crowned Great was a twinkling froth like the wake a ship might leave upon a moonlit sea.
A while later he saw another procession of the Wise churning towards him through the Lesser Chosen. The angle of their approach suggested they formed part of a long spiral feeding in from the southern door. Their course brought them right to the edge of the Guarded Land, close enough for him to see the starry glisten of the tears upon their blind masks. With sistrums trembling they slid past, walking with their staves and homunculi, winding their procession tight around the Guarded Land.
Then, above the cymbals, Carnelian heard a hiss that made him turn. Under the Turtle's Voice the crowns of the Grand Sapients were drifting like thisdedown. The tail of their march had formed up around the edge of the Osrakum platform. As the tinkling music abated, Carnelian saw the horned-ring posts begin to melt and waver, then turn into smoke that grew up into the starless night. This slowly blossomed into vast ghostly trees that hung their serpent branches over the Chosen and showered them with attar of lilies.
Carnelian's crowns lost their weight. His robe became no more burden than air-thin silk. He looked up and saw the white smoke uncurling in the air like ferns. Rain was falling in the distance. He watched the smoke weave its tendrils into a misty ceiling and realized it was drugged. The Great around him buffeted him as they moved towards the centre of the chamber, casting glances to the south-west. He lifted a hand to touch the landscape of a jewelled robe. 'What…?'
The coming of the House of the Masks.'
He let the Master go and found himself following him, lifting his ranga shoes with ease, feeling pleasure in his liquid motion. The thrumming was not rain but drumming. A pounding of a heart as massive as the Pillar of Heaven. Lighter rhythms pattered long patterns that took his mind with them even as he crushed in with the brocaded wall of the Great, gazing off to see the door in the south-west opening. The massive heart quickened its beating, making the air rock with its excitement. When the doors were fully open, Carnelian could see the Stairs of the Approach running all the way up into a remote distance where the Iron Door seemed a window onto a thunderous sky. The screaming began, grumbling, tearing metal, rasping into harshness even as the door began parting. More trumpets were pumping, bruising the air and ears with fanfares as the Iron Door fed an incandescing procession onto the stair. Down the steps it poured like burning tar. The anger of the music shifted into an ever more frantic fraying until Carnelian was convinced that it would split him from crowns to ranga shoes.
He stared appalled, grinding his teeth, as the procession bubbled down its syblings, carrying with it a gory eye, a bloody gathering of knives, Ykoriana and the other women of her House.
He let his gaze fall to the sybling vanguard of that march as they reached the chamber and carried tall flames into the Lesser Chosen as if they were burning a path through a forest. Ykoriana came on behind, floating into the chamber on a gale of horns and trumpets. Her hands were folded across her chest sheathed in the jade of her four Great-Rings. Before her went the staves of the Regent with their horned-rings, their targets of the Commonwealth. Beside her paced four smaller amethystine women. Around them blood-eyed eunuchs pale as bones faced outwards, displaying their mutilations. Behind came the Lords of the Masks, scores of them with jewelled nest crowns and the faces of angels reflecting sunrise, and Chosen syblings as wide in their robes as chariots, and their brethren flanking them in greens and blacks, with iron casques and masks and poles bearing jade and obsidian faces.
Amidst the imperious tumult, Carnelian gaped as the glorious mass broke against the Great and shattered, sending syblings out in branches to outflank the platform of the Guarded Land. The core broke free, climbing onto the Osrakum platform, surrounding it, filling it up so that Carnelian saw his father was engulfed.
Then the whole world shook to its foundations as one by one the doors slammed closed. Ripples ran along the firewall that seemed to shower the Lesser Chosen with sparks. The trumpets boomed, then grumbled silent. Carnelian could feel the resonant humming of the Turtle's Voice. His eyes followed the firewall round and found it was complete. The Chosen were all trapped within its fiery ring. With a rustling the Chosen lifted their hands to their faces and removed their masks. Carnelian was slow to follow, shivering, startled by the winter of faces. He looked up and saw his father, clean and bright like an unsheathed sword. Facing him on the other side of the bell, across the Grand Sapients, still masked, Ykoriana looked like an instrument of murder.
The Jade Lords,' murmured voices. The twins,' sighed others.
'Nephron,' said Spinel. Carnelian followed the nervous flicker of his eyes past the Turtle's Voice, to the south-east where high in the firewall something was embedded like a black diamond. Spinel turned a frown to the north-west. 'And Molochite.'
In that direction stood an emerald man. Carnelian looked around him in time to see his third lineage snatch their eyes away from him. One looked down like a shameful child. Carnelian felt again his robe and crowns dragging him down. Were they all going to vote against his father? His foreboding seemed to be leaching out from him into the air. The grumbling chanting had begun again.
'You who are the Lords of the Earth,' the homunculi of the Wise broke out in chorus, 'who even now stand upon the Three Lands in power, as you do upon this floor, shall now make ready to choose as once you were chosen.'
'As it has been done,' the Great broke into thunderous voice, 'so shall it be done, for ever, because it is commanded to be done by the Law-that-must-be-obeyed.'
The chanting had grown stronger, more insistent.
'He that shall be chosen by you will be raised as a cup to the sky and thrust as a scoop into the earth that in truth are two but one. Thus he shall receive the double Godhead so that They might once more take Their place here, at the centre of this realm, within the embrace of the Sacred Wall that They flung up to conceal from profane eyes this place of Their transcendent birth.'
The Great answered the Wise, 'As it has been done, so shall it be done, for ever, because it is commanded to be done by the Law-that-must-be-obeyed.'
'As the Law ordains, this choosing shall be determined by the casting of blood-rings into vessels of jade and of obsidian.'
The syblings below him raised up bowls in time with a growling of trumpets.
'Molochite of the Masks by virtue of primogeniture shall be the green candidate, Nephron of the Masks shall be the black.'
The trumpets hung several ragged notes above in the swirling incense.
The candidates are of the same blood, dewed from the Gods Kumatuya and squeezed from the womb of Ykoriana Four-Blood. Their taint is zero, zero, zero, zero, six, thirteen, ten, five, fifteen, four, thirteen, fifteen.'
The trumpets grazed each number into the air.
'Let all be aware that any blood-taint zero, zero, zero, three, zero, twelve, eleven, seventeen, two, three, fifteen or lower shall be forfeit at the Apotheosis that shall be held in four days' time.'
The horns and trumpets began a slow crescendo and were joined by the oscillating calls of the shawms and a shimmer of cymbals. The voices rose deafeningly, pulsed, collapsed, rose again to shrillness, the trumpets playing a ragged ululation over which the shawms brayed a lilting counterpoint. They fell echoing silent.
'Choose!' cried the homunculi.
The forest of gold around Carnelian shimmered into movement. He took hold of Spinel's sleeve. It is not too late.
The Lord gave him a look of contempt as he pulled his sleeve free. Carnelian glimpsed the guilty faces of Tapaz and others as they turned their backs on him and began moving towards the syblings standing under the lantern posts. Around the edge of the Osrakum platform, the Ruling Lords were casting their votes. Carnelian saw one as he waited his turn, twisting his blood-ring into a loop that held a bunch of others. Carnelian's eyes were drawn to a white oval, Jaspar's face. Carnelian turned away from its look of triumph and went to cast his own vote in despair.
He stood in line with other Lords until it was his turn. The iron faces of the syblings stared eyeless. One held an urn of jade, the other of glassy obsidian. Carnelian removed his blood-ring, held it over the mouth of the black urn and dropped in its paltry twenty votes. Then he turned and waded a little way off into the golden robes.
Carnelian allowed his mind to float on the chant. He had searched the faces of all those who had come to the edge of the Osrakum platform to vote and he was sure Osidian had not been among them. Still masked, Ykoriana was a doll gazing at his father. Hopelessness seemed written on his yellowed ivory face. Carnelian
