Ricardo Pinto - The Third God

‘Our Lord leading us, we are victorious. Joyously we bring Them hither for Their coronation.’

‘You come with victory bright on Your brow,’ sang the homunculi.

Carnelian was confused. They were speaking to the Gods and Osidian was Them, or possessed by Them, but Osidian had also come here from victory, a victory the Wise begrudged him.

‘On the plain below You have written Your Law upon the twelve calendar stones. Upon this foundation stands the Commonwealth of the Chosen.

‘Thrones You have erected here, upon which You will sit in judgement on the world. Here, now, as a symbol of Your mastery of the Three Lands, shall we crown You Emperor.’

The echo of the Quyan words reverberating round the Pyramid Hollow slowly died away, even as sistra began shaking out a bright, brittle rustling. One of the Grand Sapients was holding a hood of purple leather above Osidian’s shaved head. As he lowered it, it flowed down on either side of the Obsidian Mask. Two long tresses of jewelled beadcord glittered and chinked as they snaked over the gory breastplate. Carnelian saw that the hood was bound to a silver diadem that sat now upon Osidian’s brow. Emberous rubies ran round the circle of the diadem. By their spacing he judged there to be twelve stones and, though he could see only rubies, he was sure that, round on the side hidden to him, there would be two green stones and two black. It had to be a representation of the Stone Dance of the Chameleon. From what he could deduce of its orientation, it was as if the Black God, approaching the dance along the Rain Axis, had stooped to raise it and put it upon His head. It must signify His authorship of the Law. Carnelian expected some utterance from the Wise to confirm this, but they remained silent. Perhaps they did this as tacit acceptance of the new balance of power.

Carnelian was distracted by something rising into view that seemed an emerald glade. Hope of deliverance after stumbling lost through the glooms of some infernal jungle. It was a crown three Grand Sapients were holding above Osidian’s head. From a diagonal cross centred on a horned-ring of translucent jade, the crown flared down into a cobra hood that seemed to have been cut from the hide of some fabulous, bejewelled saurian. This hood split in two, and through the slit between the halves, Carnelian glimpsed delicate scaffolding, but his eyes could not long resist being drawn up to the verdant explosion above the horned-ring. A great shimmering nest set about by a thicket of quills sheathed with emeralds and peridots, malachites and prase. The whole thing shivered and glimmered like a thing alive. As this sank to rest upon Osidian’s head and shoulders, Carnelian expected he would be unable to support its weight, but the structure of the robe held. The Obsidian Mask, framed by the flaps of jewelled leather, seemed a secret darkness lying at the heart of a fabulous forest.

‘Behold the Green Crown,’ cried the homunculi, ‘symbol of Your dominion over the wildernesses beyond the Ringwall, over sward and jungle, over fernland and fen, dominion eternal over the savages who lurk there far from the light of Your countenance, who, in fear and adoration, bring to You as tribute their children to be Your slaves. ..’

The homunculi, reunited with their masters, turned outwards to face the plain and in stentorian tones cried out in Vulgate: ‘Prostrate yourselves before your God!’

For a moment Carnelian was aware of the rustling and glimmer as the Chosen around him turned in their roosts to view the tributaries below. Vast trumpets blasting forth from beneath his feet made him turn too and gaze out. Along the edges of the multitude, the dragon towers were blaring a fanfare in reply. Smoke was drifting across the tiny figures so that for a moment Carnelian was breathless with terror that the flame-pipes were lit and that he was about to witness another incineration, but then, with a great sigh, the multitude subsided in abasement. He did not feel the pride he should have as one of the Chosen, but only shame.

Three of the Wise held aloft a hollowed globe, tapering upwards like a bud, or perhaps a half-scooped-out pomegranate, and indeed its inner surface was studded with rubies like sweet seeds and Carnelian realized it could be read as the glyph for ‘womb’. Its outer shell, a rolling mosaic of almandines and pyropes, of coral, jasper and carnelian, made the swollen mass seem as if it had been freshly torn from a body. He watched as it was fitted into the emerald nest of the Green Crown.

‘Behold the Red Crown,’ the homunculi sang, ‘symbol of Your dominion over the fertile earth of the Guarded Land from which the world draws sustenance…’

Carnelian frowned, remembering famine.

‘… over its cities that teem under Your gaze, who, in fear and adoration and in gratitude for the protection You bestow unto them, bring You the tribute of their taxes in Your coin…’

Again the Wise turned to demand abasement from the plain, but Carnelian could not stop looking at the Red Crown swelling up from Osidian’s head. As it had been lowered, Carnelian had noticed the bruising of purple leather at its base that could signify the Ringwall. An amethystine band edged the mouth of the hollow and if this were symbolic of the Sacred Wall, passage through which the Wise regulated with their Law, then the womb hollow it enclosed must be the crater of Osrakum. These deductions, for some reason, Carnelian found disturbing.

As the Creation Chariot neared the apex of the Pyramid Hollow, a single Grand Sapient held aloft a glinting shaft. Fluted it was, split in two from top to bottom by a lightning zigzag of gold. In form it seemed to be the Pillar of Heaven rising up from a horned-ring of midnight coral. Of jet and obsidian and adamantine were its ridges and planes.

The voices of the homunculi rose in unison. ‘Behold the Black Crown, symbol of Your dominion over the Hidden Land of thrice-blessed Osrakum, where dwell the Seraphim who bask in the light of Your countenance and at whose heart now stands this vessel that You inhabit with Your double Godhead.’

The Grand Sapient lowered the Black Crown into the womb of the Red, and drawing back took his homunculus by the throat.

‘Behold the Gods your Emperor,’ cried all the homunculi. ‘Prostrate yourselves, ye Chosen.’

Around the towering, triple-crowned apparition of the God Emperor, the Grand Sapients and their homunculi knelt. Carnelian was aware of the Lords in the tiers below making their abasement. A tide rose up of voices, drums and trumpets. Ever higher it rose until it seemed the world must be blasted to dust. Carnelian and the new God Emperor alone remained standing. He glanced down to the bloody floor. The purple robes of the Wise and the homunculi were soaking up the gore. He was certain his strength would fail him should he bend his knees, that he would topple head first.

The Sapients in kneeling had released his arms and he folded them, squeezing the wounds in his wrists closed across his chest. He gazed at the new Gods, transfixed. Their crowns grew upwards and outwards, a wheelmap in the round. At its root the Gods’ face, anger of the skies; the night, the shadows under the trees crystallized into a visage of serene, sublime malice. What was there left of Osidian within that entity? Perhaps nothing more than a spindle of melting ice.

The chaos of sound beat upon Carnelian like a migraine. He struggled for consciousness. The beadcords running down past the cheeks of the Black God were like tears and Carnelian was possessed by a strange desire to reach out and touch them, to read them. His gaze climbed the jewel beads to the silver diadem. Nothing of the purple hood was visible and yet it lay between the Gods’ head and Their crowns. Its purple membrane the power of the Wise separating the God Emperor from the Three Lands. How much the quills of the Green Crown looked like spears! If they were the legions that had been kept from the God Emperor’s control, then the Red Crown must surely symbolize the Great; its amethystine lip, the separation the Wise maintained between the Great and the House of the Masks; the Black Crown it held, the God Emperor imprisoned, isolated. Carnelian’s eyes lost focus. The Crowns could be read as being the Three Lands, but also as the Great Balance. Dread saturated everything. Osidian was trapped behind the Mask, within the carapace of that robe bedecked with slaughter; crushed beneath the intolerable weight of the world the two of them hoped to rule. Shock forced its way through increasing horror. He would never see Osidian’s face again! Carnelian sought hope, but this had flowed out of him with his blood. How ancient, how subtle were the systems of power the Wise wielded. Was it not insane to attempt to stand against their millennial patience? Even so might a rock hope to withstand the trickle of a stream.