Aching God

by Mike Shel

  27

  Phantom

  Most of the clergy resident at St. Besh assembled again in the priory’s tabernacle for the funerary rites of Prior Quintus. Wallach and Sister Sin Eater were still absent, presumably tending the transgressions of the old man’s long life. Though the deceased prior’s service was more formal than the farewell for Del Ogara, it scarcely took more time. A few apropos scriptures read, a requiem chant recited, the sprinkling of aromatic chips of wood within the coffin, and the ritual was done. All that remained was for six priests to shoulder the coffin down the broad steps into the priory’s crypts, led by Brother Oslen, waving a brass censer trailing smoky incense. The new prior and sub-prior brought up the rear of the procession, descending into burial vaults as old as the house itself, stones laid in place over seven centuries ago.

  While the other priests left the sanctuary after those bearing the body of Quintus Valec disappeared into the depths of the crypts, the Syraeics waited above. Auric was still lost in his thoughts about Del’s brief ceremony and his responsibility for these remaining young agents, as well as Belech. But each had demonstrated skill. All of them were quick-thinking, and there was certainly no shortage of courage. While Gnaeus had proven that he was somewhat impulsive and his judgment compromised by liquor, he was no foolish showboat in the fight against the pirates. Instead, he displayed real talent for swiftly identifying and exploiting an opponent’s weaknesses. Lumari was frightfully clever in her employment of alchemical agents and had a strong arm with uncanny aim. Sira’s ability to heal was nothing short of astonishing, her speed and capacity as great as any priest of Belu he had ever known, despite her youth. Belech—well, Belech was a soldier, and he fought like one, wordlessly coordinating with his fellows in a way that was natural, augmenting their collective strength. This was a gifted assembly, comprised of people who worked very well together, despite the fact they had known one another only a short time.

  What’s your real worry, old man? Auric asked himself. If he was being honest with himself, he had to admit: It’s me. As a test, he held out his left hand, watched it tremble slightly, then his right, the tremor there more pronounced. Auric didn’t bother concealing this self-assessment. The others were lost in their own thoughts.

  Just as well.

  There had been no humiliating display of his own demons, deficiencies, whatever they were, since the sleeping cubicle at the Blue Cathedral. He hadn’t needed Belech to wrench him, whimpering like a frightened child, from beneath a bed. He had acquitted himself well with the manticores. Was his affliction passed? No, he decided. Neither of those encounters cast reflections of the great Barrowlands horror that had cost all his long-time expeditionary companions their lives. That was the difference. When he tried to amputate Sira’s leg, he had flashed back to another encounter that had nearly been the end of Lenda, Sira looking so much like his dead sister. And the nightmare, well. The nightmare had disturbed his nights many times since, true, but there had been no waking manifestations like what had happened in the woods.

  And then he thought of the blade. Szaa’da’shaela. Was it somehow dampening his affliction? And yet, he hadn’t wielded it aboard the Duke Yaryx. No sign of cowardice or panic from him when they fought the pirates. But the Djao sword…he touched the pommel of the weapon, now at his side, felt the facets of the gem inset. He jerked his fingers away, feeling foolish.

  A part of him considered a preparatory prayer of some sort. But to which god? Belu? Vanic? Some combination of intercessory saints? No. It would be more superstition than faith, an exercise in shallow exigency. He thought of the faiths of Brenten, Meric, Ursula, Lenda. All of them were devout, at least more so than he had ever been. What did it avail them in the hour of their most desperate need? Savaged, brutally torn apart, a meal made of their flesh by the abominable animated corpses in that sunken Djao temple.

  He had benefited from the bounty of Belu many times in his life, received healing of lacerations, broken bones, torn ligaments, a troubling fever. He’d kept the major religious holidays, made a sacrifice of atonement at the altar of Marcator when he’d run afoul of some law, given alms and prayers to Lalu during the first year of his marriage to assure a happy union. And they were happy, at least when he was home, and before Tomas was killed. Was Marta lonely those long weeks he was away, crawling into some crumbling ruin? Was it her solicitous prayers to Belu and Lalu that saved his skin time and again?

  And then he found his thoughts turning to Captain Hraea, and the man’s talk of the forbidding sea gods feared by every honest sailor of Hanifax—Babaloc, Purraa, Ushunor. They made sacrifices to those changeable demigods, though not out of devotion. What had Hraea called it?

  Paying ransom.

  “Do not drown me, mighty gods of the sea! If I am spared I will sacrifice a flawless white lamb to you when I am next docked in Braekirk. Or I will tithe a tenth of my earnings from the voyage to your temple, if only you allow me to reach Ulseamuthe safely.”

  Were all prayers to any god no more than begging for mercy? From beings who possessed the power to make all suffering vanish if they saw fit to do so? Would he not end unnecessary pain for humankind if he had the power to grant it? Was devotion to the gods something so crude? A protection racket run by capricious, almighty thugs who lacked the elementary human kindness to alleviate suffering without abject pleading, or some form of payment?

  The head of Prior Colette, taller even than the male priests who had borne the body of Quintus to his sepulcher, appeared bobbing up the steps. Auric shook away his morbid thoughts. It was time. The pallbearers bowed with respect to the prior and filed out of the tabernacle, nodding to Sister Teelu, who returned their acknowledgements as they passed. Prior Colette, hands folded at her breast, smiled her sublime smile at them, then gave a slow nod. Teelu stood next to her, an image of dutiful attendance.

  “Our ceremonies are complete,” said the prior. “Quintus Valec is secure in his sarcophagus; the stone slab is in place. I’ll escort you now to the gate.”

  She held up the iron key that only moments before had hung around the neck of Prior Quintus. Auric looked at the faces of his colleagues. Sira was smiling her crooked smile, Gnaeus had a look of boyish eagerness, Lumari predictably tapped a pair of glass vials together, Belech slapped the flanged head of Busy Marlu into his palm. Auric again placed his left hand on the pommel of his Djao blade: Szaa’da’shaela.

  If you truly house a spirit of the Netherworld, he thought, let’s hope you’re on my side. Let that be my prayer.

  “Prior Colette,” he said as calmly as he could manage, “lead the way.”

  They descended the steps. Brightly lit torches in black iron sconces already illuminated the burial crypts. The first alcove they came to was a grand affair. Lesser Djao script was carved on the slab, in addition to bas relief sculptures of weeping seraphim, leering skulls, and intertwined flowers on the walls and sides of the sarcophagus, painted in fading hues. A veritable forest of deep yellow votive candles burned in several brass stands.

  “St. Besh himself, buried in this alcove,” said Prior Colette, who paused with respect, as though at a shrine. “The namesake of our order accompanied King Coryth the Revelator. This was before he was king, on his expedition into the Barrowlands sponsored by Lord Syraea, from whom your League takes its name. Blessed Coryth brought back to Hanifax the gods to whom we pay homage, Besh at his side, along with his other intimates. Besh is buried with his lover, Alcan Urbis. You may recognize that name—Urbis—from the League’s own history. He was one of the twelve knight-founders of your Citadel.”

  Auric looked at the burial tableau more out of politeness than genuine interest. There would be more than enough melancholic death symbology where they were going—the Djao were mad for it.

  Colette identified a few other notables as they passed more alcoves, more sarcophagi, but didn’t take the time to stop before them, for which Auric was grateful—t
he aim of their expedition was tantalizingly close. But at last she did stop, before a pair of sarcophagi, the one on the right festooned with fresh laurel leaves.

  “Prior Quintus lies here now,” she said in a thoughtful tone, laying a hand on the plain slab. “Brother Mason will carve an epitaph into the stone when time permits. For now, she worries about repairs to the priory above after the destruction caused by the quake.”

  “Who is buried in the other tomb here?” asked Sira, running a hand along its smooth, unblemished stone.

  “That sarcophagus is for Prior Quintus’s successor,” she said, smiling with an air of introspection. “Strange, to look upon the place where your own body is destined for interment. Somehow, there’s some measure of comfort in that.”

  “Bloody creepy, if you ask me,” Gnaeus whispered in Auric’s ear. Auric ignored the blond swordsman’s quip.

  The seven of them passed five more unoccupied sarcophagi before reaching a wall that had been battered down, the rubble cleared away long ago. The prior pulled a torch from its sconce and stepped over the four-inch lip of stone at the opening’s base, warning the rest not to trip over the obstruction.

  “Thirty-three years ago, when the priory meant to expand its crypts,” said the prelate as she led them down a wide corridor paved with ancient flagstones, “they took down that wall, thinking they would carve out space for additional burial alcoves. Instead, they discovered the wall hid an entrance to the Djao temple you now seek. A barrier was erected following the failure of the first expedition.”

  As she spoke of it, that barrier came into view, set in the irregular stone: fat columns of dark iron barring further progress. The gate itself was only four and a half feet tall. The prior retrieved the key from about her neck and inserted it into the locking mechanism, turning it to the left. There was a loud metallic clang that echoed down the corridors and crypt niches.

  “Lalu’s mercy follow you down,” said the prelate, making a simple circular gesture of blessing in the air before them with two fingers. “Teelu and I can follow you no further. And, of course, we must lock the gate behind you. We will post a brother or sister here constantly, for when you return. Teelu takes the first watch.”

  The sub-prior smiled at them warmly, gave a brief bow. “I’ll keep a vigil for you all, with prayers for mercy and peace from Lalu and whatever other good gods listen.”

  “I understand, prior,” said Auric, solemn. “Thank you, Sister Teelu, and thank you Prior Colette, both for your blessing and your consent.” He gave the woman a deep bow, then turned to his companions, his look full of meaning. “We’ve arrived, friends. Let’s do what we came here to do.”

  Auric directed his companions to check their gear one last time, not because it was necessary, but as a means of distracting them from the sound of Prior Colette locking the gate behind them. Teelu sat on the cold flagstones, directly beside the iron bars, and began her prayers, head bowed, palms outstretched as if ready to catch blessings from above, lips moving rapidly with sacred whispers.

  Lumari drew three glow-rods from her pack and cracked them on the stony floor one at a time, handing one to Belech, another to Gnaeus, and keeping the last for herself. Their white chemical radiance revealed the ancient cracks in the walls and the bits of mortar that had fallen from between its stones. Auric felt some gratitude that whatever formula she employed didn’t cast the green illumination that Brenten’s had. One less parallel with which his mind had to contend.

  The flagstone corridor turned and widened after fifty feet, so that at last it felt more like an irregular chamber, the stones forming its walls strangely shaped, each one unique, as though they were pieces of an improbable puzzle. The ceiling was relatively low, only seven feet above, giving the space an oppressive, claustrophobic feel. On the far wall was the entrance: a circular opening six feet in diameter, a disk of dark iron covering two-thirds of the space. Auric flashed back involuntarily to the Djao ruins where Lenda and the rest had met their grisly ends.

  Just a few more moments now and the choice is made for you.

  He suppressed a shudder, feeling his heart begin to pound, felt himself break out in a cold sweat. They were still twenty feet from the iron disk when Gnaeus held his arm across Auric’s path, halting their progress.

  “Someone’s there,” said the blond swordsman in a stage whisper.

  In a moment, Auric saw it, too. A tall, white-haired man standing near the iron disk with his back to the party, clad in pale blue robes, slowly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He held a long string of woven laurel leaves in his right hand, while his left hand clenched and unclenched mechanically. Sira stepped next to Auric, a sprig of laurel held in her hand.

  “Who are you, friend?” she asked in her kindest voice.

  The figure flickered, like a projection of light briefly interrupted as someone passed before its source. It seemed to stiffen momentarily at the sound of the priest’s words, then resumed its strange movements, standing inches from the entrance to the ancient temple.

  “I think I have an idea who this is,” said Gnaeus, stepping forward. “Didn’t we just lay you to rest, papa? Shouldn’t you be singing blue hymns with the celestial choirs and all Belu’s angels?”

  Sira caught hold of Gnaeus’s shirt sleeve. “Do not mock this phantom,” she said in hushed tones. “We witness a rare thing indeed: the initial manifestation of a haunting presence. See how he strains to gain his bearings?”

  The figure reached up with its left hand to touch the wall. Though it had no physical form, its palm seemed to meet the stone and began caressing it in a halting circular motion. A sudden low moan came from it, sending a chill down Auric’s spine.

  “Well, what is he?” asked Gnaeus in irritation. “A ghost? A shade? Earn your coin, Sira! Send him off to the Afterlands of Honey and Song, by Vanic’s balls!”

  “It’s not that simple, lad,” said Auric, keeping his voice gentle. “It’s too early to tell what this manifestation will become. She can dispel him no more than you can dispel a fog by waving your hand at it.”

  “Quintus Valec,” said Sira, striding into the lead again, approaching the phantom with slow, graceful steps. “I am Sira Edjani, of the Blue Cathedral in Boudun, come here on the business of the church and the Syraeic League. Will you let us pass?”

  The ghostly image seemed to hear Sira’s words, stopped stroking the stony wall, stopped shifting its weight. With great slowness, as though the act caused it pain, it turned to face her and the rest of them. It was Quintus Valec, with his distinctive silky beard, clad in his priestly robes, but his face was terribly gaunt and his eyes nothing more than empty black sockets. Most ominously, a large, ragged “X” crossed over his heart, the color of a bloodstain on his ceremonial clothing.

  “Like the mural,” Belech whispered.

  “Be careful, Lenda,” Auric said softly, realizing his error almost as soon as the name left his tongue.

  The phantom of Quintus Valec seemed to stare at Sira, despite its lack of eyes. Its lips moved, mouthing words that had no sound.

  “What does he say?” asked Belech, breathless.

  “‘Stop,’” answered Sira. “I think he’s saying, ‘stop,’ over and over. It’s all he can manage at this point in his existence as a bodiless spirit.”

  “Is this necessary, then?” asked Gnaeus in a tone that dripped with annoyance. “If he can do nothing to harm us or interfere with our progress, let’s just walk past the misty bastard.”

  “This is a delicate and potentially dangerous moment for this spirit and us,” said Sira with some exasperation. “And we owe it to the man as a brother of the League to manage it with some care.”

  “The man rejected the League,” said Lumari flatly. “And he made it his life’s work to hinder getting to the bottom of the original mess he played a role in creating. My patience for coddling is at a low ebb, I
must admit.”

  “Sister Lumari with the scripture,” added Gnaeus.

  “What do you suggest we do?” Auric asked the priest, putting his trust in her judgment.

  Sira expelled a long breath through her nostrils. Setting down her buckler, which Gnaeus had pronounced pitifully inadequate when she had showed it to him earlier, she reached in her pale blue robes and withdrew a stole, deeper blue in color and embroidered with Belu’s sacred roses. She draped the vestment around her neck with nimble fingers.

  “You recognize this, Brother Quintus?” she asked, taking another step forward. “A stole blessed for the casting out of unclean spirits and souls trapped between this world and the next. You are the latter, I think. It is too early for me to release you from this vigil here, but you are not without the power to leave, to go forward of your own volition, beyond the Final Veil.”

  The phantom’s brows furrowed, giving its eyeless sockets a more sinister cast. It curled back its lips and opened its mouth impossibly wide, craning its neck forward as though screaming at Sira. Though no sound emerged from its ghostly mouth, Sira recoiled and held the hand clasping the laurel sprig to her face, as if to shield herself from the spirit’s sudden malevolence.

  “Asomatous annihilation!” she cried out in a husky voice.

  The ghostly form grew, expanding while becoming more transparent, whatever comprised the spirit seeming to grow thinner. Auric and the others fell to their knees, as though swatted down by an enormous, unseen hand. The space became so cold Auric watched his breath cloud before him as he exhaled, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. The pale illumination from Lumari’s glow-rods was extinguished, and for a few seconds they were engulfed by darkness. But then there was an abrupt eruption of stinging blue light, so that Auric had to shield his eyes. A shimmering dome had sprung from Sira’s upraised hand, still clutching her sacred laurel sprig, its light descending over them like a protective, translucent lid.