Be careful, be clear,
For the bones of others,
Will root out your fear.
Wash your cup with sorrow,
Bathe your vessel with blood,
But choose your gift wisely,
Be it fire or mud.”
“That does seem to indicate there will be a cup somewhere,” Sir Sorken said. He had his hands jammed into his belt and was looking around with a vaguely curious expression. Could I get away with that? I loved how it made him look like he didn’t care.
Sir Adalbrand snorted at that and then walked deliberately over the words like they didn’t daunt him at all. His chin was held high, eyes watchful. He had a way of walking that made him look like a hero striding through a tale. He could choose to use it or not, I’d noticed. Right now, he was employing it in full measure. I swept into his wake as we turned the final curve and spilled out into the vault beyond.
And what a vault it was. It rivaled the main hall we’d just left.
The ceiling soared up into the rock and it must have been drilled through from the top, for pinpricks of light shot down from the ceiling — so many of them that they lit the room so that the white stone was bathed all over with the soft light of the world above.
If I had thought that the statues in the main room were impressive, the ones filling this cavern were teaching me that I had dreamed too small. Lining the circular room and looming high up the walls were statues of Saints. Saints standing and sitting and praying and dying, mouths open as if about to break out into a heavenly chorus. They were carved in intimate detail and by the hand of a master — no, it had to be many, many masters to have worked so many.
Or the demon-possessed.
What?
I’m just saying that we have skills.
I doubted that. Everyone knew that the God had given to men the right to create art. The devil and his minions could only subvert what was already made.
And what would you call taking over another’s hands and will? Not subversion? Would you like to try it, then?
The figures were angelic.
Breathtaking.
The light from above bathed them in a soft glow so that every apple-cheeked curve almost seemed to blush and the dip of every throat became a well of secret shadow. The faces I saw were smitten with rapture — almost to the point of pain, necks and arms stretched in flowing lines of sinew and muscle as they reached to the heavens. Clothing was optional, included only where the folds and translucent waves could best highlight the figures underneath. But weapons were in plentiful supply, and like the statues in the main room, some were brandished, some were carried in sheaths or belts, and some were buried in thighs and biceps and chests.
Do you like them, pretty snack? Shall we make you into one?
I could barely take in the sheer decadence of this much human talent stored up in one tiny hidden corner of the great rolling earth. It snatched my breath like a clawing wind. It ought to be in a cathedral somewhere that men may marvel at it.
And yet, I recognize none of them, my girl. Are they so old that I can’t see a single one that I know? Who is that with the tri-forked beard? What maiden swoons there in the arms of that warrior and why do his limbs almost appear as tentacles?
Mayhap Sir Branson was simply as poorly educated as I was.
The demon laughed long in my mind.
They’re ours. All ours!
Who were his?
Tell me, my girl, if these are Saints, then why does this dashing one holding the sword seem to be wearing nothing but a tabard, and why does he look so lasciviously upon the maiden in the crown? Better yet, solve this riddle — why does her crown look so very like a pair of antlers?
What was he saying?
I told you! They’re ours. They belong to my twisted kingdom and they shall drive you mad!
