Sanquor’s knife sliced through the belly of the sacrifice in one
smooth movement. Amphyor’s distended skin shrank away from the wound.
Squirming thoravids burst free, in a foul tumble of violet and grey.
With the crowd roaring in the high galleries, an echo of his own
blood roaring in his ears, Sanquor stabbed at the thoravids. Far from fully
formed, they had no defence; they could only slither, their rudimentary
limbs unable to carry them away from his Priest’s blade. The knife turned
from brilliant silver to indigo as the thoravids died. A few made it to the
edge of the sacrifice pit, but the walls were too steep for them to climb.
Jabbing with his knife, ecstatic heat coursing through his veins, Sanquor
killed the last of them; and then lifted his arms high, with the chants of
the crowd pouring down on him like a libation.
“Praise Dohem!” he cried. “Praise Morvay! Praise Chark!”
The crowd roared the chant back at him, lauding the three gods of
the Tetharan. They roared with all the power of their lungs, and it echoed
around the tower until the walls seemed to be straining to contain it.
He closed his eyes, and breathed long and deep, and as the sweat
and ichor dried together on his skin, he felt the grace of the Tetharan,
warm and holy, filling every part of him.
♦ ♦ ♦
In the room of cleansing, Adepts came and stripped Sanquor. His
clothes, and the tainted knife, were hurled into the furnace. Naked,
sweating, Sanquor stood as water sluiced over him, blistering his skin.
No trace of the thoravid contagion could remain. They were an
abomination in the sight of the Tetharan. Those who would not accept the
grace of the Tetharan laid themselves open to the parasites. Only in grace
was there salvation. Only in grace.
When the rest of the Adepts left, Amuranya stayed behind. Sanquor
knew it was her, despite the mask she wore; he knew her movements, the way
she held herself. She stood, swathed from head to foot in her robes, as he
dried himself off.
“Speak,” Sanquor said eventually, when it was plain she was
waiting for his permission, even though she had not sought permission to
stay behind.
“My brother... my brother did not deserve to die like that. He was
a good man.”
“I am sure he meant to be. But he fell from grace in the sight of
the Tetharan. The contagion of sin had found a place within him.”
She shook her head. He thought perhaps there were tears, behind
the mask she wore.
“I have never known one more worthy of the Tetharan’s grace,” she
said. “He was more worthy than I could hope to be.”
Sanquor belted his robe, smoothed the cloth down. The triple
stripes–the yellow of Dohem, the red of Morvay, and the black of
Chark–shimmered and mingled over the contours of his body.
“Many a man seems worthy to others. Only the Tetharan can see into
a man’s heart, Adept. Only the Tetharan can truly know a man.”
“He was my brother. If I knew any man, I knew him. He should not
have been taken!”
“You saw.” Sanquor looked at her. He found himself wondering if
she was beautiful, under the robes. He shook the thought free; it was
forbidden. “There were dozens of thoravids within him. He wore a mask,
Adept; a mask that even you could not see through. He may have professed
grace, but his heart was tainted. The Tetharan knew, and so withdrew their
protection from him. Only in their grace can we remain pure. Only in their
grace can we remain free.”
She said nothing more. She made her obeisance, and shuffled out,
leaving Sanquor entirely alone.
♦ ♦ ♦
Sanquor looked out of the window, across the city. There were
nineteen towers he could see from where he stood. When he had become a
Priest, five years ago, two had been empty. Now, only twelve of them
remained inhabited.
The city was dying. The city was turning away from the Tetharan.
The city was killing itself through sin.
He turned, and poured himself a goblet of quey. It was warm, and
rich, and a mouthful of it made him feel the same way. He thought of
Amuranya again. Her brother had been a handsome man, before the thoravids
had infested his sinful body. Perhaps, behind that mask, behind those
robes....
He took another mouthful of quey.
It was very warm. He was very warm.
♦ ♦ ♦
She stood in the doorway of the room.
“You sent for me, Master?”
“Enter,” he said. He waved his arm in a welcoming gesture. The
unbelted robe shimmered like a rainbow. Beneath it, he was naked. He saw her
hesitate; then she stepped forwards. The door swung gently closed behind
her.
“Your words earlier... moved me,” he said. It was true, in a way,
though the quey had moved him more. “You are a good servant of the Tetharan,
Amuranya.”
He heard her gasp at the use of her name. The mask tilted
forwards, as if she did not want to look at him. He found it absurd; he had
been naked, earlier.
“I serve as best I might, Master,” she said. “Only through the
Tetharan may we find grace. Only through the Tetharan may we be saved.”
“Just so,” he said, nodding enthusiastically. He moved to the
couch and sat down, sprawling comfortably on it. Perhaps it would make her
more comfortable in turn. “Your faith in your brother does you great credit.
But you must acknowledge the truth, Amuranya. He was infected. He had fallen
from grace. You know this to be true.”
“I know it, Master,” she said. But her voice was hollow, and he
did not think it was because of the mask. He leant forward.
“Do you doubt, Amuranya? I know there are heretics in the city.
I know there are those who say that even the Tetharan may not save us from
the thoravid parasites; that they infect the graced and the guilty alike.
But they lie. Grace is our only ward against them. We must serve the
Tetharan, and we will be saved.” He rose, crossed to the table by the
window. The half-full jug of quey was there, with two goblets. “Drink with
me, Amuranya.”
He poured the rich, fragrant juice into the goblets, and handed
one to her. She took it, but stood, as if uncertain what to do.
“Drink,” he said again.
“It is forbidden...,” she said.
“To drink?”
“To remove my mask. I am only an Adept. I am three years from
becoming a Priest of the First Circle.”
“We are alone,” he said, reassuringly. “It is permitted, to remove
your mask, when you are alone.”
“But....” He could see it, in the set of her shoulders. She was
warring with herself; trained to obey the teachings, but trained to obey
him. He smiled, and took a mouthful of quey.
“Drink,” he said again, more firmly.
She was beautiful. Her skin was the colour of the stone towers at
sunset. Her eyes were pure and lightless black, liquid and fathomless. He
stared at her as she raised the goblet to her lips.
Beautiful.
But it was forbidden, in the eyes of the Tetharan.
He thought of her brother, lying on the altar of the sacrifice
pit. He thought of the thoravids, slithering free.
“You serve the Tetharan well,” he said. His tongue felt thick,
clumsy in his mouth. “You will make a fine Priest, one day.”
She held the goblet low, her head bowed.
“It is my only desire,” she told him.
“It is the only pure desire,” he said, and looked out of the
window. For a moment, there was silence, heavy in the air between them.
“I have my duties, Master,” she said, very quietly.
“We all have our duties,” he agreed, not looking at her. “And we
must fulfil them. Be about your work, then, Adept.”
He did not look around until he heard the door close behind her.
♦ ♦ ♦
The air of the Cambrus was thick with heat. Sanquor made the
triple obeisance, in front of the blank-faced statues of the Tetharan. Only
then did he turn to look at Phiruani, the High Priest. She had her hands
folded in front of her, under the sleeves of her robe.
“You wished to see me, Mistress?” Sanquor asked.
“You have been a diligent priest, Sanquor,” she said.
“Ever have I tried to serve the Tetharan,” he answered, carefully,
wondering why she had chosen to use the past tense and not the present. “It
is my duty, my honour, and my pleasure.”
“As it is for us all,” she responded, gracefully. “But temptation
is ever present. We must be vigilant; especially in times such as these. The
thoravids punish us if we stray from the path of grace.” She gestured,
beyond the enclosed chamber, at the half-empty city beyond. “Many have
fallen from grace. I would not lose you, Sanquor.”
“I strive each day, that I might dwell in the grace of the
Tetharan,” he said.
“It is not enough, Sanquor, merely to strive.” It was spoken
mildly, but it was a clear rebuke. “Adept Amuranya was seen attending your
quarters yesterday.”
“I... yes, Mistress,” he said. “I felt she was in need of
instruction. After I sacrificed her brother, she spoke in praise of him. I
felt it needful to remind her that he had fallen from grace; that no matter
how admirable he may have seemed, yet he had sinned in the eyes of the
Tetharan.”
“A necessary reminder. But your private quarters are not the place
for such things. You had but to come to me, and I would have been more than
happy to give her guidance.”
He bowed his head.
“Of course. It was an error of judgement.”
“Just so,” she agreed. “Be vigilant, Sanquor. I would not have you
fall from grace.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Sanquor heard the tumult in the streets. Swinging wide the
shutters, he looked down into the grand court. Dust was rising, along with
the voices of the gathered crowd.
There was a man, standing upon a makeshift dais, that had been
raised in front of the Tower of the Tetharan. From his vantage point, all
Sanquor could see was that he was dark-haired.
“This is the place!” the man roared. His voice echoed upwards,
reflected by the ochre walls. “This is the heart of true corruption!”
It was another heretic, then. Sanquor moved to close the shutters;
but then stopped. He was a Priest. He was vigilant. He dwelt in the grace of
the Tetharan.
To listen to heresy could not harm him. To listen to it would
strengthen him; allow him to counter the doubts of the people, fostered by
foolish rabble-rousers.
He leant once more out of the window, and looked down, and
listened.
“The Priests lie! The thoravids are killing us, killing us all,
and do you think holiness will save you? Do you think the Tetharan will
shield you? It is a plague! A disease! It is not a punishment!”
His voice was fierce with passion. Sanquor shook his head. Fear
took men in many ways. Some sought shelter in the grace of the Tetharan, as
they should. But some; some, in their fear, lashed out even at those who
strove each day to save them.
“You think they are shielded by the gods?” the heretic cried,
presumably in answer to some shout from the crowd. “Is it their purity that
shields them? Then why do they light the fires, to purify the sacrifice
pit? Is it the Tetharan that strikes down the thoravids, or is it the
sharp knife of a Priest?”
Sanquor shook his head. How could such foolishness, such
misunderstanding, have taken root? Of course the thoravids had to be
destroyed; of course any trace of them had to be scourged. They were an
abomination in the sight of the Tetharan.
Down below, the clamour was rising. Temple guards had emerged,
pushing through the crowd. Sanquor was pleased. He was a priest; he was
strong, filled with grace. But for the people of the city... for them, the
heretic’s words were as much an infection as the thoravids; tainting those
who heard them, tempting them to doubt.
To doubt; to turn away from the Tetharan; to become vulnerable. A
vicious cycle. A vicious cycle that was killing his city.
He poured himself a goblet of quey, and drank it down in one gulp.
♦ ♦ ♦
The refectory hall was filled with warmth and light. Sanquor sat
in his allotted place. Ciengo sat opposite him, as always.
“You heard that heretic today?” Juvall asked, as he took his place
beside Ciengo.
“Guard took their time,” Ciengo said, sour-faced. “You know
what? We should have men, stationed ready above the square. With muskets.
Put a ball through the head of any man who speaks so much as a word of that
sort of foolishness.”
Sanquor shook his head.
“The heretics must be brought back to the grace of the
Tetharan.”
“Too late for that, once they’ve fallen so far as to try and
preach heresy right outside our doors! He’ll be riddled with thoravids,
you mark my words.”
“They took him to the Interrogium,” Juvall said. “If he’s
infected, then he’ll be on the altar tomorrow.”
“If? Of course he’s infected. Just some people show it more than
others. There’s no other reason a man would do what he did.”
“I think you are mistaken, Ciengo,” Sanquor said. “It is fear.
Fear, that makes men speak so. Fear can strip the reason from a man, that he
turns, not to the sheltering grace of the Tetharan, but to heresy and
falsehood.”
“And reason can bring them back? I used to think that. But when
I was an Adept, there were, what, maybe six or eight sacrifices a month?
Now it’s a rare day we don’t have to slice up some heretic, and a dozen
thoravids. We don’t even have time to go about preaching the word of the
Tetharan any more. All we do is sacrifice them, because they’ve been swayed
by heretics like that fool.”
“We do as the Tetharan bid us, through Phiruani. And they do not
bid us kill men in the squares of the city. Only those who are truly
infected are to be sacrificed; and in the proper fashion. Would you have us
range through the streets, Ciengo? Would you have us answer any hint of
taint with death? You must remember, these are but citizens. They have not
had years of training, as we have. They have their own tasks, and we need
their skills, just as they need us. They may stray; but it is to us to bring
them back into grace, not to cast them aside, if they can yet be saved.”
“There are days,” Ciengo said, “when I reckon the lot of them are
beyond saving.”
“Have a care, Ciengo. That is tantamount to heresy itself. We are
the servants of the Tetharan. And whether a man can be saved, or must be
sacrificed... that is for the Tetharan to decide. Not us.”
Ciengo said nothing to that.
♦ ♦ ♦
To Sanquor’s surprise, there was only one sacrifice next day, and
it was not the man who had spouted heresy in front of the Temple doors.
“What of the heretic?” he asked. “Surely he was infected?”
“He was untainted,” Maricho, one of the Holy Interrogators, told
him, there at the great, closed door of the Interrogium. “But he is being
held, with the others. He cannot be permitted to speak so, to people who
might be tempted away from grace. In time, no doubt, the taint will show in
him, as it has in others. Then he will be sacrificed, and purified.”
“It is strange... I had thought he must be infected, to speak so
boldly. What madness must have possessed him...?”
“Who knows?” Maricho’s shrug showed that he considered the
question irrelevant. “He has fallen from grace. It is but a matter of time,
now, before contagion shows. A day, a month, a year... it matters not. He is
fated to die in the sacrifice pit.”
“A year? Are there truly those who have dwelt so long in the
cells of the Interrogium?”
Maricho shrugged again.
“Perhaps. We do not keep account. We merely observe them. Those
who show signs of contagion... those, Priest, we pass to your care. The rest
must simply wait.”
Sanquor repressed a shudder. He thought of them, as he climbed the
stairs to watch the evening’s sacrifice. Shut away in darkness, forgotten by
the city, forgotten even by their families, forgotten even by the
Tetharan....
No. He caught himself. That was heresy, itself. Not even those who
had fallen from grace were forgotten by the Tetharan. They saw all things,
and heard all things, and knew all things. Their gaze could pierce the
hearts of men; no truth was denied them. Nothing was unseen. Nothing was
forgotten.
He took his place in the high galleries, amongst the crowd, to
watch the sacrifice; to gaze on the knife, and see the glorious fires of
purification.
♦ ♦ ♦
He was late to the refectory the next morning. He had not slept
well.
“Have you heard?” Ciengo spoke eagerly, even as Sanquor slid into
his place.
“Heard?” he asked, poking unenthusiastically at his bowl. He felt
faintly nauseous. The hangover of dream, he thought.
“They took an Adept down to the Interrogium. An Adept!”
“Don’t be absurd,” Sanquor said.
“It’s true, “ Juvall confirmed. “I saw them taking her down. The
way I heard it, they caught her in the city. With some friends of that
heretic from yesterday.”
Dread filled Sanquor, sudden and foul. He pushed his bowl away,
untouched.
“Do you... do you know who it was?” he asked.
He got the answer he dreaded.
♦ ♦ ♦
Maricho was there, standing in front of the door, as if he never
left. He was no taller than Sanquor, and his build was slight; but his
stillness gave him an implacable authority.
“Is it true?”
“Is what true?” came the answer.
“Amuranya. I heard... I was told she had been taken to the
Interrogium. Tell me what has become of her. Is she...?”
“She is untainted by infection.”
“I would speak with her.”
“She is a heretic,” Maricho said, flatly. “To speak with her is to
risk contagion.”
“I am a Priest,” Sanquor reminded him. “I am a servant of the
Tetharan. I will not be swayed by heresy.”
“I am sure she said the same thing. You may not speak with her,
Sanquor. It is my duty to protect us all.”
“I do not forget your duty. But we have a higher duty, all of us;
to do the will of the Tetharan. To ensure that all may live in their grace.”
“She has fallen from grace, Priest,” he said. “She has fallen, and
there is nothing that can be done to save her.”
♦ ♦ ♦
He went straight to the Cambrus, to request an audience with
Phiruani herself. He had to wait, and paced back and forth across the
antechamber. The long climb to the Cambrus had wearied him; there was a dull
knot of pain, behind his ribs.
“You are here because of Amuranya,” the High Priest said, before
he could even speak. He bowed his head.
“You are wise, Mistress,” he answered her. “I heard... I cannot
believe it. She was an Adept. She was faithful.”
“She was. But let this be a lesson to you, Sanquor. Any of us can
fall from grace; citizen, Adept, even Priest. We must be vigilant. We must
be diligent.”
“But... Mistress, she shows no sign of infection. Perhaps there is
yet hope? If she can be made to see... if she can be brought back to the
grace of the Tetharan?”
There was silence. He waited, trying to still his breathing, slow
his heart.
“You have ever been faithful, Sanquor,” Phiruani said, at last.
“But I will not grant this. She has fallen from grace. She is tainted, even
if the contagion does not yet show. I would not lose you to temptation.”
“Mistress... forgive me, but... do you think I am so weak?”
She offered a weary smile.
“We are all weak, Sanquor. If we were not, we would not be human.”
♦ ♦ ♦
In his chambers, Sanquor paced, back and forth. Outside, the sun
was setting; he could not see it, from his window, but he could see the
ochre towers glowing, could see the long shadows being cast across the city
by the Temple tower.
He gulped down a goblet of quey. The heat of it seemed to spread
through him, congealing here and there into bright nuggets, so intense as to
be almost painful. He poured another goblet, and stood at the window,
watching the shadows spread, watching the darkness grow.
No. He was a Priest of the Tetharan. He was a brick in the wall
that held the darkness back. It was his duty to stop the darkness from
spreading.
He tipped the goblet back, and belted his robe, and headed down.
♦ ♦ ♦
Maricho stood at the doors of the Interrogium. Sanquor wondered if
he ever left; if he had any human needs, any human desires.
“I have spoken with the High Priest,” Sanquor told him. That part,
at least, was true. “I am here at her bidding to speak with Amuranya, that I
might bring her back to the way of the Tetharan, to their holy grace.”
So much of it true, so little of it a lie. But his stomach churned
at the thought of it. He did not want to think what punishment he might
face, once Phiruani learnt of his disobedience.
But if he brought Amuranya back... that, surely, would be enough
to earn forgiveness. To bring back to the grace of the Tetharan an Adept who
had turned away. Such an example might stand, bright and shining against the
darkness. Perhaps other heretics would see the light of truth. Perhaps....
Maricho did not question. He lifted the bar, and swung open the
door to the Interrogium.
“Vardo will guide you,” he said. For a moment, Sanquor wondered
what he meant; but then, from one side of the Interrogium, a man stepped
into view. He was enormous; a head taller than Sanquor, his shoulders broad,
his belly vast.
“Dwell in grace,” Sanquor said, bowing. He got no answer. As he
rose from the bow, Vardo was still standing there, implacable, monolithic.
“Vardo is deaf,” Maricho explained. “This is the ideal work for
him. He cannot be swayed by heresy he cannot hear.”
Vardo smiled. Maricho made certain gestures; Sanquor could only
guess what he was telling the deaf giant. He waited, impatient, his stomach
churning. He had never been inside the Interrogium, let alone the prison
beyond, where the untainted were confined.
When Maricho’s gestures ceased, Vardo gave a nod, and a grunt that
might have been understanding. Then he clapped Sanquor on the shoulder and,
turning, led him to another door, and through, and down. Down, to bedlam.
He had not imagined it. There were dozens of cells; hundreds. He
could hear the clamour of the voices. Some were praying, some begging, some
weeping. Now and then a scream–of what he could only imagine was utter
despair–pierced through the tumult like a sacrificial knife. His body pulsed
with pain in sympathy. He did not want to think how long some of these
people had been incarcerated here, waiting for signs of contagion to show,
waiting for the inevitable; to be taken to the sacrifice pit. To be
imprisoned, in this hot darkness, knowing that the only escape was
sacrifice... it was no wonder that madness walked here, and cried out its
pain.
He envied Vardo.
♦ ♦ ♦
She rose, when the door opened. Sanquor looked at her, and felt
his heart twist within him.
“Amuranya,” he breathed, like an orison.
“Sanquor?” He thrilled to the sound of his name, from her lips.
“You are... why are you here?”
“To bring you back to grace,” he said. “I know that the sacrifice
of your brother lit a fire of doubt within you. But that fire can be
quenched.” He wished the fire in his own chest would snuff itself out.
Her head tilted forward; her long hair, unbound, fell about her
face like a veil.
“It is too late,” she said. A spasm ran through him; fear, horror.
He mastered it.
“No. Not if... you are untainted. You can yet be saved.”
“None of us can be saved,” she said. “If my brother fell from
grace... none of us are pure, Sanquor. We should all be down here. All of
us, just waiting to die.”
“No. You are wrong, Amuranya.” He kept his voice low, but
urgency spilled out of him. “You are mistaken. This is not the place for
you, here, amongst these heretics. The Tetharan shine their light of grace
upon us, and so long as we do not turn aside from it, then we are blessed.
We are pure.”
“And my brother? What was his sin?” There was bitterness
there, and pain. He felt it as if it were his own.
“I cannot say. Only the Tetharan know the secrets of our heart,
Amuranya. They are wise, and....”
“Wise? They are cold gods! They take joy only in our
suffering!”
He stepped back, appalled. How could she have fallen so far, so
fast?
“Amuranya... this is grief. Grief, speaking through you. Deep in
your soul, you know that we dwell in the grace and love of the Tetharan.”
“I know nothing. Nothing! But I feel. I hate them, Sanquor. I
hate them!”
Her venom stung him. His lungs tightened, spasmed. He almost
doubled over, then, and he grasped at his chest, pulling his robe apart,
clutching at the agony that coiled and twisted within him. That writhed....
He realised it, even as she gasped in shock and horror. He looked
down at himself, saw the flesh of his belly distending, saw the movements
under his skin. She screamed, and pressed herself back against the wall of
her cell.
“You see?” she cried. “Even you! The Tetheran mock our faith!”
He wanted to deny it, to deny her, but the pain seared through him
and denied all else. He clutched at his abdomen, as if he could claw the
thoravids out of him with his fingers. But it was impossible. There was only
one way to deal with the parasites, once they had grown so strong.
He thought of the row of sacrificial knives, bright and beautiful
on the wall of his room.
“What was my sin?” he cried, falling to his knees. The tide of
pain was drowning him. “Lord Dohem, Lord Morvay, Lord Chark... what was my
sin?”
He was still pleading, still praying, when they came to bear him
away.
♦ ♦ ♦
He would have struggled. He would have fought against it, but the
pain was too great. The poison of the thoravids made his limbs heavy. Ten
Adepts bore him to the sacrifice pit. The stone of the altar was warm
underneath him. It never cooled, now; not from the succession of
purification fires.
Tears forced themselves from his eyes.
“It is a lie,” he tried to say, as the Priest intoned the Great
Prayer to the Tetharan. “It is a lie! I deserve grace! I only tried to
save her! I am without sin!”
But his voice was weak, and drowned by the crowd.
And then the knife came down.