by Ian Graham
Suddenly, he felt weak. The ground seemed to tilt, the sky lowered, the day’s light became first punishingly bright, then oppressively dark. Shivering, rubbing his eyes, he realised that the outer world hadn’t altered. No earthquake had shaken Papal Square. The light had stayed constant. Rather, something inside himself had changed. He had been struck by a revelation, and it nauseated him.
Staring at the Oak, he found that he couldn’t look upon the girl healer as someone who had suffered. She seemed merely a trophy, like the stuffed animal heads that might decorate a huntsman’s walls. He viewed her as proof of a job well done. As a testament to his devotion to his priestly duties. She might as well have been a message of praise from the Blessed Masters. Or the promotion, from church-priest to cathedral-master, that he was in Soriterath to receive.
And that, surely, was a violation of the Four’s teachings. The Four preached sympathy and empathy—because these were the seedbeds from which compassion grew.
Yet Rendeage felt nothing for the girl healer. She was young and, despite her sins, innocent: but her death satisfied him.
Rendeage accepted the Master’s offer, moving to Granthaven Cathedral. But thoughts of the girl healer persisted. Gradually, Rendeage began to pity her. And he felt ashamed— ashamed at the ruthless fashion in which he’d delivered her to the Wardens. Ashamed at his failure to consider, even briefly, her plight, her suffering. He realised he had been too devoted to the Church. So much so that he had forsaken the Four.
It occurred to him that the Pilgrim Church itself, with its cruel practices—not merely the Penance Oak but the cages elemental, gallows, public stonings, and many, many other things—had forsaken the Four.
He refused to abandon the Church. Instead, he vowed to be a holy priest. A priest obedient to the Four. Not to the earthly institution existing in its name.
And from this, a type of rebelliousness grew. It pleased him when the Church’s demands conflicted with the Four’s and he chose the latter. It made him feel virtuous. It made him feel holy.
Now, though, he wondered if this had been wise. For it had compelled him to rescue Ballas. And if Ballas were to destroy the Pilgrim Church—Rendeage didn’t know how that could be done, or if Ballas was really capable of it—but if he destroyed the Church, what would become of the Four’s teachings?
For all its flaws, the Church kept the Four’s flame burning. Without it, the Four would be forgotten, their principles vanishing under a thick layer of dust.
‘What if I have committed the greatest of evils?’ Rendeage grew cold. ‘What if I have ripped the keystone from the Church, and the whole structure will soon crumble?’
Footsteps sounded overhead. There were people in the worship hall.
Rendeage looked into the eye sockets of Cadaris’s skull. For an instant, they did not seem empty. He thought he glimpsed living eyes within: opal green, exuding utter calm. Then the hollow blackness returned.
‘Guide me, Cadaris,’ he whispered.
Father Rendeage climbed the steps to the worship hall. A group of twenty or thirty men stood in the aisle. Several carried torches, their light filling the hall.
The men were talking. When Rendeage appeared, they fell silent. They seemed to hesitate—and Rendeage realised that, though they were probably going to kill him, they had felt a reflexive pang of reverence. He was still a priest. He still wore his blue robes and Scarrendestin pendant.
‘Where is the sinner, priest?’ asked a man at the front of the group. He was tall, swarthy, and rot-toothed. ‘Show him to us.’
‘He is not here,’ said Rendeage.
‘He’s been seen,’ replied the rot-toothed man. ‘One of us saw him come here just a brief time ago …’
‘If you had been vigilant,’ said Rendeage, ‘you would also have seen him leave. Search my cathedral if you wish. You will not find him.’
The man clenched his jaw. ‘You harboured a sinner, priest.’
‘It was my duty, as a man of the Four—’
‘It was your duty to kill him. Didn’t you read the Decree of Annihilation?’ The man tensed aggressively. ‘Where has he gone? Will he return?’
‘He will not return,’ said Rendeage, ‘and do not I know where he is.’
The rot-toothed man moved toward Rendeage. The rest of the group followed, slowly. ‘You lie, priest.’
‘I speak only the truth.’
‘You lie!’ Leaping forward, he struck Rendeage backhandedly across the face. The priest staggered, then clambered on to the dais behind the altar.
‘You are in a house of the Four,’ he said. ‘There must be no violence. Think of your souls! Do you wish to face damnation … do you wish to wander eternally the Barren Lands beyond the Eltheryn Forest? For your own sake, leave me be!’
‘It’s your soul that’s in danger,’ retorted the rot-toothed man. ‘You’re the one who protected the sinner. We—’ he glanced back at the group ‘—are doing the Four’s work. We’re going to track him down and slaughter him.’
‘That will not make you good men,’ said Rendeage. Yet he didn’t hear his own words. He wasn’t even certain what they meant. He was aware only of the crowd steadily drawing closer. And of a strange calm that had settled upon him. It was resignation, he supposed. It soothed him.
He backed away. The crowd neared the dais.
Three Wardens stood at the far end of the hall. Rendeage hadn’t previously noticed them. He wondered if they had gathered these men together. For certain, they were doing nothing to stop them. They watched, impassively.
Rendeage frowned.
A fourth figure stood beside the Wardens. It wore a brown woollen robe, the hood drawn up. It was short of stature, its head rising level with the Wardens’ chests.
Squinting, Rendeage tried to see under the hood. He couldn’t make out the figure’s face. Only a patch of skin was visible. It was pale, almost bloodless: as white as altar marble. It was stretched tightly over bone.
Rendeage wondered who he was. Clearly, he was ill: his pallor suggested poor blood. Or maybe a canker. But why— why would the Wardens bring him here, to witness a priest’s death? What purpose would it serve?
Rendeage’s speculation ended abruptly.
The crowd clambered on to the dais. The rot-toothed man strode over. Kneeling, Rendeage murmured a prayer. He felt the heat of bodies close by. Then something smashed into his face, toppling him.
‘Guide me, Cadaris,’ he repeated.
Chapter 15
He had powers of a magical nature,
As did every Pilgrim—yet his were drawn
From the dark well of himself, not the benediction
Of the creator-god …
They moved through Granthaven—Ballas, carrying Elsefar over his shoulder, Lugen Crask, and his daughter, Heresh, who carried the crippled quill-master’s crutches. They ducked from darkness to shadow, shadow to darkness, avoiding the Papal Wardens. They stole along like foxes, Ballas thought, darting from grove to undergrowth to rock outcrop, constantly seeking places to hide. It took no effort to carry Elsefar. Though scarcely thin, the cripple weighed little: he seemed barely heavier than an effigy crafted from straw.
They walked on, following a narrow road.
Ballas sensed the presence of the Wardens a heartbeat before they appeared. Still carrying Elsefar over his shoulder, he shrank into a doorway. With no time to hide, Crask and Heresh remained in the road.
‘What is happening?’ whispered Elsefar, unable to see the Wardens.
‘Shut up,’ murmured Ballas. Kneeling, he slid Elsefar from his shoulders and set him on the ground. The quill-master scowled at this rough treatment. Yet he stayed silent.
There were two Wardens.
‘Who are you?’ said the first, approaching Crask. ‘What’s your business, out at this late hour?’
‘We are citizens of Granthaven,’ said the eel-catcher, spreading his hands wide. ‘And we are … we’re following a rumour.’
‘Speak p
lainly,’ ordered the Warden. ‘What do you mean: “following a rumour”?’
‘A rumour of blood, of death,’ said Crask, haltingly. ‘And … and loyalty to the Pilgrim Church. Divine work is being done, and we wish to witness it. Wish, even, to take part—if we are capable, and it is not too late.’ He glanced towards the doorway. He looked desperate. Crask was not a natural liar, Ballas realised. ‘The sinner has been caught,’ concluded Crask. ‘We’ve heard he’s at the cathedral. We want to observe his death.’
The Warden raised his eyebrows. ‘This is the truth?’
Crask nodded vigorously.
The Warden turned to his companion, fingering his sword hilt. ‘I was starting to wonder if he’d ever be captured. I too would like to watch him die.’ He looked at Crask. ‘How long have you lived in Granthaven? Your accent isn’t from these parts. Nor do your footsteps suggest you’re familiar with this city.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re going the wrong way for the cathedral. You ought to be heading in that direction.’ He pointed back along the road.
‘You jest,’ said Crask, feigning amazement.
‘You’re about a mile from the cathedral.’
Crask pulled a disappointed face. ‘My sour luck continues. Never, ever am I treated kindly by fortune! This is typical. I miss out on … on watching history being made—and why? Because my sense of direction is poor.’
‘Hurry,’ said the Warden, ‘and perhaps you’ll see the after-math. With the sinner gone, there will be celebrations. Yourself and your … ?’ He looked questioningly at Heresh.
‘Daughter,’ said Crask.
‘… Will have a fine time.’ The Warden peered intently at Heresh. ‘What are these?’ he asked suddenly, prodding Elsefar’s crutches, which Heresh held in her hands. Reaching out, he took the crutches from her. He gazed at them, frowning. Then he looked at Heresh once more. Moving close, he gazed at her hair—hair that, even in the torchlit half-dark, was visibly red-hued. ‘I know about you. And you,’ he added, looking at Crask. ‘Your descriptions are nailed to every Warden-house wall. You travel with the sinner. You are in league with him— as is the scribe from the copying house—’ he lifted the crutches ‘—who owns these.’ He grasped Heresh’s forearm. ‘You have made a grave error, woman.’
Heresh glanced at the doorway, where Ballas was unsheathing a knife. ‘I suspect the error is yours,’ she said.
Striding from the doorway, Ballas slammed the knife into the Warden’s chest. The man gasped, blood spraying from his mouth. As he slithered to the ground, Ballas drew the Warden’s sword. The second Warden unsheathed his own weapon. Running at Ballas, he swung the blade in a fierce down-stroke. If it had hit home, it would have hacked open Ballas’s skull-top. Lifting his sword, Ballas deflected the blow, and forced the Warden’s sword tip to the ground. He planted his boot upon it. The Warden jerked at the weapon. His sword remained trapped under Ballas’s foot.
The big man punched the Warden in the face. The Warden stumbled backwards. Ballas swung his sword horizontally and the blade cut deep into the man’s neck. The Warden fell, lifeless.
Ballas tossed aside the sword. Returning to the doorway, he lifted Elsefar over his shoulder.
‘You impress me,’ said the quill-master. ‘For a man of your size, you are surprisingly light-footed. You could be a dancer if you weren’t so ugly.’
‘Where is the brothel?’ asked Ballas, stepping around the dead Wardens.
Elsefar guided them hurriedly through the city. Again and again, they were forced into the shadows as patrols passed. Alter the exhilaration of combat had ebbed—after his hands had ceased trembling, and the dull satisfaction of having preserved his own life had faded—Ballas found he was angry. Not at the Pilgrim Church. Or the Blessed Masters. But at those who served them. Which, in light of the Decree, was everyone in Druine. There was hardly a soul who didn’t want him dead. Who wouldn’t murder him while he slept. Who wasn’t watchful for the moment when they could become Druine’s hero, by destroying the sinner. Across the land, there would be groups of men similar to the youths in the Archive Hall. And because they were his enemies, Ballas despised them. Their desires were perfectly natural, of course: what red-blooded man would shun fame and all its trappings? What man would baulk at the hunt, when the quarry was so highly prized?
And perhaps … perhaps some actually believed the promise of the Decree that the sinner’s killer would be absolved of all their sins, and would be assured of a place in the Eltheryn Forest.
Even so, Ballas felt nothing but rage towards them. So they wished to save their souls—to Ballas’s mind, that didn’t matter. It enraged him that they should seek salvation at his expense.
After a while, they arrived at the brothel. It was an ugly, two-floored structure, built from ochre-tinted stone. Curtains masked the upper window, but on every sill a red lantern blazed. Over the doorway hung a sign: the customary daub of a candle burning with a scarlet flame. Yet there was something slightly different about this design. Something that Ballas thought was unusual. Thick strands of smoke twisted from the candle flame. Brothel signs rarely bore such details. Ballas glanced briefly at it, yet gave it no further thought.
He set Elsefar on his feet and Heresh handed the quill-master his crutches. The entrance to the sewers,’ said Elsefar, ‘must, of course, be found by goingdownwards. Into a cellar, perhaps.’
‘It may prove awkward.’ Crask fidgeted. ‘What if it is a … a bedchamber, hm? Things might become, ah, indelicate. No man enjoys being interrupted.’
Ballas glanced at the eel-catcher. Then he stepped inside the brothel.
He found himself in a long uncarpeted hallway. There were doors on either side, all of them shut. Sounds of copulation floated out: men grunting like animals, whores moaning as if their lovers were genuinely gifted. At the far end of the hall, a flight of stone steps led down underneath the floor.
Ballas walked quietly down the steps, Heresh and Crask close behind him. Elsefar struggled along a few paces further hack.
The steps halted at a door. Ballas pressed his ear to the wood. From within, there came no noises of fornication. Only silence.
Yet the room was occupied, Ballas knew. A lantern-smoke scent drifted out.
Ballas pushed open the door.
The room beyond was medium-sized, the floor covered with crimson rugs. Red, green and yellow paint-swirls decorated the walls—a garish tangle of loops, whorls and wild curves. The same random designs marked the ceiling. Half a dozen men sat or slouched upon the floor. Ballas reached reflexively for his dagger. Then he paused. The men hadn’t seen him. Their eyes were blank. Whatever they saw … whatever images fed their minds, they did not originate in the physical world. One gazed at a rug. It was a plain red rug, yet he stared intently at it—as if it were a thing of infinite complexity, as if it were a doorway to a scene of wonder. He smiled dreamily, rocking from side to side.
Another man peered at a magpie feather. Tilting it, he watched metallic reds, blues and greens gleam and intermix on its surface. Like the first man, he seemed pleased.
Ballas looked around the room.
Everyone seemed locked in a vague rapture. One man gazed at the ceiling, another at a a wooden board painted with a bright jumble of diamond shapes. Still another gazed at his own palm, fascinated.
In the centre of the floor stood a wooden box. Inside bristled a tangle of brownish weed.
‘Visionary’s root,’ murmured Crask, behind Ballas.
Heresh stepped through. ‘I have heard of this,’ she said. ‘It is outlawed, isn’t it? The Pilgrim Church thinks it unholy. It can earn you a place upon the Oak. They say it conjures hallucinations—’
‘It conjures truths,’ came a voice. An old man blinked, as if waking. He rubbed his eyelids with his fingertips. He was bald, except for two strips of shoulder-length hair growing from above his ears. He sported a long salt-white moustache. He had a small, round face, a-scrawl with creases. Hi
s teeth were brown-yellow. He looked immeasurably aged—yet, even though he was seated cross-legged, he looked comfortable enough. ‘It brings wisdom, insight … In ancient days, to acquire such knowledge—that is, knowledge of the infinite, knowledge denied our ordinary powers of apprehension—one had to put out one’s eyes. Now, though, we have adopted Eastern practices.’ He gestured at the box. ‘One need not mutilate oneself to grow wise. That is progress, is it not? One must look beyond one’s own shores, if one is to move onward. Otherwise, all is stagnation.’
He interlaced his fingers.
‘We are all seeking knowledge here. Our practices may be mistaken for decadence—’ he indicated the man gaping at the magpie feather ‘—and futility, but it is knowledge that moves us … that summons our ecstasy.
‘A mouthful of visionary’s root—I despise that term; I prefer the Eastern name, gakria—a mouthful can make perceptible, in an instant, more than a lifetime of study can reveal.’ Stooping, he took a pinch of root from the box. ‘The brothel-keeper brings this to us. It is some of the most potent I have ever taken. This much—’ he held it up ‘—is enough to reveal the universe’s deepest secrets. I can hear the music of the spheres, and the celestial breathing of the Four. Remarkable.’ He lifted the visionary’s root to his lips. Then hesitated. ‘Sometimes, when I chew upon gakria, I see the Eastern hand that harvested it. I see the hand’s owner, and then that owner’s thoughts blend with my own. He has no secrets from me. His lusts and longings, delights and tragedies, are exposed: they glint as brightly as diamonds upon black stone. And, when the gakria is swallowed, one exists beyond time. Once, I entered this room in summer, and left in autumn—yet it seemed only heartbeats had passed. There is no finer thing, no finer thing: and that, I trust, is why you are here? To acquire an education?’
Ignoring him, Ballas grasped a rug and hurled it aside. The man who had been staring at it, who had seen infinity within its fibres, started. He was young, and faintly foppish. He turned his dark eyes accusingly to Ballas. ‘I was using that! It was a marvellous … I was … seeing …’ He drifted away. His gaze sank to his boots. They transfixed him. His happy, abstracted expression returned.
