Ian Irvine: Tribute to Hell

She did not die; she felt no pain at all, but the lid would not close and now the casket was bouncing and tumbling beneath her as the altar shook ever more wildly. Astatine tried to hold it, sobbing with terror, but the outside was slippery with soot. She looked into the open casket and froze.

K’nacka arrested in mid-air, plump legs swinging ten feet above her. Where is the Covenant? he wailed, then vanished.

Astatine let go. The casket snapped shut and the deadly nimbus reappeared.

Fistus, whose eyes had not left the tumbling god-bone, caught it left-handed. ‘Abbess Hildy is behind this sacrilege,’ he said to his guards. ‘You know what to do.’

Roget raised his hand, the candle flames pinched out, and Astatine bolted. She had broken her oath and let down her god. After she told the abbess, she would be cast out.

Greave pounded through the maze into the forest beyond, running until the full horror of his defeat caught up with him, when he slumped onto the mouldy leaves. There was no way back this time.

‘Fistus knew we were coming,’ said Roget, panting. ‘He was waiting for the god-bone.’

‘I’ve been manipulated from the beginning,’ said Greave.

‘Don’t blame Providence for your own flaws! We’d better get moving,’

‘What’s the point? I’ve lost everything.’

Not yet. But you will if you let me down again.

Greave felt that icy finger again, though this time K’nacka was ten yards away, perched on a low branch. His belly was shrunken to a pot, his plump cheeks sagged and his eyes darted like rats pursued by a ferret. But he was still a god; he could snuff out Greave’s little sister with a snap of his pudgy fingers.

‘What must I do, Lord?’ said Greave.

The casket was empty. The novice must have stolen the contents for the abbess. She has insulted the Seven Gods and profaned our High Temple. Swear that you will recover the contents then burn the abbey, with everyone inside it, as a sacrifice to me.

Greave felt sick. He too had insulted a god; he too had profaned the temple, and whether he committed this terrible crime or not, he was also going to die.

Swear, on your sister’s life.

He hesitated no longer. His sister was all he had left. Besides, how could he oppose the will of a god? ‘I swear.’

When Greave reached the abbey he discovered Astatine in its chapel, kneeling before the icons of the Seven Gods in the semi-dark and praying, with quiet desperation, for forgiveness. Exhaustion had temporarily quieted his lust, so he half-shuttered his lantern and examined her sidelong. He could not allow the curse to freeze her until he learned the truth.

She looked young, innocent and afraid, and his heart went out to her, but he hardened it. Astatine had claimed that she wanted to prevent his sacrilege, then had committed a worse one. She was a liar and a thief, and the choice between her life and his little sister’s was no choice at all.

‘Where is it, Novice?’

She jumped. ‘Where’s what?’

‘Whatever was in the casket.’

She wrung her interlocked fingers. ‘It was empty save for some flakes of ash.’

‘Liar! It can only be opened with a god-bone.’

‘Someone must have opened it with a different god-bone.’

‘If they had, it would not have opened for mine.’

Greave searched her, roughly, knowing he was hurting her, though she maintained a stoic silence, her gaze fixed on the icons. He found nothing, though of course she was only a novice. The abbess would have the contents now.

He picked up the lantern but put it down again. He had sworn to torch the abbey, and could not defy his god, but neither could he bear to think of the little novice being burned alive. Far better that she die swiftly and painlessly here.

As he drew his knife, Astatine turned towards him. Frost had formed all over her, yet her eyes were unflinching in the face of death and it shook him, for he could not have done the same. He cursed; though he was a heartless seducer and a blasphemous oath-breaker, he was not a murderer.

In a frenzy of despair he slashed his chest, spilling his blood before the icons. It was the best sacrifice he could make, though he knew it would not appease K’nacka. He was standing over Astatine, his blood dripping from the knife, when the abbess opened the door.

‘And I thought you’d already plumbed the depths.’

The Abbess’s voice dripped contempt; evidently she thought he had killed the novice. Hildy limped across and struck at him with her cane, but as he turned to protect himself she stumbled and his knife slid into her side.

Greave felt such a pain that the blade might have pierced his own flesh, but he fought it down. The god had given him an order and he had to obey. ‘Where are the contents of the casket?’

‘I swear by the Seven Gods that the casket was empty,’ said Hildy, holding a hand to the wound. ‘Now get out!’

As Greave stumbled away, his lantern shaking, Hildy pulled Astatine close. ‘Listen carefully. I’ve had another vision, a worse one.’

The smell of blood was overpowering; unless the bleeding was stopped, the abbess would die. ‘Please, Hildy, sit down. Let me bind the wound.’ Astatine tore a strip from her habit and pressed it against the gash.

‘Hush, little sister; it’s too late for me, but the fate of Hightspall lies in the balance and only you can save it.’

‘I’m just a novice. I don’t know anything.’

‘You’re the one person I can trust.’

And yet you’re throwing me out. ‘W-what did you see?’

In the gloom, Hildy’s old face was a crumpled rag, her eyes dying embers. ‘A dreadful Covenant between K’nacka and Behemoth, the Prince of Perdition — ’

Astatine cried out in disbelief, for Behemoth hated the gods and everything she believed in. But then she remembered K’nacka shouting, Where is the Covenant? ‘Abbess, K’nacka and Behemoth are the bitterest of enemies — aren’t they ?’

‘Oh, yes. Eternal enemies.’

The pad was red with blood. Astatine dropped it and made another. ‘What does the Covenant say?’

‘I dare not speak the words. Only K’nacka and Behemoth know where it is hidden, but if it is ever revealed, it will be the end of the gods.’

That thought was unimaginable; abandonment multiplied a thousand times. ‘The gods are almighty and everlasting,’ Astatine chanted.

‘If only they were,’ Hildy whispered.

‘Abbess?’ said Astatine, alarmed now.

‘Why do you think Hightspall has grown so wicked and depraved these past twenty years; why no one cares any more?’

Because of the corruption I carry inside me, Astatine wanted to say, but that would only earn her another slap. ‘Hightspall is the last island left of the old Empire, and the ice is coming to end us.’

‘Stupid girl! It’s got nothing to do with the ice. The balance has been tilted — the gods are waning, while Perdition grows ever stronger and, if this Covenant is revealed, must soon topple Elyssian.’

Astatine could not come to terms with such talk. The gods had always dwelt in Elyssian, and they were eternal. ‘What can I do?’

‘You must find this wicked Covenant and, without reading it, destroy it. Swear that you will do so.’

‘Please don’t make me leave the abbey.’ Astatine felt as though she was being torn apart.

‘By the morning, there will be no abbey.’

The pain grew so bad that she struggled to think clearly. ‘But … what if I can’t find the Covenant?’

‘You must swear,’ said Hildy, becoming so agitated that blood surged through the pad.

‘I–I swear.’

Outside, people were shouting. Weapons clashed and Astatine heard the roar of fire. She ran to a window, then back to the abbess. ‘It’s the Red Monks. Fistus is burning the abbey.’