Blood Rite by Rachel Harrison

Author:Rachel Harrison
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Published: 2019-07-29T13:25:03+00:00

The Shrine of Sanguis Gloria, then…

Donato watches as Maeklus sets light to the circle of offerings and the bodies burn all over again, this time gold and red, and not unnatural blue. His helm filters out the smoke, but not the scent of it. Funeral pyres. Donato lets the last outside transmission he received after teleportation play back again.

There will be no reinforcements, it says. What forces remain on the surface work to clear the pilgrims’ city of traitors, and of innocents. This task is left to your Archangels, brother. If the shrine cannot be saved, then it must fall, and our enemies with it.

‘They sought to take Sanyctus.’

Donato turns from the fire at the words. Darrago’s armour is split and battered and splattered with black blood. The Company Ancient is breathing with a rasp that suggests the slow reknitting of a punctured lung. He has removed his helm and locked it to his waist, exposing a face made up of blunt angles and old scars. The aquila brand burned into Darrago’s flesh is stark but his eyes, as always, are contemplative. The Company Ancient is a warrior, as they all are, but over time he has become the conscience of every one of the Archangels, including Donato.

‘Just Sanyctus,’ Donato says.

Darrago nods. ‘The one with the golden eyes called him perfect,’ he says, absently. ‘A perfect, violent thing.’

Donato thinks about that. About Kalatar, and the Shieldworlds’ edge, and every battle before this, and he cannot find a lie in those words.

‘We will not let them take him,’ Donato says. ‘I do not intend to lose another brother.’

Darrago shakes his head. His eyes are more than contemplative now. They look sorrowful.

‘Nor do I,’ he says.

‘Spare an eye for him, Thaneod,’ Donato says. ‘Just as we spoke about.’

‘Always,’ Darrago says, with a nod. ‘The traitor said something else. He called Sanyctus the last sacrifice. For the Blessed.’

The Blessed.

Donato snarls at the name. At the twisted suggestion of it.

‘The name that Tur Zalak has given himself,’ he says. ‘He thinks himself a priest. Thinks himself enlightened. He is no more than a heretic. A mad dog, serving false gods. His death is long overdue.’

‘We will serve it here,’ Darrago says. ‘For our lost.’

Donato puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

‘For all of the lost,’ he says, because he does not just want to kill Zalak for those lost here. For Arthemio and Alfeo and Vytali. He wants to kill Tur Zalak for what he did on Perdicia. For the cult of masks, and for the knotted scar across his chest that Zalak gave him that still aches, though it has no right to. He wants to kill Zalak for every one of his sins, from the Great Heresy until now, but most of all Donato wants to kill him to clear the stain on his honour. On Perdicia, Donato failed, but he will not fail again. Not here, under the sight of his father.

‘We go now,’ he tells Darrago. ‘And we end it.’

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