The Emerald Crown

by L J Chappell

  ‘They do?’ Lanvik was surprised: they had all sounded quite different from each other.

  ‘Oh yes. Although the Gods in these pantheons vary, as do their names and attributes and history, most religions across the Three Lands incorporate the stories of the Dead God and the Undead Army. There are a handful of sects and heresies and creeds that exclude them, of course, but I doubt they would attend the Festival of the Crown.’

  He paused and added: ‘To be fair, there are still differences: some say that the Dead God killed himself; and some say that he’s not Dead at all, but sleeping. You have to wonder, though – if he’s only Sleeping, then why do we call him the Dead God and not the Sleeping God? But whatever their different interpretations, if you asked them, they would all reply that they believed in him.’

  ‘You’re very dismissive of these pilgrims and their faiths,’ Lanvik said. ‘Certainly for a priest. Don’t you have beliefs as well?’

  ‘Oh, certainly I do. But I take all the teachings that seem most reasonable to me, distil them down into a code by which to live my life, and call that my religion. I believe in the elements that seem to me the most sensible and the most compassionate, and I find that those elements tend to overlap with what most people believe, regardless what particular religion they claim to follow.’

  ‘Is that what priests normally do?’

  ‘Not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact,’ he laughed. ‘Perhaps that’s why I’m a member of Kiergard Slorn’s Vagabond Company of Lost Souls.’

  The temples all seemed alien and unfamiliar to Lanvik. Standing among them were Delegation Houses and Compounds, labelled and signed with names that he did not recognise: Yarfast, Murallo, Comrith. He tried to read them all, in case the words triggered a brief memory or a flash of recognition, but there was nothing.

  ‘Do the mages have a Delegation?’ he asked.

  ‘I doubt it. If the mages follow any Gods, they are not Gods who have any interest in Darkfall.’

  ‘But there are Humans here. Lots of them.’

  ‘Oh yes, but these are Humans who grew up among the other races, whose lives are the same as ours. They do the same things we do, for the same reasons we do. There are Humans everywhere, but mages come from the Land of Mists: no-one knows what they do or what they believe, except perhaps the other Humans who live there.’

  It was obvious that they were coming closer to the Grotto: an increasing number of the buildings around them hosted stores and kiosks – food and drink and general supplies, of course, but also bright shops dedicated to souvenirs of Darkfall, religious artefacts and objects, icons and statuettes of the Gods and Goddesses, holy writings and other books. No matter how many of these stores they passed, each had pilgrims inside looking for something to take back home with them, something tangible to accompany their memories and their stories.

  More and more people accosted them in the street – a quick blessing and then an invitation to buy, always at a special price: pamphlets, pictures, tiny figurines and icons, carved replica Statues and Crowns, snacks, sweets, something to keep the cold at bay. When Lanvik and Vrosko Din shook their heads and side-stepped them, they switched their attention to whoever was approaching next.

  Eventually they reached a large semi-circular plaza, ringed with yet more stalls selling food and religious tokens: roads radiated out from it to different parts of Darkfall. Although the whole area was packed with people and they couldn’t see the sides, its shape and size were obvious from what lay beyond: the tops of buildings running around it and, along the straight side, a sharp slope leading up to a ridge.

  ‘I’ll wager the Grotto and the Statue are right there,’ Vrosko Din pointed to the centre of the ridge, to the centre of that side of the square. That was also the direction in which the crowds were densest. They pushed their way forward, hoping to reach the front for at least a quick look, but there were rows and rows of people, many chanting and praying and looking unlikely to move soon.

  It seemed they had no chance of getting any closer for now. When they tried to elbow their way through, one of the guards shouted at them to wait, the same as everyone else. No pushing and shoving. Didn’t they know this was a holy site?

  ‘Up there, maybe,’ Lanvik suggested, pointing to the top of the hill. ‘We might be able to see from the top.’

  ‘Or from one of the buildings around the square.’

  They scanned the buildings but none of them seemed to offer any opportunity to get inside, and all had sharply sloping roofs to help against the snow. Eventually Vrosko Din and Lanvik retreated to the edge of the square, and balanced as best they could on top of the barriers there.

  As they had guessed, the Grotto and its Statue seemed to be at the exact centre of the straight side of the plaza. Blocking their view, however, was a gantry platform with scaffolding and supports, which had been erected in front of the Grotto. There was fencing on each side and a number of armed guards stationed to prevent people from scaling the fence. The walkway along the gantry and the steps on either side were dense with visitors, completely obscuring the view.

  As they watched, this queue inched slowly forwards one person at a time.

  It was obvious from their new vantage that half the people in the square were actually part of a long, snaking queue, kept in place by a rope barrier that zigged and zagged from side to side. There were young and old in the queue, in groups or alone, some singing and some reading. There were people on crutches, with companions who would presumably lift them up the scaffolding so that they could also try to lift the Crown. And everyone was shuffling forwards every few seconds, one by one.

  ‘How many people would you say are waiting here?’ Vrosko Din asked him.

  ‘Hundreds, at least. Perhaps more than a thousand.’

  ‘Yes, I agree. And at this rate, it would take us hours to reach the front. So let us not waste our time queuing now. It will surely be quieter at night, if we wish to return later for a better look and a chance to claim the Emerald Crown. I imagine everyone in our Company will try at least once while we are here, so maybe we should come as a group. This will likely be our only opportunity and, who knows – perhaps one of us is blessed by the Gods.’

  ‘Then you do believe in the Gods?’

  ‘Of course I believe in the Gods. I’m a priest.’

  ‘You don’t sound very devout or … reverential, when you talk about the Gods or their followers.’

  ‘Well, I’ve never had much time for followers,’ Vrosko Din admitted. ‘And I’m not entirely sure which God or Gods I believe in. I am, however, convinced that no God worthy of the name would waste his or her time meddling in our little lives, for good or for ill. So I doubt very much that they care what we believe. But now, let us go and see the Needles instead – perhaps it will be quieter there.’

  They had to ask for directions again, and were pointed back towards the centre of Darkfall. Eventually they emerged at the very tip of the island – a round headland jutting out into the ocean, with high cliffs plunging down to the cold northern waters. And here at the edge of the world there was a huge open space, paved in black stone and laid out in stepped terraces like some giant oversized amphitheatre. The whole arena looked out, beyond where the land stopped, towards the water: there was nothing to interrupt the view.

  A steady wind blew in from the water, and the only sounds they could hear were the waves crashing far below. There must have been hundreds of pilgrims spread out across the terraces, singly and in small groups, but the huge space seemed all but deserted and eerily quiet, away from the noise of the bustling city.

  A number of rock stacks ran in a broad curve from the headland, jutting up like spikes into the sky, and each was ringed with the white spray of crashing waves at their base. Sheltered by this curve of stacks – the “Needles” – lay a single low, large island in the bay below. It had been levelled to make it flat on top, and it was low enough that it wasn’t difficult to imagine the sea washing over it entirely. Even now
, white-tipped waves lashed the island.

  Even more unusual, a looped line ran from the centre of the little island up across the bay to a building at the top of the cliffs. It was some kind of winch system with pulleys at either end.

  ‘What is this place?’ Lanvik asked.

  ‘This is where they make Sacrifices to the Gods of the Heavens, to ensure that the sun rises again.’

  ‘Where?’ He hadn’t asked, but he’d assumed there would be a raised podium or altar so that the worshippers could appreciate what was taking place, witness whatever they had come to witness. But this whole area was set up to look down on the bay, not at any temple or stage.

  ‘The island,’ Vrosko Din explained. ‘They sound a great horn, and Daggerfish come to feed.’

  ‘Daggerfish?’

  ‘Creatures that live in the seas and feed upon the flesh of other animals. The sacrifices are secured on that island and at high tide the water covers it completely, though not to any great depth, so the Daggerfish are able to attack. It takes no more than thirty or forty minutes, I believe – the whole bay turns red with blood. I don’t know if the horn has any real purpose, or if the Daggerfish would come anyway.’

  ‘And people watch?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Vrosko Din assured him. ‘In vast numbers. Simply witnessing the sacrifice is one of the main reasons that people come here. It’s a spiritual experience for many of them: an apotheosis. And being in a crowd gives them an excuse to be more extreme, less civilised.’ He sounded revolted by the whole thing. ‘There’s a high tide in the middle of the night as well, but they don’t sacrifice anything then – people wouldn’t be able to see properly. They might miss the spectacle, the gore.’

  He paused for a moment, and then continued more dispassionately: ‘There are some who believe that the Daggerfish are Gods themselves, and others who believe they are directed by one God or another, but most believe they are simply vicious sea creatures. That kind of speculation doesn’t really matter, though: the point of the sacrifice is not the Daggerfish, which are merely the instrument of death, but our submission to the Gods of the Heavens. We demonstrate that we submit ourselves to their will, however capricious, cruel and nonsensical that will may seem.’

  He pointed to the loop of cable between the island and the cliff: ‘That is how they transfer the sacrifices to the island. There’s no beach or serviceable harbour for miles, so I suppose it’s practical. If sacrifices were brought in by boat, it would take much longer and lose much of the drama. If we return tomorrow, then I’m sure we can watch the excitement unfold.’

  ‘I thought the solstice was in three days?’

  ‘In most years the sacrifices take place only on the solstice, but every third year, during the Festival of the Crown, the whole affair is bigger and more spectacular. The stables of Darkfall are bulging with animals waiting to be slaughtered: hundreds have been purchased locally, and many more have been brought here from all across the Three Lands. There are far too many to sacrifice on a single day, even using such a huge killing ground as the island, so they spread the affair over three days. There are strict rules regarding what can be sacrificed on each day. The first feeding will be tomorrow, the second will be the day after tomorrow, and the third and climactic sacrifice will be on the shortest day, the solstice. That will be when the Empire sacrifices its three victims and that, no doubt, will be the day with the largest crowds.’

  ‘Three victims? Not animals?’

  ‘Not animals, no. Everyone comes to make sacrifices, but only the Empire still sacrifices people. The legends say that once, millennia ago, most of the sacrifices were people. In fact, the legends also say that people used to sacrifice their own children.’

  ‘That’s horrible.’

  ‘Yes. But any worthwhile sacrifice must have value, must be something that will cost you to part with. The Gods only value things that you care about.’

  ‘How does the Empire choose three people?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Vrosko Din shook his head. ‘Maybe they find volunteers from among their own people, perhaps for money or status; or maybe they choose people randomly. They might be prisoners or criminals, and being sacrificed could be a punishment. Or a reward, I suppose.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ Lanvik said. The more he heard, the more uncomfortable he felt, and it was already dark.

  ‘Yes.’

  The town of Darkfall radiated out from the headland, rather than the Statue – this was the centre, the real focal point. And because their accommodation was more central than most, it was only a short walk back to The Devout Supplicant.

  3

  Apart from Kiergard Slorn and Bane, the others were back at the inn by the time Lanvik and Vrosko Din returned.

  Garran, Ubrik, Karuin and Vorrigan were sitting with a large group in one corner of the courtyard, drinking and singing loudly – it seemed that they had managed to find a number of temporary companions who had no religious restrictions regarding strong drink. Perhaps they were bodyguards, bearers and other servants of the devout, rather than the devout themselves.

  Lanvik found Thawn and Ethryk lying on their beds in the room, while Lisamel, Tremano and Magda sorted through a large pile of small items on the floor. He looked closer and could see coins and jewellery, a few purses and a large number of religious amulets, trinkets and tokens.

  ‘What are those?’

  ‘Pickings from today,’ Tremano told him. ‘Some of these pilgrims are very careless with their belongings.’

  It took a moment for Lanvik to realise what he meant, and then he was suddenly disappointed – it seemed that maybe the Company was little more than a group of common cutpurses, despite the romantic image they had managed to project.

  ‘You disapprove, wizard,’ Tremano waved a finger at him. ‘I see it in your face.’

  ‘You’re stealing from pilgrims,’ Lanvik protested, ‘religious men. They’re far from home, far from their families, and they’ve probably been travelling for weeks or months to celebrate whatever they believe in. And you rob them when they get here? Don’t you feel any compassion for them; any shame in robbing them?’

  ‘Steady,’ Tremano laughed.

  ‘They have almost nothing, and you’re taking even that away from them. What if these things are all they have to pay for their passage back home?’

  Lisamel stood and rested her hand on his shoulder. ‘Almost nothing?’ she repeated. ‘If they had almost nothing, then we would not be able to take anything of value from them, would we? And yes, as you say, they have travelled hundreds of miles or even thousands of miles – how much money must they have in order to make that journey? And here, in Tremark, everything is priced at a level that only the most wealthy could dream of affording. I don’t believe that anyone we meet here is likely to be either poor or destitute.’

  ‘The poor and destitute do not walk about in unknown lands carrying items such as these,’ Magda confirmed. ‘What poor person goes out carrying a purse of gold coins? Many of these pilgrims may be just as you describe: pious and righteous paupers. But why would we steal from such as them?’

  ‘You’re telling me you only target the wealthy?’

  Magda laughed: ‘What would be the point of stealing from someone who has nothing?’

  ‘They all look poor, of course,’ Vrosko Din commented from the doorway. ‘But that is because here, at this time, it would not be appropriate for anyone to flaunt their wealth.’

  Lanvik looked around the room. ‘And you’re thieves? Pickpockets?’

  ‘Well, Magda likes to keep her hand in,’ Tremano told him. ‘The rest of us are enthusiastic amateurs but she’s Crow, if you didn’t know.’

  Magda was one of the Terevarna, a Light Elf, but Lanvik hadn’t been able to tell her Clan. How do I remember about the Clans? he wondered. And how do I remember about the Four Races?

  ‘Unfortunately, it turns out that these pilgrims are gullible in more than one way,’ Magda added. ‘I don’t believe I’v
e ever taken such a high number of counterfeit items.’

  Lanvik walked round to his bed: he had stowed a pack underneath, but it was missing now.

  ‘What happened to my old clothes?’ he asked the others.

  ‘Your old clothes?’ Ethryk repeated. ‘Those rags? We burned them, of course.’ He shrugged. ‘They were stinking out the room: what else were we to do?’

  Lanvik was taken aback. He’d been deliberately keeping those things, not simply because he knew they fitted him well but also because they were all that he had from his life before: the life that he didn’t remember. And now they were gone.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I wish you hadn’t.’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid,’ Magda told him. ‘Of course we didn’t burn them. We sent them to be cleaned, to get rid of the smell. If they can’t be cleaned, then we will burn them. And that reminds me …’ She picked up a stolen coin from the floor and tossed it to him.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘The rest of us in this room have washed recently, but it’s clear from your odour that you have not. There is a bathing room at the end of the hall. The coin is to pay for hot water and a fresh towel.’

  Lanvik felt his face flushing with embarrassment. ‘Are you laughing at me?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But you do need to bathe.’

  ‘Before you do,’ Thawn interrupted, ‘I got you this.’ She passed him something from her bag: for a moment he guessed it was a small animal of some sort, before realising that it was a hairpiece.

  ‘There are plenty people selling Human items here. Apparently such things are required among your people. You lose your hair as you age.’