Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [107]
“Here in the halls of death stand condemned men, O Gault.”
Caelan held back a gasp. He had never known the father- god to be worshiped like this.
Again, Caelan involuntarily glanced around for a way out. There was none.
“Their blood is your blood, our father. Their lives are forfeit by the will of their masters. By your will, we have come to prepare their souls for the journey into your hands. We are your avengers, O Gault.”
“Avengers,” the other priests chanted.
“We are your punishers, O Gault.”
“Punishers.”
“We are the chosen faithful, who lead others to your understanding, O Gault.”
“Chosen.”
“Vindicate us, oh great one, as we vindicate others.”
The priest lowered his arms and picked up a plain copper bowl, which he dipped into one of the vats of fresh blood. lifting it high so that the blood dripped onto the altar in small, dark spatters, the priest looked around him with bright, fanatic eyes.
“Who will be the first to come?”
No one moved.
Caelan had long heard it said by gossips that the emperor permitted perversions of all kinds to flourish in Impe- ria, that the emperor—in his own desperate search for immortality—had opened the gates to the dark spirits. But this was Caelan’s first real encounter with any such practices. Of course he knew who the Vindicants were. He had heard his father and other men in the hold shake their heads over the most powerful faction of the priesthoods. There were almost no Vindicants in Trau, and scant tolerance of such rituals as this.
Disgust rose in Caelan. He scowled and planted his feet, crossing his arms over his chest. Whatever they intended, he wasn’t going to participate.
The priest was speaking again, softly, cajolingly. Whether pushed by a guard or drawn forward by curiosity, one man stepped up to the altar and bowed.
“I am afraid to die,” he whispered.
The priest smiled and put his hand on the man’s head. He spoke something aloud, then put the bowl to the man’s lips. “Drink,” he commanded.
Caelan swallowed hard, his revulsion stronger than ever. It was forbidden to drink blood. By all he’d ever been raised to believe, such was not allowed.
The priest was not satisfied with merely a sip. He insisted until the man had swallowed the entire bowlful, gagging on it. Then the priest seized the man’s wrist and made a swift cut with a copper knife. The man screamed and tried to twist away, but the priest held him with unexpected strength. Blood bubbled up from the man’s wrist, and the priest collected several drops of it in a second bowl, chanting all the while.
“From fear is born obeisance. From despair is created belief. You have taken the blood of the god and given your blood in return. Such is your passage into the brotherhood of life-takers. Gault be praised.”
Another priest bandaged the cut efficiently and gestured at the large face of the fire spirit. “Pass through the mouth of the god,” he said, “and receive your blessing in the next room.”
Miraculously the fire blazing inside the mouth of the carving died down as though by command. Hesitant, the man finally ducked low and stepped through, hopping over the glowing coals. As soon as he vanished from sight, the fire blazed up again. It was as though the god had consumed him.
Everyone waited, but no sound came from the other side—not a scream, not a whisper. It was as though the man had vanished forever.
Someone crowded next to Caelan, his face pale. “What in the name of the gods do you think is beyond that?” he whispered.
Caelan shook his hand, unwilling to utter a sound in this place of evil. He had never witnessed such blasphemy, such a twisting of the truth or the old ways. Even witnessing these acts made him feel unspeakably tainted. He wanted to cry out condemnation at what was being done, but he kept silent, afraid of punishment from the guards. His own fear shamed him.
One by one the trainees went forward, sweating and fearful, forced to the altar if necessary. Some drank the blood with bravado,