Godblind

by Anna Stephens

  Galtas blinked at the sudden profanity coming from those perfect lips, but he couldn’t deny she spoke truly. She was the Blessed One, the Voice of the Gods, her power even stronger than Gull’s. His stomach flipped as she pulled the sacred hammer from the belt loop beside her spine.

  ‘Rivil – brother, you don’t need to do this.’ Janis’s voice was thick, panicked. ‘I’ll renounce my claim to the throne, go into exile in Listre or Krike, I swear by the Dancer. You can have the throne. Just don’t sell your soul to evil. Please.’

  Lanta tilted her head to study his upside-down face. ‘The Dancer? You know, don’t you, that the Dancer is sister to the Red Gods? That She went to war against Her own siblings, Her and Her bastard Trickster Son? And you think of Her as peaceful, as just.’ She chuckled and caressed Janis’s face. ‘The Dancer slaughtered millions of the true faith and cast my gods into the void. They would have died for all eternity if the first Mireces hadn’t followed them into the wastes and sustained them with their own blood and belief.’

  ‘You remember your history differently to us then,’ Janis managed. ‘As I recall, you didn’t so much voluntarily exile yourselves as you were run off the land like peasant thieves. And it didn’t take much to make you turn tail, either. You’re descended from cowards and kin-killers, and you think blood magic and human sacrifice make you holy. I pity you.’

  ‘Save your pity, prince,’ Lanta sneered, the caress becoming a stinging slap, ‘you’ll need it all for yourself in about twenty seconds.’

  ‘Holy Dancer, Lady clothed in sunlight, bringer of peace to the lands and hearts of all people, shine Your grace on these men and teach them the errors of their ways,’ Janis recited. His face was red with the blood running into his head, slick with clammy sweat despite the cold.

  Even now his piety is sickening, Galtas thought, shifting on his knees, the snow soaking through his trousers. Even now he seeks to undermine us, to take away our glory with his feeble attempt at martyrdom.

  ‘Every drop of blood spilt in Their name helps the Red Gods draw closer. Every scream of sacrifice thins the veil that keeps our Bloody Mother, our Red Father, from this world.’ Lanta drew a nail the length of her palm from a pouch on her belt. ‘Without death and sacrifice, we will never see the gods return. Thousands must die to tear the veil asunder. Are you willing to spend the lives of thousands?’

  ‘We are,’ Rivil and Galtas said together.

  ‘And if one of those lives is your own?’

  ‘The Lady’s will.’

  ‘Then let us begin,’ she said, facing Janis and pressing the nail against his instep. Galtas couldn’t feel the cold any more. He rocked on his knees with every thud of his heart. My feet are on the Path. My feet are on the Path.

  ‘Shining Lady, bring me into Your Light, and teach me patience and fortitude through this trial. Fox God, in your resourceful—’ Janis’s prayer bubbled into a scream as Lanta drove the nail through the top of his left foot and into the beam behind.

  ‘Dark Lady, beautiful goddess of fear and death, we offer You this man. Take his body one part at a time. God of Blood, of war and mutilation, we offer You this man. Take his life an ounce at a time. Red Gods, we worship You. Dark Lady, beautiful goddess …’

  Lanta drove the second nail into Janis’s right foot. Janis screamed louder. The third nail went into his left ankle and Galtas blinked at the genius of it, the artistry as she worked, left then right, left then right, along his legs. He chanted the prayer with the others and felt the gathering presence of the gods. This is power. This is glory. The gods will return and They will be well pleased.

  Sweat darkened Lanta’s blonde hair and stained the collar of her dress as she nailed Janis’s legs to the oak. It looked difficult, finding the proper space between the leg bones so the nail went in cleanly, a regular, uniform line of dull grey heads creeping along his legs like flat, metal ticks sucking on the running blood.

  When Janis passed out, Lanta knelt by his head and rubbed his chest with handfuls of snow until he woke. ‘What would be the point in nailing him when he can’t feel it?’ she asked. ‘His pain, the purity of it, is what draws the gods to us.’

  The nails went in all the way to the knees, and then one in each kneecap, the crunch as they went through the bone echoing in Galtas’s head. The nailing took lifetimes and he lived every one of them, his voice gaining strength as the prayer and the power washed through him, transported him along the Dark Path and maybe, if he was lucky, into the presence of the gods Themselves.

  Lanta raised the last nail to the sky and they fell silent, the prayer ending as suddenly as it had begun. Galtas’s throat was tight with fear and sore with chanting, his back wet with sweat.

  That’s Janis Evendoom, Heir to the throne of Rilpor, hanging upside down and dying for the glory of the Red Gods. Look at this that I have done.

  In the echoing quiet, the Blessed One stretched Janis’s scrotum out and positioned a testicle over his anus. She placed the nail on it and pressed down hard, raising the hammer high.

  Janis was delirious, but still Galtas watched through slitted eyes, hands clapped firmly over his groin. The hammer flashed in the dull light and Lanta smashed the nail through the bollock and into Janis’s rectum.

  Janis’s scream burst the blood vessels in his eyes and snapped his vocal cords. He sucked in a breath as the second strike drove the point out of the side wall of his alimentary canal and into the wood. The third stroke thumped his balls into paste and Janis vomited, the puke trickling down into his eyes and nose.

  Lanta wiped it away with a gesture that was almost tender. ‘He mustn’t choke to death. He must live long enough to take our messages to the gods. Do you feel Their presence now?’

  Galtas nodded. There was a crackling in the air, a greasy feel to his skin, the hairs on his arms standing up. He was glad to see Rivil’s face was as ashen as his own must be. Even Corvus was pale, his eyes fixed on the nailed prince. The Dark Lady was watching, the God of Blood drinking. Galtas knew it in his brain and balls and belly and fear tightened his throat.

  ‘Then make your oath and your request.’

  ‘The throne of Rilpor,’ Rivil breathed, sweat trickling down his face. Opposite in the half-circle, Crys leant forward and vomited, tears running down his face. ‘The conquest of Rilpor. Glory. Our souls in return.’

  ‘Our souls in return,’ Galtas repeated.

  ‘Granted.’ Janis’s voice was guttural and more breath than sound. Rivil yelped and Galtas felt his scalp tighten. Janis’s tongue, swollen purple and twice its normal size, flicked out and around, and then he smiled. ‘Granted. You have the throne, and I have you.’

  Lanta and the Mireces bowed to Janis, to whatever was speaking through Janis, and Rivil dropped forward like a puppet with its strings cut, hands thumping into the snow. He pressed his face into its cold.

  ‘We feel Your presences and we thank You for Your words. We are Yours to command.’ Lanta’s voice was high, enraptured. She leant forward and kissed Janis’s swollen, puke-stained face.

  ‘Rivil,’ Janis said and Rivil shuddered at being singled out. Galtas watched from beneath his brows. ‘You have allies in the east. Bring them. Corvus, prepare for war.’

  ‘Your will, Red Ones,’ Lanta said. They waited for more, but there was nothing. Lanta brushed the snow from her knees, rose and carefully returned the hammer to her belt. Now, in the aftermath, her hands shook. ‘Your feet are on the Path, Prince Rivil, Lord Galtas. And we are your allies in the overthrow of your king.’

  ‘Let us discuss the war to come,’ Corvus said, rising, and Rivil scrambled to his feet, swaying slightly.

  Galtas couldn’t tear his eyes from Janis. We’ve done it. Bound ourselves to the Red Gods and the path of power and glory. Our victory is beyond doubt.

  ‘We thank you and the gods for this alliance,’ Rivil said, clasping Corvus’s forearm. ‘Together we will see Them return.’

  ‘We will have little chance to communicat
e once you return east. We should plan our movements now, the timing and direction we will take.’ Corvus was jubilant, expansive in the aftermath of the Dark Lady’s pronouncement.

  I like him, Galtas thought. He’ll betray us once the war is won, of course, but I still like him. He stood, shaking out his legs.

  ‘I have a basket of carrier pigeons,’ Rivil said. ‘We’ll leave them with you in case of emergencies.’

  ‘We’ll need Janis, of course, if it is permitted?’ Galtas interrupted.

  ‘Need him?’ Lanta asked. ‘His body is of no more use and the Dark Lady has his soul.’

  ‘Galtas is right,’ Rivil said. ‘We must take the body back for the king to weep over. But the nails in his legs may cause some comment.’

  ‘If you insist.’ Lanta sighed, flicking back her hair and smearing her cheek with blood. ‘Mata, lend the Lord Morellis your axe, will you?’

  DOM

  Twelfth moon, seventeenth year of the reign of King Rastoth

  Dancer’s temple, Watchtown, Western Plain

  Dom nearly took off his own foot with the axe when it happened, the image of red and white and silver slamming into his mind just as he swung at the wood on the chopping block. The blade thudded into the hard ground and a second later he followed. He jerked forward, smacked his head off the block and toppled sideways into the snow. Upside down, silver dots and red lines adorning his legs, dark shapes kneeling in a semi-circle. And one other, bright not dark, shining with godlight from within. Chosen.

  ‘Dom? Dom! Gilda, Gilda!’ Hands on his face, hands that burnt and twisted the images into something else. Dom heard himself scream and the hands vanished, replaced seconds later by others, warm and soothing and safe.

  ‘Dom, it’s Gilda. You’re in the temple in Watchtown. You’re safe; you’re safe. There’s nothing to hurt you. Tell me what you’re seeing.’

  ‘Man in the snow. Silver dots, upside down. And the godlight. Shining with it. Shining …’

  ‘Where, Dom. Dom? Calestar,’ snapped the voice and Dom jerked, fought towards the surface. ‘Where?’

  ‘Inside the veil. Inside. Silver dots. Godlight.’

  Gilda swore. ‘Rillirin, help me get him inside. Come on or he’ll freeze. Now, girl.’

  ‘I can’t touch him. It’s not that I don’t want to help, but – look.’ There was a pause and then Dom felt it again, a touch followed by fire. He screeched and wormed away, his eyes still filled with the pattern of dots and lines. Couldn’t see anything else. Bile flooded his mouth and he gagged, coughed, squirmed away again. Get safe, somewhere safe, wait until he could see again.

  ‘Gods. Fine, get the barrow. Dom, you’re on your way to being the least dignified calestar we’ve ever had. I hope you’re pleased.’ There was a hint of humour in her voice that steadied him.

  His vision was clearing by the time Gilda had draped him over the barrow. He caught glimpses of Rillirin, wide-eyed and trembling as she wheeled him along to the temple house where they slept, her face reddening with effort. Gilda was at her side, lips pursed and her hand on Dom’s arm, fingers pressed to his pulse.

  ‘Is this because of his blood oath?’ Rillirin panted.

  ‘No, being the calestar is a gift of the Gods of Light. He sees bits of the future, warnings and suchlike.’

  ‘The shit bits,’ Dom grunted and then groaned. ‘I can walk,’ he muttered. ‘Stop, I can walk.’

  ‘Good, because we’d be upending this over the doorstep otherwise. Come on, out you come.’ She hauled him upright and they staggered together through the door, Rillirin hovering around them like a frightened bird. Dom fell on to the nearest cot and turned his face into the pillow, groaning.

  ‘Hurts,’ he grunted.

  ‘I’m not surprised; you nearly brained yourself.’

  ‘No. Inside,’ he said, rolling back over and clutching his skull. ‘Fucking shitting gods, Gilda. Hurts.’

  ‘Hush. I know it does. Sleep and it’ll fade. Sleep, boy. Sleep.’ She stroked his temples, her voice slipping into the sing-song she’d used when he was a boy first brought here and the nightmares and the knowings had threatened to tear him apart. When his parents had realised what his gift was and given him to the temple, Gilda had been the only safe place in a world swamped with misery. Even now her voice could soothe him. The pain thudded along with his heartbeat, but that was slowing now, the exhaustion pulling him towards its depths.

  ‘And that was him seeing the future?’ he heard Rillirin whisper.

  ‘It was a knowing. Just a small one – he didn’t lose consciousness. We’ll learn what he saw in more detail when he wakes. Now fetch me a needle and thread, and make sure you boil them first. We need to sort out that cut.’

  Dom heard her leave; then he dragged his eyes open when Gilda shook him. ‘Wha’?’

  ‘Why can’t she touch you?’ Gilda whispered.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Dom mumbled, ‘and I don’t want to know. Leave it.’

  ‘You held her at the cleansing.’

  ‘Barely,’ he said and turned his face away. He rubbed his knuckles hard into his right eye. She was there again, the woman. He’d been seeing her on and off ever since Rillirin arrived in the village, as though she’d brought a ghost with her. She was there in the quiet, unguarded moments between sleep and waking, watching him with a curious tilt to her head. Never spoke, never did anything. Just watched him. Always watching. A stranger.

  Dom grunted and squeezed his eyes tighter. Liar. I know exactly who She is, and what She wants. I just have to decide when to give it to Her. What price I’m willing to pay to keep my secrets that little bit longer.

  Keeping secrets from the gods. Keeping secrets from kin. And the girl with the burning touch. Dom had a feeling she’d lay bare every secret he had, given the chance. And wouldn’t they all be fucked then? Sleep rose to claim him and he let it. It was easier than thinking about what was coming.

  ‘They’re here,’ Gilda called and Dom slunk from the house like a dog who’d eaten the beef while his owner was out. He was both hopeful and hopeless that the anger and hurt would have cooled, but it was obvious from their stances and expressions that the weeks of separation had done nothing but allowed the rage to scab over; it was still raw beneath. Dom could see the expression of betrayal on Lim’s face when he saw Gilda standing with her arm around Rillirin’s shoulders. Cam’s face was closed, his expression hidden behind his salt-and-pepper beard.

  Of them all, it was Rillirin who had changed the most, and every day she changed a little more. The cleansing had taken something from her, and left something else in its place. These days it was Dom flinching at her presence and not the other way around as the knowing grew in strength.

  Dom had hoped the last one, the silver dots and red lines, would have taken the edge off. Didn’t seem to be working so far. He swallowed his anxiety and made his way to Gilda’s side just in time for her to give Rillirin a squeeze and run forward into Cam’s arms.

  ‘Where have you been, you old dog?’ Gilda murmured after he’d pressed a deep, long kiss to her mouth. He patted her rump affectionately. ‘It’s been months. You love the woods more than me?’

  Cam jerked his head at their son. ‘Had to keep an eye on Lim,’ he said, ‘stop him doing anything reckless.’

  Lim’s face was sour as he moved into Gilda’s arms and he glared at Rillirin and Dom over her shoulder.

  ‘Where has your smile gone, son?’ Gilda asked when she let him go. He ran his tongue over his teeth and didn’t reply.

  Dom felt Rillirin shift closer to him when Gilda hugged Sarilla and he reached out, putting his arm around her like Gilda had. The knowing she carried swelled again, faster than ever before, and he fought against it as it gathered, pregnant with the promise of pain, a sword waiting to fall. It wouldn’t be long now. Not long at all.

  Rillirin noticed his grimace and ducked from beneath his arm. She nudged him towards his family.

  ‘Welcome to the Dancer’s temple.’
Gilda spoke the traditional words as Dom greeted the others with mumbles. There were no hugs or smiles for him. ‘In three days we welcome midwinter and the turn to spring. A time of healing for us all. There is much to prepare, so unpack and then there’ll be work for you all,’ she finished as she always did, but this year there were no groans and protestations of old war wounds, merely more silence.

  ‘Where’s the girl staying?’ Lim grunted into the void. ‘We’ll not stop under the same roof as her.’

  ‘Her name is Rillirin.’

  ‘She could be the Dancer Herself, for all I care,’ Sarilla snarled, holding up her hand and ripping the bandages from it. ‘She did this.’ Gilda winced and so did Dom; it was the first time he’d seen the wound properly.

  Rillirin took a step forward, her face pale. ‘I have a tent. I’ll keep out of your way.’

  Dom looked at her but she shook her head once and walked away from the group, leaving him in a circle of silence and accusation. He was tempted to run after her so they could be miserable together.

  Lim spat; then he led Sarilla and Ash into the guest quarters, jostling Dom out of his way as he went.

  Cam followed more slowly, his arm around Gilda. He clapped his free hand on Dom’s shoulder. ‘Sort it out, boy,’ he said, and left Dom to stare after them.

  Sort it out? How exactly? He ran his hands through his hair and straightened his jerkin. Shit. Fine, if Rillirin can talk to them, so can I – and the sooner the better. I’m going to need them for this knowing, and it’s coming. Despite his resolution, his feet dragged as he followed them into the house next to the temple.