Monument

by Ian Graham

  Ballas glanced towards the other group. They were moving steadily along the far side of the gallery. Soon, they would turn left, go along another side, then turn left again, emerging behind Ballas.

  The big man continued edging backward. Then he halted.

  The pockmarked youth grinned. ‘Now I see you,’ he said, squinting. He tilted his head, curious. ‘So: you are the sinner, oh? The man hunted by every Warden in Druine.’

  Ballas glanced back. The other group came into view. Ballas moved his mouth close to Heresh’s ear. He caught a faint tang of female sweat. ‘Go to the top of the staircase,’ he said, very softly. ‘I will clear us a path.’ He looked at the youths. It’ll be harder than hacking through a nettle patch. But whatever happens, get yourself to the staircase.’

  Drawing her knife, Heresh nodded.

  The pockmarked youth sneered. ‘Oh, you’ve a taste for a fight, have you?’

  Saying nothing, Ballas raced towards the group. While he was still several yards away, he flung himself down on to the floor and rolled, crashing through their legs. A few fell; leaping to his feet, Ballas punched a torchbearer in the stomach, hard. Wheezing, the young man slumped against the balustrade. The torch slipped from his fingers. Ballas caught it before it hit the floor. Spinning, he smashed the torch into the face of the nearest youth. A flurry of sparks shot up. The pock-marked fellow ran at Ballas. The big man brought the torch down on top of his head. The youth’s hair caught alight, blazing like a beacon. He screamed—until Ballas rammed the torch into his face … Then he made choking, gurgling noises.

  Ballas glanced up.

  Heresh had reached the stairway. Head-butting another youth out of the way, Ballas ran along the gallery, reaching her in seconds.

  ‘Go down!’ he snapped. ‘And be quick!’

  The other youths were running over. Moving quickly, Ballas grasped a tall case of parchments. Growling, he brought it crashing down upon the stair-top. Parchments slithered over the floorboards. Stooping, Ballas thrust the torch into them. Bone dry, they burst into flame. The youths ran towards Ballas. Gradually, their pace slowed.

  They halted, uncertain.

  Their gazes flitted from Ballas to the fire. Then to Ballas again.

  Ballas raised the torch. He did not speak. He did not have to. The youths understood the situation. Soon, the parchment-case at the stair-top would be burning so fiercely that they would not be able to pass. They would be trapped on the third floor—the highest gallery in the Archive Hall. To leap over the balustrade would mean a quick death—not escape. If they wished to leave alive, they would have to get past Ballas.

  And Ballas, his upraised torch flickering, would not permit it.

  Ballas inhaled the smoke from the fire. The smell evoked something. It was faintly familiar. He frowned, trying to remember—and thought once more of the museum in Soriterath where everything had begun … thought of the parchment-filled room in which the curator had concealed the iron disc … thought of the small fire that he had accidentally started but neglected to douse …

  The flames on the stair-top were taking hold now. Ballas jumped through them. A few sparks flared in his leggings and tunic. He patted them out.

  A couple of youths approached the fire, seeking to imitate Ballas.

  Standing on the stairs, Ballas raised the torch. The youths hesitated. Then the flames surged higher, and they vanished from sight.

  Ballas walked briskly down the stairs.

  At the bottom stood Heresh, pale and shocked. Ballas untucked the map from his belt.

  ‘We have what we came for,’ he said. ‘Now we must go.’

  Already, flames were creeping along the third floor. The youths backed away into darkness … darkness that would soon flare bright with the advancing flames.

  Ballas knew what would follow. Some youths would burn. Others would clamber over the balustrades and jump.

  All would perish. It was merely a question of which death each young man preferred.

  He took Heresh’s wrist. ‘The apprentice will be summoning help,’ he reminded her. ‘We don’t have much time.’

  Turning, they left the Archive Hall.

  At a half-run, Heresh and Ballas returned to the cathedral. They passed through the worship hall and went down into the crypt. As they entered, Lugen Crask got to his feet.

  ‘What has happened?’ he asked, alarmed. He gestured at Ballas’s blood-speckled tunic. ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the big man. ‘We have to go.’

  My daughter, are you—’ began Crask, turning to Heresh.

  ‘I am unhurt,’ said the red-haired woman. ‘But Ballas is correct. We must go—and go now. Our plan has been discovered.’

  Crask swore.

  The cripple Elsefar said, ‘Give me the map. Within the city, there’ll be an entry point to the sewers. We must locate it before we leave.’

  Ballas handed over the map. The quill-master unfolded it on the table. He ran his fingertips over it. ‘Ah, yes—this is my work,’ he said, nodding dreamily. ‘Surprising how strongly one’s handiwork can bring back the past to one. I executed this one summer morning. And now, I can almost feel that season’s heat.’ Blinking, he leaned close to the map.

  Father Rendeage emerged from the other chamber.

  ‘Ballas,’ he said, ‘we must speak—privately.’

  The holy man’s breath smelled of wine. Yet there was nothing drunken about his manner. His eyes burned with a nervous intensity.

  ‘I am leaving,’ said the big man. ‘I have no time for talk.’

  ‘It is important,’ said the priest. Stepping close, he said quietly, ‘I know why the Church are hunting you. Or at least, I think I do. It would serve you well to know.’

  Ballas glanced at the others. Then he followed the priest into the adjoining chamber.

  From its niche, the skull of the martyr Cadaris watched them. Father Rendeage dragged a hand over his bare scalp. For a moment he seemed unable to find the right words.

  ‘Come on, priest,’ said Ballas. ‘Speak.’

  ‘I have been consulting this,’ he said, patting a thick leather-bound book upon the table. ‘It is a directory of magical objects that I, as a priest, must be especially aware of. Inside, there are items from many cultures, some eastern, some western; some extinct, some extant.’ He paused. ‘You spoke of an iron disc.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Describe it.’

  Ballas shrugged. ‘It was about so big.’ He made a circle with his thumbs and forefingers. ‘There were four rubies around its edge. And a blue gemstone in the centre. It was the gemstone that caught my eye. It looked valuable.’

  Rendeage made a strange, quiet sound. ‘The rubies were not rubies. And the gemstone …’ He paced back and forth. ‘What do you know of magick? OfLectivin magick?’

  ‘Apart from what I saw at the Oak, nothing.’

  ‘The Lectivins were a magical species. They had grasped the forbidden arts far more than we had. So much so that they devised ways of communicating with the dead. During the Red War, this gave them an immense advantage over us. A soldier slaughtered in Mecanarde could tell his colleagues, situated miles away, how the battle was faring in the north. Reinforcements could be summoned; tactical advice supplied. Often, to transmit such information, Lectivin soldiers would kill themselves. Then their cohorts could speak with them. We lumbered on with foot messengers and carrier pigeons. The Lectivins sent information almost instantly right across Druine.’

  ‘For all the good it did them,’ muttered Ballas. ‘We slaughtered them. We smashed them into nothingness.’

  ‘We outnumbered them,’ Rendeage replied. ‘We reproduced with greater ease and frequency than they did. Thus they couldn’t compete with our numbers.’ The priest tugged at the cuffs of his robe. ‘We defeated the Lectivins because we cannot resist temptation. Because we submit to the faintest tug of lust.’

  ‘A pleasing thought.’

  ‘Not for the Pilgrim Church.
But that is by the by.’ Rendeage waved a dismissive hand. ‘The Lectivins spoke to their dead through a device known as thesivis. There is no precise translation. The most satisfying equivalent is “monument”. In our culture, a monument is any testimony to the dead. Usually, the term means something large, grand: a statue or edifice. For the Lectivins, the scale was unimportant. They were magical creatures. Familiar with the world of souls, and the edges of the Eltheryn Forest, they did not construct monuments of remembrance. The Lectivins did not remember their dead. Theyspoke to them.

  ‘The Lectivins created many sivis, and they were used not merely during the War, but in periods of peace as well. They enabled the Lectivins to seek advice from their ancestors. From long-dead rulers, philosophers, engineers. Even magickers. Any Lectivin at all from the past.

  ‘And maybe that is why the Pilgrim Church wants you dead. Maybe they believe you have used a sivis, and learned something terrible, something dangerous from it.’

  ‘Horseshit,’ murmured Ballas. ‘I’m not a magicker. I wouldn’t know how to work this … Monument.’

  ‘It would not be difficult,’ said Rendeage. ‘You would only need to expose the middle gemstone to moonlight. No magical talent of your own would be needed. The stones you thought were rubies are, in fact, skiverns: energy stones. They contain the necessary magick. With their help, the moonlight would take shape, and become …’

  For the second time that day, Ballas glimpsed blue-silver light. This time it was a memory. He was certain of it. Concentrating, he tried to recall further details. He groped beyond the blue silver. Yet grasped nothing.

  Rendeage stared intently at Ballas. ‘You look as if you were remembering something.’

  ‘I reckon I was,’ said Ballas. ‘But it’s gone now.’

  ‘That is to be expected. A man who uses a Monument sees into the Eltheryn Forest. It is a world of the dead, of spirits. Our memories can recall only things of the corporeal world. We have not been created for retaining glimpses of the afterlife.’

  ‘Then what use was the Monument to the Lectivin generals? If they could remember piss-all, what was the point?’

  Rendeage sighed. ‘The directory—’ he touched the book does not say. And I am no expert upon matters magical. But, as I say, it seems the Monument lies behind the Decree. The Church fears you, Ballas.’

  ‘It’s got no reason to. I’m no threat. I want to leave Druine— not destroy it.’

  The priest seemed uneasy. ‘I admit I am troubled. I do not know how the Monument acts upon a man. How its purpose is served. Maybe the Church knows more than I do. And that is why you trouble them.’

  Lugen Crask appeared in the doorway.

  ‘We are ready!’ he said, his face flushed. He lingered a moment, then vanished into the other chamber.

  Rendeage trembled. ‘I fear I have made an awful mistake. I ought never have granted you sanctuary.’

  Ballas wondered if the priest realised he was speaking aloud. Nonetheless he said, ‘You’d better pray I get to Belthirran. Once I’m there, I won’t trouble the Church.’

  Ballas moved to the door.

  ‘Wait. I have a question.’

  Ballas felt an urgent impulse to leave. With every passing second, more Wardens would be assembling in the streets above. The apprentice would have told them of Ballas’s need for the sewer map. Already, they would be seeking a map of their own—trying to learn where the fugitives would enter the sewer. And from where they would leave it.

  Yet he paused. There was desperation in Rendeage’s voice.

  ‘You said the Penance Oak provided a vile death. Was … was it truly so bad? Did the prisoner suffer as fiercely as you described?’

  Ballas did not speak. He simply nodded.

  Rendeage gave a quiet groan. ‘Go,’ he said, softly.

  In the next chamber, Ballas found Crask helping Elsefar up the steps. The climb was a struggle for the cripple. Striding over, Ballas knocked away the quill-master’s crutches. Then he slung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

  Elsefar did not protest.

  They hurried up the steps and through the worship hall. Slipping out of the front doors, Ballas whispered, ‘Where’ve we got to go?’

  ‘On Clarion Street there is a brothel,’ said Elsefar. ‘Keep going northeast, and I shall guide you when we are close.’

  Ballas heard footsteps and shouting. Turning, he saw a mob gathering outside the cathedral. Someone struck the door with a dagger hilt.

  ‘Open up, Rendeage! We know of your guest … The sinner is with you, isn’t he? We demand entry!’

  The dagger-gripping man turned the ring-handle. To his surprise, the door opened. The mob poured through.

  Ballas realised he had been wrong. The apprentice hadn’t gone to the Wardens. He had clearly told the first person he’d met—an Under-Warden, perhaps. Or an ordinary citizen. Within minutes, a crowd had assembled.

  ‘They will kill him,’ said Heresh tonelessly. ‘They will find we are not there, and they will tear him apart like wolves.’

  They moved northwards, towards Clarion Street.

  Someone knocked violently on the cathedral door. In the crypt Father Rendeage started, surprised. Listening, he heard shouting—the bricks and wood of the building muffled the words, but he detected anger.

  ‘They are here,’ he said flatly, his voice echoing. He hadn’t really expected to get away with it. He knew that someone, somehow, would discover he had sheltered the sinner. That he had prolonged the city’s agonies by hiding him away, while the gates remained sealed and people starved.

  He gazed at Cadaris’s skull.

  Tell me, am I to become a martyr? I have obeyed the Four’s teachings. I have helped the needy. I have honoured my oaths … Yet, in doing so, have I not jeopardised the Pilgrim Church? Have I not saved the life of a man who—perhaps— threatens it?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Is it not absurd that the Four’s virtues, when applied in real life, might destroy the Church?’

  He didn’t know what danger Ballas posed. But he knew, now, that he ought to have left the big man to die.

  He touched Cadaris’s skull, tracing his fingertips over the impact hole. ‘I have gone too far …’

  Rendeage closed his eyes.

  He had behaved recklessly. Moreover, he’d been self-indulgent. He had enjoyed harbouring the sinner.

  It was a type of adolescent stubbornness. A callow disrespect for a powerful, centuries-old institution: the Pilgrim Church. He had saved Ballas as a gesture of defiance. A tiny vengeful act that had filled him with a vulgar sort of happiness—as if he’d shouted an obscenity at the Blessed Masters. He loved the Four, not the Pilgrim Church.

  It hadn’t always been so. Rendeage had taken up the priesthood late in life. A quarter of a century ago, in his fifty-fifth year, he had enrolled at the Seminary at Braensigate and, three years later, had come out garbed in the blue robes, and Scarrendestin pendant, of a clergyman.

  For the first five years of his service, he had made no distinction between the Church and the Four. He had believed that the Church’s laws and procedures were the Four’s will perfectly enshrined. He had believed the Four themselves could have formulated the rules governing Druine.

  He had performed his duties immaculately, unquestioningly, and with pride and satisfaction. He had tended the sick. He had administered Final Blessings. Weddings, Coming-of-Age Ceremonies … Everything the Church demanded, he did. He was a flawless example of the priesthood.

  When he found that a girl, only fifteen years old, was practising magick … when he heard of this young healer, using her talents to remedy agues, blood-taints, disease … he didn’t hesitate to apprehend her and turn her over to the Wardens. Her fate was to be an unpleasant one: she would be transported to Soriterath, and there placed upon the Penance Oak. This didn’t perturb Rendeage. She had behaved contrary to Church law. She had to be punished. Even when her mother begged him to spare her, and shrieked and wept and clawed her face wh
en he refused, Rendeage remained unmoved. He had sent many to the Oak. The girl was to be treated no differently.

  Several weeks later Rendeage travelled to Soriterath. He was to visit the Esklarion Sacros, in order to receive a fresh clerical posting: the Blessed Masters had determined his talents were best used not in the small church where he was presently preaching but in a cathedral—the cathedral at Granthaven.

  To reach the Sacros, Rendeage crossed Papal Square on foot. For the first time in his life he saw the Penance Oak. At first, in the light of a winter noon, it seemed unexceptional: it might have been any oak, uprooted from any forest and replanted in Druine’s holiest city. As he drew closer, though, this changed. The branch-borne heads became visible—the heads of those guilty of holy crimes. Blasphemers, apostates, heretics … and magickers.

  It surprised Rendeage to see the girl healer there. He hadn’t imagined that, after so long, only now would she have been placed upon the Oak—he had supposed that justice, when dealing with such criminals, would be administered swiftly.

  Yet there it was: the head of the same blue-eyed, blonde-haired girl whom he’d delivered to the Wardens.

  It hadn’t been long upon the Oak. The flesh had scarcely started to rot. Of course, in the weeks before her execution, the girl healer had been incarcerated. That, it seemed, had taken its toll on her. Her skin was thinner, a little of the healthy, farm-girl plumpness of her face had vanished. Lesions marked her cheeks. Her hair was greasy and, even now, lice flourished among the strands.

  Rendeage stared at her. At her eyes, her skin—at the nail in her forehead and the bloodied stump of her neck.

  There was a peculiar beauty to it all. It exuded rightness. It was entirely proper that the Oak should exist. That sinners should be lodged there. That their lifeless eyes should stare at the Sacros, the heart of the Pilgrim Church. It even seemed right that magpies should peck out those eyes and crows feast upon the unliving flesh.

  Rendeage saw the girl healer—and felt satisfaction. He had played his role to perfection. He had acted as the Church demanded. He had been a priest without flaw …