This is the twentieth chapter of Wealthgiver, an alternate history serial romance about nationalism and cave-Thracians. For the back-of-the-book description and an index of chapters, click here. For the beginning, click here. For the previous chapter, click here.
Deep beneath the new border between Eastern Rumelia and Ottoman Macedonia, a doctor fled through the darkness.
Blind inside and out, mind consumed by frustration and dread, he let his feet carry him. And he still held the mask.
It was gold, ridiculously thick and heavy, sewn with heavy rawhide straps into the open front of a hood of black-dyed leather. The hood was relatively crude, but the mask was clearly the work of an ancient master. Every wrinkle in the skin was perfect, every whorl of hair on the forehead and chin. Cheekbones like cliffs overhanging gaunt cheeks, eyeholes deep under severe, jutting brows. Thin lips around a narrow slot of a mouth-hole. Was that a faint smile he felt there?
A sudden breeze rushed up the corridor, carrying the smell of sulfur. It was as if the Mountain breathed.
"Ergeí / Porhēgéntiâ!" he muttered in Ancient Thracian. "Mē dé bladymeiê iâ. Óiyk tóus…Óiyk tóus dessóis / … damn it!"
Andrei brought the mask up and thumped it against his forehead. What was the Ancient Thracian word for "shameful"? It wasn't as if he could ask anyone now, was it?
What a silly, childish thing he had done, storming off to sulk in his room. Was this the behavior of a god of death? Not that staying in that room would have been any more godlike, with Kori trying to pass him notes under the teacher's eye.
Andrei bounced the mask in his hands. Childish, indeed. Andrei was still at these people's mercy, just like he'd been under the mercy of the Tsar.
And your own oaths, Doctor? What of their mercy?
Andrei traced the narrow eyeholes, the buttery creases under the nose. It was a miracle Nikolai hadn't noticed Kori's trick. Or had he, in fact? Maybe the crazed neo-pagan planned to expose Andrei tomorrow in front of the priesthood. Finally act out his jealous murder fantasy. "Swear to me," he'd said, "there will be no ravishment."
Andrei thumbs pressed into the mask of Pluto. What if he smoothed the soft metal away? What if he twisted apart the whole, hideous thing? "Yes. What if I did?"
Andrei frowned at the echoes of his voice. "Stop your whining, Doctor." When had self-pity ever done him any good? "Just do what needs doing. Saw off the leg. Rip off the bandage. Perform the ritual."
Andrei walked faster.
He shouldn't talk to himself. Not only because madness closed in on him from every side, but because someone would be listening.
The darkness knows.
Think. He needed to to think. How could he defeat Nikolai?
That's the wrong question.
No, it wasn't! Nikolai ran this mountain; he had built most of it. The other priests would follow him. Kori would follow him as well, as long as she was down here. As for Andrei, he couldn't even order breakfast for himself or walk down a corridor without getting lost.
He stopped, slippered feet pressed into grooves in the floor. They indicated a door in front of him. A brush of his fingers against the marks on the frame confirmed the door was his.
"This proves nothing." Andrei pushed the door open. What was he supposed to do? Sneak through the labyrinth and rescue the maiden? He'd tried that already, but what else was left? Either make another attempt to escape and get himself murdered right now, or wait until tomorrow and get murdered then.
He reached out with a leg to find the edge of his bed and sat, mask propped on his knees. If these cave-Thracians were as clever as they thought they were, they would have already executed Andrei. Maybe they had. Maybe this was hell, and here Andrei was, studying to be its king.
"This is the very devil," he said to himself, and chuckled. How apt that phrase was.
Xēthópats eisî.
You are Master. That was Kori's line, and now his own came to him, every declension perfect. "Xēthópaniâ sezṓn / Eis sa serpanthṓn."
You will be Mistress of all things that crawl. That was the final line. The end of the ritual.
Andrei stared into the darkness, where patterns seemed to whirl. Was this the way to hope? The way out? What if in his darkest, most desperate moment, he was rescued?
A chuckle bubbled deep in Andrei's throat, and the mask in his hands shook. Do you think the voice in your head is really a pagan god? And with this divine power rising through you, you hope only to remember some lines of poetry? Demand more, Doctor, and take it.
"How?" Andrei asked, and an answer came to him.
Laughter was heard from inside the cell. "Deep," one might call it. "Rich."
The two priests who had silently followed the novitiate from the storeroom straightened in alarm, and slowly backed away from his door.
***
The air in the antechamber swirled like a living thing, full of the fascinating scent of flowers. It teased the braids of woolen hair that snaked over Kori's shoulders and down her back. Tendrils of air twined around the cherry-wood mask of the Maiden.
Kori stood again where she had once waited to pull Andrei into the Depths. Now the noon Sun hung directly over her. Its light struck downward at a precise ninety-degree angle, as if she stood under a waterfall.
Kori's mask had no eyeholes, but she resisted the temptation to swing her head to the side and catch a glimpse of Andrei, standing behind her. Her eyes closed against the dazzle, a click of her tongue showed him there, his own bearded mask reflecting bright little shards of sound. Behind him shuffled the priests, gathered like cats just beyond the antechamber's heavy doors.
Kori had slept badly. No solution had come to answer the terrible questions that besieged her. What if Andrei flubbed his lines? What if he recited them adequately but Nikolai still found fault? What if the Un-Descent went perfectly and Kori left him here, alive, to become just another zealot?
The philosophy of the Good did not recognize the power of faith. They did not plead with their gods. The Good must wait, poised and ready to take was given them.
So Kori breathed in deep through her nose, out through her heart, and let the questions fall away like stones cast into a shaft. As surely as death, an answer would come.
Another inhalation from above. That would be their spy from the Ottoman court, playing the part of the Rushing Protector.
The light beyond Kori's mask fluttered and a voice called from above.
"Ánite! Pleistoré!" Oh, Wealth-giver! Oh, Unseen! The ritual of Un-Descent had begun.
The Minor god relayed the Sky Father's command that the Unseen "welcome her down."
Now it was Andrei's turn. Kori kept her breathing steady.
"Ergeí, Porhēgéntiâ!" Go you now, Oh Lady Reaper! The words rang hollowly from inside his mask. Was it the metal or the shape of the mouthpiece that gave his words that sardonic edge?
"Dēmḗthera póra / Áskeira pephlóu e ion," she sang. To my Mother / Un-bright robed.
His reply hummed off the walls and ceiling of the chamber. Echoes gave voice to the stone, and the faces carved into it.
"Mē bladymeiê iâ." Not with smoking heart to meet her. Those weren't the exact words, but something in them or the light or the vernal air made Kori shiver as she sang her response:
"Sédzōn me tón dymón." With smoke my heart is all enclosed.
No response from the priests, but Andrei had make a mistake. The worst had already happened! What were they doing back there in the shadows? She could not hear them. Smoke clogged the tunnels of Kori's mind, obscured her inner vision. If she could see clearly, what terrible truth would become obvious?
Andrei did not speak.
Kori's heart beat so hard it hurt. She sang her part again and he responded.
"Diós Brḗthar eimî!" Of Sky I’m Brother!
it was the wrong line, entirely. The priests would be relieved to not have to believe that this man spoke for their god. Disappointed that no god spoke to them.
Andrei repeated himself, insisting that he was the Unseen. If there was a nervous quaver in his voice, Kori couldn't detect it. He sounded, if anything, proud. It was as if he said, Who else would I be? Who else were you expecting to meet here?
Though sickles clicked at the hips of the priests, she answered. "Xēthópats eisî!" You’re Guest-Master!
There, she could hear the smack of lips. The inhalation. Nikolai inflated his lungs to issue his denouncement and command, but a chuckle rose from Andrei.
"Ásan," he said. "I."
Kori's breathing came faster. "Xēthópats eisî!" she fed him.
"Xēthópats eimî." I am Master.
…of you, the echoes seemed to add.
Kori swallowed past a suddenly dry throat, face hot. A presence loomed behind her. A throbbing sense of power.
What do you think Hades does to make sure his wife comes back to him in September?
Earth protect us! Andrei's fate was already sealed, but the priests still waited and Andrei still bluffed and all Kori could do was speak her final line.
"Eis sa serpanthṓn." Mistress of all of those who crawl.
She could feel his breath on the back of her neck.
"Serpé!" he said. Crawl.
At first, Kori thought his command was an echo off the walls of the chamber, the Mountain, the depths of her skull. But no, Andrei was there. His hands fell onto her hips.
What was he doing? Committing suicide? Suffering some sort of fit? How could he be so close behind her? Had they taught him the singular imperative? She should have heard his footsteps, his rising heartbeat.
"Serpé," he whispered in her ear while his finger traced a line around her throat.
Kori's lungs heaved. She could hear the priests, waiting in rage, eager for her to give the order. A single word, and they would rip this foreigner to pieces. May madness not seize me! Oh, Unseen, give me…Give me…!
The fingers pressed into her throat. Her voicebox.
"Sérpo." The word welled up through her: I crawl.
A leg pressed against hers, forcing Kori's knees to buckle. She was borne down to the floor.
"My Maiden!" said Nikolai. Kori could barely hear him over the pounding of blood in her ears. "What do you—"
"Listen, Orphan," growled the voice from above her head. The words were in French, but they passed through Kori and became Ancient Good. A new ritual took shape around them.
"Árbeie! Bilospelé! / Kapēssophiá, klyié." Listen, Orphan, Friend to Words. Hear me now, Passion-Drunkard. The words rushed from her as if from a spring. "Deseí ke gorê tón / Ásan tói tymí ión!" Now you enjoy and welcome too / That which I am giving you!
"What is happening?" demanded Nikolai. "My Maiden, what is he — what is the meaning of this?"
His arms encircled her. One angled up between her breasts, the other down to the crease where Kori's thigh met her hip. He pressed against her back, insistently. She could not hear him now, only move her lips around the ancient words that forced themselves through her.
"Dégmōn iadí. Mē / Ápseran pouteté." The Host will ride upon the ground. / Do not complain. And turn around.
Rich laughter filled the antechamber.
Kori's back felt on fire, but her neck prickled in goosebumps when the gold of his mask pressed against it. His hands pulled her hips.
"Tell them to shut the door," he breathed.
"Shut the door," panted Kori, no longer knowing with what words she spoke. "Leave!"
The priests obeyed. They must obey or tear themselves apart.
Hinges creaked, darkness fell, and he tore her underclothes down the middle. Kori pressed her hands and knees against the stone and leaned back against his looming presence.
"Tell me when they're gone," he said, voice as satisfied as a tomcat's. "Your ears are better than mine."
More talking? Kori gritted her teeth in impatience. He was right there, and all she had to do was push.
Andrei laughed again and pushed back.
He was as good as his word. The was no ravishment. It was more like an explosion.
Next: Chapter 21: To Cast The Same Shadow
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