City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [185]
‘That may be so, but should we permit sinners of this kind to go free on the streets to pollute the minds of others? He does not count in the larger scheme of things. You could assume his role very easily . . . Walk with me now, for these are not matters for discussion in a public place.’
Under soaring arches, and between stout columns, Nelum followed the priest into a small, musty room near the front of the church. Ancient texts covered in mould and dust lay heaped in piles, and Nelum could see enough from their spines to know that these were rare works indeed – many not even written in Jamur script.
‘Is this your study?’ Nelum asked.
‘Of a sort. We keep all sorts of forgotten books here, and there is a small group of us documenting their significance.’
‘Are they not all recorded?’
‘Many were lodged in the libraries of various monasteries and churches across the Archipelago, but because of recent occurrences, we are now being more cautious about whom we entrust with them. Now, please . . .’
Pias gestured to a large wooden chair standing next to a sturdy table. He lit a cresset as Nelum sat down, still feeling vaguely anxious. The sharp features of the elderly priest’s face were exaggerated by the light.
The priest wandered over to a set of shelves to retrieve a small, cream-coloured volume. He opened its age-tattered pages while continuing the conversation. ‘I’m going to talk to you about something called mantraism, of which you won’t remember anything after you leave. I won’t patronize you, but enough to say it is one of our most ancient and secret arts.’
‘I’m not sure I understand what—’
The old man began chanting, a cycle of words, adopting old tones Nelum had never before heard, and whatever language it was, the words repeated themselves. Occasionally the priest seemed to stop speaking but the sound of his voice amazingly continued. Over and over again the incantation looped, and Pias now spoke on top of it, reading from the book, layering and harmonizing everything he uttered.
And, in the middle of all this, Nelum heard in urgent tones: ‘Think how highly you would be regarded for having cleansed this world of such a corrupting influence. Your commander’s kind is not natural. Men should lie only with women since it’s for creation. Anything else . . . No, it cannot be. Lieutenant, try not to think only of this one lifetime, but where your soul will proceed in the next – you will be rewarded for this. So often we think only of this existence, when there are many more to consider. So you will, you must, find an appropriate time, and then you will begin to feel an absolute urge to kill your commander, and thus rid this world of such an abomination . . .’
The flow of words eventually slowed to a halt, leaving an agonizing silence inside Nelum’s head. He could remember nothing, could feel nothing, as Priest Pias loomed above him smiling.
‘Are you feeling all right?’
‘I’m sorry, I must have missed some of what you were saying. The pressures of the war must be getting to me.’
‘I do understand. We were merely discussing your commander.’
Brynd. That queer had to die. ‘I see.’
*
On his departure, the priest handed him a piece of paper inscribeith an address, saying it would help. Nelum stole off into the night.
He rode his horse to the location indicated, on the eastern fringe of the city, part of the new-build sectors. Satisfyingly it put some more distance between himself and the fighting, but he needed to be quick: people would begin questioning his absence.
Icy sleet tingled on his skin, yet there was a curious warmth to the air, as if the ice age was being repelled by natural elements, and this wasn’t meant to be.
His destination turned out to be one of the worst areas of the city.
The crippled and homeless huddled together in the bowels of the district, shelters and squats and makeshift camps. An anarchic repossession of a