The Burning Altar

by Sarah Rayne

  Elinor was not thinking about how she looked, and she was not thinking very much about being frightened. She was intent only on one thing, and that was finding Lewis. She understood about destroying the Decalogue, and she thought, in a remote way, that it would be rather a pity. But until they knew if Lewis was here – until they knew he was safe – she had no thoughts for any other mission.

  They were still some way off the burning lights when Raffael held up a hand to stop them, and pulled them into the deep shadow of a high building.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, speaking very softly. ‘We haven’t the least idea what we’re going into, but so far we haven’t come across a single soul.’

  Elinor said, ‘I think they’re all together in that place where we can see the lights.’

  ‘It’s a reasonable assumption,’ said Raffael thoughtfully.

  ‘Will it be an advantage or the reverse?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. But supposing we simply go openly through the streets—’

  ‘Openly?’ said Elinor, and then, ‘Oh – because they don’t know any of us, and if we’re caught we can say we’re ordinary travellers, a bit off course, looking for somewhere to spend the night.’

  ‘Exactly. And if we’re challenged we might just get away with it. What we’ve really got to do, of course, is search the city.’

  ‘Separately?’ said Ginevra in rather a small voice and despite himself Raffael grinned.

  ‘No, my child, we must stay together now if ever we do.’

  ‘Hand in hand and shoulder to shoulder, and into the valley of death and—’

  Elinor said in a cross whisper, ‘If you dare to say, “All for one and one for all”, I will personally strangle you and drop your body over the nearest gorge.’

  ‘Was I being flippant?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t do it again.’

  ‘Well, I won’t.’

  ‘We’re searching for three separate things,’ said Raffael, sounding faintly amused. ‘Or for clues about any or all of them.’

  ‘Lewis,’ said Elinor at once. ‘And Grendel. Don’t let’s forget Grendel.’

  ‘I’m not forgetting him, Elinor.’

  ‘And the Decalogue.’ This was Ginevra.

  ‘Yes. I seem to have come a long way from my original mission for Fleury and the Church,’ said Raffael. ‘Or maybe I’m getting closer to it.’

  He looked at them both and Ginevra said softly, ‘But you never lost sight of it, did you?’

  ‘Not for the smallest instant.’ Raffael stared at her and then in a different tone said: ‘Are we ready?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elinor.

  ‘No,’ said Ginevra. ‘But let’s do it anyway.’

  ‘Remember that if what’s going on within those lights is a – a gathering of some kind, there might be spies about.’

  ‘Spies? Why would there be spies?’

  ‘He doesn’t mean a gathering, he means a ritual,’ said Elinor flatly.

  ‘Well, why can’t he say so?’

  ‘Chivalry. He’s afraid of wounding our delicate sensibilities.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve got any delicate—’

  ‘We know that,’ said Raffael. ‘The point I’m making is that nobody holds a ritual without posting lookouts.’

  ‘I wish you’d say what you mean. It’d make things much easier.’

  As they walked through the deserted ancient city, Elinor began to have the sensation that eyes were watching them from the deserted buildings, and that deep within the shadows people were rubbing their hands together and grinning with dreadful anticipation. She began to imagine that low throaty whispers hissed through the night: Three for the Burning Altar . . . That one for the roasting pot and that one for the clay oven and that one for the gridiron . . .

  She was not really hearing anything at all, of course. It was only nerves. The whispers were inside her head or it was the altitude again, or maybe it was the memory of Grendel in that warehouse. Eating human flesh – raw human flesh. Yes, but inside here they cook them first. Humans for roasting, victims for the Altar.

  Yes, yes, English travellers, victims for the roasting, meat for the ovens . . . Three choice morsels, three juicy human sacrifices . . . Come inside, my dears, come inside and be EATEN . . .

  She was not seeing eyes any more than she was hearing whispers, of course. The eyes were only the flat painted eyes on some of the doll-like towers. But she might be hearing echoes of some kind. The centuries-old ghosts of all those people who had lived here and worshipped their strange goddess here, and hunted humans for sacrifice for the Burning Altar . . .?

  Yes, yes, the echoes of all those travellers caught and offered up . . . Just as you will be caught and offered up . . . We’re lighting the ovens for you, my dears . . .

  If the Tashkarans caught them they would all be burned alive and then eaten. But they were not going to get caught. Raffael was right about walking innocently forward; if they did that they would be all right.

  They had just crossed a small square and the soaring pale building where the lights burned was directly in front of them, when Raffael’s hand tightened, and Ginevra said, ‘What is it?’

  Raffael said, ‘There’s someone coming towards us.’

  It was a very bad moment indeed. They could all hear the footsteps – several sets of them – coming purposefully towards them, and short of turning and running away, there seemed to be nothing for it but to hold to Raffael’s plan.

  It was in that crowded instant that Elinor knew, quite definitely and quite overwhelmingly, that Raffael’s plan was wrong. The logic was sound – there was absolutely nothing wrong with the logic – except that it would not work. The Tashkarans would never believe that they were ordinary travellers, and even if they did it would not matter, because they would see the three travellers as manna from heaven, sacrifices for their horrid rituals – meat for the Altar . . .

  As the footsteps came running towards them Elinor drew breath to call a soft warning and at the same time moved back into the shadows of the marble-pillared temple.

  The warning was never uttered. Six Tashkaran men erupted out of the shadows and fell on Raffael and Ginevra; Elinor, by now hidden from view, knew a split-second of indecision: go forward and try to save them, or stay back and hope not to be seen?

  But there were six of the men and they were strong and muscular. One man and two women against them would have no chance at all, and for Elinor to pitch in would only result in them all being captured. But if she could stay free she might manage to follow unseen and stage some kind of rescue. She pressed back into the shadows, her heart racing and forced herself to remain absolutely still. Raffael was saying something about travelling through Tibet and, ‘Your interesting valley,’ – at least he and Ginevra could be trusted not to give Elinor’s presence away! – but the Tashkarans ignored it. There was another bad moment when they scanned the shadows and a look of puzzlement flickered across their dark features. Elinor, hardly daring to breathe, braced herself for discovery, but the men shrugged and one of them said, ‘Two only of you.’ There was a faint question in his voice and his English was heavily accented.

  Raffael said, ‘Yes, two of us. What is this? Where are you taking us?’ His voice held the exact right note of indignant bewilderment.

  ‘We are taking you to the courtyard at the city centre,’ said the man and grinned suddenly, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. ‘You will witness the execution ceremony which is about to start. And after that you will provide a small feast for us.’

  Elinor shrank back into the doorway of the temple, her mind swinging between panic and frantic calculation, the guard’s words hammering against her senses. Execution. An execution ceremony about to start. Lewis? Oh God, don’t let it be Lewis!

  There was no point in following the guards until she had thought out some kind of a plan and there was no point in trying to get into the lit square until she could re
scue Ginevra and Raffael.

  She had not taken any notice of the temple building behind her, but she turned now to survey it. It was a huge, rather ornate place, better preserved than the rest of the city, and beyond the marble pillars were massive double doors with strange symbols and hieroglyphs carved into the surface.

  Elinor hesitated, wondering if it was worth exploring, wondering if the temple might provide another route to the courtyard. Or would it lead into a trap? Supposing the guards who had taken Ginevra and Raffael were only one of several similar patrols? It might be safer to find a hiding place while she tried to think what to do next. She pushed the temple doors cautiously and felt them swing noiselessly inwards.

  If echoes had trickled through the darkened streets earlier, in here they had coalesced. Elinor, trying to adjust to the shadow-wreathed, partly sunken temple, felt them at once. Centuries upon centuries of unbroken serenity and silence, and of seamless tradition. Like an endless tapestry, like an enchanted carpet, stretching back and back, and then going forward and forward: spinning its own threads as it went, scooping up little fragments and snippets of living events and weaving them into a great glowing pageant . . .

  Her feet made no sound on the pale mosaic floor, and as her eyes grew more accustomed to the dimness, she saw the small side temple where, about twenty-five years earlier, a mischievous, slightly bored girl had dressed in the elaborate gown of a goddess and set out to seduce a young English traveller.

  Staring up at the embalmed bodies of the long-dead goddesses of Tashkara, caught between awe and repulsion, the beginnings of an idea stirred deep within her mind. Something to do with Grendel in the warehouse; something to do with him skinning Timur’s face and wearing it as a disguise to fool the Tashkarans.

  A disguise to fool the Tashkarans.

  There was a moment when her mind whirled in a dizzying snowstorm of fragments of thoughts and snatches of conversation and tail-ends of knowledge: the huge reverence the Tashkarans had for each Touaris, the Tamerlane League’s kidnapping of Grendel to replace his mother . . . They had to have Grendel because there’s no Touaris now, thought Elinor. Have I got it right? Because if I have . . .

  The plan dropped into place, its edges trimmed and its surface buffed smooth and Elinor saw the way very clearly indeed. And it was a way that would work perfectly so long as two factors held.

  One was that the Tashkarans were as superstitious about, and as much in awe of, the earthly Touaris as Elinor believed them to be.

  The other was that Elinor herself had sufficient nerve.

  Over the first she had no control whatsoever, but over the second she had absolute control. And if her nerve failed, it meant that Raffael and Ginevra would certainly die – and very soon – and that Lewis would probably die as well. She did not know, not absolutely, that Lewis was at the centre of the execution ceremony, but she sensed it.

  ‘There’s no contest.’ said Elinor firmly, and began to walk along the serried rows of the embalmed goddesses.

  Several of what looked to be later thrones were unoccupied and she passed them by. The vital thing was to be quick but to be convincing. Which of them?

  She could feel the minutes slipping away as she scanned the rows of set stiff figures, discarding most of them, aware of mounting desperation. An execution and then a small feast. And the feast small because there are only two victims tonight – Ginevra and Raffael. And Lewis . . .? Oh God, I must be quick and I must get it right!

  With the framing of this last thought she heard, faintly but definitely, the sound of a drumbeat from the square. A death knell? The heralding of the Burning Altar being brought in – the real thing, not the makeshift affair she had seen in the warehouse near Chance House! Don’t let them start the ritual yet, don’t let them start the execution. Lewis, I can’t have got this close and then lose you! Oh God, which of these can I use?

  And then she saw the small rather slender figure near the door, and she knew at once: that’s the one!

  It was unspeakably gruesome to pull down from its throne the light, sucked-dry body, and remove the stiff formal gown, but Elinor did it. She had the uncanny feeling that the girl had not been very long dead, and that she might at any minute open her eyes and look up at this clumsy western traveller who was vandalising what was probably a sacred temple.

  But I can’t help it! sobbed Elinor, struggling with the thick heavy brocade and velvet and the jewel-crusted skirts of the robe. Please forgive me whoever you are! I can’t think what else to do, and if you knew what was at stake you’d understand, I’m sure you would! She was trying not to look at the face, but she had seen that the girl was much younger than the other bodies – scarcely older than Ginevra – and although she was wearing a gold and bronze headdress like the rest, there was somehow a modern look to her.

  The drumbeat was quickening as Elinor flung down the small backpack she had been wearing, and stripped off her own things: trousers and jacket and the thick sweater. Underthings? No, you fool, no one will see them! There was a moment when the cold air brushed her bare arms and thighs and then she was pulling on the vivid jade-green gown with the crusting of jewels at the neck and cuffs that might be emeralds, and with silver and gold embroidery on the front. It was the kind of gown that under ordinary circumstances you would rather enjoy trying on. It was exotic and startling and Elinor thought with irony that she would probably never again wear something that made her look as good.

  She took the jewelled headdress from the dead girl and pushed her own hair out of the way beneath it. The headdress felt cold and hard, but it was not as heavy as she had expected. Anything else? What about shoes? Panic threatened again. I can’t stomp into that courtyard wearing thick-soled boots under this get-up! The dead girl had been wearing little gold-tasselled slippers – they would be absurdly flimsy and thin-soled for the cold night ground outside, but Elinor would happily succumb to pneumonia or pleurisy when this was all over. How good a fit were the slippers? Not at all bad; you can go to the ball after all, Cinderella. How did the whole thing look? She dived into the haversack and pulled out a tiny oblong of mirror. It was not marvellous but it was not bad. It ought to fool a pack of savages by torchlight – at least, she would hope so.

  She took a deep breath and stepped out into the street, and turned in the direction of the rhythmic drumbeat.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  The feel of the warm squirming rat bodies against Lewis’s skin was the most appalling thing he had ever experienced. The feel of their teeth tearing into his flesh was the grimmest torment in the entire world.

  Through the tearing agony he was dimly aware of people being brought into the courtyard by the guards, and of the Tashkarans murmuring in delight. But pain was driving out every other sensation and he barely acknowledged it.

  He tried to see through the mesh head-cage, but there was only the confused impression of a great many people watching him with hot avid eyes, and of Kaspar standing over him. The torch flares blurred before Lewis’s sight until he was staring through a swimming crimson mist that threatened to close over his head.

  The harsh bristly fur pressing against the inside of his ankles and the thin twitching tails brushing his skin made him feel so physically sick that he had to bite his lip to suppress a rising nausea. I won’t be sick, I won’t give way. I’ll survive and I’ll see these bastards punished.

  Kaspar was bending over him, his face so close that Lewis could see it clearly through the steel latticing. ‘One hour has passed, Sir Lewis. We are about to remove the third and fourth gates. The Gates to Approaching Night.’

  Lewis thought he managed to say, ‘Damn you, get on with it,’ but he no longer knew whether the words were only inside his mind.

  Kaspar gestured to the waiting guards and at once there was the grating sound again, and the excited scrabbling of the rats, swarming up his body, their ravening teeth sinking into the flesh of his calves. Rat saliva, warm and slightly sticky, dribbled over his thighs and he
smelled the hot feral excitement of the creatures, Because they’re nearer. The agony was lapping up his body, and it was so intense that despite his vows of fortitude he cried out.

  He clenched his fists – I won’t give way and I will survive! – but he could already taste the blood of his bitten lip. And it’s only the start: as the night wears on each gate will open . . . Is the Fifth Gate the next? Exquisite Torment. That’s what they’re all waiting for, of course. I’m going to die here in this terrible place. Black unconsciousness came smotheringly down, and he swam helplessly in and out of awareness. Time was blurring and becoming meaningless, but the minutes must be sliding past. Like sand trickling through an hourglass. Like tiny scuttling creatures with pointed teeth. Gnawing away at the hours. Has the second hour passed, yet? How close am I to the Gate of Exquisite Torment, the Gate no one has ever survived? This is going to be a terrible way to die—

  The drumbeat quickened and Lewis was aware of Kaspar leaning over him again, the hard cruel smile curving his lips – sharks’ lips, rats’ lips. His hands were closing about the Fifth Gate.

  Without the least warning the drumbeat cut off, and a cry of fear went through the courtyard. Kaspar turned his head, and the gloating smile changed to a look of the most abject fear Lewis had ever seen.

  Ginevra had fought the guards every inch of the way – even biting one of them at one point – and in the end they had simply picked her up and carried her through the dark streets and thrust her into the lit courtyard, Raffael beside her.

  The scene that met her eyes was so unbelievable that for a moment she thought something had gone wrong with her sight. The courtyard was lit to glowering life by the flames spiralling from dozens of wall brackets, and at least two hundred people were grouped around the square, some of them seated on wooden benches but most of them standing. At the centre, with grim-visaged Tashkaran guards at its head and feet was something so appalling, so inhuman, that Ginevra forgot about her own danger and about what Elinor might be doing, and stared in horror.