As they wound their way through the field of lights, the vision had soured. In the gloom around the feet of the pavilions, slaves huddled over lurid braziers, turning their faces furtively to watch them pass, some grovelling, others throwing themselves face down upon the ground. Above them, through the membranes of patterned silk, immense shadow Masters seemed to be caught in the act of pupating into monsters. Higher still rose the appallingly massive sepulchres that glowered down at them as the colossi in the Plain of Thrones were doing upon the miserable tributaries. It had been a relief to cross the Mirror Moat, then make the dizzying climb up the fiery steps of the Shimmering.
When they had reached the torn-down gate, they had turned their backs upon the Encampment that, from that height, had once more transformed into a dreamy vision, to enter the vastnesses of the Halls of Rebirth. A world more sombrely lit, haunted by sinister pillars of perfumed mist that drifted like ghosts through the endless halls. Everything moved, slowly, evolving. Everywhere countless aspects, bewildering: like trying to piece together a view from reflections caught in the flying fragments of a shattering mirror.
In the bed, Carnelian tightened the curl of their bodies. His heart quickened. He knew he must confess to Fern the decision he had made about the part he intended to play in the next day’s ritual. Would Fern understand? Carnelian recalled the almost childlike expression of hope that had come over Fern’s face when first he beheld the Labyrinth. He was sure that in its vaulted gloom Fern had seen some semblance of the mother trees and a yearning for the world he had lost. Heart aching, Carnelian felt sick with the misery that the one he loved might never be truly happy in Osrakum.
Osidian was beside the opening of the well that was the beginning of the Path of Blood. He looked up and Carnelian detected a change in the cast of his shoulders as he glanced past him to Fern. Carnelian gestured Fern and the rest of his entourage to halt and advanced alone towards Osidian. He opened his hand and offered him back the blood-ring Osidian had sent with his summons as a sign it truly came from him.
Osidian took it, frowning. ‘After today, I will have no need of this.’
Carnelian nodded, understanding. That ring would become a lie once ichor flowed untainted in the new God Emperor’s veins. Carnelian’s gaze took in Osidian’s guard in its new splendour. Marula, already forged into Ichorian collars of silver. Wearing breastplates of bronze. Shrouded in cloaks of silk patterned in green and black.
‘They look handsome, do they not?’ said Osidian.
Carnelian agreed with his hand, recalling the thought he had had the first time he set eyes upon Marula: that they were like the Chosen reflected in a mirror of obsidian.
‘For the moment they wear the heraldry of the Sinistrals, but I have a notion to adorn them with scarlet. The colour would complement their skin. Does it not seem apropos to you, Carnelian, that they should combine the heraldry of both Ichorians?’
Again, Carnelian agreed.
‘As today the Two are to be combined in my person, so shall the Ichorians of the left and right’ – Osidian held his hands palm up – ‘merge into a single Guard.’ He brought his hands together, meshing his fingers.
Carnelian could see how the tattooed halves of the old Ichorians could be seen to find union in the black skin of the Marula.
Osidian regarded the warriors. ‘From these, the Wise will make me syblings.’ There was a glint in his eyes. ‘Imagine how elegantly sombre such specimens would be, encased in iron.’
Unease arose in Carnelian. ‘But you will help them rebuild the ladder down to the Lower Reach.’
Osidian made a gesture of dismissal. ‘We shall send an expedition to retrieve from their land enough of their females to ensure an adequate breeding population here.’
‘But what of your promise to Morunasa?’
‘I have told him it is already too late. Their land is dying. Their only hope of survival is here. They will come to accept this soon enough. Why should they not? How could their noisome jungles compare to sacred Osrakum?’
Carnelian felt there was doubt caged within Osidian’s certainty. ‘But what of Morunasa. What of his god?’ Almost Carnelian had said: What of your god?
Osidian’s face took on a brittle cast. ‘I have told him he and all his people can worship me. For is the Black Twin not the very same god they worshipped in the Isle of Flies?’ His face betrayed something of the distaste Carnelian felt and a shadow of suffering seemed to be nesting under Osidian’s brows. ‘And is He not about to be poured into me?’
In Osidian’s crazed eyes there was something of a child seeking reassurance. Carnelian gave a nod in spite of his misgivings. For a moment he teetered on the edge of despair. The solid ground of their agreement, of his hopes, seemed to be crumbling beneath his feet. He suppressed a desire to turn and find Fern. It was enough to know he was there. Enough that his people were in Osrakum. It was here the fate of millions would be determined. He had to cleave to the heart of power to do what he could to save as many as he could.
Osidian was gazing down into the blackness of the Path of Blood. He looked up, agony ageing him. ‘I asked you here to say goodbye. This path I must tread alone.’ His voice was low and tremulous. ‘From this day forward, you shall never again look upon my face.’
Carnelian felt Osidian’s loss and knew some of it was his own. It steadied him. He glanced round. If anything, Fern’s face was grimmer now than when Carnelian had told him what he intended to do. There had been no arguments. Fern would endure this as he had so much else. Carnelian twitched a smile, then, turning back, reached out to touch Osidian’s hand. ‘Not alone.’
From distress, Osidian’s face dissolved into horror. Carnelian grasped his hand. ‘I have not chosen to die.’
‘What then?’
‘I will give of my blood to ensure yours is transubstantiated into ichor.’
Osidian took hold of Carnelian’s hands as if they were all that was stopping him from tumbling into an abyss. He was trembling, tearful. ‘Very well, brother, we shall do this thing together.’
Carnelian and Osidian approached the brightness at the end of the tunnel, hearts beating faster, still holding hands as they had done all the way through the darkness, like children. The opening swelled and they emerged, blinded, into the light. The air was filled with a sound Carnelian imagined could have been a locust swarm in flight. He lost hold of Osidian’s hand. He looked up, his eyes narrowing behind the slits of his mask, sight returning. All around, a host of angels rose in serried ranks up into the heights of the cavern. Glimmering in stiff jewelled carapaces, crowned, their masks striping the Pyramid Hollow up to its black apex.
Carnelian’s head fell, his soul chilled by the cold grandeur of the Chosen. Ahead the Creation Chariot was crowded. The Grand Sapients were sombre pillars erupting stellated crowns. Around them, barely reaching their waists, Oracles, feral teeth revealed in rictus grins, adorned in violent Ichorian greens, tamed by service collars of silver. From the midst of this assemblage a tower rose; its hollow interior, exposed, revealed the inner scaffolding of bird bones that held it up. Though these supports were more dense than any Carnelian had seen, he still had no doubt it was an immense court robe waiting to engulf its wearer.
Osidian stood transfixed. Only the slight glimmer of his eyes gave any indication there was a living man behind his mask. Carnelian followed the gaze of that perfect, dead face of gold and saw among the Oracles one whom he had not noticed: Morunasa, his yellow eyes popping as if he were being impaled, seeing only Osidian, to whom he gave the slightest of nods.