Tribute to Hell (the tainted realm) Read online

  Tribute to Hell

  ( The Tainted Realm )

  Ian Irvine

  Ian Irvine

  Tribute to Hell

  Greave was sliding between the thighs of his god’s forthcoming month-bride, exulting at the conquest, when an icy finger went where no finger had gone before and a wintry voice said, Have you heard the one about the definition of savoir-faire?

  Greave had often told the joke, smugly implying that he was that very master. An inveterate seducer, he prided himself on his self-possession, but it eluded him now. The irony did not.

  Go on, then. Complete the deed.

  Not for anything could Greave continue, and now he felt the young woman grow cool beneath him. Then cold. Then freezing; the god had frozen her solid.

  Her fate will be echoed by every woman you touch, said his god, K’nacka, until you have paid for your crime and redeemed yourself. To ensure you do, I hold hostage your little sister, the one person you care about more than yourself.

  ‘What must I do?’ said Greave, fighting to remain calm despite the absurdity of his position. He glanced over his shoulder. The god had the form of a round-bellied man, a plump, jolly little fellow, save for the agate in his eyes.

  In the High Temple, on the Altar of the Seven Gods, there is a Graven Casket.

  Spikes closed around Greave’s fluttering heart. ‘The most precious treasure of the temple. You want me to steal it.’

  No mortal may approach the casket and live. However, there is one tiny instant of time when this spell fades and a man at the end of his rope may draw near. The day after tomorrow, at precisely the fifth hour after midday, you will open the casket and take out what lies inside.

  ‘The casket is sealed,’ said Greave. ‘It can only be opened, and then but once, by the touch of a god-’

  The touch of a god — but not a god, K’nacka corrected. He tossed down a pair of small bones held together by a silver wire. These come from the little finger of a dead god. Touch the casket with a god-bone, it will spring open, and you may safely remove the contents.

  K’nacka vanished, leaving Greave frozen in place and knowing that the task was a trap. He had to do it, but he was not going to survive, and neither was his little sister.

  Novice Astatine was lying awake, scratching some itchy specks on her stomach, when Abbess Hildy slipped into her cell.

  ‘The gods are weakening,’ intoned Hildy, ‘while the power of the dark princes swells. Our lost souls wail so loudly that I sometimes recognise their voices — and they all lived good lives.’

  Astatine shuddered. The abbess’s ecstatic visions were always disturbing, but this was the worst yet.

  ‘The more sainted they were in life, the louder they shriek,’ Hildy said. ‘Something is dreadfully wrong with the world.’

  Ice was advancing from all sides on the island of Hightspall, the last surviving outpost of the empire, but that was not what Hildy was talking about. ‘What did you see this time?’ whispered Astatine.

  ‘The wicked Margrave Greave is planning to open the Graven Casket. You must stop him.’

  ‘Me?’ Astatine choked.

  ‘You will journey to the High Temple and prevent this dreadful insult to the gods. Our beloved K’nacka must be weeping at the insult.’

  ‘But I’ve taken binding vows,’ said Astatine, wringing her fingers under the covers. ‘The corruption inside me must be cleansed.’

  ‘You take too much upon yourself,’ Hildy snapped. ‘Your sins are insignificant.’

  Astatine bowed her head. The abbess was wise, while she was a foolish, worthless novice. ‘Abbess, I’ve left the wicked world for good; I can’t go back.’

  ‘You feel that the world abandoned you,’ said Hildy, ‘so you seek to escape it, and yourself, in closeted obedience.’

  Astatine bit the tip of her tongue to prevent an angry retort. The other novices called her ‘the mouse’ because she was so timid; they did not realise that she was constantly suppressing the urge to bite. ‘I merely serve my god’s will.’

  ‘I see a wilful arrogance in your subservience,’ said Hildy. ‘You seize on every duty, no matter how painful or demeaning, and never rest until it is done to perfection. You take pride in your suffering.’

  ‘I offer it to my god. I merely serve my god — ’

  ‘You seek to eliminate your self, because the world is so painful to you that you can only think of escaping it.’

  ‘I don’t belong there,’ Astatine said plaintively. ‘Even here, I feel as though I’m living in the wrong body. The sickness I carry inside me has infected all Hightspall.’

  Hildy slapped her face. ‘Curb your presumptuous tongue, Novice.’

  Astatine clutched the abbess’s wrist. ‘Tell me that our land is not sick and the common folk despairing. Tell me that the nobility aren’t wasting their lives in debauchery because they no longer have hope. Tell me that our gods are strong, and love us.’

  After a long pause, Hildy said gently, ‘I cannot tell you any of those things. Hightspall is sick, the people despairing, our gods dwindling — but it has nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Please, Abbess. If I go outside, I will surely break my vows.’

  ‘Your first vow, and the greatest, is obedience,’ said Hildy inexorably.

  Astatine lowered her eyes. ‘And I obey. But — ’

  ‘The vision I saw may also have gone to the Carnal Cardinal, Fistus.’

  ‘He is a holy man of god,’ said Astatine. ‘He will protect the Graven Casket.’

  ‘If the casket is opened, our beloved K’nacka will be in peril; he may fall.’

  ‘Fall?’ whispered Astatine. ‘But the gods are almighty and everlasting.’

  ‘Then fly! Stop this obscenity before it is too late.’

  ‘Abbess … The Margrave Greave is a powerful man, a warrior who has never lost a fight. How can I stop him?’

  The abbess thought for a while, then said, ‘At the fifth hour after midday, on the day after tomorrow, you must duel with him and win.’

  ‘He would kill me at the first blow.’

  The abbess’s eyes rested on Astatine’s creamy, almost unblemished skin, her curvaceous form outlined against the bed bindings designed to prevent sins of the night. ‘You will duel him with your weapons, not his.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Surely you can’t be that unworldly …’

  A flush crept up Astatine’s throat and blossomed into crimson. ‘But my second vow — ’

  ‘Your vow of obedience comes first. If it is the only way to stop this dreadful sacrilege, you will break your second vow.’

  ‘But … if I were unchaste, how could I come back?’

  ‘Break that vow and you cannot come back.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘Those who will not obey have no place here.’

  ‘I’m doomed, either way.’

  ‘You will be serving your god; what more can you ask?’

  Astatine was silent.

  ‘Swear that you will stop the margrave,’ said Hildy.

  ‘I’ll try to stop him.’

  ‘Swear that you will stop him, no matter what.’

  The task was impossible, but Astatine had no choice. ‘I swear that I will stop him. I will serve my god, no matter what it costs me. My life has no other worth.’

  ‘Take this gown, and go at once,’ said the abbess.

  After Astatine had ridden out on one of the abbey’s mules, Hildy said, ‘And I pray you do break your vows for, devout though you are, you do carry corruption with you. You never belonged in this House of God.’

  Roget came back from the bar with a flagon and poured a hefty slu
g into a glass. ‘Get this down, before you fall down.’

  Greave clutched his groin, wincing.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Frostbite.’

  Roget chuckled. ‘Even for you, that’s a new one.’

  Greave’s chattering teeth broke a wedge of glass from the rim. He spat it out, gulped the liquor and wiped his bloody mouth. ‘More!’

  Roget cantilevered a wire-thin eyebrow but poured another large measure. After drinking it from the whole side of the glass, Greave’s eyes met his friend’s.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again.’

  ‘Take your time. Was it Satima?’

  Greave nodded stiffly.

  ‘I warned you,’ said Roget. ‘What insane folly sent you after a god’s month-bride? And K’nacka is the most jealous of all the gods. But that’s why you seduced her, isn’t it?’

  Greave did not reply.

  ‘You’ve had the most beautiful women in the land yet you’re never satisfied. I hate to say this, but it’s time you settled down.’

  ‘What for? The ice advances across land and sea. Soon it will crush Hightspall out of existence.’

  ‘Not in our lifetime.’

  ‘And our gods are declining; they’ve abandoned us.’

  ‘Don’t speak heresy,’ said Roget, uneasily. ‘Greave, you live for pleasure, but do you ever find it?’

  ‘Life is empty,’ Greave muttered. ‘The harder I go after anything, the quicker it turns into a mirage.’

  ‘Like I say-’

  ‘All I have left is the hunt. I can’t give it up.’

  ‘And every time you take greater risks.’

  ‘I only feel alive when I risk everything. The pursuit is bliss, the act anti-climactic; the hangover, worse each time. I’m like a reluctant drunk — remorseful in the morning but back in the bar every night.’ Greave picked up the flagon of raw spirits and, his teeth chattering on the neck, drained it.

  ‘Hey!’ cried Roget. ‘That’s enough liquor to kill a stallion.’

  ‘Yet I’m stone-sober,’ said Greave. ‘And freezing inside.’

  Now Roget was shivering. ‘What did the month-bride do to you?’

  ‘The moment I mounted her, she went cold.’

  ‘Probably afraid, poor girl. I hope you took pity and sent her-’

  ‘Dead cold. K’nacka froze her solid under me.’

  Roget gaped. ‘He appeared in person?’

  Greave dabbed at his bleeding lip. ‘And then-’

  ‘No, you’ve gone too far this time,’ Roget grated.

  ‘I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘The moment you seduced the month-bride of a god, you doomed her.’

  ‘The wench is dead; what does it matter?’ Greave said carelessly.

  Roget shoved his chair back and stood up. ‘You were always reckless and self-centred, but you used to care, deep down. Who will you destroy next?’ he said disgustedly. ‘My sister? My mother?’

  A deep, inner pain jagged through Greave; he clutched at his friend’s coat. ‘Don’t go, please. I–I’m desperate.’

  Roget sat down. ‘You must be, to admit to it. Is there more?’

  ‘Her fate will be echoed by every woman you touch, K’nacka said. On the way here, I glanced at a pretty girl in the street — just for a second, I swear — and frost appeared all over her clothes. If I lust after a woman, any woman, she’ll be frozen to death. And there’s worse.’ He told Roget the rest.

  Roget paled, glancing over his shoulder. ‘The Graven Casket! Greave, I’m not a devout man; my sins are as numberless as the souls screaming in Perdition. But this is too much.’

  ‘What can I do?’ said Greave. ‘A god has ordered me to open the casket — ’

  ‘Which is sealed until the End of Days.’

  ‘Maybe these are the End of Days.’

  ‘He’s a trickster. It’s a trap.’

  ‘I know, but if I don’t do it, my little sister dies. Roget, help me! There has to be a way out.’

  ‘You think you can outwit a god? You’re far gone, my friend. I suggest you make amends for your wicked life, then prepare to meet your fate.’

  Astatine plodded the dusty track, holding the reins of her mule.

  ‘I’m sorry, noble beast,’ she said, rubbing it behind the ears. ‘We’ve still a long way to go.’

  Her feet were blistered but she made an offering of the pain, trying to divorce herself from it. Ever since becoming a novice she had attempted to eliminate her recalcitrant self, to become no more than a vessel and servant for her god, but self kept intervening.

  A dust cloud appeared ahead and she headed for the trees. The mule resisted.

  ‘Come on. I don’t want to be seen.’

  It turned its head, studying her with hazel eyes.

  ‘I want no part of the world’s temptations,’ she muttered. ‘My god is everything and I am nothing. I exist only to serve.’

  The mule’s snort reminded Astatine of the abbess, who seemed to see right through her. She led the beast to a rivulet and bathed her aching feet. Pain is also nothing, she told herself. Yet as she probed her broken blisters, tears sprang to her eyes.

  She dashed them away, cursing her weak flesh, and knelt to pray for strength. But, as so often lately, prayer would not come.

  ‘What am I to do?’ she said to the mule. ‘I can’t duel this wicked margrave; can’t stop him insulting the gods, even if I do break my second vow. He’ll use me and I’ll be cast out into the awful world, abandoned even by my god.’

  She clutched her only possession, the silver prayer medal left in her hand when she had been given to the abbey. It was so worn that she had never been able to identify the god it represented, though she took it to be her beloved K’nacka.

  Father, please help me find another way.

  Lord, if no other way can be found, give me the strength to break my vow of chastity in your service.

  Father, if my sacred vow must be broken, help me to endure the lustful margrave.

  I am just your vessel, Lord. I have no worth other than to serve you. Whatever happens to me I will endure it joyfully, in your name.

  But it was so very hard.

  Greave bit down on a twig to prevent his teeth from chattering. It was a hot afternoon, yet thirty-four hours after the encounter with K’nacka he was still freezing inside.

  ‘Ready?’ said Roget. They were trying to look casual as they strolled through the maze of clipped shrubbery surrounding the High Temple.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s but thirty minutes until the fifth hour.’

  ‘I know. Go through it again.’

  ‘The plan is simple. We enter as the noble pilgrims we are and I’ll use my sorcerous arts to make a diversion. You’ll run up, open the casket and snatch the contents. Then we run for our lives — and pray my spell holds.’

  ‘There’s bound to be a trap.’

  ‘If so, we’ll have to deal with it. What are you to do with the contents?’

  ‘K’nacka didn’t say.’

  ‘Oh!’ Roget said. ‘What do you think that means?’

  Greave did not answer. ‘Hello,’ he said, gazing at a small figure limping out from behind an arc of tea bushes. A hot gust blew back the cowl, tumbling her wavy black locks. ‘It’s a novice, and a pretty one.’

  ‘Ahem,’ said Roget.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not even you would sink low enough to seduce a nun — would you?’

  ‘I seduced K’nacka’s month-bride. They don’t come any lower than me.’

  A reckless urge swelled, a lust to possess her no matter the consequences, and even here, even now, Greave could not deny it. He checked the sun; there was just enough time, master seducer as he was, to do the business before five. He licked his lips, cast a furtive glance at his friend, then turned towards her, putting on the smile that few women had ever been able to resist.

  ‘Go for a walk,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Fifteen minute
s.’

  ‘Greave, no!’ hissed Roget.

  The little novice stopped suddenly, raising one hand to her hair in astonishment, and Greave’s inner ice moved south. He ignored it, for lust was searing along his veins and he only felt truly alive when life or death rested on the toss of a coin. Now he felt like a superman and, no matter the consequences, he had to have her.

  ‘Her hair’s frosting over,’ hissed Roget, jerking Greave back by the collar. ‘Look away before you kill her too!’

  Greave tried to pull free. ‘I don’t care. I’ve got to take her.’

  ‘Even if it costs you your little sister?’ Roget snapped.

  It broke through the madness where nothing else could have and, with a wrench, Greave turned away. Now he could no longer see the novice, he was sickened by his depravity. ‘Let’s get on.’

  After a day and a half away from her abbey, Astatine felt bruised. The world was strange and uncomfortable, the people unfriendly, the beasts of the forest savage. All she wanted was to fly home, close the great doors behind her and never look outwards again. But she had sworn to the Abbess.

  Two noblemen stood in a gap in the maze not far ahead, talking. The tall one turned, staring at her, and her hair crackled — it was covered in frost. Astatine stopped, hand on her head, not understanding what had happened. But her time was running out; the fifth hour was almost upon her. She limped towards them, clutching the medal.

  Lord, give me strength.

  The dark-haired, wiry fellow was scarred like a duellist, though he did not look unkind. The other man — the Margrave Greave — was tall and broad-shouldered. Big feet, big hands. Not handsome; his mouth was too full, his nose a fleshy, sensuous monument …

  Father, help me to do this dreadful thing.

  Momentarily the medal warmed in Astatine’s hand, then cooled again. Her prayers would not be answered.

  She rubbed her pale cheeks to redden them, which would, apparently, make her more enticing, then shrugged off the novice’s habit. The gown Hildy had given her was modest, yet Astatine’s gorge rose at the thought of what she must do, and her vow of chastity burned as if etched into her skin.

  The noblemen turned abruptly and headed towards the temple. The hour was nearly upon her: if she could not stop them her god would be profaned, her oath broken, and she condemned to a world she wanted no part of.