Ricardo Pinto - The Third God

‘Forbidden to men.’

‘Except, perhaps those who serve Her.’

‘The urns,’ Carnelian gasped. Everything seemed so sickeningly clear. ‘The Three Gates.’

Osidian nodded. ‘The Quyans believed Osrakum to be her womb. The Pillar of Heaven the cord with which she nurtured the sky.’

Carnelian gazed up to where its bright shaft was lost in the morning light. ‘Why did we forget Her?’

‘Her power was great in the Land. When we closed the Gates we turned our back on Her. We feared Her. We feared Her revenge and so we built the Gates to keep Her out. Not just spatially, but in our minds. Of this even the Wise are not certain. It seems, perhaps, there was in Osrakum already alive a vestige of an ancient heresy of duality.’

Carnelian contemplated how the Father and the Son might have become the Twins. Osidian and Molochite. He, as the third brother, made the Two once again Three. Carnelian felt a rush of emotion that almost choked him. ‘She was always there in my dreams. She brought me here.’ He saw the angry red scar about Osidian’s neck and felt his own itching and touched it. ‘She brought us both here.’

He clawed at the red earth. It had been black. He looked to the edges of the Dance and saw there what remained of the moss and black earth that had covered up the red.

He sank to Her ground. ‘What now?’

The black mask glanced round at the stones. ‘They tried to buy their lives with a vision. That, taking their elixir, I might escape with them into the far future. The sartlar threat will subside naturally. Those the famine does not destroy might, perhaps, become true men again, but, if so, far from here. The Red Land will become a terrible desert that shall protect Osrakum more completely than the Sacred Wall. Eventually, they believed, the Land will come back to life. When the time is ripe, we would emerge from the chrysalises of our millennial sleep.’

Osidian’s voice had grown stronger as he spun this vision in Carnelian’s mind, the words reverberating from the stones. In the silence that followed, Carnelian hung half entranced, half in horror.

Osidian, shaking his head, brought them both back to earth. ‘Though I sought to conquer the world, I will not countenance lingering like a ghost, rebuilding with infinite patience the world I helped destroy.’ He reached behind his head and loosed the bands that held his mask on, then leaned forward to rest it in his palm. Carefully he laid the mask on the red earth. The pale face revealed, Carnelian hardly recognized. Lines of suffering had aged it; its eyes were as lifeless as stones.

‘You may not believe this, but I did seek to build; even though all I have ever done is to destroy; even those things I most loved.’ His sad eyes fell upon Carnelian.

Osidian frowned. ‘I choose to die with the only world I know or wish to know.’

Carnelian was overcome by a surge of rage. ‘Not everything or everyone needs to die! Can you think of no one but yourself?’

Pity cooled his anger. Osidian was a broken man. But he still had some power left. Carnelian sat down beside him. ‘Will you help me save something from this?’

As Osidian gazed at him, lost, Carnelian began explaining his plan of escape. Osidian seemed puzzled as if he could not grasp it. Carnelian did not need his understanding, only his compliance. He was about to explain to Osidian the part he would have to play, when he found himself recalling the homunculi he had passed when he entered the Dance, huddled like abandoned children. The flesh-tithe children! He felt again the ache he had always felt when Ebeny had told him of when she had been such a child. He lived again the agony of the Tribe beneath the Crying Tree as they said goodbye to their children. How many hearts in the greater world ached for their lost children? Then his heart swelled up as he became possessed by a mad, glorious yearning. Logic fought against it, but he could not, would not, let it go. He saw Osidian, weary beyond measure, like an old man, all his failures crushing him. ‘Help me save the flesh-tithe children.’

Osidian frowned at him as if he was unsure he could mean what he had said.

‘Help me take them with me.’

Osidian looked incredulous. ‘All of them?’ As he saw that was, indeed, what Carnelian meant, he began to list the obvious and insurmountable obstacles to such a plan. Carnelian took Osidian’s hands in his, looked into his eyes. ‘The dreams I have followed are not yet wholly spent.’

There was a hardness of doubt and failure and horror in Osidian’s face. His heart seemed almost to have turned to stone, but something of love passed between them and Osidian began to cry, and Carnelian cried too, for the hope there was in Osidian’s eyes of at least that much redemption.

Carnelian stood with Osidian in the shadow of one of the red stones of the Dance. He had slept in the pavilion a dreamless sleep and, when he had returned into the Dance, this time clothed, he had found it fresh and fragrant in the cool morning air, the corpses having been removed from their niches and everything cleaned up.

He glanced at Osidian, once more the God Emperor, his wasted face concealed beneath the mirror-black perfection of the Obsidian Mask. His huge form was shrouded by a vast cloak of samite blacker than the shadows, but worked through with murky green stones that could have been the eyes of lizards.

Movement across the red ground drew Carnelian’s gaze to the two green monoliths glowing in the sun. Figures were coming through between them, heads averted, arms hooked up to shield their eyes from the light. They wore the eye-mazing robes of the ferrymen, but, without their ivory masks or crowns, they seemed almost headless. Only their necks were painted white like their startled hands. Their narrow faces were sallow, stubbled, each with a narrowed left eye, but the right a staring orb like an egg. At first he thought their expressions haughty and proud, but quickly realized they were struggling to hide the terror that their trembling hands betrayed.

When perhaps a hundred of them had entered, they opened up a path in their midst along which women came, older than the ferrymen, wearing the same black and white designs, weighed down with gleaming pectorals that Carnelian could see were made from jade rings; the same, no doubt, the Masters gave them as payment for passage on their boats.

Once these women had taken their place in front of their men, the crowd parted again to allow not more than twenty ancients to hobble forward, each walking with a staff surmounted by a crescent that, for a moment, seemed to be in imitation of the Wise, until Carnelian saw these upturned curves were not silver but of ivory, and not representing the moon, but rather their boats. However, it was another detail that, for a moment, seemed to stop his heart. Each of these old men and women had a great mane of snowy hair whose dreadlocks threaded more of the jade rings so that they resembled the Elders of the Tribe.

A muttering arose among them. Some, bowing, pulled those beside them down as they became aware of the two Masters in the shadows. Osidian and Carnelian advanced until the Obsidian Mask emerged into the light. Behind the elders, the crowd, moaning, fell to the ground as if their legs had been scythed through. Shaking their heads, staring at the ground, the elders slid slowly to the red earth, their effort squeezing out groans. Once on their knees, they laid their staves flat, then all pushed their faces into the earth.

‘Rise,’ Osidian said, using a Quyan imperative.

Only the elders did, erecting their staves, pulling themselves up into standing position, heads bowed, visibly shaking.

‘We have something to ask of you,’ the black mask said.

‘Speak, Holy One, and we shall obey thee.’