Carnelian’s gaze found a child’s face frozen in the shadows. Above floated the murky mirror of its master’s mask. Carnelian saw the emberous finial the homunculus held before it, but could not make out its cypher. ‘Who are you?’ he said, shocked that his people had given him no warning of this visitor.
‘Tribute,’ sang the exquisite voice. ‘I am come to bid you give entry tomorrow to the tributaries.’
Carnelian nodded as the homunculus relayed to him details of how it should be done. Only vaguely did he note the instructions, unease worrying at his concentration. At last, when the homunculus fell silent, Carnelian spoke. ‘Why had you need to come yourself, my Lord? Could you not as easily have sent a letter, or one of your Sapients?’
Tribute’s fingers were a furtive movement at the throat of his homunculus. ‘I have come as the voice of the Twelve.’
‘Does my Lord Nephron know of this?’
‘It is unlikely, Carnelian . . . of the Masks.’
Carnelian tensed. ‘He has told you then.’
‘The Law demands you be slain at his Apotheosis.’
Carnelian heard the finality of those words reverberate long after silence had returned. ‘And yet the Lord Nephron has seen fit to defy the Law.’
In the further silence that fell after the homunculus finished echoing his words, Carnelian’s heart misgave. He listened out for any evidence of slaughter going on beyond the silken walls of the pavilion. Perhaps Osidian had betrayed him. Perhaps this Grand Sapient had come with Ichorians to take Carnelian captive.
‘He did so even when we told him his transformation into the Gods could not be complete without your blood.’
The homunculus put on those last words an edge that he might, inadvertently, have picked up from some change in pressure in his master’s fingers. Carnelian’s instinct told him that, whatever they might claim, what the Wise sought most of all was his death. He recalled the trap they had set for him that they had baited with his father. With a shudder he remembered their inquisition. The pieces of the mosaic fell into place. ‘It was I whom you tried to assassinate.’
‘We were desperate.’
Carnelian became aware how he was naked, exposed to this cold apparition. ‘Have you come to kill me?’
‘That route is now closed to us, child. Even to you it must by now be clear that you are the agent of a god.’
Carnelian’s mind tried to deflect that, but his heart was ready to believe it. ‘The dreams.’
‘It is through dreams the Gods choose to guide us. Believing you the agent of a god, it would be foolish for us to attempt to slay you, especially in this holy place in which you have taken refuge.’
Carnelian almost protested that he had sought no refuge and yet he wondered if some part of him had.
‘To slay you might precipitate the very cataclysm we dread.’
Carnelian felt that dread soaking into his bones. ‘What, then, do you want from me?’
‘That you should submit yourself, willingly, to sacrifice.’
Stripped of any requisitive or necessitive modes, the words were all the more chilling. ‘Why should I do that?’
‘Because you are possessed of that quality that we have lost and have for so long striven to drive from the hearts of the Chosen: compassion.’
The homunculus must have communicated Carnelian’s shaking head to its master for he had it say: ‘If you do not, the world may die.’
‘Die?’ Carnelian said, feeling defenceless against the Grand Sapient’s bleak certainty.
‘Consider, child, how inconsequential, how fleeting a thing you appear to be and yet how great is the destruction you have already wrought. For too long we had no clear understanding from whence this disruption was emanating. In you we have found its source.’
Carnelian shook his head again, as if these accusations were clogging his mind. He struggled to understand. ‘My birth?’
‘When the Lord Nephron informed us of it, we were certain, without need of computation, that this was the missing factor we have sought so desperately. Subsequent calculations have confirmed it absolutely.
‘When the birth of Nephron and Molochite spanned the transition between the black months and the green, the astrological implications were clear enough, but still we had hope of restricting the depth of the cleaving. We aided the return of Suth with the expectation that the consequent election would fulfil the omens of conflict. The blood rituals of the subsequent Apotheosis would have closed the fissure by reunifying the twins in a new God Emperor. We first became aware of a missing factor when Nephron disappeared. We searched frantically for him. When we detected his presence upon the Southern Plain, we devised careful counter actions. But, to our surprise, the perturbations, rather than diminishing, grew. We checked and rechecked our calculations and found no error. Exasperated, Legions decided to go himself to the locus of the disturbance to try to find the elusive missing factor. It was then we became aware of you. We began to wonder if it was possible that, somehow, your contribution had not been properly determined. Though we could hardly believe you important enough, we decided to eliminate you. Under examination, you revealed some suggestive aspects, but there were enough among us who did not believe these significant. We delivered you to Molochite. In spite of the imprecise analysis of trends, we were certain we had done enough to ensure Nephron’s forces would be destroyed. His defeat would have truncated the amplitude of the disturbance. The system would settle down into a steady state that patient manipulation would, in some few centuries, restore to a stable equilibrium. His victory, we had not even considered. The probabilities of that were infinitesimal . . .’
Freed for a moment from the exposition, Carnelian regarded the Grand Sapient. Even through the conduit of the homunculus, Carnelian could clearly sense how deep had been the incomprehension of the Wise. He remembered the ancients they had lost in the Iron House. He had glimpsed the trauma of their loss.
Tribute’s fingers came back to life around the neck of the homunculus. ‘When you survived, we realized that, in spite of what our calculations insisted, you must be, somehow, the key disturbing factor. It was at that juncture we panicked and made the clumsy attempt on your life.’
Carnelian sensed how much this Grand Sapient recoiled from that action, but only because it was such an inelegant, unconsidered impulse.
‘Having recast our calculations, taking into account your true birth, everything at last makes sense. High-blood birth on the chaotic cusp incident on a God Emperor’s death is a powerful enough input, but when combined with that of twins spanning a fault line, the consequences are catastrophic. Even then, had we known, had we had time to prepare, we could have avoided the abyss. We could have arranged it so that you would have succeeded your father and, with the sacrifice of the twins at your Apotheosis, we should have certainly healed the rift with minimal perturbation to the Balance.’
Carnelian floundered in this glimpse of timelines and how the past might have been rewoven to so profoundly change the present.
‘But we believe, child, it is not too late. Though he whom the Gods protect none can harm, he has the power to harm himself if he wills it.’
Carnelian pondered this, his mind warring with his heart. He flinched when Tribute’s homunculus came towards him and put out his hand, upon which sat an orb. Reaching out, Carnelian took it. Felt its leathery skin, gazed at its crown of spikes. He brought the pomegranate up to his nose. With inhalation came memories of being a boy in a fabulous, forbidden garden. For a moment he was lost in that miraculous vision. When he looked up, the Grand Sapient and his homunculus had gone.
‘What’s happened?’ said Fern, alarmed. ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Is everything all right outside?’ said Carnelian.
‘Shouldn’t it be?’
Carnelian could hardly believe that Tribute could have made it through his camp unseen. Though he remembered how easily the Wise could find their way through the perfect d
arkness of their Library and this place was as familiar to them.
The pomegranate was heavy in his hand. If it were not for that he could well imagine he had dreamed the visitation. Why had Tribute brought it? Perhaps, with its red juice, it was a symbol of sacrifice.
Morose, he stood between two commentary stones, his cowl pulled down as much against the rain as to hide his face, as he watched the barbarian tributaries pass. Earlier, it had been huimur caravans, their domed backs rising above leather panniers, each larger than a man, which Carnelian had known must be stuffed with the bronze coins that were the taxes from the cities of the Commonwealth. Among the plodding beasts had walked deputations from the cities, their skins painted in imitation of the Masters, wearing elaborate, garishly dyed weaves, bearing upon their heads hats of outlandish design. This finery aped the pomp of the Masters, but was, in comparison, pathetic pantomime.
He had spent another night disturbed by dreams. Whatever they had to tell him, he was no longer prepared to listen. He had woken enraged at the notion that he might be the plaything of some god. Which god?
A hand clasping his shoulder made him jerk round with shock at being touched; at being caught unmasked. He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw it was only Fern.
‘I’ve done everything as you asked.’
Carnelian had delegated to him the task of bringing in the tributaries. Not only had he been in no mood to do it himself, but also he had thought it a good opportunity to let Fern sit in a command chair. In the outer world, Fern was going to be his lieutenant.
‘Everyone’s in.’ Fern waved his hand in the direction of the Forbidden Door, though it and the Black Field were hidden behind the standing stones. ‘The dragons are arranged down both sides. I left them with clear instructions that under no circumstances whatsoever are they to light their pipes, nor move their dragons out of position.’
Carnelian thanked him, then both turned to watch the people filing past. Sodden, dragging their feet, women and old men, faces set against suffering, leading by the hands or carrying countless numbers of miserable, scared flesh-tithe children.
They stood watching the children until night fell, then they returned to their camp. Carnelian’s voice sounded very loud when he ordered his people to stow everything for the journey into the Labyrinth. They set to it as if at a funeral. Through the darkness came the endless scuffling of the marching tributaries.
As Carnelian led them south-west, out of the Dance, he lifted his hand to touch the lefthand stone. Cold under his fingers, he stroked a worn pomegranate as if for luck. He frowned, remembering the fruit Tribute had brought him, his thoughts tinged by the dread in his dreams.
When they reached the outer ring, he gazed out. The terraces and windows of the Halls of Rebirth formed gashes and spots of jewelled light making the wall of the Plain there seem a window into a starry sky. Below lay the Black Field, its front edge twinkling with fires like a stopping place, its rear two-thirds in dense darkness. Shuffling towards this was a flood of shadowy heads.
With his back to the Forbidden Door, Carnelian gazed over the Black Field. Its nearest portion, lit by thousands of campfires, was made to appear a vast pebbled beach by the backs of the huimur. Beyond, squatting in the darkness, were the barbarians and their children spending one last night together without even the cheer of a fire. How long had he and Fern and his people had to wait for them to scuffle past? Long enough for hearts to grow heavy as stones, and legs to grow unsteady. Carnelian had made an attempt to have his people sit and wait it out but when he and Fern stayed standing so did they. When, at last, that miserable procession had ceased, they had followed the stragglers round, walking on the carpet of blue flames ammonites laid before them. They had skirted the Black Field with its sea of heads walled in by dragons, had endured the murmurous fear, the cries of the children, the weeping, the moaning bleak comfort of their mothers. Down the whole long side of that crowd they had walked, between the dragons and the Cages of the Tithe until, at last, beneath the malevolent gaze of the colossi, they had reached the Forbidden Door.
Carnelian turned from the outer darkness to regard the black maw of the Labyrinth tunnel with loathing, then, taking Fern’s hand, he led his people into its throat.
APOTHEOSIS
Fire from heaven
Shatters even the sky.
(from the ‘Book of the Sorcerers’)
IN THE CENTRE OF THE VAST BED, CARNELIAN AND FERN CLUNG TO EACH other like survivors of a shipwreck. They might as well have been upon a raft afloat on a dark, forbidding ocean. Having passed through gates and antechambers they had been glad finally to be able to close themselves away in this echoing chamber.
Carnelian stared blindly past Fern’s shoulder into the darkness. He was remembering their long journey from the Forbidden Door, carrying in their hearts the misery they had left behind. Then that blinking emergence into a world of light. A miraculous field of stars spread away into the remote glooms of the Labyrinth by myriad lamps. Glowing pavilions hung from the columns like morning-dewed webs. He had recognized this as another Encampment of the Seraphim, though grander than the one he had witnessed in the Halls of Thunder. Indeed it resembled a stopping place, seen from afar, but if so, one made by angels descending from a midnight sky. Carnelian had seen how awestruck Fern was, how his people gaped who had never beheld such a spectacle before. When the Quenthas elected to lead them instead of the Ichorian guides, they had followed the sisters as if in a dream.
As they wound their way through the field of lights, the vision had soured. In the gloom around the feet of the pavilions, slaves huddled over lurid braziers, turning their faces furtively to watch them pass, some grovelling, others throwing themselves face down upon the ground. Above them, through the membranes of patterned silk, immense shadow Masters seemed to be caught in the act of pupating into monsters. Higher still rose the appallingly massive sepulchres that glowered down at them as the colossi in the Plain of Thrones were doing upon the miserable tributaries. It had been a relief to cross the Mirror Moat, then make the dizzying climb up the fiery steps of the Shimmering.
When they had reached the torn-down gate, they had turned their backs upon the Encampment that, from that height, had once more transformed into a dreamy vision, to enter the vastnesses of the Halls of Rebirth. A world more sombrely lit, haunted by sinister pillars of perfumed mist that drifted like ghosts through the endless halls. Everything moved, slowly, evolving. Everywhere countless aspects, bewildering: like trying to piece together a view from reflections caught in the flying fragments of a shattering mirror.
In the bed, Carnelian tightened the curl of their bodies. His heart quickened. He knew he must confess to Fern the decision he had made about the part he intended to play in the next day’s ritual. Would Fern understand? Carnelian recalled the almost childlike expression of hope that had come over Fern’s face when first he beheld the Labyrinth. He was sure that in its vaulted gloom Fern had seen some semblance of the mother trees and a yearning for the world he had lost. Heart aching, Carnelian felt sick with the misery that the one he loved might never be truly happy in Osrakum.
Osidian was beside the opening of the well that was the beginning of the Path of Blood. He looked up and Carnelian detected a change in the cast of his shoulders as he glanced past him to Fern. Carnelian gestured Fern and the rest of his entourage to halt and advanced alone towards Osidian. He opened his hand and offered him back the blood-ring Osidian had sent with his summons as a sign it truly came from him.
Osidian took it, frowning. ‘After today, I will have no need of this.’
Carnelian nodded, understanding. That ring would become a lie once ichor flowed untainted in the new God Emperor’s veins. Carnelian’s gaze took in Osidian’s guard in its new splendour. Marula, already forged into Ichorian collars of silver. Wearing breastplates of bronze. Shrouded in cloaks of silk patterned in green and black.
‘They look handsome, do they not?’ said Osidian.
Car
nelian agreed with his hand, recalling the thought he had had the first time he set eyes upon Marula: that they were like the Chosen reflected in a mirror of obsidian.
‘For the moment they wear the heraldry of the Sinistrals, but I have a notion to adorn them with scarlet. The colour would complement their skin. Does it not seem apropos to you, Carnelian, that they should combine the heraldry of both Ichorians?’
Again, Carnelian agreed.
‘As today the Two are to be combined in my person, so shall the Ichorians of the left and right’ – Osidian held his hands palm up – ‘merge into a single Guard.’ He brought his hands together, meshing his fingers.
Carnelian could see how the tattooed halves of the old Ichorians could be seen to find union in the black skin of the Marula.
Osidian regarded the warriors. ‘From these, the Wise will make me syblings.’ There was a glint in his eyes. ‘Imagine how elegantly sombre such specimens would be, encased in iron.’
Unease arose in Carnelian. ‘But you will help them rebuild the ladder down to the Lower Reach.’
Osidian made a gesture of dismissal. ‘We shall send an expedition to retrieve from their land enough of their females to ensure an adequate breeding population here.’
‘But what of your promise to Morunasa?’
‘I have told him it is already too late. Their land is dying. Their only hope of survival is here. They will come to accept this soon enough. Why should they not? How could their noisome jungles compare to sacred Osrakum?’
Carnelian felt there was doubt caged within Osidian’s certainty. ‘But what of Morunasa. What of his god?’ Almost Carnelian had said: What of your god?
Osidian’s face took on a brittle cast. ‘I have told him he and all his people can worship me. For is the Black Twin not the very same god they worshipped in the Isle of Flies?’ His face betrayed something of the distaste Carnelian felt and a shadow of suffering seemed to be nesting under Osidian’s brows. ‘And is He not about to be poured into me?’
The Third God Page 70
