by James Derry
Sygne could have gone on tormenting herself with possibilities for a good long while, but at that moment a voice crashed through her head, descending from the night sky with the weight of a sandbag.
“I demand you wait!”
The voice resounded across the garden, and Sygne instantly dropped to her knees. She wasn’t alone in this sudden involuntary reaction. Nearly everyone dropped to the ground. On the dais, several men-at-arms flopped out of their chairs, spilled their wine, and genuflected in the sticky puddles.
“Mine servants. I ask, have you lost your meager senses?”
Sygne at least kept her head up. She could see that Sessuk was still standing. And Yur sat straighter in his chair. The voice seemed to come from the statues at the back of the courtyard, but also from the large resonant bell above the glowing pool. Or perhaps from behind the palace. It came from everywhere at once.
Then an orb of flame appeared floating in the air between Sessuk and Yur. It was the color of blood dropped in crystalline spring water. Here and there, the edges of the orb turned dark red and magenta. In other places the color wavered in frills of pink. Sometimes the orb resembled a mutating flower more than a ball of flame. No matter what its shape, the apparition was deeply disturbing. Its light was soft, and yet Sygne’s eyes watered as she stared at it.
The air shimmered around the orb, and through the scintillations a body began to take shape. Slender arms. Shapely legs. A tapered neck and a beautiful face with hair that flowed around it, as if underwater. The orb of magenta flame was still set like a molten core in the woman’s chest. Its light radiated out from her center and made it hard to focus. Was the woman nude? Was she clothed in flame? Or was she sheathed in a formfitting gossamer gown? Sygne’s mind couldn’t quite take in all of her beauty. Only one thing on the woman remained constant: a naked short-sword that hung like a pendant from a girdle at her hips.
It was Bliss, the Issulthraqi love goddess. Sygne knew this instantly.
Growing up in the Academy at Albatherra, Sygne had often heard the Mentors say that there were more than enough wonders in the world to inspire awe or fright—that humans didn’t have to resort to superstition to make up new mysteries. But some of her instructors hadn’t left the confines of the Academy in three decades. These days Sygne didn’t have the luxury of denying magic. She had seen it—on the bone-altars of the borderland villages to the east. In the hands of the desert shaman who had chased her from his yurt for teaching children to read. Some Mentors allowed that magic was real, but they stated that believing in deities was a step too far. These Mentors declared that all deities were fakes; they were mortal magicians who were exceptionally charismatic and skilled at creating illusions. There was no such thing as a higher being with the ability to warp space and inflict its will on the human mind—no such thing as a living being that would not eventually succumb to the universal law of entropy.
But at that moment, Sygne was struck speechless with the certainty that Bliss was both undeniably real and intimately known to her. The goddess’s voice was like a finger coaxed into her ear. Bliss spoke primarily to Yur, but Sygne could feel the power of her words thrumming down into the marrow of her bones.
“Do mine ears hear blasphemy?” Bliss asked. “Proclaimed so boldly, among so many?” With a ripple of light, the goddess’s face changed. Darkened. Her nose became flatter. Did Sygne see a crown of feathers protruding from her head? In the next second, the crown was gone. “I am your goddess of passion, everywhere and everlasting. What other wonders do you need? I demand an answer, ungrateful Yur.”
Sessuk made a show of being humbled by this question, even though it wasn’t directed at him. He bloused out his robe before kneeling before the goddess. Yur, amazingly, seemed unimpressed.
“I am merely curious,” he said. “I have sacrificed much to obtain this Ancient One for the Pantheon. I want to see what it is that makes the Kritans so reverent.”
“These are low people, I say. Brought too quickly into our fold. I hear them speak reverently of foul bottom-feeders. False gods. And yet mine confusion grows—you choose to believe their foolishness over our Divine Truth?”
“I have faith in the ‘Divine Truth,’” Yur said without much enthusiasm. “Everywhere and everlasting.”
The orb of flame in the goddess’s chest flared, as if it had been stoked. Bliss’ anger was made manifest in her physical state, which shimmered like a heat-mirage around the fiery light at her core. “And yet I see you overstep your bounds, servant. You forget your place.”
Sygne had noticed that the resonance of Bliss’ voice was particularly intense when she spoke the words ‘I’ or ‘mine.’ Bliss said the words often, and at those moments the air buzzed around Sygne’s ears. The buzz carried an undeniable thunder of warning, but also there was a sort of symphonic tone to the way Bliss drew out the sounds. ‘I’ and ‘mine’ were obviously her favorite words, and she used them as both a threat and a narcissistic self-soother.
“I have forgotten nothing.” Yur leaned forward, speaking with slow, casual disdain. “Name one Issulthraqi who has done more for the Fabled Pantheon… I am a very rich man, with a very big estate, and yet I’ve slept in a tent on desert rocks for the last three years. No one has sacrificed more than I have. Goats. Oxen. My third wife.”
“I say you endeavor for your own glory.”
Yur shrugged. “I don’t hear other gods questioning my motives. I only hear appreciation for my results. I’ve added hundreds of miles of new, fertile lands to the Empire.” He pointed to the statue towering over the far end of the courtyard. “And scores of new churches and totems where mortals will offer tributes to your beauty.”
Bliss glanced contemptuously at her newly appropriated likeness. “That mangled hunk of stone is no tribute to mine beauty.” As if to prove this point, her body shifted into new shapes. Her ample hips expanded, growing wider and fuller until she was almost spherically fecund. Then, as quickly as they expanded, her hips retracted to waifish proportions. At the same time her face continue to pass through phases, growing rounder, then more angular.
The only thing that stayed immutable was Bliss’ short-sword. Sygne remembered that it was called Heart-Piercer, and she felt her own heart flutter as Bliss brandished the blade so that it flashed in the light coming from her chest. Palpable waves of anger rippled out from the goddess. Sygne felt them in her gut, and her body quivered through surges of nausea.
Yur sat squarely in the riptide of that divine fury. How was it possible that he was not yet doubled over? Then she remembered the rumors that Yur had been blessed with invulnerability from magical attacks by the king of the Issulthraqi gods, Superiority.
Bliss sneered. “Mine promise to you, oh smug servant—you will regret this impious display.”
Yur’s mouth curved into a shape like a newly strung bow. “We will see about that.”
All around the stage, Issulthraqis were crawling on hands and knees in a torturous getaway from the goddess. Sygne felt lightheaded. Dizzy. Her heart flitted like a wounded bird in her chest. She realized she felt lovesick. According to her Mentors, lovesickness wasn’t supposed to be a real thing, but suddenly it was hard to deny that some unreal things did exist. In fact, Sygne half expected Bliss to use her powers to prove that Ramyya’s ‘thing-love’ was real.
Sygne closed her eyes and lowered her forehead to the ground. She moaned; it was the only thing she could do to alleviate her discomfort. She rocked back and forth, hands over her belly, and hoped against hope that the goddess would hurry up and kill Yur. It seemed only right. He was only a low, filthy mortal…
Then Sygne realized the throb in her chest was gone. She rose to her knees. Other people were doing the same, all emerging from various states of confusion and dishevelment.
Bliss had vanished. She had come to impart a warning to Yur, and now she was gone.
The conqueror smiled casually, as if he had just dismissed some meddlesome aunt,
not an angry deity who could defy the laws of nature.
“Come,” he said to Sessuk. “Wake this Firstspawn and let me see what it offers.”
Sessuk asked, “Are you sure you want to proceed? The goddess…”
Yur simply nodded.
“Then let’s introduce the oblation candidates!” Sessuk motioned to the guards and prisoners, huddled together on the floor. The prisoners stood before their keepers did. One of them turned and tugged his guard by his halberd until he rose to his feet.
Sessuk announced to the crowd. “Remember. Only one oblation can be chosen for the Ceremony of Transfixion.”
The white-garbed prisoners strolled to the center of the stage and stood placidly as Yur surveyed them. Sessuk introduced the tallest man first. “If you are looking for a vicarious thrill, then your choice should be Onnir the Unstoppable. He is one of Krit’s finest gladiators—a hellion with a whip and sword, with twenty lethal victories to his name.”
Sessuk prodded the hard muscles on the prisoner’s arms. “Onnir is a true champion of the sand pits, and a once-in-a-lifetime oblation.”
Sygne watched the man in the white tunic, and she didn’t doubt Sessuk’s words. There was a hardness to Onnir’s face, and his eyes glinted like weaponry.
Sessuk pointed to the second prisoner—a wizened old man with gnarled hands and a stooped back. “This is our finest scholar-oblation,” Sessuk said. “Fazzin is aged and wise, but not yet senile. He has been reading and studying in libraries throughout Embhra for thirty-seven years, always knowing that one day he would be asked to pass that wisdom on through Transfixion. That day will be today, if you so choose. He is your second oblation.”
The third prisoner was a petite young woman in a sheer white shift. “And this is the Princess Ilona. Yes, she is of royal lineage, but her mother was a concubine. She is not a part of the Kritan line of succession. At the age of two, Ilona was devoted to the path of oblation. She has lived her entire life expecting to commune with the Dweller Under Dreams one day. If you are interested in the most luxurious of experiences, then Princess Ilona would be an excellent choice.”
The crowd was recomposing itself. A few women in short Issulthraqi tunics (like Sygne’s) touched their hands to their chests and whispered coyly to each other. They were quite enamored with Onnir. What had Sessuk meant when he said Onnir would be a good choice for a vicarious thrill? She felt like the only person in the palace who didn’t understand what was happening.
Yur was silent for a long time, staring at Ilona. Sessuk interjected, “My deepest apologies, General. There were other male luxuriants, but we had them killed upon your order that no male successors were to be left alive.”
“You have done well, Sessuk,” Yur said. “I will give you my decision. First of all, why would I choose to experience the life of another warrior? Blood sport—as invigorating as it is to watch—is still just a game. Victory in war is something else entirely.” Yur gazed at the second prisoner. “And despite what I might have said to Bliss, I am not curious enough to waste tonight’s ceremony on a pursuit of wisdom.”
“I understand, General. Perhaps I can—”
“But the young princess… She intrigues me very much. Obviously she has led a life that I have not. I am curious to know what she has seen. What she has tasted. What she has felt. She will make a most stimulating choice.”
The young woman had been standing like a statue, but now a momentary tremor passed across her face. Sygne suspected that Yur had seen the same thing; the General licked his lips.
Sessuk blinked. “An excellent choice, General.”
“Tell me, Sessuk, what exactly will happen here this evening?”
“Of course. First let me explain about the Dweller Under Dreams. All of the Firstspawn take different forms, varied and indescribable. A mortal risks insanity if he peers upon an Ancient One with his naked eyes. For this reason, very few men have seen the Dweller Under Dreams and returned in a state to tell the tale.
“But the Dweller lives very close—in the basalt caves under this very palace. And there have been men who have descended to the Dweller’s lair and returned to describe it.” Sessuk thrust his arms out and drew as wide of a circle as he could in the air before him. “They say that the Dweller is a spherical creature—an orb—with a surface anatomy that is both magnificent and appalling. Imagine, if you dare, a terrible eye that sees in all directions at once. Backward and forward through time. Through the tiniest gaps in our pores, and past the most abysmal corners of the cosmos. The Dweller’s lines of sight go everywhere, as straight as needles that can penetrate every iota of existence—both what we see now and what we have seen. It is said that the quills of the Dweller’s gaze are so long and sharp that they jabbed pinpricks into the very heavens, and those are the stars we see in the night sky.
“Every day, every moment, we walk through these quills, but they are of ethereal materials so rarefied that our physical bodies pass straight through them. In fact, at this very moment all of us are probably transfixed by hundreds of the Dweller’s quills. They are invisible and intangible to mortals. But we have learned that when the Great Bell,” Sessuk nodded to the bronze bell looming over the pool, “vibrates the azure water of the Pool of Transfixion, the hundreds of needles passing through that water become corporeal. An oblation who is submerged in the pool at that time will be pierced by the Dweller’s quills—and die a most sublime death, communing instantly with the primeval mysteries of the First Times.”
The princess filled her lungs with a deep breath, and seemed to center herself. To Sygne, she looked like a student preparing for a major exam. Her religion had probably taught her that dying in this pool was a beautiful thing—a high honor.
Sygne took her own deep breath. No wonder the prisoners’ chains were made out of soft gold; they were there for ceremonial purposes—to add a touch of glittering sadism to the proceedings. She’d been right to fear that this was a human sacrifice. And whether Princess Ilona had been indoctrinated or not, her death would still be an atrocity.
Was there something she could do now to help this poor girl?
Sessuk continued, “When Princess Ilona is transfixed, her essence is transfixed as well. Her memories, her joys, her desires, even her sorrows. They will be suffused into the needles of the Dweller Under Dreams.” Sessuk turned to the girl and raised his voice to ask, “Princess Ilona, do you agree to share your essence with the people gathered here today?”
Yur had the princess locked in his gaze, and Ilona did not look away as she solemnly nodded. “It would be my greatest honor to commune with the Dweller Under Dreams. I will be happy to join my brothers and sisters in the underworld.” She squinted at the General. “I care not what heathens take advantage of my bodily remains once I am gone.”
Yur burst out laughing. “Good! Good! I am very happy with this choice. She has quite a spirit. I look forward to seeing her…” Yur flexed his hands, grasping for the right word, “…perforated. And once she’s filled with quills, I’ll have to stick myself with those quills in order to experience her memories?”
“Yes,” Sessuk said. “For each pin you use, you will experience just one memory. But it will be an important memory. A pivotal moment. And a vivid experience.”
Yur ran his tongue across his lips and nodded to the princess. “So vivid that I’ll believe I am a skinny little girl?” The captains behind Yur all laughed and elbowed each other, but Yur didn’t appear to be jesting.
“Yes… You will.”
“Excellent,” Yur said. “Most excellent. Then let’s see it.”
Sessuk announced, “Let the transfixion begin!”
The crowd roared. Sessuk made a showman’s retreat from the stage, bowing and gesturing to a team of attendants as he backed away. Twelve Kritan maidens rushed to fill the stage. They wore robes of white cloth and crowns of needles perched on their heads.
Behind the maidens marched two rows of drummers, a
nd soon Sygne lost track of Princess Ilona among the sea of needled heads. A narrow bridge was extended over the glowing waters of the pool—and under the Great Bell. Ilona re-emerged from the crowd, treading regally across the bridge. A pair of maidens followed behind her.
Princess Ilona turned to the stage. Her face had turned proud, ceremonial. Several attendants had kissed her goodbye, and now those marks of red lip-stain helped to disguise the blush that clung to her cheeks.
The male attendants continued drumming—the tempo growing faster, filling the air. A new team of Kritans appeared in tandem at opposite sides of the pool. They pulled at cranks and lowered a strange apparatus that had been hidden among the webwork of streamers and pennants on the bell’s archway.
It was a prisoner’s rack, glittering busily in the firelight. Like the princess’s restraints, it was also made of gold—or more likely, coated in gold. It was constructed with a stout central framework and two bits of scaffolding that protruded from the center like arms. When the rack was low enough, Princess Ilona stepped close and her two attendants clamped her manacles to the scaffolding. One last set of fetters went around the princess’s neck. The attendants had to unhook the chain and yank it tight.
The drummers had worked the crowd into a frenzy. Kritan maidens swirled across the stage, throwing their heads back and wheeling their arms. The Issulthraqi citizens shrugged to each other and began ecstatically dancing as well.
On the far end of the gyrating crowd, Sygne saw Jamal. He had retreated to a series of steps leading to the grove where she had first met him. In the torchlight, she couldn’t make out his features, but he was standing stiffly with his fists held out at his sides. From his posture, she guessed he felt as uneasy about this as she did.
Human sacrifice.
