Child of Sorrows

by Michaelbrent Collings

  Wind looked back at the bed for a long moment, then withdrew. She went to Arrow and Sword, her steps faltering.

  "Gods, girl, sit down," said Father Akiro. Sword had almost forgotten about him, but now he hobbled forward and guided Wind to a chair. She drew a hand over her face, tracking lines through the dirt that caked her skin as it did everyone else's.

  No one spoke for a moment, as though worried what further bad news any speech might bring. But when Wind finally met Sword's eyes, she said, "What of Malal?"

  Wind didn't answer for a moment. She could read lips, so it wasn't that she hadn't heard the question. Rather, she seemed momentarily unsure what to do with it, as though something in her mind had burned out.

  After a long moment, the room silent save only the sighing susurrations of the men working around Malal, she finally Signed something. Father Akiro translated for the rest of them, saying, "He's been poisoned."

  Sword looked sharply at the holy man. "Poison?" She gestured at the Patches around the bed. "How is it that Malal isn't already on his feet, then? I don't know of any poison that cannot be neutralized if Patched quickly enough."

  Wind waited, then led her to the bed. A few of the Patches parted to let Sword through. Father Akiro and Arrow held back, and the grim looks on their faces said they had already seen what the bed held – and had no wish to see again.

  She steeled herself. And it didn't matter. She couldn't be ready for what she saw – no one could.

  Malal lay with mouth open wide in a soundless scream, the muscles in his neck and around his jaw rigid as though he were actually shrieking, but so loudly and strongly that none could hear it but he. Skin sloughed from his bones in wide patches, only to be knit and grow from nothing again, then fall away once more. Below the skin, the flesh was black as though burned or rotted away.

  Several of the priests, she realized, weren't just praying: they were gathering away the skin that fell and throwing it into nearby basins as they whispered their liturgies.

  The Patches healed the Emperor, but only partway before the poison again took hold and began to blast his flesh.

  How long can they keep this up?

  As she thought this, one of the Patches weaved, exhausted. A priest steadied the woman, and after a moment she returned to her concentration.

  The moment they stopped, Malal would die.

  And that wasn't the worst of it. The worst was the thought that perhaps it would be a mercy to let him die. Not just because of the silent scream, or the falling away of his flesh. There was worse.

  There was his eyes.

  They stared at the ceiling, open and unblinking. But it was not the wide stare of those about to succumb to death, nor was it the empty look of someone whose mind had fled. He stared at something beyond others' sight – perhaps something that existed in the same plane as his silent screams.

  He looked like a man staring at the very Netherworlds. A look that spoke not of madness, but the most awful sanity as madness was fully and completely understood for the first time.

  Sword shuddered and looked away. A moment later, Wind left the bedside. She followed her and rejoined Arrow and Father Akiro.

  More Signs from Wind. Again, Father Akiro spoke: "They don't know what it is. They've never seen anything like it. But their magic cannot heal it."

  Arrow stared at the Patches. "Then what are they doing, if they can't heal him?"

  "Keeping him alive. The Patches work to reverse the poison's effects as fast as they happen." Wind's hands shook as she Signed the words.

  "So he's not going to die," said Sword. "Not as long as they keep working."

  Wind nodded, but looked even more defeated in that instant. "No. But they can't work forever," she Signed.

  "What if we bring in more Patches?" asked Arrow. "We can –"

  Wind shook her head. "The priests have already done the calculations," she Signed. "They guess that, if we bring in all the Patches in the area and work them to exhaustion, one after another, then he has two weeks. Maybe three."

  "But that would mean letting everyone else who was injured in the attack and who needs a Patch just die," said Sword.

  Wind's breath hitched. Then she nodded.

  "And without dedicating so many Patches?" asked Arrow. "With just the ones in here?"

  Wind had looked exhausted and frightened before. Now she looked ill. "Two days. Maybe three."

  19

  Father Inmil felt like a young man again.

  It's been a long time since I felt this way. Too long.

  The first time he had donned the frock of the Temple Faithful, he had felt like this. He felt a bit like it when he worked at the Small Cathedral, where he first became part of the silent revolution of the Cursed Ones.

  Then, again, when he was introduced to the catacombs: a secret world of knowledge below the Grand Cathedral, a vast universe of mystery and treasure for the mind.

  The catacombs held what the priests and priestesses who worked here referred to simply as the Archive. The records of the church were here – copies of the records of ordinances performed by priests and priestesses, and of moneys spent to aid the poor. The history of a people's beliefs, and through them a history of the people themselves. A mission of the church that few thought of was the chronicling of the Empire itself. And the priests were able to do this perhaps better than anyone. For who better to tell the story of a people than those who accept the lowest, who help the most desperate?

  The story of a culture is told more in who suffers than in who succeeds. The history of an Empire is not one of leaders and lords, but of the people who falter or benefit under their rule.

  And far too much suffering. Even now, after the Cursed Ones succeeded in their work.

  Inmil was not a naïve man – he knew that change could come either as slow, measured shifts, or as anarchic revolution.

  And what many did not understand – did not even think of – was that an Empire utterly bounded by the sides of its mountains, by the impassable clouds below, could not afford anarchy. There would be nowhere to run if the Empire collapsed, it would simply be the end of the world.

  Not for the first time, Inmil wondered what lay below the clouds. What was it that prevented any from leaving Ansborn?

  Not for the first time, he tried not to think of it. Because it was an enemy, it could only be an enemy. And one more enemy was more than he or anyone else could handle right now.

  He knew he was hiding from reality – that when he went to the Archive it was as much to escape as to discover. But that was human nature, and Inmil understood that he was human, and that though the Gods demanded perfection, they would have to settle for flawed men and women.

  He thought, too, that They did not so much mind. The flaws in a diamond created unique refractions, beautiful colors. The flaws in a people made them worth saving.

  All this thought was his in the moment he received the book. In the moment he felt young again.

  He opened the book when he received it from the special messenger, and for a moment the sight of it made all the madness of the past hours flee from his mind. Rumors had been coming in – ill happenings in Fear, the listening posts of the Empire now housed by nothing but blood and bodies and the ghosts of the dead. But when he opened the book, he lost himself in that special place reserved for discovery.

  Young men feel young when they exercise their bodies, when they take reckless risks that they hope will impress their friends or their lovers. Old men regain that lost youth in the reckless explorations of the mind. And so Inmil felt the burst of youth when he opened the book, and saw what was within.

  That it was an Old Book could not be questioned. Though it was in excellent shape – many of the Old Books were falling apart, and could crumble at the mere touch of a hand. Perhaps this was a copy, or even a copy of a copy? That would be strange, because as far as he knew, only the Faithful copied such tomes. Why copy something that looks like gibberish?

  The tree on
the front cover looked familiar. He had never seen it before, but there was something about it that tugged at him. When he opened it, the book revealed many of the characters he had seen on the other Old Books in the catacombs, and he felt the same hope that he felt every time he looked upon an Old Book: that this would be the one. The one that took them out of the darkness, and into the light.

  Everyone knew the basic history of Ansborn: the Ascension of Eka, the civil wars, the rise of the Blessed Ones and the Order of the Emperors. But few were aware of – and even fewer cared about – the gaps in that history. What happened during the Time of Erik. The details of the Reign of Judges.

  And, most important, what had happened before the Ascension. Where Eka and his followers had come from, and what lay below the mountains of Ansborn.

  The priests ministered, they preached. But they also searched for the answers that would, perhaps, allow the people above to descend the mountain. To see what there was of a world unknown, but only hinted of in the oldest parts of the histories.

  The Old Books predated the histories. And so they might – they must – hold the answers. The keys to a world beyond Faith, Strength, Knowledge, Fear, and Center.

  This is it. I know it. This will tell us all.

  When the messenger gave him the book, it was hard to even say goodbye, or to call an Acolyte to see to his comfort. His entire body screamed that he must see, must see now.

  But he did see to the messenger, and then forced himself to wait until the entire crew of the air-car the messenger had come in was shown to rooms where they could rest and refresh themselves from their labors. They were all so solemn, bowing and whispering appreciative words. He told them not to, and joked about the fact that he was just a man – and not a particularly attractive one. They laughed, and – hopefully – would think of the Faithful less as ascetic, faraway beings and more as fellow men and women just trying to ease one another's path in this life.

  It was penance, of a sort. He wanted to leave, so he forced himself to stay.

  Father Inmil knew that he had much to pay for. Many sins that would never disappear. Much blood that would never come clean.

  I am a man of Faith – but will never be a man of the Gods, no matter how much I wish, no matter how much I try.

  Finally, after seeing to the needs of others, he looked at the message that had come with the book. He recognized the writing instantly: Father Akiro's clean, careful script.

  This book was given to Sword by

  Certain Persons better left Unsaid.

  Please give it your utmost attention.

  Get back to me soonest. Or sooner.

  - A

  Inmil frowned. Father Akiro was always a cagey one, but the lack of information accompanying the book was unusual even for him. "Certain Persons"? Inmil tried to think of who that could be, then realized it didn't matter. What mattered was that another Old Book had been found!

  He headed toward the place that would let him go below, and so perhaps ascend to knowledge.

  Many of the secret paths and entrances to the catacombs had been destroyed when the Grand Cathedral fell. And though artisans from all over the Empire worked to rebuild a new Cathedral, Inmil knew they would never be able to replicate what had once stood as a monument to the Gods. The tale was that the Grand Cathedral had been built by great magics of times past. Magics that could hardly be reproduced by the work of men and women alone, no matter how skilled.

  Gone, it is.

  Things change. That is the way of it. The way the Gods have decreed, and who am I to question such an order?

  Even when the new Grand Cathedral finally stood, Inmil knew that entrances to the catacombs that had been lost in the destruction would remain lost still.

  It is the way of it.

  The entrance he used was far outside the area being rebuilt. A stone jutted out of the ground, and at his touch it seemed nearly to split in half, revealing a long ladder that led below the earth.

  One day I'll be too old to come down here.

  But not today.

  He climbed down, holding the book under his arm and traveling slowly so as not to let it – or him – tumble down the long shaft.

  Light overtook him. Glo-globes flickered every few paces along the passageway at the bottom of the ladder. The glo-globes were dim, darkling with age. Inmil didn't know who had placed them originally. Like everything down here, they were ancient, mysterious.

  He found himself nearly skipping as he made his way to the Archive. The idea that he held an Old Book in his hands! A new Old Book!

  The problem, of course, was that no one could read them. And no doubt it would be the same with this one, so he shouldn't get too excited. But still, there was a chance, wasn't there? A possibility that this would be the book that opened the rest? That had the key to understanding all the Old Books, and the knowledge they held.

  For a moment, he was possessed of a thought: And what if that knowledge is better off undiscovered?

  It almost made him lose that jaunty step. Almost.

  He continued forward. The Archive wasn't far, only a few more turns and he would be with the books, and could begin his study.

  Something tinkled. He turned in time to see a flash of light behind him, followed by a noticeable dimming of the tunnel's light.

  So one of the glo-globes finally failed. I thought they would outlive me.

  He turned and continued walking.

  Crack.

  Another glo-globe burst, releasing the lightning that a Shock had imprisoned within the glass. Inmil turned to look down the tunnel behind him. It was still lit, though no longer so brightly as it had been. Indeed, there were three or four glo-globes that he could see still burning behind him. Then, beyond that – darkness had swallowed the tunnel.

  I'll have to take another way out.

  He turned back the way he had been walking again. Two steps.

  Crack. Crack. Crack.

  Darkness completely swallowed the area behind him. Inmil stared down that way, and swallowed. It was possible, of course, that all the glo-globes were simply giving out at once. That happened sometimes, when they had been made at the same time by the same Shock.

  So why were the small hairs on the back of his neck standing on end?

  (He was in his past again.

  He felt blood on his hands.

  Danger!)

  Inmil began walking again. Trying to ignore the fact that a few seconds after he passed them, each glo-globe would burst.

  Or be broken.

  He moved faster, and suddenly the feeling of youthful exuberance that he had felt upon first holding the book with the tree on the cover was gone. Now he felt every day of his long Turns. His legs grew leaden, and no matter how fast he pushed himself, he felt like he was swimming through mud.

  Crack. Crack. Crackcrackcrack.

  The tinkling, popping sounds were coming faster now, matching his pace as he sped up. He chanced a glance back.

  Darkness.

  And… was there something moving?

  He choked back the urge to cry out. Even if someone heard him, the catacombs made sound bounce and there was no way anyone would come in time to –

  (rescue me save me)

  – help him. Better to save his breath.

  He rushed from darkness… and straight into night.

  He skidded around a turn and found himself right in the middle of pools of black, a stretch of tunnel where the glo-globes had already been broken.

  Crack.

  The last light behind him fell dim. He was alone, and in a darkness that could only be found deep within the earth.

  Inmil stifled the urge to panic. It had been long since he felt fear like this. Not since he fled to the Grand Cathedral in the first place. No intention of becoming a priest at the time – let alone one of the Council. Just trying to get away. To beg sanctuary of the Faithful. Knowing that meant he would have to leave all he had been behind, knowing that was a good thing, but
wondering if he could do it.

  He took quick, shallow breaths, straining his ears for any sound in the darkness, any clue what might be happening – or what might be coming.

  Nothing.

  He moved to what he hoped was the side, feeling for the wall. As he did, he slipped the ceremonial dagger out from his belt. Silver, meant primarily to be used for the Ceremony of the Harvest. Still, its heft felt comforting in his hand.

  Too comforting?

  Will I ever leave that part of my life behind?

  He stilled that thought, even as he bumped into the wall. His breath caught in his throat, and he hoped that the noise wouldn't alert whoever was in the tunnel with him.

  And he had no doubt there was someone there. For the glo-globes to shatter could perhaps be coincidence. But for them to burst in such perfect order, and for there to be this stretch of dark tunnel waiting ahead… that spoke of planning. Of someone who knew these catacombs, and could prepare…

  A trap.

  His mind rebelled at the thought. He knew every priest and priestess who was aware of the catacombs, and trusted them all with his life. So who could be doing this?

  Intruder. Outsider.

  Inmil put the Old Book down on the ground. And as he bent he felt something part the air where his head had just been. It could have been anything, but something inside him – in that place he had tried to bury for decades – screamed that it was a blade.

  Inmil slid to the side, cringing away and trying to make himself as small as possible in the dark. He felt another swish of air, and knew he was making too much noise – that whoever was here was following the sounds he made, and would find him with the sharp edge of his blade soon enough.

  Another slash, another parting of the air. This one found Inmil. A moment where he felt cool wind – strangely comfortable, considering what must follow – and then the cleaving touch of metal.