by Peter Newman
I want that too! thought Sa-at.
‘In those few hours I broke nearly every rule of the road-born. I’d gone into the Wild alone. I’d approached a demon. Listened to it. Touched it. And I’d offered to help it. Much like your Crowflies, it didn’t need words to tell me what it wanted: blood. It asked for my blood and I gave without question. Actually the problem wasn’t one of inhibition but practicality.’
‘What’s a “bishion”?’
‘I mean I didn’t care about the risk to my soul or the judgement of my elders. The only thing I was scared of was being discovered, or not being clever enough to keep my new friend alive.
‘Even though the forest was quiet, I bled myself on the Godroad just to be safe, using skins I’d stolen from our Cutter-crafter. I still needed to get the blood inside it, and my new friend had no mouth. To feed it, I had to rub blood over its body and into the cracks by hand, dripping what was left into its neck. Inspired by what I’d seen of the Flykin in the forest, I used my own skin to cover the hole in its face.’ His mouth twitched then became blank, the expression banished before Sa-at could identify it. ‘Have you ever tried to cut away a slice of your own skin?’
Sa-at shook his head. The idea made his stomach churn.
‘It’s hard. Much harder than drawing off some blood. Even a small scrap leaves a wound. And it hurts. It hurts so much I still remember it to this day. The hardest part was having to do it alone, in secret. The others wouldn’t understand. If they’d found out, I’d have been killed and my friend destroyed.’ He glanced up, making eye contact. ‘But you understand, don’t you?’
Sa-at swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He did understand. He would give of himself to help Crowflies, just as he had to help Tal and Rochant with the oak. And yet he had to force himself to answer, because it also felt as if there were things he did not understand, and if he agreed with Rochant, he was saying yes to those things too.
Rochant seemed relaxed, patient, but the pressure to speak grew nonetheless.
‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘You are friends with demons and humans. I am friends with demons and humans. We can be friends with both.’
A crinkle appeared around the man’s eyes again. He likes my words. Sa-at smiled. I like that he likes my words.
‘Yes,’ replied Rochant. ‘But they can only understand half of us. That is why you are the first to hear this story. Like me, you are on the edge of things. That means you can see them for what they are, and perhaps, change them for the better.’
Sa-at found himself nodding. Tal would not understand as I do. Rochant was clever to send him away. Though he felt sad for his friend, a part of him delighted in being special enough to hear a secret. ‘Did it work?’
‘Using my skin as a patch? Yes. I had to use glue to hold it in place at first, but over time it drew the edges of the patch into itself, integrating my skin into a new carapace that was forming beneath the old one. Even though it healed well, it couldn’t repair the holes. They ran through the old shell to the new one, and appeared in every one after that. The worst damage was to its face, but there were other wounds, places where the original chitin had fallen away entirely. I replaced these with parts of my skin over time, but it troubled me that my friend had weak spots, for I knew that one day its enemies would find it again, and it would need to be strong to survive.’
Sa-at couldn’t contain himself any longer. ‘The Flykin is the Scuttling Corpseman!’
‘Obviously.’
‘Then why don’t you call it that in the story?’
‘Because at that point I hadn’t named it.’
Sa-at’s mouth fell open. ‘You named the Corpseman!’
‘Yes.’
His thoughts were whirling. Before he could order them, or ask to hear more, he heard the sound of Tal’s boots stamping back towards them.
‘Here,’ he said, offering his open bag. Inside there were sweetberries and some nuts. ‘It’s not much, but I didn’t want to go too far on my own.’
‘Well done,’ said Rochant.
‘Thank you, my lord’.
Sa-at was less impressed but didn’t say anything. Hopefully Crowflies will come back soon. It always brings good things to eat. He wanted Rochant to carry on his story but knew he couldn’t with Tal around. I like secrets, he thought. I’m learning lots about the Corpseman. Murderkind will be pleased. But when he imagined telling Murderkind, of sharing his secret knowledge, it made him feel sad. When he’d told Murderkind, it wouldn’t be special any more.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Satyendra flinched as the door closed behind him. Though it was dark in the Rebirthing Chamber as he entered, the light shining from the diamonds on the Bringers’ wands was bright, the nature of it painful to his eye. He suspected they would burn to the touch as surely as Yadavendra’s crystal armour.
And so it was a relief when six of them pivoted on the spot, putting their robed bodies between him and the light. The seventh lowered their wand and held out a hand towards him. In it, Satyendra could see a small chunk of sapphire. It did not glow, but he sensed it was important.
‘For you, Vessel,’ said the Bringer. ‘Take it.’
‘Take it,’ echoed the others.
Satyendra did as he was told and the bringer tapped it with the tip of his wand. There was a brief flash of discomfort as the sapphire and the diamond chimed together, and he could feel the beginnings of a headache.
‘Listen to the past, Vessel, and listen well.’
The seventh Bringer of Endless Order turned and they all walked away from him in different directions, a slowly expanding circle of murmurs and rustling robes. Satyendra wondered if they were performing part of the ritual or whether the murmurs had another purpose.
In his hand the crystal shook softly, and words began to spill from it. He heard a man’s voice and knew with a sick certainty that it was Lord Rochant Sapphire, speaking to him from some other time. And some other poor fool’s body.
‘Honoured Vessel. You are about to make the ultimate sacrifice for me and for House Sapphire. I have no doubt that you have spent long hours preparing for this moment, and that my deeds and decrees are well known to you. However, to truly understand me, there is something that I must share with you. What I am about to say is never given voice by the Story-singers, and is not recorded in our histories. It is something that I share with you, and you alone, to bring us further into alignment.’
Satyendra’s lip curled into a sneer.
‘When I was a hunter, I had the honour of serving Yadavendra, now High Lord of House Sapphire. This is well known. Less well known is that I also served his sister, Nidra, and that I was her lover. When Yadavendra elevated me into the ranks of the Deathless, he changed me in many ways, but my love for Nidra remained.
‘However it is forbidden for Deathless to lie together, as such an act endangers the cycle of rebirth. I knew this, but I was weak. Nidra knew this too. When I invited her to my castle, she refused. When I asked to see her, she ignored me. When I sent gifts, she returned them.
‘Then one day, when my second body was old, I received a letter from her. In it, she made clear that what we had enjoyed was over, and that for the good of the house, I had to move on. My behaviour, such as it was, would not be tolerated any more.
‘That was the message that broke my heart and ended my second lifecycle.’
Oh yes, thought Satyendra. I have heard the story of Lord Rochant dying of a broken heart. What a charming way to dress up a death. Did you take your own life I wonder, or were the circumstances so embarrassing that you made up this nonsense to cover it?
‘There are many stories about my loyalty, and I am famed for the counsel I have given House Sapphire, but there are few stories about my heart. I tell you this because I want you to know that I am not perfect, nor am I without passion. Do not be ashamed of your feelings. However dark your thoughts may be, they do not need to come between us.’
A bark of laughter escaped Satyendra�
��s lips. He couldn’t help it. It echoed around the chamber, and by the time the sound was fading away, he could see the Bringers of Endless Order walking towards him again, like some diamond-toothed mouth closing on its prey. He didn’t like the way they looked at him, nor the glint of bright green eyes within the masks. They see too clearly for my taste.
The lead Bringer held out their hand for the message crystal and Satyendra was happy to be relieved of it. Then they escorted him deeper into the chamber. Slowly they spiralled towards the centre. Occasionally the light from their wands would catch the side of a wide, dull pillar, or the edge of a curving wall, but otherwise there was nothing but black all around him, pillars disappearing into an illusion of vastness, his imagination conjuring a space far larger than the castle could contain.
Though it felt like they would walk forever, they soon came to the chamber’s centre. Seven triangular bricks formed a circle in the floor, with a slab of stone laid on top of it, long enough for him to stretch out on. He saw thick straps and thicker buckles set at intervals along the slab, and froze mid-step.
This was it. It was real and it was happening to him right now. I am going to die here. Uselessly, his brain thought of all the times he could have run away, the opportunities he’d squandered. But now he was sealed in by heavy stone. There was nowhere else to go, his options funnelling down until all that was left was to choose the manner of his death.
‘I don’t want to,’ he said.
The Bringers said nothing, just watched him from beneath their hoods.
‘Let me out.’ He knew it was futile but a part of him didn’t care. He wanted more time! He wanted to taste his favourite foods again, to run free across the courtyard, to compete with his friends. He’d even enjoy sitting with Ban for more stories, or spending time with his mother. There was so much he’d never told her.
‘Let me out!’ he repeated, louder this time.
Again they said nothing. They said nothing as he turned and ran for the door. Said nothing as he stumbled into the dark. Said nothing as he scraped his knuckles on one of the pillars.
He could hear them behind him, following in their slow, measured way, and he pressed on, making sad desperate noises, not caring how he looked or who heard.
He saw his own shadow thrown against the wall, and looming over it, too large, the shadow of a Bringer. He had time to notice its strangeness and be afraid. The shape isn’t right. There are too many limbs.
And then it was on him, tearing the clothes from his body, hands clamping on his wrists, forearms, thighs and ankles; and he was lifted off the floor. He felt movement, swift and oddly smooth, then more hands, and then he was on the slab and bound faster than he could scream. When he did scream, they caught his jaw and held it open. With his head, body, arms and legs strapped down, the only thing he could choose to move was his eyes.
Satyendra couldn’t decide whether it was better to keep them open or closed.
He caught a glimpse of a wire mesh being held by one of the Bringers and knew they were going to do something to him with it.
He closed his eyes.
The taste of metal on his tongue made him open them again. He was surrounded by the Bringers, who were gesturing, going through some kind of ritual. With the mesh in his mouth, his jaws were wedged open. Bile began to stir and he willed himself not to throw up. The lead Bringer took out a needle and gestured with it in each of the seven directions: up, down, left, right, across each shoulder, and once at a diagonal past the right leg. There was a strange humming sound coming from the Bringer’s midriff, and he could see something pumping there, like an extra heart beneath the robes.
He closed his eyes.
The humming became more pronounced, and as it got closer, he opened them again, just in time to see the needle, tipped with golden ink, descending towards his face.
It burned. Not terribly, but incessantly. His hands clenched by his sides as the tip danced in and out of his skin. He wanted to scratch his face or pour water on it. He wanted to call out.
It did not matter what he wanted.
The Bringer’s face was close to his but they gave no sign of noticing his discomfort. The black and white mask was intent only on the work, as if he were nothing more than an inconvenient canvas. They are so calm! How are they so calm? And then he realized why. They’ve seen vessels struggle before. It’s nothing new to them. And it’s never talked about in the songs nor taught in my lessons. How convenient that our sufferings are lost to history.
He knew that Lord Rochant had an elaborate patchwork of gold on the side of his head, and he also knew there was a mark on his heart. Satyendra was prepared for these. Somehow knowing what was going to happen made it easier to bear. When they were done, he lay there, panting through the mesh, hoping that this part at least, was over.
The lead Bringer made some adjustments to the needle and then the humming began again, this time a silver liquid appearing at the tip. The Bringer moved along the slab to stand by his hips and lowered the needle towards his cock.
Satyendra closed his eyes.
Afterwards, he felt sweaty and hot, but cold too, the stone unforgiving on his naked skin. Fresh ink tingled on his head, his chest and between his legs, and still the Bringers continued to work. He did not really attend to what they were doing, his brain too shocked to make sense of the strange words and movements. Time blurred for a while until one of them produced a box, and from that box a sphere of platinum.
There was something about it that repelled him, even more than the Bringers did.
The lead Bringer took the sphere and carefully, reverently, placed it into Satyendra’s mouth. It clicked into place within the mesh. Not long after, he became aware of his heart pounding in his chest, the brief respite of shock wearing off to be replaced with utter horror.
In his mouth, the ball tasted of metal and death. He bucked within his bonds like a desperate animal, trying to get it out. The presence of the ball terrified him, but when he had spent the last of his energy, he realized it wasn’t as bad as he expected. The ball had no resonance, as if he were touching the ashes of a fire rather than the fire itself.
The Bringers chanted and moved, slowly circling him, their wands moving in unison, their shadows dancing on the ceiling above. In motion, their robes did less to conceal their bodies, and while he could not determine what was wrong with them, he knew that something was wrong. For one, a hump on the side of their ribs, for another, the suggestion of an additional limb hidden away. Are the masks to hide their deformities?
He could feel the ritual building to its conclusion and braced himself. One final sliver of hope remained. An Honoured Vessel usually invited the Deathless soul inside. On some level, for reasons unfathomable to Satyendra, they wanted to be sacrificed. Perhaps he could fend off Lord Rochant’s soul by force of will, though he had no idea how. He tried thinking of how unlike Rochant he was, how unsuitable a match he would be. He thought about how much he wanted to live, and how much he hated everything. Underneath his internal ranting lingered a seed of doubt. For in many ways he was like Rochant: clever, devious, secretive. Would he be willing to take another’s life to prolong his own? Without hesitation.
All the while, the Bringers’ chanting got louder, their movements faster, the energy in the room more charged. At the peak of their working, the Bringers brought their wands together above Satyendra.
There was a clink, and the expected unpleasant sensation as the chime passed through him, and then …
Nothing.
How will his soul take mine? he wondered. Will it be as sudden as fingers clicking? Or will it be so slow that I’ll not even realize he’s in here until it’s too late?
The Bringers were bending over him again. The sphere was reverently placed back into its box, and the mesh removed from his mouth. The straps stayed in place however.
One of the Bringers made a gesture and the portal beneath the slab groaned open, not enough to drop him and the stone into oblivion,
but enough for him to understand the threat.
‘One man is welcome here,’ said the lead Bringer.
‘Are you that man?’ asked another.
Satyendra blinked at them. The ritual had ended. If Rochant was going to come, he would have already. It didn’t work! He tried not to smile but he wanted to. He wanted to grin like someone who had taken too much sweet wine, or like the lovers in the stories, or the Wolfkin catching its prey. Looking at the Bringers anew, he saw something behind the masks and the theatrics. They are uncertain of me. It was subtle but it was there, a tiny hint of fear that confirmed his suspicions. They do not know if the ritual worked. They have no idea that it failed!
He let his own fear fall away. After all, they would expect him to be different now. Lord Rochant was calm, measured. He must be those things too. Having just heard the man’s voice made it easier to mimic his cadence. ‘I am.’
‘Name yourself.’
‘I am Lord Rochant Sapphire.’
‘Lord Rochant Sapphire is welcome, if you are he.’
‘If,’ hissed the others.
‘If you are he,’ said another, ‘you will prove your humanity. Look at yourself and tell us what you are.’
He could see the new tattoos describing Rochant’s Legend – significant deaths that High Lord Sapphire wished remembered. He’d heard the stories connected to them, and had no doubt the Bringers were waiting to hear a recital. But there was a tattoo on his cock, silver where the others were gold, that made no sense to him. Why is it in a different colour? And why does nobody talk about it? It struck him that perhaps this was a measure of security, a single thing not shared with a vessel, to ensure that only the true Rochant could pass the test.
Aware that the Bringers were watching him and that to hesitate would raise their suspicions, Satyendra reeled off what he did know whilst trying to think of a clever answer for the bit that he didn’t.
‘I feel the mark on my skull. It shows that I fought and died for my house. I see the mark on my heart. It shows that I fought and died for love.’ His eyes fell on the last tattoo. ‘I see the silver mark …’ He paused. Without knowing any context, it was hard to guess what to say. Did it depict victory? Honour? Shame? He noted the Bringers’ mood seem to lift slightly, as if they were less concerned about the silver mark than the others or perhaps they found his answers reassuring. He stared into their masked faces, struggling to read anything there.