“The One True God be with Us,” the Ecclesians chant.
“And with our spirit,” our many-tongued congregation replies.
“A reading from the Holy Gospel according to Sempiternus,” the Ecclesian at the lectern says.
From my inner room, I find I can just barely move my eyes—enough to discover that Nyatrix sits across the aisle from me, though she’s not straight-backed and smiling like everyone else. Her hand flexes near the pommel of her blade and her jaw grinds. I dare not hope—not from within this empty chamber deep inside myself, no Creatrix in sight—but the fog of despair lifts, just a little.
“When the Lord was struck from His great and divine body by the dark goddesses,” the Ecclesian continues, “He understood that Sylva must change if it wanted to survive.”
The rest of the High Ecclesia, still arranged on the altar, begin to sing. It’s that eerie, lilting sound from the night we escaped, surely some long-dead language. Mysterium thrums so hard the pews shake, plaster breaking from the walls and falling to the marble floor like leaves. I long to clamp my hands to my ears, to do anything to make the bone-rattling song cease, but I am useless from so deep within myself.
“He brought this truth to His people,” the recitation of the Gospel continues, the single Ecclesian’s voice rising above the others. “Some questioned and did not understand, but others willingly gave themselves over to the world He wished to create.”
I know the Catechisma better than I know myself, and this is no Gospel I have ever heard before. I am so terrified that it’s hard to believe more fear can find its way under my skin, but it does, terror gripping me with sharp teeth. Even in the hidden room, my mind is growing sluggish, more and more disconnected from my body, but for a moment, I’m afraid that I understand everything perfectly.
“With great sorrow in His heart, the First Son went to war with His own mothers,” the Ecclesian continues, Their voice like a blow to my temples. “The First Son instructed His people to capture the Creatrixes, for only He could use their power to turntheir tide of wickedness into goodness. But His people failed Him, and for that, they were punished.”
Just like in the kitchen before we fled, gauntleted fingers slip through the crack in the door to my inner chambers. Panic fills me to the brim, my chest shuddering with dread, as I seek somewhere to flee. There is nowhere—either I stay here and wait to be devoured, or I try to fight.
“He destroyed the city He had built for them, that which they no longer deserved, and then the First Son feasted on the memories of all who had failed Him,” the Ecclesian says, Their low and terrible song thrumming beneath the words of the Gospel. “Those who had rebelled were banished into the Wastes, where they came to believe themselves to be the Sepulchyre. Those who had remained faithful accompanied Him to a new and glorious city. Soon, His people thought one another the enemy, and so they fought and bled and died. For that, He was pleased. It was a good punishment, right and just.”
The unearthly song of the High Ecclesia reaches a fever pitch, Their veiled heads thrown back, teeth bared in a near-shriek. The statue of the First Son on the altar—shadowed with soot, chipped at its base, but still intact and standing—trembles. I fight to hold myself steady, to beat back the hungry tide that seeks to consume every last piece of me. But I am losing, and I know it.
“And then a great boon was bestowed upon the First Son,” the gospel continues, dripping from the mouth of a thing that should be long dead. “His foolish mothers, who long since abandoned this world, left behind a gift. Two Avatars, blessed with some of their power. The power that should have been His all along.”
It is no surprise when the eye-wound opens in the chest of the god that promised to save me. The eye blinks, bloodshot and gleaming, tears of pus dripping from its marble lashes. My heartpulsates at the sight and I fear my chest might cave in, exposing my tender, wet entrails to the dark truth of this world. The High Ecclesia’s song is little more than full-throated war cries, a ballad of terror and anger left to simmer for a millennium.
“In His endless wisdom, the First Son fanned the flames of war as He fought to rebuild His Twelve-Fold Form,” goes the Gospel, the voice reciting it pitching deeper and deeper with each word into a monstrous tone. “And when He found the avatars, He ensured they were brought together—for the Creatrixes believed there was no Death without Life, nor Life without Death.”
Gauntleted fingers pry open the door to my inner room and I drown in terror. Heknew. The First Son knew. All this time, He’s just been waiting for the Avatars to awaken and seek Him, moths to flame.
How stupid we were to think killing a god would be such a simple thing. A crippled foundling and an orphaned Fatum—surely the Creatrixes could have picked better heroes for Sylva.
But the moment has come, and there is only us.
Chapter 47
“Praise be to the Lord on High,” the High Ecclesian at the lectern concludes, raising Their pale, thin hands.
I know what is to come next; I have always known, been prepared for it since I was a small thing. And I have no desire to become yet another meal for a god that does little but eat.
My eyes watch as the High Ecclesians file out into the wide expanse of marble in front of the altar, vestments trailing like a smear of gore. But the rest of me prepares as the door to my hidden chamber creaks open, labdanum and rot filling the room. I cough, trying to cover my mouth with the collar of my dress. In whatever part of my mind still belongs to me, I remind myself over and over again that I am so much stronger than He thinks.
“Holy, Holy, Holy,” my tongue sings, joining the forced choir, “Holy Lord of the Host. Blessed is He who comes to save us.”
In the middle of the altar, the towering statue of the First Son shudders, like something alive waits in the marble, ready to break free of its cocoon. My body lurches to its feet no matter how much I fight, incense smoke stinging my eyes, my breath coming in a terrified, ragged gasp.
All the candles but the ones dripping corpse-wax down the altar stairs snuff out, pitching the Devorarium into further gloom. I battle hopelessly against the god’s tide pulling me toward the statue.
“Proclaim the mystery of this faith,” the High Ecclesians command at once as my legs limp closer and closer to the massive marble idol. Tears stream down my face as my hidden chamber fills with His might, rattling me from the inside out.
“We proclaim our death, Great Lord,” I say as my tongue continues to betray me, my voice just one in the brimming Devorarium. “And profess our resurrection, when we are reborn in Your image.”
At last I see Nyatrix again, but in the worst place imaginable—beside me, kneeling before the statue of the First Son. I fight against His power to turn and look at her one more time and find only more terror: her eyes wide and gleaming with tears, mouth open in a silent scream, the tendons on her neck standing out as she fights with every last shred of her will.
The Mysterium invading my body drags me from my chamber. I tumble back into my skull, a prisoner, as my eyes tear away from Nyatrix and gaze at the statue instead. Nausea barrels up my throat as the milky-white eye beholds me, sees me, fully and utterly, pinning me in place. I cannot move. I can barely breathe. The wound devours me, its eye-shine flashing a sickly pale green.
“We made you.” The voice rattles my bones, coming not from the Ecclesians’ mouths but the eye-wound itself. “And so We will eat of you.”
