The sparkle quickly returned to the old man's eyes. 'Help me to my feet,' he ordered.
'Easy,' said Aleas, helping him up. 'You've been poisoned.'
'I know. I can feel it.'
Baracha was listening against the double doors. 'How do you feel?' he asked quietly, turning. Ash offered a quick shake of his head.
'I think it's crushed hallow seed,' said Aleas, holding the poisoned blade close to his nose.
'Very rare,' commented Ash.
'And difficult to flush. We must purge you, once we get out of here.'
'Are you both ready?' asked Baracha.
Ash recovered his sword from the floor. He cast free his heavy robe and used it to clean the hilt, and then the curved length of its blade. He looked like a farmer cleaning his scythe.
A sharp pain struck the old man as he finished. He stooped, clutching his side as he sucked in a lungful of breath. It took an obvious force of will to straighten his back.
He finally nodded.
Baracha slid open the doors.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A Killing Kirkus felt sick. He stood by the heavy vault door, his ear pressed against it. He could hear only silence beyond.
They were coming for him, and he knew it, and the knowing made him want to run. But run where? He was at the very top of the sky-steeple here; the only way out was down through the very people who were trying to kill him.
He could only hope the Temple guards would stop them. They would stop them, he was certain of it, for they had been trained since childhood for such an event. But how, he wondered again, had these people even made it so far?
Kirkus pushed away from the door and strode back into the Storm Chamber. He held a short-sword in his hand. He hefted it, swung it once, twice, through the air.
He would not need it, Kirkus told himself. They would never get inside.
Manse, the old priest, stood waiting in the centre of the room with hands in sleeves and head bowed. A mute servant tended the fire, though occasionally she glanced towards Kirkus.
'Both of you, to the door,' Kirkus instructed. 'Inform me if anything occurs.'
He ignored them as they scurried past him. He prowled the room, stopping before the window glass. He pressed his forehead against its coolness. At this height he was above the fog; the effect was that of the tower rising above a sea of clouds, with other towers elsewhere, poking through here and there, like islands.
He heard a shout even through the thick glass, carried up from one of the windows on the floor below. Again his stomach quailed.
Kirkus had only truly feared for his life once before now, and that had been several years ago during his first purging. He had broken halfway through that week-long ritual; in no way had he been able to summon the will to carry on.
His grandmother had come to him then, offering water as she sponged the foul mess from his face. At last he had stopped shaking. His tears had ceased to flow. He had looked up at her, still seeing phantoms. He knew he was close to losing his mind.
Why is the divine flesh so strong? she had whispered into his ear.
He had only croaked in response, unable to speak.
Tell me! she demanded, her voice lashing him like a whip.
Because… it does not suffer… from weakness, he had recited, barely able to breathe the words.
Good. Now tell me of such weaknesses.
He felt then as though he was high on narcotics and his thoughts refused to focus. He fought to gather them by holding fast to his grandmother's words.
Conscience, he gasped.
Good. And why do we consider conscience to be a weakness?
He had faltered at that. He knew the answer, but in his broken condition, his mind shattered, he was unable to frame it into words.
The old crone smiled. Because, my child, it is not our natural condition. And then her smile faded, for his head had dropped again in exhaustion. Listen, this is crucial!
With all his strength he lifted his head once more.
Even the Daoists know this. There is no natural sense of right or wrong in the world, no inherent laws of justice. Does a she wolf feel guilty when she comes upon something young and vulnerable, and devours it? No, she does not, for she needs to live and feed her pups. Conscience is a concept know only to man. People teach their children such notions, so that they might know from right and wrong, but no one is born with these beliefs within them.
Kirkus had frowned. He knew all of this. Why was she wasting what little time was left to him?
Now tell me. Why do people instil such ideals as conscience in their young. Hmm?
Because they're weak, he said, recalling the words he needed. They need rules to protect themselves from the strong.
Indeed. For they look at the world around them, and they see the cruelty of it, the death and injustice, the blind chance, the struggles for survival and dominance, their own ever-closing mortality, and they quail. They cannot face the bitter truth of it; to do so would be to drive them mad, even as they call us followers of Mann mad. And so, they invent ways to protect themselves from the realities of life; conscience, laws and justice, right and wrong, the World Mother. In these things they seek sanctuary, huddling together against the coldness of the world while they share in the warmth of their own delusions.
But we are Mann, Kirkus. We are not so weak. You and I, all of us of Mann, we have been instilled since youth with a more honest set of rules. We have been forced to look upon the world and accept it for what it truly is. This is our power. This is your power. Never forget that, child. Never forget your power, for you are strong boy, strong.
Now survive this. Summon your will. Push through.
It had been enough, at that time. He had made it through the purging.
Kirkus exhaled. His breath clouded the glass and obscured the world of fog beyond. For a moment he thought of Lara. He wondered where she was today, if she had gone to watch the games perhaps.
He knew that Asam and Brice would be there by now. He imagined the three of them meeting in the imperial stand, their talk made easy by their years spent in tussle and play as children together, in the quiet halls and dark dens of the Temple of Whispers – they and Kirkus. He pictured Lara's small face as they told her that Kirkus would not be coming today, that he was imprisoned in the Temple until his mother decided otherwise. The slow blink of her eyes as she heard this. Her words that changed the subject entirely, and had nothing to do with Kirkus save in the absence of any mention of him.
Lara, said his inner voice.
Kirkus pulled his forehead away from the window. He circled the room, making a conscious effort to focus his will. He stopped at one of the steaming bowls and bent to inhale deeply, feeling the rush of the narcotic coursing through his body. Strength flooded into his muscles and he straightened up. He swung the sword again. It whistled through the air.
He had been trained since youth in how to use such a weapon.
If they made it this far inside the temple, he would kill them all. Every last one of them.
*
It was oddly deserted on this uppermost floor. They stepped into a high-vaulted chamber which led through to similar chambers, all lit by low-flickering gaslights. The air was warmly oppressive. Tendrils of smoke curled across ceilings covered in decorative plaster. Doors lined the walls to left and right, muffled voices audible behind them,
