Kushiel's Scion (108 page)
Flood, flood, flood!
There were four stairways leading to the roof of the basilica, and two hundred and fifty men trying to crowd their way up each one, all of them carrying shields and spears. I got caught up in the crush and felt the breath pressed out of me. It was as bad as the riots in Tiberium, except that the stairway was deadly narrow and everything smelled of damp stone and unwashed flesh. I shoved hard with my buckler against someone's back, cursing.
"Slow and orderly, lads!" Eamonn bawled behind me, nearly deafening me. "Slow and orderly!"
It worked.
We spilled out atop the roof of the basilica. All the squadron leaders were shouting for their men to assemble. Eamonn spotted the city guard sentry poised at the northwest edge of the roof, his horn at his lips and his crossbow slung over his back, his padded crimson gambeson dark with rain. He nudged me. "Over there."
The roof of the basilica was made of red tile. It had a shallow peak, merely enough to shed the rain. We ran easily across it and reached the sentry.
"Is it coming?" I asked, panting. "The flood?"
He barely spared me a glance, pointing. "They're breaching the dam."
"Barbarus!" Eamonn shouted, hoisting his tall shield. "Barbarus, to me!"
By twos and threes, they came; all of them. All of us. The Red Scourge assembled atop the roof of the basilica, and by virtue of Eamonn's quick wits, Barbarus squadron had the best vantage point. We clustered along the edge, spouting water pouring beneath our feet, and peered toward the river. Valpetra's men were tiny and distant, swarming over the upper dam with prying bars.
"Where's Gallus Tadius?" someone asked.
The sentry pointed again. "There."
I craned my neck. Gallus Tadius was in the gutted bell-tower, along with a handful of priests. I recognized the flamen dialis by his pointed hat. I didn't know the others. They were arrayed along the winding stair. One of them held a black lamb, struggling and half-grown.
"Dagda Mor!" Eamonn frowned. "What do they think—"
"The mundus manes," I said. "He means to—"
And I got no further, for in the distance, the upper dam gave way.
The river was unleashed.
It wasn't a mighty river. I'd seen those; I'd nearly drowned in one and I'd sailed on others. The Nahar's majesty is unprecedented. Even the Aviline River, which threads the City of Elua, is larger. But this was an angry river, rain-swollen and held in abeyance. It burst through the upper dam in a half a dozen spots, and I daresay it took a half a dozen of Valpetra's men with it. It dashed itself against the barrier of the lower dam, throwing up mighty grey waves. I found myself chanting under my breath, hoping the dam would burst.
It leaked, but it held.
As the waves crashed back upon themselves, the pent-up force of the river seized upon the outlet that it was afforded. Sinuous as a snake, it sought egress. It sped down the long, shallow channel of the canal, obliterating it from view and heading straight for Lucca. And it was such an awesome sight, all of us watched it in gape-mouthed silence.
It hit hard.
From our vantage point, we saw it all. We saw the wall shudder, we heard a deep cracking sound from somewhere within it. For the space of a few heartbeats, it held. A few men cheered. But the water kept coming and coming, an unbearable pressure mounting.
"Name of Elua!" I whispered.
There was a sound like a groan. The wall sagged, and then it simply burst. It burst, collapsing onto itself. The sentry-oak fell, taking its sentry with it. The painstakingly constructed bulwark burst in a furious hail of bricks and debris. A torrent of grey water surged into the city.
There was so much of it!
It was like a living thing, an invading army. It kept coming and coming. It ate away at the breach in the wall, tearing down its edges. It took possession of the city, spreading and dividing, flowing down every street, every alley, every nook. It battered down doors and splintered shutters. If the populace hadn't been warned, scores of them would have been washed away and drowned. It happened that fast. We stood atop the basilica and stared, aghast.
And the water continued to rise.
"They think to flush us out like rats," Eamonn murmured. "And it looks like they're doing a fair job it it."
We traded glances.
"Straight to hell," I said. "Now's the time to believe."
He nodded and raised one hand. "Barbarus, hold."
Although we had little choice—after all, where would we go?—his firm command heartened the men, and I heard other squadron leaders echo his lead. Far across the fields, Valpetra's camp was in disarray, his men scattered by the flood's backwash. I daresay the force of it had overwhelmed them, too. The lower dam gave way almost languidly, packed earth dissolving into a swirl of muddy water. The surging river forked, half of it returning to its proper course, the rest continuing to flow into Lucca, although its force had lessened. It would take some time before Valpetra was able to get his army sorted out and ford the river, let alone take advantage of the breached wall, through which half a river still flowed. I said as much to Eamonn.
"He never meant to." Eamonn nodded toward the south. "Valpetra expected us to fling open the gate and wash out into the arms of the cavalry in a great, half-drowned tide of surrender. He reckoned he'd keep his infantry safe and dry on the far side of the river." He grinned. "Buys us some time, anyway!"
I peered over the edge of the roof. "We're going to need it."
It looked so strange to see the city half-submerged, all its buildings rising out of the water. I hoped the Bastard was all right. We'd determined the highest point on the Tadeii grounds, but it was a fairly shallow rise.
Something was happening in the bell-tower, though it was hard to make out what. I sat down and straddled a rain-spout, dangling my legs over the edge. It felt good to lay my buckler aside. I studied the tower.
Water lapped at the step on which the flamen dialis stood. He held his hands extended over the rising water, his white sleeves trailing. The faint sound of chanting reached us, too faint to make out any words. From time to time, one of the other priests would hand him an object; a smoking incensor, a pitcher of wine, a dish of grain. The flamen dialis poured libations and offerings into the water above the mundus
manes and the chanting continued, punctuated by the occasional clash of a bronze cymbal. Gallus Tadius stood beside him, still as a statue.
It went on for a very long time.
The water continued to rise. Trapped within the city walls, it had nowhere to go.
The men began to mutter. I kept silent, but I didn't blame them. Despite my bold words, I was filled with doubt. It had been a lot easier to believe before the flood hit. Why had we taken Gallus Tadius at his word? Why hadn't we questioned him? When all was said and done, it was a piece of madness. We'd put our faith in a dead man; or a madman. It had all happened so quickly. What if there was no Gallus Tadius? What if Lucius was mad? I'd believed he wasn't… why? Because of Alais' dream, the man with two faces. Because of what I'd witnessed in my life, terrible darkness and glorious mystery alike.
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 been, it had been bright, bright beyond telling. This wasn't. And it was on dry land, or land that should have been dry. Wrong, all wrong.
Men were shouting in terror, a sucking wind rendering their cries wordless. At the edge of the rooftop, I staggered, the rain-spout careening in my vision. Strong hands hauled me back and Eamonn's voice bellowed in my ear, anchoring me.
In the tower, Gallus Tadius crumpled.
Oddly, my head cleared.
Faster and faster, the waters spun. In the pit of the maelstrom, darkness blinked open like an eye. A fetid taste filled my mouth. Water, foul and stagnant. My hell, my memory. But this wasn't mine.
The pit yawned wide; no pit, but the mundus manes itself. It had grown as wide as the tower, as deep as… I don't know what. There was no measuring it. It opened onto darkness, utter and complete blackness. A sigh of wind breathed forth from it, and it was at once fair and foul as anything I'd ever smelled; as sweet as a dew-laden rose, as horrid as a rotting corpse. A thousand emotions flickered through me, quicker than thought, bitter and joyous. All around me, men were laughing and crying.
Water cascaded into the mundus manes, falling and falling. It no longer spun in a maelstrom. Whatever drew it, drew it straight down, and where it fell it was black, as though the abyss cast darkness the way the sun casts brightness. Cataracts of gleaming blackness, spilling over the edge. There was a roar like a waterfall, as deafening as the Great Falls of Jebe-Barkal. There seemed to be no end to it, no bottom to the abyss. On and on it went, rippling curtains of smooth obsidian descending in a sheer, endless plunge.
A strange exhilaration filled me. I yearned to follow the black water, to descend into those lightless realms. What an adventure it would be!
To walk the underworld like a hero out of legend, to speak with the storied dead…
No.
The word brushed my thoughts, as soft as a bronze-edged feather. I shuddered and drew back from the edge of the roof. My place was among the living. I clung to the thought and kept a firm grip on my place in the world.
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