“What art thou doing here, boy? Thought thou wouldst have learnt thy lesson earlier.”
It was a gruff voice, deep and uncompromising. Gaston had heard it before, when he’d walked away from the confrontation with Shader, but he’d been too ashamed to turn around and look.
Squinting through the darkness, he could just about make out a thickset but short figure with a long braided beard and eyes that glinted dangerously in the moonlight. The man was cloaked in white and leaning on an immense war hammer. Gaston’s fingers twitched above the pommel of his sword, his heartbeat thumping in his ears. He slowed his breathing, tried to relax his shoulders.
“I’m Gaston Rayn, Master of the White Order.” Darik’s term, but it would have to do.
“I know who thou art, boy, but that was not my question. Why art thou skulking around the templum at this hour? Having second thoughts about the duel? Didst thou think to end it before it has started?”
“What?” Gaston half drew his sword, but the dwarf didn’t flinch. “Are you calling me a cutthroat?” He knew he was overreacting, but he couldn’t help it. “Do you really think I’d stoop to murder?” Isn’t that what that bastard Shadrak had done to his dad? “Stick around till morning, mate, and then you’ll see I don’t need to sneak around at night to get the job done. Now get out of my way. I need to see Mater Ioana.”
Gaston tried to step past, but the dwarf moved to intercept him. His head only came up to Gaston’s shoulders but there was something about him that made Gaston pause. The dwarf looked rooted to the spot, an immovable object that might just as well have been carved from granite.
“I am Maldark, known as the Fallen. The only way thou shalt see Mater is through me.”
“Shog … off,” Gaston said through gritted teeth, “or you’re about to get a whole lot shorter.” He drew his sword further from its scabbard, let the dwarf see the glint of steel.
Maldark stood his ground, completely unperturbed by Gaston’s bluster. Normally people would back down when he raised his voice, and if they’d seen him in action with a sword they’d think twice about confronting him. Gaston felt his cheek twitching and put his hand to his face to stop the dwarf from seeing. Without warning, Maldark hefted the war-hammer to his shoulder and Gaston stepped away.
“I’ll take thee to her,” Maldark said.
“Don’t bother.” Gaston turned to leave.
“I’ll take thee to her now.” Maldark slapped the hammer haft into his palm and glowered.
Gaston forced himself to relax. He was afraid of no man, but there was something about the dwarf that unnerved him, a self-assurance that didn’t allow for any possibility of doubt. No boasting, no threats. Just a dreadful certainty that if Gaston didn’t do as he was told, he’d have as much chance as a baby in a croc-infested creek. He lowered his head and nodded, letting the sword slip back into its scabbard.
Maldark led Gaston to the main door of the residences. “Wait here,” he said, before going inside and shutting the door.
After a few moments Gaston could hear the murmur of voices and then saw the soft glow of candlelight dancing past the windows. The door opened again and Mater Ioana stood there in a white gown, her shaven head reflecting the yellow flame of the candle she carried. She studied him like a surgeon examining a wound, the barest suggestion of a frown tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“My, you have been in the wars, haven’t you? You’d better come in. Can’t have you staggering around with all that weight on your shoulders.”
Gaston started to tremble, a wave of emotion welling up within him. He dared not speak in case he lost control.
“Come along, Gaston.” Ioana held the door open for him.
Maldark was lurking just inside, a sullen expression on his face. He made as if to follow them, but Ioana waved him away before leading Gaston along the main corridor, past six or seven closed doors, and into a small chamber at the end. She touched her candle flame to the wicks of three votive lights, their warm, flickering glow revealing the blues and reds of the stained glass windows flanking a simple altar, and glinting from the surface of the gilt Monas that stood upon it.
She drew up a couple of chairs, but Gaston threw himself to his knees before the altar, tears already spilling down his cheeks. Tears of shame. Tears of release. He bowed his head, clamped his eyes shut, and began to sway.
“Mater, I have sinned.”
Ioana said nothing, but Gaston could feel her eyes upon him. A hard lump was growing in his chest, forcing him to go on.
“I’ve d-d-done things…” He hated the quavering of his voice. “Shameful things. Broken … the Admonishments; d-d-disgraced my Order.”
“We are not required to be perfect,” Ioana said. “Rules should guide, but never burden. Sometimes things happen. Nous understands. He is closer to us than we are to ourselves.”
Gaston shook his head, flaming coals threatening to burst out of his chest. “No, Mater,” his voice was a grating squeak. “I’ve done evil things.”
“Rhiannon?”
Gaston winced as if she’d struck him. He screwed his face up tight, sniffed back the snot, swallowed it. “Mater, I … I…” He couldn’t say the words. Hated himself for it. Hated his weakness.
He felt Ioana’s hand on his shoulder. She gave it a gentle squeeze, let out a sigh that might have been sympathetic, might have been disapproval. “What will you do, Gaston? How will you atone for it?”
“I c-c-can’t. Never can. She won’t… She won’t let me. Can’t let me.”
Ioana cradled his head against her shoulder. “No, Gaston, she can’t. At least not now.”
“Then what? What can I do?”
“Be gentle with yourself, Gaston. Think of all that has happened—your father. I never met him, but Soror Agna says—”
“No!” Gaston pulled away and stood. “No excuses. I d-d-didn’t come here for that.”
“Then what did you come here for?” Ioana lowered herself onto a chair and watched him with big attentive eyes.
“P-P-Penance, Mater. Please, I need a penance. Bind me to the service of Nous. I n-n-need to atone.”
Ioana nodded, her eyes still on him, but seemingly distant, focused far away. A shadow passed over her face, her demeanor suddenly that of a frightened child, or an anxious parent. “We will talk about that in the morning. After this … this business with Deacon Shader.”
If there was any “after”, Gaston thought, almost hoping there wouldn’t be.
“What else, Gaston?” Ioana’s look was pleading. “Have you confessed everything? I sense there is something else, a stain on your soul. What’s happened?”
“N-N-Nothing.” Gaston’s lips trembled as he spoke. “I’m ashamed, Mater. Ashamed of w-w-what I am, what I’ve d-d-done. Ashamed of my l-l-lack of faith.” He thought about telling her what he’d witnessed beneath the mound, what he’d discussed with Cadman, but he could barely think about it, never mind tell anyone. He prayed for the strength to confess it, to exorcise all that was troubling him, but each time he made the resolve, Rhiannon’s swollen face rose before him like an accusing ghost, telling him he didn’t deserve forgiveness. Telling him he was damned, whatever he did.
“There is remorse in your heart,” Ioana said. “Whatever you have done, Ain already knows, just as he knows how sorry you are. He is a god of forgiveness, Gaston. For Ain, all things are possible. To serve him, you only need to want to be a better person.”
Gaston already knew all that—he’d been telling himself the same thing, but it wasn’t helping. Maybe Ain could forgive him, but Rhiannon couldn’t; and what if he couldn’t forgive himself? Wouldn’t he be damned anyway?
“Mater, tell me about the resurrection,” Gaston suddenly blurted out. “What happens when we die?”
Ioana knelt beside him, her eyes closed in concentration. She gave a little sigh before she answered. “Some parts of the Liber are much older than others,” she said. “After the Reckoning, different streams merged w
ith the Old Faith, sometimes enriching it, but more often than not muddying the true meaning.”
Gaston thought about what Cadman had said about the Ipsissimus being the Father of Lies. It was starting to sound like the Templum had fabricated great sections of the Liber to appeal to as many people as possible. That would certainly account for its rapid spread, the willingness of so many nations to accept Nousian control. But if there were a true thread running through the teachings, what kind of sick mind would bury it all in the name of temporal power?
“Resurrection is one of the most ancient teachings,” Ioana continued, “and one of the purest. Ain has promised that, at the end of time, we will be restored to bodily life just as Nous was when he appeared to the first Luminaries and gave them the original Liber.”
“But what will our bodies be like?” Gaston shuddered at the recollection of the animated corpses riding from their tomb and returning to the world. If that was resurrection…
“Tajen speaks of luminous bodies. The degree is dependent upon sanctity. Arcadine, I think it was, says that the resurrected will not have individual organs: all will be harmonized in the spirit.”
“H-H-How does he know that?” Gaston searched her face for any hint of a lie. “How do we know any of it’s true?”
Ioana shrugged. It seemed to Gaston she was on shaky ground, though she was doing her best to sound confident. As far as Gaston knew, she might indeed be confident; that was the problem: he couldn’t be sure of anything any more.
“The words of the witnesses,” Ioana said. “Faith.”
Gaston groaned. It was like beating his head against a brick wall. Why were there no clear answers?
“Faith is accepting without proof,” Ioana said. “There are no certainties, no guarantees. It’s an attitude, an orientation.”
Gaston was rocking from side to side. “B-B-But what if it’s all lies?” What if the promises of Ain had as much substance as Shader’s to the Order? What if there was no truth, no morality outside what people invented for themselves? If that were the case, then where was the harm in what Cadman was doing? And who could condemn Gaston for the things he’d done?
“What is it, Gaston? You can tell me.”
Gaston went rigid and looked at the Monas on the altar through blurry eyes. “I’ve … seen things.” His voice came out as a whisper.
Ioana rose from her chair, took hold of his face with both hands and forced him to look at her. “What kind of things?”
“The living dead.”
Ioana stepped back and rubbed the top of her head. She frowned, lost in thought for a minute, and then fixed Gaston with her gaze once more. “Does this concern your friend Dr. Cadman?”
Gaston nodded.
“What is he up to?”
“He has power over the dead. He promises me things.”
“Resurrection?”
“Immortality. He says the Ipsissimus has c-c-cursed him. Says there’s a w-w-way to lift the curse and wants my help.”
Ioana sniffed contemptuously.
“H-h-how do I know that w-w-what Cadman says isn’t true?” Gaston asked.
“What does your heart tell you?”
“In my h-h-heart there is only…” Gaston felt his face twisting into a grimace.
“Only what?”
He couldn’t say any more—if he did, he felt the admission would destroy him. Closer to the surface than it had ever been was the affliction that had clouded his life since he’d lost his dad to Nous, since his mom had followed him on the same insipid path. He tried, as he’d always tried, to evade the great emptiness opening up inside him, to distract himself from the terror of the Void. He looked at Ioana and forced a smile, but he knew by the worry on her face that she’d read his fear.
“Bow your head, Gaston,” she said in a shaky voice. “Pray for Ain’s forgiveness and I’ll grant you absolution.”
“No!” Gaston recoiled. “That’s n-n-not what I want. I d-d-don’t deserve it. I need a p-p-penance, Mater. P-P-Please.”
“As you wish,” she said, her face suddenly gray and drawn. “You may stay with us tonight, and we’ll work something out in the morning.”
Gaston nodded, and then the realization hit him. “Shader’s s-s-still here, isn’t he?”
Ioana put her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, Gaston, I didn’t think. But the offer still stands. You’ll be quite safe. He’d never abuse our hospitality.”
For a moment Gaston considered doing what Maldark had accused him of. If there was no omniscient Ain watching over his every move, why shouldn’t he just slit Shader’s throat whilst he slept? Wasn’t that the way of life? Wasn’t that what Cadman was doing, making his own rules just so he could keep all the advantages and ensure his own survival in an uncaring world? It was tempting, but Gaston couldn’t be certain of anything right now. Either Ain existed or he didn’t, but Gaston wasn’t ready to chance it. The one thing he knew for certain was that the dead could walk again, and that meant there was some possibility of continued existence after death. Ain might not be watching over him, but you could bet your life on it that Bovis Rayn was.
“If I beat him,” Gaston rose unsteadily to his feet, “we can talk about this afterwards.” He held out a hand and helped Ioana to stand. “And if not,” he continued, sounding much calmer than he felt, “I guess there’ll be nothing more to worry about.”
SHAMAN’S VISION
The sky was black, like sleep. Black, with no shiny crystals spread out across it for Krylyrd to learn secrets from. The jungle below was steaming, drenched with the heaviest rains of the wet. Mawg skulls on spikes set around the settlement glared angrily out at the trees, daring any intruder to cross the line of curses.
Krylyrd clawed signs in the air as he danced with wild abandon, twisting and leaping. His body was the swirling water of the reef, his breath the wind that howled and whirled, smashing down the huts as if they were made of nothing but cobwebs. He spun in ever tighter circles until he came to an abrupt standstill, every muscle taut to the point of bursting. Drool trickled from his jaws and sweat beaded his leathery torso. He bared his teeth and let out a long bloodcurdling screech in answer to the cry he’d heard from the Dreaming.
The bulk of the hive sat in silence on the tiers of sunbaked mud seats cut into a steeply banked semi-circle. They were listening for the watchers to respond; waiting in hushed awe for the master to appear.
Lightning flashed behind Krylyrd’s eyes and he screamed, throwing himself to the ground, writhing like a dying snake, before he flopped to his back and lay still.
A silvery speck flickered above him and then flared into a ball of blue flame that cast its icy glow on the seated crowd. Within the sphere, Krylyrd could see a shadowy hand, the fingers closed about something, but slowly prizing open to reveal a scene of ships at sea, white sails with a red symbol—like a man made of sticks, horns on his head. Krylyrd hissed and thrashed. He knew that symbol; he’d seen it before on the clothes of the slayer at Oakendale, the man who’d slaughtered his brothers and driven them back to the Isles. Beneath the decks of the flagship amber light shone like the sun. A hushed growling spread though the onlookers.
The sphere floated down until it touched Krylyrd’s head, sank within his skull. He began to shake, blood burning in his veins, and then sat up. His mind filled with the chattering of the winged demons about the master’s throne, row upon row of them, eyes tied to magic mirrors. He glimpsed the master, dressed in a gray tunic, pale face above, shiny knobs poking from beneath black hair and sparking with tongues of fire.
“Master,” Krylyrd barked, his tongue curling awkwardly around the word. “We heard the call of the watchers. We await your bidding.”
The master’s face was a mask of clay; even his eyes remained fixed and unfocused, as if they were made of glass. They blazed with blue light when he spoke.
“I’ve shown you what my kryeh have detected, shaman. You are still my hands and feet?”
Krylyrd nodded ent
husiastically, the crowd roaring their agreement.
“Then raise the hive. Ready the ships. It’s time for the reavers to swarm.”
THE DUEL
Gaston awoke before sunrise, threw his cloak over the clothes he’d slept in, buckled on his sword and wandered outside to sit by the templum porch. He leaned back and listened to the birds chirping excitedly as the first ribbons of pink and purple appeared on the horizon. Calm wrapped around him like a blanket following a restful sleep—the first he’d had in a very long while. Maybe he wasn’t quite so alone as he’d believed. Maybe he could trust Ioana to guide him, see him through this bleak patch. Even the specter of his dad was feeling more like a comfort in the dawn light, and less like the horrors he’d seen beneath the mound.
Cadman’s offer had sorely tempted him, but at the same time it had inflamed his conscience, almost given it the perspective of an outsider. And what he had seen with that conscience troubled him. It had been reckless to attack the soldiers outside Sarum, but what he’d done to Rhiannon felt a whole lot worse. She’d been his friend; she’d trusted him, and he’d betrayed that trust in the worst possible way. He was almost glad Shader was going to make him pay for it. Almost, but not quite, for nothing Shader did to him could make things right.
Gaston felt a wave of nausea, an uncomfortable tightening of his stomach. What if he lost the duel? What if he was killed before he could atone for what he’d done? Before he could complete his penance? The calm returned as swiftly as it had left. Ioana would know what to do; she was sure to speak with Shader, make him see sense. They were all Nousians. Shader would understand the need for redemption and stay his hand. Gaston crossed his legs and shook his head, laughing at himself for being such a clacker. There’d be no duel today. The more he thought about it, the more the whole thing sounded ridiculous.
He stared out at the reddening sky, not wanting to miss a moment. The problem with good moods was that they had a habit of slipping away like dreams on waking the second you took your mind off them. It felt like someone had swept a mountain of mold-blackened leaves away from the center of his skull, but they’d forgotten to take them outside. They were still there at the edges, putrefying, seeping back towards the center. Just like the dark cloud that had settled over his spirits since meeting Cadman. Gaston had been utterly convinced of the path he was following—his dad’s path, but the way Shader lived it; the path of Nous. Now, after hearing Cadman’s accusations against the Templum, after witnessing the grotesque awakening of the Lost, he felt he’d abandoned Ain. Worse, a nagging voice kept telling him that Ain didn’t exist. He no longer knew whether to hate or embrace the Templum. Denounce its lies or beg forgiveness for his unbelief.
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