Simon Toyne - The Key

‘Why is it so tidy here?’

‘These are the oldest remains in the ossuary — the first prelates of the mountain. Their great age has caused them to crumble almost to dust, which can drift away on the slightest breath. It was decided by an order of council that their remains should be protected.’

‘When was this?’

‘Around ten years ago.’

Gabriel nodded. Ten years too late. ‘Is there anyone else who comes down here?’

‘Only the Sanctus novitiate. As part of their preparation for office, each apprentice spends time here, contemplating their position as the latest link in an unbroken line stretching back to the very beginning. These catacombs are effectively a giant reliquary and the bones of the prelates are relics themselves, sanctified by long proximity to the ultimate relic of all — the Sacrament. As these are the remains of the very first prelates, the founding fathers of the Citadel, they are the most sacred of all. That is why the novices come here to pray.’

This explained how Oscar had managed to smuggle the Starmap here in the first place. He had been apprenticed to the order of the Sancti before he had escaped. He could have brought it here and hidden it during his silent devotions, safe in the knowledge that few others ever ventured here. Until they decided to tidy the place up.

‘Would there be any record of these renovations?’

‘All works are catalogued and kept in the archives of the great library. But the library is still closed. I could probably gain access, but not until after Matins at the earliest, and it won’t be straightforward. The archives are huge.’

Gabriel let out a frustrated sigh, remembering the sliver of moon he had seen through the huge cave window, getting imperceptibly smaller with each passing hour. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his iPhone. ‘Time is the one thing we don’t have,’ he said, tapping it and handing it over to Athanasius. The screensaver was a photograph of the page in Oscar’s diary containing the Mirror Prophecy. Athanasius took it and started to read.

The air in the cathedral cave tasted sweet after the decay of the crypt.

‘We’d better hurry,’ Athanasius said, moving towards the main door, ‘the devotional rota will be changing soon and the corridors will not be so empty. I’ll take you back a quicker way.’

They retraced their steps through the winding maze of the mountain, cutting corners here and there, taking them past dormitories of snoring monks and private chapels where others prayed. Gabriel hung back as before, his head bowed low, his cowl covering his face, distancing himself from Athanasius in case they were stopped. They had almost made it back to the tribute cave when they both heard it — a low moan, rolling through the darkness like the tortured cries of a trapped animal. They stopped and listened to it rising in intensity before quickly ebbing away. Then they heard footsteps. In the echoing confines of the tunnel it was impossible to tell which direction they were coming from. Gabriel sank into the shadows of a doorway and felt for his gun as a figure in a red robe appeared behind him and swept past towards Athanasius.

‘You must come with me,’ the monk said.

‘Come where?’

‘The infirmary. Brother Simenon ordered me to find you. He says it’s urgent.’

Another chilling moan rose up from somewhere deep in the mountain. ‘Very well,’ Athanasius replied. ‘I was just on my way up these stairs to drop the new rota off at the tribute cave, but I suppose that can wait.’

Gabriel pressed himself against the upright of the door and watched the red-cloaked monk escort Athanasius away down the passage, taking the meagre light of his oil lamp with them. In the utter blackness he listened to their fading footsteps until they had melted into silence then stepped back into the corridor and carried on the way they had been heading. He palmed the torch from his pocket and twisted it on, smothering most of the light with his hand. Up ahead he could see a stone staircase branching off from the main tunnel, hopefully the ones Athanasius’s cryptic instruction had alluded to.

After a few minutes of climbing he felt cold night air flowing from his left and followed it all the way to the tribute cave. He stripped out of the monk’s cassock, left it folded on a low shelf and headed to the edge of the hatch. He hooked the bell rope with a length of construction timber stacked in one of the storage bays. His arms were still heavy and weak, but at least gravity would be on his side this time. He slipped the gloves back on and hauled on the rope to take the tension.

He had climbed up here hoping to find a map that would lead them to a sacred and ancient ending. He was leaving with nothing more than the slimmest of hopes that Athanasius might pick up the cold trail, somewhere in the archives. Gabriel looked out into the moonlit night, knowing that Liv was out there somewhere. He had promised he would not let her down, yet he had consistently failed. He had not been able to protect her, and he had not managed to find the one thing that might ensure her deliverance from the prophetic sequence she was locked in. With this thought weighing him down he wrapped the rope round his leg and stepped off the platform, slipping into the night like a man slowly being hanged.

By the time Athanasius reached the stairway leading to the infirmary, the sound he had heard in the upper section of the mountain had turned into a chorus of the damned. It grew louder with every step until it took all his nerve to continue his descent towards it. He could hear ragged words in the noise now, words of lament and pity, with ‘forgive me’ being the most repeated.

He was met at the bottom of the stairs by a guard wearing a white surgical mask that stood out against the raised cowl of his red cassock. Another masked guard stood by the door to the main ward — the place where all the noise was coming from. As Athanasius drew closer the guard held a mask out for him and watched in silence as he put it on. Only then did he step up to the door and knock on it loud enough to be heard above the din. There was the sound of a bolt being released from inside, then the door began to open.

The scene that greeted Athanasius was a depiction of hell. The eight beds he had seen earlier were now in complete disarray, strewn haphazardly across the floor where the thrashing occupants had shunted them with their violent contortions. Each monk had been stripped to the loincloth and bound to his bed as Brother Gardener had been. All displayed the same symptoms: dense rashes of boils over most of their skin, gouge marks where they had flailed at their flesh before being restrained, and the constant and woeful lamenting that accompanied their suffering.

The loudest cries came from a bed near the door whose occupant had managed somehow to shrug off his restraints and was now clawing at his flesh with his freed hand, dragging his nails across a rash of boils that burst and bled, causing him to howl in a mixture of agony and relief. Two Apothecaria were attempting to pin him down, their blue nitrile gloves struggling to grip on to skin made slick by the brownish liquid that oozed from the burst pustules. A third aimed a syringe at the flailing upper arm, swaying in time to the movement until he finally managed to jab it home. The mask of twisted torment melted away as the sedative took effect, revealing the face of the young, frightened monk Athanasius had seen earlier.

He turned and met Brother Simenon’s eyes, staring at him from the gap between his mask and cowl.

‘All the trees, you said.’

Athanasius nodded. ‘All the trees.’

‘And has the blight returned to the garden?’

Athanasius shook his head. ‘Not the last time it was inspected.’