Mother and child flee through the darkened alleyways of the Merchant Quarter toward the harbor. The child is agile on her tiny legs, rushing ahead. She stops and turns her head to see her mother follow. She is impatient at the adult's slowness. She hears the thundering hooves of the horses closing in, though she cannot see them.
A door opens and a man appears in a dimly lit entryway. He wears the hooded robe of the Priesthood. The child loathes the Priests and their endless rituals. She tries to push him away, but he picks up her tiny body and gestures to mother to follow through the doorway. She tries to wriggle out of his grasp, but he is too strong.
Inside the doorway is a long passageway with torches on the walls. After mother enters, more Priests appear. They bar the door. Mother looks as frightened of the Priests as of the men on horseback.
Mother explains to them that she has arranged passage out of Lyr with a ship captain. She needs to get to the harbor to get the child to safety, away from the Crusaders.
The Priests are angry. They say the child is theirs. She is a living sign from their god, the Dark One. She must remain with them until she is of age to fulfil the prophecy. They believe they can protect her from the Crusaders.
The hallway opens into a shrine. Thousands of black candles fill the chamber. A naked man hangs upside down from chains above a jet altar. His arms stretch out perpendicularly at his sides, bound to a length of wood behind him.
The Priest hands the little girl to a Priestess. She chants a song that makes the child sleepy as she carries her to a nearby room. She ritually bathes the dozing girl and dresses her in a small robe identical to the vestments worn by the Priesthood. The Priestess returns her to the candlelit chamber and releases her from the sleep song.
The child, still dazed, hears the beautiful sound of dozens of resonant voices singing words she does not understand. Someone sets her upon the altar. She sits up so that she can see. Her small legs dangle over the edge. Her purple eyes wander from the flickering candles to the faces of the chanting Priests.
The High Priest stands near her. The child wrinkles her nose. He smells like a goat. In his hand he has a large knife with a blade shaped like a wave of water. Six undulating curves flow down the length of the metal before ending in a sharp point. An identically shaped blade hangs as a pendant around the child's neck. He raises the knife above her.
She watches him slit the throat of the chained man hanging directly over her head. A torrent of warm liquid rushes over her. The sweet smell of the blood covers the Priest's body odor. She looks down at her toes as the warm crimson liquid drips onto them. She likes the color. She wants to hop off the altar to make red footprints. She is bored. The rituals are always the same.
The Priest shoves a great silver chalice toward her face. In it she sees the familiar murky scarlet. She takes a long drink. The fresh blood is still very warm. It coats her mouth and throat with its thick, unmistakable flavor. She remembers gagging the first time they made her drink it. She minds it less now.
The chalice passes from Priest to Priest. The girl fidgets upon the altar as they pass the cup. There are so many of them. She thinks it will never end.
She wants to go to the boat her mother had promised. She thinks of the great ships of the harbor with their billowing sails and hates the Priests for making her wait. Her fingers play in a pool of blood on the altar, splashing it. Her little fingerprints decorate the shiny black surface. She sighs impatiently, willing the ritual to be over.
A commotion answers her silent wish. Men in armor rush in from the passageway. Too many to count, they swarm like insects. They impale the Priests upon swords. The chalice falls to the ground. The blood it held now mingles with that of the Priests on the stone floor. Somewhere in the chaos the child hears mother scream. A man shouts that he has found the demon whore.
Strong hands grab the small girl from behind and lift her roughly into the air. How she loathes that feeling. She wishes she could drink the blood of every damned adult who lifts her off her feet.
Hands drop her into a great urn of water. Hands hold her beneath the water's surface and shake her. She feels herself being jerked up in the air. She coughs and gasps for air. A man laughs. The enormous hands push her under the water again. She writhes futilely.
The hated hands lift her out a second time, dangling her in the air near a warrior's face. He thinks she looks more like a drowned rat than a demon's child. Those around him laugh. Hatred seethes within her. She wonders what his blood tastes like.
He passes her to more hands, hands covered in chain mail and metal. Hands covered in metal roses and unicorns. The last set throws her into a cage atop a cart. Mother lies inside it, pleading for the child's life. The child's purple eyes stare back at her captors, her face a mask of impotent fury beyond her years.
The cart moves forward. Men on horseback clear the way for it to travel. They move toward the Old City. Mother whispers words to comfort her child. The child seems not to hear. Her eyes transfix on the sky.
She sees the shadowy form of an angel cross the heavens. Its form momentarily obscures the pale glow of the stars on this moonless night. She hears its voice call her name. No one else notices.
They cross into the Old City. No lights illuminate the street. A sudden, cold rush of wind blows past.
The beautiful angel sweeps down and lands silently upon the top of the wood grating of the cage. He bends down to reach his hand through the wood, offering it to the child. His white fingers are long and slender with glittering black nails.
Mother begs her not to go to him. Mother grasps at the girl's ankles as she climbs up the wood grating to reach the angel. She kicks mother away. She reaches for her angel instinctively.
She wraps small fingers around the angel's soft hand. That she should fear this entity never occurs to her.
As the angel lifts her up, she passes right through the walls of the cage. She does not mind being lifted this time. His arms are gentle.
He takes flight. His long wings move gracefully against the night air. As he nuzzles her against his massive chest, she stares at his face.
His enormous black eyes reflect the violet of her own irises. He smiles softly. He tells her she has her father's eyes, though his lips never move. As they fly he talks to her silently using words she has never heard but understands intuitively.
She watches the stars move above them as he talks. She feels safe for the first time in her life.
He lands upon the roof of the Old Temple. The temple is abandoned. The Crusaders closed it when they came. He sets her upon the head of a gargoyle, hundreds of feet above the ground. He towers behind her and places his soft hands upon her head. She realizes the angel must be eight or nine feet tall.
In the square below the temple she sees the men drag mother from the cart. They lash mother to a tall pole. A huge crowd gathers. The armored men arrange wood at the condemned woman's feet. Someone gives a speech about making an example of those who practice black magic, of women who consort with devils.
The child cannot see the speaker. The horns of the stone gargoyle obscure her view and frustrate her.
She turns and reaches her arms out to the angel. She wants to sit on his shoulders so that she can see. He lifts her delicately to his shoulders. His hands wrap around her legs at his chest, steadying her. She entwines tiny fingers in the beautiful locks of his long, black hair. It is shiny like her own.
His wings move. He flies from the temple roof closer to the square. He wants her to see.
She watches their shadow fall upon the cobblestones in the torchlight. Most people do not see it. In the crowd she catches a glimpse of the face of her mother's friend, Philip. The old elf turns his head up and seems to see them hover in the air. He does not look at all surprised at the sight. He nods and waves at her.
The men light the fire at mother's feet. The angel tells her the word for fire in the silent language he speaks. Flames spring up, igniting mother's clothing. Mother's scream is endless and echoes through the city.
As the flames envelop her, mother sees them hovering nearby. Mother sends a thought pleading with the angel to take the child away so that she will not have to see.
The angel smiles at her plea. His smile is an eternal image of grace and innocence.
The angel nudges the child's thoughts, urging her to hate mother's weakness. The simple logic of it is perfect to the child. Mother's weakness forces them to hide from the men who always hunt them. Mother's weakness permits their capture. Mother never fights back with magic, even though she knows how. Mother fears black magic now.
Images run through the child's mind. Mother always cries at night. The child never cries. She never understands mother's grief. Now mother could finally stop crying.
The screams taper off. The acrid scent of burning human flesh fills the air. The child smells it for the first time, not knowing how important it would someday become to her. She inhales it deeply. Something about the smell reminds her of the taste of fresh blood.
She feels the angel's chest heave in laughter.
She tells the angel to make the rest of them burn too. He laughs again, then reaches inside her thoughts and caresses the hatred for the Crusaders still seething there. He finds the loathing for the man who held her under the water. He brings this hatred to the surface of her mind and focuses it. She shivers in rage. He tells her to say the word he just taught her. Fire.
Violet flames streak across the square flaring up explosively as they reach the armored warriors. Nearby buildings ignite in a burst of purple light. In minutes, the whole city is ablaze.