Ricardo Pinto - The Third God

Osidian was gazing down into the blackness of the Path of Blood. He looked up, agony ageing him. ‘I asked you here to say goodbye. This path I must tread alone.’ His voice was low and tremulous. ‘From this day forward, you shall never again look upon my face.’

Carnelian felt Osidian’s loss and knew some of it was his own. It steadied him. He glanced round. If anything, Fern’s face was grimmer now than when Carnelian had told him what he intended to do. There had been no arguments. Fern would endure this as he had so much else. Carnelian twitched a smile, then, turning back, reached out to touch Osidian’s hand. ‘Not alone.’

From distress, Osidian’s face dissolved into horror. Carnelian grasped his hand. ‘I have not chosen to die.’

‘What then?’

‘I will give of my blood to ensure yours is transubstantiated into ichor.’

Osidian took hold of Carnelian’s hands as if they were all that was stopping him from tumbling into an abyss. He was trembling, tearful. ‘Very well, brother, we shall do this thing together.’

Carnelian and Osidian approached the brightness at the end of the tunnel, hearts beating faster, still holding hands as they had done all the way through the darkness, like children. The opening swelled and they emerged, blinded, into the light. The air was filled with a sound Carnelian imagined could have been a locust swarm in flight. He lost hold of Osidian’s hand. He looked up, his eyes narrowing behind the slits of his mask, sight returning. All around, a host of angels rose in serried ranks up into the heights of the cavern. Glimmering in stiff jewelled carapaces, crowned, their masks striping the Pyramid Hollow up to its black apex.

Carnelian’s head fell, his soul chilled by the cold grandeur of the Chosen. Ahead the Creation Chariot was crowded. The Grand Sapients were sombre pillars erupting stellated crowns. Around them, barely reaching their waists, Oracles, feral teeth revealed in rictus grins, adorned in violent Ichorian greens, tamed by service collars of silver. From the midst of this assemblage a tower rose; its hollow interior, exposed, revealed the inner scaffolding of bird bones that held it up. Though these supports were more dense than any Carnelian had seen, he still had no doubt it was an immense court robe waiting to engulf its wearer.

Osidian stood transfixed. Only the slight glimmer of his eyes gave any indication there was a living man behind his mask. Carnelian followed the gaze of that perfect, dead face of gold and saw among the Oracles one whom he had not noticed: Morunasa, his yellow eyes popping as if he were being impaled, seeing only Osidian, to whom he gave the slightest of nods.

Carnelian had no time even to think about this, for one of the Sapients loomed up, each footfall on his high ranga causing the platform to shiver, walking with the aid of two court staves borne by ammonites. As Carnelian scried the cyphers the staves bore, the Grand Sapient released hold of them and allowed his hands to be drawn down to the throat of his homunculus.

‘You have come to offer yourself, Carnelian of the Masks?’ said the homunculus.

Carnelian looked up at the one-eyed mirror mask, knowing this was Tribute. ‘Only enough of my blood to ensure proper ignition of the Lord Nephron’s to ichor.’

The Grand Sapient felt Carnelian’s reply through the muttering throat of his homunculus. Long it seemed until his pale fingers moved again, a period in which Carnelian felt the pressure of the chatter of the Chosen host.

‘We accept the offer of your blood, Celestial,’ sang Tribute’s homunculus.

The Grand Sapient released the little man and, grasping his staves, swung aside, leaving a narrow path between him and the gaping, empty court robe. Carnelian glanced round and saw that, under the fierce gaze of the Oracles, ammonites were stripping Osidian. He walked round the court robe, then past the Grand Sapients’ wall of purple brocade punctuated by pairs of Domain staves. He did not glance up, but was still aware of their masks reflecting light; and even more strongly, he felt he could sense the operating of the precise mechanisms of their ancient minds.

He emerged, it seemed, into a clearing and saw a naked man. Within the iron mould he lay spreadeagled. The circle of its turtle shell that his neck, his arms and legs crossed, gave the impression he was that creature’s flesh exposed to the air. Carnelian ignored a murmur like distant sea, and gazing at the man felt reassured he was dead already, until he saw the chest rising, falling. Asleep? Or drugged? Carnelian shuddered. So pale he could see the blue tracery beneath skin that seemed too thin to withstand the slightest touch. By his beauty, one of the Chosen, no doubt from the House of the Masks. One of those members of whom Osidian had once spoken, who were bred for blood ritual. Panic surged in Carnelian that another was to die in his place. He was on the verge of rushing forward, pulling the man free of the iron frame, possessed by a vision of carrying him through the Wise, through the Marula, back into the safety of the tunnel. A childish fantasy, no more. The only way to save him was to take his place.

Carnelian heard again the murmurous sea and raised his eyes. What he saw stopped his breathing. On the plain below a multitude so numerous they seemed grains of sand. An expanse of sand stretching away almost to the ring of stones. He remembered the children that formed a substantial part of that multitude. In his mind he saw from where those children had come; he saw them chasing each other among the trees, free; their bright laughter, their innocence terminated by the coming of the childgatherers.

He forced his gaze back to the victim in the iron mould. He hardened his heart against the man. He would have to die. After all, he was only one among millions who would perish. Carnelian could not give his life for him, for it was not his to give, but belonged to those frightened children down there on the plain.

Two Sapients on lower ranga than their superiors unmasked Carnelian, then cut his sleeves away while their homunculi placed bowls of jade on either side of him near his feet. The Sapients were entrusting his arms to the gloved hands of ammonites, when a homunculus voice sang out. ‘Gathered are we to reforge the covenant in blood, made here long ago between your fathers and the Two Gods…’

The voice soared up into the vault of the Pyramid Hollow, finding resonances that caused the air to reverberate.

‘… in token of which They gave you victory perpetual over your foes… dominion unbroken over earth and sky… this They did, for you alone remained faithful to Them when all others had turned away.’

The last syllable rang, only slowly fading away.

‘A narrow path of safety they gave you to walk in power absolute into eternity. This path is the Law and it must be obeyed. Shall you continue to obey it?’

Thunderous came the response from the serried tiers. ‘We shall.’

The voices of many homunculi rose in eerie concert. ‘What is this path of Law?’

‘It is the tangling Labyrinth,’ boomed out the wall of angels.

‘It is the roiling sea,’ sang the homunculi.

‘It is the spiralling ammonite,’ a multitude rumbled from somewhere beneath the platform on which Carnelian stood.

The homunculi sang out in unison again. ‘Through the mystery of this covenant your Commonwealth shall be reborn anew.’

The Chosen thundered out the response. ‘As it has been done, so shall it be done, for ever, because it is commanded to be done by the Law-that-must-be-obeyed.’

The voices of the homunculi rose up again, as one, but subtly timbred. ‘When our Lords returned to Their realms They swore that though They would no longer dwell incarnate among the living, They would pour of Their dual essence into a vessel of your choosing, filling it brimful with ichor from whence you might all drink so that its fire might renew your blood.’