by D. P. Prior
CONFESSION
The knights had been dead, brittle with decay, rotted down to the bone from centuries locked in their unearthly tomb, and yet Cadman had raised them to some sort of new life. They had moved—slowly and jerkily at first, but then with greater ease. Ain, they’d even ridden from the mound, or ship, or whatever it was. All under Cadman’s power, but Gaston couldn’t think of them as resurrected, not in the Nousian sense; their bodies lacked the perfection and luminosity promised by the Paters. Was this the immortality Cadman offered, a grisly parody of life, the animation of corpses directed by his will? Could the knights even think for themselves? Did they know who they were anymore? Did they remember their loved ones, long-since gone back to the ground? Callixus seemed sentient enough, and yet there was nothing much human about him. And Cadman himself, stripped of his illusion, was hardly more than a skeleton.
Gaston crossed his arms over his chest, shivering at the unnatural coldness that seemed to radiate from within. He felt like he was holding together a ripped and sodden paper sack in a desperate attempt to stop the last sorry scraps of faith from leaking out.
Unable to sleep, he wrapped his white cloak about his shoulders, fastened his sword belt, and left the spartan confines of the barracks. The other buildings were in darkness as he emerged, the rest of the knights sleeping, apart from the sentries around the perimeter wall. He passed the infirmary on his way to the stables and heard the coughing and groaning of those who’d been infected by the plague. He still couldn’t understand why they’d grown sick whilst the priests were immune? Did they not also serve Ain? Maybe Shader had been right all along: maybe Ain was a god of peace who would not tolerate violence in his name. If that were the case, Gaston thought, allowing himself to indulge the anger that he’d been suppressing since Shader had buggered off to Aeterna, why had Shader passed on his own problems to the White Order? It seemed he understood the contradiction at the heart of his own vocation, but was powerless to do anything about it. That made him a victim, as far as Gaston was concerned, unworthy of teaching others.
If Gaston had learnt anything these past few days, it was that Shader had betrayed him—betrayed them all. With the right mentor, Gaston could have become a “Friend of Ain”, like his father had been. He could handle the devotions and the mortifications, and without Shader’s influence he could have avoided the conflict the dual roles of Nousian and knight had brought. It was starting to look like Dad’s advice had been right after all. If Gaston had listened to him and not Shader, things might have turned out differently.
He stopped himself there, before he followed the train of thought to its conclusion. His faith might be dwindling, but he still had his honor, and that told him it was unfair to blame Shader for the attack on the imperial troops; and not just them either. As much as he wanted to shed the guilt of what he’d done to Rhiannon, he couldn’t lay it on Shader. The man might have been a charlatan, but Gaston wouldn’t make him a scapegoat. If there was one thing Bovis Rayn had taught his son, it was that he was responsible for his own actions, no excuses. That, and the fact that no sin is beyond Ain’s forgiveness. Perhaps if Dad had still been alive … if that shogging Sicarii hadn’t put him in the ground…
Reaching the stables, he saddled the white mare and rode for the main gate of the enclosure. Darik Yonas, on sentry duty, snapped to attention.
“Master Rayn?”
Gaston wanted to sneer at the title, but Darik was a good lad and deserved better. Wasn’t his fault if Gaston didn’t deserve his respect. “Can’t sleep, Darik. I’m gonna ride around the city for a while.”
“I wouldn’t advise it, sir.” Darik peered beyond the gate. “I hear things out there in the dark.”
Gaston could see nothing; the dark was as absolute and impenetrable as anything he might expect to find in the Void.
“If there’s anything lurking out there—” He patted the pommel of his sword. “—then it’s in for a surprise. Open the gate.”
He rode out into the pitch blackness of Sarum, the clopping of the mare’s hooves a challenge to the silent streets. His eyes were drawn to the waning moon hanging like a fragment of bone amidst clusters of glistening stars—pinpricks of silvery light from Araboth that illuminated his way along road after deserted road. Once or twice he stopped the horse, convinced something was following him. He couldn’t be sure if he’d heard the padding of feet or just the echo of his own progress. He rode aimlessly, breathing in the night air, scarcely a thought in his head. Gradually, though, he began to recognize buildings and street names. Maybe it was just unconscious, or maybe the horse was merely retracing her steps, but Gaston suspected the hand of Ain was guiding him as he made his way inexorably towards the Templum of the Knot.
Dismounting at the entrance to the Domus Tyalae, he tethered the horse to a tree and continued on foot until he reached the templum. Scouting the exterior, he came upon the residential block, but there was no light from within. He paused for a moment to consider whether to awaken the priests, but decided to come back in the morning. As he turned to leave, a figure emerged from the shadows.
“What art thou doing here, boy? Thought thou wouldst have learnt thy lesson earlier.”
It was a gruff voice, deep and uncompromising. Gaston had heard it before, when he’d walked away from the confrontation with Shader, but he’d been too ashamed to turn around and look.
Squinting through the darkness, he could just about make out a thickset but short figure with a long braided beard and eyes that glinted dangerously in the moonlight. The man was cloaked in white and leaning on an immense war hammer. Gaston’s fingers twitched above the pommel of his sword, his heartbeat thumping in his ears. He slowed his breathing, tried to relax his shoulders.
“I’m Gaston Rayn, Master of the White Order.” Darik’s term, but it would have to do.
“I know who thou art, boy, but that was not my question. Why art thou skulking around the templum at this hour? Having second thoughts about the duel? Didst thou think to end it before it has started?”
“What?” Gaston half drew his sword, but the dwarf didn’t flinch. “Are you calling me a cutthroat?” He knew he was overreacting, but he couldn’t help it. “Do you really think I’d stoop to murder?” Isn’t that what that bastard Shadrak had done to his dad? “Stick around till morning, mate, and then you’ll see I don’t need to sneak around at night to get the job done. Now get out of my way. I need to see Mater Ioana.”
Gaston tried to step past, but the dwarf moved to intercept him. His head only came up to Gaston’s shoulders but there was something about him that made Gaston pause. The dwarf looked rooted to the spot, an immovable object that might just as well have been carved from granite.
“I am Maldark, known as the Fallen. The only way thou shalt see Mater is through me.”
“Shog … off,” Gaston said through gritted teeth, “or you’re about to get a whole lot shorter.” He drew his sword further from its scabbard, let the dwarf see the glint of steel.
Maldark stood his ground, completely unperturbed by Gaston’s bluster. Normally people would back down when he raised his voice, and if they’d seen him in action with a sword they’d think twice about confronting him. Gaston felt his cheek twitching and put his hand to his face to stop the dwarf from seeing. Without warning, Maldark hefted the war-hammer to his shoulder and Gaston stepped away.
“I’ll take thee to her,” Maldark said.
“Don’t bother.” Gaston turned to leave.
“I’ll take thee to her now.” Maldark slapped the hammer haft into his palm and glowered.
Gaston forced himself to relax. He was afraid of no man, but there was something about the dwarf that unnerved him, a self-assurance that didn’t allow for any possibility of doubt. No boasting, no threats. Just a dreadful certainty that if Gaston didn’t do as he was told, he’d have as much chance as a baby in a croc-infested creek. He lowered his head and nodded, letting the sword slip back into its scabbard.
Maldark led Ga
ston to the main door of the residences. “Wait here,” he said, before going inside and shutting the door.
After a few moments Gaston could hear the murmur of voices and then saw the soft glow of candlelight dancing past the windows. The door opened again and Mater Ioana stood there in a white gown, her shaven head reflecting the yellow flame of the candle she carried. She studied him like a surgeon examining a wound, the barest suggestion of a frown tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“My, you have been in the wars, haven’t you? You’d better come in. Can’t have you staggering around with all that weight on your shoulders.”
Gaston started to tremble, a wave of emotion welling up within him. He dared not speak in case he lost control.
“Come along, Gaston.” Ioana held the door open for him.
Maldark was lurking just inside, a sullen expression on his face. He made as if to follow them, but Ioana waved him away before leading Gaston along the main corridor, past six or seven closed doors, and into a small chamber at the end. She touched her candle flame to the wicks of three votive lights, their warm, flickering glow revealing the blues and reds of the stained glass windows flanking a simple altar, and glinting from the surface of the gilt Monas that stood upon it.
She drew up a couple of chairs, but Gaston threw himself to his knees before the altar, tears already spilling down his cheeks. Tears of shame. Tears of release. He bowed his head, clamped his eyes shut, and began to sway.
“Mater, I have sinned.”
Ioana said nothing, but Gaston could feel her eyes upon him. A hard lump was growing in his chest, forcing him to go on.
“I’ve d-d-done things…” He hated the quavering of his voice. “Shameful things. Broken … the Admonishments; d-d-disgraced my Order.”
“We are not required to be perfect,” Ioana said. “Rules should guide, but never burden. Sometimes things happen. Nous understands. He is closer to us than we are to ourselves.”
Gaston shook his head, flaming coals threatening to burst out of his chest. “No, Mater,” his voice was a grating squeak. “I’ve done evil things.”
“Rhiannon?”
Gaston winced as if she’d struck him. He screwed his face up tight, sniffed back the snot, swallowed it. “Mater, I … I…” He couldn’t say the words. Hated himself for it. Hated his weakness.
He felt Ioana’s hand on his shoulder. She gave it a gentle squeeze, let out a sigh that might have been sympathetic, might have been disapproval. “What will you do, Gaston? How will you atone for it?”
“I c-c-can’t. Never can. She won’t… She won’t let me. Can’t let me.”
Ioana cradled his head against her shoulder. “No, Gaston, she can’t. At least not now.”
“Then what? What can I do?”
“Be gentle with yourself, Gaston. Think of all that has happened—your father. I never met him, but Soror Agna says—”
“No!” Gaston pulled away and stood. “No excuses. I d-d-didn’t come here for that.”
“Then what did you come here for?” Ioana lowered herself onto a chair and watched him with big attentive eyes.
“P-P-Penance, Mater. Please, I need a penance. Bind me to the service of Nous. I n-n-need to atone.”
Ioana nodded, her eyes still on him, but seemingly distant, focused far away. A shadow passed over her face, her demeanor suddenly that of a frightened child, or an anxious parent. “We will talk about that in the morning. After this … this business with Deacon Shader.”
If there was any “after”, Gaston thought, almost hoping there wouldn’t be.
“What else, Gaston?” Ioana’s look was pleading. “Have you confessed everything? I sense there is something else, a stain on your soul. What’s happened?”
“N-N-Nothing.” Gaston’s lips trembled as he spoke. “I’m ashamed, Mater. Ashamed of w-w-what I am, what I’ve d-d-done. Ashamed of my l-l-lack of faith.” He thought about telling her what he’d witnessed beneath the mound, what he’d discussed with Cadman, but he could barely think about it, never mind tell anyone. He prayed for the strength to confess it, to exorcise all that was troubling him, but each time he made the resolve, Rhiannon’s swollen face rose before him like an accusing ghost, telling him he didn’t deserve forgiveness. Telling him he was damned, whatever he did.
“There is remorse in your heart,” Ioana said. “Whatever you have done, Ain already knows, just as he knows how sorry you are. He is a god of forgiveness, Gaston. For Ain, all things are possible. To serve him, you only need to want to be a better person.”
Gaston already knew all that—he’d been telling himself the same thing, but it wasn’t helping. Maybe Ain could forgive him, but Rhiannon couldn’t; and what if he couldn’t forgive himself? Wouldn’t he be damned anyway?
“Mater, tell me about the resurrection,” Gaston suddenly blurted out. “What happens when we die?”
Ioana knelt beside him, her eyes closed in concentration. She gave a little sigh before she answered. “Some parts of the Liber are much older than others,” she said. “After the Reckoning, different streams merged with the Old Faith, sometimes enriching it, but more often than not muddying the true meaning.”
Gaston thought about what Cadman had said about the Ipsissimus being the Father of Lies. It was starting to sound like the Templum had fabricated great sections of the Liber to appeal to as many people as possible. That would certainly account for its rapid spread, the willingness of so many nations to accept Nousian control. But if there were a true thread running through the teachings, what kind of sick mind would bury it all in the name of temporal power?
“Resurrection is one of the most ancient teachings,” Ioana continued, “and one of the purest. Ain has promised that, at the end of time, we will be restored to bodily life just as Nous was when he appeared to the first Luminaries and gave them the original Liber.”
“But what will our bodies be like?” Gaston shuddered at the recollection of the animated corpses riding from their tomb and returning to the world. If that was resurrection…
“Tajen speaks of luminous bodies. The degree is dependent upon sanctity. Arcadine, I think it was, says that the resurrected will not have individual organs: all will be harmonized in the spirit.”
“H-H-How does he know that?” Gaston searched her face for any hint of a lie. “How do we know any of it’s true?”
Ioana shrugged. It seemed to Gaston she was on shaky ground, though she was doing her best to sound confident. As far as Gaston knew, she might indeed be confident; that was the problem: he couldn’t be sure of anything any more.
“The words of the witnesses,” Ioana said. “Faith.”
Gaston groaned. It was like beating his head against a brick wall. Why were there no clear answers?
“Faith is accepting without proof,” Ioana said. “There are no certainties, no guarantees. It’s an attitude, an orientation.”
Gaston was rocking from side to side. “B-B-But what if it’s all lies?” What if the promises of Ain had as much substance as Shader’s to the Order? What if there was no truth, no morality outside what people invented for themselves? If that were the case, then where was the harm in what Cadman was doing? And who could condemn Gaston for the things he’d done?
“What is it, Gaston? You can tell me.”
Gaston went rigid and looked at the Monas on the altar through blurry eyes. “I’ve … seen things.” His voice came out as a whisper.
Ioana rose from her chair, took hold of his face with both hands and forced him to look at her. “What kind of things?”
“The living dead.”
Ioana stepped back and rubbed the top of her head. She frowned, lost in thought for a minute, and then fixed Gaston with her gaze once more. “Does this concern your friend Dr. Cadman?”
Gaston nodded.
“What is he up to?”
“He has power over the dead. He promises me things.”
“Resurrection?”
“Immortality. He says the Ips
issimus has c-c-cursed him. Says there’s a w-w-way to lift the curse and wants my help.”
Ioana sniffed contemptuously.
“H-h-how do I know that w-w-what Cadman says isn’t true?” Gaston asked.
“What does your heart tell you?”
“In my h-h-heart there is only…” Gaston felt his face twisting into a grimace.
“Only what?”
He couldn’t say any more—if he did, he felt the admission would destroy him. Closer to the surface than it had ever been was the affliction that had clouded his life since he’d lost his dad to Nous, since his mom had followed him on the same insipid path. He tried, as he’d always tried, to evade the great emptiness opening up inside him, to distract himself from the terror of the Void. He looked at Ioana and forced a smile, but he knew by the worry on her face that she’d read his fear.
“Bow your head, Gaston,” she said in a shaky voice. “Pray for Ain’s forgiveness and I’ll grant you absolution.”
“No!” Gaston recoiled. “That’s n-n-not what I want. I d-d-don’t deserve it. I need a p-p-penance, Mater. P-P-Please.”
“As you wish,” she said, her face suddenly gray and drawn. “You may stay with us tonight, and we’ll work something out in the morning.”
Gaston nodded, and then the realization hit him. “Shader’s s-s-still here, isn’t he?”
Ioana put her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, Gaston, I didn’t think. But the offer still stands. You’ll be quite safe. He’d never abuse our hospitality.”
For a moment Gaston considered doing what Maldark had accused him of. If there was no omniscient Ain watching over his every move, why shouldn’t he just slit Shader’s throat whilst he slept? Wasn’t that the way of life? Wasn’t that what Cadman was doing, making his own rules just so he could keep all the advantages and ensure his own survival in an uncaring world? It was tempting, but Gaston couldn’t be certain of anything right now. Either Ain existed or he didn’t, but Gaston wasn’t ready to chance it. The one thing he knew for certain was that the dead could walk again, and that meant there was some possibility of continued existence after death. Ain might not be watching over him, but you could bet your life on it that Bovis Rayn was.