The blade of the knife slid under the skin of his thigh, passing between skin and flesh sweetly and with exquisite gentleness, the heat of the blade cauterizing myriad tiny blood vessels. Every now and then the God Priest who wielded the knife paused, twisting his hand so that the skin lifted away a little from the underlying tissues.
Josia kept his eyes closed. The pain was bearable, just, but only if he did not allow himself to contemplate what the God Priest might do once he had completed making the long rents in Josia’s thighs.
Or only if he did not allow himself to hear the gasps of anticipation among the crowd of hundreds within the packed chamber, or the smacking of their lips.
Josia lay as still as he might, his eyes tightly closed, ignoring the sounds about him, trying to keep his mind calm, and yet still he could not stop the tears sliding down his cheeks.
It had not been his choice to die in this manner.
The God Priest paused, contemplating the trembling and blood-streaked young man strapped naked to the top of the altar. The priest’s mouth pursed in contemplation, then, decision made, he handed the knife back to his assistant, nodding at the query in the man’s eyes.
Then he looked back to Josia.
The man was an extraordinary gift. Never before had anyone of such ability, of such family, been gifted to the God Priests. His soul would make a remarkable deity, and would sell for such a sum…
The God Priest licked his lips, anticipating the gold that would be his by day’s end.
But first the young man had to die, and as badly as the God Priest could devise.
His assistant returned to the God Priest’s side, and very carefully handed to his master the little pot of molten lead.
The God Priest bent down to Josia, the glow of the molten metal reflecting the avarice in the priest’s eyes.
The assistant leaned forward, knife in hand, and lifted up the flap of skin on the nearest cut.
Josia smelled the metal, felt its warmth, felt the skin lift away from one of the cuts, and screamed.
He could not stop himself. He screamed and screamed, the breath wrenching in and out of his lungs, his body convulsing so badly he would have slid from the altar had not he been held tight with straps.
The God Priest poured the molten metal into the cut, taking great care now that the offering twitched so horribly, and wrinkled his nose in disgust at the smell that rose from Josia’s burning flesh.
Then he moved to the next cut, pausing only so his assistant could refill the little pot of molten lead.
Josia escaped to the Twisted Tower. He ran down the path toward the corkscrew fortress, automatically counting out the eighty-six steps, and thudded against the wooden door, his hand closing about the doorknob.
He did not open it. He could, he knew he could, for the Twisted Tower would not prevent him entry, but if he entered while the Corolean God Priest was torturing him, then he might corrupt the tower and all its contents.
He huddled against the door, sobbing, wretched beyond imagining.
If he entered, then he would be safe, but he would corrupt the tower.
If he stayed outside then eventually the God Priest would have him, and his soul would be tortured into one of the Coroleans’ cursed bronze deities.
Josia knew what he had to do.
He leaned his forehead against the door, trying to bring his weeping under control.
Inside the tower, his father and brother looked at each other, then both turned their backs on the door, closing their ears and hearts to the sound of Josia’s horror.
The God Priest sighed.
After eight hours of the most exquisite of tortures, the offering was now in a wretched state. Both his life and his sanity hung by a very thin thread.
It would not be long.
As tired as he was, the God Priest managed a smile and a nod to the assembled mass of the Corolean First. He had saved the very best for last.
Once more he nodded to his assistant who brought forth a large gray rat, caged in a wickerwork basket. The God Priest lifted out the rat carefully—the very last thing he needed was a nip from the creature’s sharp teeth—and held it down on Josia’s belly while his assistant fetched a large copper bowl which had leather straps hanging from its rim. With both careful maneuvering and timing, the God Priest and his assistant trapped the rat under the upturned bowl, then strapped the bowl tightly to Josia’s belly.
The crowd breathed in, almost as one, and every single man and woman of them leaned forward, their eyes wide with anticipation.
The God Priest looked about at the crowd, a slight smile on his tired face, reveling in the moment.
He took one of the two ladles his assistant held, paused, and then both he and the assistant beat at the copper bowl with all their strength, dancing about the altar in a maddened frenzy.
Josia couldn’t let go. He couldn’t die. All he wanted was to escape into death, even though he knew the God Priest would then trap his soul, but he couldn’t let go.
His body was a mass of wounds. He had been beaten, tortured, agonized, teased, tormented. Every moment he existed was now spent in an ocean of pain.
Josia could not let himself take that final step into death.
He wanted to weep, but there were no more tears left.
He wanted the God Priest and his assistant to cease their infernal din on the bowl for it fractured his concentration, and if he wanted to die then he needed to concentrate or—
Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods!
The rat, driven into insanity by the noise and reverberation, desperate to escape, bit deeply into his belly.
Josia found he had, indeed, enough voice and breath remaining to scream.
The God Priest continued his beating on the bowl, but now it was slightly less frenzied.
He had seen from Josia’s face the instant the rat had begun to chew into his belly—had seen the incredulous horror fill the man’s eyes the moment before he had shrieked.
Then Josia convulsed.
The God Priest lowered the ladle, stepping away from the altar and indicated to his assistant to do likewise.
He was amazed that Josia still had the strength to move so violently.
He would make the most powerful deity the Coroleans had ever seen.
The God Priest watched intently, knowing that Josia’s death was only heartbeats away…needing not to miss the moment.
A movement under Josia’s rib cage caught the priest’s eye, and he held his breath.
The rat was almost at Josia’s heart…soon…soon…soon…
“Quick!” the God Priest hissed, and the assistant handed him a bronze statue, beautifully carved in exquisite detail into the perfect likeness of the man now lying dying on the altar.
Soon…
Josia’s eyes remained wide open. He drew in a deep breath, readying for another shriek, when suddenly everything stopped.
Everything about him stilled.
The God Priest’s own eyes widened; he held his breath, then he suddenly relaxed.
“Got you,” he said, smiling in relief, and cradled the bronze statue against his body.
Josia existed. It was cold and heartless where he was now, but at least there was no pain.
There was nothing, save his existence, and a sense of what lay in the world about him.
A man, reaching for the receptacle which held Josia trapped.
A title, to go with the man. The Duke of Sidon.
Cold. Everything about Josia was cold.
He wept.
Within the chamber deep in the heart of the Palace of the First in Coroleas, all eyes were on the wondrous bronze deity that the God Priest now handed to the Duke of Sidon.
No one looked at the corpse lying on the altar, and thus no one saw the rat, wet with blood and shaking with effort, crawl from the corpse’s mouth, drop from the altar, and scramble away into a dark corner.
No one saw it again, not for a very, very long time.