Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [303]
And, in truth, because of the sheer force of Gallus Tadius, real or no. He'd swept over us like a river, brooking no argument. He'd offered us hope and purpose, and we'd taken it. We'd asked no questions, or at least far too few. Now Lucca's fields were razed by fire, its streets drowned in water. I thought about what Deccus Fulvius had said atop the walls the night of the firestorm, his hand heavy on my shoulder.
Is it worth destroying a thing to save it?
I hadn't had an answer then, and I still didn't. I only knew that as the morning wore onward, this was looking a lot more like destruction than salvation. At least Deccus and Claudia and Brigitta were safe. Counting back in memory, I reckoned it had been two weeks and a day since they left. It seemed like longer. I cast a hopeless glance behind me, just in case there might be a bright army of D'Angeline allies emerging from the twisting mountain road.
There wasn't.
In the tower, the priest holding the lamb descended. He held it while the flamen dialis cut its throat. I shuddered as they held it above the water, letting its blood drain. In Terre d'Ange, we don't offer living sacrifices. Then again, we don't believe in hell, either; not in the same way. Oh, we invoke it in casual curses, but it's not for us. When Blessed Elua refused to return to the One God's heaven, he barred the way to hell, too. Only the Cassiline Brothers—the truly rigid ones, not apostates like Joscelin—believe otherwise. Our fate lies elsewhere.
When I was child, Brother Selbert taught us that in time, all of Elua's children will pass through the bright gate into the true Terre d'Ange-that-lies-beyond, though it may take us many lifetimes. I used to daydream about it in Daršanga, where I thought I'd die and sometimes wished I would. In those days, I reckoned it must be a lot like the Sanctuary of Elua where I grew up, only the honeybees never stung and no one ever got hurt, ever.
I couldn't imagine it, now.
I could imagine hell, though. It was a lot like Daršanga.
Sitting atop the roof of drowned Lucca, I wished Master Piero was there. We'd never talked about the afterlife. I wondered what he would have said about this. Was hell merely human cruelty? Was it a place? Was heaven? Were there truly different places for different peoples? In Caerdicci belief, it lay beneath our very feet and heaven and hell lay side by side, the Elysian Fields and Tartarus.
Mayhap it was true; but all I could see was water.
The Caerdicci believe there is water in the underworld. Five rivers—the River of Woe, the River of Lamentation, the River of Fire, the River of Unbreakable Oaths, and the River of Forgetfulness. Mayhap, I thought, they should add a sixth: the River of Demented Folly. Despite everything, the thought made me smile.
"Eamonn—" I began.
He poked me. "Hush. Look."
In the tower, Gallus Tadius moved. After all the endless ritual and sacrifice, his action was the essence of simplicity. He worshipped the way he fought, without a wasted motion. He stepped forward and held up an object; two objects. Two halves of a whole.
His death-mask.
He dropped it into the rising water.
My skin prickled even before the water began to stir in a circular motion. As though my hearing had grown achingly acute, I heard the bronze cymbals clash. It sounded like wings, bronze wings beating. It sounded like it was inside my skull. On the tower stair, Gallus Tadius lifted his head, gazing through the broken wall. Impossible as it was, it seemed as though he looked right at me. I could see his lips moving.
Forgiveness.
On my feet, I clutched at my ears, trying to suppress the bronze din. Loud, so loud! Within the tower, the waters were swirling faster. A maelstrom. I'd seen one before, but as terrible as Rahab's wrath had