The Trials of Empire, page 11
“They are bred to ensure they retain a nascent consciousness. I strive to keep their level of awareness just over the threshold of human thought. It has taken many years to achieve these results with regularity, but I have reached the point now where I can provide the Spiritsraad with a viable sacrifice nine times out of every ten.”
“What happens to the tenth?” von Osterlen asked.
“Private buyers.”
“And they pay you handsomely for this service,” Vonvalt remarked. “The Spiritsraad?”
Sir Anzo nodded. “It is not where I saw my life leading, but it is where it has led. The Kasar pay me well, and keep me safe. Where many other Sovans have been driven out of Port Talaka, I have remained. Thrived, I daresay.”
“I’m not sure I have ever been as disgusted as I am now,” von Osterlen said, helplessly casting her eyes about at each pitiable hybrid. “The red hand of Kasivar is writ large here.” She jabbed a finger at the nearest. “This is evil work.”
Sir Anzo weathered this invective with the world-weariness of a man who has long traded away his shame. I saw in him then a prisoner of circumstance, a once proud member of the Chivalric Order of the Autun, now stuck down a dead-end tributary of the temporal pathway, locked in his role as purveyor of abominations by chains wrought of the finest gold. All his wealth and status in the Kyarai meant nothing to him, but he hadn’t the courage to break free.
“They are witless,” Sir Anzo said. “They feel no pain. They drink a concoction each morning that dulls their senses. Do not think of them as conscious beings.”
“I would not treat cattle in this way!” von Osterlen shouted, her voice echoing off the walls of the ravine.
“Calm yourself,” Vonvalt snapped. “We have much more than this to trouble ourselves with. And besides, would it be better to sacrifice a living, breathing human, or Kasar, in their stead?”
“But what is the point of it? Why even do it at all? It is grotesque!”
“Why do the Northmen listen to the ground around fire mountains? Why do the Stygion dive down deep when the waves suddenly retreat from the beach? The wise do well to monitor the world around them. Why should the afterlife be any different?”
“It would be better to abandon this shabby enterprise entirely,” von Osterlen muttered angrily.
Sir Anzo shrugged, bolstered by Vonvalt’s consequentialism. “My lady, I can assure you that much worse things are afoot in the world than this.”
Von Osterlen fixed him in the eye. “There is only one man in the known world that I would wish this fate on, and it is you,” she said. Then she turned, and made her way back up the stairs.
Vonvalt looked at me, perhaps searching for another ally, but I would not meet his gaze. My thoughts aligned entirely with those of von Osterlen’s. I just wished I had been more shocked. Necromancy had always been a difficult, haunting and energy-consuming task for Vonvalt. He could see little except the practical benefits of Sir Anzo’s solution.
“We cannot shy away from using every tool at our disposal to stop Claver,” Vonvalt said to Sir Anzo, though I had the feeling it was for my benefit.
Sir Anzo nodded, though he seemed to have regretted bringing us here. He kept the hybrid in his hands, and together the three of us exited the ravine after von Osterlen. She was sitting in the back of the cart, her arms folded, and she did not speak to any of us for the rest of the day.
Sir Anzo wrapped the hybrid in a blanket and fed it something that made it docile to the point of catatonic. He placed it in a special container next to him at the front of the cart, a strongbox perforated with holes. That such a small and pathetic creature was about to cause us so much traumatic horror that very night was unthinkable.
The driver whipped the huge horse-like creatures and we began the long journey back to Sir Anzo’s residence.
“I want no part in this,” I said quietly as we travelled across the grass plains, bathed in the afternoon sunlight.
“Nema, and you think I do?!” Vonvalt retorted in a sudden surge of anger, and we lapsed to silence.
VIII
Death and Horror in the City of Sleep
“It is not only Sova which concerns herself with the exploration of the holy dimensions. There are plenty of other practitioners of what we refer to as the ‘Draedist arcana’. Hitherto these interdimensional argonauts have not crossed paths, but I foresee a time in which entire wars will be fought for the right to control access to the afterlife.”
FROM CHUN PARSIFAL’S TREATISE, PENITENT EMPIRE
We spent a few hot and restless hours back in Sir Anzo’s manse. I took my leave of the group at the earliest opportunity and returned to my chamber. There I lay on my bed, trying and failing to forget about the hybrids I had seen lying catatonically in that ravine.
The stress and heat of the day had conspired to exhaust me, and in spite of my sour mood I eventually dozed off. I jolted awake a few hours later having dreamt exclusively of the wolfchild mutants, to find it was dusk. Outside, plains wolves barked in the hot twilight air.
“Miss Sedanka, you are summoned,” a servant called gently from the doorway. “Your presence is requested downstairs.”
“I’m coming,” I said blearily, dry-mouthed and perspiring in the stuffy chamber.
After I had taken my bearings, I made my way downstairs, to find Vonvalt, Sir Anzo and von Osterlen preparing to leave in the entrance hall.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“We go to the Spiritsraad,” Sir Anzo said.
“Now? Already?”
“Yes. There is no sense in waiting,” Vonvalt said.
“I told you I wanted no part in this,” I said.
“None of us do!” von Osterlen snapped. “Grow up, girl.”
“You’ve changed your fucking tune!” I snapped back at her; a vertiginous sense of rage washed through me.
Von Osterlen’s eyes widened. My anger caught her – and everyone else – completely off guard.
“Yes, well,” she muttered in the silence that followed. She did not meet my eye, and when she spoke, it was unhappily. “Sir Konrad has been at pains this afternoon to emphasise the necessity of this work.”
“I’ll bloody say,” I remarked, but I was already embarrassed by my outburst, and pleased this nascent confrontation had died. Still, a part of me wished the margrave had shouted back.
“You know we do not have time for these histrionics, Helena,” Vonvalt said wearily, though it felt forced. “I need everyone with me.” He tapped his breastbone. “Hearts of iron.”
This had the unwelcome effect of reminding me of my own breastbone, and the tattoo of Aegraxes that was branded on the skin there. Was this, too, part of his broader plan? Was I a piece on an aethereal board, currently being manoeuvred to a model of the Spiritsraad? I wondered what Vonvalt had said to von Osterlen. Would he have broached the topic forcefully, or gently? Would he have leant on her sense of logic? Realpolitik? Or would he have confected some clever argument which appealed to her piety? I imagined him lecturing her as he had done in Haunersheim, speaking on the importance of trading away some of our high-minded ideals. He would use phrases which had for him become trite – hearts of iron or stone, a rough time filled with rough deeds, tangled matters and tangled outcomes. Had von Osterlen relented because she accepted his arguments, or because she had grown sick of hearing them?
Whatever had happened, I had lost my only ally, and with it my desire to force a confrontation. Vonvalt still had the power to compel me – not literally, with the Emperor’s Voice, but emotionally. I remained, in spite of our growing distance, in his thrall. And besides, a small but vocal part of me felt as he did; that there was no scope for these petty reservations. That in order to survive, we had to throw ourselves into this grubby grey world with gusto, knowing that to fail with clean hands was worse than succeeding with dirty ones; knowing that to adopt the tools and methods of our enemy was the right thing to do if done in furtherance of an ultimate good. That was our sacrifice. We compromised our souls so that others could see the world through eyes unclouded by moral failure.
In any event, I knew that if I refused to go, they would go without me. What could that represent except our permanently parting ways? I could not tolerate that.
“Fine,” I said.
“Fine?” Vonvalt asked.
“Yes. What choice is there?”
Vonvalt opened his mouth, and then closed it again. After a while, he muttered to Sir Anzo, “Let’s get on with it.”
We exited the residence and climbed into the same wagon we had used to visit the hybrids, and made our way into Port Talaka. We crossed over the many strands of the Yaro Delta and cut in westward, to where the city rose up, the striking geometric architecture, hanging gardens and stone idols forming one vast shallow pyramid, as though the whole city were some meta-temple.
In the centre of Port Talaka were two massive stepped pyramids of red stone. The first, which was crowned with a striking building wrought of white marble and which caught the last of the day’s sunlight like a goblet of blood, was the Kasaraad, home to the conclave of dynasties which governed the Kyarai. The other, which lay across from it via a flat stone boulevard a quarter of a mile across, was the Spiritsraad, a huge domed temple of obsidian black, which had at its apex the “Blood Eye” – the largest ruby in the known world.
Sir Anzo conversed with the guards at the foot of the Spiritsraad, and they let us pass without incident.
“You cannot speak Kasarsprek, so you are unlikely to make any faux pas,” he said as we began to ascend. “If in doubt, bow and show deference; they understand that that is a mark of respect from a human. You can always follow my lead if you are wanting for something to do.”
The Kasar were naturally much taller than humans, and their steps were commensurately higher. The ascent to the top of the Spiritsraad was a punishing climb, and even in the late evening the heat was intense in the Kyarai. By the time we summited the temple, half an hour had passed, and I was not the only one dripping with sweat. Of all of us, von Osterlen, by far the fittest thanks to her lengthy military career, was the only one who had managed the climb without stopping.
I looked up at the black temple. It was an intricate drum-shape of marble and obsidian, much larger than it had looked on our approach from the east of the city. I craned my neck, though I could not see the Blood Eye from where we stood.
Once again, Sir Anzo conversed with the guards who stood at the entrance to the temple. They were both black-coated and wore heavy ceremonial armour and long robes of white silk. I watched Sir Anzo show them the runt, which they viewed with obvious disgust; then one of them disappeared inside the building and returned a few moments later with another Kasar who, even to my untrained eye, was clearly some kind of priest.
“Come on,” Sir Anzo said to us quietly, and in we went.
Beyond the threshold was a polished floor of cream-coloured stone shot through with veins of emerald, whilst a ring of intricately carved idols, each easily thirty feet tall, held up the vast domed ceiling. In the centre of the main chamber was a massive statue wrought from onyx, which depicted an armoured Kasar wearing a grotesque iron mask and wielding a gigantic halberd. I tried to think why I was so struck by the statue – beyond its obvious impressiveness as a work of art – until I realised that it was the spitting image of the Imperial Warden.
“It could be a statue of Kimathi,” I murmured to no one in particular.
“It might as well be,” Sir Anzo said, speaking over his shoulder. “The Imperial Warden is historically taken from the Hyernakryger, the guardians of the Spiritsraad. This statue is of Salamatu, a well-known warrior demigod of Kasar legend.”
“So these Hyernakryger,” I attempted, butchering the pronunciation. “They are like Kasari Templars?”
The warrior priest who was chaperoning us growled his displeasure at the mention of the Savarans. I wondered how much Saxan they could understand. The answer, as it would transpire, was both more than I thought and less than I hoped.
“An ill-advised comparison, but an apt one,” Sir Anzo said in a low voice.
We were taken into a small chapel. We had arrived unannounced, so nothing had been prepared. Sir Anzo bade us wait, and accompanied the Kasari priest back out of the chamber, doubtless to corral whoever was required for the communion with Kimathi.
“Once more into the abyss,” Sir Konrad muttered, sitting down carelessly on what could well have been a chest containing holy relics. “If nothing else it will be interesting to see how the Kasar do it.”
I was not given long to ruminate on it. A short while later, a small conclave of Kasar appeared. I recognised these wizened creatures for what they were: their stooped bearing, greying fur and fussy, bookish auras immediately marked them out as holy men and women. They conversed with Sir Anzo at the same time as removing the hybrid from the chest he had brought in a brisk, business-like manner. If there was any anger or confusion at our unanticipated arrival, then none of the shamans gave any hint of it. Perhaps they relished the opportunity to exercise their powers. It made sense that Sir Anzo would limit the number of sacrificial mutants and so drive up their price.
One of the Kasar placed the runt in a broad metal bowl on an altar in the centre of the chamber. The thing mewled, and I felt an awful mixture of revulsion and pity for it.
“The Dwelkspreker is saying that the… kraakbyan, the…” Sir Anzo snapped his fingers impatiently as he thought of the word in Saxan. “The fabric between planes – is thin. They have noticed it these past few weeks, especially on the Frontier.”
“It was the same in Haunersheim,” Vonvalt said. “Claver’s meddling, and his demonic patronage, is awakening forces that have long been dormant.”
Sir Anzo wrinkled his lip. He listened to the priests speak for a little longer. “They are worried,” he murmured, and I felt my gut sour. “Something is not right.”
“You have explained to them our task?” Vonvalt asked.
“Yes, to make contact with the Imperial Warden and learn the truth of the turmoil in Sova,” Sir Anzo said.
“It is not only that. I need the Kasaraad to give us an army to stop the Templars,” Vonvalt said impatiently.
Sir Anzo held out both of his hands. “I know that,” he said. “But that comes later. The shamans can’t help you with that.”
“It is important context!”
“Peace, Sir Konrad. Matters are in hand.”
Vonvalt pursed his lips. Around us, preparations were made for the séance. This was not the hard-headed and pragmatic preparation I was used to seeing from a world-weary member of the Magistratum. This had a much more superstitious, spiritual feel to it, the sort of preparations a charlatan psychic might make. Candles and incense were lit, whilst Sir Anzo bade us form a circle, linking hands. The Dwelkspreker chanted in a low voice, whilst another Kasar next to her held a medallion in the same way Bressinger had done. I felt another jolt of melancholy at the thought of my old friend.
The Dwelkspreker – evidently the leader of the conclave – said something to Sir Anzo, who turned to us. “We must not break the circle—”
“We know,” Vonvalt snapped, immediately irritated, as he got whenever he felt he was being condescended to.
Sir Anzo sighed and nodded to the Dwelkspreker. She resumed her incantation, and with a sharp, curved dagger, sliced the throat of the runt in the metal bowl. It was a single, deep incision, and the thing died immediately.
I closed my eyes, for I did not want to watch it die; but then I felt the ground shift beneath me, and when I opened them again, the inside of the Spiritsraad had disappeared. In spite of what Vonvalt had said, I still expected to see the Plain of Burden below as we descended – but of course, Kimathi was not dead, and we were not travelling there.
Instead, we were taken to a different place.
I squinted as it resolved. To my surprise, it was an actual city – a city of drab grey, brown and black stone, a place of absolute and profound silence sitting beneath a sick yellow sky. Scattered about were huge black obelisks easily two or three hundred feet tall, and as we approached the streets I saw vast, milky eyes open in the centre of each one. The eyeballs rolled and turned and squirmed desperately; they held the city in their ghastly gaze, wretched mute sentinels.
This was a dimension where the conscious human mind had no place: the City of Sleep, one of the astral planes where, every night, millions of sleeping souls went. Where I went. This was the realm of the klyada, as the Kasar would call it, the “minor death”, the unconscious, liminal threshold between life and the afterlife. In every one of the buildings beneath us – and the city appeared to be limitless – lay a sleeping soul.
We moved, propelled by incantation, until we reached a low, dim chamber which contained the spectral form of Kimathi. He lay not on a bed, but a stone slab inscribed with runes which pulsed with dull pink light. We stood around his prostrate form like assassins. There was something so unsettling about the process, knowing that I myself experienced this terrifying vulnerability every time I closed my eyes at night. Even Vonvalt, as learned as it was possible to be in the Draedist arcana – at least from the perspective of the Imperial Magistratum, a syllabus which seemed increasingly inadequate – knew very little of this place.
The Dwelkspreker laid a hand on Kimathi’s chest and spoke softly. Kimathi did not start when awoken, like I had expected him to. Instead, he seemed to remain in a trancelike state, as the Kasar spoke to and questioned him. I knew not what they said, though the conversation went on for a while.
Time passed, and my unease grew. I felt like a spy in a foreign castle.
