Lurching, the boat betrayed the ferryman’s reaction. ‘Impossible,’ he sighed.
‘There is a good chance you could talk to the God Emperor Themselves.’
The whitened hands curled tighter round the oars. ‘We are permitted only the Inner Shore and the Shadowmere.’
Carnelian wondered at how strangely the ferryman named the lake, even as he tried to find a way to persuade him to do what he was now even more sure he needed. Again he thought hard before speaking lest he should lead them into peril. He glanced up at the Sacred Wall. The peace within its circle was an illusion. How could these people hope to survive what was coming?
‘You say you know who I am,’ Carnelian said.
‘Carnelian of the Masks,’ said the ferryman.
‘Then you must know that I am brother to the God Emperor, who went with him into the outer world, returned in triumph and who survived his elevation.’
The nest crown inclined and Carnelian was certain the kharon not only knew this to be true, but understood the implications. ‘Even as I have defied the Law, so must you. Upon my blood I swear I shall answer for your coming before the God Emperor my brother.’
For a moment Carnelian felt the ferryman’s eye peering at him, until at last he inclined his head. ‘Thy command shall be sent around the Shore.’
Relief washed over Carnelian. ‘One more thing I would ask of your people.’ Without thinking he put his hand upon the ferryman’s arm. At his touch, the man shuddered, but his steering grip held firm. ‘At dawn tomorrow, send three boats to Coomb Suth. There embark my people and their baggage and bring them to the Quays of the Dead.’
‘As you command, Seraph,’ the ferryman said and Carnelian drew his hand back, thanked him, then turned to walk along the deck, gazing at the vast green slope rising before them from the lake, within the summit of which lay the Plain of Thrones.
Carnelian clambered up onto the quay, his robe and cloak mired up to the knees with mud. He looked up the steps and let his gaze follow the path as it narrowed up into the cleft that led eventually into the Plain of Thrones. A long climb and at the end of it, what? It was only now he was facing the reality of seeing Osidian again; of having to confront him one last time. His heart was uncertain. Then there was the dull ache of fear. He had no idea how Osidian might be taking the failure of all his dreams. Fern had been right to worry about the danger. That was why Carnelian had insisted on coming alone.
He glanced back at the trail he had left in the shelf of mud as he had struggled up from the new shore. The bone boat was already moving off. That sight hardened his resolve. He had to prepare the way for the kharon. He turned back to the steps and began the climb.
He paused to get his breath, looking back the way he had come. The endless shallow steps. The scrape of his footfalls echoing off the rock walls had given the ghostly procession graven into them an eerie life. He was glad of the light up ahead. Only a few more steps and he beheld the Plain of Thrones spread out: a bright vision. The Pillar of Heaven seemed a vast shaft of light stabbing down from the morning sky. Beneath it, the jewel of the Pyramid Hollow and the gleaming rank of the funerary colossi. There was a glinting on the plain. It took him some moments to recognize the Cages of the Tithe. Recalling the myriads of children there, his heart failed. He had forgotten them. Then he became aware of some thick smoke rising from the western edge of the plain. The House of Immortality where the children of the Great were being prepared for their tombs. He gazed at the heart of the plain. Squinting, he gained the distinct impression the Stone Dance of the Chameleon was a lot wider than it should be. There appeared to be a slight hazing above it. Grimly, he began to walk towards it.
Coming closer, he saw that something like a small town had engulfed the standing stones. Smoke was spiralling up from many different locations among innumerable emerald pavilions.
As he came into the camp, he saw that the campfires were mostly located on the road where it split to encircle the Stone Dance of the Chameleon. It was covered with people who began to rise as he approached, turning their half-black faces towards him. Such a great gathering of Ichorians suggested the God Emperor must be near. Two gatestones rose behind them like sentinels standing guard on a dark wall where the outermost stones of the Dance were supposed to be. Somehow reminded of the shadowy eaves of the Isle of Flies, Carnelian shuddered.
Figures came through the Ichorians, pulling on helmets. As they approached they knelt before him. From their silver collars he knew they were centurions. He gave them his name and, when he told them he had come to see the God Emperor, he detected a flicker of fear in their eyes. There was something else there: hope. That drained him even more. What was it they were hoping he would save them from? He did not ask, but followed them along the right-hand fork as if he and they were a funerary procession. He distracted himself from this ill omen by observing the Dance, deducing it had been covered up to form some vast pavilion. The ghosts of the stones could be seen pushing through the midnight brocade that clothed them.
They came at last to a second pair of gatestones: those that stood opposite the road that led off to the House of Immortality, from where smoke was still belching ominously. The Ichorians around the two stones were syblings. They knelt. Carnelian waited as his guides communicated his words to them. His gaze became enmeshed in the black wall that rose behind them. Chimeric visions wrought into the silk were picked out with green and yellow jewels like feral eyes. Jade cameos hung here and there from which peered monstrous faces as if up through stagnant water. He tore free to look outwards. The quarter of the camp lying between the Immortality Road and that which led to the Forbidden Door was formed of purple pavilions spotted with silver spirals. He searched for ammonites or a glimpse of one of their masters, but the camp of the Wise seemed lifeless, abandoned. Ill omens were everywhere.
‘Celestial?’ said two voices he knew. He almost exclaimed with relief at seeing it was the Quenthas.
The sisters seemed to have aged, faces wasted, the dark tattoos sinking into Left-Quentha’s cheeks; Right-Quentha’s eyes were haunted by some terror. Twitching a smile, she begged him to follow them. He was drawn past flaps of the black samite into the gloom beyond in which a myrrh fog revolved ponderously in monstrous curls. Pale wraiths haunted the twilight. Were it not that this place was much more confined, he could fancy he had been transported into the Labyrinth. The pale slabs of the second ring of stones formed a broken ring that seemed lit by some dying moon. His mask was smothering him and, knowing he could, he removed it. ‘Are They here?’
Grimly, the Quenthas nodded. Left-Quentha clapped her hands. Slaves approached, naked, cringing. As they converged on him, Carnelian protested.
‘All here must be unclothed, Celestial,’ Right-Quentha said. She and her sister divested themselves of the robe they were wearing. Carnelian was fascinated by their joined body half dipped in the shadow of tattoos; by their small breasts and, for a moment, his gaze lingered on the strange form of their nearly joined sex. He himself removed his military cloak, bundled it up and gave it to the sisters. ‘Keep this for me.’ He could see they thought it strange he should care about such a rough, muddy garment, but they took it in their four hands. Then he submitted to the blind slaves. They stripped him, shaved his head, his face, his body. They cleansed him with pads. Through the sharp menthol he could still smell their sweaty fear.
Even through feather rugs Carnelian could feel the bony network of the pavement that linked the ghost stones to their commentaries. Like worms burrowing just beneath skin. In the gloom, pale flesh huddled to pale flesh, jewel eyes glinted furtively. A whispering like a breeze made him feel he was following the sisters through some enchanted forest haunted by the spirits of the dead.