The Third God sdotc-3

by Ricardo Pinto

  ‘Having recast our calculations, taking into account your true birth, everything at last makes sense. High-blood birth on the chaotic cusp incident on a God Emperor’s death is a powerful enough input, but when combined with that of twins spanning a fault line, the consequences are catastrophic. Even then, had we known, had we had time to prepare, we could have avoided the abyss. We could have arranged it so that you would have succeeded your father and, with the sacrifice of the twins at your Apotheosis, we should have certainly healed the rift with minimal perturbation to the Balance.’

  Carnelian floundered in this glimpse of timelines and how the past might have been rewoven to so profoundly change the present.

  ‘But we believe, child, it is not too late. Though he whom the Gods protect none can harm, he has the power to harm himself if he wills it.’

  Carnelian pondered this, his mind warring with his heart. He flinched when Tribute’s homunculus came towards him and put out his hand, upon which sat an orb. Reaching out, Carnelian took it. Felt its leathery skin, gazed at its crown of spikes. He brought the pomegranate up to his nose. With inhalation came memories of being a boy in a fabulous, forbidden garden. For a moment he was lost in that miraculous vision. When he looked up, the Grand Sapient and his homunculus had gone.

  ‘What’s happened?’ said Fern, alarmed. ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘Is everything all right outside?’ said Carnelian.

  ‘Shouldn’t it be?’

  Carnelian could hardly believe that Tribute could have made it through his camp unseen. Though he remembered how easily the Wise could find their way through the perfect darkness of their Library and this place was as familiar to them.

  The pomegranate was heavy in his hand. If it were not for that he could well imagine he had dreamed the visitation. Why had Tribute brought it? Perhaps, with its red juice, it was a symbol of sacrifice.

  Morose, he stood between two commentary stones, his cowl pulled down as much against the rain as to hide his face, as he watched the barbarian tributaries pass. Earlier, it had been huimur caravans, their domed backs rising above leather panniers, each larger than a man, which Carnelian had known must be stuffed with the bronze coins that were the taxes from the cities of the Commonwealth. Among the plodding beasts had walked deputations from the cities, their skins painted in imitation of the Masters, wearing elaborate, garishly dyed weaves, bearing upon their heads hats of outlandish design. This finery aped the pomp of the Masters, but was, in comparison, pathetic pantomime.

  He had spent another night disturbed by dreams. Whatever they had to tell him, he was no longer prepared to listen. He had woken enraged at the notion that he might be the plaything of some god. Which god?

  A hand clasping his shoulder made him jerk round with shock at being touched; at being caught unmasked. He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw it was only Fern.

  ‘I’ve done everything as you asked.’

  Carnelian had delegated to him the task of bringing in the tributaries. Not only had he been in no mood to do it himself, but also he had thought it a good opportunity to let Fern sit in a command chair. In the outer world, Fern was going to be his lieutenant.

  ‘Everyone’s in.’ Fern waved his hand in the direction of the Forbidden Door, though it and the Black Field were hidden behind the standing stones. ‘The dragons are arranged down both sides. I left them with clear instructions that under no circumstances whatsoever are they to light their pipes, nor move their dragons out of position.’

  Carnelian thanked him, then both turned to watch the people filing past. Sodden, dragging their feet, women and old men, faces set against suffering, leading by the hands or carrying countless numbers of miserable, scared flesh-tithe children.

  They stood watching the children until night fell, then they returned to their camp. Carnelian’s voice sounded very loud when he ordered his people to stow everything for the journey into the Labyrinth. They set to it as if at a funeral. Through the darkness came the endless scuffling of the marching tributaries.

  As Carnelian led them south-west, out of the Dance, he lifted his hand to touch the lefthand stone. Cold under his fingers, he stroked a worn pomegranate as if for luck. He frowned, remembering the fruit Tribute had brought him, his thoughts tinged by the dread in his dreams.

  When they reached the outer ring, he gazed out. The terraces and windows of the Halls of Rebirth formed gashes and spots of jewelled light making the wall of the Plain there seem a window into a starry sky. Below lay the Black Field, its front edge twinkling with fires like a stopping place, its rear two-thirds in dense darkness. Shuffling towards this was a flood of shadowy heads.

  With his back to the Forbidden Door, Carnelian gazed over the Black Field. Its nearest portion, lit by thousands of campfires, was made to appear a vast pebbled beach by the backs of the huimur. Beyond, squatting in the darkness, were the barbarians and their children spending one last night together without even the cheer of a fire. How long had he and Fern and his people had to wait for them to scuffle past? Long enough for hearts to grow heavy as stones, and legs to grow unsteady. Carnelian had made an attempt to have his people sit and wait it out but when he and Fern stayed standing so did they. When, at last, that miserable procession had ceased, they had followed the stragglers round, walking on the carpet of blue flames ammonites laid before them. They had skirted the Black Field with its sea of heads walled in by dragons, had endured the murmurous fear, the cries of the children, the weeping, the moaning bleak comfort of their mothers. Down the whole long side of that crowd they had walked, between the dragons and the Cages of the Tithe until, at last, beneath the malevolent gaze of the colossi, they had reached the Forbidden Door.

  Carnelian turned from the outer darkness to regard the black maw of the Labyrinth tunnel with loathing, then, taking Fern’s hand, he led his people into its throat.

  APOTHEOSIS

  Fire from heaven

  Shatters even the sky.

  (from the ‘Book of the Sorcerers’)

  In the centre of the vast bed, Carnelian and Fern clung to each other like survivors of a shipwreck. They might as well have been upon a raft afloat on a dark, forbidding ocean. Having passed through gates and antechambers they had been glad finally to be able to close themselves away in this echoing chamber.

  Carnelian stared blindly past Fern’s shoulder into the darkness. He was remembering their long journey from the Forbidden Door, carrying in their hearts the misery they had left behind. Then that blinking emergence into a world of light. A miraculous field of stars spread away into the remote glooms of the Labyrinth by myriad lamps. Glowing pavilions hung from the columns like morning-dewed webs. He had recognized this as another Encampment of the Seraphim, though grander than the one he had witnessed in the Halls of Thunder. Indeed it resembled a stopping place, seen from afar, but if so, one made by angels descending from a midnight sky. Carnelian had seen how awestruck Fern was, how his people gaped who had never beheld such a spectacle before. When the Quenthas elected to lead them instead of the Ichorian guides, they had followed the sisters as if in a dream.

  As they wound their way through the field of lights, the vision had soured. In the gloom around the feet of the pavilions, slaves huddled over lurid braziers, turning their faces furtively to watch them pass, some grovelling, others throwing themselves face down upon the ground. Above them, through the membranes of patterned silk, immense shadow Masters seemed to be caught in the act of pupating into monsters. Higher still rose the appallingly massive sepulchres that glowered down at them as the colossi in the Plain of Thrones were doing upon the miserable tributaries. It had been a relief to cross the Mirror Moat, then make the dizzying climb up the fiery steps of the Shimmering.

  When they had reached the torn-down gate, they had turned their backs upon the Encampment that, from that height, had once more transformed into a dreamy vision, to enter the vastnesses of the Halls of Rebirth. A world more sombrely lit, haunted by sini
ster pillars of perfumed mist that drifted like ghosts through the endless halls. Everything moved, slowly, evolving. Everywhere countless aspects, bewildering: like trying to piece together a view from reflections caught in the flying fragments of a shattering mirror.

  In the bed, Carnelian tightened the curl of their bodies. His heart quickened. He knew he must confess to Fern the decision he had made about the part he intended to play in the next day’s ritual. Would Fern understand? Carnelian recalled the almost childlike expression of hope that had come over Fern’s face when first he beheld the Labyrinth. He was sure that in its vaulted gloom Fern had seen some semblance of the mother trees and a yearning for the world he had lost. Heart aching, Carnelian felt sick with the misery that the one he loved might never be truly happy in Osrakum.

  Osidian was beside the opening of the well that was the beginning of the Path of Blood. He looked up and Carnelian detected a change in the cast of his shoulders as he glanced past him to Fern. Carnelian gestured Fern and the rest of his entourage to halt and advanced alone towards Osidian. He opened his hand and offered him back the blood-ring Osidian had sent with his summons as a sign it truly came from him.

  Osidian took it, frowning. ‘After today, I will have no need of this.’

  Carnelian nodded, understanding. That ring would become a lie once ichor flowed untainted in the new God Emperor’s veins. Carnelian’s gaze took in Osidian’s guard in its new splendour. Marula, already forged into Ichorian collars of silver. Wearing breastplates of bronze. Shrouded in cloaks of silk patterned in green and black.

  ‘They look handsome, do they not?’ said Osidian.

  Carnelian agreed with his hand, recalling the thought he had had the first time he set eyes upon Marula: that they were like the Chosen reflected in a mirror of obsidian.

  ‘For the moment they wear the heraldry of the Sinistrals, but I have a notion to adorn them with scarlet. The colour would complement their skin. Does it not seem apropos to you, Carnelian, that they should combine the heraldry of both Ichorians?’

  Again, Carnelian agreed.

  ‘As today the Two are to be combined in my person, so shall the Ichorians of the left and right’ – Osidian held his hands palm up – ‘merge into a single Guard.’ He brought his hands together, meshing his fingers.

  Carnelian could see how the tattooed halves of the old Ichorians could be seen to find union in the black skin of the Marula.

  Osidian regarded the warriors. ‘From these, the Wise will make me syblings.’ There was a glint in his eyes. ‘Imagine how elegantly sombre such specimens would be, encased in iron.’

  Unease arose in Carnelian. ‘But you will help them rebuild the ladder down to the Lower Reach.’

  Osidian made a gesture of dismissal. ‘We shall send an expedition to retrieve from their land enough of their females to ensure an adequate breeding population here.’

  ‘But what of your promise to Morunasa?’

  ‘I have told him it is already too late. Their land is dying. Their only hope of survival is here. They will come to accept this soon enough. Why should they not? How could their noisome jungles compare to sacred Osrakum?’

  Carnelian felt there was doubt caged within Osidian’s certainty. ‘But what of Morunasa. What of his god?’ Almost Carnelian had said: What of your god?

  Osidian’s face took on a brittle cast. ‘I have told him he and all his people can worship me. For is the Black Twin not the very same god they worshipped in the Isle of Flies?’ His face betrayed something of the distaste Carnelian felt and a shadow of suffering seemed to be nesting under Osidian’s brows. ‘And is He not about to be poured into me?’

  In Osidian’s crazed eyes there was something of a child seeking reassurance. Carnelian gave a nod in spite of his misgivings. For a moment he teetered on the edge of despair. The solid ground of their agreement, of his hopes, seemed to be crumbling beneath his feet. He suppressed a desire to turn and find Fern. It was enough to know he was there. Enough that his people were in Osrakum. It was here the fate of millions would be determined. He had to cleave to the heart of power to do what he could to save as many as he could.

  Osidian was gazing down into the blackness of the Path of Blood. He looked up, agony ageing him. ‘I asked you here to say goodbye. This path I must tread alone.’ His voice was low and tremulous. ‘From this day forward, you shall never again look upon my face.’

  Carnelian felt Osidian’s loss and knew some of it was his own. It steadied him. He glanced round. If anything, Fern’s face was grimmer now than when Carnelian had told him what he intended to do. There had been no arguments. Fern would endure this as he had so much else. Carnelian twitched a smile, then, turning back, reached out to touch Osidian’s hand. ‘Not alone.’

  From distress, Osidian’s face dissolved into horror. Carnelian grasped his hand. ‘I have not chosen to die.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I will give of my blood to ensure yours is transubstantiated into ichor.’

  Osidian took hold of Carnelian’s hands as if they were all that was stopping him from tumbling into an abyss. He was trembling, tearful. ‘Very well, brother, we shall do this thing together.’

  Carnelian and Osidian approached the brightness at the end of the tunnel, hearts beating faster, still holding hands as they had done all the way through the darkness, like children. The opening swelled and they emerged, blinded, into the light. The air was filled with a sound Carnelian imagined could have been a locust swarm in flight. He lost hold of Osidian’s hand. He looked up, his eyes narrowing behind the slits of his mask, sight returning. All around, a host of angels rose in serried ranks up into the heights of the cavern. Glimmering in stiff jewelled carapaces, crowned, their masks striping the Pyramid Hollow up to its black apex.

  Carnelian’s head fell, his soul chilled by the cold grandeur of the Chosen. Ahead the Creation Chariot was crowded. The Grand Sapients were sombre pillars erupting stellated crowns. Around them, barely reaching their waists, Oracles, feral teeth revealed in rictus grins, adorned in violent Ichorian greens, tamed by service collars of silver. From the midst of this assemblage a tower rose; its hollow interior, exposed, revealed the inner scaffolding of bird bones that held it up. Though these supports were more dense than any Carnelian had seen, he still had no doubt it was an immense court robe waiting to engulf its wearer.

  Osidian stood transfixed. Only the slight glimmer of his eyes gave any indication there was a living man behind his mask. Carnelian followed the gaze of that perfect, dead face of gold and saw among the Oracles one whom he had not noticed: Morunasa, his yellow eyes popping as if he were being impaled, seeing only Osidian, to whom he gave the slightest of nods.

  Carnelian had no time even to think about this, for one of the Sapients loomed up, each footfall on his high ranga causing the platform to shiver, walking with the aid of two court staves borne by ammonites. As Carnelian scried the cyphers the staves bore, the Grand Sapient released hold of them and allowed his hands to be drawn down to the throat of his homunculus.

  ‘You have come to offer yourself, Carnelian of the Masks?’ said the homunculus.

  Carnelian looked up at the one-eyed mirror mask, knowing this was Tribute. ‘Only enough of my blood to ensure proper ignition of the Lord Nephron’s to ichor.’

  The Grand Sapient felt Carnelian’s reply through the muttering throat of his homunculus. Long it seemed until his pale fingers moved again, a period in which Carnelian felt the pressure of the chatter of the Chosen host.

  ‘We accept the offer of your blood, Celestial,’ sang Tribute’s homunculus.

  The Grand Sapient released the little man and, grasping his staves, swung aside, leaving a narrow path between him and the gaping, empty court robe. Carnelian glanced round and saw that, under the fierce gaze of the Oracles, ammonites were stripping Osidian. He walked round the court robe, then past the Grand Sapients’ wall of purple brocade punctuated by pairs of Domain staves. He did not glance up, but was still aware
of their masks reflecting light; and even more strongly, he felt he could sense the operating of the precise mechanisms of their ancient minds.

  He emerged, it seemed, into a clearing and saw a naked man. Within the iron mould he lay spreadeagled. The circle of its turtle shell that his neck, his arms and legs crossed, gave the impression he was that creature’s flesh exposed to the air. Carnelian ignored a murmur like distant sea, and gazing at the man felt reassured he was dead already, until he saw the chest rising, falling. Asleep? Or drugged? Carnelian shuddered. So pale he could see the blue tracery beneath skin that seemed too thin to withstand the slightest touch. By his beauty, one of the Chosen, no doubt from the House of the Masks. One of those members of whom Osidian had once spoken, who were bred for blood ritual. Panic surged in Carnelian that another was to die in his place. He was on the verge of rushing forward, pulling the man free of the iron frame, possessed by a vision of carrying him through the Wise, through the Marula, back into the safety of the tunnel. A childish fantasy, no more. The only way to save him was to take his place.

  Carnelian heard again the murmurous sea and raised his eyes. What he saw stopped his breathing. On the plain below a multitude so numerous they seemed grains of sand. An expanse of sand stretching away almost to the ring of stones. He remembered the children that formed a substantial part of that multitude. In his mind he saw from where those children had come; he saw them chasing each other among the trees, free; their bright laughter, their innocence terminated by the coming of the childgatherers.

  He forced his gaze back to the victim in the iron mould. He hardened his heart against the man. He would have to die. After all, he was only one among millions who would perish. Carnelian could not give his life for him, for it was not his to give, but belonged to those frightened children down there on the plain.

  Two Sapients on lower ranga than their superiors unmasked Carnelian, then cut his sleeves away while their homunculi placed bowls of jade on either side of him near his feet. The Sapients were entrusting his arms to the gloved hands of ammonites, when a homunculus voice sang out. ‘Gathered are we to reforge the covenant in blood, made here long ago between your fathers and the Two Gods…’