Sin Eater

by Shel, Mike

  “A small gift from your father to me, Agnes Manteo,” she heard Timilis say, the sound of his voice unwelcome. “I didn’t see that coming. I do appreciate even small surprises.”

  Agnes looked up at the blond-haired immortal. He no longer wore the cocky grin, but she read no sympathy on his features either. That brought a wave of anger that shook her from the peculiar emotional limbo in which she floated. She looked to the sword, Szaa’da’shaela, protruding from her father’s heart, at the blood-stained rent in his leather armor. She examined the emeralds set in the metal, the exotic filigree work and complex etchings. Her fingers found the weapon’s grip and wrapped around it. She rested her left hand on her father’s bloody cuirass and pulled, doing her best to ignore the sloppy, wet noise as she backed the blade out from the lethal wound it had made. Then she stood, tearing her eyes from her father to the false god before her.

  Hello, Agnes Manteo, said the sword in her mind, a mature, almost musical, feminine voice that carried with it a power and serenity she found soothing. I am sorry. We shall mourn together, you and me.

  “Was his life enough, then?” she asked aloud.

  Oh, yes. Yes, it was.

  She was surprised when she felt the weapon’s weight in her hand. By its dimensions it was closer to a longsword than a rapier—she could certainly use it two-handed—but it was so much lighter. She gave it an experimental swipe before her. Drops of her father’s blood sprayed across the room as the blade made a swoosh, cutting the air in two. It was a shockingly elegant weapon, giving her a much longer reach than did her rapier. She untucked the end of her shirt from her trousers and used it to clean the blade of her father’s blood. It was as though the intricate sigils in the steel appeared to her for the first time, bursting with meaning and power.

  “May I ask you a question, Timilis?” said Agnes, looking down the length of the blade, admiring its steely perfection.

  “You may,” answered Timilis.

  “My godmother…”

  “Ah,” he said, grinning. “I was that necromancy’s author, too. Yes, it is your beloved godmother. However, the sorcery employed to sustain her existence, to speak without lungs, required exposure to certain…well, shadowy secrets. It changes a person. That knowledge can’t help pushing out more pleasant qualities to make room for itself.”

  “So, is it or is it not Lenda?” asked Sira.

  Agnes ignored the priest, looking down at the toes of her boots now, stained with her father’s blood. “Make room for what?” she asked.

  Timilis pursed his lips, paused before speaking. “It’s hard to explain to one uninitiated. The darkness. Let’s call it Midnight’s Wisdom.”

  Agnes looked up at Timilis, who smiled back at her. “You’re ready, then?”

  “I’m ready, Saint Agnes. The blade must pierce my heart.”

  “Are there crimes you wish to confess before I do this thing?” she asked, flexing the fingers on her right hand, testing her hold on the Djao blade’s grip.

  Timilis laughed loudly and clapped his hands. “Ha! So you offer yourself as my sin eater, Agnes Manteo?”

  “Of a sort. There will be no absolution at the end.”

  “Absolution? For what? I am guilty of curiosity. Of boldness. Of courage few men possess, to look full into the inky blackness of the void and face whatever dark wisdom hides there. My conscience records no other sins.”

  Agnes stared back at him, her heart bubbling like a cauldron.

  “Do I disappoint you?” Timilis asked, all smiling indulgence again. “I am not a mortal man, who concerns himself with such trifles.”

  Agnes looked at the immortal’s eyes, a rich, deep blue. Could she see thousands of years of wisdom swimming in those eyes? No. She did not. She clucked her tongue. “I do wonder how anyone could have mistaken you for a deity, for anything but what you are: a thief and a cheat. And a sadist.”

  Timilis’s smile soured, his brow furrowed. “If you are trying to provoke me, girl, you won’t succeed. As I’ve said, I need neither your approval nor your absolution. In truth, it is I who am disappointed. A pity you cannot appreciate the privilege you’re given. To dispatch an immortal being past the Final Veil.”

  “It feels more akin to lancing a boil. Or excising a poisoned growth.”

  The flesh of the immortal’s face bloomed red. There was a sneer in his words now. “No mere man who has not tasted the power I possess can judge me, girl. Were it in your hands, Saint Agnes of the Blade, you would succumb to its allure as well. All who taste it become gluttons, and no price is too high. It’s only fear and narrow-mindedness that halts the inquisitive heart. Morality has no meaning in this context.”

  “The Ush’oul,” said Sira, coming to Agnes’s side now. “They decided the price was too high. They rediscovered their humanity.”

  “The Ush’oul? Ha! They were all of them despots as well! They rediscovered their humanity after five thousand years dining on human pain, knowing all along what it was that fed and empowered them. The very fat cannibal develops a conscience about cannibalism. How touching! How noble. The Ush’oul were all hypocrites. Each last one, including the one Agnes wields now. I own the choices I’ve made through the millennia. I have no regrets and shed not a tear for those who enabled my journey through their suffering. I’ve walked a thousand worlds, heard the symphony of the cosmos, played with the building blocks of creation! Why should I regret the price that purchased these countless wonders no mortal could possibly fathom?”

  “No confession, then?” asked Agnes, her air casual as she held Szaa’da’shaela’s shimmering runes aloft.

  “The universe keeps no tally of transgressions,” the immortal continued, hands on his hips. “If there is an intelligence behind creation, it is indifferent, with no more interest in our choices than for which direction a dung beetle scampers.”

  “Then human existence is an empty thing.” said Sira. “Love, loyalty, kindness and compassion, nobility of purpose, they have no meaning?” Agnes wasn’t sure if Sira voiced her own newborn bitterness or challenged Timilis.

  “You may construct whatever meaning you like out of your life, sad and disillusioned little priest. I care not.”

  “So,” inquired Agnes, “Szaa’da’shaela must penetrate your heart? That is what will release you from this world?”

  “Just so,” he said, tearing his shirt so that the pale, hairless flesh of his bare chest was exposed. He pointed to where his heart lay with a finger. “Here.”

  “And will you feel pain?”

  The immortal’s eyes narrowed. “I can still cause immeasurable harm, Agnes Manteo. I need but speak the word to call that harm into being. Do not toy with me.”

  “Of course. Do you have any final words, immortal Timilis?”

  Timilis smiled broadly. “Aye. Something witty, to be preserved, something by which I might be remembered. I—”

  Before he could utter another syllable, Agnes brought Szaa’da’shaela about in a wide arc. The blade bit into the false god’s neck, passing through flesh and bone with ease. An exhilaration of energy crawled up her arm from the hilt of the weapon as the severed head spun into the air, end over end, above an erupting fountain of blood. The head struck the rough-hewn chamber wall, sounding like a ripe gourd as it tumbled, coming to rest beside Pember’s glistening corpse. The headless body staggered, waving its arms about, seeking what it had lost.

  Agnes knelt beside the head, which stared back at her, eyes blinking, mouth working, unable to make a sound. “Speak the word, Timilis, Lord of Laughter,” she said with a cruel smile. “Or do you require breath and vocal cords? This is not like what you did to my Aunt Lenda, is it? Where is your power now? Your sorcery?” The eyes fluttered, the mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping at the bottom of a boat. “Do you feel the pain of your wound? If you do, it isn’t a fraction of what you deserve.”

&nbs
p; Sira put a hand to Agnes’s shoulder. Agnes shrugged it off as she stood. She gave the head a savage kick with the toe of her boot so that it struck the far wall and rolled to the edge of the pit at the center of the domed chamber. Its eyes stared over the edge, blinking in horror.

  Do this thing, said Szaa’da’shaela. Do it now. And strike true.

  Strike true, Agnes thought, remembering her godmother’s words in the bowels of the Citadel. Agnes went to the body, which had wandered over to the entry tunnel, still standing, still flailing helplessly. With her left hand she grabbed it by the bloody skin of its neck.

  “No sin eater needed,” she said, jerking the headless thing around to face her. “For the millions whose pain you harvested over the centuries, for my mother, my brother…for Ruben and Kennah, for my Aunt Lenda.”

  Agnes walked the body to the edge of the pit, its arms bobbing out as though reaching for balance. She poked the point of the Djao blade into its belly and looked over at Timilis’s head, poised precariously at the pit’s far side, wild eyes glaring back at her.

  “And for my father, who was a far better and braver man than you.”

  She jammed Szaa’da’shaela’s razor-sharp point in and thrust the blade upward with all her strength, penetrating the chest cavity. She shifted the steel left and right, until at last she found the still-beating heart. Blood pulsed from the wound, bathing her hand in a red gush, and the body convulsed. For a few moments it was as though the two of them were joined in an obscene dance. Another thrilling, electric sensation danced up her sword arm. Finally, the body inhabited by Timilis collapsed to the ground, lifeless. She wanted to kick it then, over and over, until she heard ribs crack. But instead, she crouched down to use the false god’s shirt to clean the blood from the blade and her hand.

  Agnes stood back and looked down at the headless corpse. She turned to the severed head, resting uneasily at the pit’s precipice. Its eyes were still wide with horror, the mouth still forming soundless words. She walked over to it. The mouth gaped; the eyes pleaded. Agnes nudged it with the toe of her boot so that the sorcerer’s head went over the side. Sira joined her, wrapping an arm around her waist, like a sister.

  There was a flicker from the pit, but she could see nothing below save darkness. Is this a fitting punishment, then? she wondered. A silent and impotent eternity with the supposed heart of God? Agnes tried to fathom the countless crimes this immortal sorcerer had committed. Victims without number. Had she avenged them?

  It is a start, whispered Szaa’da’shaela.

  39

  Long May She Reign

  Ilanda Padivale, Countess of Beyenfort, chief agent of the Duke of Harkeny in Boudun, and favorite plaything of the queen, stood on a low stool in her undergarments, arms straight up in the air, while Baea and Ruby went through the elaborate ballet of fastening a dizzying array of intricate, finely made clothing. All of this was done in silence. Tears coursed down her cheeks, marring the painstakingly applied cosmetics Baea had fretted over for an hour. She had decided to allow herself a few more minutes of weeping before she turned to cold, hard analysis of the circumstances. The circumstances overwhelmed her.

  In one of her upraised hands, Ilanda held two scraps of vellum with delicate care, as though they were precious relics in need of preservation. The first informed her that her beloved husband, Lawrence Padivale, Count of Beyenfort, was dead, slain by foul necromancy. His Uncle Symon had assumed authority for the time being, already dispatching a request to the Cult of Tolwe in Caird to send inquisitors for a formal investigation. The second scrap informed her that her father, Count of Sallymont, was dead as well, and that her brother Rolphe was raised up to take his place. The family medicus had concluded that her father’s heart had given out, though he was a healthy and vigorous man at fifty-five. There were no signs of sorcery. Nonetheless, Tolwe’s clergy had been summoned to Sallyforth Hall as well, to make certain of the truth.

  Marburand, she thought. Duke Willem’s spies and courtiers here in Boudun have divined that now is the time to act, that the queen’s attention and authority are slipping enough for him to indulge his regional appetites. Sweet Lawrence’s death is meant to unsettle Beyenfort and direct all Harkeny’s attention to the northern frontier. As chief bulwark against the Korsa, her adopted home city must never be distracted from its eternal duty. Symon is hot-headed, she mused, willing herself to stop crying in that moment. Lawrence wisely ignored his uncle’s impulses to strike out at the slights and provocations offered by Willem and his nobles. Now the man has nothing stopping him from giving his angry urges license. He will lash out. Recklessly. Foolishly.

  Ilanda wanted to flee the capital, take a ship with wind demons screaming in its sails back to the dukedom and ride for Beyenfort, where she could take the reins of government. That was her right as her husband’s wife, after all, at least until Duke Orin judged otherwise. The seat of Beyenfort and the Padivale line, it must be preserved, she thought. Ilanda closed her eyes. She allowed the hand that held the letters to slip down to touch her womb. Please, oh please, gentle Chaeres, make it so.

  Her monthly flow was late, but only by a few days. She had been with Lawrence recently enough that there was a chance. Maybe. Maybe she was pregnant. Perhaps a piece of her lover, friend, and husband remained through their union, a growing life within her. Please, loving Chaeres, may I be fruitful, as you make the earth fruitful!

  The wagging tongues in Boudun had long theorized that Lawrence Padivale was a homosexual. Had he even bedded the spoiled, empty-headed aristocrat whom he married, the one who had somehow captivated their mad queen with her pretty face and silly banter? They had been married long enough to have had three children. And yet not a single pregnancy? It shamed Ilanda that she preferred that gossip to the other: Ilanda Padivale nee Sallymont, despite her pleasing face, the generous curve of her hips, that lavish bosom, well, she’s barren. Unable to fulfill the most basic duty of an aristocratic woman: to provide an heir. Even with entreaties to Chaeres! Why, she’s no more useful than a pretty piece of jewelry, is she? A lovely ornament, a bauble, good for nothing but display.

  Ilanda’s face flushed. She was so weary of the masquerade, of playing the pretty fool. The old man, the Aerican who called himself Ush’oul, his promise that she didn’t have to play that game much longer made her heart soar when first she heard it. Blessed gods of Hanifax, make it happen soon!

  Prayers. How much of her time was consumed with petitioning one deity or another for mercy, guidance, wisdom, for blessings? Did they listen? Her father had always told her to follow the forms, to make obeisance as she should, show proper respect for the clergy, perform the rituals and sacrifices expected of the pantheon. But always, always—she could even hear him say it now—count on your own industry and intelligence and those of your trusted people.

  The Aerican. She trusted him. He had provided sage counsel, helped to untangle some confusing reports provided by her spy network. If he didn’t know the persons of the court—and their personalities—he was at least a remarkable student of human nature. Priceless. He had looked unwell the past few days, his brown complexion ashy, a weariness in his eyes. She had told him to rest himself, take care. He had waved off the attentions of a medicus and declined her offer to summon a priest from the Blue Cathedral.

  “I am old,” he had said. “There is little that can be done to remedy that, Countess.”

  “Fetch him for me, Ruby, dear,” Ilanda charged her maidservant when the last ribbon had been tied to her dress. “The Aerican.”

  Ilanda sat at her dressing table and allowed Baea to repair the damage to the cosmetics her tears had wrought. She had recently adopted a style Ush’oul said was worn by both the men and women of a great Aerican nation: a thick black outline of the eyes with a cosmetic called kohl, obtained through the illicit and expensive Azkayan markets. As Baea put on the finishing touches, there was a knock at the outer door of her suit
e of rooms. Baea returned a moment later, alarm on her plain, honest face.

  “You’ve been summoned to the queen’s bedchamber, milady!”

  A familiar thrill of dread pulsed in Ilanda’s chest, the same every time she was called to the queen’s side. Lately it had been a rare morning when she wasn’t summoned to attend Her Majesty, who grew increasingly erratic, increasingly monstrous. There was an ache where Geneviva’s black claws had bitten into her flesh. Though the wounds no longer troubled her, the discoloration had to be hidden by cosmetics. Her pain had resisted the prayers of Belu’s anointed, and the efforts of three different palace medicae. It was only the old man who provided relief. He denied being a priest of any kind. But how was it he could channel divine healing when the Blue Mother’s own could not?

  Ilanda sensed Baea’s nervous energy as she followed her to the suite’s outer door, fussing and primping at details of her mistress’s sumptuous costume. Ilanda finally shooed her maidservant away with an affectionate smile and a wave of the fan Baea handed her. She willed her heart to stop beating so quickly, taking deep breaths as she made the short walk to Geneviva’s chambers. She feared going there without the old man’s company. What madness would be born there today? Who would suffer her capricious wrath? Would today be the day Ilanda’s carefully choreographed performance failed?

  The palace guards at the outer door of the queen’s bedchamber, soiled blindfolds covering their eyes, struck their halberds on the marble floor at Ilanda’s approach. After all this time, the guards’ awareness of their surroundings, despite the cloth wrapped around their heads, still unnerved her. One of them reached for the polished brass door handle and opened the door wide for her. She took one last deep breath and walked through.

  No number of perfumed candles and incense could mask the stench of death in the humid room. It was almost overpowering; a stink she would never grow used to, no matter how many years she served the queen. She expected to find Geneviva being dressed by terrified maidservants, attended by various functionaries. Instead, officials were gathered around the queen’s canopied bed, solemn. Lady Courlan was the first to spy Ilanda and beckoned her forward with a white-gloved hand. When she reached the attendant throng, the others standing there shifted so that she too could stand with them.