Spirit of the Stone

Chapter 1 Nightfall Dawn was still a long way off when Seriema and her companions escaped from Tiarond. The horses galloped through the waterlogged fields of the townlands, threading their way between the ghastly pyres, the biggest of which still smoldered with a dull red glow, the others extinguished by rain and snow. As she raced away from the beleaguered city, it took all Seriema's self-control to keep from looking back over her shoulder. She was certain that the horror she had left behind must be following. It was raining: a cold, thin rain that chilled exposed flesh and penetrated clothing like steel needles, but being wet was the least of Seriema's problems. On this dreadful day, the bastions of power, wealth, and privilege she had built around herself had come crashing down, and she had turned from the richest woman in Tiarond into a homeless vagabond, her future uncertain and her survival hanging by a thread. Only pride sustained her. She was angry, hurting, and afraid; she wanted to weep, to curse, to shriek like a harridan--but no matter what setbacks the world might hurl at her, she was determined to face them with courage and determination. Seriema would rather walk barefoot over broken glass than give way to weakness and fear before her new companions, but it was hard to keep up her mask. Disconnected images from the last few hours kept flashing through her mind. Pain and terror. The taste of blood and the stink of her own fear. The face of the man who had attacked her, contorted with rage and hatred. The hideous winged creature that had hurtled through the shattered window, moving preternaturally fast, its fanged maw agape and dripping gore. Marutha, the old housekeeper who had played such a significant--and vocal--part in her upbringing, lying dead on the kitchen floor, her grey hair clotted with blood, brain, and bits of bone. Seriema stifled a sob. She had sent the old woman away in the midst of a quarrel, and the last words Marutha had heard from her beloved mistress had been harsh, and spoken in anger. "Don't think about it," Seriema ordered herself. If she fell apart now, she would be lost. "Concentrate on practicalities--like where that trader is taking us, and what he plans to do when we get there." That was better. She could do nothing to change the past, but her future, no matter how uncertain, was something she could influence. Urging her horse onward through the gathering gloom, she went to speak to Tormon. My child. My child. My child. My child. The hooves of the racing horses pounded out the words. Tormon held tightly to the blanket-wrapped form in front of him: so small, so infinitely precious. I have you back, my little Annas. I'll keep you safe. So long as we're together, nothing else matters. Who cares what happens to their accursed city? Bold words--yet a shudder ran through the trader as he remembered the winged abomination in Lady Seriema's mansion, and the unclean swarm of its brethren thronging the sky. His mind replayed the screaming as the helpless Tiarondians were slaughtered, trapped in the enclosed confines of the Sacred Precincts like sheep in a pen. Tormon clutched Annas even tighter, until the child whimpered and wriggled in protest. Why should I trouble myself about their fate? They killed Kanella, my lifemate. They deserved to die. In his heart, however, he knew it wasn't true. Those Tiarondians were ordinary men, women, and children. They had not murdered Kanella. Zavahl had done that--at least, he had ordered her death. And now the Hierarch himself was surely dead. Elion, the mysterious young man Tormon had encountered on the trail last night, had planned a rescue for reasons known only to himself, but the trader was sure he had no chance of succeeding. No, Zavahl must either have been sacrificed on the pyre to appease an angry god or killed by the monstrosities that even nowFurey, Maggie is the author of 'Spirit of the Stone' with ISBN 9780553579413 and ISBN 055357941X.