Ricardo Pinto - The Third God

Carnelian’s heart misgave at that word.

‘She asked that you should bring the Lord Suth with you.’

‘She expects us to walk defenceless into her trap?’

The sybling bowed his misshapen head. Carnelian saw a trail of spots leading down the first few steps. He crouched and reached out to touch one. He expected it to be wet and was surprised when it felt like skin. He pinched the thing up, brought it to the nose holes of his mask. Inhaled. Rose. He extended his hand into the light. The petal sat in his palm like a wound. He looked again at the petals on the steps that still seemed like a trail of blood. The well was exuding from its black throat the odour of blood. The hackles rose on his neck. Was this the well that had so often haunted his dreams? He glanced back at the Pillar of Heaven remembering the stair that had taken him to his first meeting with Osidian. In his gut he knew it was his fate to descend into its depths. Even though what lay down there might be his mortal enemy and his own certain death. ‘I think we should go.’

Osidian’s mask turned to him, imperious. ‘Even after what happened last night?’

‘I am certain she will be alone.’ Carnelian was. Ykoriana would want no witnesses for what she was going to say.

‘You saw this in a dream?’

In so many dreams, Carnelian thought, but said: ‘Trust me.’

Osidian’s gold face regarded him impassively. ‘Very well.’ He raised the lantern, perhaps to check it had enough oil.

‘Light is forbidden-’ the sybling began, but Osidian cut him off with a harsh gesture. He passed the lantern to Carnelian, then commanded two of the Sinistrals to give him their swords. Taking them, he offered one to Carnelian, who shook his head. Osidian handed back the unwanted sword, then muttered some instructions to Morunasa. Carnelian set his foot on the top of the stair and, holding the lantern out so that its light fell on the next few steps, he began the descent. As he followed the wall of the well round, he glanced back to make sure Osidian was following him. A grating sound made him aware the slab was being pulled over the opening.

‘We will not be coming back this way,’ Osidian said.

Carnelian suppressed a thrill of panic as the last rind of the dark sky was eclipsed by the stone. Then he resumed the descent, their footfalls having acquired a disturbing echo.

The steps spiralled them down, down into the blackness. Fearing his sight dangerously impaired by the eyeslits through which he was peering, Carnelian removed his mask and hung it at his waist. A moist exhalation rising up from the depths made his skin clammy. The air was thick with the odour of spilled blood. Carnelian put his hand out to touch the wall. It was gritty, slimy. He brought his fingers to his nose.

‘Rust,’ said Osidian.

Carnelian glanced up and saw he too had unmasked. He watched Osidian squinting into the blackness below.

‘If you were going to your Apotheosis, I would be going to my death.’

Osidian focused on Carnelian’s face and he frowned. ‘Go on.’

Carnelian resumed the descent, each step taking him closer to his doom. Notions flitted through his head: of murder and becoming a god; of despair and a striving for absolution.

Down and further down they went. The breeze from below slowly died. It grew hotter until their robes were clinging to their skin. It became harder to breathe. The lantern flame was guttering.

At last they reached the ground and saw a tunnel leading off into blackness. As they moved into it, their hackles rose: shapes were following them. Carnelian convinced himself they were only reflections given feverish life by the pulsing flame. Then the light died and they were in blackness. They came to a halt. The only sounds in the world were their breathing and his own heartbeat. The blackness was smothering. A touch on his hand made him recoil.

‘Just me,’ Osidian whispered.

Carnelian let his hand fall, questing in the darkness for Osidian’s. Their fingers found each other. They crept forward, hand in hand.

Ahead, beyond the end of the tunnel, was what appeared to be a clot of blood glowing. Carnelian and Osidian slowed, unsure of what it was they were approaching. Osidian slipped his hand free of Carnelian’s as they advanced. He raised his mask to set it before his face. Reluctantly, Carnelian copied him and was glad when its slits subdued the glare.

They emerged into open space, both still mesmerized by the mass of redness. This was surmounted by a halo of darker red. Crusted and ridged, like a dried puddle of blood, at whose centre was a face of gold, so beautiful it stopped Carnelian’s breath.

‘Mother,’ said Osidian, coming to a halt at the entrance to the tunnel, half emerging into the light, half remaining in shadow. His mask fell with his hand, exposing his pallid face. Carnelian registered the movement, but his attention could not long be diverted from the scarlet apparition. She was clothed in rose petals. A countless number of them sewn together in drifts, each like a tiny gouge of bloodied skin. The whole robe seemed almost to bleed, in contrast to the deathly, perfect mask that sat above it.

‘My son,’ the mask said, in a rich, melodious voice. The jewelled halo flashed and coruscated as Ykoriana gave Osidian a nod. ‘Carnelian,’ she said, giving another nod.

The rose robe whispered, tore red, shedding petals as she raised an arm. A porcelain hand emerged and formed a gesture of invitation. Drawn by its command they both stepped further into the light. Carnelian raised his mask as a screen, breaking the compulsion of fascination long enough to be able to look up and round. They were emerging from an opening set into a staircase that rose precipitously, lit with lamps, to a great height. On either side tiers shelved off into the gloom. He was becoming aware of the vastness of the cavern they were entering when a flash of light momentarily illuminated its entirety for a moment. An immense space backed with a ladder of tiers set with stone seats. A dull rumble caused the world to quiver as he looked down. He waited until another flash revealed the Plain of Thrones below. They were standing in the Pyramid Hollow. When the darkness returned, the only thing he could see out there was, far away, something like a star fallen burning to the earth.

‘On your head is all the destruction, all the deaths, even among the Chosen,’ Osidian said, pointing to the fallen star. Carnelian regarded the point of light. It was located near the rim of the Plain of Thrones, where the Chosen dead had been carried. That light was likely a pyre made from the palanquins that had brought them there. He remembered other pyres.

He dropped his mask and gazed once more upon Ykoriana. She towered above them; no doubt she stood on ranga. Her robe gave off an intoxicating perfume.

‘I played my part in the destruction of the Balance, but let us not pretend, my Lord, I brought it down alone.’

‘My part in it was also your doing, Madam,’ snarled Osidian, his sword rising in his hand so that Carnelian feared he might impale his mother. ‘You snatched from me what was rightly mine.’

‘I too have lost much, had much taken away from me,’ said Ykoriana, oblivious to the blade aimed at her. Carnelian remembered that she was blind.

‘The Chosen chose me to become the Gods. What you did was a crime, a sin.’

The jewelled halo winked and ran with light as it jerked back. Ykoriana laughed. ‘A sin? You turn the world upside down to right a wrong committed against you and that is perfectly justifiable but, when I act against the wrongs done to me, you name that a sin.’

The point of Osidian’s sword slowly fell. Carnelian was relieved. He gazed up at Ykoriana’s face of gold trying to work out what it was he felt. Whatever it was, he did not want her slain there, now, in cold blood.