by L. K. Rigel
“You should take a pill.” Roh laughed. “Something for acute-on-chronic self-righteousness.”
“We’re going to go listen to Father Jesse,” Mal said. “Lily’s been asking me for weeks, and I can’t put her off any longer.”
“What do you owe a proof?” Claire said. “And didn’t you promise Allel you’d stay in the compound?”
“Not exactly. The stage is just outside the perimeter, and Sister Marin is going to join us. I will be perfectly safe, Claire – especially if you come too.”
“Besides, King Edmund arrives today.” Nin wiggled her eyebrows above her shades. “I understand these days he’s looking yummy. What’s Roh’s word? Rowr. He can be your hero if anything goes wrong.”
Claire rested her chin on her hands like a pouting little bleeder. The subject of Allel, and especially Edmund, was never easy for her. She had become tough as a warrior. Mal could imagine her as captain of the guard one day. But she remembered how frightened and betrayed Claire had been when Harriet accused the Drahans of hormone seeding.
She didn’t blame Claire for being mad. “Never mind all that,” Mal said. “I guess I want to hear for myself what Father Jesse has to say.”
According to the Samaelii, the spirit was more important than the soul, and the risk of the liminal gauntlet was foolish and even meaningless. But what would happen to society if people just stopped trying for souls? And how would that affect the value of the Triune Contract?
“Look at them.” Claire nodded toward a table where a group of proofs had ordered bistro food. Father Jesse aggressively proselytized the proofs. He took most of his meals here, and they had started to join him. Lately they had started coming to the bistro without him. Nobody ever said proofs were barred from the bistro, but it felt strange to see them actually eat there. And besides, the bistro didn’t serve the proofs’ special food. It was just weird.
“He says Samael loves them whether they have souls or not.” Claire mocked the idea. “Samael will take them, every one, to heaven when they die, and heaven is better than returning to the All.”
“Better than oblivion, surely.” The stone god in Mal’s pocket seemed to heat up. This all must have to do with the coming war among the gods Asherah had spoken of. “No wonder they like him.”
“But they’re getting to be so . . .” Nin ran her finger over the pink rosebud on her cheek.
“Obnoxious.” Claire had no problem finding the right word.
The hubbies got up to go their separate ways, and a group of proofs swarmed in immediately to take the table. Mal headed into the arcade and down to Gerhold’s dungeon.
Gerhold ran his charcoal-stained hand over the sweaty, wrinkled skin of his bald head and stepped back from the door to let Mal in. She was immediately assaulted by a wave of heat. No wonder everyone called this the dungeon. The blade master’s forge wasn’t just like a cavern – it was a cavern below the arcade.
Though the top of Gerhold’s head was a good six inches below her line of sight, he had always intimidated her. Quidel treated him with utter disrespect, but then the tat man was a moron. Gerhold might be old and creaky, but anyone with eyes could see he knew things.
“I’ve been remiss in getting these done.” She unfolded a piece of forest green silk and laid out all three firebirds on a table. She might as well have the third dagger made now too. Who knows? Maybe she’d do everything right on her third contract. It could happen!
“Where did you get these pieces?” He ran his fingers over one of the firebirds then pulled out a glass to magnify its detail. She wouldn’t be surprised if he picked it up and smelled it.
“I know you usually work with hilt jewels only, but my friend carved entire hilts.”
“Your friend, huh.” He put it to his nose and sniffed. “This is like no amber I have seen.”
“It’s called blue amber. Can you make my daggers with these?”
He held out a hilt so it glimmered in the forge light. So beautiful. He put it back with the others and shuffled over to the forge. He loaded more charcoal onto his shovel and said, “You will have your daggers.” His voice was husky with emotion. Even the great Gerhold couldn’t turn away from something so fine.
“Your arms are trembling. Let me help.”
“I have worked a fire since I could carry water!” He roared, but it was a roar of anguish, not anger. “I have been blade master for sixty years.” He straightened, or tried to, his tiny black eyes shining – not from the forge, but from some inner fire. “The memory in my muscles makes me strong enough for anything. You have trained. You know.”
“Yet you do tremble.”
“Behold!” He jabbed a finger in her direction. “This child has my favor! I was there. I saw. I heard.”
He tossed the charcoal into the forge, set the mechanical air bellows, and sent another shovelful of charcoal into the forge’s gaping mouth. His body twisted as if in pain and bent over further, if that was possible. He leaned on the shovel, and his voice was full of shame.
“But when the raptors came, I lost faith. The blue peregrine snapped Damini’s spine. Every day, I see her: her legs hang limp from the rising monster, the child strapped to her back.”
Great gods, he knew.
“I could not act.” His voice rose, a mix of anxiety and exultation. “I was transfixed by that bird’s black stare. It pierced my soul with its animal relentlessness – or did I imagine that later to justify my cowardice?”
Who could know that this old gnome, who never spoke, was bottled up with such eloquence?
“I was an old man even then, twenty-three years ago. Worn out with hope. The bird that broke Damini’s body broke my spirit, and I broke the circle. I walked away from Jarlvidar, Verdandi, Raijin – all of them.”
He was rambling now, sputtering nonsense.
“I broke the circle. It was over, though Jarlvidar couldn’t see it. Jarlvidar was young enough to cling to the false promise of a fickle goddess. He vowed to find the princess. He said Asherah would not abandon us, even if we had abandoned her.”
“Gerhold, I’m sure – “
“Now you come to my forge with blue amber firebirds to deliver me from the memory of that horrible day.”
“Hey, Gerhold, why the fire?” Quidel was at the door. Mal couldn’t see him, but she recognized his predatory voice.
Gerhold flung the fabric’s edge over the hilts. He touched his nose twice and pointed at Mal. He was stern again, bereft of sentiment. She got the message; she held still where Quidel wouldn’t see her.
“Last minute order.” Gerhold shuffled over to the door. “The one Garrick is after. The chalice has finally asked for the dagger.”
“Garrick. Good, good.” Quidel remained on the threshold. He seemed a little afraid to come into the dungeon. There had always been stories about monsters that lurked in the dungeon’s dark places, but now Mal thought it likely the stories were put about by Gerhold to ensure his privacy. “She leave the jewels? What’s her totem?”
“Dunno yet. She’ll return after the speech. Garrick will want a custom blade.”
“Nothing but the best for any of ‘em.” Quidel scoffed. “You work too hard, Gerhold. I feed the girls laudanum and decorate their bodies and listen to their yammering. It’s a great life.”
“Too hard or not, I have work to do now. I will not be going to the speech.”
“I’ll go on m’self, then. There’s going to be a crowd today. Too bad you have to miss it.”
“Too bad.”
“I’ll come by after and you can tell me what her totem is.”
Gerhold closed the door and trudged back into the dungeon, mumbling, “As if I would tell the great fool anything.” On the far side of the cavernous space where it was cooler, he lit three beeswax candles and spread a prayer rug before the rustic altar.
With agility that comes with religious fervor, he sank to his knees. He gave no sign that he knew or cared that Mal was still there. She retreated as he prayed
aloud: Great Asherah, help me. Guide my hand and my heart to make these blades worthy of their destiny. Make them my finest blades, for they will be my last.
Father Jesse
At the amphitheater, Nin and Sister Marin were already seated on one of the higher risers cut into the natural stone wall. They spotted Mal and waved. Claire was with them. She looked as sour as she had earlier.
“Mallory, you came!” Lily put her hand on Mal’s shoulder. She was being affectionate, but such strange assertiveness in a proof was a little repellant. On the damp sand floor, proofs crammed in together, whispering, laughing, hailing new arrivals and somehow making room for all.
Old enough to be your mother. Mal threw up the mental wall and swung around to look for Father Jesse. The stage was empty, but he was somewhere close. “It looks like every proof in Red City is here.”
There were lines at the corners of Lily’s eyes, and the skin on her hands was a bit thin. She must indeed be older than she seemed. But despite being soulless, the proofs were natural born and well cared for, and they didn’t age like hospital-borns.
“Oh, yes.” Whatever her age, Lily was radiant. “We are all Samaeli now.”
How . . . nauseating. Yes, they had as much right to claim a religion as they did to eat in the bistro, and there was no denying how happy they all looked, but it felt so wrong. With a bad feeling, Mal climbed the risers to join Nin and the others.
Maybe Edmund was right about the proofs needing to keep their proper place. What would happen to them if they got it in their heads to refuse Red City’s care? Would the Samaelii feed them and clothe them and nurse them when they were ill? No proof would last a week working in a citadel – or a settlement.
People started clapping and whistling. Father Jesse emerged from behind one of the rocks that framed the stage, and the proofs jumped to their feet to give him an ovation. Quite a few compounders were mixed in with the proofs and scattered through the stands among sisters and guards and chalices, and a few bleeders too. The baker and the farrier were together on the floor in the center of the crowd. Quidel sat off to the side on the second-lowest stone bench.
Nin pulled a bottle of water from her backpack for Mal. “Shouldn’t you be getting some rest before your big night?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Mal took a drink and tried to look clueless.
“Harriet is arranging a huge spread,” Sister Marin said. “I haven’t eaten all day to save room.”
Nin blew a deep note across the top of her water bottle, imitating the steam whistle on the Golden Wasp. “Aha, Mal, there’s a smile. Nothing wrong with mixing pleasure with pleasure.”
It was vain to deny that she looked forward to the ceremony. It seemed forever since she’d seen Edmund, and in only a few hours she’d be in his arms. This wasn’t love. She wouldn’t let it be love. She wasn’t going to screw up this contract. It was lust. She had a full-on, full-blown, undeniable case of physical desire for Edmund of Allel.
All went silent, as if someone had thrown a switch. Father Jesse was at center stage, making eye contact with the proofs one by one, giving each a beatific smile. Probably placing ideas into their minds.
“You know, I always thought he was older,” Claire said.
“Yeah. He doesn’t look any older than Garrick – sorry Mal.”
Nin was right. Mal had never really paid attention to Father Jesse’s physical appearance; she was always too busy dealing with his psychic tunneling, as she thought of it. He was actually attractive – or maybe fascinating was a better word. “I wonder if he’s natural born.”
“A wildling.” Claire sounded happy to be further disgusted.
“He’s no wildling.” That was Nin’s science voice. What did she know? Sister Marin gave Nin a sideways, stop talking now kind of look.
“That’s why Durga let him stay in Red City.” Now it made sense. “You two are studying him.”
Sister Marin indicated the crowd around them and mouthed the words be careful. “He’s no wildling, leave it at that.”
“The soul is a beautiful thing.” Father Jesse began. Yes. That was his voice. Deep, calming. Quiet, yet immediately present, every word clear and resonant. Not quite human. “It is said the soul is eternal. But in truth, it is beyond eternity. It is a drifting shard of the All itself.”
Nothing earth-shattering in that. Pretty standard stuff, in fact.
“Samael created the material reality as a playground for these specks of the All. When Sophia’s transgression sundered the very fabric of the Pleroma – “
Ouch. The people in the proper seats tensed at word transgression, but the proofs were eating this stuff up.
“ – Samael saved the flotsam and jetsam that poured forth from the rupture. He stabilized the divine realm, the home of the gods which is neither of the Pleroma nor of the material world. Samael is the maker god, the savior of all other gods, master of order and eternal foe of chaos.”
Asherah was right. Samael was a bit full of himself.
“Speaking of chaos, where is Roh?”
“Ithaca’s transport showed up early. She left this afternoon.”
“Samael then took the detritus, the messy remains of Sophia’s sin, and constructed from it the material universe. He created the first human beings and secured a divine shard, the human soul, in each body. But our ancestors forgot they were created beings. They forgot their very creator. They forgot the universe he had made entirely for their delight and care.”
“Great Asherah,” Sister Marin said. “He goes too far.”
“Human beings turned away from beauty and love. They enslaved their fellow creatures, built weapons of mass destruction, polluted the earth’s fragile systems, and set loose such horrors – we must be grateful we do not live in those times.”
The breeders and sisters in the risers shifted restlessly, but the proofs were spellbound.
“We live in a second demonstration of material reality. Some special species are terrifying, yes. I confess, I see no purpose for the existence of raptors.”
The proofs laughed with Father Jesse, though none had ever seen a raptor.
“But there are marvels in our new age. Some are able to actually see beyond the veil which separates our mundane world from the divine realm. We don’t depend on hope or anything so tentative as belief. We have gnosis. Knowledge, not speculation. The very women who bore you whom they call the proof of their service – “
“Shib, it sounds awful when he says it,” Nin whispered.
“ – they have touched the human soul. They know, rather than believe, it is real.”
“Don’t look at us,” Claire muttered. “We didn’t have proofs.”
“I tried to.”
Poor Ninny. Mal put her arm around her friend’s shoulders.
“A soul, as I said, is a beautiful thing. Hospital-borns enter the liminal gauntlet for good reason. But a soul is not the only beautiful thing.”
The proofs leaned forward. More intent. Like the children of the settlement, ready to hear again their favorite story, every word already memorized.
“You are Samael’s creatures too, and you are beautiful in his eyes. He watches over you. He has prepared a place for you. When you die, you won’t transmogrify into undifferentiated everything. Neither will you disappear into nothing. Samael sees your spirit, and cares nothing for whether you have a soul or not. Heaven waits for you. Samael waits for you all.”
“Sting me.” Mal’s stomach churned. She reached into her pocket and grasped the warm stone god. Again, a great tug of longing pulled at her heart, and again she was seized by the desire to go to Corcovado.
“Tell us about the Empani!” one of the proofs cried. The documentarian. He looked different, taller? More manly. “What do they want?”
“Yes, Father Jesse. Tell us what the Empani want.” Nin mumbled under her breath. She and Sister Marin were barely breathing, they were so intent on the Samaeli’s words.
“They say some of th
em are refusing their proof food.” Claire was oblivious to Nin and Sister Marin. “You saw how many were in the bistro this morning.”
“Listen.” Nin said.
“Once, the Empani lived with Samael in heaven. They were his messengers. When they refused his commandment to bow before his human creatures, Samael cast them away from his sight. He made them slaves in the material world, in bondage to human longing. That is why they hide from human contact. The Empani have but one true desire, a desire we should all admire: to love and serve Samael.”
Mal scoffed. “The Empani are fallen angels? Nobody is going to believe that.”
“They do.” This wasn’t Claire being cynical. She was truly shocked. “They want to believe it.”
And she was right. The proofs didn’t laugh now. They were enraptured. The baker and the farrier too. Not Quidel, though. He stood up, dramatically shook his head and hands, and lumbered off through the west exit. Just beyond the exit was a shortcut to the path up Corcovado. It wouldn’t take more than half an hour to reach the promontory.
“Look at that.” Nin pointed to the trees behind the stage. A white heron clung to a low branch, seemingly intent on the proceedings.
“I have to get out of here.” Mal handed her empty bottle to Nin. “I’ll see you at the ceremony.”
The Golden Wasp could be sailing, or steaming, into the bay even now. She was cutting the time close, but she simply could not ignore the compulsion to go up on the mountain. She knew what she would find.
At the promontory point, Asherah sat on the same rock as before, her arms wrapped around her legs and her chin on her knees. Her shift was held in place today by little mermaids, their tails draped around her shoulders. They perked their heads up and shook their hair at Mal as if to say well, at last.
Asherah continued to stare out over the water. The Golden Wasp had docked.
“There was once a city down there where the bay is now. A real city. That little island was a mountain. Sugar Cake. Or something. Every new year, the fireworks celebrations were fabulous. The smoke from the revelers’ fires kept me going for half the year.”
