Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 (46 page)

Brasti swore and took the first step into the mine. ‘Fine, but I never want to hear you bitching and moaning about how much you “hate magic” again after this.’

*

‘Well,’ Brasti said quietly, his voice lightly echoing inside the shaft as we walked along the rough stone floor, ‘I always knew you’d lead us into some hell eventually.’

‘Shut up,’ I said.

Ethalia’s body twitched just as the light of the lantern Kest held in front glinted on something embedded in the walls. ‘Iron ore,’ he said.

‘It’s an iron mine,’ Brasti said. ‘What did you expect?’

Kest stopped for a moment and reached out a hand, his fingers almost but not quite touching the tiny fleck of ore in the wall. ‘It’s . . .
different
. It feels not unlike when I was in the sanctuary of Saint Forza, only stronger . . .
deeper
.’ He turned and looked down at the mask covering Ethalia’s face. ‘I think it’s something about the ore that holds back the Saint’s Awe.’

Brasti pressed his own hand against the wall of the mine. ‘I’m not feeling anything. Must be a Saintly thing.’

‘We need to keep going,’ I said, and Kest nodded and continued down the passageway. The roof of the shaft was much higher than I’d expect in a mine, and all too soon we found ourselves in what appeared for all the worlds like a massive underground city. Rough-hewn corridors illuminated by lanterns hanging from hooks every twenty feet or so were peopled by men and women carrying tools and supplies, sometimes dragging a body along the ground.

I tried to focus on the plan, on what might lie ahead, but every step I took increased my feelings of dread.

Imagine what it’s doing to Ethalia.

Every few minutes her limp body in my arms would twitch or shiver and it took all my will not to set her down and strike off the mask, to see if she was all right. But we were committed now, for good or ill, so I just kept going, counting the number of steps down each hallway, memorising every turn. I forced myself to close my eyes, to picture the space in front and behind me, to pay attention to the smells of sweat and fire, when I could feel a breeze and when it disappeared. I couldn’t count on my sight to help me if things went to hell.

Things always go to hell.

‘Falcio?’ Kest said.

I stopped walking and looked up as he motioned ahead to where some two dozen people waited in a line. They were very different, dressed not in work clothes but in white robes, clean despite the dust and dirt all around them, the fine cloth almost shimmering in the torchlight. When they noticed us coming, several of them ran over and began to crowd around us.

‘Let’s have a look at her,’ one man said, excitedly. The simplicity of his robes was at odds with the elegant cut of his hair, the manicured nails of his hand as he reached out to us. This wasn’t a poor man.

‘Let me, Papa,’ begged a boy by his side, also dressed in white. ‘I want a taste.’

A taste?

Others tried to get close, but the man shoved them away and placed himself firmly in front of me. The heat of his breath washed over my face as he leaned in. ‘Come on,’ he said, pulling out a small blade barely long enough to shave with, ‘let’s see what she’s got for us.’

My hands were busy holding Ethalia so I gave the man my best Inquisitor’s look – the one I’d used to such great effect over the past few days, driving doubt into those who tried to get too close. The man looked afraid, to be sure, but his fear was vastly overshadowed by the hunger in his eyes. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘I’ve done everything – killed a dozen heretics, even the boy’s mother.’ He held the tiny little blade over the exposed flesh of Ethalia’s calf. ‘I’ve
earned
this.’

‘You have,’ I said, and his eyes came to mine, expecting to see approbation – until I smashed my forehead into his nose. He stumbled backwards into the others, his son trying unsuccessfully to keep him standing. Kest and Brasti immediately took up position in front of me before anyone else had a go at slicing into Ethalia.

‘What is this blasphemy?’ a voice shouted from down the corridor, and the crowd parted silently to make way for the cleric who’d spoken. He, too, wore white robes, but unlike the others, his were draped in layers that perfectly fitted his lean body. There was a subtle inlay on the front, symbols I didn’t recognise. Two Knights in white tabards followed behind, heavy warswords in hand.

‘Take this one,’ the cleric demanded, pointing to the man who’d accosted me as he rose to his feet and tried to back away. He didn’t get far before the Knight drove a gauntleted fist into the man’s face, filling the corridor with the cracking sound of the shattering jaw. The boy screamed and tried to stop the two Knights from dragging his father away, but the cleric stopped him. ‘Your family’s wealth has bought you passage to greatness, little Lordling. Will you forgo that, as your father has done, or will you await your turn?’

The boy looked from his father to Ethalia in my arms. ‘I’ll wait,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m sorry, Venerati, I’ll wait my turn.’

As the two Knights dragged the father away, the boy’s eyes remained on Ethalia and he licked his lips. ‘I’m going to be the Saint of Righteous Vengeance,’ he said proudly to me. ‘I’ve made a list of the people I’m going to punish first – do you want to see it?’

My throat tightened in reaction to the bile rising up from my stomach.
Is the promise of power all it takes to turn men into beasts?
I thought, trying to hide my shudder.
Are we truly such cowardly beings that the promise of strength to quench that fear is all we need to do such horrible things?

This wasn’t the time to sink into despair. ‘Don’t just stand there, Cogneri,’ the cleric ordered. ‘Bring her inside.’

Once again the crowd parted, and for the first time I saw what lay at the end of the hallway: a pair of massive white columns either side of two wide doors, larger and grander than the entrance to the most powerful Duke’s own palace. It looked as if it had all been newly made.

What in all the hells have they built here?

‘Fascinating,’ Kest said when we were about fifteen feet from the massive doors, and as I caught his look, I cursed myself for getting so caught up in my fear and anger that I had forgotten what we were here to do.

‘A moment, Venerati,’ I said. ‘I just need to rest my arms for a few seconds.’

I knelt down, resting Ethalia’s body on my thighs as I slipped off my pack and tossed it against the cavern wall.

‘No point in carrying these in with us, I suppose,’ Brasti said, and tossed his on mine. It landed perfectly on top.

Kest put his down as well, reaching inside to remove an overly large skin of water. He took a small sip and offered it to me. I shook my head and he placed it back inside the bag without bothering to close it. I reached into my coat pocket, pulling out a rag and wiping my hands with it, then tossed the rag onto Kest’s pack.

‘Time grows short,’ the cleric said, and I sighed and got back to my feet, carefully lifted Ethalia and followed him. At the massive doors he stopped and turned to face me. ‘Have any of you been inside before?’

‘No,’ I replied.

‘Well, I advise you keep your wits about you. Whatever trials you’ve endured as an Inquisitor, whatever . . . punishments you’ve enacted upon the heretics – this is
different
. This will
feel
different. Remember, what takes place inside is
ritual
, even though it might look otherwise.’ He looked down at Ethalia. ‘Do you know which one she is?’

‘I think so,’ I said.

‘Those inside will know, at any rate.’ The cleric reached into his robes. I expected him to pull out a key but instead, he held a tiny iron bell between his thumb and index finger. He shook it, and it gave only the barest tinkle – there was no way that sound could have penetrated the massive doors, but a moment later they opened, the bottoms scraping against the bare stone. The cleric motioned for us to enter. There was a hallway, perhaps ten feet long, then it widened out into a vast circular chamber, and there, we saw what Obladias had kept secret, what Birgid had found before us.

A cathedral! They’ve built their own damned cathedral inside the depths of a mine.

Then I saw what else awaited us within, and I was startled by a heartfelt moan. It took me a moment to realise it had come from my own mouth. Kest spoke to me, his voice low, words of warning to stay calm, or perhaps some adjustments to our plans, but I took no note of any of it. I was trying not to retch at the sight in front of me. Brasti’s words as we’d entered the mine suddenly took on the weight of prophecy:
I always knew you’d lead us into some hell eventually.

He was right. I had. Then a darker thought took me.
I’ve brought Ethalia to the devils.

The chamber’s perfectly smooth walls rose high above us, making the massive chamber feel oddly small, somehow. There were no altars, no religious symbols of any kind, only weapons of all shapes and sizes hanging on the walls. The ground was divided by circles of rough-hewn stones, each containing two pillars rising all the way to the stony roof. Heavy iron bands with six-foot lengths of chain ending in iron cuffs hung from spikes bolted into the top and bottom of each pillar.

Most of the circles were untenanted, the chains dangling loose to the floor, but inside one of the circles a man was held suspended a few inches from the floor by the chains. His naked chest was covered in blood moths, their bodies bloated and crimson from feeding on his wounds. The little of the man’s skin I could see beneath the insects looked pallid and withered. His mask of infamy was carved to represent a young man about to kiss his lover.

Around this lone victim crouched seven men and five women, dressed in the same white robes as the crowd waiting outside. As we watched, three of them plucked blood moths between trembling fingers, opened their mouths wide and consumed the living insects whole. Behind each supplicant stood three more, impatiently awaiting their turns.

Brasti, bless both his heart and soul for however much longer we would live, vomited on the floor.

A cleric approached us carrying a long, curved knife in one hand and a whip in the other. ‘It’s not as uncommon a reaction as you’d think,’ he said affably.

‘Forgive us, Venerati,’ I said, my mind unfreezing and turning to all the ways I would tear this smiling, friendly cleric apart when the moment allowed.

‘Not Venerati,’ he corrected, holding up the knife. ‘
Admorteo.
Mine is not to preach to the mind, but to free the spirit.’

‘Of course.’ I bowed my head so he couldn’t see the anger I was struggling in vain to hide. ‘Admorteo.’

The cleric came to examine Ethalia and only then did I feel the exhaustion in my arms, shaking as I held her; I wondered if the cleric thought it was from fear of his presence. His eyes narrowed as he placed a hand gently against her arm. ‘She is . . . Oh, my! You’ve done well, Inquisitors.’ He looked back up at me. ‘Do you realise who you’ve brought us?’

‘We’ve brought you the Saint of Mercy, Admorteo
.
’

Brasti, in an effort to cover his own revulsion, said, ‘Does that mean we get first taste?’

The cleric gave a small, forbearing smile and pointed towards the white-robed men and women eating the blood moths on the dying Saint. ‘Only if you want to end up like them.’ He paused and looked at Brasti. ‘I would have expected an Inquisitor would know better.’

‘Forgive us, Admorteo,’ I said, my mind racing to understand what this meant. ‘We have been a long time on the road.’ I looked down at Ethalia in my arms. ‘Her . . . presence is sometimes difficult.’

‘Of course,’ the cleric replied, and pointed to a circle. ‘Let us bind her there.’

He led us to the pillars, but I stopped and looked at the men and women who’d been plucking blood moths from the dying Saint’s wounds. Another cleric had arrived and was now beating them with his whip, shouting, ‘Slowly, fools! Do you wish to lose your minds before you come into your strength? Or worse, for him to die before we have drained him fully?’

Once the men and women had backed out of the way, the cleric reached into his robes and withdrew a small flask which he held to the bound Saint’s mask of infamy. He dribbled the liquid into the slots that led into the funnel forced in his mouth, then held the Saint’s head back for several moments before letting go. I loathed the self-satisfied smirk on his face.

I’ll bet that’s Adoracia Fidelis
. So Jillard had been right: they were forcing it into the Saint and diluting the madness that came with it.

The cleric led us to the circle of stones and knelt down to move one aside. ‘Make sure the cuffs are firmly attached before I set the prayer-stone in its place,’ the cleric said, sounding deadly serious. ‘Once the sanctuary is formed, her fever will pass; only the mask will protect us from her Awe, so it is imperative the prisoner cannot reach the mask, nor smash her head against the floor or one of the pillars – that’s how this one’s predecessor escaped.’

‘I heard,’ I lied, feeling some small shred of joy that Birgid had managed to get out of this place; that she’d died surrounded by love, far away from this hell. ‘I was surprised to hear she’d overcome you all.’

If the cleric was insulted by my tone, he gave no sign of it. ‘You wouldn’t be if you’d faced Birgid’s Awe.’ He looked at Ethalia. ‘Odd, isn’t it? One would have thought that Mercy would be the weakest of the Saints, and yet she was quite possibly the most powerful.’

He motioned for me to enter the circle and Kest followed me, then he told Brasti, ‘You can bind her to the chains now.’

‘Now?’ Brasti said.

The affable cleric’s mask slipped and he looked slightly annoyed. ‘Yes, you fool,
now
.’

I set Ethalia on her feet, hanging onto her to keep her from sliding to the ground. ‘Forgive him, Admorteo, he wasn’t talking to you.’ I nodded to Brasti. ‘Yes, now.’

He cocked his right elbow and smashed it into the side of the cleric’s head, grabbing his long knife before he went sprawling to the floor, and before he had any idea what was happening, Brasti had knelt down and pushed the stone back in place, completing the circle. Kest drew a short chisel from inside his coat and with perfect accuracy, smashed the locks of Ethalia’s mask in two quick strikes. The pieces fell away and her hands wiped at the hair, slick with sweat, that was matted to her face. ‘Gods, Falcio . . .’ she croaked, ‘the masks . . . they’re worse than we could even begin to guess . . . we
must
save Valiana from this . . .’