“They’re monsters.”
“History also teaches us to look for inconsistencies. Impossibilities. Cari saw you die in the New City. Silkpurse saw you die in the artillery barrage. One unlikely escape is possible. Two is… miraculous.”
She raises the pistol. “Tell me your real name.”
The spy looks at the little weapon. “That can’t kill me, Eladora.”
She shoots him dead.
His body slumps over in the chair.
“No,” Eladora admits. “It can’t.”
The noise of the machine becomes deafening. Then she stands, brushes down her skirts, and crosses the hall to a room nearby.
The spy is momentarily bodiless, detached from the mortal world. A new body must be woven, and this threat dealt with. He’ll come back nearby. That sewer route is the only way in or out–Eladora must be working with the ghouls. He’ll reform there, before she leaves. Kill her–the thought bring him no small amount of discomfort, but it must be done. The ghouls are a larger problem, especially Rat. They guard the two remaining god bombs.
He feels along the strands of fate. There’s one possibility–Alic rises through parliament, becomes minister for security. Pressures the city watch. Guerdon needs a replacement god bomb, so we must eliminate the ghouls and take the components needed before Haith or Lyrix snatch them away. Rebuild the machine on Hark. A slow process, but there are ways to accelerate it, and he won’t be starting from scratch. This path is a route back to—
Alic hears Emlin’s voice calling for him. He tries to dismiss it as a memory from Hark Island, nothing more, but no–the boy’s alive! He’s nearby! He’s calling for Alic, begging for help.
–A force seizes Alic, drags him back to the mortal world. Aetheric engines, tanks of writhing alchemical creatures. Summoning circles. He’s seen it all before, somewhere. He has to wrestle with his memory, fight to keep his thoughts together. On Hark. He saw it on Hark.
At the centre of the summoning circle, there’s an aethergraph machine. A loop of orichalcum cable runs from to the circle–the aethergraph set is live, but talking only to him. Emlin, inside the aethergraph, calling him. The spy fights to disentangle himself from Alic, but he’s caught in the web of the man’s thoughts.
And then he’s caught in the flesh. He materialises in the circle.
A priest stands nearby, a gun in his hand. He watches the spy hungrily. It’s Sinter.
Alic takes a step towards the aethergraph, but the priest clucks his tongue and gestures with the gun. The spy stops moving. The aethergraph clatters and crackles, but before it can speak, Sinter reaches over and shuts the machine down.
Eladora appears at the entrance to the room. Her eyes are wide and fearful.
“It’s you. You’re… a god,” she says. “I thought… gods can’t think. You’re living spells. Self-perpetuating whirlpools of psychic energy in the aetheric field. You’re not… like this.”
The spy spreads his hands. “Behold the sacrifice of my priests at Severast. They walked ahead, into the future, and left behind a thread of being for me to cling to. They went very far ahead–and as long as that strand of fate holds, I cannot die.” He peers at the crackling, roaring machinery that surrounds him. “What is this prison?” he asks.
“Dr R-r-Ramegos’ prototype. A scale model of the machine at Hark. I was trying to disrupt whatever was… reincarnating you. But it’s you.” She glances a row of gauges on the wall. “It’s not strong enough to bind a deity like the Fate Spider, but it can hold… whatever you are.”
“I am Fate Spider,” says the spy. “I am worshipped in Ishmere and Severast. But when Ishmere attacked Severast, I was sundered. When my counterpart, my shadow-self is destroyed, I shall be Fate Spider entire again.” He shrugs. “Failing that, I shall have revenge. I shall make secret Godswar upon them. I shall cast down their shrines and burn their temples, even if I must do it from behind this mask of flesh.” He spreads his arms wide. “You know me now. Worship me, and be the first of my new saints, my new priests.”
Eladora shakes her head. “Is that what you told Emlin?”
Sinter shoots him dead. The machine roars again.
Coming back this time, he feels weak, newborn. Like some moulting sea creature, scurrying from shell to shell, vulnerable in its softness.
“You can’t kill me without a god bomb.”
“As long as this machine’s running, you’re bound here,” snarls Sinter.
He smiles. The summoning circle’s already running down. The aetheric engines will run out of power; the living brains in the tanks cannot recite the secret prayers to bind him for much longer. The aethergraph is fragile. He’ll murder Alic, remove this troubling connection to Emlin, escape that way. He has many options, if only he has time.
“You cannot hold me.”
Sinter shoots him dead again. He reforms, and he forgets how many legs humans are supposed to have. He topples to the ground, his fingers moving like spiders across the floor, trying to drag the dead weight of his body behind him.
Eladora sighs. She gestures, and Sinter fires again.
“I know what happens to gods that are destroyed too many times.”
And again.
“It wears you down, doesn’t it? Every time, you’re… diminished.” And again. “And you were only a little god to begin with.”
Sinter shoots him again.
When he reforms that time–slowly, painful, pulling the substance of himself out of the aether like cobwebs, his thoughts slow and rotten–Sinter presses the gun against his forehead. The barrel is hot against his mortal skin.
“You work for her, now,” growls the priest, pointing at Eladora. “Understand?”
The spy doesn’t know if he can die again. He yields.
“I take no pleasure in this,” says Eladora. “I’m just trying to do the best for my city. I have bargained with worse gods than you.”
EPILOGUE
The Armistice holds.
Three belligerents of the Godswar agree that Guerdon is shared, neutral territory. Across the seas, gods and dragons and legions of the dead may fight, but not in the city. There are breaches of the truce, betrayals, questionable incidents, but the peace holds. The city authorities are miraculously well informed about potential threats; plots to restart hostilities are thwarted with a minimum of bloodshed.
Guerdon adapts to this new regime. It’s the nature of the city to remake itself, to build over the rubble. By autumn, the docks are open again, busier than ever now that warships from three nations jostle for space at the neutral quaysides. Parliament temporarily relocates to the Palace of the Patros while the fortress on Castle Hill is rebuilt; the city watch occupies old tombs and catacombs in Gravehill. There are miracles, too, now that the city is no longer godless. Money-changer priests of Blessed Bol throng the markets and the cafés, blessing the city’s trade. Smoke Painter’s eyeless mystics sell fantasies in Glimmerside. A temporary bridge replaces the Duchess Viaduct, hanging from skyhooks anchored in the clouds. The New City is no longer out of place; there are miracles everywhere now.
On midwinter’s day, Eladora Duttin is informed that her mother is dead.
The carriage sticks in half-frozen mud in the country lane. Silkpurse hops down and puts her ghoulish strength to use, shoving the rear wheel free. She clambers back on board, her breath steaming in the cold air. Eladora hands her a cloth so Silkpurse can wipe her claws and not get mud on the ghoul’s new velvet mourning dress.
“Thank’ee, miss,” says the ghoul. She settles back into her seat. “What are those things in the field?”
Eladora glances. “Horses.”
“Oh. They’re like the carvings on Keeper churches! They’re prettier than raptequines. Wonder what they taste like.” A city ghoul, through and through. “I’m sorry that Carillon couldn’t be here.”
“It’s for the best,” says Eladora. “She was never happy here.” Was I?
She looks out at the endless snow-covered f
ields and forests, the little cottages and barns. Grey sky over a grey land.
She sees movement in the clouds, and a dragon breaks through the pall and circles over the land, scanning for prey. Eladora makes a mental note to have a word with the Lyrixian ambassador. The dragons are straying too far from their assigned hunting grounds near the city; it’s a minor breach of the Armistice agreement, but nothing involving divine monsters can be dismissed as trivial. She’ll consult with Alic, see what they have on the ambassador to encourage him to take care of the matter quietly, rather than risk insulting the Ghierdanian clan by confronting the dragon directly.
The dragon, unimpressed with the barren landscape, vanishes back into the clouds.
In the distance, a farmer in black trudges across a frozen field, head down, never noticing the beast in the sky.
The funeral is better attended than Eladora expected. A cynical part of her mind wonders if they’ve come just to get warm. As a Safidist, Silva asked to be cremated on a pyre of sacred wood, instead of having her body sent down the corpse shafts. They’ve erected the pyre in the little village square in the middle of Wheldacre.
Most of the mourners are people from the village, mostly relatives from the Duttin side of the family. A few minor dignitaries from Guerdon; a Keeper bishop or two. Mhari Voller is absent, although a gaudy spray of miracle-conjured blossoms is from her, according to a note someone hands Eladora. They push her to a place at the head of the church, the pew nearest the altar, nearest Silva’s body. They trudge past, offering ritual condolences.
Silkpurse sits in the row behind Eladora, rests a comforting claw on her shoulder. It’s all such a bother, thinks Eladora. A hollow ritual. These prayers are emptier than the gentling-chants of Jaleh’s house; no distant god could be ever be stirred to action by these pleas for mercy.
She remembers a Crown of Flowers festival here. Remembers being made to stand for hours, in the sweltering heat, holding her hands over burning candles. Praying the candle flame would become a burning sword, praying for the gift of sainthood.
Burn, thinks Eladora. Coming here was a mistake. Stabbing Silva with a magic sword should have been closure enough. But formalities must be observed. She sits through the long service until the hard seats make her buttocks ache, until her carefully arranged mask of sorrow becomes an honest scowl of irritation.
The village priest says a last prayer for the dead, and they carry Silva out to the waiting pyre. The body is light, as if it’s already mostly burned away on the inside, and they’re just finishing the job. Eladora follows, just in case. She’s seen enough people come back from the dead in the last year that she wants to make completely sure.
A few latecomers come to pay their respects to her as the body is laid out on the pyre. One of them, a small man with a big nose, lingers for a moment to speak to the village priest before approaching Eladora. She’s seen him before, but for a moment can’t quite recall where. Then she remembers, and forces herself not to react.
“I just wanted to say how sorry I am,” says King Berrick. “I knew your mother in the last few months, while we were both guests of the Patros in the palace. We talked, sometimes, when she was able. She often spoke of you. Sometimes, even fondly.” He looks around the square. “She taught me to love Guerdon, even from afar.”
The Thay in her.
“Thank you, your grace. And thank you for coming.”
“I have an errand to discharge. Speak to the priest before you leave.”
The king takes advantage of the distraction provided by the sudden leap of flame to depart unseen.
Eladora stands in the cold and watches her mother’s body burn until there’s only ash.
The rambling farmhouse at Wheldacre is Eladora’s now. It’s too late in the evening to return to Guerdon before dark, so she and Silkpurse will stay here for the night.
She turns the key and opens the back door. The farmhouse has changed little since Eladora went away to the university. Musty books, shrines to the Kept Gods. Candle wax spilling over the sideboards.
She places the box on the table.
“What’s that?” asks Silkpurse. “I saw the priest give it to you after the funeral.”
“My m-mother entrusted it to him,” answers Eladora, “a long time ago. It… it was sent to her by my grandfather, at the same time he sent Carillon to live with us.”
The box is made of some dark wood, with iron hinges. The clasp is sealed with wax and marked with the sigil of the Thay family. Touching it, she feels a thrill of sorcery. It’s warded.
“What’s inside?” Silkpurse sniffs the box.
“My grandfather’s diaries, the priest said. My mother… wanted me to have this now.”
“Why?”
A warning. An inheritance. A trap. She doesn’t know.
Her mother was a monster. Her mother was a saint. She transformed the Keepers, restored the king. The king owes everything to her.
Her grandfather was a monster. Her grandfather built the modern city. Kelkin owes everything to him.
Eladora cuts her thumb and opens the seal.
AFTERWORD
Writing a book is like jumping off a cliff. You step off that edge, it’s quiet for a bit and suddenly things are happening very quickly all around you and there’s a lot of screaming.
Writing a second book is like trying to take a second step while in mid-air. It is definitely an experience.
Many thanks go to my UK editor Emily Byron, who transformed my original manuscript into something far better, to Bradley and Joanna, to Nazia, and everyone else at Orbit (especially the long-suffering proofreaders who put up with notes like “there’s Kraken, and there’s kraken, and there’s Kraken-stuff that might be krakens”). Thanks also to my agent John Jarrold.
Once again I am blessed with a Richard Anderson cover.
The poem here is adapted from Hugh MacDiarmid’s poem “Midnight”, and appears courtesy of Carcanet Press. The original poem is (a) lovely and (b) full of shade towards the rest of Scotland.
Many thanks to those in any of the following sets: people who bought The Gutter Prayer, people who read The Gutter Prayer, people who reviewed The Gutter Prayer. If you are in the intersection of any of those sets, you are due far more than double or triple thanks–I remain hugely indebted to those reviews and readers who gave the first book in the Black Iron Legacy such an initial boost.
I remain indebted also to my friends, notably Neil for continuing to be a stalwart alpha reader, long-time co-conspirator Cat and the rest of Pelgrane, and all those who ensured I developed not one whit of an ego.
Thanking Edel is like thanking oxygen.
Finally, I must acknowledge the contributions of Tristan, Elyan and Nimuë. Contributions included “being born a few days before final edits are due”, but also helping out with signings and being endlessly–well, somewhat–patient when told “Daddy’s working”.
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Photo Credit: Edel Ryder-Hanrahan
GARETH HANRAHAN’S three-month break from computer programming to concentrate on writing has now lasted fifteen years and counting. He’s written more gaming books than he can readily recall, by virtue of the alchemical transmutation of tea and guilt into words. He lives in Ireland with his wife and twin sons. Follow him on Twitter as @mytholder.
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if you enjoyed
THE SHADOW SAINT
look out for
THE THOUSAND DEATHS OF ARDOR BENN
Kingdom of Grit: Book One
by
Tyler Whitesides
Master con artist Ardor Benn and his crew of intrepid thieves are hired to pull off a series of wildly complex heists, from ste
aling a crown to saving the world, in this daring fantasy adventure.
Liar. Thief. Legend.
Ardor Benn is no ordinary thief. Rakish, ambitious, and master of wildly complex heists, he styles himself a “ruse artist extraordinaire.”
When a priest hires him for the most daring stunt yet, Ardor knows he’ll need more than quick wit and sleight of hand. Assembling a dream team of forgers, disguisers, schemers, and thieves, he sets out to steal from the most powerful king the realm has ever known.
But it soon becomes clear there’s more at stake than fame and glory—Ard and his team might just be the last hope for human civilization.
Discover the start of an epic fantasy trilogy that begins with a heist and quickly explodes into a full-tilt, last-ditch plan to save humanity.
Chapter 1
Ardor Benn was running late. Or was he? Ard preferred to think that everyone else in the Greater Chain was consistently early—with unreasonable expectations for him to be the same.
Regardless, this time it was all right to keep his appointment waiting. It was a stew tactic. And stew tasted better the longer it cooked.
Ard skipped up the final stairs and onto the third floor. Remaught Azel clearly wasn’t the big fish he purported. Rickety wooden tri-story in the slums of Marow? Ard found the whole thing rather distasteful. Especially after Lord Yunis. Now, that was something! Proper stone mansion with a Heat Grit hearth in every room. Servants. Cooks. Light Grit lanterns that ignited with the pull of a chain. Ard half suspected that Lord Yunis wiped his backside with lace.
Different island. Different ruse. Today was about Remaught Azel, no matter how unaccommodating his hideout appeared.
Ard shifted the Grit keg from one arm to the other as he reached the closed door at the end of the hallway. The creaking floorboards would have already notified Remaught that someone was coming. Interesting, Ard thought. Maybe there is something useful about holing up in a joint like this. Floorboard sentries.
The Shadow Saint Page 58
