A deep DOOOOOOMMMMMM rang out across the city. The black-iron tower in the centre of the square seemed crude and out of place next to the majestic temples, but it contained something of incalculable value – the Clock of All Hours. The great bell rang again. The verdigris-crusted spire vibrated and shook off corvun-crap as it rang out noon. The cogs of the arcane machine churned endlessly, powered by another long-lost art, tolling every three hours from dawn until nightfall. It was the legacy of the original architect of Setharis, the refugee Escharric magus Siùsaidh, whose other, and to my mind greater, creation had been the sewer system that kept the air of the Old Town fresh and fragrant. Doubtless her practical sort would have had no truck with the backstabbing politics that plagued the Arcanum nowadays.
As the last ringing echo faded, from the centre of the square the godsingers lifted their voices tower-ward in praise. Crimson leaves swirled around them as their hymn swelled, illuminations from the temple windows intensifying. Competition was always fierce for a place in the choir, a chance for the finely-voiced faithful to please their gods.
The temple of Derrish opened its doors and priests began taking tithes. Rich merchants handed over bags of coin to receive the god’s blessings, and more practically, to gain the temple’s political clout and financial advice in return. Derrish was widely regarded as the incarnation of Setharis, a bit of a money-grubbing scoundrel that saw himself as better than everybody else. Mind you, he was a god, so arguably he kind of was.
A line of bleeders shuffled towards crimson-robed priests of the Thief of Life, watching drops of their blood patter down into golden bowls as an offering, then drinking a tiny cup of his holy red wine. What Nathair got out of these transactions, no mortal knew. He had always been the least popular of the gods, his priesthood’s cultish practices seeming uncomfortably close to blood magic. Despite dark rumour, it seemed that his popularity had grown tenfold in my absence, probably because he didn’t hold with long, boring sermons.
The grey-robed priests of the Lord of Bones remained silent as they went about their business: bestowing final blessings on the dying, and taking in the corpses of all Gifted to set them to the pyre. The fate of mundanes was different, of course: the priests took those bodies down into the Boneyards beneath the city, where they alone had no fear to tread amongst the darkness and the dead, to lay them to rest somewhere within that maze of catacombs. As a god he was deathly dull. Quite apt really.
On my travels I had discovered that in many foreign lands they believed people possessed a strange and nebulous thing called a soul, which I understood as a strange sort of spirit locked in a cage of meat. People had a deep-seated need to believe that they didn’t wink out like a snuffed candle when their physical end came, but like most magi my opinion differed: we believed that over time our lives slowly drained back into the sea of magic it had spawned from. The fact magi tended not to die of old age lent a measure of credence to that idea, the Gift constantly refilling our hourglasses with sand.
Lady Night was a mystery. She had no discernible aspect or interest save perhaps an association with the hours of darkness. She was said to be an ever-watching guardian but also a thief, both hero and villain. People called on Sweet Lady Night when traversing dangerous paths by torchlight, and cursed the Night Bitch when misfortune’s silver eye fell upon them. She had no established priesthood, but every so often somebody would feel a deep calling and be drawn to minister to her worshippers for a few years. Legend said that the Lord of Bones and she had been lovers long ago and some folk liked to imagine that they still were, an immortal love lasting thousands of years. I chose to believe it even though I could only dream of finding such love.
And then there was the Hooded God. Only a handful of worshippers set foot in his temple, and they looked as guilty as any red-handed murderer, slinking up, looking left and right before heading in and closing the door behind them. It seemed that this new god had not built up any sort of real following yet. I couldn’t think of any living magus both old and powerful enough to be anywhere near calling themselves a god, so which mortal had occupied dead Artha’s position so quickly?
I had been picking at the old, dread secret in my head since I returned home, all the reminders helping to pry off the protective scabs. So near the site of Artha’s temple, I couldn’t help but use it to pick at the scab in my mind a little more.
Oh Artha, what have I done! His blood speckled my face, metal tang burning my lips as I plunged my hands into his splayed flesh, searching… A tidal wave of horror overwhelmed me. Everything went red and I toppled.
I regained awareness lying in a quivering heap of terror, with a raging headache and a pool of vomit by my mouth. The lines of worshippers had all shuffled forward and people were peering over at me with disgust, wondering if I’d been overcome by religious fervour. I shivered – I had cut him open, gutted like a fish. My heart pounded and sweat beaded my brow. Artha had died by my hand.
“Get up! Burn you for a fool, boy,” Old Gerthan said. “Now is not the time to be drawing attention.” I stood and pulled my hood lower, trying to walk normally away from the scene. I buried my horror in a corner of my mind, as I had to.
At the edge of the square Old Gerthan stopped and handed me a scroll. “This will get you in and out of the evidence room. Good luck.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I won’t forget this.”
He smoothed his beard, looking thoughtful. “What happened to your friend was terrible. I hope you find the answers you seek.”
“I will.”
“Oh, and Walker – you are dead to me.”
I got the point: he knew nothing and I was on my own. Old Gerthan disappeared into the crowd. I looked up at the gleaming golden spires and gothic arches of the Templarum Magestus. Fear shuddered up my spine. I was a chicken about to stick my head into the maw of a sleepy fox and hope it didn’t bite down.
Chapter 11
I took a deep breath – This is for Lynas – and then entered the great hall at the heart of the Arcanum. Whispers of mellifluous music greeted me as I traversed the marble floor of the nave, with its ornate spiralling columns and vaulted roof. Large globes of frosted crystal filled the hall with pale light and fearsomely fanged dragons swam through wood and gold panels while stylized magi fought back hideous daemons and dispensed words of wisdom through tapestry and mural. One scene depicted the war god Artha. My hands itched, felt stained red. I had been exiled and forced into forgetting, but if I was involved with the gods then it was no wonder I’d been terrified of breaking my bargain.
Heatless silver fire limned the ranks of obsidian-and-gold statues of past archmagi and great heroes. I wasn’t impressed by the display of wealth, but instead admired the years of effort and artistry that had gone into the artwork – all this gaudy frippery could feed the entire city for years. The statues led to the centre of the hall, and the conclave dais where seven golden thrones awaited the Archmagus and the six other councillors of the Inner Circle. It was a conflicted feeling that one of those now belonged to Cillian. Five empty alcoves were set high on the walls, empty and awaiting a god’s arrival if they chose to manifest.
I pulled my hood back and smoothed out my mop of hair as best I could before making my way down a side corridor towards the evidence rooms, smaller gem-lights studding the walls. Most of the people I passed were part of the army of overworked clerks and scribes involved in the minutiae of running a city and an empire. The Templarum Magestus and the Collegiate had been built in a time when there had been many more Gifted, but after the devastating losses suffered centuries ago it seemed like we were old folk rattling around the house long after all the children had gone. An entire wing of personal quarters had been closed off for the last two hundred years. There had been a time when those corridors buzzed with laughter and spirited debate, or so Archmagus Byzant once confided in me.