by David Hair
—only for the timbers to explode in their faces. Patcheart lurched drunkenly, a foot-long splinter of wood protruding from his side. His face went white and he fainted away. Exilium was ten feet away, battered against a pillar, his eyes rolling backwards into his skull.
From outside came a measured tread Lyra knew only too well.
Aradea, she pleaded, help us.
The green coil of light in her heart bloomed and with it came energy, a surge of glorious life running through her. The sensation was like the day she’d summoned light and slain Lef Yarle, but this was different, drawn not from the sun but from everything: the people with her, the flowers on the altar, the offerings of fruit and bread and wine, even the air itself.
She felt her aura swell.
Then Ostevan Pontifex stepped into the chapel, smiling beatifically. Exilium tried to rise, but Ostevan backhanded the air, sending a concussive thud of kinesis into the Estellan, whose head cracked against the pillar again and he went still. Coramore gave a small squeak and hugged Lyra’s waist.
‘Well, Lyra,’ Ostevan purred, ‘didn’t you always know your story would end in a chapel?’
Lyra clung to the dwyma as Ostevan advanced. His eyes shone ebony as he raised his hand and fingers of kinesis sprang half-seen towards her, large enough to engulf her and the princess—
—only to dissolve around her, leaving them both untouched.
For a moment Ostevan snarled in thwarted fury, then he flashed forwards and punched Coramore as she tried with heroic foolishness to protect Lyra, sending her sprawling limp and motionless across the tiles.
The black-eyed cleric focused on Lyra. ‘So it appears the Master is right: a full dwymancer’s power does cancel out the gnosis when roused,’ he said conversationally. ‘I guess that just leaves us as we are: a man – and a weak woman.’
She reached for her argenstael dagger, but Ostevan was already on her and wrenching the dagger from her grasp, then driving a fist into her stomach. She folded, vomit clogging her throat, and dropped to her knees, gashing them on the stone, her grip on the dwyma wavering. Ostevan yanked her up and threw her onto her back with a snarl, then fell on top of her. The coil of light in her heart was smothered by a vile tentacle of darkness, as Ostevan reached inside her soul, pouring in the emptiness beyond the dwyma, the void of the daemons. It gripped and squeezed, cutting her off from all that she could be, as the man who’d nearly succeeded in seducing her pinned her down and ground himself against her.
‘I could kill you with a thought now,’ Ostevan gloated, ‘but where’s the fun in that?’
From outside the chapel came the sounds of screaming women – the last nuns being pursued by the Kirkegarde – but all Lyra could see was Ostevan, his darkly handsome features now perfected to such an extent that he scarcely looked human.
All she felt was utter revulsion.
‘Remember our kiss, Lyra?’ he purred. ‘You should have been mine. All this talk of the Last Days, of daemons ruling Urte? The Master is planning something, you know. “Mother of Daemons”, he said to me – and he has a dwymancer in his power. So tell me, Lyra, what can he do with a dwymancer in his power? What can he do?’
Lyra stared at him, bewildered by the desperation lacing his hunger and lust. Behind the exultation of victory, the possessed priest was clearly terrified, but she had no idea what it was he wanted.
‘I don’t know,’ she panted, screaming inside at the touch of his cold hand caressing her cheek while he kneed her skirts up her rigid body.
‘What is it Naxius wants? Ostevan demanded, dark drool running from his mouth as he gripped her bodice, ready to tear it open. ‘Tell me.’
She shook her head, squirming in his grip, furious but despairing. How could any loving god let one being have this much power over another?
‘Life is unfair,’ Ostevan jeered, hearing her thought. ‘Have you not yet learned that lesson? Why does the Master need a dwymancer, Lyra? Why?’
He ripped open her bodice and gripped her breast painfully. As she stared at him, his face changed: he had reached a decision. With deliberate slowness he pulled her head aside, bent over her throat and elongated his canines – and then he lunged at her and bit, those hideous teeth plunging through her skin. Hot ichor gushed into her, sending her into shock.
He murmured, a sensuous exultation that revolted her, as if he’d just climaxed inside her, then stared down at her, straddling her triumphantly.
She tried to fight, but he snuffed out her dwyma effortlessly. ‘Dwymancer blood, the sovereign protection,’ he jeered, licking his lips. ‘Can you feel the ichor inside you, Lyra? Abraxas is coming for you. “The Queen of Death shall lie with Lucian, Lord of the Pit, and become the Mother of Daemons, thus beginning the Last Days”,’ he quoted. ‘In a moment, dear Lyra, you’ll finally be my willing queen: my whore.’
*
In the teeth of utter defeat . . . lay her last, wholly unexpected chance.
With dwymancer blood in his mouth, Ostevan acquired the subliminal knowledge required to cut off Lyra from the dwyma – but when his ichor entered her veins, she gained the same thing.
Immobilised beneath him, fighting a rising tide of daemonic voices, Lyra felt his gnostic grip on her fail, so only his physical dominance remained. He was still stronger than her, but her arms were suddenly freed—
—and lying on the ground close at hand lay the little weapon Ostevan had so contemptuously thrown aside.
Lyra seized it and stabbed it into his breast with all the strength and hatred in her heart.
The argenstael dagger pierced his chest – and she pulled it out and stabbed again, and again and again and again, roaring in fury and rage and dread for all the horror this man had wrought in her life, rolling onto him and hammering the blade into him over and over and over again, at something that spat and snarled and wailed and babbled and pleaded and clawed at her ineffectually, while the dwyma burst back into her and the blade went glowing white, and still she struck, over and over and over . . .
Gentle arms wrapped round her from behind and pulled her away, leaving the argenstael stiletto buried in what had once been Ostevan Pontifex and was now nothing but a burned and blasted husk, his face a blackened skull howling at the oncoming darkness. As she watched, his ribcage crumbled into ash. Inside it lay a daemon-spawn, immolated and lifeless.
‘Lyra, daughter,’ her father said in her ear, ‘he’s dead. Ostevan is dead. You killed him.’
It took a moment to process that, and another to understand that it was Dirklan holding her, with a crowd of fresh faces at his back, and that pulled her back to the present, and the realisation that the daemon was silent, that somehow its ichor had burned away inside her.
She didn’t know how – not yet – but it felt hugely significant.
Life is stronger than death, she thought dizzily.
She tried to speak, but instead collapsed into her father’s arms. His voice filled her head, something like balm flooded her brain and drew her down into a soft, pillowed darkness—
—until she surfaced again, blinking, to find herself sitting upright on a pew in a chapel, her father’s arm over her shoulder, supporting her. Someone had dressed her, somehow managing to mend her ripped bodice, and her bruises and grazes were gone.
Lyra looked around and saw Coramore was being tended by Mort Singolo. Exilium, propped against a wall, was talking to Brigeda with what looked remarkably like camaraderie. Only when she saw a body-shaped mound covered by a tablecloth on the floor did she remember her berserk frenzy.
Ohmigod dear Kore he—
‘Hush,’ Dirklan said. ‘Don’t think about it. I’ve done what I can, but you need to keep your mind quiet. The best mystic-healers in Pallas will attend you on our return.’
Her grim father looked as steely-eyed as she’d seen him, completely the Wraith, oozing menace and vengeance – but that malice was entirely directed at the dead Pontifex.
He’s used mysticism to suppress my re
action, she realised. He’s numbed the memory . . .
She could remember the broad facts: she’d been bitten, then killed her assailant. But she didn’t feel like she had gone through these things, or at least, not recently; it was like a distant memory, a very bad thing that had happened a long time ago. She didn’t know how she might feel about that in the future, but for now it was a relief, because her sanity felt very, very fragile right now.
Then Basia limped over to her, awkward with concern. ‘Milady?’
‘Dear Kore – Basia, are you all right? Should you be walking?’
Basia gave a sharp cackle. ‘You should see the other bastard. Got him good.’ She glowered around the room, then she pulled aside the tablecloth and studied Ostevan’s corpse, with the argenstael dagger still planted in his blasted chest. ‘All hail the mighty letter-opener,’ she intoned gravely.
She hugged Lyra, then teetered towards Exilium, shooing Brigeda away. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll have this idiot up and daemon-slaying again before you know it.’
Dirklan helped Lyra stand, then went to Patcheart’s sprawled body. He held a hand to his throat, then breathed a sigh of relief. ‘If we were paid by the wound, we’d be rich men,’ he remarked. ‘Ostevan’s minions became disoriented when he fell, but they’ll recover soon enough and we’re miles from safety. I’m sorry, everyone, but we have to get out of here.’
Lyra made herself look at Ostevan. I killed him, she reminded herself, and he deserved it, ten times over.
She took a deep breath,. ‘Let’s burn the bodies of our enemies and go.’
Basia winked at Brigeda. ‘Coo, get her.’
‘Bloodthirsty bitch, that one,’ Brigeda smirked. ‘Wanna join the Volsai, Majesty?’
Lyra felt something like the fellowship she sometimes felt around the council table when everyone agreed – but somehow, this was purer.
She grinned. ‘No way – I’ve heard the boss is a right bastard to work for.’
Part Two
Interlude
The Masquerade (The Puppeteer)
The Night of Ghosts
In the Book of Kore, the Last Days is preceded by the Night of Ghosts when it is said that all the dead shall return to life to face the judgement of Corineus, which will determine who will ascend to Paradise and who will be left on Urte as the prey of daemons. We pray for the coming of that Blessed Night, when we who are true to our Lord shall ascend to his side.
ARCH-PRELATE ACRONIUS, PALLAS 452
Rym, Rimoni
Martrois 936
The lean, redheaded man with the perfectly symmetrical face strode into the middle of the small theatre, a glowing worm of light linking his hands to a quill floating over a piece of parchment ready on the lectern. The semi-circular row of seats facing him was entirely empty.
He lifted his hands, cleared his throat and began to declaim – and the quill began to write by itself, capturing his words for posterity, just as the Rimoni senators had used scribes to record their speeches and render their words immortal. The more vainglorious of those senators had even published speeches they’d never given, just to reveal their intellects.
I am a giant, compared to those puny inbreeds, Naxius sneered inwardly. My words will resonate for ever – and I’ll be around to ensure they do.
He lifted his head and addressed the empty room – and eternity.
‘Most men have small dreams,’ he began, ‘but I, Ervyn Naxius, have always dreamed large. Such genius is often misunderstood, even ridiculed.’ He drew himself up and placed his hand on his heart, proudly enumerating his feats. ‘The empire rejected me because I would not genuflect to their mythology of Kore and Corineus and the divinity of the magi – even though I wrote half their damned Book of Kore for them.’
He laughed at the irony, his mirth echoing around the empty theatre.
‘Even the Ordo Costruo, who claim to serve knowledge, hated me, so mired were they in their hypocrisy, betraying me with their petty jealousies and lily-livered envy. Like cooks afraid to break an eggshell, yet still believing they could learn the recipe of Creation. Only a few of them were worth a damn and they were hounded as I was.’
He raised his eyes to the ceiling and asked the silence, ‘What difference is there, really, between experimenting on people and experimenting on animals when humans are animals, after all. Why waste effort and materials testing on rats, when bipedal rats trundle past our doors every day? Most humans add nothing to the sum of life – those whom I utilised did at least contribute to the wider pool of knowledge.’
The silence seemed to understand.
‘Once – and yes, I will admit it – I hated my Ordo Costruo colleagues, especially that pompous, supercilious craven Antonin Meiros. But I am above such feelings now: why should a god envy? Why should an immortal hate? No, that would be wasted energy.’ He raised a hand to the heavens and shouted, ‘Let the “gods” envy me.’
He chuckled at his own sly wit.
‘Of course, there are no gods, just men who imagine them, and daemons who are really just the ghosts of men come back to haunt us.’ He tapped the Book of Kore sitting on the lectern beside the scratching quill. ‘I myself wrote the passages about the Last Days. At the time I saw them as a morality story to make the ignorant tremble in fear, a whip to hold over their psyches: Obey the emperor or the daemons will come – worship my imaginary God or you’ll suffer for eternity. What utter shit . . .
But when I was cast out, first from the Church and then the Ordo Costruo, I thought, Why not? And my instincts were sound: life is a brief flame and only the dark is eternal. Therefore, the only lasting allegiance worth giving, is to that darkness.’
He licked his lips, and beamed. ‘Let’s be clear: there is no Kore, no Ahm, no Vishnarayan or Sol – there are only the mighty hive-minds of the aether, the daemons. They are the ultimate outcome to which all life proceeds, and we exist to feed them. Their ascendancy is inevitable, so to resist is futile and self-defeating. But to seek accommodation with that inevitability? In our ignorance, that is the step the world hesitates to take. Only a true genius has the wit to embrace it.’
The room fell silent as he contemplated this revelation.
‘When I was rejected by my peers,’ he added, ‘I resolved to bring my own prophecy into being: to end life as we know it and bring about the reign of the daemons – with myself as their king, just as I “foretold” in the Book of Kore.’ He chuckled. ‘I dare to dream large.’
The quill stopped moving as his words faded into the air. He bowed, then left the theatre, silent applause ringing in his ears.
The quill fell lifeless onto the parchment.
*
An hour later Naxius emerged from a steaming bath and stopped before a mirror to examine the lean, redheaded man with piercing eyes smiling back at him. Strange: when given the choice of any body at all, one gravitates to one’s own features and form, however imperfect. Though he’d made improvements, of course; he’d never been quite so rakish or toned in his youth.
He dressed and walked into the next room, where Jehana Mubarak, skull-masked and white-haired, was writhing in the grip of the endless daemon-visions. Judging by her appearance – her shift was stained with blood, piss and faeces; vomit was caked around her mouth and gashes scoured her arms where she’d torn at herself – her senses were clearly overwhelmed with whatever murder, torture, rape or infection she was currently experiencing. A gurgle escaped her mouth, the closest she could come to a scream when her body was parched and shaking with weakness.
He studied her for a moment without pity. Much more will likely kill her.
With a careful touch to the mask, he dissipated the spell linking her to the master-daemon Abraxas and fed her energy to aid her recovery. Her shaking subsided, then slowly, fearfully, she opened her eyes.
He enjoyed watching her expression change as the horror of recognition bloomed. She shot backwards like a frightened beetle, fell from the pallet and huddled in a foetal ball on
the floor, whimpering and shaking.
He summoned possessed slave-women. ‘Yes, you’re back,’ he told her. ‘You need sustenance before you return to the daemon’s mind.’
‘No . . .’ she pleaded weakly, looking up at him with haunted eyes, trying to express something. He bent his ear to her mouth and heard, ‘Please, make it stop.’
‘I’m afraid I have no choice, my dear,’ he told her, an entirely false note of regret in his voice. ‘All of Urte must suffer, and you must bear witness. That’s how this works – unless you’ve changed your mind?’ He stroked her arm gently, thinking that even broken and disfigured, she was a lovely creature: a worthy queen. ‘When the daemons rule, only the sinners will suffer. Wouldn’t it be better to allow the deserving to ascend to Paradise and let the End of Time begin?’
He gestured, and one of the slave-women gave Jehana water. Once she had soothed her raw throat enough to speak, she rasped, ‘What must I do?’ Her voice was laden with despair.
He smiled warmly. At last, we’re making progress.
20
Against the Omens
The Limits of Divination
The Gnostic Study of Divination concerns communing with the spirit world to ascertain the most likely outcomes of human interaction. It predicts a future, but it makes no claims that the future is set in stone. How do we reconcile this to the Book of Kore, which reveals a fated end? According to the Book, the main passages of which predate the gnosis by centuries, Urte is pre-destined to destruction in the Last Days – and yet divination predicts no such ending.
COVIS BALDYN, HOLLENIAN MAGE-SCHOLAR, DAMSTADT 817
Pallas, Rondelmar
Martrois 936
With the Volsai on their venators arrayed around her, Lyra took Pearl swooping down to land on Sertanus Parade, the huge flat grounds outside the walls of Pallas. She was still traumatised by how close she’d come to extinction – or worse. Every time Ostevan’s leering face flashed into her mind, paralysing her, she had to remind herself, It doesn’t matter what he nearly did. He’s gone now.