‘I can’t leave,’ he whispered, shaking his head. ‘There’s more to do. The tome …’
‘Will be safe, its terrible knowledge far from any who would use it for ill.’
‘In your hands?’ he asked. ‘That’s not right. Your Abysmyths—’
‘My children,’ she snapped back, ‘are without their mother. They long for family, for my influence. They seek to use the book to return me to their embrace. Afterwards, we will have no further use for it or for bloodshed. Let us live in peace beneath the waves. Forget about us.’
‘All you want … is your family?’
‘What does any mother want?’
‘But Miron said—’
‘PRIESTS LIE.’
The ocean quaked. Sand stirred below; light fled above. The song of the creatures died. The swimming frogmen vanished into engulfing shadows. Corpses fell like lead; wood fell upon them in cairns. Lenk felt his breath draw tight in his chest, unseen fire searing his body.
‘Priests send children to die, condemn them to death, sit too high for the ashes of the burned to reach them and wear hoods to mute the screaming.’ The teeth twisted, gnashed, roared. ‘Priests betrayed me. Betrayed you.’
‘Betrayed me? How? I don’t—’
‘NO.’ The ocean boiled around him, the comforting warmth turning horrendously hot. ‘No more explanations. No more answers. No matter what they call me, I am still a mother. My pity spares you this once. But remember this, you tiny little thing: This is my world. You have a place in it only as long as I will it.’
And with that, his breath was robbed from him. His lungs seized up, throat closed as it fought to keep out the water that flooded his mouth. He clenched at his neck, started thrashing desperately for air that was far too far above him now.
The teeth parted, loosing a long, low bellow, a command in a language far too old for mortal ears to hear. The seas obeyed, rising up to drive Lenk towards the surface. Struggling to hold his breath, he watched the teeth grow faint as he was sent hurtling above.
And yet, her voice only grew louder.
‘A final kindness, mortal. Follow the ice to see what I tried so hard to protect you from. Follow it … Follow that wickedness inside your head and realise that I was only trying to protect you from yourself and everything else. This is all I can offer you. Happiness is far out of your reach. Truth and survival is all you can hope for. Take them while you can.’
In the darkness below, two great golden eyes opened and stared at him with hate.
‘Before I take them back.’
Thirty-Five
THE SINS IN THE STONE
The statue of Zamanthras was well tended. Her high, stone cheeks had been polished. The waves of Her flowing hair were lovingly carved so that each granite strand was distinct and apparent. Her bountiful breasts, uncovered by the thin garment about Her hips, were perfectly round and smooth.
The rest of the temple was in decay, ignored. It had been easy enough to sneak into, unseen. The pillars that marched the crumbling walls were shattered and decayed. Those tapestries that still hung from their sconces were frayed and coated in dust. Supplies, crates and boxes had been stacked beneath them. It appeared that the church had lost its original purpose and had been resigned to storage and other practical needs long ago. He would have accepted that. He would have smiled at that.
If not for the statue.
Zamanthras stared down at the Mouth through stone eyes, smiled at him through stone lips. She was confident in Her own care, smug in Her own polish. They still worshiped, She told him. No matter how deaf She might be, no matter how long their prayers went unanswered, the people would still polish Her statue. The people would wait for Her to save their dying children, to give them enough wealth to buy a loaf of bread. It would never come. They would die and praise Her name even as She watched them languish.
‘No more,’ he whispered. ‘No more wasted prayers. No more dead children.’ He glanced at the vial in his hand, the swirling liquid of Mother’s Milk. ‘It ends here. In Your house.’
Resounding through his skull and the temple alike, a distant heartbeat voiced its deep, droning approval.
Stretching between the Mouth and the Goddess, the temple’s pool stretched as long as ten men in a vast, perfect circle. The waters upon it were placid, unstirred and quiet, not the silvery flow of a lake. This water was dense, heavy, like iron.
A door to a prison.
As he leaned over the edge, staring into the water, the heartbeat grew faster, louder. The Father sensed his presence, sensed the scent of his consort, his mistress, in the Mouth’s hand. Through whatever prison held him, Daga-Mer scented the faintest trace of Mother Deep.
And beneath the iron waters, Daga-Mer railed against his liquid bonds.
Free him, an urge spoke within him, born of anger, tempered by sermon. The Father must be freed before Mother Deep can rise. Mother Deep must rise before this world can change. Remember why She must.
Change, he reminded himself. Change that mortalkind might not tremble in fear. Change that mortalkind might not waste their words on deaf gods. Change that children would not die while their parents languished in doubt.
He stared back up, saw the statue of Zamanthras looking back at him, smiling, challenging him to do so.
Mocking him.
They would tremble, She knew. Change was terrifying. They would pray to Her when Mother Deep rose, She said with a stone voice. Change bred a need for the familiar. She would watch children die, parents die, all in darkness, all in doubt. Change was violent.
Then … A doubt spoke within him, blooming in darkness and watered with despair. What’s the point?
He heard a scrape of feet against stone floors. His own heart quickened; had he been seen? He reached for a knife that wasn’t there. Where was it? He had left it elsewhere, in another life, another house, when he had seen …
He paused, noting the silence. No one was emerging. No one came out to stop him. He glanced about, spying a shadow painted upon the walls by the dim light of the hole in the ceiling.
‘I know you’re there,’ he said. The shadow quivered, shrinking behind the pillar. ‘You shouldn’t be here, you know.’
A bush of black hair peered out from behind the pillar, the girl staring at him with dark eyes that betrayed wariness, caution. She was not panicked. He shouldn’t have smiled at her, he knew. His smile shouldn’t have been intended to reassure her, to coax her out. Change was coming. Many would die. She would likely be among them.
And yet …
‘Neither should you,’ she said to him, leaning out a little more. ‘Mesri says that no one should be in here.’
‘In the city’s temple?’
‘There’s less call for prayer these days,’ she said, easing out from behind the pillar. ‘More call for medicine and food.’
The Mouth eyed the crates stacked against the walls. ‘So they are left here to rot?’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ she sneered. ‘If we had any, Mesri would have distributed them.’
‘Priests serve the Gods, not man.’
‘Well, if there were any in here, I wouldn’t be scrounging in dark, abandoned houses with weird, pale-skinned strangers,’ she replied sharply. ‘This’ – she gestured to the crates – ‘is what was left behind when the rich people left Yonder.’
He glanced to a great, hulking shape beneath a white sheet. ‘And that?’