Tribute to Hell (the tainted realm)

by Ian Irvine

  ‘Wait,’ she croaked, but her voice did not carry. ‘Lord Greave!’ Astatine jerked the front of her gown down as far as it would go and ran after them.

  They stopped. Greave half turned, his eyes lowered, and Astatine felt frost settle on her hair again. He was a dangerous man.

  His friend came down and blocked her path. ‘I’m Roget. Can I help you, sister?’

  ‘I must speak to Lord Greave,’ she said breathlessly. ‘It’s urgent.’

  ‘And so you shall,’ said Roget, ‘after he returns from worship.’

  ‘Now!’ cried Astatine desperately, ‘before five o’clock!’ She darted around him and was running towards Greave, her bosom bouncing, when her breath froze in her throat.

  He was staring at her cleavage, lust a forest fire in his eyes, and the cold intensified. As he tore his shirt open, pains like growing needles of ice shot through her toes.

  ‘Greave! Remember your sister!’

  Greave choked, spat out bile. ‘My soul is black, little novice; I must be shriven at once.’ He covered his face, turned and fell to his knees on the sharp rock.

  Roget whipped off his cloak and wrapped it around Astatine so tightly that she could not move. The frost began to melt, sending icy trickles down the back of her neck, though she remained frozen inside. She had lost.

  ‘You said five o’clock,’ he hissed. ‘Who betrayed us?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Astatine tried to hold back tears of despair.

  He touched his sword to her breastbone. ‘Who sent you?’

  She had always believed that she would be glad to die serving her god, but she so wanted to live.

  ‘The abbess saw Lord Greave in an ecstatic vision. Please, you must stop him from committing this dreadful sacrilege.’

  Roget sheathed the sword. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m nobody. The Abbess ordered me to stop Lord Greave, and I swore I would …’

  ‘At the cost of your other vows?’

  ‘No matter the cost.’ Astatine blushed.

  Roget sheathed his sword, cursing. ‘We’ll have to take her with us.’

  Greave rose, looking the other way. His gashed knees were bloody. ‘Send her home, Roget. There’s a demon on my back, driving me to have her.’

  ‘If we leave her here, Fistus’s priests will torture the truth out of her. Come on.’

  As Roget dragged Astatine along, she was frantically trying to think of a safe way to stop Greave. But there was only one way now.

  ‘It’s too easy,’ Greave muttered as they passed through the open doors. ‘Where are the guards?’

  Apart from a scatter of kneeling worshippers, the candle-lit temple was empty. The altar was a slab of yellow travertine ten yards by six. The Graven Casket, a tarnished, dirty silver box, sat in the middle.

  ‘I don’t like it either,’ said Roget, who was a pace behind, keeping Astatine out of his friend’s sight. He held her arm. ‘You won’t make a sound, will you?’

  ‘No,’ she whispered.

  ‘Got the bone, Greave?’

  He nodded stiffly.

  Roget cast a minor spell, forming a billowing halo of mist around them. ‘Go!’

  Greave ran, knowing that he’d entered a trap of K’nacka’s making. He was probably going to die unpleasantly and by the manner of his death ruin his family’s noble name, but there was no way out.

  ‘Look out! yelled Roget, drawing his sword. The worshippers had cast off their cloaks to reveal red tunics — warrior monks.

  With a despairing cry, Astatine darted for the altar. She must be planning to throw herself upon the casket, Greave thought, sacrificing her life to prevent him opening it.

  A pang of remorse struck him, an unfamiliar feeling he had no time to analyse. As she scrambled up the front of the altar he vaulted onto it from the side, landed on his bloody knees and skidded across the polished stone. The hour was five o’clock, so a man at the end of his rope could approach the casket, but if he touched it he would die.

  Astatine crouched on the altar, her lips moving in prayer. She looked up suddenly and Greave did too, for the shadows below the high roof were thickening. Something was forming there.

  Swords clashed below them; Roget was fighting three monks at once. Another half dozen were advancing on the altar, and from a door to his left a crimson-clad man appeared, the Carnal Cardinal. Fistus’s face was hungry, his eyes hooded, and the full-lipped, greedy mouth was as red as his gown.

  Greave drew the god-bone from his pocket, but fumbled and dropped it. As he snatched it out of the air, several of the hairs on his arm passed through a milky nimbus surrounding the casket and the pain was like being impaled on a body-length spike. He screamed.

  The novice rose, staring at him, but as he met her eyes, frost whitened her hair and gown. Her gaze slipped to the casket, she swallowed, then tensed. Even after witnessing his agony, she was going to do it.

  ‘Use the damn bone!’ bellowed Roget.

  Under the roof, the shadows continued to thicken — K’nacka was coming. As Astatine tensed, Greave’s right arm jerked towards the casket. This is the trap, he thought. The god will get whatever is inside, and I’m going to die in agony.

  He flinched and tried to draw back. Better the novice die than him; what did one nun matter, more or less? But his arm kept stretching, his fingers reaching out, and, as she moved, the god-bone touched the top of the casket.

  As Astatine dived, K’nacka materialised high above. The temple shook; the ground rumbled and cracks jagged across the paved floor.

  The lid of the casket sprang open, sending the god-bone soaring. She was too late. The nimbus went out, then her hands caught the casket and she tried to slam the lid.

  She did not die; she felt no pain at all, but the lid would not close and now the casket was bouncing and tumbling beneath her as the altar shook ever more wildly. Astatine tried to hold it, sobbing with terror, but the outside was slippery with soot. She looked into the open casket and froze.

  K’nacka arrested in mid-air, plump legs swinging ten feet above her. Where is the Covenant? he wailed, then vanished.

  Astatine let go. The casket snapped shut and the deadly nimbus reappeared.

  Fistus, whose eyes had not left the tumbling god-bone, caught it left-handed. ‘Abbess Hildy is behind this sacrilege,’ he said to his guards. ‘You know what to do.’

  Roget raised his hand, the candle flames pinched out, and Astatine bolted. She had broken her oath and let down her god. After she told the abbess, she would be cast out.

  Greave pounded through the maze into the forest beyond, running until the full horror of his defeat caught up with him, when he slumped onto the mouldy leaves. There was no way back this time.

  ‘Fistus knew we were coming,’ said Roget, panting. ‘He was waiting for the god-bone.’

  ‘I’ve been manipulated from the beginning,’ said Greave.

  ‘Don’t blame Providence for your own flaws! We’d better get moving,’

  ‘What’s the point? I’ve lost everything.’

  Not yet. But you will if you let me down again.

  Greave felt that icy finger again, though this time K’nacka was ten yards away, perched on a low branch. His belly was shrunken to a pot, his plump cheeks sagged and his eyes darted like rats pursued by a ferret. But he was still a god; he could snuff out Greave’s little sister with a snap of his pudgy fingers.

  ‘What must I do, Lord?’ said Greave.

  The casket was empty. The novice must have stolen the contents for the abbess. She has insulted the Seven Gods and profaned our High Temple. Swear that you will recover the contents then burn the abbey, with everyone inside it, as a sacrifice to me.

  Greave felt sick. He too had insulted a god; he too had profaned the temple, and whether he committed this terrible crime or not, he was also going to die.

  Swear, on your sister’s life.

  He hesitated no longer. His sister was all he had left. Besid
es, how could he oppose the will of a god? ‘I swear.’

  When Greave reached the abbey he discovered Astatine in its chapel, kneeling before the icons of the Seven Gods in the semi-dark and praying, with quiet desperation, for forgiveness. Exhaustion had temporarily quieted his lust, so he half-shuttered his lantern and examined her sidelong. He could not allow the curse to freeze her until he learned the truth.

  She looked young, innocent and afraid, and his heart went out to her, but he hardened it. Astatine had claimed that she wanted to prevent his sacrilege, then had committed a worse one. She was a liar and a thief, and the choice between her life and his little sister’s was no choice at all.

  ‘Where is it, Novice?’

  She jumped. ‘Where’s what?’

  ‘Whatever was in the casket.’

  She wrung her interlocked fingers. ‘It was empty save for some flakes of ash.’

  ‘Liar! It can only be opened with a god-bone.’

  ‘Someone must have opened it with a different god-bone.’

  ‘If they had, it would not have opened for mine.’

  Greave searched her, roughly, knowing he was hurting her, though she maintained a stoic silence, her gaze fixed on the icons. He found nothing, though of course she was only a novice. The abbess would have the contents now.

  He picked up the lantern but put it down again. He had sworn to torch the abbey, and could not defy his god, but neither could he bear to think of the little novice being burned alive. Far better that she die swiftly and painlessly here.

  As he drew his knife, Astatine turned towards him. Frost had formed all over her, yet her eyes were unflinching in the face of death and it shook him, for he could not have done the same. He cursed; though he was a heartless seducer and a blasphemous oath-breaker, he was not a murderer.

  In a frenzy of despair he slashed his chest, spilling his blood before the icons. It was the best sacrifice he could make, though he knew it would not appease K’nacka. He was standing over Astatine, his blood dripping from the knife, when the abbess opened the door.

  ‘And I thought you’d already plumbed the depths.’

  The Abbess’s voice dripped contempt; evidently she thought he had killed the novice. Hildy limped across and struck at him with her cane, but as he turned to protect himself she stumbled and his knife slid into her side.

  Greave felt such a pain that the blade might have pierced his own flesh, but he fought it down. The god had given him an order and he had to obey. ‘Where are the contents of the casket?’

  ‘I swear by the Seven Gods that the casket was empty,’ said Hildy, holding a hand to the wound. ‘Now get out!’

  As Greave stumbled away, his lantern shaking, Hildy pulled Astatine close. ‘Listen carefully. I’ve had another vision, a worse one.’

  The smell of blood was overpowering; unless the bleeding was stopped, the abbess would die. ‘Please, Hildy, sit down. Let me bind the wound.’ Astatine tore a strip from her habit and pressed it against the gash.

  ‘Hush, little sister; it’s too late for me, but the fate of Hightspall lies in the balance and only you can save it.’

  ‘I’m just a novice. I don’t know anything.’

  ‘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 ills 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 unc
onscious 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 had 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.