constructed on Fire-Night.
Why?
Because the Rainbow Sceptre, the single weapon Axis can use against Gorgrael, will be built from the power of those ancient gods who crashed and burned that first Fire-Night.
I understand.
Adamon stood up and threw his uneaten piece of partridge into the coals. “Then ride, Azhure, for Axis lies close to despair, and you have a long way to go.”
The Beat of the Star Dance Belial sat before the fire and stared at the tent. They had come to this place ten days ago, and here they had stayed. That was partly due to Axis’ condition, but mostly because Azhure’s farflight scout had finally caught up with them. “I am coming,” Azhure’s message had stated, “do not commit to any course of action until I get there.”
Where are you, Azhure? Belial thought bleakly. And what are you going to do when you get here? What the scout had been able to tell him of Azhure had cheered Belial. She had given birth and was well. She was eager to reach Axis. She would help.
And has she learned of her power? Belial asked the scout.
The birdman had thought about that. She was different, was all he could say, and with that Belial had to be content.
The tent flap stirred and Belial jerked.
Arne stepped forth, his face sallow and creased with deep lines.
“How is he?” Belial croaked with a voice suddenly dry.
“Still there,” Arne said. “I have come to refill the water pot.”
A pail of melted snow was set to one side of the fire, and Arne ladled water from it into the pot he carried. Axis craved water constantly, and Belial wondered if his internal organs were as charred as his exterior. Gods, he wondered for the hundredth time that day, why can’t he die? Why won’t you let him die?
Axis’ condition had deteriorated so badly that even if Belial had not received Azhure’s message, it was doubtful he would have travelled much further anyway. Axis had started the march east demanding that he ride Belaguez, but as his body further failed him, even the ropes and blankets could not keep him upright, and the day the farflight scout had arrived Axis had slipped twice from the saddle; the ropes meant to secure him almost cutting him in half as he hung down the horse’s side,
moaning.
Now Axis spent his days and nights inside a darkened tent, wrapped in blankets, sometimes delirious with pain and despair. Arne stayed with him most of the time, Belial taking his place when he had to sleep.
Those hours with Axis, sitting silent in the tent, were driving Belial mad. He had never thought to have to watch his friend suffer this way.
Why couldn’t he die? Why?
The night was full and dark now, the heavy clouds hiding the silvered disc of the moon floating above. About him the camp was settling down; horses stamped, men spoke quietly, somewhere someone laughed, gear clinked.
It was quiet now, and Belial felt himself drift towards sleep. A horse snorted then whickered, and his head jerked up. But then there was silence, and Belial relaxed again. It was beginning to snow gently, and he wrapped his cloak about him, too tired to get up and search for a blanket or his sleeping roll.
The tent was still and quiet, and Belial hoped Axis had managed to find escape in sleep or unconsciousness.
He jerked out of slumber again. Something soft had tickled his hand where it lay curled about the outer edge of his cloak and he twitched irritably.
But the tickle remained, and Belial twisted his head to see. Resting on the back of his hand, caught by a snowflake, was a delicate purple flower.
Belial blinked, thinking it a phantasm of sleep, but the flower did not disappear. Wonderingly he reached out with his other hand and lifted the flower to his nose. It had a wild scent, and Belial felt his head spin.
Somewhere a dog barked softly, once, then was quiet.
Belial slowly sat up. There were no dogs in camp. Was this some stray that had survived the ice of Aldeni? He twisted about, looking behind him, wondering if he should investigate, when a rough tongue rasped across his cheek.
“What -” he began, then fell to his back as the hound pushed him over and licked his face enthusiastically.
Sicarius!
“Oh, Mother!” Belial said, tears starting to his eyes, “Azhure!”
“None other,” she laughed, and Belial scrambled to his feet. Azhure stood the other side of the fire, hands on hips, her eyes and mouth soft as she gazed at him.
Belial stared at her. He had always believed Azhure more than beautiful, but now she seemed impossibly lovely. He remembered when she’d arrived at Sigholt, when he had lifted her from her horse. Then he had thought she had gained an aura of wildness; now that aura shone forth a hundred times stronger.
Without thinking he stepped around the fire and folded her in his arms.
Azhure hugged him, feeling his pain, remembering herself what it had felt like to have him hold her. “Shush,'” she murmured, stroking his hair and kissing his cheek as she would a child. “I am here now. It will be all right.”
“Oh, Azhure,” he muttered, “Azhure!” and he burst into tears.
For a long time Azhure stood there, rocking him in her arms, trying to comfort him. Her own eyes glinted with tears, for the strength of Belial’s despair gave her some idea of the depth of Axis’ own nightmare.
She leaned back in his arms eventually. “Tell me,” she said.
And Belial did. She did not let him go, and he could feel when her arms tightened in horror even though her eyes and face remained calm. When he had finished she held him close again, gently stroking his cheek, her eyes fixed on some point far distant.
“I thank you, Belial,” she whispered, “for what you have done for him.”
“Azhure. Can you help him die? Do you love him enough for that?”
“I love him, Belial, and I will do what I have to.”
Axis lay still in his constant night and wondered that pain should have become such a valued companion. It was his only link with sanity, for if he held on to the pain, if he concentrated on it hard enough, then the despair receded until it was only a dark shadow lingering in the back of his consciousness.
Pain, and his thirst. His thirst had become almost a living creature in itself, never letting him go, never letting him sleep, always demanding to be listened to, to be sated.
He twisted his head, thinking to whisper to Arne for another sip when he heard the tent flap open, then fall shut. He closed his mouth, wondering if Belial had come in to relieve Arne. Belial was his friend, but Axis did not like Belial sitting with him; he could feel the man’s horror and his pity every time he had to come close to him.
Arne’s voice sounded, low and surprised, then the tent flap lifted and closed again, and all was silent.