The Third God

by Ricardo Pinto

  Abandoning these, he fell back into turmoil. At one point he determined to quit Makar and go to meet Osidian, but immediately his mind began listing the difficulties in getting there and the vital reasons why he should not go. Besides, what would he say to Osidian once he reached him? He feared sharing his dreams with him.

  Then he remembered the interest Legions had shown in his dreams. If anyone could interpret them it would be the Grand Sapient. Madness. Any such consultation would lead only to manipulation. Legions would tell him what he wanted to hear.

  Back and forth the battle raged in him, between doubt and hope. As he grew weary almost to tears, the vision of Osidian eyeless, enthroned, hung in his mind like an ache.

  When the homunculus came to ask if he might go down to minister to his masters and their homunculi, Carnelian saw from one of Aurum’s clocks that it was long past nightfall. The sun-eye hidden beneath the iron earth seemed a defeat. A whole day had passed and still he was as trapped in indecision as a fly in amber. The opportunity to accompany the homunculus was a blessed relief. At least it gave him something to do. Something real.

  In the vault, the first lid they opened was Legions’. When the homunculus climbed up to remove his mask, Carnelian saw the faint misting in the mirrored hollow above the mouth spike. His gaze fell on the Grand Sapient’s skull face. He wondered at the mind behind such hideousness and was tortured by the temptation that it might make the solution to his problems clear, shedding upon his dilemma the terrible, cool clarity of the Wise.

  He was glad when he saw the elixir bead melt into the lipless mouth and was relieved when Legions’ skull face was rehidden behind the shell of his mask. The homunculus closed and resealed the capsule. Each of the other two capsules contained not only a Sapient, but also a homunculus. Carnelian made sure to observe that all were fed an amber bead. He plucked a bead from its cavity on the capsule rim. When he brought it up to the nostrils of his mask, he could detect no odour. The eyes of the homunculus had grown round. Amused by the creature’s alarm, Carnelian made a smiling gesture. ‘I had no intention to eat it.’ He replaced it where he had found it and the homunculus closed the capsule.

  ‘What does it contain?’

  ‘Mostly nectar, Seraph.’

  ‘To mask the bitterness of the elixir?’

  Busy sealing the lid, the homunculus shook its head. ‘I do not imagine so, Seraph. My masters cannot taste sweetness. I believe its function is to supply the necessary sustenance.’

  Leaving the Sapients and homunculi sleeping in their cocoons, they climbed the stair. As Carnelian came up into the chamber, he felt the vision of his dream coalescing around an interpretation he realized he had been resisting all day. Lying on his makeshift bed staring at the ceiling, he could no longer deny that, whatever else the dream might portend, one part of it seemed clear enough. Wading through blood, Osidian would win a throne, but how much blood and whose?

  He came fully awake as if washing ashore. The ritual windings clung to him like flayed skin. He longed to escape their sickly embrace, to feel clean sun on his bare back, his face, to have the wind caress his skin. More, he wanted to be free of the dreams. Their omens oppressed him like the pressure of a coming storm. He had preferred hopelessness to a promise of a victory bought at the cost of the Gods only knew how much suffering.

  He had crossed and recrossed this territory so many times that it had become a churned sump. What chance was there to pick a single path through such a morass?

  He needed to externalize it; to talk to someone. There was no one, except perhaps Osidian, and Carnelian knew, with a bleak certainty, that his dreams would almost certainly mesh with the bloody conviction Osidian drew from his dark god.

  He rose from the bed, fumbled and found his mask, ignored the homunculus’ questions and went in search of a window. Even the night sky might restore him to some balance.

  When he found some shutters he drew them back and was blinded. Squinting, he went out into the light. The sun was risen. He could feel its touch beginning to warm the gold against his cheeks. The land’s bony limestone blazed in the morning, but shades of night still haunted the Pass below.

  Returning to the shadows, Carnelian considered what he could do. When he contemplated a visit to Osidian, anxiety pulled like a barb in his flesh. Dare he leave Legions unsupervised? A feeling of being trapped produced a surge of anger. Why not kill him and his staff and be done with it? Dread soaked into him. At first he thought it was horror at the idea of slaying even a Sapient in his sleep, but he decided it was something else. Some kind of superstitious fear. The kind that thrills a child at the unknown consequences of killing a sorcerer in a fairytale. There were good reasons against a meeting with Osidian, in any case. Not least how they affected each other. Besides, there were many practical difficulties.

  A letter? It would not be difficult to obtain parchment, pen and ink, but once written, how could he convey it safely to Osidian? Sealed, even the quaestor might not dare open it, but he had no seal.

  His cogitations were cut short by a rapping at the outer door. He put his mask to his face and bade the homunculus go and see who it was. The creature was soon back. ‘The quaestor, Seraph. He claims to have a letter for you.’

  Carnelian was startled by the coincidence. ‘Let him come.’

  The homunculus returned with the quaestor, who came forward, inscrutable. Carnelian took the parchment the man offered with both hands. Raising it, he saw it was unsealed. He turned his mask on the quaestor. ‘You read this?’

  The man fell to his knees, shaking his head. Carnelian opened the parchment. The glyphs were Osidian’s. They read:

  Send me that which will allow me to communicate with those who would follow me.

  ‘Quaestor, who brought this?’ Carnelian said.

  The man did not raise his eyes, but said: ‘A Maruli, Seraph.’

  ‘He waits for a reply?’

  ‘Just so, Seraph.’

  Carnelian read the letter again and thought he understood: Osidian wanted Legions’ seal. Using it might enable him to send messages along the roads to the Legates. After what the Grand Sapient had said, this seemed an act of desperation. Carnelian grew morose as what little faith he had in Osidian waned further. Not that he had an alternative strategy. All he had was dreams. He felt sick with self-disgust. He looked down at the quaestor. ‘Go.’

  The man turned up his number-spotted face. ‘Your answer, Seraph?’

  ‘I said, go.’

  Carnelian felt drained. Since he could think of nothing better, he might as well do as Osidian asked. He decided against asking the homunculus for the ring. Once before he had asked someone for a seal and that had brought her a terrible death. He found a lamp and lit it. ‘Stay here,’ he said to the homunculus.

  As the creature knelt, Carnelian headed towards the corner of the chamber.

  ‘Seraph!’ said the homunculus.

  Turning, Carnelian saw how the colour had drained from its wizened face. ‘I intend your masters no harm.’

  He left the creature kneeling on the stone and descended to the vault. When he reached it, he made his way to Legions’ capsule. Finding a grip on the lid, he pulled it back, breaking the wax seal. He raised the lantern so that its light crept up the Grand Sapient. He jumped when gleams in his silver mask made it seem as if Legions was waking. He searched every part of the capsule he could reach, but found nothing save for the cavities in which were stored the elixir.

  ‘What do you seek, Seraph?’

  Carnelian spun round and saw that, in defiance of his command, the homunculus had followed him. ‘Your master’s seal. Tell me where it is.’

  Pale as alabaster, the homunculus climbed the capsule and, leaning across, he worked at opening one of his master’s fists. When he had clambered back down, he offered Carnelian something that glimmered luridly upon his palm. Carnelian stared at the ring, reluctant to touch it.

  ‘Take it, Seraph. My punishment is already unavoidable. My ma
ster appointed me guardian of his sleep.’

  Carnelian saw the sharp determination in those ancient eyes and took the ring. As he watched the homunculus reseal the capsule, Carnelian wondered at the little man’s motives for helping him.

  Back in Aurum’s chamber, Carnelian raised the ring and turned it in the light. An exquisitely carved ruby set in a bezel of precious iron. The head of the Horned God wrought as if into a large blood drop. Filigrees of rust bled from the fiery jewel.

  Carnelian read his letter through one last time. It described his dream. He folded the parchment carefully. He placed a wax frame over the join and filled it with spluttering gobbets of molten wax. He thrust the Ring of Legions into the wax, then pulled it free. Lifting the letter, he saw that the seal looked like the arms of a crucifixion cross. The wax ridges had a look of branded flesh.

  He closed the still warm ring in his fist and sent the homunculus to return with any Maruli who was not the first to approach him. When the man came Carnelian was relieved to see he was not Sthax. Sthax was, potentially, too valuable an ally to risk bringing to Osidian’s or Morunasa’s attention.

  Carnelian gestured the Maruli to approach and offered him the letter. When the man reached out to take it, Carnelian caught hold of his hand and thrust into it Legions’ ring. He forced the black fingers to close around it. The Maruli gazed up into Carnelian’s mask, grimacing. Still holding the man’s hand, Carnelian made him take the letter with his other hand.

  ‘The Kissed,’ he said, using the name they called Osidian. He would not let the Maruli go until he had repeated the name.

  Carnelian had hoped that the sending of the letter and the ring would bring him peace of mind. Far from it. He fretted until it was time to accompany the homunculus down to the vault to administer the elixir. When they returned, he had something to eat. Upon a floor of mother of pearl he sat surrounded by the quivering of Aurum’s clocks. The homunculus sat nearby with his silver child’s face. Carnelian realized he was chewing carefully so that the creature would not hear him. He had tried to make conversation, but the silver mask had responded with single syllables.

  Though wary of his dreams, he retired early. When he woke, he could recall nothing save perhaps for a lingering dread, like the taint blood left in the air even after it had been wiped away. The day stretched interminably. He tried to distract himself with books, with examining the treasures Aurum had left behind. Their beauty was cold and sterile. They seemed tomb goods which he fingered as if he were a soul denied rest. He was waiting for some communication from Osidian. His wanderings several times took him near the outer doors. He lingered in their vicinity, yearning for them to be struck from without.

  That night he woke drenched in sweat. He had the impression he had been trying to climb up out of a pit. He lay trapped between the nightmare and waking as if between two walls of glass. When he could bear it no longer, he slid from the bed, then paced back and forth, harried by fear. A glint catching his eye drew him. It was the mask of the homunculus. The creature’s child body lay slight and fragile on the floor. Dull in the dim light, its metal face seemed a device of torture. Carnelian tried to imagine what the creature’s life had been like. Asleep, the homunculus appeared a child uncared for. Carnelian stooped and pulled a blanket over the blades of its shoulders.

  A clanging echo made him lurch upright. He had been waiting for that sound, it seemed, for days. As the homunculus went off towards the outer doors, it was all Carnelian could do not to run after it. He waited, kneading his fingers. The homunculus seemed a long time returning. Then it appeared, bearing a letter. He waited for the creature to kneel and offer it to him. Taking it, he saw it was sealed with the curved crucifix of Legions’ ring. He broke it open, unfolded the panels and read.

  For days the Wise have refused to reply to my communications. Now they have closed down both the courier and the heliograph systems. They have left me no choice. Tomorrow I march against Aurum. Hold Makar for me. If your dream was true, you will have no need to fear for me.

  Carnelian regarded the glyphs. Each face seemed Osidian’s. A host of them, defiance in every eye. It seemed his letter had had a stronger effect even than he had hoped. Osidian sought to regain his certainty in the way he had done before: by making war. In battle there was no room for doubt, but only the struggle for victory. Carnelian felt no triumph. He did feel some relief but, mostly, exhaustion. While he waited, far from danger, those he loved would go to confront Aurum and his fire.

  ‘Bad news, Seraph?’

  Carnelian gazed down at the homunculus. His first impulse was to deny it any answer, but he could see no malice in its ancient eyes, only curiosity.

  ‘The Lord Nephron marches forth to make war upon the Lord Aurum.’

  ‘I see,’ said the homunculus, leaving Carnelian with an uneasy impression it was playing a game of its own.

  INCUBATING

  Most things grow from the dark.

  (from the ‘Book of the Sorcerers’)

  ‘HOW DID YOU COME INTO THE SERVICE OF THE GRAND SAPIENT?’ Carnelian asked.

  The homunculus glanced at him with its ancient eyes. ‘My master chose me, Seraph.’

  ‘From the flesh tithe?’

  The homunculus looked shocked. ‘None of the Twelve would so demean himself, Seraph, least of all my master. A minor Sapient of the Domain of Tribute selected me with others for the training.’

  The homunculus glanced up again at Carnelian, who said nothing, waiting for more. The creature continued. ‘A candidate needs long training before he can become a homunculus.’

  ‘How long?’ Carnelian asked.

  The homunculus made a non-committal gesture with its hands. ‘It depends on the candidate. There are many skills to be learned, many procedures to be survived.’

  ‘Procedures?’

  Carnelian detected some memory of pain in its face.

  ‘Each candidate, Seraph, must be fed the stunting drug.’ It indicated its body, as diminutive as a child’s. Wrinkles gathered around its eyes. ‘Many die from hearts that stop, from choking, from black swellings.’

  Carnelian could hear an edge to the creature’s voice. That time had left its scars. The creature focused on him again. ‘Those that survive are castrated.’

  ‘Like the Wise?’

  The homunculus raised a hand that held negation, just. ‘Not to keep us from distraction, Seraph, but because the onset of maleness would kill. The stunting drug makes a candidate like a seed coated in iron. To grow is to die suffocated.’

  Carnelian felt he was trespassing on the creature’s pain. ‘It must be an exceptional candidate that is chosen by a Grand Sapient.’

  ‘Such privilege, Seraph, comes only to those candidates who excel in the skills: sensitivity to touch; reading and writing in beadcord; reading of voices and faces.’

  ‘Voices and faces?’ The homunculus looked down at its hands. Carnelian felt its anxiety that it might already have said too much. ‘Clearly you excel in all these skills.’

  ‘Each of us is merely an instrument in our master’s hands. An extension of his will.’

  ‘Do you remember the place where you were born?’

  The homunculus gazed at him, wide-eyed. Its head shook a little. Carnelian felt again he was intruding on private pain. He wanted to reduce the distance between them. ‘I only ask because I witnessed for myself the coming of a childgatherer.’

  ‘When you were captured by barbarians, Seraph?’

  It had not occurred to Carnelian that the homunculus might know much of what its master knew. He wondered just how much. Would there be any point in asking? The homunculus was unlikely to reveal anything and would just be put on its guard. ‘It is true they captured us, but then we stayed with them willingly.’

  ‘Willingly, Seraph?’

  ‘They were kind to us.’

  The homunculus’ face tensed as if it were having difficulty believing what Carnelian was saying.

  ‘I saw the children being c
hosen for the flesh tithe. I saw them being torn from their kin and people.’

  The homunculus looked up, eyes narrowed, mouth moving as if trying to make words. ‘There was, perhaps, one child in particular . . . ?’

  Carnelian regarded the little man through the eyeslits of his mask. It was a perceptive thing to ask, and brave. ‘Poppy. She was chosen for the flesh tithe, but the Chosen will not get her.’

  The homunculus frowned.

  ‘She is like a little sister to me, a daughter, even.’

  The homunculus gaped.

  Carnelian’s fear for her was sharpened by love. It made him see past what the homunculus had become to the child he had once been. ‘Unlike her, you were taken from your kin.’

  The body before him had not changed so much from that which his people had brought to pay their tithe to Osrakum, but the eyes revealed the man within. Carnelian wanted to reach out to that child. ‘Do you remember them?’

  ‘So long ago. I had almost forgotten.’

  ‘What were you called?’

  The homunculus shook his head, his eyes glistening. ‘I can’t remember.’

  The sadness in that musical voice touched Carnelian’s heart. He reached out to touch the homunculus’ shoulder. The man drew back at first, but then let Carnelian touch him, a look of amazement lighting his face.

  ‘Seraph.’

  Carnelian woke, fleeing something terrible. He sat up, staring at the images already fading from his mind. He shrank back from the silver face hanging in the gloom. The homunculus. He was speaking from behind his eyeless mask. Carnelian made himself deaf, the better to reach back for his dream, though he feared it. It was a swelling mass like something vast emerging from the deep. Dread like a headache. Haunting clarion calls. Despair voiced in a language he had forgotten. He strained to remember the bleak sounds. He knew he had to hear it, to understand the warning.

  ‘Seraph?’

  Carnelian let go his dream and emerged into the chamber. The homunculus was still there. He was holding out a letter. The four-horned seal upon the pale parchment seemed a crusted clot of blood. Echoes of the terror snaked through the room at the sight of it. Reluctantly, he took it, broke it open and read.