by Darius Hinks
I have to see you, she said.
“How are you doing this?” Alzen affected annoyance but, in truth, he was excited. He remembered the thoughts he had had back at the temple. After his moments of conjunction with Isten his powers seemed to lurch forwards. “How are you speaking to me?” he said, staring in confusion at the transformed face. “How is this possible?”
When you passed your power through me, it changed me. She hesitated, sounding almost afraid to speak her hope so clearly. And I think it changed you, too.
“You presume to know my mind?” Despite his excitement, Alzen was outraged that Isten seemed to consider herself on an equal footing.
Tell me I’m wrong.
He said nothing.
I felt it, she continued. When you channelled yourself through me, something happened, didn’t it? We could both feel the same thing. Your power was growing. It was changing, wasn’t it?
Alzen was torn between hope and outrage. How dare she tell him what he was thinking? How dare she attempt to wield his power without his permission? “What do you want?” he snapped.
I’m dying, Alzen. But I think that if you were to transfer your alchymia through me, while we are in the same place, while your hand is in mine, I might grow strong again. I might survive.
“Why would I want to help you? We both kept our sides of the deal. I don’t owe you anything.”
But aren’t you intrigued? Can you imagine how it would feel? Think how incredible it was even when we were miles apart. What if we were together when it happened? What would happen then, Alzen? What would it mean?
He paced away from her, trying to calm himself, trying to think clearly. Somehow, he had left a residue of power in her. Somehow she, a vulgar commoner, was managing to perform alchymia none of his brothers could perform – telepathic speech, without the need for equipment or preparation. Even the Old King wasn’t capable of that. He shook his head. What had he done? This was far more serious than any of his other crimes. What had he created? He had to see her. He looked at the egg in his fist. He had to stop her. These were the reasons he gave himself, but there was another thought hiding at the back of his mind. What would it be like? His hand on hers as they unleashed his power. If she was the catalyst that got him this far, could it be that she was the key to his final transformation?
“Where are you?” he said, his voice uneven.
The abandoned theatre on the corner of Vanitch Street. Do you know it?
His mind whirled. Vanitch Street was only half a mile away, not far from the South Gate of the Temple District. He could be there in ten minutes. “I know it,” he said. “I’m on my way.”
He dashed from the warehouse, leaving the door banging behind him and his victims flicking in and out of the darkness, blinking in confusion as sunlight flashed across their stricken faces.
25
The Kephali Theatre was a ruin long before it was devoured by Athanor. All that remained was a ripple of stone terraces fanning out from a gloriously ostentatious proscenium arch. The arch was still intact, but buried in a forest of golden, brittle veins. It looked like a burnished coral reef, glinting in the heart of the city.
The sun was at its zenith as Alzen rushed across the terraces. Heat pulsed up through the ancient stone, hurting his feet even through his leather slippers and causing him to pant and curse as he looked around for Isten. There was no sign of her, or anyone else for that matter. The terraces were cluttered with rubble and litter but devoid of people.
He stumbled down one of the aisles, feeling as though he might collapse at any moment. The combination of heat, exhaustion and excitement was overwhelming. He was in such a daze he had not even thought to disguise himself. He was wearing his full ceremonial dress, apart from his flame-shaped helmet which he had left in his chariot, back on the embankment.
“Isten?” he called, trying to shield his eyes from the midday sun. The light was flashing in the metal strands around the arch and the whole crumbling sandstone structure resembled a brazier, rippling with heat haze and dust clouds.
There was no reply, so he staggered on through the inferno, wiping the sweat from his face and wondering if he had lost his mind. Perhaps he had been hallucinating in the warehouse? Perhaps it was simply sleep deprivation that had conjured Isten’s voice in his mind?
As he neared the arch, he saw that there was still a crumbling remnant of the stage, slumped and shattered, but bathed in enticing shadow. He clambered over the rubble and up into the gloom, breathing a sigh of relief at the drop in temperature. Someone had tried to build a kind of hut from old wooden crates and he leant against the wood, trying to steady his breathing as he looked around. After the glare of the amphitheatre, it was hard to see in the darkness beneath the arch.
Then he saw Isten. She was sitting right at the centre of the stage, cross-legged in the darkness, staring at him. He saw immediately that she had been telling the truth about one thing – she looked hours away from death. She was even more skeletal than before and her wild black hair was perched high on her head at an absurd angle. Her corpse-grey skin was covered in bloodstains and her clenched fists looked like they had been hammered repeatedly against a stone wall. Her eyes, sunk deep in bruise-dark pits, looked even more deranged than usual.
He crossed the stage, scowling at her. “Why didn’t you speak up?” He knew he had no reason to be so angry with her, but he was enraged by the sensation of being in her thrall. She had summoned him and he had been unable to resist. This pathetic, wasted creature had power over him.
“I did,” she replied, but her voice was a gravel-scrape whisper and he realized why he had not heard her.
“What happened to you?” he asked as he studied her blood-splattered leather armour and her emaciated limbs.
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
Again, he was outraged by her tone. He looked back across the terraces to make sure they were alone, then reached into his robes, resting his hand on one of his sedative pipes. She was an abomination. He had made a monster. She had to die.
She touched the mark he had left on her arm. “When you shared your sorcery with me–”
“Alchymia,” he said. “It is called alchymia. And I passed it through your body, I did not share it with you. You were a conduit, nothing more. When we killed the Aroc Brothers you glimpsed a tiny shadow of what it means to master the Art. You’re like an ape that’s been handed a book. You might have seen the shape of it, the physicality, but you have no concept of its meaning.”
She nodded wearily. “But, nevertheless, when you used me as your weapon, and when you transformed those weapons in Brauron, I felt something change in you as well as in me. You were as surprised as I was. And as excited. You were approaching the top of a ladder. A ladder you have been climbing for a long time.” She leant forwards, her feverish eyes locked on his. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Alzen hesitated. For all of his anger and disgust, he could not help thinking of that moment of conjunction. She was right, his understanding had soared. By using her as his medium he had uncovered something profound. And her metaphor was unnervingly apt. He had often felt as though his journey to enlightenment was like climbing a ladder, with the final rung just out of reach.
“I know I’m right,” she said. “You felt it too. Together, we reached a place you have never reached alone. By working through me, you almost crossed a final threshold.” She grasped at a broken pillar and managed to stand, her legs trembling wildly. “What might happen if you tried it now, with my body right in front of you? What might happen if the contact was physical rather than mental?” Her words were slurred but full of passion. “Perhaps you can reach that final rung? Surely you want to find out?”
Alzen glanced back at the terraces again, tormented by doubt. With every word she made him surer that he had to kill her. A vulgar mind like hers had no place trying to grasp the secrets of the Art. But what if she was the key to his ascension?
He was out of time. The number of killings had made no difference to his progress. In a couple of days he would be gone, his chance would be gone. The idea of doing what she wanted made him feel sick, but what if she was right?
Then he had a wonderful moment of clarity. Of course he could try. It would have no bearing on whether he killed her or not. He would simply try the experiment and then, whatever the result, he would show her the punishment for presuming to command her betters.
He relaxed and smiled, holding up his hands. “Forgive me, Isten. I haven’t slept for days and it has robbed me of my manners. I’m behaving like a monster. You are clearly very ill. Why would I not help you?” He stepped closer. “If you think it might help, I will gladly shine a little of God’s light into your soul.”
Now that she had convinced him and he had stepped to her side, she looked suddenly unsure, backing away, as though she wanted to flee.
“What will you do?” she asked, wrapping her arms around her bony chest, staring.
“Just what you requested,” he said, regaining his usual friendly tones. “I will simply do what I did before. I haven’t prepared in advance, so I can’t perform any grand transfigurations, as we did in Brauron or the palace in Gamala, but I have pushed my learning to the point where my flesh is charged, constantly, with Astral Light. If I pass a little through your skin, perhaps it will give you strength. Then we can go and find you some food and rest.”
She nodded, still looking afraid, as she placed her hand in his.
He gently rolled up her sleeve, revealing the faded sigil on her bicep. His heart was kicking against his ribs as he cradled her filthy, bony arm and placed his palm against her skin. The darkness seemed to grow and the theatre fell away from his peripheral vision until all he could see was her ashen face.
He closed his eyes and turned his gaze inwards, searching for the currents of alchymia that now flowed constantly through his thoughts.
With unusual ease, he found a great confluence of holy flame, blazing in the darkness.
His breath stalled in his throat and a great sense of portent gripped him. He knew, suddenly, that Isten was right. This was the moment. He was about to ascend.
He willed the alchymia through his palm and his consciousness was carried along with it, flooding through capillaries and veins, rushing into her heart and mind.
The light blazed brighter, revealing a stark silhouette. It was a ladder. Isten’s description had taken root in his mind. He saw his astral hands, reaching up to each rung, climbing higher into the light. With every rung, the light grew and along with it, his power. His muscles were aflame with rapture; glorious, limitless force surged through his chest, filling him with impossible vigour. He felt as though he could tear down the theatre with a thought. Or lift Athanor as though it were a leaf skeleton. He laughed, overwhelmed by the beauty of it. He was seeing the mind of God. He was becoming God. He was becoming the Ingenious.
As he reached for the final rung of the ladder, Alzen was weeping and laughing hysterically. He was so ecstatic that, for a moment, he did not notice the pain. Then it grew so intense that he had to pause, with only one hand on the last rung.
His mind was full of light, but his stomach was full of pain. Awful pain. So terrible it almost matched the glory of his ascension.
He ignored it. He could not stop now. He grasped the final rung with his other hand and hauled himself into the light. With a final lunge, he saw everything. The cosmos was revealed to him. He had achieved the impossible.
But, along with the revelation, came a rush of pain so intense that he fell back, dropping away from the light he had fought so hard to reach, and tumbled into darkness.
Alzen roared in agony and opened his eyes. He was lying on his back, looking up at the ruins of the proscenium arch.
The air was crimson. Blood was washing over him in waves, lashing against his face, flooding his mouth and slapping down on the stage.
A huge shape was thrashing in the deluge.
Alzen tried to pull away from the pain, but something was locked around the lower half of his body, ripping it apart.
Then, with a savage roar, Mapourak’s head broke through the fountain of blood, glaring at Alzen as it chewed on a glistening mass of organs and intestines. The lion’s emerald hide was wet with gore.
Alzen groaned in horror as Mapourak shook the meat back and forth, as though wrestling a serpent, then gulped it down, growling and snorting. Then it lifted its enormous paws off Alzen and backed away.
As the blood flow lessened, Alzen saw golden shapes moving towards him through the darkness. He wept as he felt his life slipping away. He had won. After all these years he had achieved what the others never could. He could not die now.
“You have betrayed the Temple,” said Seleucus, looming over Alzen. He waved at a group of phraters that had also emerged from the shadows at the back of the stage. “We all heard it from your own mouth. You have shared our secrets with this vulgar woman and you have committed the unimaginable crime of passing alchymia through common, mortal flesh.” He waved at someone Alzen could not see. “If this woman had not come to us and revealed your apostasy; if she hadn’t brought us here today to witness your crimes, who knows what damage could have been done.”
Alzen tried to speak, tried to explain what he had achieved, but he was too feeble to move. Each breath he took was weaker than the last. His vision narrowed to a dark tunnel. All he could see was the Old King’s metal-shrouded face.
“I only pray that by executing you I have saved your soul, Phrater Alzen.”
Seleucus stooped over Alzen, bringing his mouth close so he could whisper in his ear. “Did you think I didn’t know?” His eyes flashed. “Did you think I didn’t know what you were doing?” He reached into Alzen’s blood-soaked robes and plucked out the silver egg containing Coagulus. “I know what I gave you, Alzen. I gave you the rope to hang yourself.”
Alzen tried to reply, but his next breath refused to come.
Darkness flooded over him.
26
Isten dropped to her knees, staring at the bloody remains of Phrater Alzen. The monster had devoured him from the chest down, leaving little more than scraps of meat and a pool of blood. She felt as though she were in a dream. As Alzen had climbed the ladder towards the light, she had risen with him, tasting the infinite, feeling the untrammelled power. And from that glorious vision she had fallen to this horrific scene. The monster resembled a lion, but it was enormous and made entirely of green, faceted gemstones. It would have been beautiful if it were not so terrifying. As it padded towards her, its paws clanked on the ancient stage and its jaws opened, still trailing shreds of Alzen’s stomach as it rocked from side to side, its savage gaze locked on her.
“Mapourak,” said the golden giant, raising one of his hands.
The monster halted a few feet away from her, eyeing her with an eager snarl.
The giant waved the lion away and strode across the stage towards her, reaching out to take her hand.
She hesitated. All of the phraters she’d spoken to in the Temple District seemed strange and godlike, but the Old King was even more incredible. He reminded her of the Ignorant Men, towering and gilded, with no trace of humanity.
She lacked the will to refuse him and placed her hand in his enormous grip.
He helped her up with surprising gentleness as the other phraters gathered round, their heads bowed, their faces hidden behind flame-shaped helmets.
Isten looked anxiously at the lion.
Seleucus shook his head. “You have done a great service to the Temple.” His voice was like a hammer pounding iron, but he sounded genuinely grateful. “I have long known that Alzen was a canker at the heart of our fraternity, but I lacked proof. When you donned those yellow robes and breached the sanctity of our temples, you committed a crime, but you did it to halt a greater evil. You will not die today, Isten of Rukon.”
Isten almost fell over. Wh
atever happened, she had expected death. She should have been overjoyed but, as the giant spoke, she realized something terrible. Alzen was dead. She could see his ravaged flesh lying just a few feet away from her. So why could she still feel his presence at the back of her skull? The numbing heat was still there. The sinister product of all his murders. If anything, it was even more noticeable. She grabbed her arm and rubbed the mark from her skin. Panic gripped her. The numbness remained.
The giant watched her in silence. Then he looked back at Alzen’s corpse. “That man brought shame on the Temple.” He seemed on the verge of saying more, then shook his head and turned to leave.
“You are free to go.” He stepped down easily from the stage, his golden armour blazing as he walked out into the sunlit amphitheatre.
The other phraters followed, and after one last hungry look at Isten, so did the green lion.
Seleucus paused a few feet from the stage and looked back at her.
“I spared your life because you did me a good deed, Isten, but do not mistake my compassion for weakness. I will tolerate no false temples. Nor will I allow false creeds to preach hatred towards me and my brethren. I have removed your temple and scattered your followers. If they band together again, I will not be so forgiving. If I ever hear of the Exiles coming together, they will meet the same fate as Phrater Alzen. And so will you.”
Isten could barely follow what he was saying. All she could think about was the alien presence at the back of her mind. How could it still be there now that Alzen was dead? She clawed at her scalp, drawing blood as her broken nails pierced the skin.
“Did you hear what I said?” asked the giant, taking a step back towards her.
“Yes,” she gasped, feeling that she might pass out at any moment. “I understand.”
Seleucus nodded. Then he waved some of the hiramites to Alzen’s corpse. “Make sure no trace of that is left.”
Then he turned and strode from the theatre.
Isten looked away as the soldiers scooped up Alzen’s remains and slopped them into a crate.
