Ricardo Pinto - The Third God

At some point he became aware of Osidian, black against the gory sun. Carnelian found the will to move. Osidian turned as he approached, the last rays revealing the sadness in his unmasked face. Osidian turned back and Carnelian stood by his side, watching the sun being consumed by the earth. The lake was darkening to a mirror of obsidian whose reflections seemed so real, Carnelian felt for a moment it was the world they inhabited that was the illusion. ‘Tomorrow when we enter Osrakum, I shall accompany my father to our coomb.’

Beside him, Osidian remained as still as a Sapient in his capsule.

‘There are matters there I need to settle. I will return in time for your Apotheosis.’

‘What can be so urgent it cannot wait?’

Carnelian could glean nothing of how Osidian was feeling from his neutral tone. For a moment he considered telling him the secret of his birth. He yearned to reveal his fears, to ask for help, even to be held. But he could not predict Osidian’s reaction and could not risk interference. There was little enough time already in which to make his coomb safe for his people. ‘My father is dying.’

‘If you were any other, I would assume you sought to ensure your smooth succession. Is it that you wish to be there when he dies?’

Carnelian frowned against the thought of his father dying. ‘I want to make my coomb safe for my people.’

Osidian’s head dipped, then turned a little towards Carnelian. ‘I would like you to come into the Labyrinth with me.’

Defiance rose in Carnelian as he anticipated a command.

‘I need you with me when I confront my mother,’ Osidian said, his voice taut, as if at any moment it might snap.

Carnelian’s anger receded. For Osidian to admit need, he must be fragile indeed.

‘You have as much right to be there as I.’

‘Is she not in Jaspar’s coomb?’

‘The Wise tell me she has returned to the Labyrinth.’

Carnelian regarded the filigree of twinkling lights tracing the arms of the City at the Gates and coalescing at its pulsing heart. The Sacred Wall was now a rampart blacker than the night. Beyond it lay Ykoriana and – what? His death? Was that really so certain? A vague, disturbing hope rose in him. It was at the meeting between mother and son that his own fate would be decided. If he was to survive it could only be because Osidian submitted to having his mother put a collar around his neck. To save him, Osidian would have to swallow his bile, become his mother’s creature, probably take her for his wife. Anger stirred in Carnelian. Even if Osidian were prepared to make that sacrifice, could he allow him to do so? For all Osidian’s crimes, Carnelian did not want him to become again a slave. Weariness washed over him. It seemed he had spent more than half his life caught upon a web from which every attempt to break free brought only disaster to others. By living he might achieve uncertain gains, but more solid ones might be purchased with his death. Another pang of hope cheated him of what comfort there was in that acceptance. Becoming confused, he took hold of one grim certainty: the meeting with Ykoriana was where his fate would be decided.

He looked into Osidian’s eyes, all the time fighting down strange, disturbing presentiments. The longing to save his people was something to cling to. ‘Swear upon your blood that if I come with you, you shall do all in your power to facilitate my visit to my coomb before the Apotheosis.’

Osidian made the oath without hesitation. ‘In place of the Ichorians I intend to take our legions into Osrakum. Six others I left behind to herd the surviving sartlar back to the land. The rest of my legions will march with us to the City at the Gates, from where they will return to their fortresses; save only their commanders, who shall remain behind to attend my Apotheosis.’

In the silence that followed, Carnelian was left feeling he should say something. ‘It is good they should be there… all the Chosen must witness it as an act of unity… the better to restore order. ..’

Osidian gave a ragged nod. Carnelian took his leave of him and made for the edge of the platform, seeking to spend what certain time he had left with those he thought of as his family.

Picking his way across the pipes and tubes upon the watch-tower roof, Carnelian stubbed his toe, cursed, slowed, heading for the faint light of the trap that led down into the tower interior. Around him the ribs rose like the trunks of trees, between which stretched the indigo of the darkening sky. One of the ribs gave birth to a form. Carnelian tensed, but it was upon him. He was struck, then he was falling. The odour of the assassin was obscured by the iron welling of his own blood.

Blades sliced in from the darkness. More shadow heads. A burst of foul breath as a cry was cut off. Carnelian swung his arm and hammered bone. A groan of pain in a lighter voice. ‘Seraph, it is us.’ A woman’s voice. Carnelian saw a two-headed silhouette against the night sky. ‘The Quenthas,’ he said, shocked to his core that they had turned on him.

The sisters crouched. ‘The assassin is dead.’

One of the ribs was shuddering as someone heavy was coming rapidly down its staples. A thump as that someone jumped down to the roof. The Quenthas had already turned to meet this new threat, swords slanting back ready.

‘Out of my way, fools.’ Osidian’s voice. The sisters moved aside and he came to kneel at Carnelian’s side. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Carnelian said, pressing his hand against his thigh, the palm sliding on a slick of blood.

Osidian and the sisters helped move him into the light of the naphtha flares. Osidian snatched Carnelian’s hand away from his wound and peered at it. ‘It doesn’t look deep.’

‘I feel fine,’ Carnelian said, stunned at how close he had come again to failing those depending on him. All he could focus on was how his life was the thread upon which hung their fates.

Osidian pulled away, seeming to grow larger. ‘I shall have them flayed.’

‘Who?’ said Carnelian, still confused.

‘The Marula I set to guard this tower.’

‘Celestial, we are certain the assassin was already here.’

Osidian turned on the sisters, who were kneeling, heads bowed. Carnelian realized how close they had come to cutting Osidian down. ‘They saved my life.’

Osidian glanced round at him.

‘We came up after the Seraph,’ said Left-Quentha; her sister indicated Carnelian.

‘No one could have passed us coming up from below.’

‘Fetch some light,’ Osidian growled.

The sisters rose and soon returned, carrying something aflame. Osidian directed them to cast the flickering light over the body of the assassin. One cruel gash through his nose had opened his temple to the skull. Another had sliced down through his shoulder, so that his arm hung at a strange angle. He wore a dark spiralled robe and a silver mask at his belt but, with his stubbled, thin, swarthy face, he was clearly no ammonite.

It was instinct that made Carnelian stoop to pull the purple robe down from the man’s neck. With his other hand he rolled the man’s head away. There it was. The tattoo of a six-spoked wheel.

‘My mother,’ Osidian breathed, sounding surprised.

It was the obvious conclusion, so Carnelian was puzzled at feeling doubt. Osidian was staring at the assassin as if he were a window he could look through. ‘I was the target of this attack, not you.’

‘How could she know you were to spend the night here?’

Osidian threw his hand up in a gesture of irritation. ‘For all we know she may have infested every tower between the battlefield and Osrakum with her assassins.’ The fury in his eyes dimmed. ‘Though it amazes me she would be so inept as to use these scum a third time.’