depicted in this guise. The sculptor had
fashioned it from congealed dark stuff, undoubtedly poisonous not merely to
flesh but to the soul and reality itself.
“Don’t worry,” Jarla said. “You’ll get used to the way it
feels. We all have.”
He supposed they had. Otherwise, they would have dropped
dead, or turned into babbling lunatics. But it was difficult to imagine.
“Are you ready?” Mama asked.
Dieter reminded himself that, taint of Chaos or no, icon or
no, he still had no choice. Even so, he had to swallow before he could answer.
“Yes.”
“Then kneel and repeat after me.” He assumed the attitude
she’d demanded, and she put her left hand atop his head. “I, Dieter, renounce
all earthly ties.”
“I, Dieter, renounce all earthly ties.”
“To family and friend.”
“To family and friend.”
“To land and lord.”
“To land and lord.”
The initiation continued in the same vein for a while, as he
swore to renounce every sort of loyalty a sane man might profess. It didn’t
particularly bother him to do so, which prompted the odd thought that perhaps,
in recent years, he hadn’t truly felt committed to much beyond his own comfort
and advancement of his art. At any rate, except for the noxious psychic pressure
of the sculpture, he tolerated the process easily enough.
Next, however, he had to offer prayers and praise to the
Changer of the Ways. Fortunately, the litany stopped short of actually requiring
him to pledge his soul to the god. He wouldn’t have done that no matter what the
consequences. But the declarations he was required to make were sufficiently
blasphemous that no one could have articulated them without disquiet. He told
himself he didn’t mean them, that they were only words, but it was scant
comfort. As a wizard, he understood the power implicit in language.
At last Mama Solveig said, “Good. Now, stay on your knees and approach the
god.”
“What?”
“It won’t hurt you,” Jarla said. “It hasn’t hurt any of us.”
Shivering, soaked in sweat, Dieter knee-walked forwards. With
every advance, the malignancy in the sculpture beat at his mind like a hammer.
Somehow he made it to the foot of the plinth. There he had a
final invocation to repeat.
Afterwards, Mama chanted in a rasping, hissing language he’d
never heard before. The sound of it made his head throb until he thought he
couldn’t stand it anymore.
“And now,” she said, reverting to conventional speech at
last, “for the final consecration. Rise and kiss your new master.”
No! Dieter thought. He’d done everything else, but he
wouldn’t, couldn’t touch the icon. Better to spin around and try to fight his
way out of here. The powers of sky and storm would answer his need, even in a
basement. Better to run again and hope Krieger couldn’t catch him a second time.
Better to abandon all hope of ever regaining the life the witch hunter had
stolen away from him.
But even as such thoughts howled through his mind, he rose,
then bent over the statue. It was as if the prayers he’d recited, Mama Solveig’s
will, or the poisonous atmosphere in the sanctuary made it impossible to do
anything else.
As the statue filled his field of vision, he had the
elemented feeling it was swelling larger, or else revealing its true size: a
thousand times vaster than the tiny, ephemeral world he knew. He touched his
lips to its serpentine neck, and icy cold seared them.
“That’s long enough,” Mama Solveig called.
Dieter recoiled from the statue. His legs gave way beneath
him and he fell.
CHAPTER FIVE
Dieter stumbled through a desert, with masses of granite
protruding from the earth and a range of mountains rising in the distance, and
moment by moment, everything changed.
Many of the alterations were small but disturbing
nonetheless. A dune flattened slightly, a pattern in the sand oozed into a
different configuration, or the striations in a pillar of stone
fashioned it from congealed dark stuff, undoubtedly poisonous not merely to
flesh but to the soul and reality itself.
“Don’t worry,” Jarla said. “You’ll get used to the way it
feels. We all have.”
He supposed they had. Otherwise, they would have dropped
dead, or turned into babbling lunatics. But it was difficult to imagine.
“Are you ready?” Mama asked.
Dieter reminded himself that, taint of Chaos or no, icon or
no, he still had no choice. Even so, he had to swallow before he could answer.
“Yes.”
“Then kneel and repeat after me.” He assumed the attitude
she’d demanded, and she put her left hand atop his head. “I, Dieter, renounce
all earthly ties.”
“I, Dieter, renounce all earthly ties.”
“To family and friend.”
“To family and friend.”
“To land and lord.”
“To land and lord.”
The initiation continued in the same vein for a while, as he
swore to renounce every sort of loyalty a sane man might profess. It didn’t
particularly bother him to do so, which prompted the odd thought that perhaps,
in recent years, he hadn’t truly felt committed to much beyond his own comfort
and advancement of his art. At any rate, except for the noxious psychic pressure
of the sculpture, he tolerated the process easily enough.
Next, however, he had to offer prayers and praise to the
Changer of the Ways. Fortunately, the litany stopped short of actually requiring
him to pledge his soul to the god. He wouldn’t have done that no matter what the
consequences. But the declarations he was required to make were sufficiently
blasphemous that no one could have articulated them without disquiet. He told
himself he didn’t mean them, that they were only words, but it was scant
comfort. As a wizard, he understood the power implicit in language.
At last Mama Solveig said, “Good. Now, stay on your knees and approach the
god.”
“What?”
“It won’t hurt you,” Jarla said. “It hasn’t hurt any of us.”
Shivering, soaked in sweat, Dieter knee-walked forwards. With
every advance, the malignancy in the sculpture beat at his mind like a hammer.
Somehow he made it to the foot of the plinth. There he had a
final invocation to repeat.
Afterwards, Mama chanted in a rasping, hissing language he’d
never heard before. The sound of it made his head throb until he thought he
couldn’t stand it anymore.
“And now,” she said, reverting to conventional speech at
last, “for the final consecration. Rise and kiss your new master.”
No! Dieter thought. He’d done everything else, but he
wouldn’t, couldn’t touch the icon. Better to spin around and try to fight his
way out of here. The powers of sky and storm would answer his need, even in a
basement. Better to run again and hope Krieger couldn’t catch him a second time.
Better to abandon all hope of ever regaining the life the witch hunter had
stolen away from him.
But even as such thoughts howled through his mind, he rose,
then bent over the statue. It was as if the prayers he’d recited, Mama Solveig’s
will, or the poisonous atmosphere in the sanctuary made it impossible to do
anything else.
As the statue filled his field of vision, he had the
elemented feeling it was swelling larger, or else revealing its true size: a
thousand times vaster than the tiny, ephemeral world he knew. He touched his
lips to its serpentine neck, and icy cold seared them.
“That’s long enough,” Mama Solveig called.
Dieter recoiled from the statue. His legs gave way beneath
him and he fell.
CHAPTER FIVE
Dieter stumbled through a desert, with masses of granite
protruding from the earth and a range of mountains rising in the distance, and
moment by moment, everything changed.
Many of the alterations were small but disturbing
nonetheless. A dune flattened slightly, a pattern in the sand oozed into a
different configuration, or the striations in a pillar of stone
Similar Books
