by D. P. Prior
His shoulder throbbed beneath the broken links of his chainmail, blood staining the surcoat a deep crimson. He fumbled at the Gordian knot on the prayer cord, but he was too tired for impossible tasks so he moved on to a simple dog-shank and tugged out a section of the line. Almost immediately, his thoughts shifted from teeming ruminations about the Grey Abbot, Eingana, and the mawgs to a cavernous stillness that swallowed awareness of everything but his rapt focus on the unweaving. That’s where Ain was at one with his people: the place in which Shader had come to hear his voice.
‘It could heal your shoulder, you know.’
Shader resisted the impulse to sigh as Elias Wolf dropped down on the pew beside him.
‘My statue—Eingana. Be right as rain in a jiffy, only he’s bound to throw a fit if you use it. Huntsman, I mean.’
Shader pulled the prayer cord back over his neck and took the serpent statue from his pocket. It had lost its glow and faded to a dull black. He ran his thumbs over the empty eye sockets and traced the indentations where the fangs should be. The scent of stale tobacco reached his nostrils and he bent to examine the serpent’s mouth, scraping out burnt leaf and ash.
Elias gave a little cough. ‘On second thoughts, perhaps you’re better off having the priests look at the cut. I got away with using it a couple of times, but then it started to give me the creeps. Like someone was watching.’
Shader held the statue out in front of him and stared at it. ‘I feel nothing.’
‘Good,’ Elias said, clapping him on the back and then snatching his hand away as if he expected to get hit in return. ‘Then he’s probably just after me, what with me being so famous and all. Suppose I’ll just have to get a new hash tray.’
‘Who’s after you?’
Elias stood and went to examine the Dark Mother. ‘Bit sombre, don’t you think? All that blackness and the empty-eye thing. If you ask me, I’d say she looked better in blue and white.’ He rose on tiptoe and pirouetted, coming to face Shader with a little bow. ‘Who’s after me? I was being ironic—or is it sarcastic? But the vibe, well that’s pure gothic, if you get my meaning; which of course you don’t coz no one’s heard of a Goth or a Visigoth for centuries. Do you know how lonely it is being the only man alive to know anything about history? Real history, that is,’ he cocked a thumb at the Dark Mother, ‘not this fabricated balderdash that’s been floating around since the Reckoning like a turd that won’t flush down the toilet. Gah!’ Elias slapped himself on the forehead. ‘Last man alive to have poohed in a flushing loo, too. Pooh, loo, too. Like it! There’s a song in there somewhere. Sorry, what was the question? Knight’s move thinking, you see. Happens when I get scared. It’s not every day you nearly get chewed up and regurgitated by mawgs; and me going round thinking I’m immortal and all that. Gaw, I’m such a kid at times.’
Shader narrowed his eyes and fixed Elias with an unwavering stare. The bard’s finger wagged back and forth like a pendulum as if he were re-tracing his thoughts. After a moment he tapped the side of his nose.
‘Who’s after me? The bleeding ghost of Sektis shogging Gandaw no less, drawn by my reckless use of the ashtray of Eingana.’
‘Sektis Gandaw’s dead. Has been since the Reckoning.’ Although death held no guarantee of permanence, thought Shader. Not if Callixus was anything to go by.
‘That’s why he’s a ghost,’ Elias said. ‘Although that’s not what Huntsman wants us to believe, but then what would you expect from a geezer who thinks shoving crystals down your gullet is the road to eternal wisdom?’
‘If not Sektis Gandaw, then who?’ A chill began to claw its way up Shader’s spine.
‘Look to your mythology—or don’t they call it that in Aeterna? What do they say? Theology?’
Shader sucked in a deep breath through gritted teeth. Elias held up his hands as if to apologize and went on.
‘The Aeonic Triad fell through the Void. Surely you’ve heard that bit. What people fail to ask, though, is where they fell from?’
‘The Supernal Realm,’ Shader said as nonchalantly as he could.
‘Right. Very good. Fine. So we can skip that bit then. Why they fell is another matter for another story, but suffice it to say that they fell and that they were three: the Archon, the Demiurgos, and their sister, Eingana. The Demiurgos fancies a bit of the ol’—well I don’t want to say too much about that, what with you being a religious man, but you get my drift. He ravishes his sister and knocks her up. The Archon is mightily pissed about this—my guess is he was jealous, but that’s not the official line. Whilst the boys duke it out, metaphysically speaking, Eingana, slithers off amongst the stars and starts nesting down, only she can’t give birth to her little bastard coz her…she lacks a big enough orifice.
‘Back comes the Archon with a wickedly sharp sword, slices her open and drags out a baby with the body of a baboon and the head of a dog. Mummy is not a happy snakey, and she’s also rather scared that the Demiurgos is coming back for more, so she abandons the child and buggers off, dispersing herself all over the Earth and seeding all sorts of new life.
‘The baby is traumatized and literally does what the rest of us can only do figuratively: it creates its own womb to hide in.’
‘Aethir, the world of the Dreaming?’
‘Ah, so you were listening earlier, then. Makes my job easier. Anyway, the Cynocephalus—strange name for a baby, I know, but with a face like his what do you expect?—the Cynocephalus forms a whole new world around himself, a world populated with his own dreams. The trouble with being an abandoned child, though, is that your dreams are mostly nightmares.
‘Meanwhile, Uncle Archon chases Uncle—or should I say Daddy?—Demiurgos back into the Void hoping to annihilate him. Demi’s tougher than he looks, though, and manages to sustain himself by a pure act of will. Thinking him trapped, the Archon goes off in search of his sister, but finds only her essence permeating the creatures of Earth. That’s all the excuse he needs to start poking his nose into our business and encouraging all sorts of bizarre religious practices geared towards the higher morality of the Supernal Realm.’
Shader was starting to wish he hadn’t asked the question. That was the trouble with bards, they were always looking for a platform to perform. Elias seemed to sense his impatience and rubbed his hands together.
‘To cut a long story relatively short, if the statue really is anything to do with Eingana, and if someone really is looking for it—and I’ll grant you I’ve felt some weird shit when I’ve used it—then surely there are better candidates than Sektis “snuffed it at the Reckoning” Gandaw to consider, no matter what Huntsman says.’
‘The Archon?’ Shader’s hand covered the hilt of his gladius.
‘Maybe,’ Elias said, ‘but let’s not forget the dark sheep of the family. If there’s a shadowy presence after the statue, my guess is it’s more likely to be the Demiurgos.’
‘Metaphysically speaking?’
‘Naturally,’ Elias said. ‘Well, let’s hope so anyway.’
Shader stood, towering over the little bard, and frowned down at him. ‘This isn’t a game, Elias. You were one of Huntsman’s guardians, like the Grey Abbot, yes?’
Elias shuffled uneasily, eyes locked to his feet. ‘Custodian’s a better word. I lack the muscle for guardianship. But yes, Huntsman entrusted the body of the statue to me, for some bizarre reason, and I’ve not aged a day since.’
Shader had been wondering about that. ‘The Grey Abbot aged as soon as his Monas was stolen.’
‘Suppose you’re going to tell me I’ve gone grey?’ Elias ran his hands through his lank hair.
‘You don’t look any different; perhaps because you’re still close to the statue.’
A look of mock horror crossed Elias’s face. ‘You mean to say I have to follow you around everywhere or else I’ll start decomposing? Course, the Grey Abbot was probably an old fart when he got his bit of statue. What do you reckon he was, eighty? Ninety?’
Shader moved toward
s the chancel with a hand to his ear. He could hear a sound like heavy rain beneath the coughing and groaning of the patients. Pater Cadris was reading from the Liber to a young boy covered with purplish welts and with eyes so red they seemed to be bleeding. Shader waved him to silence and the fat priest rolled his eyes and closed the book.
Mater Ioana burst out of the sacristy, her shaven head glistening with sweat, her robes as grubby as a well-used floor-cloth. ‘There are horses coming down the Domus Tyalae,’ she said. ‘And a black carriage.’
Cadris stood up, jowls quivering, and waddled to her side. ‘Who is it?’ he almost squealed.
Ignoring him, Ioana marched down the nave and opened the doors. Elias made to follow her, but Shader clamped a hand on his shoulder.
‘One last thing. Who were the other guardians?’
‘Huntsman wouldn’t tell me. The Grey Abbot was a tad obvious—you can’t stay in the top job in the same place for centuries without people gossiping. I mean, I ask you! I’ve heard whisperings over the years that one of the pieces—an eye reputedly—was taken to Aeterna and given to the Ipsissimus. I kind of want to believe that one—there’s a beautiful irony to the hierophant of Nousian orthodoxy possessing the eye of a pagan goddess.’
The clopping of hooves from outside was as loud as hail on a tin roof. Shader flicked a look towards the open door, but couldn’t see past the backs of Ioana and Cadris.
‘If I gave you the statue back, could you use it to locate the Grey Abbot’s piece?’
Elias’s face seemed suddenly drawn and haggard. He held Shader’s gaze as if he were trying to discern the seriousness of the proposition. ‘Who stole the Abbot’s Monas?’ he asked in a low voice.
‘A creature of darkness. A ghost of some sort. A wraith.’
Elias swallowed and lowered his eyes. ‘I’ve been many things in my long life,’ he said, ‘but in every instance I’ve had a single thread of continuity.’
Shader frowned his incomprehension.
‘I’m a bleeding coward. Last thing I need is the attention of the living dead. I told you I’d sensed some evil shit around the statue. You’re welcome to it, mate. I’d sooner take my chances with ol’ Father Time.’
The thunderous noise from outside had subsided and Shader could hear voices—Ioana’s and another voice he thought he recognized.
‘Shader,’ Elias said, ‘there’s something I wanted to tell you.’
‘Later.’
Shader strode towards the doors with Elias scurrying behind.
‘It’s about Rhiannon.’
Shader’s heart lurched. He’d barely given her a thought since he’d reached Sarum.
‘What…?’
But before he could say anything else he was at the doors and could do little more than gawp in disbelief. Fanned out around the templum portico there were getting on for forty armoured horsemen wearing white surcoats emblazoned with the red Monas of Nousia. It took a moment to register that these were the lads from Oakendale and not the Elect of Aeterna. He’d never seen so many together in one place and his reaction was a mixture of pride and trepidation.
A gleaming black carriage was parked behind the knights, its lone driver hunched over the reins, a battered, very tall hat crammed low on his head, the brim obscuring his eyes. The carriage door opened and an immensely fat man stepped onto the driveway. He was dressed in a voluminous jacket of bottle-green velvet, a bulging waistcoat, pleated trousers and polished brown leather shoes. The face was all cheeks and jowls, ruddy and moustachioed, and topped with a mop of wavy grey hair. Sunlight glinted from the frames of pince-nez perched on the bridge of his nose.
The fat man reached into his waistcoat and took out what looked like a golden locket attached to a chain. He flipped it open, glanced between the locket and the sun, shook his head and tutted.
Shader was distracted by one of the knights speaking to Ioana; the voice he thought he’d recognized.
Gaston looked like a hero from legend, sat astride a white mare, leaning over the saddle pommel. His blond hair tumbled about the white cloak of the Order, chainmail sparkling beneath. It was the first time Shader had seen the lads in armour—none of them had been able to afford it during the training, and the council had refused funding even when he played upon their fears of the mawgs returning. Armour cost more than the average house in Oakendale and Shader had given up on the idea of ever procuring any when Aristodeus showed up unexpectedly with a purse full of gold coins stamped with the head of the Emperor. The first suits arrived the day Shader left.
There was a jagged scar along Gaston’s nose, pinpricks either side where stitches had obviously been removed. His jaw dropped when he saw Shader, but when Elias came into view he went pale.
‘He’s the one, Mater!’ Elias said, pushing past and jabbing a finger at Gaston.
Shader met the eyes of Barek Thomas, who gave the slightest of nods. Justin Salace walked his horse alongside Gaston’s, glaring at Elias like he meant to kill him.
‘What do you mean?’ Ioana said, but something about her expression told Shader she already knew the answer.
‘The one I told you about.’ Elias sounded like a schoolboy desperate to be believed. ‘He…raped…Rhiannon.’
Justin started to draw his sword, but Gaston placed a hand on his arm.
Shader heard the words but they meant nothing to him. He looked to Gaston for an explanation; for anything to help him understand.
‘I…’ Gaston licked his lips.
Shader approached the mare, stroked behind its ears and closed his eyes, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. Rhiannon had been raped? By Gaston? He felt his knees weaken and had to hold onto the bridle for support. When his eyes snapped open, his vision was blurred by moisture. ‘Gaston? Is this true?’
Gaston’s bottom lip was trembling and he looked away.
‘It’s true, all right,’ Rhiannon said, emerging from the templum arm in arm with Soror Agna. She was dressed in a simple white alb, her satin hair braided in a thick plait. Black and yellow bruising surrounded her left eye and her jaw looked swollen.
‘Rhiannon?’ Shader’s heart jumped into his throat. ‘I thought you…thought you were…’
‘It’s what I was trying to tell you,’ Elias said. ‘I brought her here after what he did to her.’
Shader took a step towards Rhiannon, but she threw up an arm as if he were going to hit her. Him, of all people!
Spinning on his heel, he grabbed Gaston’s cloak and pulled him from the saddle. Gaston squealed as he fell, but managed to twist and roll, the cloak coming away in Shader’s hand. Shader dropped it, drew the gladius and advanced as Gaston scuttled away on his backside. Ioana barked something to Cadris who hurried inside.
‘Deacon, don’t,’ Rhiannon said, reaching for his arm.
He pulled away, more violently than he’d intended, and grabbed Gaston by the hair, pressing the shortsword against his throat.
‘If I may,’ the fat man lit a cigarette and inhaled loudly three times. ‘Dr Cadman, Public Health Advisor to Governor Gen. My friend here and I are on Council business. If there are scores to be settled, then might I suggest they are resolved through the proper channels.’
Shader snarled and slammed Gaston’s head into the ground. Justin drew his sword and the other knights followed suit. Shader pulled his longsword from its scabbard and faced the mass of knights with both blades.
Gaston regained his feet and snatched up his cloak. ‘I came to help,’ he cried, pushing his way back through the horses. ‘I’m sorry!’ Gaston started to run back down the Domus Tyalae.
‘Boy!’ Shader shouted after him, and Gaston turned. ‘Back here tomorrow. You and me. And bring your sword.’
Gaston swallowed and nodded before walking away with as much dignity as he could muster.
‘Now the rest of you whelps do the same,’ Maldark growled, striding out of the templum with Cadris in tow.
‘Who the shog do you think—‘
; Justin’s words were cut off by Maldark swinging his hammer over head and slamming it into the ground. There was a terrific clap of thunder as rocks and dust flew into the air. The lead horses reared and Justin dropped his sword as he clung to the saddlebow in an effort to stay seated. When the dust settled, Rhiannon handed it back to him.
‘Better do as he says.’
Justin sheathed his sword and looked daggers at her. Nevertheless, he wheeled his horse and cantered down the Domus Tyalae. The others followed in a cacophony of hooves clattering on cobbles, all except Gaston’s abandoned white mare and Barek who lingered as if he had something he wanted to say.
‘What’s going on, Barek? There are a lot of very pissed off soldiers outside the city.’ Shader grimaced at his own language and touched two fingers to his forehead.
‘Things got out of hand,’ Barek said, shifting in the saddle. ‘Gaston ordered the charge. What else could we do?’
Shader caught the accusation; after all, he was the one who’d insisted upon absolute obedience along the chain of command. ‘But why assemble the Order? Why bring them here?’
‘Gaston had a visitor—some old man who said he knew you. Bald bloke. Said you needed us. Said the Templum did, too. We were just trying to help.’
Aristodeus. What was he up to now? Shader was starting to get a bit fed up with the philosopher popping up all over the place and setting things in motion. He’d always seen him as a friend and mentor, but there was a whole other side to Aristodeus starting to emerge, a side that had probably been there all along. It felt like a betrayal, like being raised by loving parents your whole life only to discover you’d been adopted.
‘And Rhiannon?’ Shader shifted closer to Barek, kept his voice down. ‘What…? Why did Gaston…? How did this…?’
