Sin Eater

by Shel, Mike

  The blond-haired being, still looking like nothing more than a cocky young man, closed his eyes and hugged himself, practically glowing with his recollections. For a moment, Auric thought the being might cry.

  “But then,” Timilis began again, his voice cold now, “some of our number, our own kind, began questioning the morality of our magnificent enterprise. The Betrayers. The Ush’oul.”

  Szaa’da’shaela trembled in Auric’s hand. He looked at the blade as if for the first time.

  “Led by a sorcerer—Benesh-Enoah his name—they aided our subject peoples. They allowed themselves to be fashioned into weapons of great power, power enough to contend with the immortals we had become. The people rose up, and many of the Besh’oul were overthrown. Those who could not be slain, they caged. Like Aelishim, the one you woke, who ate your friends, Auric Manteo. Or Gaha’laat, your Aching God. Many were trapped in terrible prisons. Only a handful of us remained. They left us no choice. We called up an unspeakable necromantic power, and we laid waste to the people and their Ush’oul accomplices. Millions died. That effort was nearly the end of us as well. We survivors needed rest, thousands of years of rest, hidden away in the wasteland we had created. Until…”

  “Coryth Angana,” whispered Agnes.

  “Blessed Coryth,” smiled Timilis. “Your first king and Revelator. It was Bae’u’loh who conceived our scheme, who drew him to us. ‘Let us represent ourselves as beneficent gods, requiring sacrifice,’ she proposed. ‘Let them fuel the Kah through their devotion to us. Each of us will sup at the bounty of our domains.’”

  Auric’s stomach churned, as though it was about to surrender its contents. Szaa’da’shaela tingled in his hand, and a cold chill ran up his arm from its pommel. Timilis went on with his story.

  “And then Memno, husband to Bae’u’loh, he said, ‘I will be the god of the law, and every sentence carried out, every prisoner’s cry, will feed my power.’ The others made their claims: one of us would be the war god, another the god of hammer and anvil. Each of them claimed a sphere of influence they believed would yield bountiful harvests of pain. Perhaps least among the survivors, I chose last. But I was patient, because I knew humanity best, better certainly than my sorcerer siblings. ‘I will take folly,’ I said when my turn finally came. ‘I lay claim to the fruits of human frailty.’ They laughed at me, every one of them. What sustenance could I draw from that? Memno mocked me. ‘Thin gruel! A minor god you will be, despised, reviled,’ he said. And he was right, for a time. But I knew. If one draws nourishment from human folly, one will never go hungry.”

  There was a flicker of shadow and light from the hole at the center of the chamber, as though a fire burning deep in the earth reached up toward them. Auric’s heart was beating in his ears like a drum now, Szaa’da’shaela humming so that he could see the blade vibrate in his grasp. After a few more moments of silence, Sira spoke.

  “And the one who concocted your plan…”

  “Bae’u’loh.”

  “What dominion did she claim?”

  Timilis smiled, and his smile was hard, cruel. “Bae’u’loh, she said, ‘I will be the god of healing, and I will suckle at every illness and injury they suffer.’”

  Sira cried out, a terrible, raw thing. Then she wept like a child, abandoned and bereft. Agnes went to her and the two embraced. For a long while Timilis closed his eyes, his countenance beatific. It was as though he basked in Sira’s grief, as though it gave off rays like the summer sun. Auric stared at this false god, at a loss for words. But their unkind host wasn’t finished. He had more words for them.

  “I set you on this journey, Auric Manteo. I made it your destiny: to slay not one god, but two. And you will do as I wish, you will grant me release. As soon as the Ush’oul you wield, which tingles with anticipation even now, is truly ready. But first, one more sacrifice is required, and it must be dear.”

  Auric felt a cold shiver at the sound of that word, dear. Sira was no longer weeping. Agnes, too, was focused on Timilis, great sorcerer and false god. It was as though all of them knew what he would ask now. Timilis shifted himself on the belly of Pember’s corpse, looking down for a moment at his palm, a white, V-shaped scar marring the pale flesh. Then he looked up at Auric and spoke.

  “You will take the last of the Ush’oul, the sword that calls itself Szaa’da’shaela, and you will make it ready with a great sacrifice, so that it possesses the power to release me from my interminable existence. And you will do all I ask, or I will make this world of yours and all the people in it burn in slow agony. The horrors I’ll unleash will make what pain you’ve suffered thus far seem a fond and pleasant memory. Now, do as I say. Take your sword, Auric Manteo, and give me the lifeblood of your only surviving child.”

  37

  Saint Agnes of the Blade

  Anger erupted from within Auric Manteo like a geyser, bursting forth with a growl of rage as he hurled himself at a smiling Timilis, letting Szaa’da’shaela clatter to the floor of the chamber with a metallic clang. But it was as though he had thrown himself at a pillar of stone. He slammed his fists into that face, wrapped his fingers around his throat to squeeze the breath out of him. Timilis seemed no more troubled by Auric’s attempts at violence than he would by the buzzing of a gnat.

  At last, his strength spent, Auric fell to the ground, grasping the waiting hilt of Szaa’da’shaela with his right hand. He stared at Timilis, who smiled back at him, shaking his head. “And they say I’m theatrical.”

  “Is it true?” Auric asked Szaa’da’shaela aloud.

  It is, Auric Manteo. I haven’t enough strength to slay him yet.

  Auric tested the truth of it. He drove the point of the blade into Timilis’s gut. The sorcerer didn’t flinch, merely pulled the blade from his flesh. His tunic had been pierced, but the skin revealed was pristine. Auric spoke again to the sword.

  “And did you know this all along?”

  There was a pause, silence in the chamber and in his head. Finally, the blade replied to him. I…knew it was a possibility. I couldn’t know for certain until he revealed himself. I didn’t think it wise to trouble you with this detail until—

  “Until he asked for the life of my daughter.”

  Szaa’da’shaela was silent.

  “Come now, Auric,” said Timilis, as though comforting a friend. “All great tales of heroes speak of terrible prices paid.” Timilis patted the corpse on which he sat as he spoke. “And besides, I have it on good authority that dear Agnes here will be named a saint after all this.”

  “Why don’t you just drop whatever armor protects you?” Sira asked, her voice tired and brittle. “Open yourself to the strength the sword has now.”

  “‘Armor’ is an inaccurate metaphor, little priest of a false god,” he said, turning to her with his maddening smile. “I can no more remove my immortality than you can your own skin. It is an inseparable part of me, imbuing every cell of my being. No, greater sorcery is required to pierce its magic. And for that, like all great magicks, we need blood, precious blood.”

  “Why did you kill Pember?” asked Agnes, as though the blood he spoke of wasn’t her own.

  “I lied to Pember at first, convinced him that this was a great ruse to harvest some truly sweet pain. I told our expired frog-god here that I would share it if I was allowed the use of this place. But Pember divined my purpose in the end, and foresaw potential consequences for us gods, rather dire ones. Slow to see through my deception, though, for a god of divination.”

  “What are these…consequences?” Agnes asked. Her voice sounded empty. Auric’s heart ached, watching his daughter stare off unseeing into space.

  “That killing a ‘great god,’ even if that god is a sham, may trouble the order of things. It may cause…theological problems, and…complications. Pember feared it may upset the pantheon’s cozy arrangement with your people.”

  “Our
sacred compact is no more than a ‘cozy arrangement’?” Sira asked.

  “We made a contract with Coryth Angana. ‘Worship us, and we shall give you the world.’ Did we not hold up our end of the bargain? At the time, your empire was a collection of petty, bickering city-states, murdering one another for scraps in the rubble left by the fall of the Busker Kings. For nearly a thousand years! Not a bit of progress in all that time. Just plague and famine and betrayal and rape and murder, bah! What a fucking hash humanity had made of the world! You have us to thank for pulling you from the muck.”

  “I won’t do it,” said Auric.

  You must, said Szaa’da’shaela.

  “You must,” echoed Timilis. “Would you take responsibility for the havoc I’ll wreak if you don’t? The chaos you’ve seen ‘til now is but a pale reflection of—”

  “Save your threats. What you ask is impossible…monstrous.”

  “Monstrous? Humans sacrifice their children every day! To ambition, to ego, to greed. It’s as commonplace as dandelion blooms in a field of summer grass. And it will not be without benefits, a consolation of sorts. As I’ve said, Agnes will be elevated to sainthood, Auric Manteo. Pember foresaw it! Imagine it: your daughter, venerated by the people of Hanifax centuries from now for her sacrifice, ridding the world of an evil, capricious god, sparing it untold calamity! ‘Savior,’ they’ll call her!”

  “Saint Agnes of the Blade,” said Agnes, her voice far away, hollow.

  Timilis held a hand out to her and smiled indulgently. “Just so.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Timilis let out another long, slow breath and stood, wiping from the seat of his trousers whatever they had picked up from Pember’s slimy cadaver. He walked to Auric and reached down, offering a hand. Auric ignored it, staring back with every ounce of hatred he felt. Timilis withdrew his hand and closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly.

  “It is a difficult thing, I admit,” he said at last, strolling over to Agnes. He took some of her hair in his hand and began stroking it. Agnes looked at him with a dull sort of hate, a faint echo of Auric’s own. But she did nothing to resist the sorcerer’s touch. “She is a lovely thing,” the sorcerer continued, “though a bit too martial for my tastes. Quite accomplished for her age. A father could be proud.”

  “I am proud,” Auric rumbled.

  “And you wanted to keep her safe, too. At least after Marta and Tomas passed beyond the Final Veil. The irony is, of course, delicious, I must admit. How it will send God’s heart to giddy quivering!” He held the lock of Agnes’s hair to his nostrils and breathed in, as though he drew in the scent of a flower.

  Auric, said Szaa’da’shaela, firm, insistent, listen to me. We must kill this creature. He is a plague on humanity, like all of them—a fomenter of endless suffering. The price is high, I know, but it is necessary. We must let Agnes be a martyr. Her pain will be over in a moment. Her blood is precious to you, yes; that’s what gives it value and power. But you must weigh it against the holocaust this creature will unleash if you do not end him, here, today—now.

  “Her young life,” said Auric. “Snuffed out.”

  She will be remembered through the ages for what she did, I promise you. Saint Agnes of the Blade, already foretold. Remember Geneviva, rotting, crimson-eyed, ready to sink her teeth into human flesh? What catastrophes will this queen unleash on the aristocracy, on the common folk of Hanifax? Tens of thousands will die, perhaps more! What this creature says is true. He will stop at nothing to achieve his ends. He will murder the world and make you watch all of it. Agnes will die all the same, horribly—

  “Shut up, goddammit!”

  “The Ush’oul is right, Auric,” said Timilis, letting go of Agnes’s hair. “You might spare yourself the duty of dispatching her by your own hand, only to bear witness to some other far more terrible end, and very soon. I’ll see to that. Or surrender to this duty, Auric Manteo. The sword needs a sacrifice of precious blood. Here is precious blood. Save the empire, with a single stroke! The fate of the Cradle Sea rests in your hands!”

  How many people lived in the lands that rimmed the Cradle Sea? Eighteen million? Twenty? A proper census hadn’t been conducted in nearly a century. Whatever the number, Auric could scarce imagine all those who would be touched by his choices here. As a Syraeic field agent, he was used to the lives of his companions hanging in the balance of decisions he made. But the sheer scale of this squeezed his heart, sending his mind spinning.

  He looked at Agnes, still staring at Timilis, her beautiful face severe, defiant. His heart swelled at the courage that emanated from her. What a fine Syraeic she was! Someone he would be happy to call friend, colleague. His child. His only living child. He thought on Tomas, years in the grave. Always more cautious than Agnes, who was younger than him; that girl had been bold from the moment she could walk. Strange that he should be the one to perish during his first foray into some insignificant Busker ruin, the name of which Auric couldn’t even remember in that moment.

  Now Agnes was here, standing before him, his flesh and blood, all that was left of it, of Marta. How could he snuff out a life so promising, a life so dear? How could his heart survive such a cataclysm? Could he imagine himself, back in Daurhim, in Hannah’s bed, contented, living to old age? Gods—Hannah! It was her intuition that he shouldn’t leave her again. How was it he hadn’t thought of her in days? His life was sweet with her, was it not? Free of the sort of worries a Syraeic agent faced, let alone the horror before him, this impossible choice. Did he deserve a contented retirement, when so many others lay in their graves? Marta, Tomas, Belech, Lenda…many, many more he had known, good people. And then he remembered the words of the sin eater. You will find a way to atone for the wrong you have done to her.

  When the time comes…

  Auric noticed Agnes’s hand on his forearm. He wasn’t sure how long it had been there, nor how long she had been talking to him, but at last he heard her speak.

  “Papa,” she said. “We have no choice.”

  No choice, repeated Szaa’da’shaela.

  No choice. Precious life, precious blood. All life is precious, no? He repeated the words in his mind, considering. He asked Szaa’da’shaela if what he contemplated would be enough. After a pause, the blade answered him, its masculine voice somber and so much like his own. It will be enough.

  Auric turned to Agnes and took her hands, though she kept hold of her short sword with an iron grip. He looked into her eyes, dark like her mother’s. He counted freckles dusting her nose and cheeks for a moment, then smiled.

  “It’s all right, Father,” she said, handing her sword to Sira. “This duty is thrust upon you. You must obey. In this way, we both save the world. It will be but a moment’s pain for me and I’ll be free, joining Mama and Tomas, beyond the Final Veil. Do it, and know that I am proud to be a Syraeic, and your daughter.”

  Tears fell from her eyes, and Auric wept as well. He nodded slowly, having made his decision. He embraced Agnes tightly, a farewell, kissed her on her forehead. She undid the straps of her cuirass and removed it, setting it on the ground. She looked so small, standing there in her blood-stained shirt. Her lips quivered then. She turned to Sira. “To what gods do I pray now, Sira?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Sira, her face wet with her own tears. “But I will say a prayer, nonetheless, on the chance that some beneficent god listens.”

  Agnes turned back to Auric. He could see her willing herself to stop crying. She pulled her shirt down at the collar, to expose the flesh above her heart. “Strike true, Father,” she said. “I love you.”

  “And I you, daughter. How proud I am of you and what you have become.”

  Those were the last words Auric Manteo spoke. Before Agnes or Sira could stop him, he turned the Djao blade Szaa’da’shaela about and drove its gleaming steel point through his heart.

  38

&nbs
p; Godslayer

  It was strange how quickly Agnes resigned herself to it, the fact that she had to die. A sudden peace engulfed her. Not a warm, comforting thing—it was a calm, clear-headed awareness of her mortality, of her thread coming to an end. There were many things she would never do, she realized, things she would never have. It saddened her. She had no wish to die, but flailing against it seemed silly, futile. Death was no ravenous beast she could answer with her sword. It was a time, and a place, and a purpose. She would face it with dignity.

  But now she sat next to her father’s corpse, in the blood that pooled around him. He lay on his side, the Djao blade still embedded in his chest. The ancient steel had penetrated his hardened leather cuirass as though it were nothing more than a single sheet of vellum. The weapon had pierced the white symbol of the Syraeic League on the pectoral, cutting it in half. Sira knelt on the other side of Auric, weeping, both of her hands clasping his arm. Agnes looked at her father’s dark eyes, still open, seeming to stare at the toad-thing that had been the false god Pember. She reached down and closed those eyelids gently, and combed a lock of hair, black dusted with gray, from his brow. She wanted to weep, but tears wouldn’t come.

  You’re really alone now, Agnes, she thought. Father, mother, brother, all dead. Looking at his face again, serene now, as though he slept, she could sense the warmth fleeing his flesh. You’ve left me, Papa. Left me with this task unfinished and in my hands.