Reaching the barrow’s ragged, cluttered edge, he moved to one side, off the main approach, then settled down into a kneeling position before the shrine, lowering his head and closing his eyes.
He heard someone move up alongside him, heard the soft breathing but nothing else,
Seerdomin prayer in silence. The same prayer, every day, every time, always the same.
Redeemer. I do not seek your blessing. Redemption will never be mine, nor should It, not by your touch, nor that of anyone else. Redeemer, I bring no gift to set upon your barrow. I bring to you naught but myself. Worshippers and pilgrims will hear nothing of your loneliness. They armour you against all that is human, for that is how they make you into a god. But you were once a mortal soul. And so I come, my only gift my company. It is paltry, I know, but it is all I have and all I would offer.
Redeemer, bless these pilgrims around me.
Bless them with peace in their need.
He opened his eyes, then slowly climbed to his feet.
Beside him spoke a woman. ‘Benighted.’
He started, but did not face her. ‘I have no such title,’ he said.
There was faint amusement in her reply, ‘Seerdomin, then. We speak of you often, at night, from fire to fire.’
‘I do not flee your venom, and should it one day take my life, so it will be.’
All humour vanished from her voice as she seemed to draw a gasp, then said, ‘We speak of you, yes, but not with venom. Redeemer bless us, not that.’
Bemused, he finally glanced her way. Was surprised to see a young, unlined face-the voice had seemed older, deep of timbre, almost husky-framed in glistening black hair, chopped short and angled downward to her shoulders. Her large eyes were of darkest brown, the outer corners creased in lines that did not belong to one of her few years. She wore a woollen robe of russet in which green strands threaded down, but the robe hung open, unbelted, revealing a pale green linen blouse cut short enough to expose a faintly bulging belly. From her undersized breasts he judged that she was not with child, simply not yet past the rounded softness of adolescence.
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Reaching the barrow’s ragged, cluttered edge, he moved to one side, off the main approach, then settled down into a kneeling position before the shrine, lowering his head and closing his eyes.
He heard someone move up alongside him, heard the soft breathing but nothing else,
Seerdomin prayer in silence. The same prayer, every day, every time, always the same.
Redeemer. I do not seek your blessing. Redemption will never be mine, nor should It, not by your touch, nor that of anyone else. Redeemer, I bring no gift to set upon your barrow. I bring to you naught but myself. Worshippers and pilgrims will hear nothing of your loneliness. They armour you against all that is human, for that is how they make you into a god. But you were once a mortal soul. And so I come, my only gift my company. It is paltry, I know, but it is all I have and all I would offer.
Redeemer, bless these pilgrims around me.
Bless them with peace in their need.
He opened his eyes, then slowly climbed to his feet.
Beside him spoke a woman. ‘Benighted.’
He started, but did not face her. ‘I have no such title,’ he said.
There was faint amusement in her reply, ‘Seerdomin, then. We speak of you often, at night, from fire to fire.’
‘I do not flee your venom, and should it one day take my life, so it will be.’
All humour vanished from her voice as she seemed to draw a gasp, then said, ‘We speak of you, yes, but not with venom. Redeemer bless us, not that.’
Bemused, he finally glanced her way. Was surprised to see a young, unlined face-the voice had seemed older, deep of timbre, almost husky-framed in glistening black hair, chopped short and angled downward to her shoulders. Her large eyes were of darkest brown, the outer corners creased in lines that did not belong to one of her few years. She wore a woollen robe of russet in which green strands threaded down, but the robe hung open, unbelted, revealing a pale green linen blouse cut short enough to expose a faintly bulging belly. From her undersized breasts he judged that she was not with child, simply not yet past the rounded softness of adolescence.
She met his eyes in a shy manner that once again startled him. ‘We call you the Benighted, out of respect. And all who arrive are told of you, and by this means we ensure that there is no theft, no rape, no crime at all. The Redeemer has chosen you to guard his children.’
‘That is untrue.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I had heard that no harm befell the pilgrims this close to the Great Barrow.’
‘Now you know why.’
Seerdomin was dumbfounded. He could think of nothing to say to such a no¬tion. It was madness. It was, yes, unfair.
‘Is it not the Redeemer who shows us,’ said the,woman, ‘that burdens are the lot of us all? That we must embrace such demands upon our souls, yet stand fearless, open and welcoming?’
‘I do not know what the Redeemer shows-to anyone.’ His tone was harsher than he’d intended. ‘I have enough burdens of my own. I will not accept yours – I will not be responsible for your safety, or that of any other pilgrim, This – this…’ This is not why I am here,’ Yet, much as be wanted to shout that out loud. Instead he turned away, marched back to the avenue.
Pilgrims flinched from his path, deepening his anger.
Through the camp, eyes set on the darkness ahead, wanting to be once more within its chill embrace, and the city, too. The damp grey walls, the gritty cobbles of the streets, the musty cave of a tavern with its surround of pale, miserable faces-yes, back to his own world. Where nothing was asked of him, nothing demanded, not a single expectation beyond that of sitting at a table with the game arrayed before him, the twist and dance of a pointless contest.
On to the road, into the swirl of lost voices from countless useless ghosts, his boots ringing on the stones.
Damned fools!
Down at the causeway spanning the Citadel’s moat, blood leaked out from bodies sprawled along its length, and in the north sky something terrible was happening. Lurid slashes like a rainbow gone mad, spreading in waves that devoured darkness. Was it pain that strangled the very air? Was it something else burgeoning to life, shattering the universe itself?
Endest Silann, a simple acolyte in the Temple of Mother Dark, wove drunkenly round the bodies towards the Outer Gate, skidding on pools of gore. Through the gate’s peaked arch he could see the city, the roofs like the gears of countless mechanisms, gears that could lock with the sky itself, with all creation. Such was Kharkanas, First Born of all cities. But the sky had changed. The perfect machine of existence was broken-see the sky!