“Look at this catch!” he would cry, his eyes frenzied by desperate good fortune. “Momas favours us, lads! The God favours us!”
Atyersus reminded Inrau of those perilous times not because Achamian resembled his father—no, his father had been strong, his legs bowed to the deck, his spirit indomitable before the pitching sea—but because like the fish, the riches he’d drawn from sorcery’s bosom had been purchased against the threat of doom. To Inrau, Atyersus had seemed a violent storm frozen in soaring pillars and black curtains of stone, and Achamian had resembled his uncle, subdued before his father’s wrath and yet striving ever harder to catch their fill so that he might save both his brother and his brother’s son. He owed his life to Drusas Achamian—Inrau was certain of this. The Schoolmen of the Mandate never returned to the shore, and they killed those who abandoned their nets to do so.
How did men repay such debts? With monies owed, a man simply returned the money borrowed with the usurer’s interest. What was given and what was returned were the same. But was the exchange this simple when a man owed his life to another? For returning him to shore, did Inrau owe Achamian one last voyage into stormy Mandate seas? To repay Achamian in the same coin he owed seemed wrong somehow, as though his old teacher had simply rescinded his gift rather than asking for a gift in return.
Inrau had made many exchanges in his life. By leaving the Mandate for the Thousand Temples, he’d traded the heartbreak of Seswatha for the tragic beauty of Inri Sejenus, the terror of the Consult for the hatred of the Cishaurim, and the condescending dismissal of faith for the pious condemnation of sorcery. And he had asked himself, in those early days, what it was that he’d gained by this exchange of callings.
Everything. He’d gained everything. Faith for knowledge, wisdom for cunning, heart for intellect—there were no scales for this, only men and their many-coloured inclinations. Inrau had been born for the Thousand Temples, and by allowing him to leave the School of Mandate, Achamian had given him everything. And because of this, the gratitude Inrau bore his old teacher was beyond measure or description. Any price, he would think as he wandered through the Hagerna, besotted by relief and joy. Any price.
And now the storm had come. He felt small, like a boy abandoned to dark, heaving seas.
Please! Let me forget this!
For an instant he thought he could hear the sound of boots echoing down one of the alleyways, but then the Summoning Horns sounded—impossibly deep, like ocean surf heard through a stone wall. He hurried across the courtyard toward the immense temple doors, pulling his cloak against the downpour. The doors of the Irreüma grated open, throwing a broad lane of light across cobblestones sizzling with rain. Careful to avoid curious eyes, he shouldered through the sudden crowds of priests and monks who filed from the temple. He sprinted up the broad steps, between the bronze serpents that graced the entrance.
The doorkeepers scowled as he entered. At first he cringed, but then he realized he had tracked water and grit across their floor. He ignored them. Before him, two rows of columns formed a broad aisle haphazardly illuminated by hanging braziers. The columns soared up to support the clerestory, the raised central section of the roof, too high for the light to reach. To either side of the clerestory aisle were two more rows of lesser columns, flanking the small godhouses of various Cultic deities. Everything seemed to be reaching, reaching.
He placed an absent hand on the limestone. Cool. Impassive. No sign of the great load borne. Such was the strength of inanimate things. Give me this strength, Goddess. Make me as a pillar.
Inrau traced a circle around the column and walked into the shadow of her godhouse, felt soothed by her cool stone. Onkis . . . beloved.
“God has a thousand thousand faces,” Sejenus had said, “but men only one heart.” Every great faith was a labyrinth possessed of innumerable small grottoes, half-secret places where the abstractions fell away and where the objects of worship became small enough to comfort daily anxieties, familiar enough to weep openly about petty things. Inrau had found his grotto in the shrine of Onkis, the Singer-in-the-Dark, the Aspect who stood at the heart of all men, moving them to forever grasp far more than they could hold.
He knelt. Sobs wracked him.
If only he could have forgotten . . . forgotten what the Mandate had taught him. If he could’ve done that, then this last heartbreaking revelation would have been meaningless to him. If only Achamian had not come. The price was too high.
Onkis. Could she forgive him for returning to the Mandate?
The idol was worked in white marble, eyes closed with the sunken look of the dead. At first glance she appeared to be the severed head of a woman, beautiful yet vaguely common, mounted on a pole. Anything more than a glance, however, revealed the pole to be a miniature tree, like those cultivated by the ancient Norsirai, only worked in bronze. Branches poked through her parted lips and swept across her face—nature reborn through human lips. Other branches reached behind to break through her frozen hair. Her image never failed to stir something within him, and this is why he always returned to her: she was this stirring, the dark place where the flurries of his thought arose. She came before him.
He started at the sound of voices from the direction of the temple gate. Doorkeepers. Must be. Then he fumbled with his cloak and produced a small satchel of food: dried apricots, dates, almonds, and some salted fish. He came close enough that she might feel the warmth of his breath and, with trembling hands, placed the food in a small trough gouged from her pedestal. All food had its essence, its animas—what the blasphemers called the onta. Everything cast shadows across the Outside, where the Gods moved. With shaking hands he pulled out his humble ancestor lists and whispered the names, pausing to beg his great-grandfather to intercede on his behalf.
“Strength,” he murmured. “Please, strength . . .”
The small scroll clattered to the floor. The silence was complete, oppressive. His heart ached, so much was at stake. These were the events upon which the world turned. Enough for a Goddess.
“Please . . . Speak to me.”
Nothing.
Tears branched across his face. He raised his arms, held them open until his shoulders burned.
“Anything!” he cried.
Run, his thoughts whispered. Run.
Such a coward! How could he be such a coward?
Something behind him. The sound of flapping wings! Like the flutter of cloth among the towering pillars.
He turned his face to the shadowy ceiling, searching with his ears. Another flutter. Somewhere up in the clerestory. His skin prickled.
Is that you?
No.
Always doubting. Why was he always doubting?
Stumbling to his feet, he hastened from the godhouse. The temple gate had been closed, and the doorkeepers were nowhere to be seen. In a few moments he located the narrow stair that led up through the wall to the clerestory balconies. Midway up the stair the darkness became pitch. He paused for a moment and breathed deeply. The air smelled of dust.
The uncertainty, always so powerful in him, was snuffed out.
It’s you!
His head was buzzing with rapture by the time he crested the stairs. The door to the balcony was ajar. Greyish light sifted through the opening. Finally—after all his love, all his time—Onkis would sing to him instead of through. Tentatively, he stepped out onto the balcony. He licked his lips, his stomach leaping.
He could hear the roar of the rainfall through the stone. The pillar capitals were the first things to resolve from the gloom, then the ceiling looming close above. It seemed unnatural for so much weight to be suspended so high. The trunks of the columns gradually grew brighter as they fell out of sight. The light from below was distant and diffuse, as soft as the worn edges of the stonework.
The balcony railing had an aura of dizziness, so he kept his back to the wall. The masonry seemed brittle, chapped ancient in the gloom. The wall frescoes had fallen off in sloughs. The ceiling was encrus
ted with hundreds of clay hornet’s nests, and he was reminded of the barnacled hulls of warships hauled onto beach sand.
“Where are you?” he whispered.
Then he saw it, and horror throttled him.
It stood a short distance away, perched on the railing, watching him with shiny blue eyes. It had the body of a crow, but its head was small, bald, and human—about the size of a child’s fist. Stretching thin lips over tiny, perfect teeth, it smiled.
Sweet-Sejenus-oh-God-it-can’t-be-it-can’t-be!
A parody of surprise flashed across the miniature face. “You know what I am,” it said in a papery voice. “How?” can’t-be-cannot-be-Consult-here-no-no-no!
“Because,” another voice replied, “he was once one of Achamian’s students.” The speaker had been concealed in the shadows farther down the clerestory. He now walked into the dim light.
Cutias Sarcellus smiled in greeting. “Weren’t you, Inrau?”
A Knight-Commander consorting with a Consult Synthese?
Akka-akka-save-me!
Nightmarish terror and disbelief, stealing breath, panicking thought. Inrau staggered backward. The floor reeled. The sound of iron grating against stone behind him made him cry out. He whirled and saw another Shrial Knight stride from the darkness. He knew this one as well: Mujonish, who had accompanied him on tithe collections in the past. The man approached, his stance wary and his arms wide, as though he herded a dangerous bull.
What was happening? Onkis?
“As you can see,” the crow-bodied Synthese said, “there’s no place for you to go.”
“Who?” Inrau managed to gasp. He could see the mark of sorcery now, the scar tissue of the Cants used to bind someone’s soul to the abominable vessel before him. How had he missed it?
“He knows this form is but a shell,” the Synthese said to Sarcellus, “but I don’t see Chigra within him.” The pea-sized eyes—little beads of sky blue glass—turned to Inrau. “Hmm, boy? You don’t dream the Dream like the others, do you? If you did, you would recognize me. Chigra never failed to recognize me.”
Onkis? Treacherous-god-bitch!
Through the terror an impossible certainty seized him. A revelation. Words of prayer had become tissue. Beneath he sensed other words, words of power.
“What do you want?” Inrau asked, his voice steadier this time. “What are you doing here?” He cared nothing for the answer, and everything for the time.
please-remember-please-remember . . .
“Doing? Why, what our kind always does: overseeing our stake in these affairs.” It pursed its lips over its tiny teeth, but sourly, as though displeased by their taste. “No different, I suppose, from what you were doing in the Shriah’s apartments, hmm?”
Breathing had become painful. He could not speak.
yes-yes-yes-that’s-it-that’s-it-but-what-comes-next? What-comes-after?
“Tsk, tsk,” Sarcellus said, edging closer. “I’m afraid this is partially my fault, Old Father. Some weeks ago I bid the young apostle to be industrious.”
“So it is your fault,” the Synthese said with the miniature mockery of a scowl. It clicked several feet down the railing to follow Inrau’s retreat. “Without direction, he simply threw his ardour into the wrong vocation. Spying on the God, rather than praying to Him.” A small snort, like a cat’s sneeze. “Ah, you see, Inrau? You’ve absolutely nothing to fear. The Knight-Commander bears the responsibility.”
that’s-it-that’s-it-that’s-it!
Inrau sensed Mujonish looming behind. Prayer seized his tongue. Blasphemy tumbled from his lips.
Turning with sorcerous speed, he punched two fingers through Mujonish’s chain mail, cracked his breastbone, then seized his heart. He yanked his hand free, drawing a cord of glittering blood into the air. More impossible words. The blood burst into incandescent flame, followed his sweeping hand toward the Synthese. Shrieking, the creature dove from the railing into emptiness. Blinding beads of blood cracked bare stone.
He would have turned to Sarcellus, but the sight of Mujonish stilled him. The Shrial Knight had stumbled to his knees, wiping his bloody hands on his surcoat. Then, as though spilling from a bladder, his face simply fell apart, dropping outward, unclutching . . .
No mark. Not the faintest whisper of sorcery.
But how?
Something struck him hard about the head, and he toppled. Scrambling. A blow to his stomach sent him rolling. He glimpsed Sarcellus’s shadowy form dancing about him. He gasped more words—words of shelter. Ghostly Wards leapt about him . . .
But they were useless. Reaching through the luminescent panes as though they were smoke, the Knight-Commander seized him about the throat and heaved him into the air. He raised a Chorae in his other hand, whisked it over Inrau’s cheek.
Searing agony. The stone floor slammed into Inrau’s face. He clutched at the pain. The skin flaked away beneath his fingers, transformed into salt by the Chorae’s touch. The exposed flesh burned. He cried out again.
“You will relent!” he heard the Synthese cry.
Never.
Glaring at the hateful thing, Inrau resumed his blasphemous song. He saw the sun shining through the windows of its face. Too late.
Lights like a thousand hooks lanced from the Synthese’s mouth. Inrau’s Wards cracked and splintered in a blinding chatter. Then his song was choked from his lips. The air smothered him with the density of water. He floated off the clerestory floor. Streams of silvery bubbles were drawn from his gaping mouth to break against the ceiling. The weight of an ocean crushed him with an embalming fist.
At first he was calm. He watched the Synthese land on the Knight’s shoulder and regard him with tiny blue button eyes. He admired the black of its feathers, shot through with glassy hints of purple. He thought of Achamian, hapless, oblivious to the peril.
Oh, Akka! It’s worse than you dared imagine.
But there was nothing to be done.
His throat tightening, Inrau’s thoughts turned to the Goddess, to her infidelities and to his. But his heart pounded more and more pressure into his skull until his lips curled and opened. Then he collapsed into thrashing madness, his idiot thoughts sure that somewhere there was some surface to break, some opening to air. A raw, irresistible reflex opened his lungs. Gagging convulsions, water like a sock in his throat, jerking in a haze of white beads . . .
Then hard floor, coughing, burning, choking air.
Sarcellus dragged him to his knees by his hair, wrenched his face toward the hazy blur of the Synthese. Inrau vomited, hacked more fire out of his lungs.
“I’m an Old Name,” the tiny face said. “Even wearing this shell, I could show you the Agonies, Mandate fool.”
“Wuh . . .” Inrau swallowed. Sobbed. “Why?”
Again the thin, tiny smile. “You worship suffering. Why do you think?”
Monumental rage filled him. It didn’t understand! It didn’t understand. With a coughing roar, he lurched forward, yanking his hair from his scalp. The Synthese seemed to flicker out of his path, but it wasn’t its death he sought. Any price, old teacher. The stone rail slammed against his hips, broke like cake. Again he was floating, but it was so different—air whipping across his face, bathing his body. With a single outstretched hand, Paro Inrau followed a pillar to the earth.
PART II:
The Emperor
CHAPTER FIVE
MOMEMN
The difference between the strong emperor and the weak is simply this: the former makes the world his arena, while the latter makes it his harem.
—CASIDAS, THE ANNALS OF CENEI
What the Men of the Tusk never understood was that the Nansur and the Kianene were old enemies. When two civilized peoples find themselves at war for centuries, any number of common interests will arise in the midst of their greater antagonism. Ancestral foes share many things: mutual respect, a common history, triumph in stalemate, and a plethora of unspoken truces. The Men of the Tusk were interlopers, an impertinent
flood that threatened to wash away the observed channels of a far older enmity.
—DRUSAS ACHAMIAN, COMPENDIUM OF THE FIRST HOLY WAR
Early Summer, 4110 Year-of-the-Tusk, Momemn
Designed to capture the setting sun, the Imperial Audience Hall possessed no walls behind the Emperor’s raised dais. Sunlight streamed into the vaulted interior, shining across the marmoreal pillars of the concourse and gilding the tapestries suspended between them. A breeze tousled the smoke from censers arrayed about the dais, mingling the scent of fragrant oils with that of sky and sea.
“Any word of my nephew?” Ikurei Xerius III asked Skeaös, his Prime Counsel. “Anything from Conphas?”
“No, God-of-Men,” the old man replied. “But all is well. I’m certain of it.”
Xerius pursed his lips, doing his best to appear serene. “You may proceed, Skeaös.”
With a swish of his silken robes, the wizened Counsel turned to the other functionaries assembled about the dais. For as long as Xerius could remember, he’d always been surrounded by soldiers, ambassadors, slaves, spies, and astrologers . . . For as long as he could remember, he’d been the centre of this scuttling herd, the peg from which the tattered mantle of Empire hung. Now it suddenly struck him that he’d never looked into any of their eyes—not once. Matching the Emperor’s gaze was forbidden to those without Imperial Blood. The thought horrified him.
Save for Skeaös, I know none of these people.
The Prime Counsel addressed them. “This will be unlike any audience you’ve ever attended. As you know, the first of the great Inrithi lords has arrived. We are the portal through which he and his peers must pass before joining the Holy War. We cannot bar or tax their passage, but we can influence them, make them see that our interests coincide with what is right and what is true. As the audience proceeds, be silent. Do not fidget. Do not move. Cultivate a look of stern compassion. If the fool signs the Indenture, then and only then will we dispense with protocol. You may mingle with his entourage, share in whatever food or drink the slaves offer. But ration your words. Reveal nothing. Nothing. You may think you stand outside the circle of these events, but you do not. You are the circle. Make no mistake, my friends, the Empire itself lies in the balance.”
The Darkness That Comes Before Page 13