‘A letter taken from a courier at the tower north of here.’
Carnelian rose, his heart beating, having a presentiment of disaster. He put on his mask, then crossed to Osidian, stooped to retrieve the mask from where Osidian had let it fall. He covered the face gleaming with sweat with the serene one of gold, bound it on, then he gave Morunasa leave to climb up.
He appeared like a black sun and seemed the very heart of the night. As he approached, Carnelian put out his hand and Morunasa, reluctantly, gave the letter to him. In his hand it felt as smooth as his own skin. Carnelian turned it and saw the large seal clinging to it. Two faces looking away from each other. His throat grew dry, even as his hands moistened. Though he had not seen this seal before, it clearly had something to do with the Imperial Power.
He looked at Morunasa. ‘Do the other Masters know of this?’
‘No.’
They both flinched as a paler shadow rose beside them. Osidian raised a ghostly hand. ‘Give it to me.’
His voice was hollow, dull. Carnelian gave him the letter. A sense of crisis saturated the air like an anticipation of lightning. A pair of eyes that floated nearly disembodied in the dark reminded him of Morunasa’s presence. The last thing they needed was another witness. ‘You may leave, Morunasa.’
The man stood looking at Osidian as if he had not heard.
‘Leave now,’ Carnelian said. Stress suffused his voice with menace. Morunasa turned to him. For a moment it seemed he would defy him, but soon he had slipped out of sight.
Osidian sank to the platform and put the letter down before him. He reached behind his head to release the bindings of his mask. Carnelian saw how the last living colour had drained from Osidian’s face, how he was regarding the letter with the eyes of a corpse. Reaching out he took it, broke the seal, unfolded the parchment, turned it to the light and read. Carnelian watched his face harden until it was stone. He could bear to wait no longer. ‘What is it?’
Osidian handed Carnelian the letter. The glyphs were exquisitely formed. For a moment Carnelian was confronted by the unblinking, probing eyes of its faces, then they began making sounds in his mind.
Following treasonous, rash actions by the Wise, We
Carnelian stared at the glyph: the divine, dual ‘We’ that only a God Emperor or the Twins Themselves could use. He grew cold. From Molochite, then. He continued reading.
We have been forced to act in haste to secure the defence of holy Osrakum left sinfully defenceless by the reckless sending forth of the Red Ichorians against a foul Rebel who has been allowed to rise against Us. Fear not for the immediate sanctity of the Hidden Land, for we have taken the precaution of securing the Gates. Neither should you fear this change. We intend to abolish the distinction between you and the unworthy Great. Henceforth shall you be entitled to vote in Holy Elections. Further, so that your House shall be suitably provided with slaves and riches, We shall double the flesh tithe and the taxes on the cities. To those of you who serve Us most ardently We shall not only gift you the daughters of the Great but, to the most deserving among you, We shall give access to the daughters of Our House that Our blood fire shall burn more brightly in the veins of your offspring.
Fear only the Rebel who treacherously destroyed the Red Ichorians and, even now, advances upon Us with stolen legions and a plague of barbarians.
Hasten hither with all your strength that We might together destroy his pretensions and then wreak a terror of retribution against all who have dared rise against the Chosen and so restore harmonious peace to our Commonwealth.
Carnelian lost his focus on the glyphs. His worst fears had come to pass. Molochite had taken the Three Gates as Legions had prophesied. He had removed any possibility of the Lesser Chosen supporting Osidian by enfranchising them himself and had summoned them all to Osrakum with their legions, so as to use their overwhelming strength to crush Osidian’s rebellion. Carnelian suppressed a sweating surge of panic. Most terrible of all, news of this disaster had reached Osidian while the Lepers were still here, within reach of his flame-pipes. Carnelian prepared himself, then looked round. So great was Osidian’s wrath, it seemed to be streaming from his body as dark pinions. Carnelian feared that anything he might say could unleash a massacre. His first instinct sickened him. Murder. No. Osidian dead, Aurum would be unchained, Morunasa too. He could not hope to control them both. Somehow, Osidian had to be engaged, his black passions turned away from bloodshed. ‘What are we going to do?’
Osidian spoke, staring blindly. ‘He sent this to me.’
‘Who?’
‘It is in his own hand.’
Carnelian glanced at the glyphs then back at Osidian. His fear grew as he sensed the madness in him rising. ‘Surely this was meant for a Legate?’
Osidian’s eyes sharpened and fell ravenously upon Carnelian. ‘Look at the seal!’
Carnelian disengaged from that glare with difficulty. He folded the parchment, bringing the two halves of the seal together. Each half of the seal bore a face. Carnelian looked up, agonized at not understanding him.
Osidian’s face dissolved into an exasperation that seemed close to tears. ‘It has been turned on its side, deliberately, so that the heads would be separated by the opening of the letter. His is the green head; mine the black. It is his declaration of war.’
Carnelian glanced back at the seal, certain of Osidian’s madness. If anything it seemed a splitting in two of the Twins. Osidian mumbling made Carnelian look up again. Words were escaping from Osidian in a shapeless, meandering rant. Carnelian tried to make sense of it: claims that he had always bested his brother; resentment that Molochite had always been his mother’s pet.
Osidian shook his head. ‘This time will be no different. I shall overcome him.’
Relief released Carnelian. ‘So we are still going to march on Osrakum?’
Osidian gave no sign that he had heard. ‘He will have overwhelming force, but I shall have my Father with me.’
Carnelian’s dread returned with redoubled strength. Osidian was nodding, leering. ‘I shall feed Him and He will inhabit me.’
Carnelian felt he was drowning, flailing. ‘We’re tired,’ he heard himself say, ‘exhausted. We will see more clearly in the morning. Now we need sleep.’
His tone soothed them both and so he kept it up, smoothing his speech into a lullaby of persuasion. Slowly, the madness drained away from Osidian’s eyes. His face softened until he looked more like himself. Carnelian helped him up, digging his shoulder into Osidian’s armpit, maintaining a constant, droning flow of words as, with the homunculus’ help, he began to half drag, half carry Osidian back to his cell.
Carnelian watched Osidian drift into a troubled sleep, thinking how easy it would be to kill him. The same logic as before would have been enough to stay his hand, but there was added poignancy in how much Osidian, glazed with sweat, twitching, resembled the fevered boy Carnelian and Fern had nursed down from the Guarded Land. Carnelian bore a share in all his crimes. He was glad he had that logic to lean on, to justify him avoiding an act he had no stomach for – not now, nor ever before when it might have saved the Tribe. He was glad he had not been lying to Osidian: it would be easier to face what had to be done in the morning. He had a focus. He had to nurse Osidian’s rage against his brother enough to get them all – dragons, Masters, auxiliaries, Morunasa and Marula – north and safely away from the Lepers before anyone else learned what had happened in Osrakum.
He turned away from Osidian, exhausted. Something was crouching in a corner. The homunculus.
‘Master, my masters have not yet been drugged.’
Carnelian hung his head and wondered if he cared. What if Legions and the other Sapients should awake? For a moment that thought brought hope. The Grand Sapient might know something that could be done. Had he not asked to return to Osrakum? At the very least he would be someone to whom he could talk, someone who would understand. He shook his head. This was not some friendly uncle. This was a creature
soaked through with guile and unfathomable motives. Carnelian’s only remaining hope was that he would be able to contain and guide Osidian. An intervention by the Grand Sapient could send the whole situation careering even further out of control.
Heavily, he rose. ‘Let’s do it, then.’
He took the homunculus’ hand to guide him out of the cell. Once they came into that of the Sapients Carnelian masked, to allow the homunculus to see. He leaned against a wall watching the little man advance upon the Grand Sapient’s capsule. He broke the seal and pulled the lid open. He reached up to coax a yellow bead into his hand and climbed up, reaching for the chin of the long silver mask.
Legions’ hands struck like snakes. Carnelian let out a cry of shock even as the homunculus pulled himself free and fell to the floor. The pale, bony fingers combed the air and then, slowly, came back to settle their heels upon the Grand Sapient’s ribs, open, facing each other.
The homunculus turned to stare at Carnelian, a rictus of horror fixed deep into the wrinkles of his face. ‘Master?’
Carnelian willed his heart to slow, tried to list all the dangers, but it was a desire to talk to someone, anyone, that made him nod. The homunculus frowned, jerked a bow, then backed towards the capsule, clambered up and settled his neck into the waiting hands. Immediately they snapped closed around his throat with such force the homunculus let out a choked cry, his hands jumping up as if to tear the fingers away. The grip loosened and the homunculus relaxed and gave out a long gasp that did not seem his own. The sound a man might make reaching air after a desperate struggle in drowning depths.
‘What has happened?’ the homunculus said.
Still alarmed, Carnelian was trying to make sense of this. ‘Have you just woken?’
Legions’ hands jerked instructions. ‘For three days I have been awake, listening for the vibration of your tread, Suth Carnelian.’
The homunculus’ eyes had a spider gleam that seemed to belong to his master. Carnelian’s mind raced, trying to understand. ‘Homunculus, is it possible he could avoid swallowing the drug?’
The homunculus began an answer, but Legions strangled it. ‘What has happened?’ he demanded.
Carnelian tried to work out what to do, but his thoughts slipped and fell against each other. He was too tired to think properly. In the end, he began to relate the content of the letter. As he did so, he watched a tremor creep into Legions’ pallid fingers. The homunculus’ echoing murmur ceased and he looked confused. He raised a hand to ask Carnelian to wait. Then he lost focus as he listened to the play of fingers upon his neck. He began murmuring again, then indicated for Carnelian to continue.
When he reached the end of what he had to relate, he fell silent. The murmuring continued for a while, then abruptly ceased. The Grand Sapient’s grip released. His hands and arms fell away, to dangle lifelessly.
The hopelessness in that gesture struck Carnelian in the chest. He had not realized until that moment how much his view of things depended upon the unshakeable certainties of the Wise. Without that it seemed the very foundations of the earth must soften and fail.
He clapped his hands to get the attention of the homunculus, who was craning round, slack-jawed, to gaze up at its master. As the little man looked at him, Carnelian instructed him with gestures. The homunculus gave a nod and then reached out to take first one of his master’s hands, then the other, shaping the fingers around his neck.
‘Can nothing be done?’ Carnelian asked. As the homunculus murmured, Carnelian watched anxiously as if he were petitioning an oracle.
The homunculus fell silent and they both waited. Slowly, Legions’ fingers began to work. ‘Nothing,’ said the homunculus.
It became important to Carnelian to do for the Grand Sapient’s spirit what he had asked the homunculus to do for his hands. ‘Surely Molochite can still be defeated?’
The pallid fingers did not move.
‘What if you could have access to the heliograph here on the roof?’
No movement.
‘What if I made arrangements for you to return to Osrakum tonight?’
The fingers came alive. ‘So many legions could not be gathered effectively without the coordination of the Domain Legions and that is nothing more than an extension of the mind of its Grand Sapient. My brethren have had no choice but to elect a new Legions. I am dead. The living heed not the dead.’
Carnelian persisted, needing words to fill the void deepening within him. ‘We could get there before most of the legions reach Osrakum. Use the hollow crescent.’
‘Enough huimur would have reached there to confront you with a double line.’ The homunculus continued to speak, cutting off any questions. ‘Resign yourself. I have. Nothing can be done.’
A bleak silence fell.
‘Even Kakanxahe with all his legions failed to take Osrakum. What I did then, none could do again.’
Carnelian frowned. ‘What you did then?’
The fingers continued to work the throat of the homunculus. ‘You fought for eighteen years and nearly brought the Three Lands to waste. If I had not acted, the Commonwealth could have fallen. It was I who bound your passions with the bonds of reason. It was I who wrought the Balance of the Powers and, in so doing, ended the Civil War.’
Carnelian felt giddy. ‘But— What—? That is impossible. That would make you hundreds of years old.’
‘Child, I was born in Osrakum more than thirteen hundred years ago.’
Carnelian gaped, wondering if the strain of defeat and catastrophe had broken the Grand Sapient’s reason.
‘I have witnessed time like a tree. How ephemeral have seemed to me the lives of men. Almost forty Emperors I have made, have watched die, have buried in the Labyrinth and still have I endured.’
Carnelian’s mind was reeling. Could this possibly be true? He felt he was losing his grasp on reality. ‘How is it possible that the Chosen have forgotten who you are?’
The chin of the long silver mask began nodding as a choking sound came from behind it. Carnelian watched this new sign with a foreboding that turned to horror as he realized the Grand Sapient was laughing. ‘Do you imagine that mortals have the continuity of memory that do the Wise? Your short spans ensure that the passing down of the past is a fragile process, a process we have manipulated. It is the least of our skills. It is not difficult to encourage men to forget that which they would rather not know.’
Legions’ fingers stilled. Then they began flexing again, though more languidly. ‘But now that my great work is undone, was it worth the sacrifice I made? For my reward was to be put into lightless silence. A reward I bequeathed to all my kind. A gift that allowed our minds to span centuries.’
The homunculus paused, frowning.
‘I was first to be put into the darkness and though, for you, it was so long ago, for me it seems not so very long. I have not forgotten the blueness of those skies. The sweetness of the pomegranates of the Yden. And now that death is close, I want more life. For my years seem short to me. Without my senses to anchor me in the now, I have moved swiftly through my own, inner time. A life measured by thought and not the senses is exceeding short. And yet, a paradox: with my death, the ancient world that lives now solely in my mind will perish utterly.’
Silence fell, a silence in which Carnelian could hear only the subtle pulsing of his blood, his mind ensnared in the wonder and the melancholy of this oldest of men. At last Carnelian could no longer bear his sadness, his heavy heart. He left, hardly aware what he was doing, finding himself in his cell, sinking into the longed-for oblivion of sleep.
THE DREAM
Some say dreams are sent by the Gods
Others that they arise from within.
But surely what matters is whether they are true?
(a Quyan fragment)
RED SO DARK IT COULD BE BLACK. TASTES SALT. FLOATS, ANCHORED AT THE centre of the world. Its tiny sea pulsed by a slow, gentle drumbeat. Speeding up. The walls crush him. Impossible pressure. Squeezing
, squeezing. Rolling out, gasping, into sudden lurid light. The world stoops beneath the glowering sky. Thunder’s monstrous heartbeat. Lightning veins the tar-black clouds. Wet iron. Looking down he sees his hands gloved with sticky blood. Is he wounded? Guilty, the colour of slaughter itching his skin. The pallid land weeps blood. Ruby pebbles strew a plain that is matrixed bone. Blood dews into limbs. Limbs knit to form men. Not men, sartlar? Bestial brows conceal animal eyes. So numerous, their footfalls could be every wave detonating on every shore. A rumble swells to a thunderclap. Lightning flash. Two cedars, struck, burst into flames like banners in a gale. Fury high as mountains. Screaming incandescence connects earth and sky. It is possessed of sentience. Its face is brighter than the sun. Beauty so intense it impales his mind. Such power! God incarnate. Fearing blindness, his eyes veer away. They find a rim to that perfect face. Not a face, but a fiery mask that conceals a twisting face of smoke and rage. Revulsion boils his blood. The god, brow in the heavens, is drawing his spiralling substance from a pyre of burning men. Snapping like twigs, shrieking sparks, their suffering feeds the holy grandeur. Horror is pounding in his ears. Is it his own blood washing him away in its tide? He struggles to swim, but his body is a stone. To drink is to drown. His ears, trumpets, feed the roaring into him. The sea! The sea! From the oceanic red, an iron wall lofts high. Vast odour of liquid rust as it advances, combing the stars with its froth, to collapse its thunder into the pillar of fire and smoke. Reek of charring, screaming flesh. The pillared flame seems invincible, but there is too much blood. Light falters, gives way to black naphtha smoke, then is consumed in the tide. He sinks beneath the surface, too weary to fight any more. A warm hook of a hand pulls him out. He is in a pale boat that Fern is steering. Upon his face a smile that is all comfort, all peace, all love. They fish the clotting surge for Poppy and Krow and Lily and the Lepers and Sthax and his Marula and a multitude too numerous to count. Rowing the bone boat upon a red billow even as the sea hisses to dust; a sporestorm; a spitting plague of flies that wipe day to night, but seeing a narrow diamond light, he turns, pointing, then leads them up out of the blackness onto a fresh fernland. He gulps the perfumed breeze rippling through the spiralled green beneath a smiling sky.
The Third God Page 49