The Crown of blood

Temple

The prayers channelling the power of the eulanui were swallowed by the dust-filled air. Outside the temple, the winds had grown to a gale, lashing the ziggurat with an unending barrage of sand while the dark skies above flickered with multicoloured lightning. Foreboding seeped from every stone and tile; the displeasure of the eulanui as palpable as the storm.

Lakhyri stared at the apparition of Udaan's features in the carved, distorted face of the acolyte on the slab. The high priest had been assailed by a number of long-forgotten emotions recently: fear, irritation, concern. Now he felt anger as the head of the Brotherhood reported events in the world beyond the temple.

"The king's grip is weakening," snarled Lakhyri. "In one season you have lost an empire that took two hundred years to build. I hold you responsible for this failure."

The bloody parody of Udaan's face contorted into a grimace.

"When the governors no longer listen to us, the Brotherhood can do little to shape events. We have tried our best to firm the hearts of the people against these traitors, but Ullsaard has been sly. He starves them and then feeds them, fills their heads with lies. He promises riches and glory to the legions and the governors are afraid of him."

"They should be afraid of the king!" Lakhyri seized the acolyte's throat in his skeletal fingers, pinning him to the stone table, his face a hair's-breadth away. "You should have dealt with this Ullsaard long before now. Your dithering puts everything at risk. I warned you of the consequences."

The acolyte-Udaan squirmed in Lakhyri's grip, hands flapping uselessly at the slab.

"We have tried to get people close to Ullsaard, but it is difficult, his followers are remarkably loyal. I feel there is some truth that he is one of the Blood."

Lakhyri released his hold and stepped back as if struck.

"That is not possible," said the high priest. His expression creased into a deep scowl. "If a child of the Blood has fallen through your fingers, it is just another example of your failure."

"I cannot see how it is possible." There was an edge of pleading in Udaan's voice. "All of the bastards are accounted for. There are no loose ends."

"Either this usurper is lying, or you have made a mistake. Which is it?"

Udaan's answer was a mute look of helplessness.

"You are clearly incapable of addressing this matter properly," said Lakhyri. "You leave me no choice but to intervene directly."

"I… I thought you could not leave the temple?"

"That may be what you wish to believe, but you are wrong."

Lakhyri leaned over the supine form of the acolyte and placed a hand on each side of the youth's head. The high priest chanted deep and slow, his incantation little more than an exhalation. Closing his eyes, Lakhyri spread his fingers across Udaan's puppet-face. Tissue stirred, turning into sinew and blood and fat and skin, the priest's bony fingertips sinking into the writhing flesh.

The carvings in Lakhyri's skin moved, altering their shapes and orientation, darkening, turning his skin into a web of white and black. The necromantic sigils swirled across Udaan's ravaged features, twisting muscle and nerve into their likeness. Darker and deeper the runes burned into Lakhyri's withered flesh, etching into bone and organ, cutting through every part of him.

With a hoarse cry, Lakhyri slumped, the light in his eyes gone.