All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [264]
He resisted the urge to say stupid plan.
“I’ll need your help,” Fiona said. She bit her lip and glanced at his guitar. She always got weird when she talked about his music, as if it was something she didn’t like or understand but nonetheless had to tolerate it. Like Cee’s cooking.
Eliot guessed he felt the same way about her cutting. He suppressed a shiver.
“You’re going to have to do something to help us get close to Mephistopheles,” she said. “And when we get there, you’ll have to weaken him . . . but in a way that doesn’t blow us up or anything.”
Eliot wasn’t sure how it was to accomplish any of that; he was making this up as he went along. He just hoped he didn’t get her or Robert killed.
“I’ll do my best,” he said.
They stood there. There was a long moment, awkward silence.
Eliot then looked Fiona square in the eyes. “I’m really sorry.”
How to explain it? He wasn’t sorry he’d come to save Jezebel. But he was sorry he had risked their lives. And he was sorry he’d gotten them into a jam with no way out except a bloody fight that might end get them tortured for all eternity if they lost.
She punched him in the shoulder. “What else was I going to do on Wednesday night except study for finals?”
Eliot tried to smile, failed, and shrugged. “Trogium pulsatorium?” he muttered.
That was the soft-bodied, wingless insect commonly called a “bookworm” (although technically it was a louse). This was a poor attempt at vocabulary insult, but it was all he had at the moment.
It was nice to have a moment of something normal between them. Maybe the last time that’d happen.
“Good one,” she replied, and uncharacteristically offered no counter-insult. Instead she looked around and sobered. “Have you seen Louis?”
“Just a second ago. He was at the back of the lines.”
Louis was no longer there, though, and Eliot wondered if his father would be fighting . . . or hiding?
Sealiah mounted the stairs to his stage and joined them. Tiny star-shaped orchids sprouted from the links in her armor and drizzled pollen, a cloak of wisteria-laden vines flowed behind her, and clouds of wasps circled high over her head.
Her perfume was intoxicating. Eliot felt dizzy and drowning, but he didn’t mind.
She looked more beautiful than before, like a carving by Michelangelo, as if the impending battle and bloodshed brought out the best in the Infernal queen.
Eliot’s band fell to their knees, and even Eliot felt obliged to give her a short bow.
Fiona stood with her hands on her hips.
“Soon it starts,” Sealiah said to them. “There is a final detail to attend to. Mr. Farmington?”
Robert shucked on his Paxington jacket, came over, and gave her a short bow as well.
“While Eliot and Fiona have more formidable weapons than I could ever provide,” Sealiah said as her gaze slid over the length of Robert. “You, my young hero, have only that toy.” She nodded at the brass knuckles on his hands (the ones that could punch through solid stone).
Robert cupped his fist. “Yes ma’am.” He flushed, but then recovered. “But I know how to use them.”
“No doubt.” She drew her broken sword and held it at an angle so Robert could see its jagged tip, the length of its patterned Damascus steel, and the poison that flowed and dripped onto the stage. “But would you accept the sword Saliceran and wield it in my name?”
Robert’s eyes drank in the weapon, and his hand drifted toward the handle.
It was terrible. And powerful. Eliot didn’t meet any special sense of magic to understand that. It was also something old. Something never meant to be touched by human hands.
“Don’t,” Fiona whispered.
Robert pursed his lips, and purposely didn’t look at Fiona. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll take you up on that.”
“Then kneel, hero,” Sealiah commanded. Robert did. The Queen passed the sword down his left side, over his head (without touching the poisoned blade to his shoulders as was traditional) and then down his right side. “I declare you my champion on this battlefield. Rise, Sir Robert Farmington, Captain of the Legion of Lotus, and wielder of Saliceran, the God-Broken.