Sara Douglass - The Serpent Bride

“To where?” Ishbel could barely grasp the thought of escape, now.

“To my home,” Aziel said, “and it will be yours. Serpent’s Nest.”

“I do not know of it.”

“Then you shall. Please come with me, Ishbel. Don’t die. You are too precious to die.”

“I don’t need to die?”

Aziel laughed. “Ishbel, you have no idea how greatly we all want you to live, and to live with us. Will you come? Will you?”

Ishbel swallowed, barely able to get the words out. “Are there whispers in your house?”

“Whispers?”

“Do the dead speak in your house?”

Aziel frowned again. “The dying do, from time to time, when they confess to us the Great Serpent’s wishes, but once dead they are mute.”

“Good.”

“Ishbel, come with me, please. Forget about what has happened here. Forget — everything.”

“Yes,” said Ishbel, and stretched out a trembling hand. I will forget, she thought. I will forget everything.

She did not once wonder why this man should have been able so easily to wander through the vindictive crowd outside, or why that crowd should have stood back and allowed him to open the front door without a single murmur.

Two weeks later Aziel brought Ishbel home to Serpent’s Nest. She had spoken little for the entire journey, and nothing at all for the final five days.

Aziel was worried for her.

The archpriestess of the Coil, who worshipped the Great Serpent, led Aziel, carrying the little girl, to a room where awaited food and a bed. They washed Ishbel, made her eat something, then put her to bed, retreating to a far corner of the room to sit watch as she slept.

The archpriestess was an older woman, well into her sixties, called Ional. She looked speculatively at Aziel, who had not allowed his eyes to stray from the sleeping form of the child. Aziel was Ional’s partner at Serpent’s Nest, archpriest to her archpriestess, but he was far younger and as yet inexperienced, for he’d replaced the former archpriest only within the past year, after that man had strangely disappeared.

Ional knew she would partner Aziel only for a few more years, until he was well settled into his position as archpriest, and then she would make way for someone younger. Stronger. More Aziel’s match.

Now Ional looked back to the girl.

Ishbel.

“You said,” Ional said very softly, so as to not wake the girl, “that the Great Serpent told you she would not stay for a lifetime.”

“He told me,” said Aziel, “that she would stay many years, but that eventually he would require her to leave. That there would be a duty for her within the wider world, but that she would return and that her true home was here at Serpent’s Nest.”

“She is so little,” said Ional, “but so very powerful. I could feel it the moment you carried her into Serpent’s Nest. How much more shall she need to grow, do you think, before she can assume my duties?”

“When she is strong enough to hold a knife,” said Aziel, “she shall be ready.”

Deep in the abyss the creature stirred, looking upwards with flat, hate-filled eyes.

It whispered, sending the whisper up and outwards with all its might, seething through the crack that Infinity had opened.

It had been sending out its call for countless millennia, and for all those countless millennia, no one had answered.

This day, the creature in the abyss received not one but two replies, and it bared its teeth, and knew its success was finally at hand.

Twenty years passed.

The man hung naked and vulnerable, his arms outstretched and chained by the wrists to the wall, his feet barely touching the ground, and likewise chained by the ankle to the wall. He was bathed in sweat caused only partly by the warm, humid conditions of the Reading Room and the highly uncomfortable position in which he had been chained.

He was hyperventilating in terror. His eyes, wide and dark, darted about the room, trying to find some evidence of mercy in the crimson-cloaked and hooded figures standing facing him in a semicircle, just out of blood-splash distance.

He might have begged for mercy, were it not for the gag in his mouth.

A door opened, and two people entered.

The man pissed himself, his urine pooling about his feet, and struggled desperately, uselessly, to free himself from his bonds.

The two arrivals walked slowly into the area contained by the semicircle of witnesses. A man and a woman, they too were cloaked in crimson, although for the moment their hoods lay draped about their shoulders. The man was in middle age, his face thin and lined, his dark hair receding, his dark eyes curiously compassionate, but only as they regarded his companion. When he glanced at the man chained to the wall those eyes became blank and uncaring.

His name was Aziel, and he was the archpriest of the Coil, now gathered in the Reading Room.

The woman was in her late twenties, very lovely with clear hazel eyes and dark blonde hair. She listened to Aziel as he spoke softly to her, then nodded. She turned slightly, acknowledging the semicircle with a small bow — as one they returned the bow — then turned back to face the chained man.

She was the archpriestess of the Coil, Aziel’s equal in leadership of the order, and his superior in Readings.

Ishbel Brunelle, the little girl he had rescued twenty years earlier from her home of horror.

Aziel handed Ishbel a long silken scarf of the same colour as her cloak, and, as Aziel stood back, she slowly and deliberately wound the scarf about her head and face, leaving only her eyes visible. Then, equally slowly and deliberately, her eyes never leaving the chained man, Ishbel lifted the hood of her cloak over her head, pulling it forward so that her scarf-bound face was all but hidden. She arranged her cloak carefully, making certain her robe was protected.

Then, with precision, Ishbel made the sign of the Coil over her belly.

The man bound to the wall was now frantic, his body writhing, his eyes bulging, mews of horror escaping from behind his gag.

Ishbel took no notice.

From a pocket in her cloak she withdrew a small semicircular blade. It fitted neatly into the palm of her hand, the actual slicing edge protruding from between her two middle fingers.

She stepped forward, concentrating on the man.

He was now flailing about as much as he could given the restriction of his restraints, but his movements appeared to cause Ishbel no concern. She moved to within two paces of the man, took a very deep breath, her eyes closing as she murmured a prayer.

“Great Serpent be with me, Great Serpent be part of me, Great Serpent grace me.”

Then Ishbel opened her eyes, stepped forward, lifted her slicing hand and, in a movement honed by twenty years of the study of anatomy and practice both upon the living and the dead, cleanly disembowelled the man with a serpentine incision from sternum to groin.

Blood spurted outwards in a spray, covering Ishbel’s masked and hooded features.

As the man’s intestines bulged outwards Ishbel lifted her slicing hand again and in several quick, deft movements freed the intestines from their abdominal supports, then stepped back nimbly as they tumbled out of the man’s body to lie in a steaming heap at his feet.

The pile of intestines was still attached to the man’s living body by two long, glistening ropes of bowel, stretching downwards. The man himself, still alive, still conscious, stared at them in a combination of disbelief and shock.

The agony had yet to strike.

The man trembled so greatly that the movement carried down the connecting ropes of bowel to the pile at his feet, making them quiver as if they enjoyed independent life.