Page 37 of House of the Beast
Chapter
B y the time I made it back into the banquet hall, everyone was gathered around the giant glass dome. The music had stopped, and the air hummed with chatter. It was impossible to see over the crowd onto the floor below, where the basin of umbral water sat in wait.
The voices quieted as one rose above them all.
“Welcome, people of Sorrowsend, to the ceremony of initiation,” called Cardinal Farthing.
I craned my head to find him, standing on a podium placed beside the dome.
“Tonight, the chosen Pilgrims will prove to you the strength of their faith to the elder gods of Kugara. In this trial ahead, they will all be baptized by umbral water—the very touch of which can render mortals stricken by terrors beyond our understanding. But not those under the protection of the Four. Their blessings will preserve them now as it will within the umbral plane—and only those who pass this test will have the honor of traveling through the gate. First, we must have a demonstration.”
I approached the throngs of attendees, only to find them impossible to breach. All the lords and ladies were packed together tightly, each attempting to get a view through the glass, and when I tried to slip closer, I only received an elbow to the gut for my efforts.
Annoyed, I said sharply, “Excuse me.”
The man who had elbowed me turned, clearly about to tell me off—but his expression morphed into one of surprise and then dread as he saw my black garb and metal arm. Hurriedly he backed away and dipped into a bow.
“Lady Avera,” he said. “My apologies.”
His actions drew the attention of his cohorts—who also heard my title and quickly shifted to make room for me, heads lowered in deference.
If Aster were with me, I had no doubt he would find it all very amusing.
The attention made me uncomfortable, but at least I now had a path forward. Nodding in acknowledgment, I nudged my way through the remaining people until I had a clear view of the dim floor below. Just as I reached the glass, a set of doors at the end of the great chamber beyond it opened.
A small group of men walked out—three Church knights and a man in ragged clothing escorted between two of them. The man was thin and his movements were sluggish. He blinked up at us, confused and squinting against the light. The knights in their polished armor were practically holding him up.
Cardinal Farthing was speaking again.
“This man is a convicted murderer, a criminal of the highest degree. He was given a choice between the noose and a chance to prove his faith. The Court of Divine Hearers has promised him that if he is spared by the umbral terrors, then he may walk free, perhaps even join the Sorrowless Disciples in giving back to our blessed community. If not—then he shall be an example to us all of what happens when one who has not been chosen by the Four enters the umbral gate.”
The crowd began to murmur again, anticipation thrumming through the air.
“What’s going to happen to the poor man?” I heard someone say.
“He’s a murderer!” someone else responded. “I hope the terrors take him.”
The two knights began to lead this criminal toward the basin, while the third approached it with a shallow bowl in hand. Water was scooped into the bowl, the knight taking care not to touch it directly.
The condemned man slowly straightened as he walked, his eyes fixed upon the bowl as if he couldn’t look away, his face growing pale.
By the time he reached the basin, he was stiff with nerves.
But he took a deep breath, muttered something to steady himself, and then stepped away from the knights escorting him.
I wondered if he was a man of faith—if he believed in the Four.
Perhaps, despite his crimes, he worshipped enough that he thought he might be protected from the terrors.
I thought I knew something of how he felt, walking in front of all these people, knowing they were eager to see him fail.
Despite his crimes, I could not help but feel a little sorry for him. His odds were slim—but not impossible.
After all, if someone like me could garner the favor of an elder god, anyone could.
The two knights stepped back, drawing their swords in preparation.
Light from the chandeliers above the banquet hall and the braziers lining the walls of the ceremony chamber glinted off the metal.
The knight with the bowl of water reached up and carefully poured some of it onto the condemned man’s head.
Then he beat a hasty retreat, setting the bowl back down along the rim of the basin and drawing his sword as well.
The entire banquet hall held its breath. Nobody spoke. For a long moment we simply watched. The condemned man brought his hands up to his face to swipe through the water dripping into his eyes. They were shaking.
He began to howl.
It started low, then rose in pitch, warbling and echoing through the empty floor below, through the glass, making me and a few other attendees jump and others clap their hands to their mouths in horror.
The man fell to his knees. Blood was dripping onto the floor.
I realized it was spilling out of his eyes and mouth and nostrils.
His face, which at first had been filled with hope, crumpled in agony as he writhed.
His jaw stretched unnaturally wide around his howling, and veins bulged under his skin.
Whatever god he had been praying to had denied him.
The knights wasted no time. One blade went through the man’s chest, while another lopped off his head.
Blood spattered across polished marble and the man’s thrashing limbs thumped against the floor, then stilled.
Gasps of horror rang out around me, but everyone in this room had gotten what they wanted: an example of what happened to those found unworthy.
Immediately the hall erupted into chatter again—some pleased, some terrified.
“Alas,” said Cardinal Farthing, his voice ringing out over the rest. “His faith has been found wanting. We have witnessed firsthand what happens to those unready to journey through the umbral gate. With that, let the ceremony of initiation begin.”
***
I WAS DIRECTED TO AN ANTECHAMBER DOWNSTAIRS ALONG with the rest of the Pilgrims, each of us waiting our turn for the trial.
Though the room was beautifully furnished with handsome armchairs and carved end tables—nothing but the best for the most important people in Kugara—the effect was ruined somewhat by the two sets of metal doors fitted with heavy, ornate locks, all of which clicked and whirred each time they opened: one to lead us back into the banquet hall, and one to lead into the ceremony chamber.
Knights stood guard on either side of both doors.
There were no windows—something even all the elegant furnishings and wallpaper could not hide.
We were in a room that could not be breached by anyone wanting to go either in or out.
If that was not enough to instill neurosis, the company made up for the rest. It was my first time being in a room with all the hopeful Pilgrims face-to-face together.
All these grand names I had spent a lifetime hearing about, squeezed into one place.
There were eleven of us: Lord Carnus and Lynel and Lady Agatha from House Metia; three Sorrowless Disciples in nondescript white robes from the Weeping Lady’s Church; Meisters Iloise and Olissa from House Goldmercy; and my father, Kaim, and me.
The three Sorrowless Disciples sat upon the armchairs, as serene as statues.
Kaim stood in a corner conversing with his uncle Lord Carnus, along with Lynel Metia, who occasionally interjected with a few quick gestures of his hands.
My father, thankfully, had his attention focused on Olissa and Iloise Goldmercy as they whispered together, no doubt discussing the details of their alliance, though he occasionally sent me an irritated glare.
The sight of his wine-stained coat almost made me smirk.
I stifled it; an awkward quiet hung heavily over the room, and I did not want to draw attention by smiling.
Though we were all Pilgrims, we were also competitors.
The room had very clearly split into groups—leaving me alone and isolated once again.
I wished that Aster could be here, but one look at Carnus Metia’s milky eyes reminded me that it was futile.
After a few minutes of waiting, the set of doors to the banquet hall opened and a clergyman of the court walked in, escorted by another knight. His robes were not as opulent as the Cardinal’s, and unlike the Cardinal, he greeted us with a deep bow.
“Pilgrims of Kugara,” he said, straightening. “The ceremony of initiation begins. First to enter will be the vessels of House Goldmercy: Meister Iloise and Meister Olissa. Meister Iloise, if you would do the honors.”
I watched as Iloise Goldmercy proudly stood, straightening her gray gown before following the knight to the other set of great metal doors.
The locks turned as she approached, clicking and whirring loudly—Goldmercy workings, charmed to open only on command.
Once she and the knights were through, the doors slammed shut, locks whispering again and sealing them inside the chamber.
Then began a process that involved more waiting than I had a liking for.
The doors would open, the Pilgrim next to undertake the ceremony would step through, and for a few long minutes, there was nothing but tense silence within the antechamber.
No sound came from the other side of the doors; the metal shut everything out.
Even the sparse chatter between Kaim and Carnus Metia died down as everyone awaited the results.
If the knights were drawing their swords upon the hopeful vessels, we would not know.