by Jack
‘You’re the one person I can trust.’
And yet you’re throwing me out. ‘W-what did you see?’
In the gloom, Hildy’s old face was a crumpled rag, her eyes dying embers. ‘A dreadful Covenant between K’nacka and Behemoth, the Prince of Perdition —’
Astatine cried out in disbelief, for Behemoth hated the gods and everything she believed in. But then she remembered K’nacka shouting, Where is the Covenant? ‘Abbess, K’nacka and Behemoth are the bitterest of enemies — aren’t they?’
‘Oh, yes. Eternal enemies.’
The pad was red with blood. Astatine dropped it and made another. ‘What does the Covenant say?’
‘I dare not speak the words. Only K’nacka and Behemoth know where it is hidden, but if it is ever revealed, it will be the end of the gods.’
That thought was unimaginable; abandonment multiplied a thousand times. ‘The gods are almighty and everlasting,’ Astatine chanted.
‘If only they were,’ Hildy whispered.
‘Abbess?’ said Astatine, alarmed now.
‘Why do you think Hightspall has grown so wicked and depraved these past twenty years; why no one cares any more?’
Because of the corruption I carry inside me, Astatine wanted to say, but that would only earn her another slap. ‘Hightspall is the last island left of the old Empire, and the ice is coming to end us.’
‘Stupid girl! It’s got nothing to do with the ice. The balance has been tilted — the gods are waning, while Perdition grows ever stronger and, if this Covenant is revealed, must soon topple Elyssian.’
Astatine could not come to terms with such talk. The gods had always dwelt in Elyssian, and they were eternal. ‘What can I do?’
‘You must find this wicked Covenant and, without reading it, destroy it. Swear that you will do so.’
‘Please don’t make me leave the abbey.’ Astatine felt as though she was being torn apart.
‘By the morning, there will be no abbey.’
The pain grew so bad that she struggled to think clearly. ‘But ... what if I can’t find the Covenant?’
‘You must swear,’ said Hildy, becoming so agitated that blood surged through the pad.
‘I — I swear.’
Outside, people were shouting. Weapons clashed and Astatine heard the roar of fire. She ran to a window, then back to the abbess. ‘It’s the Red Monks. Fistus is burning the abbey.’
‘My time is up,’ said Hildy. ‘Astatine, when I took you in as a little girl—’
At the far end of the chapel, a window was smashed and blazing sheaves of oil-soaked straw arced in, trailing brown billows. Astatine scrambled to her feet but Hildy pulled her down.
‘Abbess?’
‘You weren’t abandoned on the doorstep, newborn. The abbey was paid handsomely to take you in, and threatened with ruin if I revealed your origins. But now it is lost, you must know.’
Astatine could not take that in. ‘What will become of me?’ she cried. ‘I’ve nowhere to go.’
‘You must make your own way in the world, little sister.’
‘But I’ll infect it with the sickness I carry around with me.’
‘Don’t start that again,’ snapped Hildy. ‘It is a particularly offensive form of arrogance to assume that the world’s ill’s could come from one so innocent as yourself.’
Astatine bit her lip. ‘Where can I go? Hildy, who were my parents?’
‘I never knew your mother’s name, but she’s long dead.’ Hildy began to pant. Astatine, trying to staunch the ebbing blood, was afraid the abbess would never speak again, but then she whispered, ‘Your father brought you here. He was a demon out of Perdition.’
‘No!’ Astatine gasped. ‘Who?’
‘I’m afraid it was ... Behemoth.’
Her god’s enemy. ‘It can’t be,’ whispered Astatine, choking with horror.
‘He brought you here,’ said Hildy. ‘And because of the link between you and him, if anyone can find the Covenant, you can. Stop whimpering! Before I die I must pass my gift to you. Lean forwards.’
Astatine did so, numbly. How could it be true? Demons were dark, yet she was pale. And she was petite, so how could the mighty Behemoth be her father?
Hildy gripped the sides of Astatine’s head, strained, and agony sheared through her skull. The abbess’s hands fell to her chest. ‘The stigmata —’
Instinctively, Astatine inspected her own hands, though they were unmarked. When she looked up, Hildy was dead.
A hot wind shrieked through the broken window, swirling the smoke around her. Her head was throbbing so badly she could not see. Astatine crawled off, but did not get far before she was overcome by the smoke.
* * * *
‘Once again, Greave, fortune has saved you from damnation,’ said Roget as he carried an unconscious Astatine away from the burning chapel. Behind them, a horde of red-gowned monks was torching the abbey outbuildings under Fistus’s direction. ‘Truly, you must be intended for great things.’
‘I swore a mighty oath,’ said Greave dully, ‘but I was too weak to hold to it.’
‘It was an evil oath, made under compulsion. Breaking it proves there is yet some good in you.’
‘I seduced K’nacka’s month-bride!’ cried Greave, sick with self-loathing. ‘Now I’ve let down my god, slain the sainted abbess and doomed my little sister. I’m worthless.’
‘Then redeem yourself!’ snapped his friend. ‘Here, carry the novice.’
‘I’ll destroy her too.’
‘Just don’t look at her,’ said Roget, enveloping Astatine in his cloak. ‘If you do, I swear I’ll run you through.’
Greave was thankful for the darkness, for the soft weight in his arms was temptation enough. Had he been able to look on Astatine’s lovely face, nothing could have saved her, or himself.
Hours later they hid among the tumbled boulders on a barren hilltop and he lay her down.
‘Sleep, little one,’ said Roget, putting a minor charm on her.
They sat watching the distant flames until, not long before a chill and windy dawn, the abbey bad been reduced to cinders. As the sun rose, the cavalcade of red-clad monks rode away.
‘Fistus isn’t going back to the city,’ said Roget. ‘He’s heading into the drylands. I wonder why?’
‘I couldn’t give a damn.’ Greave stretched himself on the hard ground and closed his eyes, knowing there would be no sleep for him.
* * * *
‘He’s going to work a miracle!’ Astatine sat up so abruptly that she whacked her head on the pebbly overhang.
The headache came shrieking back, then the smoke, the crackle of fire and the abbess dying beside her. Astatine groaned and opened her eyes to find herself alone on an arid hilltop scattered with boulders of conglomerate.
Boots grated on grit and Roget appeared, breathing heavily. Greave was close behind.
‘Did you call out?’ said Roget.
‘I saw the Carnal Cardinal,’ said Astatine.
‘What, here?’ Greave said sharply, eyes averted.
‘In a dream.’ She rubbed her throbbing forehead, realising that she had not been dreaming, for the images remained clear in her mind. ‘No, it must have been Hildy’s gift.’
Greave swung around. ‘What are you talking about?’
Astatine jumped up and moved away, watching him warily. ‘Before the abbess died, she passed her gift to me ...’ What gift, though? Her ecstatic vision? ‘She sees — saw things — bad things that might come true.’ Like the evil Covenant Astatine had to find and destroy. ‘And I just saw Fistus, clear as a raindrop.’
‘When he caught the god-bone, he looked triumphant,’ said Roget. ‘Getting it mattered more to him than our sacrilege. What kind of a priest would act that way?’
‘Perhaps one who seeks power for himself,’ said Greave. ‘What else did you see, Novice?’
‘He was on a barren hill.’ She looked around. ‘A bit like this one —’
&nb
sp; ‘There are a thousand barren hills in these badlands.’
‘There was a huge, ruined shrine on top. It looked as though it had been hacked in two by a monstrous axe ... one that had cut halfway through the hill itself.’
Greave and Roget exchanged glances. ‘The Cloven Shrine,’ said Roget, his fingers curling.
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ said Astatine.
‘The truth was too shocking to be told. Few people know the story.’
‘Fistus does!’ Greave said darkly.
‘The shrine was destroyed when the Great God, the original ruler of Elyssian, was defeated and cast down in the Second Coup. He crashed through the shrine, nearly splitting the hill in twain.’
‘And died there?’ Worms were dancing along Astatine’s backbone.
‘The Great God could not be killed,’ said Roget. ‘He could only die at his own hand and, in despair at being cast out of Elyssian, that’s what he did.’
Astatine trembled. She knew about the First Coup, when Behemoth had rebelled, yet, inexplicably and at the moment of victory, turned his back on Elyssian and set up his own rival kingdom, Perdition. Was he behind the Second Coup? Were the gods passing away? Was that why the world was so sick?
‘What “miracle” is Fistus planning?’ said Greave.
‘I don’t know,’ said Astatine. ‘But I don’t think he means to honour our gods.’
Assuming, of course, that they were still her gods. If she was half demon, maybe she had no gods. Astatine could not bear to think about that. The destruction of the abbey had left her empty and belonging nowhere. If her beloved gods had also been taken away, how could she exist?
She had to find the Covenant.
* * * *
Dawn was breaking as they crept up the chasm cutting across the cloven hill. Greave kept his eyes fixed above him, for his curse had not abated. Twice the previous day he’d frozen Astatine’s hair, and the second time he had only come to his senses when Roget put a sword blade to his throat. At times, Greave wished his friend had used it.
‘How dare Fistus pretend to perform a miracle?’ cried Astatine. ‘Why don’t the gods punish him for this insolence?’
Her child-like faith was an insult to his intelligence but Greave kept silent, not daring to further provoke the gods.
‘They must be afraid,’ said Roget uneasily.
‘How can the gods be afraid of a mere man?’ said Astatine.
‘I don’t know.’
‘The way up isn’t guarded. Do you think Fistus sent the vision to me?’
‘If he’s not afraid of the gods, how could he have any fear of us?’ said Roget. ‘He probably wants us to see his miracle.’
Greave wondered if the cardinal could be a bigger monster than himself, though it hardly seemed possible.
They reached the top at sunrise, eased behind the mounds of shattered rock and peered over. Fistus, his priests and monk guards had gathered on the far side of the elongated hilltop, before the Cloven Shrine. A ragged arc of believers encircled it, witnesses to the coming miracle.
‘The priests are digging a trench,’ said Astatine. ‘What can they be doing?’
No one replied.
* * * *
Astatine slipped away between the piled rocks, for Greave’s brooding presence disturbed her, and what if his increasingly desperate self-control snapped? She also needed to be alone, to think.
Her faith, already undermined by what the abbess had told her, had been shaken to its footings. How dare the Carnal Cardinal attempt a miracle! If he had set himself above the gods he had sworn to serve, it was no wonder Hightspall had lost hope.
Would things get better if she destroyed the Covenant? Unfortunately, she had no idea where to look for something that a god and a demon had hidden. It could be anywhere.
No, not anywhere. K’nacka and Behemoth, being eternal enemies, would not have trusted each other, so the Covenant must have been hidden somewhere that neither could gain access to. Perhaps in the keeping of a third party agreeable to both, such as Fistus?
K’nacka had expected it to be in the Graven Casket, though the casket had not been opened before Greave touched the god-bone to it, and it had been empty ... save for those flakes of ash. Black flakes — the way paper burned when it did not have enough air! Yes, for the outside of the casket had been covered in soot; it had come off on her fingers.
The Covenant must have been destroyed from outside, by fire, but by whom? Not K’nacka — he had been shocked to discover that the casket was empty. And what would Fistus have to gain by destroying such a valuable document? That only left Behemoth.
Why would he destroy a Covenant that, evidently, gave him power over a god? He would not — unless he had another copy.
‘That’s it!’ she said, rubbing her silver medal furiously, though after Hildy’s revelation about her father it gave her no comfort. ‘It was Behemoth — Father —’
The air went so cold that it crackled, then with a little pop a man appeared, sitting cross-legged on the rocks before her. He was an odd-shaped, awkward-looking fellow not much taller than she was, with thin, short legs and a heavy, muscular body. His skin was dark, his head bald, his nose hooked, and the point of his beard jutted towards her like a javelin.
‘You called me, Daughter?’ His voice was so deep it might have been formed inside the hill; it reverberated like the throb of an organ pipe.
‘You called me daughter,’ she whispered. ‘Are — are you really my father?’
Though she yearned for a father, a demon was the last father she could want. Besides, a mighty demon like Behemoth might have a thousand daughters; she might mean nothing to him. He was her god’s enemy and had undermined everything she believed in. Astatine was too overcome to speak.
‘You expected some great, hulking brute?’ Fire flickered in his raised eyebrow. ‘I prefer this form; both enemies and friends underestimate me. What do you want, Daughter?’
‘Th-the Graven Casket was empty. What happened to the Covenant?’
‘I gave Fistus the power he craved so desperately; in return, he allowed me to destroy it.’
He sounded convincing, but he was the Prince of Deceivers. ‘Why, Father?’
‘To make mischief.’
Astatine’s entire life had been submission and obedience, but neither would serve her now. Dare she challenge the Lord of Perdition? Sweat dripped from her palms at the thought, not to mention that she owed her father respect. Could she put that obligation aside? She must. ‘I — I don’t believe you. I know you made a copy of the Covenant. Why, Father?’
Behemoth swelled enormously; his black eyes flashed and his left hand shot out, encircling her wrist like an icy manacle. ‘How dare you question me? You are over-bold, Daughter.’
Astatine had never been bold; the other novices had mocked her as ‘the mouse’. She wanted to scream and run, but reminded herself of her oath, and it stiffened her. She would keep her word to the Abbess, whatever it cost. The mouse had to bite.
She caught Behemoth’s dark wrist with her pale hands, squeezed hard and, amazingly, he winced.
‘You are my daughter,’ he said, glowering at her. After shrinking to his former size, he resumed his seat.
‘Well?’ she said, pretending an imperiousness she could not feel.
‘Life in Elyssian becomes tedious, when one faces an eternity of it. That’s why I left and set up Perdition, though I was no more contented there.’
‘But Elyssian is the epitome of perfection,’ said Astatine, wide-eyed.
Behemoth rolled his eyes. ‘Even reaping the souls of the wicked begins to pall, when one is the wickedest of all. There’s no villainy I haven’t done, Daughter, and tempting mere mortals into sin lost its joy long ago, In short, I was bored witless. And so, I discovered, was my enemy, your precious god, K’nacka.
‘We took to meeting in Hightspall for a game of dice, each striving to best the other, and I won more often than I lost. But without something pre
cious to lose, even gaming’s charm fades, and the stakes grew ever higher until, finally, K’nacka had nothing left to put on the table. Nothing save a pound of his own flesh.’
‘Father?’ said Astatine, not understanding, though a chilly wave of horror surged through her. This was terribly wrong; she did not want to hear it.
‘Having nothing else, he wagered one of his balls — and lost.’
‘Balls?’ Her cheeks grew hot.
