A Fire in the Shell: Circle of Nine Trilogy 3

by Josephine Pennicott

  There was a subdued air in the stableyard. Even the cats looked sheepish as they lazed in the winter sun, exposing their bellies to the few rays they could find. Two old men sat gossiping, smoking their corn pipes on a small white wooden seat. They wore the very elaborate frilled collars the older men in Eronth favoured, to display their rank of age. Both frills were a shocking orange, in total contrast to the neutral, earth colour of their simple tunic and breeches, which boasted the stunning embroidery that decorated all of the Faiaite’s clothes. It was a skill much praised throughout Eronth. The men wore checked caps on their heads, and similar expressions on their faces as they stared at the three wizards approaching them. Curiosity coupled with wariness. Look at ye, their expressions seemed to say. So long in stone, you think we have forgotten why the Goddess originally put you all there. But not us old-timers. We were young when you were here before and we may not remember what we ate yesterday, but the memory of when we were young is fresh as a virgin’s skin. Now Mary is dead, and the wizards have returned. Will you lead us, destroy us? It is no concern to old men, who only want to sit in the sun and talk.

  ‘Hail, old ones!’ Bwani made a sweeping bow, and Edwen and Steppm followed suit, their cloaks swishing in unison.

  The two men nodded. ‘Hail, Stone Men. Weather turned colder, hey?’

  Edwen glanced at the sky, studying the darkening clouds. ‘Have they rung in the winter in Faia, yet?’ he asked, referring to the village’s age-old custom of ringing small bells through the town to scare away evil spirits before the harsh season began.

  One of the old men spat onto the ground. ‘Nope. Folks in Faia have not kept to their usual customs since . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Still, the icicles around my front door are long this moon set, so the crops should be long come spring,’ his friend hastily saved the awkward moment. There was a silence while the two men smoked their pipes, their sunken eyes never leaving the wizards.

  ‘How be the Crone?’ one asked. He looked away for a second, unable to meet their eyes. ‘I hear she be taken poorly.’

  ‘She is in shock,’ Bwani said, feeling all his anger return. ‘Her heart is broken. She weeps for friends murdered by the people of Faia whom she has served and trusted for so long.’

  There was another long silence and Steppm began to feel sympathy for the old men, whose faces were now crossed with guilt and shame.

  ‘My arthritis has been so bad this winter. It is cruel. Old Snaer shows no mercy for the old of Eronth,’ one of them said, pulling a large red handkerchief out of his pocket.

  ‘Give it to the tree,’ his friend said, indicating a large tree bare of its greenery. Around one of its branches was a bright yellow handkerchief. ‘I gave it my cold.’

  ‘Will you give the tree your shame?’ Bwani said. ‘Will you give it the blood on your hands?’

  ‘Bwani,’ Steppm said. ‘They are not responsible, brother. It was the Lightcaster.’

  ‘They allowed themselves to be instruments of his evil,’ Bwani said.

  ‘It is true,’ one of the old men said, glancing up at Bwani. His eyes, so hooded and aged, held an expression that Bwani could not decipher. ‘You who are the first to point the finger, you are never guilty of transgressions against Eronth? I remember when you first came in the middle of that cold, pitiless winter. You, the headstone of the Circle of Nine who has lived a pure life and was turned to stone by Aphrodite, no doubt, because of that blameless life. You are the first one who should find judgment upon others.’

  ‘You are insolent, old-timer,’ Edwen said, although his lips twitched and he avoided looking at Bwani.

  ‘Insolent, but accurate,’ Bwani admitted. His anger towards the Faiaites still churned inside him, however. His eyes went to the face of the old man seated before him. A very faint memory stirred in him, the old man young, his face creased in pain crying and screaming, the body of a Imomm Faery woman held tenderly in his arms. ‘Still, the wrong we did to Faia, we have paid a hundredfold by our time in stone. We admitted to our own darkness. We didn’t hide behind the skirts of a Lightcaster! Evil is too fond of blaming its own shadow for its acts.’

  ‘Give it to the tree,’ the old man said wearily. ‘I don’t need the lies at my age.’ You do not even remember her. His eyes blazed into Bwani’s. One more death on your hands, just another despised Faery woman who meant nothing to you. But to me she was my life and hope and dreams. You don’t even remember her name.

  ‘Tread carefully, brother,’ Edwen said. ‘Your frankness is becoming tiresome and your rudeness to my friend is beginning to annoy me. We have paid, as he has pointed out, for our wrongdoing to Eronth. We have stood in stone through all weathers and had time enough to despair of our actions. No matter what we did, however, we did not burn innocent maids and Janusites!’

  ‘Evil has the memory of a young man who sees only what the day presents and has already forgotten the memory of yesterday.’ The old man’s eyes went to Bwani’s again. ‘No doubt your ilkamas are waiting,’ he said.

  The ilkamas were waiting, the stableboys scurried around giving them a final brush and looking self-important. The old man was accurate in his assessment of how quickly children did forget the past, Bwani thought. They alone seemed to be perfectly happy, as if the burnings had never happened. Bwani ignored their chatter and stood at the open door looking out in the yard to where the two men sat, united in their memories of the past. Early morning dew still lay on the ground, and the man’s handkerchief fluttered in the tree.

  ‘Bwani?’ Edwen looked at him with concern. ‘Take no notice of the old bastard’s ravings. We did what we thought was best at the time. We were truly ignorant of the damage we caused to Eronth.’

  ‘We carried the Eom here,’ Bwani said. ‘We stole it from the Azephim and brought it here, causing the Azephim to follow. Do you remember what a different Eronth it was then, Edwen? The wildlife that flourished? Dragons, more than you could ever possibly count, flying through the air! More Faery tribes than you could count, all gone.’

  ‘It was the Azephim,’ Edwen said. ‘If they had not chosen to follow, no devastation would have occurred. But how do we know these things wouldn’t have happened anyway? Perhaps the Faery tribes were always going to die out. We cannot be too harsh on ourselves, brother. I am still haunted by the memory of a thousand frosts and countless cold winds as we stood in that clearing with only the virgin protector’s songs to warm us. You were right in your words to the old one, we have paid far beyond what any man should be expected to pay. The Faiaites, however, are content to sit in their houses feeling sorry for themselves and pointing the finger at the Lightcaster!’

  ‘Remember Rosedark,’ Steppm said, his voice hoarse with emotion. ‘The maid was as pure as snow crystal. Remember the kindness displayed to us by Man and the loyal service of the Janusite.’

  Bwani reflected, looking out of the stable window at the two old men. How many lives have I damaged beyond repair?

  ‘Perhaps it is not for us to invoke Hecate and call judgment upon the people of Faia by visiting the cursing tablets,’ he said. The old man’s accusing eyes had given him a sour taste to his mouth.

  ‘If not us, then who?’ Edwen said. ‘For you can be sure the good people of Faia will go nowhere near the altars. They have so much belief in their goddesses, they let them decide their destiny.’

  Steppm made a warning sound and Bwani and Edwen noted the two young stableboys busily engaged in shining tack as if their life depended upon it. Bwani nodded and moved towards his ilkama. If the boys had been able to follow their muttered conversation . . . he noted their large Faery ears, a legacy of the mixed blood that flowed in Faia as the pure races had interbred. News that the stone wizards had visited the cursing altars might be all over the village by moon-up. Did it really matter? How much hidden resentment simmered beneath the villagers’ breasts against the wizards for actions long past? They had been treated as heroes when they had originally arrived in Eronth, fl
ushed with success and holding the Eom, the first Crossas the Faiaites had known to have survived the treacherous journey into the Web-Kondoell. But despite the open-hearted generosity displayed to these exotic travellers, the wizards had repaid the gentle villagers by abusing their Faery women, taking them for blood sacrifices in order to awaken the Eom.

  Then the deadly Azephim crossed into Eronth, desperate to retrieve the sacred crystal power source for their world. In their wake, tragic environmental damage had occurred to the once lushly populated world of Eronth. Still the people had refused to be disloyal to the wizards, and even when Aphrodite herself had been molested by the objects of their admiration, and the goddesses had turned them to stone, they had displayed admirable loyalty to the wizards and made sure they were kept as comfortable as possible in their cold lonely punishment, providing them with virgins for companionship.

  Now Bwani was contused, torn between his loyalty to the faiaites for their devotion and service to him over time, and his horror and grief at what they had done to his friends. Suspicion still lurked in his mind that they were using the Lightcaster as a scapegoat for their own cruelty.

  ‘We can turn back,’ Steppm said, loath to interfere in the interplay between the two men. ‘Maya will never know you left. The people —’

  He got no further; the mention of Maya goaded Bwani into action. ‘I vowed to avenge their deaths and I will,’ he said. ‘Would the Faiaites have shown us so much clemency over these long seasons without Mary’s influence? The three of them did not deserve to end their lives that way.’

  He shuddered at the terror Rosedark would have felt when they dragged her towards the furnace. Or did she go stoically, her last thoughts of Khartyn? He felt sick in his stomach at the thought of the torture they had undergone at the hands of friends and neighbours. Leave it, a cool voice of reason whispered. Walk away, forget the memories of this place. The wind does not mourn for a tongue of fire, for the salt in the sea. Some things are not meant to be changed.

  It was so tempting to follow that small voice, but he couldn’t. Desire to see the Faiaites pay for their actions flowed through him so strongly it drowned all voices of reason. He noticed the faces of the stableboys were turned enquiringly towards them, their cool green Faery eyes tinged a darker green at the words they were overhearing. Outside, the two older men sat in the winter sun.

  ‘Let the Semnotatoi decide,’ Bwani said. ‘I am tired of Standing, of witnessing evil and doing nothing. Let Hecate be invoked.’

  The grounds where the priestesses and priests known as the Semnotatoi had built their temple and gardens was located in the centre of Faia, down a twisting laneway off the pantehlum. The ominous black poles, now washed clean, were the only evidence of the burnings remaining when the wizards rode through Faia. Vultures still clustered on rooftops, although fewer in number than previously. Normal life had begun to resume. A market was selling fresh produce, but the villagers going about their business of buying pulses, vegetables and fruits were subdued. The sight of them shirking the wizards’ eyes and ducking their heads to avoid greeting them only served to inflame Bwani’s anger. He knew the interpretation they would place upon the wizards’ visit to the cursing altars of Hecate, but he no longer cared. The stableboys had probably already spread the news all over Faia. Instead, he found pleasure in the thought he was causing them even the slightest discomfort. Let them rest uneasily in their beds at night. Spite breathed within him, sticking out from his body like porcupine quills.

  The Semnotatoi were waiting outside the iron gates of the small temple when the wizards arrived. A priestess stepped forward to open the gates, which were beautifully carved with snakes and frogs. She was outfitted as all the Semnotatoi were in a long black gown, her face and bare feet stained with red henna. Along her arms were tattooed snakes, and on her tongue was tattooed a small golden key. Her hair was snaked in winding tendrils down her back. Throughout Eronth, the Semnotatoi were regarded with fear and respect. Their lives were spent in service to Hecate and they were regarded as one of the most fanatical and devoted of the goddess’s many cults. Each priest or priestess underwent painful ritual castration and tongue tattooing. They made money to support themselves by telling horoscopes for Eronthites desperate or foolish enough to seek them out, and performing spells. They also assisted in the burial chambers of Eronth.

  ‘Hail, wizards!’ she said, holding up a fire torch to them in blessing. ‘Welcome to the shrine of Hecate the Beauteous, the lover of desolation and devourer of beasts. Welcome to the temple of the one who works her will. Do you bring offerings?’

  Bwani nodded. Steppm dismounted and held out a red silk pouch containing yew berries. The priestess thanked him as she took them from him. The wizards knew crushed yew berries were prized by the Semnotatoi for their ability to induce visions. She turned to face Bwani, her eyes dark slits through the red henna. ‘You wish to honour the Mother of Monsters at the cursing altars?’

  Bwani nodded. Rage and grief blew within his body like rotten autumn leaves under the priestess’s detached stare. Hecate was a goddess he knew little of, but he did know the Mother of Monsters, as she was often called in Eronth, was not to be trifled with. The meeting he had with her at the crossroads had done little to quell his instinctive fear of the goddess who ruled the Underworld.

  ‘Do you understand the consequences of visiting the cursing altars?’ A male Semnotatoi moved next to her. His voice was deep and low, his eyes a vivid purple through the red ochre. From the back of his neck protruded another head which looked into a future that must never be spoken of. The shock of seeing a Janusite in the service of Hecate reminded Bwani of Ano. He had witnessed the possible path the Norns had thrown for himself and his friends, and had been unable to change or prevent it. What torture he must have suffered! A shocking image came to Bwani’s mind of the Faiaites surrounding the screaming Janusite, shouting curses, as they pushed him back into the flames he was trying to escape from, the charred body of Mary in his arms. Bwani’s heart felt as if it was touched by ice for a second. His eyes threatened to burst into flame with the anger and grief he felt.

  ‘I accept the consequences of my actions,’ he said, and was ashamed to feel a lump in his throat, and his voice cracking.

  The priestess looked at him. ‘You are in pain,’ she said softly. ‘Events have passed so near and you howl in anguish. Your howling has awakened the kiss of Hecate in your heart. But do you really wish to rouse the sleeping beast? Think carefully, man of stone, for your decision today affects not only your children, but their children and after them. The cursing altars are not to be taken lightly. They create as well as destroy. They can turn to avenge one who stands near to you. someone you may not expect. They may turn to destroy you.’

  The priest then addressed Bwani in his soft, sad voice. ‘Hecate may be generous, but she has been demonised over time and can be all-dreadful. We of flesh bodies cannot hope to comprehend her awesome powers. You have already faced the Mother of Monsters and been touched by her dark grace. Yet now, lost, thirsty, like a lunatic, you long to drink from her poisoned vial again. It is our sacred duty as Semnotatoi to warn you of your actions. Can you not hold love in your heart for the people of Faia and their deeds? Can you not display the same courage and discipline that kept your heart beating in stone for endless Turns of the Wheel, while the worlds changed around you? It is a fool who dares to make bargains with the night, who seeks to embrace a nightmare in his hands.’

  The small voice whispered in Bwani’s head again. Go back. It is not too late. There is only love. Leave the altars now before the threads become so tangled that you entrap yourself. There is no shame in walking away. In doing nothing. Love and forgive all.

  He sensed Edwen looking at him, waiting for a cue. Then he saw again the image of Rosedark in his mind. Her beautiful hair shaved, bruises over her skin where they had left their diabolic mark.

  Edwen moved towards him. ’They’re right!’ he hissed. ‘What business is
it of ours to get involved in these altars? Hate will only bind you tighter to the villagers. We should be saving our energy for other things, not joining in the superstitions of this land!’

  Bwani shook his head. ‘Not one,’ he said. ‘Not one has come forward to express any pity or remorse for what they have done. That might have made some small difference. Instead, they hide their shame in their houses and point their finger at the Lightcaster.’

  ‘Your vision is limited,’ the priest said. ‘You view only a small part of the tapestry, I see the whole.’

  ‘Judgments are always best left to the gods and goddesses among us,’ the priestess echoed. ‘But allkind has never learnt this simple lesson.’

  ‘My prayers have not been answered,’ Bwani said. ‘I have prayed under countless storms and suns. I have been frozen in stone, my heart threatening to stop at any moment. I prayed, but they never answered. The gods do not listen to one such as I. Why would they, when they did not heed the prayers of an innocent such as Rosedark? No, I cannot bow my head before your gods, no matter how mighty and great their power. I alone am responsible for my actions, and I take responsibility now. I accept the consequences of using the cursing altars.’

  ‘Prayers are always answered.’ the priest said. His teeth were white in contrast to the ochre on his face. ‘A wind that was sent to you, a slight breeze, perhaps unnoticed by you to cool you under the hot sun. A virgin who cared for you with her sweet childish songs and innocent body. A bird whose precious voice meant more to you than food and water. Prayers are always answered, only not in the way you may wish for.’

  ‘You have chosen the altars and we the Semnotatoi must honour your choice,’ the priestess said. Her eyes flashed in triumph for a second, so dark and terrible that Bwani took a step backwards. She clapped her hands, and a small group of young girls with flower garlands around their heads and carrying fire torches came into the yard singing: