Issue #16 - May 7, 2009
“The Sacrifice Pit,” by Brian Dolton
“Clockwork Heart, Clockwork Soul,”
by Kris Dikeman
For more stories and Audio Fiction Podcasts, visit
http://beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/
THE SACRIFICE PIT
by Brian Dolton
Sanquor’s knife sliced through the belly of the sacrifice in one smooth movement. Amphyor’s distended skin shrank away from the wound. Squirming thoravids burst free, in a foul tumble of violet and grey.
With the crowd roaring in the high galleries, an echo of his own blood roaring in his ears, Sanquor stabbed at the thoravids. Far from fully formed, they had no defense; they could only slither, their rudimentary limbs unable to carry them away from his Priest’s blade. The knife turned from brilliant silver to indigo as the thoravids died. A few made it to the edge of the sacrifice pit, but the walls were too steep for them to climb. Jabbing with his knife, ecstatic heat coursing through his veins, Sanquor killed the last of them; and then lifted his arms high, with the chants of the crowd pouring down on him like a libation.
“Praise Dohem!” he cried. “Praise Morvay! Praise Chark!”
The crowd roared the chant back at him, lauding the three gods of the Tetharan. They roared with all the power of their lungs, and it echoed around the tower until the walls seemed to be straining to contain it.
He closed his eyes, and breathed long and deep, and as the sweat and ichor dried together on his skin, he felt the grace of the Tetharan, warm and holy, filling every part of him.
* * *
In the room of cleansing, Adepts came and stripped Sanquor. His clothes, and the tainted knife, were hurled into the furnace. Naked, sweating, Sanquor stood as water sluiced over him, blistering his skin.
No trace of the thoravid contagion could remain. They were an abomination in the sight of the Tetharan. Those who would not accept the grace of the Tetharan laid themselves open to the parasites. Only in grace was there salvation. Only in grace.
When the rest of the Adepts left, Amuranya stayed behind. Sanquor knew it was her, despite the mask she wore; he knew her movements, the way she held herself. She stood, swathed from head to foot in her robes, as he dried himself off.
“Speak,” Sanquor said eventually, when it was plain she was waiting for his permission, even though she had not sought permission to stay behind.
“My brother... my brother did not deserve to die like that. He was a good man.”
“I am sure he meant to be. But he fell from grace in the sight of the Tetharan. The contagion of sin had found a place within him.”
She shook her head. He thought perhaps there were tears, behind the mask she wore.
“I have never known one more worthy of the Tetharan’s grace,” she said. “He was more worthy than I could hope to be.”
Sanquor belted his robe, smoothed the cloth down. The triple stripes – the yellow of Dohem, the red of Morvay, and the black of Chark – shimmered and mingled over the contours of his body.
“Many a man seems worthy to others. Only the Tetharan can see into a man’s heart, Adept. Only the Tetharan can truly know a man.”
“He was my brother. If I knew any man, I knew him. He should not have been taken!”
“You saw.” Sanquor looked at her. He found himself wondering if she was beautiful, under the robes. He shook the thought free; it was forbidden. “There were dozens of thoravids within him. He wore a mask, Adept; a mask that even you could not see through. He may have professed grace, but his heart was tainted. The Tetharan knew, and so withdrew their protection from him. Only in their grace can we remain pure. Only in their grace can we remain free.”
She said nothing more. She made her obeisance, and shuffled out, leaving Sanquor entirely alone.
* * *
Sanquor looked out of the window, across the city. There were nineteen towers he could see from where he stood. When he had become a Priest, five years ago, two had been empty. Now, only twelve of them remained inhabited.
The city was dying. The city was turning away from the Tetharan.
The city was killing itself through sin.
He turned, and poured himself a goblet of quey. It was warm, and rich, and a mouthful of it made him feel the same way. He thought of Amuranya again. Her brother had been a handsome man, before the thoravids had infested his sinful body. Perhaps, behind that mask, behind those robes....
He took another mouthful of quey.
It was very warm. He was very warm.
* * *
She stood in the doorway of the room.
“You sent for me, Master?”
“Enter,” he said. He waved his arm in a welcoming gesture. The unbelted robe shimmered like a rainbow. Beneath it, he was naked. He saw her hesitate; then she stepped forwards. The door swung gently closed behind her.
“Your words earlier... moved me,” he said. It was true, in a way, though the quey had moved him more. “You are a good servant of the Tetharan, Amuranya.”
He heard her gasp at the use of her name. The mask tilted forwards, as if she did not want to look at him. He found it absurd; he had been naked, earlier.
“I serve as best I might, Master,” she said. “Only through the Tetharan may we find grace. Only through the Tetharan may we be saved.”
“Just so,” he said, nodding enthusiastically. He moved to the couch and sat down, sprawling comfortably on it. Perhaps it would make her more comfortable in turn. “Your faith in your brother does you great credit. But you must acknowledge the truth, Amuranya. He was infected. He had fallen from grace. You know this to be true.”
“I know it, Master,” she said. But her voice was hollow, and he did not think it was because of the mask. He leant forward.
“Do you doubt, Amuranya? I know there are heretics in the city. I know there are those who say that even the Tetharan may not save us from the thoravid parasites; that they infect the graced and the guilty alike. But they lie. Grace is our only ward against them. We must serve the Tetharan, and we will be saved.” He rose, crossed to the table by the window. The half-full jug of quey was there, with two goblets. “Drink with me, Amuranya.”
He poured the rich, fragrant juice into the goblets, and handed one to her. She took it, but stood, as if uncertain what to do.
“Drink,” he said again.
“It is forbidden...,” she said.
“To drink?”
“To remove my mask. I am only an Adept. I am three years from becoming a Priest of the First Circle.”
“We are alone,” he said, reassuringly. “It is permitted, to remove your mask, when you are alone.”
“But....” He could see it, in the set of her shoulders. She was warring with herself; trained to obey the teachings, but trained to obey him. He smiled, and took a mouthful of quey.
“Drink,” he said again, more firmly.
She was beautiful. Her skin was the color of the stone towers at sunset. Her eyes were pure and lightless black, liquid and fathomless. He stared at her as she raised the goblet to her lips.
Beautiful.
But it was forbidden, in the eyes of the Tetharan.
He thought of her brother, lying on the altar of the sacrifice pit. He thought of the thoravids, slithering free.
“You serve the Tetharan well,” he said. His tongue felt thick, clumsy in his mouth. “You will make a fine Priest, one day.”
She held the goblet low, her head bowed.
“It is my only desire,” she told him.
“It is the only pure desire,” he said, and looked out of the window. For a moment, there was silence, heavy in the air between them.
“I have my duties, Master,” she said, very quietly.
“We all have our duties,” he agreed, not looking at her. “And we must fulfill them. Be about your work, then, Adept.”
He did not look around until he heard the door close behind her.
* * *
The air of the Cambrus was thick with heat. Sanquor made the triple obeisance, in front of the blank-faced statues of the Tetharan. Only then did he turn to look at Phiruani, the High Priest. She had her hands folded in front of her, under the sleeves of her robe.
“You wished to see me, Mistress?” Sanquor asked.
“You have been a diligent priest, Sanquor,” she said.
“Ever have I tried to serve the Tetharan,” he answered, carefully, wondering why she had chosen to use the past tense and not the present. “It is my duty, my honor, and my pleasure.”
“As it is for us all,” she responded, gracefully. “But temptation is ever present. We must be vigilant; especially in times such as these. The thoravids punish us if we stray from the path of grace.” She gestured, beyond the enclosed chamber, at the half-empty city beyond. “Many have fallen from grace. I would not lose you, Sanquor.”
“I strive each day, that I might dwell in the grace of the Tetharan,” he said.
“It is not enough, Sanquor, merely to strive.” It was spoken mildly, but it was a clear rebuke. “Adept Amuranya was seen attending your quarters yesterday.”
“I... yes, Mistress,” he said. “I felt she was in need of instruction. After I sacrificed her brother, she spoke in praise of him. I felt it needful to remind her that he had fallen from grace; that no matter how admirable he may have seemed, yet he had sinned in the eyes of the Tetharan.”
“A necessary reminder. But your private quarters are not the place for such things. You had but to come to me, and I would have been more than happy to give her guidance.”
He bowed his head.
“Of course. It was an error of judgment.”
“Just so,” she agreed. “Be vigilant, Sanquor. I would not have you fall from grace.”
* * *
Sanquor heard the tumult in the streets. Swinging wide the shutters, he looked down into the grand court. Dust was rising, along with the voices of the gathered crowd.
There was a man, standing upon a makeshift dais, that had been raised in front of the Tower of the Tetharan. From his vantage point, all Sanquor could see was that he was dark-haired.
“This is the place!” the man roared. His voice echoed upwards, reflected by the ochre walls. “This is the heart of true corruption!”
It was another heretic, then. Sanquor moved to close the shutters; but then stopped. He was a Priest. He was vigilant. He dwelt in the grace of the Tetharan.
To listen to heresy could not harm him. To listen to it would strengthen him; allow him to counter the doubts of the people, fostered by foolish rabble-rousers.
He leant once more out of the window, and looked down, and listened.
“The Priests lie! The thoravids are killing us, killing us all, and do you think holiness will save you? Do you think the Tetharan will shield you? It is a plague! A disease! It is not a punishment!”
His voice was fierce with passion. Sanquor shook his head. Fear took men in many ways. Some sought shelter in the grace of the Tetharan, as they should. But some; some, in their fear, lashed out even at those who strove each day to save them.
“You think they are shielded by the gods?” the heretic cried, presumably in answer to some shout from the crowd. “Is it their purity that shields them? Then why do they light the fires, to purify the sacrifice pit? Is it the Tetharan that strikes down the thoravids, or is it the sharp knife of a Priest?”
Sanquor shook his head. How could such foolishness, such misunderstanding, have taken root? Of course the thoravids had to be destroyed; of course any trace of them had to be scourged. They were an abomination in the sight of the Tetharan.
Down below, the clamor was rising. Temple guards had emerged, pushing through the crowd. Sanquor was pleased. He was a priest; he was strong, filled with grace. But for the people of the city... for them, the heretic’s words were as much an infection as the thoravids; tainting those who heard them, tempting them to doubt.
To doubt; to turn away from the Tetharan; to become vulnerable. A vicious cycle. A vicious cycle that was killing his city.
He poured himself a goblet of quey, and drank it down in one gulp.
* * *
The refectory hall was filled with warmth and light. Sanquor sat in his allotted place. Ciengo sat opposite him, as always.
“You heard that heretic today?” Juvall asked, as he took his place beside Ciengo.
“Guard took their time,” Ciengo said, sour-faced. “You know what? We should have men, stationed ready above the square. With muskets. Put a ball through the head of any man who speaks so much as a word of that sort of foolishness.”
Sanquor shook his head.
“The heretics must be brought back to the grace of the Tetharan.”
“Too late for that, once they’ve fallen so far as to try and preach heresy right outside our doors! He’ll be riddled with thoravids, you mark my words.”
“They took him to the Interrogium,” Juvall said. “If he’s infected, then he’ll be on the altar tomorrow.”
“If? Of course he’s infected. Just some people show it more than others. There’s no other reason a man would do what he did.”
“I think you are mistaken, Ciengo,” Sanquor said. “It is fear. Fear, that makes men speak so. Fear can strip the reason from a man, that he turns, not to the sheltering grace of the Tetharan, but to heresy and falsehood.”
“And reason can bring them back? I used to think that. But when I was an Adept, there were, what, maybe six or eight sacrifices a month? Now it’s a rare day we don’t have to slice up some heretic, and a dozen thoravids. We don’t even have time to go about preaching the word of the Tetharan any more. All we do is sacrifice them, because they’ve been swayed by heretics like that fool.”
“We do as the Tetharan bid us, through Phiruani. And they do not bid us kill men in the squares of the city. Only those who are truly infected are to be sacrificed; and in the proper fashion. Would you have us range through the streets, Ciengo? Would you have us answer any hint of taint with death? You must remember, these are but citizens. They have not had years of training, as we have. They have their own tasks, and we need their skills, just as they need us. They may stray; but it is to us to bring them back into grace, not to cast them aside, if they can yet be saved.”
“There are days,” Ciengo said, “when I reckon the lot of them are beyond saving.”
“Have a care, Ciengo. That is tantamount to heresy itself. We are the servants of the Tetharan. And whether a man can be saved, or must be sacrificed... that is for the Tetharan to decide. Not us.”
Ciengo said nothing to that.
* * *
To Sanquor’s surprise, there was only one sacrifice next day, and it was not the man who had spouted heresy in front of the Temple doors.
“What of the heretic?” he asked. “Surely he was infected?”
“He was untainted,” Maricho, one of the Holy Interrogators, told him, there at the great, closed door of the Interrogium. “But he is being held, with the others. He cannot be permitted to speak so, to people who might be tempted away from grace. In time, no doubt, the taint will show in him, as it has in others. Then he will be sacrificed, and purified.”
“It is strange... I had thought he must be infected, to speak so boldly. What madness must have possessed him...?”
“Who knows?” Maricho’s shrug showed that he considered the question irrelevant. “He has fallen from grace. It is but a matter of time, now, before contagion shows. A day, a month, a year... it matters not. He is fated to die in the sacrifice pit.”
“A year? Are there truly those who have dwelt so long in the cells of the Interrogium?”
&nb
sp; Maricho shrugged again.
“Perhaps. We do not keep account. We merely observe them. Those who show signs of contagion... those, Priest, we pass to your care. The rest must simply wait.”
Sanquor repressed a shudder. He thought of them, as he climbed the stairs to watch the evening’s sacrifice. Shut away in darkness, forgotten by the city, forgotten even by their families, forgotten even by the Tetharan....
No. He caught himself. That was heresy, itself. Not even those who had fallen from grace were forgotten by the Tetharan. They saw all things, and heard all things, and knew all things. Their gaze could pierce the hearts of men; no truth was denied them. Nothing was unseen. Nothing was forgotten.
He took his place in the high galleries, amongst the crowd, to watch the sacrifice; to gaze on the knife, and see the glorious fires of purification.
* * *
He was late to the refectory the next morning. He had not slept well.
“Have you heard?” Ciengo spoke eagerly, even as Sanquor slid into his place.
“Heard?” he asked, poking unenthusiastically at his bowl. He felt faintly nauseous. The hangover of dream, he thought.
“They took an Adept down to the Interrogium. An Adept!”
“Don’t be absurd,” Sanquor said.
“It’s true, “ Juvall confirmed. “I saw them taking her down. The way I heard it, they caught her in the city. With some friends of that heretic from yesterday.”
Dread filled Sanquor, sudden and foul. He pushed his bowl away, untouched.
“Do you... do you know who it was?” he asked.
He got the answer he dreaded.
* * *
Maricho was there, standing in front of the door, as if he never left. He was no taller than Sanquor, and his build was slight; but his stillness gave him an implacable authority.
“Is it true?”
“Is what true?” came the answer.
“Amuranya. I heard... I was told she had been taken to the Interrogium. Tell me what has become of her. Is she...?”
“She is untainted by infection.”
“I would speak with her.”
“She is a heretic,” Maricho said, flatly. “To speak with her is to risk contagion.”
Beneath Ceaseless Skies #16 Page 1
