Tribute to Hell

‘Fistus does!’ Greave said darkly.

‘The shrine was destroyed when the Great God, the original ruler of Elyssian, was defeated and cast down in the Second Coup. He crashed through the shrine, nearly splitting the hill in twain.’

‘And died there?’ Worms were dancing along Astatine’s backbone.

‘The Great God could not be killed,’ said Roget. ‘He could only die at his own hand and, in despair at being cast out of Elyssian, that’s what he did.’

Astatine trembled. She knew about the First Coup, when Behemoth had rebelled, yet, inexplicably and at the moment of victory, turned his back on Elyssian and set up his own rival kingdom, Perdition. Was he behind the Second Coup? Were the gods passing away? Was that why the world was so sick?

‘What “miracle” is Fistus planning?’ said Greave.

‘I don’t know,’ said Astatine. ‘But I don’t think he means to honour our gods.’

Assuming, of course, that they were still her gods. If she was half demon, maybe she had no gods. Astatine could not bear to think about that. The destruction of the abbey had left her empty and belonging nowhere. If her beloved gods had also been taken away, how could she exist?

She had to find the Covenant.

Dawn was breaking as they crept up the chasm cutting across the cloven hill. Greave kept his eyes fixed above him, for his curse had not abated. Twice the previous day he’d frozen Astatine’s hair, and the second time he had only come to his senses when Roget put a sword blade to his throat. At times, Greave wished his friend had used it.

‘How dare Fistus pretend to perform a miracle?’ cried Astatine. ‘Why don’t the gods punish him for this insolence?’

Her child-like faith was an insult to his intelligence but Greave kept silent, not daring to further provoke the gods.

‘They must be afraid,’ said Roget uneasily.

‘How can the gods be afraid of a mere man?’ said Astatine.

‘I don’t know.’

‘The way up isn’t guarded. Do you think Fistus sent the vision to me?’

‘If he’s not afraid of the gods, how could he have any fear of us?’ said Roget. ‘He probably wants us to see his miracle.’

Greave wondered if the cardinal could be a bigger monster than himself, though it hardly seemed possible.

They reached the top at sunrise, eased behind the mounds of shattered rock and peered over. Fistus, his priests and monk guards had gathered on the far side of the elongated hilltop, before the Cloven Shrine. A ragged arc of believers encircled it, witnesses to the coming miracle.

‘The priests are digging a trench,’ said Astatine. ‘What can they be doing?’

No one replied.

Astatine slipped away between the piled rocks, for Greave’s brooding presence disturbed her, and what if his increasingly desperate self-control snapped? She also needed to be alone, to think.

Her faith, already undermined by what the abbess had told her, had been shaken to its footings. How dare the Carnal Cardinal attempt a miracle! If he had set himself above the gods he had sworn to serve, it was no wonder Hightspall had lost hope.

Would things get better if she destroyed the Covenant? Unfortunately, she had no idea where to look for something that a god and a demon had hidden. It could be anywhere.

No, not anywhere. K’nacka and Behemoth, being eternal enemies, would not have trusted each other, so the Covenant must have been hidden somewhere that neither could gain access to. Perhaps in the keeping of a third party agreeable to both, such as Fistus?

K’nacka had expected it to be in the Graven Casket, though the casket had not been opened before Greave touched the god-bone to it, and it had been empty … save for those flakes of ash. Black flakes — the way paper burned when it did not have enough air! Yes, for the outside of the casket had been covered in soot; it had come off on her fingers.

The Covenant must have been destroyed from outside, by fire, but by whom? Not K’nacka — he had been shocked to discover that the casket was empty. And what would Fistus have to gain by destroying such a valuable document? That only left Behemoth.

Why would he destroy a Covenant that, evidently, gave him power over a god? He would not — unless he had another copy.

‘That’s it!’ she said, rubbing her silver medal furiously, though after Hildy’s revelation about her father it gave her no comfort. ‘It was Behemoth — Father — ’

The air went so cold that it crackled, then with a little pop a man appeared, sitting cross-legged on the rocks before her. He was an odd-shaped, awkward-looking fellow not much taller than she was, with thin, short legs and a heavy, muscular body. His skin was dark, his head bald, his nose hooked, and the point of his beard jutted towards her like a javelin.

‘You called me, Daughter?’ His voice was so deep it might have been formed inside the hill; it reverberated like the throb of an organ pipe.

‘You called me daughter,’ she whispered. ‘Are — are you really my father?’

Though she yearned for a father, a demon was the last father she could want. Besides, a mighty demon like Behemoth might have a thousand daughters; she might mean nothing to him. He was her god’s enemy and had undermined everything she believed in. Astatine was too overcome to speak.

‘You expected some great, hulking brute?’ Fire flickered in his raised eyebrow. ‘I prefer this form; both enemies and friends underestimate me. What do you want, Daughter?’

‘Th-the Graven Casket was empty. What happened to the Covenant?’

‘I gave Fistus the power he craved so desperately; in return, he allowed me to destroy it.’

He sounded convincing, but he was the Prince of Deceivers. ‘Why, Father?’

‘To make mischief.’

Astatine’s entire life had been submission and obedience, but neither would serve her now. Dare she challenge the Lord of Perdition? Sweat dripped from her palms at the thought, not to mention that she owed her father respect. Could she put that obligation aside? She must. ‘I–I don’t believe you. I know you made a copy of the Covenant. Why, Father?’

Behemoth swelled enormously; his black eyes flashed and his left hand shot out, encircling her wrist like an icy manacle. ‘How dare you question me? You are over-bold, Daughter.’

Astatine had never been bold; the other novices had mocked her as ‘the mouse’. She wanted to scream and run, but reminded herself of her oath, and it stiffened her. She would keep her word to the Abbess, whatever it cost. The mouse had to bite.

She caught Behemoth’s dark wrist with her pale hands, squeezed hard and, amazingly, he winced.

‘You are my daughter,’ he said, glowering at her. After shrinking to his former size, he resumed his seat.

‘Well?’ she said, pretending an imperiousness she could not feel.

‘Life in Elyssian becomes tedious, when one faces an eternity of it. That’s why I left and set up Perdition, though I was no more contented there.’

‘But Elyssian is the epitome of perfection,’ said Astatine, wide-eyed.

Behemoth rolled his eyes. ‘Even reaping the souls of the wicked begins to pall, when one is the wickedest of all. There’s no villainy I haven’t done, Daughter, and tempting mere mortals into sin lost its joy long ago. In short, I was bored witless. And so, I discovered, was my enemy, your precious god, K’nacka.

‘We took to meeting in Hightspall for a game of dice, each striving to best the other, and I won more often than I lost. But without something precious to lose, even gaming’s charm fades, and the stakes grew ever higher until, finally, K’nacka had nothing left to put on the table. Nothing save a pound of his own flesh.’

‘Father?’ said Astatine, not understanding, though a chilly wave of horror surged through her. This was terribly wrong; she did not want to hear it.

‘Having nothing else, he wagered one of his balls — and lost.’

‘Balls?’ Her cheeks grew hot.