Ricardo Pinto - The Third God

With his back to the Forbidden Door, Carnelian gazed over the Black Field. Its nearest portion, lit by thousands of campfires, was made to appear a vast pebbled beach by the backs of the huimur. Beyond, squatting in the darkness, were the barbarians and their children spending one last night together without even the cheer of a fire. How long had he and Fern and his people had to wait for them to scuffle past? Long enough for hearts to grow heavy as stones, and legs to grow unsteady. Carnelian had made an attempt to have his people sit and wait it out but when he and Fern stayed standing so did they. When, at last, that miserable procession had ceased, they had followed the stragglers round, walking on the carpet of blue flames ammonites laid before them. They had skirted the Black Field with its sea of heads walled in by dragons, had endured the murmurous fear, the cries of the children, the weeping, the moaning bleak comfort of their mothers. Down the whole long side of that crowd they had walked, between the dragons and the Cages of the Tithe until, at last, beneath the malevolent gaze of the colossi, they had reached the Forbidden Door.

Carnelian turned from the outer darkness to regard the black maw of the Labyrinth tunnel with loathing, then, taking Fern’s hand, he led his people into its throat.

In the centre of the vast bed, Carnelian and Fern clung to each other like survivors of a shipwreck. They might as well have been upon a raft afloat on a dark, forbidding ocean. Having passed through gates and antechambers they had been glad finally to be able to close themselves away in this echoing chamber.

Carnelian stared blindly past Fern’s shoulder into the darkness. He was remembering their long journey from the Forbidden Door, carrying in their hearts the misery they had left behind. Then that blinking emergence into a world of light. A miraculous field of stars spread away into the remote glooms of the Labyrinth by myriad lamps. Glowing pavilions hung from the columns like morning-dewed webs. He had recognized this as another Encampment of the Seraphim, though grander than the one he had witnessed in the Halls of Thunder. Indeed it resembled a stopping place, seen from afar, but if so, one made by angels descending from a midnight sky. Carnelian had seen how awestruck Fern was, how his people gaped who had never beheld such a spectacle before. When the Quenthas elected to lead them instead of the Ichorian guides, they had followed the sisters as if in a dream.

As they wound their way through the field of lights, the vision had soured. In the gloom around the feet of the pavilions, slaves huddled over lurid braziers, turning their faces furtively to watch them pass, some grovelling, others throwing themselves face down upon the ground. Above them, through the membranes of patterned silk, immense shadow Masters seemed to be caught in the act of pupating into monsters. Higher still rose the appallingly massive sepulchres that glowered down at them as the colossi in the Plain of Thrones were doing upon the miserable tributaries. It had been a relief to cross the Mirror Moat, then make the dizzying climb up the fiery steps of the Shimmering.

When they had reached the torn-down gate, they had turned their backs upon the Encampment that, from that height, had once more transformed into a dreamy vision, to enter the vastnesses of the Halls of Rebirth. A world more sombrely lit, haunted by sinister pillars of perfumed mist that drifted like ghosts through the endless halls. Everything moved, slowly, evolving. Everywhere countless aspects, bewildering: like trying to piece together a view from reflections caught in the flying fragments of a shattering mirror.

In the bed, Carnelian tightened the curl of their bodies. His heart quickened. He knew he must confess to Fern the decision he had made about the part he intended to play in the next day’s ritual. Would Fern understand? Carnelian recalled the almost childlike expression of hope that had come over Fern’s face when first he beheld the Labyrinth. He was sure that in its vaulted gloom Fern had seen some semblance of the mother trees and a yearning for the world he had lost. Heart aching, Carnelian felt sick with the misery that the one he loved might never be truly happy in Osrakum.

Osidian was beside the opening of the well that was the beginning of the Path of Blood. He looked up and Carnelian detected a change in the cast of his shoulders as he glanced past him to Fern. Carnelian gestured Fern and the rest of his entourage to halt and advanced alone towards Osidian. He opened his hand and offered him back the blood-ring Osidian had sent with his summons as a sign it truly came from him.

Osidian took it, frowning. ‘After today, I will have no need of this.’

Carnelian nodded, understanding. That ring would become a lie once ichor flowed untainted in the new God Emperor’s veins. Carnelian’s gaze took in Osidian’s guard in its new splendour. Marula, already forged into Ichorian collars of silver. Wearing breastplates of bronze. Shrouded in cloaks of silk patterned in green and black.

‘They look handsome, do they not?’ said Osidian.

Carnelian agreed with his hand, recalling the thought he had had the first time he set eyes upon Marula: that they were like the Chosen reflected in a mirror of obsidian.

‘For the moment they wear the heraldry of the Sinistrals, but I have a notion to adorn them with scarlet. The colour would complement their skin. Does it not seem apropos to you, Carnelian, that they should combine the heraldry of both Ichorians?’

Again, Carnelian agreed.

‘As today the Two are to be combined in my person, so shall the Ichorians of the left and right’ – Osidian held his hands palm up – ‘merge into a single Guard.’ He brought his hands together, meshing his fingers.

Carnelian could see how the tattooed halves of the old Ichorians could be seen to find union in the black skin of the Marula.

Osidian regarded the warriors. ‘From these, the Wise will make me syblings.’ There was a glint in his eyes. ‘Imagine how elegantly sombre such specimens would be, encased in iron.’

Unease arose in Carnelian. ‘But you will help them rebuild the ladder down to the Lower Reach.’

Osidian made a gesture of dismissal. ‘We shall send an expedition to retrieve from their land enough of their females to ensure an adequate breeding population here.’

‘But what of your promise to Morunasa?’

‘I have told him it is already too late. Their land is dying. Their only hope of survival is here. They will come to accept this soon enough. Why should they not? How could their noisome jungles compare to sacred Osrakum?’

Carnelian felt there was doubt caged within Osidian’s certainty. ‘But what of Morunasa. What of his god?’ Almost Carnelian had said: What of your god?

Osidian’s face took on a brittle cast. ‘I have told him he and all his people can worship me. For is the Black Twin not the very same god they worshipped in the Isle of Flies?’ His face betrayed something of the distaste Carnelian felt and a shadow of suffering seemed to be nesting under Osidian’s brows. ‘And is He not about to be poured into me?’

In Osidian’s crazed eyes there was something of a child seeking reassurance. Carnelian gave a nod in spite of his misgivings. For a moment he teetered on the edge of despair. The solid ground of their agreement, of his hopes, seemed to be crumbling beneath his feet. He suppressed a desire to turn and find Fern. It was enough to know he was there. Enough that his people were in Osrakum. It was here the fate of millions would be determined. He had to cleave to the heart of power to do what he could to save as many as he could.