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Chapters (70)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. DRAMATIS PERSONAE
  5. Prologue
  6. PARODOS
  7. ACT ONE
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. ACT TWO
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. 19
  28. 20
  29. 21
  30. 22
  31. ACT THREE
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. 26
  36. 27
  37. 28
  38. 29
  39. 30
  40. 31
  41. ACT FOUR
  42. 32
  43. 33
  44. 34
  45. 35
  46. 36
  47. 37
  48. 38
  49. 39
  50. EPIPARODOS
  51. ACT FIVE
  52. 40
  53. 41
  54. 42
  55. 43
  56. 44
  57. 45
  58. 46
  59. 47
  60. 48
  61. 49
  62. 50
  63. 51
  64. 52
  65. 53
  66. EPILOGUE
  67. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  68. The Locked Tomb Trilogy
  69. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  70. Newsletter Sign-up

Aloud, you said through swollen lips: “The Saint of Duty must die.”

And on the bed, the Body said, “Yes.”

25

YOUR LETHAL OATH WAS not reflected in any more general solemnity in the Mithraeum. Despite the apocalypse you had suffered, not much seemed to change. Everyone was far too busy to care. The next time you sat down to talk to Teacher, your heart in your throat and your tea stubbornly undrunk, he did not even mention it. Surely he knew. Surely he must have known everything. You were too prideful to beg salvation, but too stupid not to blurt, as a diversion from your own panic: “Lord, I saw the Saint of Duty kissing the body of Cytherea the First.”

Part of his biscuit dropped off in his tea. He looked at it with genuine consternation, then at you with equally genuine consternation, then back at the biscuit. “Harrow—Harrowhark, I hate to ask, but are you certain?”

Even God distrusted you. “Teacher, I swear by the Locked Tomb.”

“I wouldn’t swear by that in this instance,” he murmured, and took his dented teaspoon to fish out a quivering and deliquescent glob of ginger biscuit. Then he looked at you. There were sleep marks beneath his eyes, he was not wearing his halo of infant phalanxes and pearl-coloured leaves, and his hair looked only hastily brushed. He ran one hand through it, as though conscious of your critical gaze. “Well,” he said, eventually, “that’s unfortunate.”

“Is it not a sin?” You knew you sounded like a quisling. You knew you sounded like a prattling gossipmonger. What you really wanted to say was: Lord, I was in my bathtub, and he drank my wards dry of thanergy, and I burst his eyeballs before he could destroy me. I have not slept in forty-eight hours. I asked Mercymorn how best to stimulate my own cortisol, to keep me awake. Lord, she did, and I fear I have done something to my hypothalamus. “Don’t you think it’s strange?”

“Only in that the closest thing to interest Ortus ever showed in anybody was in Pyrrha, and in the criminals he hunted,” said the Emperor of the Nine Houses. “When he kicked that Edenite commander out an airlock, it was like seeing a man on his wedding day. Not exactly romance though … Harrow, over ten thousand years I’ve known that man, and he is legendarily unamorous. I have watched six other Lyctors carry out a myriad’s worth of inadvisable love affairs with one another, because it is a very long time to be alone, but never him. He was unassailable. I won’t believe he’s doing anything to Cytherea. Everyone liked her, he liked her, but there’s a huge leap between liking and—corpse compulsion.”

You stared, feeling mildly drunk and unutterably pitiful, at your repeatedly uneaten biscuit.

Teacher said quietly, “You must think us all a depraved set of immortal criminals.”