The Crown of blood

Temple

As immobile as a statue, Lakhyri listened to the chants of his inferiors. He sat upon a chair of blood red stone, bone fingers gripping its arms, eyes closed. Around him the worshippers knelt on the stone floor, naked in their spiral-cut skin, their cadaverous bodies swaying back and forth in time to the incantation, their voices nothing more than husky whispers. The high priest's heart beat slowly in tune with the eternal rhythm, his breaths shallow, chest unmoving.

He listened; to the rasping chorus as a whole; to each of the fifty voices. His ears sought out any imperfection, any stutter or slip, any mispronunciation or variation in tone. He detected none. The flawless monotony was satisfactory.

Yet still he felt nothing. No tingle of life force in his body. No sense of the swirling energies that bound the world together. The chanting dome was empty of all except the fleeting beats of life contained within the chests of his followers. The essence of creation, the invisible force that sustained his existence and bound his immortal masters to this world, was absent.

While he listened, Lakhyri strained his mind, probed the recesses of experience and thought to divine some reason why the source of the eulanui's power was fading. His search was in vain. Never before had he encountered such a thing. It perturbed him.

The gong sounded and the chanting ceased immediately. Lakhyri did not move while his minions pushed themselves wearily to their feet and shuffled out of the hall.

He sensed the pulse of life at the doorway, a blur of heat and light in the grey existence he occupied. He opened his eyes and saw one of the younger acolytes kneeling there, eyes fixed on the ground, a clay tablet held out in one hand.

"Bring it." Lakhyri's tomb-dry voice echoed around the hall. The youth hurried across the chamber, eyes downcast, and placed the tablet in Lakhyri's lap. The boy withdrew with a quickening patter of feet.

The high priest picked up the tablet. The clay was still wet. A frown creased his leathery brow as he read the message it contained. He rose to his feet and strode out of the hall, the tablet grasped in his claw-like grip.

He ascended the winding ramp to the temple's highest level. The chamber here was small, barely fifteen paces across. Inside stood his two hierophants: Asirkhyr and Eriekh. Their eyes betrayed their worry. Between them, the youngest member of the temple lay upon an inclined stone bed. He stared at the ceiling blankly.

"Do it."

The hierophants nodded. They lifted small, wicked daggers from niches in the side of the stone slab. The boy did not flinch as Asirkhyr began his work, slicing the point of his knife into the boy's forehead. Eriekh began at the youth's chin. Blood trickled as they carved, dribbling down the boy's cheeks and neck and running in crimson threads down the table, following the rusty stains of many generations.

The hierophants cut circles and swirls into the adept's flesh, through skin and fat but never touching muscle. His face now a mask of blood, the boy continued to stare straight ahead. The circles and spirals joined and flowed together, every part of the youth's face was contained within a loop or arc of the lines.

Satisfied that their work was done, the hierophants stepped back and Lakhyri approached. He placed his hand across the boy's face, palm down, covering his eyes.

"Speak to me."

Lakhyri lifted his hand. Where he had touched the boy the flesh began to shift. Blood bubbled up from the wounds and skin crawled into new patterns. The boy began to pant and his eyes were suddenly alert. There was a crack of bone and one cheekbone erupted through the skin. The boy gave a choked cry, but only his eyes moved. The cheekbone flowed like molten metal and settled back beneath the flesh. There were more snaps and splintering noises as the youth's chin and brow reformed. Tears welled up in his brown eyes until they clouded over. When the mist drained away, the eyes were darker, so dark that it was hard to tell where iris and pupil met.

Still covered with a sheen of blood, the boy's face was now that of an old man, with a patrician nose and high cheeks. The blistered lips rippled and muscles tensed.

"I am here." The voice was hoarse and had an odd metallic ring to it. Blood trickled from the corners of the mouth when it spoke.

"I have heard that the succession is under threat," said Lakhyri. He raised the clay tablet in front of the thing on the slab.

"It is nothing. Aalun has questioned the wisdom of Kalmud remaining heir. Lutaar has denied him any right to speak of it again. We work to restore Kalmud's health. It will not be an issue for long."

"The life web in which we sit is failing. Something is wrong. The succession cannot be broken. Do not forget your loyalties. If you cannot perform your duties, we will not perform ours."

"The matter will be dealt with. You have my assurance."

"Convey a message to the king. Remind him that our bargain is with him and him alone. He understands the consequences of failure."

"I will remind him."

"Go."

Flesh burned and blood boiled as the apparition withdrew. The boy, his faced restored, lurched and screamed. The hierophants grabbed his shoulders and forced him to lie back on the slab. After a while, the youth's shrieks stopped and his eyes fixed on Lakhyri.

"The first time is the worst," said the high priest. He ran a finger along the scars quickly forming on the boy's face. "Think of it as your first payment for immortality."