“We all arrived within a year of each other,” he said. “Hes and Taoro and I are all that’s left of our cohort.”
In his peripheral vision, Nines flinched. Their first attempt at conversation since this morning, and Jacen couldn’t have chosen a more depressing thing to say.
Those early years of training were brutal, and if an acolyte was not selected as a novitiate by the age of sixteen, they were marked for the Harvest and given to the gods on the last offering of that year’s eclipse. Of Jacen’s cohort, less than half had survived to ordination.
He fumbled for a change of subject as he chose a spot near the statue of Nabatar, Lord of Sickness. Soon, a rumble overhead drowned him out.
The floor trembled as the roof of the pyramid split open. Massive pieces rotated to reveal the sun overhead, washing the courtyard with its red-orange light. A hush fell over the crowd, then a ripple as it parted for Zivora’s High Lord. A retinue of his family and closest advisors followed, the only civilians allowed at this ceremony. The doors to the Cathedral depths thudded shut at their backs.
A god walked with them.
Rakalem, Lord of Fear, appeared human from a distance—a tall, lean man with long white hair, clad in silvery robes. But when one looked closer, one noticed his lack of eyebrows, his pointed ears, and his ridged skull. The bloodless dark grey of his skin, the utter lack of hue in every part of him but his brilliant violet eyes. His teeth bared in an expression that was not quite a smile, exposing pointed canines.
As the god ascended the pulpit, Jacen bowed his head. A shiver crawled up his spine. Rakalem’s mind had a weight to it, vast and alien as the shadow creeping over the sun.
Without a word, he lifted a four-fingered hand. The sun winked out.
In a moment, the red glow drained away and all that remained was a radiant silver halo with its aura of coronal loops. The statues’ shadows lengthened and darkened. Night-blooming flowers unfurled their ghostly petals.
The god began to speak, in a booming voice that made the courtyard tremble:
“Four hundred and fifty-one years ago, this land was ruled by your ancestors and their heretic priests. In their arrogance, they charged their acolytes to traverse the Gates between universes and return from the Source possessed by demons. They called forth powers they could not control and forced our intervention.
“You lost the right to rule yourselves. But we are merciful. We gave you this mighty city and ordained you, our priests, to protect it. So long as you obey our laws and pay us tribute, you will enjoy our blessings, and you will spend eternity among the faithful in our celestial paradise.” He raised a hand toward the heavens, to where the stars glimmered in the midday dusk. “But for those who transgress as the demon priests once did . . . they shall know neither the gift of paradise nor the mercy of oblivion. They will suffer eternity in torment.”
Jacen clenched a fist in his robes, fixing his gaze on the floor. In his mind’s eye, a different god took Elyas’s jaw in his hand. He twitched his four fingers and snapped his neck. Again and again and again. Jacen could not stop it. He had only ever been able to drown it.
“Each year we remind you,” said the Lord of Fear, “that we can take the sun itself. You must never forget our power, and you must present your offerings. Brothers, Sisters—consecrate their souls to us.”
From below the pulpit, Brother Lev intoned the words of a prayer they all knew by heart:
“Gods above, creators of all life, our masters and protectors—we offer you these souls. Deliver us from sorrow?—”
“We offer you these souls,” all assembled replied as one. “Deliver us from hunger?—”
“We offer you these souls.”Jacen mouthed the words with the rest but could not bring himself to make a sound.
“Deliver us from pain—” “We offer you these souls.”
Before the effigy of the Lord of Sickness, the priest in front of Jacen trembled. A sob broke from her chest.
“Deliver us from fear?—”
“We offer you these souls.”
The priest unclenched her fist over the chalice at the statue’s feet. A patter of metal against stone followed—at least a dozen, maybe twentyclink-clink-clinks.
No one knew for certain how the Harvested were chosen, or how they were taken, or where. Only that for one out of each year’s ten cycles the eclipse came, and people disappeared. Usually a few dozen, but sometimes hundreds, in a slow trickle or all at once. Sometimes entire families—or even twenty from the same congregation, led by an unsatisfactory priest.
Don’t think about it.The words repeated, a desperate refrain in Jacen’s head.You can’t think about it.
“Deliver us from sickness—” “We offer you these souls.”
A hundred years earlier, one of Jacen’s order had betrayed his vows. He had told his congregants who among them would be Harvested, so they might fight to keep their loved ones. The gods allowed a plague to enter the city, and every outbreak still served as a reminder.
No sin was without consequence, and none of them had a choice. “Deliver us from despair?—”
“We offer you these souls.”
