I’m always in the mood, but my toys never last long. It’s such a shame. Maybe when you are weak, you’ll let me in and I’ll play with you, little morsel. Maybe you’d like to be a Saint after all.
“The cups fit in the hands,” Sir Owalan called from where he stood beneath a towering version of himself, a cup in one hand hovering over the hand of his statue. “Watch.”
He set the cup onto the palm of his doppelganger. Even from afar I could hear the snick when he twisted it and it seated, and then — in a way that defied sense — his statue seemed to glow. It was faint, so faint it could be my imagination, but I didn’t think so.
“I think it will show us which one is the cup,” he said, smiling. “But it needs all of us.”
The High Saint had placed his cup, too, though now he sat at the feet of his statue, bent double in prayer.
That was three. There were six more that could be placed. The Engineers’ statues were depicted together, and their hands were joined with a place for two cups there.
“We ought to consider this with care,” I said at the same moment that the Inquisitor called out.
“How did you choose out of so many?”
Good luck reining them in, my girl. They’re already caught. Flies drawn to blood. They can’t be called back now.
But I already could see that the High Saint and the Majester had chosen cups like the one Adalbrand had shown me, short and squat with cabochon gems. They were not taking any risks.
“Choose wisely. We might not get another chance!” the Penitent called down. “We all need to make our guess and then see what happens.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t guess for us, my dear boy,” Sir Coriand called up, but there was an edge to his words.
“The icon only accepts the cup from your own hand,” the High Saint said, finally straightening from his prayers. His face was lit with holy ecstasy. “This is how we know this is from the God. It is tuned to each of us as only a creator could tune it.”
I like the proud most of all. They are always certain they cannot fall into my snare and then, trapped, they taste the saltiest.
“The instructions did indicate to be careful and clear,” Sir Sorken said in that way of his that carried across the huge booming room. “I think it best to heed them, hmmm?”
“There were instructions?” the Majester asked, at the same time that a whooshing sound went through the room.
From beside me, Sir Coriand sighed far more loudly than required.
The game is now run by the moths, the demon said from inside my head. How long will it take before all singe their wings in the flame? I hope it’s soon. I’ll drink their despair. I’ll bathe in their loathing and I’ll laugh when your heart breaks for their foolishness.
“Sit,” I said firmly. “Stay.”
The dog Brindle chose to obey.
“How will you choose?” the Inquisitor called to Hefertus across the wide gallery, his forehead wrinkling in cautious concern.
Hefertus called back as he shifted, hands hovering over two keyboards. “Easy. I’ll choose the most lovely.”
“But …” The Inquisitor looked at the rest of us, and this was the most human I’d seen him. His lips moved a few times before he finally pushed the words out. “But that is farcical. Surely, you will use a better method. Or you’ll ask the God to make your hand choose the correct one.”
“I like the pretty one,” Hefertus called, and then his hands fell to the keys. From the mouths of the Saints came a ghastly moan that was half music and half agony, and with a creaking snap, something fell behind us.
I spun. Behind us, on either side of the door from the hallway, were a pair of winged figures with swords in their hands. The sound we heard was the sound of their lifted sword arms descending. They hit the floor so hard that the room rocked and a fine sparkle of dust spat upward. Their swords, which had dangled precariously over the doorway before, were jammed across it now, and I did not think any of us could wriggle through the gaps left behind excepting perhaps Brindle.
Hefertus, unconcerned, played on. And now the mouths played hollow, breathy notes, with a yearning melancholy that wrung my heart. He perched before the great instrument, hands spidered out and shoulders rolling with every stanza he played. The light from above seemed to shiver as if the whole room breathed in the music and awoke to it. And whether it was the air forced through the ancient pipes and rippling out the mouths of the Saint statues, or whether it was some great power raining down blessing or curse upon us, dust motes spun into the air and twinkled over everything like the birth of stars.
“I think we should be looking for the real cup,” the Inquisitor said, breaking the spell.
You could bargain with me and I’d tell you which is the true cup.
But that was a trick. None of these cups was the real one. Obviously.
Or all of them are.
