Ricardo Pinto - The Third God

Shesqueezed the ruby into her left eye socket, felt a pop, then sensed its shape inside her head. A sister stone nestled its cool weight in her palm. Raising it she filled the other socket, then inclined her head. A hard blink settled the stones, shaped to occupy each socket, their spinel axes aligned to give the orbs the appearance of focus. Though the Wise had robbed her of sight, they could not deprive her of this blood-red gaze. Raking the chamber, Ykoriana heard the uneasy movements that it induced among her slaves. She did not allow her lips to smile. Eyes, even of stone, are weapons.

As slaves intruded into every part of her with their unguents, perfume blossomed so that in her mind she escaped from her forbidden house and was walking in a garden. Her nostrils drank in the musk of mummified roses. She became intoxicated by attar of lilies. Spidersilk flowed over her, so finely woven it seemed liquid spilling down her shoulders and breasts, her hips and thighs. She had learned to derive some consolation from sensuousness.

Though it was their daughter her son claimed he was coming to see, he knew well enough that Ykoriana would not allow him near Ykorenthe unless she were safe in her embrace. Molochite knew also that, because he was God Emperor, his mother would have to be cleansed according to the exact procedure demanded by the Law. The Grand Sapient of the Domain of Blood had come himself as usual to oversee the ritual. She felt his presence though he had not yet spoken through his homunculus. All the Wise had earned her hatred, but he most of all, whom she considered chief among her jailors.

This visit was typical of Molochite. He liked to remind her of her vulnerability. He enjoyed humiliating her. Now they rarely met. She could maintain her control over him through intermediaries. She had exploited his lust for her, but now she had a daughter, she only invited him into her bed to renew her dominance. The rest of the time she let him vent his desires where he would. As for his petty defiances, she could bear them. Though he wore the Masks, it was she who ruled.

The women of the House of the Masks had always played a major part in the choosing of a God Emperor, but even as they dropped their blood-rings into the voting urns, they squandered their power by fighting each other. Their ichorous blood would not allow them to yield supremacy to another. This disunity Ykoriana had abolished with her birth. The first female of blood-rank four for generations, her rings cast eight thousand votes. Enough power to dominate the House of the Masks. Enough even to empower her to stand alone, if she chose, against half the assembled might of the Houses of the Great. Power coursed in her veins that all her mothers had dreamed and bred for. What a bitter jest, then, that such power had brought her nothing but suffering.

The Grand Sapient’s homunculus murmured and the slaves began loading her with robes of brocade denser than armour. She conquered the familiar fear of being shut in, smothered.

She had been only a girl when her father had died. She had loved her brother Kumatuya, but never forgave him gifting Azurea, their sister, to his lover Suth Sardian. Azurea had died bearing him a son, Carnelian. Grief overcoming policy, Ykoriana had demanded her brother exile Suth as the price for her votes in his election as God Emperor. In revenge, Kumatuya had had her eyes put out. She had not imagined the Wise would support him. A foolish misjudgement. All who spun out their lives in the forbidden houses of the Chosen had reason to know how much the Wise feared and hated women.

A procession was approaching. They were bringing her daughter. Hastily she reached for what she termed her ‘mothering mask’ and hid her face behind it. She loathed that mask. She had had it made so as not to scare her daughter. She did not want her child to see her withered face, her ruby eyes. Those baleful stones she wore to express her bitter anger, to terrorize, but, most of all, in defiance of the Wise who had insisted that, as they did, she should wear eyes of jade or obsidian to reflect whichever of the Masks the God Emperor was wearing.

As the procession halted, her ears searched among the tinkling metals, the clink of jewels. When she heard her daughter’s faltering steps, it was as if sunlight fell upon Ykoriana’s face. She touched the cold gold of her mask to reassure herself that she was hidden. Her fingers traced its kind smile, the small nose, its loving eyes of embedded shell and sky-blue sapphire. Her robes would not allow her to stoop so she had them lift Ykorenthe. Her hands sought her daughter’s face. She found the familiar warm curve of her chin with a caress. ‘Ykorenthe, my delight,’ she said, brightly.

Ykoriana longed to hold the child, but the weight of her sleeves had consumed her strength. Little Ykorenthe’s wordless chatter was sweeter than music. Protecting her had become the very heart of Ykoriana’s life. She suppressed the familiar longing to see the tiny face. She had been told the girl had her father’s beauty. The daughter she had lost, Flama, she too had been beautiful. Time had not dulled the blade of Ykoriana’s grief. Her extreme purdah had made her sons Molochite and Osidian Nephron strangers to her, but Flama she had kept as close as the Law permitted. Headstrong, the girl had fought her mother over the election of Kumatuya’s successor. Had she been given time, Ykoriana was confident she would have been able to gently poison Flama’s love for Nephron. Ykoriana’s spies had revealed enough about him for her to have had no illusions about what her role would be should he become the Gods. Flama’s blood was ichor in even greater part than Ykoriana’s. Nephron would have married his sister and their mother would have been exiled to the depths of the imperial forbidden houses. Still, she had loved Flama enough to risk that fate. It was her other son she had underestimated. Molochite had known Flama’s votes would neutralize those his mother could cast for him. Also he had known that his brother was more popular than he, not only in the House of the Masks, but, beyond, among the Great. Fearing to lose, Molochite had murdered his sister. Enraged, Ykoriana had come close to handing him over to the justice of the Wise; that she was no longer so ruled by her passions was what had saved him. Flama was dead and her death had opened a way to power through him.

As she had vacillated, a rumour had spread through Osrakum that it was she who had murdered her daughter. Outrage and indignation had given way to contemplation as she had observed how much this news made her feared. She had learned from the Wise, that fear is the path to dominion. Her enemies had taken advantage of her distraction. In the midst of the turmoil caused by the preparations the households had been making to move up to their palaces high in the Sacred Wall, the Lord Aurum had convened the Clave and there had managed to get Suth elected He-who-goes-before. This appointment she could have thwarted had she had time to mobilize her supporters among the Great. But, on reflection, she had seen Aurum’s gambit for what it was, an act of desperation. Let the old fool leave his faction leaderless while he went off on a futile mission to that house of exile in the remote north. The world that mattered, the world she knew, lay within Osrakum’s mountain wall. Beyond was nothing more than the squalid barbarism of the Guarded Land. With characteristic eccentricity, Suth had not even chosen to wait out his exile in one of the cities there, but had sailed with his son to some bleak island across the northern sea. She had been, if anything, amused. She had known what Aurum did not, that Suth’s exile had long ago been revoked, but that he had chosen not to return.