36. 35
The benches in the House of the Sun’s Oath room were hard and unforgiving.
Davian sat down without a word, and immediately leant forwards to avoid leaning against the back of the seat.
I sat beside him, and brushed my hand over his shoulder in silent reassurance.
He squeezed my knee, but didn’t look at me.
Below, Camriel sat, awaiting the next question. Petros stood behind his chair, his brow already sweating as his gold-marked hand was palm down on Camriel’s head. The power of the Oath would already be coursing through him from Petros’ touch.
Davian’s cuts had scabbed over in the last day, and his back was a mass of healing wounds.
He had slept in the physician’s room in town that first night, and I had stayed at his side until sleep conquered me.
When he stirred, much more lucid, and realised everything that had occurred in that basement was real, neither of us had any words.
He had only asked if he was allowed to return home.
I had gotten permission to take him back.
He had stepped through the office, to the cellar door and the basement.
The sunners had taken papers, vials, and various items as evidence.
Fella was gone, too, alongside anything else that might have once been human down there.
Except for the mark, still faintly glowing against the floor.
The sunners hadn’t let us try to scrub that away yet. Through all of it, we were silent.
The House was in mourning, in entirety. Only Eliza wasn’t locked in her room, or locked in grief. She told us she was going to witness Camriel’s oath. Davian had spoken then, and asked, in a voice devoid of any emotion, for a carriage so that we might go, too.
This, I had questioned him on. It was too soon. The House of the Sun would not hold back in their questions, after all, in their quest for the full picture of events. But he was determined that he had to understand.
In the centre of the room below us, locked into his chair, Camriel shuffled. Petros’ hand stayed steady, studying his quarry with a satisfaction that ran my blood cold.
One of the judges pushed his monocle up to his eye, looking at a piece of paper. “You kept a list of your victims. You wrote down a name beside each God. All the names matched. Except there were two errors.”
Camriel stared at them, waiting for a question.
“For Wisdom, you had a man listed, Renovid,” he continued. “Why didn’t you use him?”
Davian stiffened. But he knew what this would be. If we needed to leave, we could leave, I told myself.
“Davian and Fella discovered me before I could.”
“You left Pain blank. Why?”
Camriel stared down at his lap. “I had hoped I could use myself.”
I was glad we had waited until the Oath was underway to enter the chamber. Camriel’s attention hadn’t moved to us. Instead, he stared at the panel of judges. Two men, one woman.
“Aseem’s here,” Davian said, and there was a hint of surprise beneath the layer of numbness we had swaddled ourselves in. I followed his gaze, and saw the man across from us. At the back, like we were.
Our mayor. Davian’s father-in-law. Seera’s father. I had seen him in paintings, but never in the flesh. In that medium, he was regal, with flowing curls and finery in shades of white and gold which complimented his brown skin and the glint in his eyes.
Today, his hair hung in a limp ponytail; his jaw was tight and his skin had no lustre to it, looking simultaneously dry and oily. He had dressed appropriately, of course. And yet, his face was pallid, his eyes drooping in their sockets and his lips moving in a constant mutter. He looked ragged.
Camriel looked worse, though that was not surprising.
He bore fresh bruises across his arms, and whilst I knew that in some sick way that he deserved pain, I had hoped he'd got the pain from resisting the guards, and not from a sunner too committed to additional ‘justice’.
They had pulled him out of his clothing, and into the same rags I had seen Juven wearing.
Had they been near one another last night? Had the convicts shared details of their murders? At their conquest, almost completed?
I doubted it.
The same judge raised an eyebrow. “You wanted to use yourself as the Pain tribute?”
“Yes,” Camriel confirmed.
“But you couldn’t?”
Camriel swallowed hard as Petros watched him like prey. His hands flexed, his wrists locked to each arm. “The circles. I tried cutting them into my own back. But it didn’t work. I couldn’t get the angle.”
My stomach turned at the image of it. Trying to carve into his own skin? And without the support of the God of Pain to soften that, or reward the flagellation? The pain alone must have been horrible, but the continuation in the face of it... He had only stopped because of the angle. Gods.
One of the other judges leaned forwards. “So you chose Fella, instead.”
Camriel shook his head, one erratic swing. Petros’ hand moved with him. “No.”
She continued. “Fella’s skin was carved with the same circles. She was the Pain sacrifice.”
“I didn’t choose it,” he said. “I never wanted to use her. Never.”
“Then, why did you?”
Camriel breathed hard, fighting whatever the sunner was channelling. He gagged, and then breathed again.
Davian’s hand tensed against my leg, and I gripped it tightly.
“She confronted me,” Camriel said, eventually. “On the Night of the Dead. I wasn’t expecting her, and she noticed I was bleeding. She pulled at my shirt, and saw the attempt on my back. Then she saw Samiscus’ mark, dead against my chest.”
The first judge who had spoken hummed. “Is that when you decided you had to kill her?”
“No,” he spat. “I showed her everything. Everything. I begged her to understand. I begged her, I told her they were all going to come back.” He made a noise, like an erratic giggle. “I asked her to help me.”
“Then what happened?”
Camriel gagged again, trying to move his head. Petros wasn’t to be budged. His eyes widened and he heaved in a breath. “I locked her in my study in the basement, just until she calmed down.”
“Continue, Camriel,” the judge said.
The Leader of the House of Pain began to rock in the chair. It didn’t dislodge the grip of the Sun; I didn’t think anything could.
Davian moved his hands to grip the bench. It was barely a noise, a small thunk of a palm on wood. But Camriel’s gaze swung up to us. I hissed in a breath, frozen at the look in his eyes. I had never seen such hatred, and so heartily directed towards himself.
He looked young in this moment, saliva drooling from an agape mouth, his eyes like dinner plates and his fingers tapping against the chair.
“Camriel,” snapped the judge. “What happened next? After you locked Fella in your study?”
Camriel swallowed, and stared at Davian with so many emotions that I don’t think I could ever understand the depth of that moment, or what he could have wanted to say.
Instead, he turned back to the judge as the truth was pulled from his lips. “She went quiet. When I opened the door, she had found a rope.”
Davian’s grip was white, and I shivered so hard my teeth chattered.
“She killed herself?” the judge clarified, his voice entirely level.
“She wasn’t dead. But her neck was broken. And I knew then, if I carved the circles on her, that she would come back.” Camriel glanced at Davian, and then back to his hands. “He would bring her back whole. All of them.”
My hand flew to my mouth. He had killed her, then. It was horrible. Too horrible. Of course, I knew it. But hearing it like this was something else.
Camriel scratched his fingernails into the wood, and I winced at the noise.
He shook his head again, as if he could shake the memory away.
“He promised. He promised every sacrifice I killed to open the portal would come back,” he whispered.
In the silence of the room, we heard every word.
“All of the sacrifices would come back to life again, once he had his place back amongst the Gods.”
The judges looked between them, conferring under their breath about the next line of questioning. I thought I might be sick.
Camriel screamed out, and my back hit into the bench as I flinched from the noise.
“She was going to come back,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Fella!” he called. “I was bringing you back, my love!”
Davian was entirely frozen in place, but I heard the quiver in his breath, and noticed the wobble of his lower lip.
The female judge cleared her throat. "Then, what happened?"
"Davian came in. I must have left the passage open," Camriel said absently. "It was a sign. He was the last piece."
“Who promised you that he would bring them back?”
Camriel sobbed. Petros pulled the truth from him regardless, ever stoic behind him. “Ragnifort.”
They must have been briefed on this, or guessed it. “The God of Fire and the Forge?”
He took in a shuddering breath. “Yes.”
“What does Ragnifort look like? Does he use any other name?”
Camriel shook his head. “I don’t know. I only spoke with him once. It was dark, and he wore a cloak.”
A scratch of an inked nib against paper. “Male?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
Camriel paused for only a second. “He was tall. At least, taller than most men.”
It wasn’t much to go off. Ragnifort was occupying a taller-than-average man. Nothing of skin colour, accent, hair, or eyes. Ragnifort could have taken over the body of half the men in Dytho.
The judge noted it regardless. “What did Ragnifort tell you?”
Camriel sniffed back the tears and saliva noisily. He was calming now, or at least, numbing himself back again. “To complete the work. To find the most desperate amongst Dytho, and make them bring the sacrifices to me.”
A judge leaned forwards. “Did he tell you how to find the most desperate?”
“He told me to look for those in debt,” Camriel answered. “To talk to lenders in the city, like Granville and Vlahos. He said they would help find my victims for me.”