37
“Former members have claimed the Solemn Apostles practice ritual sacrifice, alleging the section of the holy book that calls for adherents to cede lifeblood to the Savior is taken literally by the group. This has been disputed by current members and is a subject of much debate.”
There’s a third thing every temple in Sundbourg has in common: The main entryway always contains a piece of art depicting the Savior.
The temple I frequented casually as a young child had a large painting of him kneeling, his eyes raised to the heavens.
The one built by the Apostles contained only a simple marble bust.
The entrance to the Prophet’s Sanctum boasts an impossibly detailed sculpture.
The figures are both life-size, raised upon a platform nearly as high as I am tall.
On one side is the Savior, with a sword in hand, his sightless gaze damning.
His right foot rests flat upon the platform while his left rests on the devil’s shoulder.
The devil is equally handsome, but naked, kneeling, his snarl animalistic.
I have no doubt Gabriel sees this as a powerful rendering of the Savior’s triumph, but in my eyes, the Savior is not the focal point of this piece. This is a depiction of a man come face-to-face with his own personal tragedy.
I press onward. It’s darker here at night, and the only illumination comes from a narrow window I remember barring this morning.
I’m reliant on the cold spill of moonlight to guide me down the corridor that branches off the entryway, knowing it will eventually lead into the sanctuary.
My eyes strain to adjust, and the air seems to turn colder as I move deeper into the Sanctum.
Alongside my rising dread is the distinct sense of déjà vu.
I don’t know exactly why—nothing about this is the same. Not really.
But in another sense, everything about it is.
My pulse quickens as I reach the end of the corridor, which gives way to a tall arched doorway.
A bronze plaque rests on the wall beside it.
I don’t need to move closer to know it outlines the central tenets of the holy book.
If the telltale glow of light wasn’t enough to let me know I’ve reached the right place, the resonant tenor of a familiar voice certainly is.
Gabriel. I’d know him anywhere.
I peer past the archway into the room beyond.
It’s an expansive space, almost cavernous.
Every surface is paneled in that dark lacquered wood.
I still think it’s the strangest sanctuary I’ve ever seen—the pews are curved, forming a semicircle around the raised pulpit.
A dozen or so figures occupy the nearest benches, the hoods of their black robes drawn up to conceal their identities.
Foreboding crashes over me. Where the hell are Slade and Emeric? It’s only just midnight now, so where did all these people come from? This is bad. Something has gone very, very wrong.
The man at the pulpit is, of course, Gabriel.
He stands beside what looks unnervingly like a stone altar.
His voice echoes through the space like that of some omnipotent being, forcibly occupying every tiny crevice and shadowed corner.
The sound reverberates enough that I struggle to make out what he’s saying, but when he turns around the words no longer matter.
My fingers close around the box of matches in my pocket, clenching it so tightly I feel the cardboard start to crumple. That sensation of déjà vu explodes into full-blown horror. I’ve been here before. Not here here, but in circumstances so uncannily similar I’m not quite sure how to process this.
Though Gabriel’s robe is black, the sash he wears isn’t. It’s a cream-colored linen, and now that he’s facing me, I see the symbol resting just above his left breastbone: a crescent moon bisected by a thin line.
Cascading emotions slam into me. Terror. Disgust. Confusion. Fury. I’m rooted to the spot, my mouth dry, my extremities numb. They’re cultists. The Regiment isn’t only supporting the Solemn Apostles—they are Apostles. Some of them, anyway.
Is that why Gabriel asked me to look into the Apostles in the first place, that day he gave me permission to go to the Trench?
He claimed to fear the possibility of potential dissenters, but now I suspect I know the real reason he was so focused on the rumors.
He wanted to learn how much, if anything, people knew about the Regiment’s involvement in the cult’s practices. His involvement.
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. How did Gabriel keep this from me, knowing what he knows?
How did I not see it before? I mentally compared him to Vicar Johannes countless times.
For the second time today, I feel the incapacitating blow of betrayal.
I shouldn’t care, given that I’m planning to kill him tonight, but I can’t seem to help it.
How is it that I keep letting the worst people break my heart?
I no longer know what to do. Gabriel lied to me about everything, right down to the time of tonight’s meeting. What would Slade and Emeric have walked into? Does the Prophet have them, or are they already dead?
I stand motionless as my shocked brain finally turns Gabriel’s words into something coherent.
They’re verses from the holy book—verses that I recognize, although it takes me a moment to place them.
When I do, bile rises in my throat. They’re from a less-commonly recited section of the original text.
A section that was removed entirely from the later iterations, and with good reason.
There’s sudden movement from the far side of the room, and I clap a hand over my mouth as two more cultists emerge from the shadowy doorway there.
They drag a man—no, a boy—along between them.
He isn’t wearing a robe. Instead, he’s clad only in a thin, knee-length white shift.
I can tell by his half-lidded eyes and unsteady gait that they’ve drugged him with something, but it’s not enough to dispel his fear.
His gaze darts from side to side in a mixture of confusion and abject terror, seeking an escape where none exists.
I know what this is. Ice settles at my core as a cold sweat beads on my brow, under my arms, down the length of my spine.
This is a sacrifice.
I don’t shy from death. I have an intimate relationship with it.
But in the space between one breath and the next, I’m no longer a hired sinner marked by the Bloodrot.
I’m a child again, wide-eyed and tense, held in place by a calloused hand on my shoulder.
The inescapable pressure of it bears down on me now.
My throat is closing, my eyes following suit.
A voice in my ear chides me, reassures me, implores me to keep them open.
Don’t you remember the holy book, Talin? The Savior is good. The Savior is merciful. He blessed us with life, and so life we offer Him in return. Don’t look away, girl. You don’t want to disappoint Him, do you?
I remembered. Dread was instilled in me from my earliest memories. It is difficult to teach a young child true piety, but it is a simple thing to teach them fear.
Eyes closed to pray. Eyes open to bear witness.
Gabriel is Vicar Johannes, lifting a nameless boy onto the altar.
The robed figures are the Vicar’s burly sons, holding the boy down by the arms and legs.
The scenes blend together until I can’t tell which is now and which is then.
Some details, though, remain consistent: The bisected moon, black against white.
The glint of metal as the tapered point raises, then plunges down.
Don’t look away, girl.
Then the screaming. I can’t tell whether it punctures the stale air around me or if it’s only in my head. Gabriel is himself again, and I don’t look away as he takes a life on that altar, as casual and merciless as the creature he always regretted I became.
It’s just another death. Blood spills. A boy dies. Another memory to keep locked away in the deepest recesses of my mind.
As sense returns, though, betrayal courses through me. Why have I spent so long killing for Gabriel when he evidently has no qualms about delivering death himself? How is it that the Bloodrot hasn’t taken him, or at the very least, marked his skin the way it marks mine?
Gabriel clasps his bloodstained hands and rotates within the circle, seemingly unbothered by what’s just transpired. “It feels like just yesterday that we were last gathered here as friends and worshippers. Each year passes more quickly than the one before it, don’t you think?”
There’s no response from his followers save a few soft murmurs of agreement, but Gabriel is undeterred. He speaks for the theatrics of it all, not because he wants answers. I don’t know why I keep hesitating. Why I feel the pressing need to see what happens next.
“And each year sees the same ritual,” Gabriel continues.
“A life for the Savior, then a life for one of us. This time, however, things are going to go a little differently.” He pivots to beckon at the shadows, and three more robed cultists emerge.
Two walk normally, but the third is unsteady between them.
His hands and feet are bound, and with a jolt I see that his fingers are tattooed.
Gabriel approaches the group, pausing before the shackled man.
“I realize it’s customary for one of our number to take the life of a diabolist, thereby curing themselves of the Bloodrot.
This year, however, circumstances have changed.
None of you have immediate need of restoration, and the diabolist I’ve managed to track down is not one I’m keen to dispose of just yet. ”
Then, with a deliberate care that lets me know he’s relishing it, he slowly lowers the man’s hood.