by Ian Irvine
‘What, here?’ Greave said sharply, eyes averted.
‘In a dream.’ She rubbed her throbbing forehead, realising that she had not been dreaming, for the images remained clear in her mind. ‘No, it must have been Hildy’s gift.’
Greave swung around. ‘What are you talking about?’
Astatine jumped up and moved away, watching him warily. ‘Before the abbess died, she passed her gift to me …’ What gift, though? Her ecstatic vision? ‘She sees — saw things — bad things that might come true.’ Like the evil Covenant Astatine had to find and destroy. ‘And I just saw Fistus, clear as a raindrop.’
‘When he caught the god-bone, he looked triumphant,’ said Roget. ‘Getting it mattered more to him than our sacrilege. What kind of a priest would act that way?’
‘Perhaps one who seeks power for himself,’ said Greave. ‘What else did you see, Novice?’
‘He was on a barren hill.’ She looked around. ‘A bit like this one — ’
‘There are a thousand barren hills in these badlands.’
‘There was a huge, ruined shrine on top. It looked as though it had been hacked in two by a monstrous axe … one that had cut halfway through the hill itself.’
Greave and Roget exchanged glances. ‘The Cloven Shrine,’ said Roget, his fingers curling.
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ said Astatine.
‘The truth was too shocking to be told. Few people know the story.’
‘Fistus does!’ Greave said darkly.
‘The shrine was destroyed when the Great God, the original ruler of Elyssian, was defeated and cast down in the Second Coup. He crashed through the shrine, nearly splitting the hill in twain.’
‘And died there?’ Worms were dancing along Astatine’s backbone.
‘The Great God could not be killed,’ said Roget. ‘He could only die at his own hand and, in despair at being cast out of Elyssian, that’s what he did.’
Astatine trembled. She knew about the First Coup, when Behemoth had rebelled, yet, inexplicably and at the moment of victory, turned his back on Elyssian and set up his own rival kingdom, Perdition. Was he behind the Second Coup? Were the gods passing away? Was that why the world was so sick?
‘What “miracle” is Fistus planning?’ said Greave.
‘I don’t know,’ said Astatine. ‘But I don’t think he means to honour our gods.’
Assuming, of course, that they were still her gods. If she was half demon, maybe she had no gods. Astatine could not bear to think about that. The destruction of the abbey had left her empty and belonging nowhere. If her beloved gods had also been taken away, how could she exist?
She had to find the Covenant.
Dawn was breaking as they crept up the chasm cutting across the cloven hill. Greave kept his eyes fixed above him, for his curse had not abated. Twice the previous day he’d frozen Astatine’s hair, and the second time he had only come to his senses when Roget put a sword blade to his throat. At times, Greave wished his friend had used it.
‘How dare Fistus pretend to perform a miracle?’ cried Astatine. ‘Why don’t the gods punish him for this insolence?’
Her child-like faith was an insult to his intelligence but Greave kept silent, not daring to further provoke the gods.
‘They must be afraid,’ said Roget uneasily.
‘How can the gods be afraid of a mere man?’ said Astatine.
‘I don’t know.’
‘The way up isn’t guarded. Do you think Fistus sent the vision to me?’
‘If he’s not afraid of the gods, how could he have any fear of us?’ said Roget. ‘He probably wants us to see his miracle.’
Greave wondered if the cardinal could be a bigger monster than himself, though it hardly seemed possible.
They reached the top at sunrise, eased behind the mounds of shattered rock and peered over. Fistus, his priests and monk guards had gathered on the far side of the elongated hilltop, before the Cloven Shrine. A ragged arc of believers encircled it, witnesses to the coming miracle.
‘The priests are digging a trench,’ said Astatine. ‘What can they be doing?’
No one replied.
Astatine slipped away between the piled rocks, for Greave’s brooding presence disturbed her, and what if his increasingly desperate self-control snapped? She also needed to be alone, to think.
Her faith, already undermined by what the abbess had told her, had been shaken to its footings. How dare the Carnal Cardinal attempt a miracle! If he had set himself above the gods he had sworn to serve, it was no wonder Hightspall had lost hope.
Would things get better if she destroyed the Covenant? Unfortunately, she had no idea where to look for something that a god and a demon had hidden. It could be anywhere.
No, not anywhere. K’nacka and Behemoth, being eternal enemies, would not have trusted each other, so the Covenant must have been hidden somewhere that neither could gain access to. Perhaps in the keeping of a third party agreeable to both, such as Fistus?
K’nacka had expected it to be in the Graven Casket, though the casket had not been opened before Greave touched the god-bone to it, and it had been empty … save for those flakes of ash. Black flakes — the way paper burned when it did not have enough air! Yes, for the outside of the casket had been covered in soot; it had come off on her fingers.
The Covenant must have been destroyed from outside, by fire, but by whom? Not K’nacka — he had been shocked to discover that the casket was empty. And what would Fistus have to gain by destroying such a valuable document? That only left Behemoth.
Why would he destroy a Covenant that, evidently, gave him power over a god? He would not — unless he had another copy.
‘That’s it!’ she said, rubbing her silver medal furiously, though after Hildy’s revelation about her father it gave her no comfort. ‘It was Behemoth — Father — ’
The air went so cold that it crackled, then with a little pop a man appeared, sitting cross-legged on the rocks before her. He was an odd-shaped, awkward-looking fellow not much taller than she was, with thin, short legs and a heavy, muscular body. His skin was dark, his head bald, his nose hooked, and the point of his beard jutted towards her like a javelin.
‘You called me, Daughter?’ His voice was so deep it might have been formed inside the hill; it reverberated like the throb of an organ pipe.
‘You called me daughter,’ she whispered. ‘Are — are you really my father?’
Though she yearned for a father, a demon was the last father she could want. Besides, a mighty demon like Behemoth might have a thousand daughters; she might mean nothing to him. He was her god’s enemy and had undermined everything she believed in. Astatine was too overcome to speak.
‘You expected some great, hulking brute?’ Fire flickered in his raised eyebrow. ‘I prefer this form; both enemies and friends underestimate me. What do you want, Daughter?’
‘Th-the Graven Casket was empty. What happened to the Covenant?’
‘I gave Fistus the power he craved so desperately; in return, he allowed me to destroy it.’
He sounded convincing, but he was the Prince of Deceivers. ‘Why, Father?’
‘To make mischief.’
Astatine’s entire life had been submission and obedience, but neither would serve her now. Dare she challenge the Lord of Perdition? Sweat dripped from her palms at the thought, not to mention that she owed her father respect. Could she put that obligation aside? She must. ‘I–I don’t believe you. I know you made a copy of the Covenant. Why, Father?’
Behemoth swelled enormously; his black eyes flashed and his left hand shot out, encircling her wrist like an icy manacle. ‘How dare you question me? You are over-bold, Daughter.’
Astatine had never been bold; the other novices had mocked her as ‘the mouse’. She wanted to scream and run, but reminded herself of her oath, and it stiffened her. She would keep her word to the Abbess, whatever it cost. The mouse had to bite.
She caught Behemoth’s dark
wrist with her pale hands, squeezed hard and, amazingly, he winced.
‘You are my daughter,’ he said, glowering at her. After shrinking to his former size, he resumed his seat.
‘Well?’ she said, pretending an imperiousness she could not feel.
‘Life in Elyssian becomes tedious, when one faces an eternity of it. That’s why I left and set up Perdition, though I was no more contented there.’
‘But Elyssian is the epitome of perfection,’ said Astatine, wide-eyed.
Behemoth rolled his eyes. ‘Even reaping the souls of the wicked begins to pall, when one is the wickedest of all. There’s no villainy I haven’t done, Daughter, and tempting mere mortals into sin lost its joy long ago. In short, I was bored witless. And so, I discovered, was my enemy, your precious god, K’nacka.
‘We took to meeting in Hightspall for a game of dice, each striving to best the other, and I won more often than I lost. But without something precious to lose, even gaming’s charm fades, and the stakes grew ever higher until, finally, K’nacka had nothing left to put on the table. Nothing save a pound of his own flesh.’
‘Father?’ said Astatine, not understanding, though a chilly wave of horror surged through her. This was terribly wrong; she did not want to hear it.
‘Having nothing else, he wagered one of his balls — and lost.’
‘Balls?’ Her cheeks grew hot.
‘He should have known that my dice were loaded.’ Behemoth’s thick lip curled. ‘K’nacka begged for another chance, double or nothing, and I was happy to dice again — as long as he signed a binding Covenant promising to pay tribute to Perdition if he lost the other ball.’
‘A tribute of what?’
‘A tithe of souls, the most perfect and saintly of all those who enter Elyssian. You can imagine how delightful I found that irony, Daughter. The harder that mortals strove to live good lives, the more likely they’d attract the attention of K’nacka and become part of his tribute to me. Good or bad, I’d reap their souls.’ Behemoth grinned savagely. ‘And I won. Suddenly, my life had meaning again.’
And this monster was her father? No wonder she felt that she had been carrying a sickness around inside her, infecting the world.
‘Hildy said she could hear the shrieks of the saintly,’ Astatine whispered. ‘Oh, Father, how could you?’
‘It’s what I’m for. Hightspall needs me, and so do the gods. Without evil, where is the good?’
‘But Hightspall is falling apart, and it’s your fault. You’ve got to put things right.’
‘I don’t do right,’ he snapped.
‘Then why did you burn the Covenant?’
‘So K’nacka could not.’
‘Where did you hide the copy?’
His smile faded; he seemed to be reassessing her. ‘In a place where you can never see it.’ Behemoth faded away.
Did he mean that the Covenant was hidden in Perdition? Could she only destroy it, and keep her oath, by dying?
‘Fistus looks ready to work his “miracle”,’ said Roget as they watched the preparations in front of the Cloven Shrine. A hundred red-robed monks stood guard to either side.
Greave ached for a drink. Stone sober, he lacked the courage to do what must be done. ‘Can you tell what spell it is?’
Roget focused his spyglass. ‘No, but it’s no ordinary magic.’
Think of this as another seduction, Greave told himself, the riskiest and most glorious of your life. It got him to his feet, but he felt no thrill — this task was all risk and no reward. ‘We’d better move.’
‘Taking him on is suicide.’
‘I’m dead either way.’ Greave headed across the rock-littered hillside. Roget and Astatine followed.
The Carnal Cardinal turned to meet them, his mouth as red as a feeding vampire’s. ‘You think to challenge me?’ Fistus pounded his chest. ‘I’ve done a deal with Behemoth himself.’
‘And betrayed the gods you swore to serve,’ said Greave, only now realising his own hypocrisy.
‘They’ve forsaken us and must be cast down.’
A white object in Fistus’s hand reflected the light; something small, pointed and familiar. Ants scurried across Greave’s scalp.
‘The god-bone,’ he said hoarsely. ‘That’s what you were after all along.’
‘I used sorcery to whisper into your mind,’ sneered Fistus. ‘It was surprisingly easy to heighten your despair and encourage excesses your dull wits could never have imagined.’
‘You wanted me to seduce K’nacka’s month-bride?’ whispered Greave.
‘I knew he held the god-bone in Elyssian, though there it was beyond my reach. The only one way to get it was by giving K’nacka the means to destroy the Covenant — via a man at the end of his rope.’
‘But you’d already allowed Behemoth to burn it.’
Fistus smirked. ‘Poor, deluded K’nacka didn’t know that.’
‘How dare you set yourself up as a rival to the gods you swore to serve!’ cried Astatine.
The hooded eyes fixed on her, but dismissed her as insignificant. ‘My spells are greater than theirs,’ said Fistus, ‘yet are they recognised? The gods treat me like a churl.’
‘They recognise your true nature,’ Greave said recklessly.
Fistus’s gory lips thinned. ‘Get rid of them,’ he said over his shoulder, then turned to a crude bench his priests had constructed from slabs of shrine stone. A large stone chalice stood on top, empty save for a small amount of grey powder. The trench they had excavated was half full of it.
The monks drove Roget, Greave and Astatine back, but did not attempt to harm them. Fistus wanted them to see his might, and despair.
‘At least you know that his magic was behind some of the terrible things you’ve done,’ said Roget.
‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’ Greave said in a dead voice. ‘To discover that I’ve been manipulated like a mindless fool? Besides, he didn’t corrupt me — he only fed the sickness that was already there.’
‘Without him, you might have come to your senses.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Greave rasped. ‘The hook had already bitten too deep, and there’s only one way off it now.’
Fistus dropped the god-bone into the chalice, raised his hands and began the spell.
‘Is the grey stuff the dead god’s ashes?’ said Astatine, peeping through her fingers.
‘Gods, have mercy!’ cried Roget. ‘It’s a Resurrection spell. But surely not even Fistus would dare — ’
A whistling sound arose from all parts of the horizon and raced towards the hill, rising to a series of ear-rending screeches that collided, collapsed, then an utter silence, more unnerving yet, enveloped all.
The chalice quivered and burst, its contents billowing upwards in a grey plume which slowly pulled together to the form of a man, a giant almost the height of the Cloven Shrine, though the skin hung on him and his granite face was fissured with despair. A wound between his ribs ebbed red; the bloody blade dangled from his right hand.
Astatine gasped and fell to her knees. ‘The Great God,’ she whispered.
‘Oh, this is monstrous,’ said Roget. ‘The Seven Gods must strike Fistus dead.’
As the Great God shambled forwards they saw chains linking his wrists and ankles, yet even shackled and weak from centuries of death he was a forbidding figure. Fistus cried out involuntarily and backed away, eyes darting.
‘He’s overreached himself!’ said Roget. ‘The Great God will splatter him like a gnat.’
‘Either way, we’re done,’ said Greave.
Fistus stopped and his lips moved as if exhorting himself to stand firm, then he raised his hands for another spell.
‘It’s a two-part spell, resurrection and control,’ said Roget. ‘Now comes the control part. If he’s quick, he might just do it.’
‘No man can control a god,’ said Astatine. Just speaking the words was blasphemous.
She took out her medal and began to rub it furious
ly but then, recognising the worn image on it as Behemoth, hurled it away. She began to twist her fingers together, then abruptly thrust them down by her sides, but she could not keep them still.
As the Great God attempted to turn aside the spell, he stumbled and it struck him on the right cheek. Howling in rage, he broke his wrist shackles and reached up into the low clouds. Thunder rumbled and the cloud boiled up into a thunderhead, incandescent with lightning. The sky went black. Astatine could not see. Lightning stabbed down at the Cloven Shrine, collapsing half of it; another bolt struck three of the priests dead. The remainder ran for their lives, though the red-gowned monks remained.
Fistus stood firm and cast the spell again.
‘This is the end of the world,’ said Roget. ‘Whoever wins, priest or god, there’ll be nothing left.’
‘It’s my punishment for seducing the month-bride,’ said Greave, head bowed. ‘And for a lifetime of depravity.’
Suddenly Astatine saw him from the other, tormented side. ‘Not a lifetime, Lord,’ she said gently. ‘Just a time, and it’s over now.’
‘Too late. No one can undo this.’
There had to be a way but could Astatine, the little mouse, find it? She must — her gods needed help and she could not deny them.
I can’t be a timid novice any longer, she thought. Demon’s blood runs in my veins; my father is Behemoth, the Prince of Devilry, who once beat the Great God himself, then turned his back on Elyssian. I’ve got to do this!
‘Yes, someone can.’ Astatine backed away between the rocks. ‘Father?’ she called, her voice ringing out between the thunderclaps. ‘Help us. If Fistus’s spells can control a god, neither Hightspall, Elyssian nor even Perdition is safe.’
Behemoth appeared in the air before her, cross-legged as before. ‘Daughter, I cannot interfere.’
‘Why not?’
‘A sacred compact forbids us. We can cajole, persuade, seduce, even threaten, but neither gods nor demons may act directly in the world.’
Was she to fall at the first obstacle? No; she summoned her demon blood, stood tall and curled her lip. ‘I thought you were supposed to be evil!’ she said, dripping scorn. ‘Break the damn bloody compact.’
