‘The Girdle of Chu-Namu, the Girdle of Binding, given to Our Lady of the Waters in the City of the Mists in a forgotten time, No other than this could have bound the seven to that which they had presumed to cast out, so long ago.’
Then it seemed that the tall, yellow-eyed one left them; the creatures vanished as a cloud vanishes; for they were alone in Thaliezalor with a woman who told them her name was Taniel.
Thewson could not think. In the still air above the valley there was no attempt at thought. There was only rage, fury of wing, talon, beak and fang. Even at that height, Sybil’s voice could be heard cawing, ‘Die, winged lion, old eagle-beak. Die then as the Sisters and Choirs will die. I mock you as I mock them, those who would have set Sybil to the silence. Who will have power now? Who will rule where the Council once sat. I, winged one, I, I, I, I, I.’
Sybil’s voice almost drowned out Litho’s muttering, ‘Die, die you who are not, are not, are not….’
But it was the serpent beasts which died in their dozens. Hazliah and Leona found themselves alone in the wide sky save for a few of the serpents. They spiraled tightly so the beasts could not reach them from behind, labouring to breathe, to beat wing, again, again. A venomed sting had touched Leona’s great foot, and it hung beneath her, useless. Blood hammered in her ears. A rush of wind tumbled her out of the spiral, threw the serpents into confusion. In that instant she darted upward with her last strength to strike with brazen beak at an exposed serpent neck. Rent in two, the corpse fell slowly on rigid wings into the ghost-ridden meadows.
Which was empty. Barren. Grey. Where the ghosts had marched, a dead and dusty plain. Alone before the walls of the city marched the two in the blood-red robes. Sybil. Lithos. They did not look behind them, did not see the emptiness where the ghosts of Gahl had been gathered. Jasmine did not see, nor Hu’ao, nor the others chained and driven like animals before the red-robed ones. Leona recovered herself to strike hard at the one beast left between her and the earth. Behind her, Hazliah followed in a silent curve on quiet wings to come to earth behind the two. Neither Sybil nor Lithos saw the gryphons until they were grasped from behind by mighty talons, raised up and held before the walls of Orena, before the thousands of eyes in the city, squirming in sudden terror.
Jasmine caught Hu’ao in her arms. Dhariat tore the chains from her wrists. Thewson vaulted from the walls and ran toward them in giant strides. On the walls, the Sisters fell silent in awe. Leona’s sides moved laboriously, blood pouring from many wounds, but she held her burden high, in silence, waiting, as did Hazliah.
‘Leave them,’ came a quavering voice from the walls. One of the oldest of the Sisters, one very like to Old Aunt, gestured to the gryphons. ‘Leave them.’ Supported by two younger women, she tottered to the parapet. ‘Leave them.’
The gryphons backed slowly away, leaving the red-clad two to writhe in the grey dust like creatures of the dark brought from under a turned stone. Song began upon the walls.
Medlo would have known it at once. He had once asked Terascouros about it. He would have been interested to hear it sung. It was known as the Song of Dismissal.
Sybil struggled to her feet. ‘No,’ she screamed. ‘You have no right. I am one of you. You can’t…’ Then she clutched at her throat and was silent.
Lithos shrieked. ‘You cannot. My Master will not allow it. I am Lithos. I am the master of what is …’ That voice, too, fell silent.
It seemed to Leona that hot air might be rising between her eyes and the two red-robed figures, for they quivered, quivered, began to break into fragments like shards of ruby glass. A shrill crying came from these fragments, almost like the shrilling of the ghosts, yet with something of humanity in it. Lithos’s hood slipped back to show the narrow grin of the madman; the glaring, lidless eyes, open forever in staring wrath; the throat swelling into words which grated from the shivering shards of ruby light, ‘Are not, do not exist, are not…’ The shards became smaller, still smaller, dust, a bright cloud, and were gone. As the face faded into disparate mist, Leona thought she saw an expression of relief, as in the face of a child kept too long awake as it collapses into sleep.
Nothing. Nothing. The song rose triumphantly, faded into minor harmonies and into stillness.
Sighing, Leona turned away, once more human, naked, wounded. ‘I hope someone will bring the Vessel,’ she said. ‘I left it for the Sisters, but we have need of it now.’
It was Systrys who brought the Vessel, together with a small, stained book with a brown cover.
‘When you meet with your friends again, please give this to Jaer. As you can see, it is the quest book of Ephraim the Archivist. I found it before the battle started, but there was no time to give it to you then.’
Leona opened it at random while they washed her wounds, read from it.
‘From shadows, the dark warrior comes
with Widon’s sons and Power’s Sword
.
A singer beats the dead-march drums
to welcome him, the Lion Lord:
‘That is like Jaer’s book,’ said Thewson. ‘Partly.’
‘This verse is longer than the one in Jaer’s book. Still, the dark warrior did come with Widon’s sons.’
‘That is true,’ said Thewson. ‘I am Lion Lord, and that fuxlus, that singer, did beat a mighty drum. It is a dead drum, too. I killed it.’
‘You came barely in time, Thewson.’
‘I came as fast as any person could come. Down from the north on horses, all the thousands with the new swords. To the River Rochagor. Boats there, and Jasmine
