To Forgive

 
 
Chapter Three

 
 
 
If there were such a thing as destiny, Ashley was certain this was not meant to be his. After all, it was cold and raining outside; the sun was not yet high enough to have adequately warmed the earth. There was absolutely no reason for this.

 
After they had broken fast, Sydney had insisted that Ashley ride outside of town with him and learn to "witness." Which apparently consisted of trespassing on a farmer’s land, sitting on a hill, staring at Valendia and saying nothing for over two hours in the cold, driving rain. Without a slicker.

 
"This is idiotic."

 
"Shh."

 
Sydney was infuriatingly untroubled. Probably because he was the one with a cloak. Ashley’s shoulders were still naked.

 
"You’ve not spoken since we left. Just what freakish abomination do you expect me to perform out here?"

 
Ashley’s irritation swelled when he received no answer. After several more minutes of silence, he began to gather himself to leave. Sydney, smiling abstrusely, stopped him with a hand on his knee.

 
"You’re so strange, Ashley."

 
Not believing that Sydney would call him strange, Ashley did not respond, but onookeooked back over at the other man and waited for him to explain...what he meant, what in hell they were supposed to be accomplishing, out here, doing nothing, in the middle of nothing…

 
"You could see anything at all. And you refuse to look."

 
Ashley stood up, exasperated, but Sydney spoke again before he could interject.

 
"Look down at the city and watch it. You could be lord over it if you had the inclination, but you don’t. And that is what makes you strong. So witness it now; I know you don’t know what to do, and you know I can’t tell you. The city can tell you. And your honor will not allow you to remain still after you’ve heard her."

 
And Ashley looked.

 
Glass. Thin, time-clouded windowpanes overlaid with mildew and cobweb. Many wore cracks, many wore curtains, a few wore shutters. Some…wine. Dark wine, almost black…the color of ocean at night. Surging through the streets, foaming and swirling, as high as horses’ bridles…he could see the city now. Uncomfortably close. Colder than the air around her. Colder than money. A harlot dressed in sackcloth. The city growled and whimpered but was unable to hear—hollow and nauseous and delirious—devouring herself. He heard the vacant rattle of a thousand tin soldiers, passing their hours in equal portions of monotony and debauchery, teetering and humming, marching and laughing but usually just waiting. The erect, vulgar church steeple scrutinized it all from on high, the warble of ersatz sermons still lingering in the air around it like the smells from a meat shop.

 
He began to feel myriad, thin spurs of guilt that were the townsfolk, shifting around in brilliant patterns, attacking, apologizing, drinking, dying. He tasted the gleam of love there. The love of fathers and widows and sweethearts and shepherds, warm. They were all of them lashed and blistered by a congestion of greed, of which only a small portion was their own.

 
They had hardly anything to call their own. They were exiles in their own fatherland, their dignity and possessions stripped from them so long ago that they could not remember the absence of hunger. They desired to work and sing and build. They were allowed only to carry bundles of dross on their backs for the nobility and the church. They lamented, but were too proud to cry. They longed for mercy, for justice. For liberty. For cheaper whores. They were beautiful. He shivered.

 
"You’re cold."

 
At the other man’s words, Ashley retracted his mind slowly from the spiraling lamps of Valendia and steadied himself. He was cold. He could no longer feel his extremities. And he was no longer angry.

 
"I have witnessed, Sydney. Suffer me to go back now."

 
Sydney rose, and pressed his left hand encouragingly to Ashley’s back. "We must quickly find a cloak for you."

 
 
 
When they arrived back at their lodge, Ashley wore a long, new black coat and long pants, the most expensive thing that he’d paid for, for as long as he could remember, that wasn’t a weapon. He’d even gotten new shoes. It had altogether cost thirteen silver pieces, slightly more even than the price of their horse. It surprised him that he had purchased the ensemble. But it was very warm, and suited him well, made from light but sturdy material. Rich material. Sydney had even approved.

 
The tailor he had bought it from was a skilled maker of flax, and was selling linseed oil for a reasonable price. He’d bought a vial for Sydney, having perceived traces of frustration in the other man that his hair was often tangling. But now he had no idea how to present it to him. Anything he thought to say sounded awkward or discourteous. It seemed too much like giving him a bar of soap and saying, ‘Use this. You stink.’

 
Truthfully, Ashley very much admired Sydney’s hair. And the rest of him also. He was more than a little disappointed that his friend had made no mention of their intimacy last night, or any indication that he even cared. Or remembered.

 
Anyway, he knew he’d have to give it to him. In all probability, Sydney already knew about the small bottle burning a hole in his pocket, and was remaining silent only so that he could be amused by Ashley’s fumbling and reticence.

 
He hung his coat from a nail on the wall, brushing sof tof the rain off of it and grasping the corked vial in his palm.

 
"Sydney," he called softly over his back, "I brought this for you."

 
His companion rose from where he’d been sitting in front of the fire and came near to where Ashley stood.

 
"What is it?"

 
Setting it into Sydney’s right hand, Ashley explained, "I thought that since you are a high-born man, you might live more comfortably with a few more amenities."

 
Sydney was not indignant at all. He seemed pleased, if anything.

 
"How generous of you. But I must tell you, I’m not high-born."

 
Confused, Ashley tilted his head to one side and waited for Sydney to elaborate. But he didn’t. He only uncorked the bottle and sniffed it.

 
"Linseed oil. That’s expensive, Ashley."

 
"Was the Duke not your father?"

 
"He was. But I am a bastard." His words were spoken indifferently, though their revelation was surprising. But Sydney’s next statement was woven in a strange, musical language, exotic and mystifying. And to Ashley’s extreme bafflement, he was able to understand every word.

 
Sydney called himself a son of a bitch. The Kildean was very specific, //sprung up from out of the litter of a mongrel female cur//, with the word for ‘mongrel’ containing a pun on a very vulgar slang for ‘prostitute.’ Ashley was taken aback.

 
"You already understand our tongue, then," Sydney continued. "Have you begun yet to dream in Kildean?"

 
&qNo, No, I have not," he admitted, calming down from his initial astonishment.

 
"In time you will," Sydney lightly warned, dipping a claw in the solution and applying it gingerly to his hair. "Can you speak it?"

 
"I suspect not."

 
"Oh, go on. Give it a whirl. I’m anxious to hear what you’d say."

 
"No, Sydney. I don’t understand how to speak it," Ashley said with a smaoveroverwhelmed sigh as he sat down on the bed. Sydney, facing the window, was combing his hair down with his fingers, and it was shining in the dim early afternoon light from outside.

 
"Fair. But pray you mark: you will never be able to lie in Kildean." He turned to face Ashley and smirked. "Not that you ever would."

 
"That isn’t important. There is something I must do."

 
"Yes. Tell me what it was the city showed to you."

 
Ashley took a breath before he spoke, needing a moment to collect his thoughts. He had seen so many things; he hadn’t had time to draw a decided conclusion or plan.

 
"The church smothers this land. Men are summarily executed, or brainwashed with the Dark like I was; both wealthy and impoverished men are required to surrender much of their livelihoods in tithes. Everyone suffers. And…" he took another slow breath. "They are good men. Not always in a morally-upright sense…buey aey are strong men. Brave, if not raucous…bold men. And they are wasting their lives out for the Cardinal. There must be some way to thwart the church, or at least make it to…ebb a little. Too many die. And too many despoilers and killers are left as free men, because of lineage, bribes, sycophancy..."

 
"Which brings me to my earlier question. What will you do."

 
"I have to look further, Sydney," he confessed. "This may take a great deal of time; I am not sure what course to take. I have to investigate, find a cornerstone to pull out. It would not do to act rashly. I am one man contending with an army."

 
Sydney stepped over to stand in front of where Ashley was sitting, facing him and smiling respectfully. He abruptly fell on one knee, and placed his hands on the other man’s shins.

 
"I can’t tell you how pleased I am with my choice of successors." Ashley felt a prickle of embarrassment again at the adulation, but Sydney went on, half-whispering. "Never in any man have I seen such unfettered, unconditional love. You would get along very well with God, if He were still alive." He paused for a long moment, unmoving at Ashley’s knees, and finally lowered his head. "But He abandoned this cold rock ages ago."

 
Sydney closed his eyes and began to mutter softly, musically. Ashley was unable to make out the soft words, but the tune was sweet and sad and familiar.

 
He opened his eyes suddenly and looked up, as if he’d been started awake, and offered a sheepish half-smile. Ashley returned it.

 
Sydney propelled himself upward at once, sealing his lips to Ashley’s and curling his hands behind his neck, releasing a thin, hushed moan. Ashley, by reflex, grabbed Sydney by the thighs and pulled him tightly between his legs, feeling Sydney’s stiffening flesh pressing against his own.

 
When they pulled apart, Ashley drew in a deep breath quickly, in hopes that the coolness of air might help quell his arousal. He was satisfied now. Sydney had acknowledged their mutual desire. And he felt like he’d seen a part of the man that was shown to only him, just for him. A very private gift, and an inexplicably sweet one.

 
But something was still bothering him.

 
"Sydney. You told me last night…what happened to John Hardin. What about Agent Merlose, and your brother? Are they safe?"

 
"They are," he assured, nodding but not moving.

 
"Where are they?"

 
"Damned if I know." He smiled regretfully. "Hardin was the one who could see through distances." He swallowed. "I can only hear, and sometimes speak."

 
Ashley considered this a moment. "Do you think you could communicate with Merlose? To find out where she is?"

 
"You are the one who is linked to her. It would be easier for you."

 
Ashley remembered the occasions in Leá Monde when he had seen through Agent Merlose’s eyes, but he had never been able to speak to her. He wondered if he and Sydney had the same handicap; if they were two eyes paired together with no mouth.

 
But Sydney could speak into minds. He knew this.

 
And he, who understood nothing of this—he was the one who must be able to see.

 
"Could you show me, Sydney? I have no idea how."

 
 
 
It took several hours. Sydney addressed the difficult subject easily and was a patient guide, allowing Ashley to take the time he needed to practice his unfamiliar faculties. Ashley, on the other hand, grew impatient quickly, but bit back his frustration and continued to fumble quietly. But after half an hour he was already ‘speaking’ to Sydney, although not in Kildean, and was able to locate Merlose in another hour, relieved to see her safe. But it was dusk before he could speak to her.

 
She was in a small house, with an elderly woman, when he first saw her. She was washing old clothes. Joshua was asleep in a straw bed next to her. The old lady was outside, working in a small garden.

 
They did not appto bto be near a town, but he couldn’t tell where they were until he was able to converse with her. She, unlike him, suffered no difficulty in distant communication. He soon understood that Merlose had headed west from Leá Monde and had been found in the woods by an old hunter a couple of days later. She and Joshua were brought to the house of a reclusive married couple, who had stubbornly refused to move when their village was abandoned because of epidemic.

 
Ashley smiled in spite of himself. There could have been no better situation for holding the both of them safe. He ordered her to remain there, and not to travel to any cities, warning her indistinctly of grave danger. He silently cursed himself for being so choppy with his message, but he had only just learned, and every time he tried, for some reason his mind seemed to slip, and was unable to find a foothold to keep it to the task of communication.

 
"So, indeed. You the mouthpiece and I the oculus," he remarked to Sydney after telling him what the situation was. His teacher seemed exceedingly pleased, knowing his brother was safe.

 
No, not just knowing he was safe. He’d already known that. Ashley knew, Sydney was pleased because the boy’s safety was safe, and he had three caring pairs of eyes and arms to see him sheltered and unharmed.

 
But, for whatever reason, the mind exercises seemed to have thoroughly fatigued Sydney. It was not even entirely dark yet, and he was lying on the bed, half asleep. Ashley wondered if using the Dark now without the Blood-sin was more taxing for the other man, but then he remembered that Sydney had made do with less sleep on the previous night than even he himself had, which was only three watches.

 
"Eat, Sydney. I can see your ribs."

 
The prone man sat up and obeyed languidly, clearing all the bread and chicken off his plate, then dropped off in slumber. Ashley took only slightly longer with his own meal and carried the plates and bones downstairs before he also retired.

 
 
 
In a dream, he saw a young boy, by himself after dark in a schoolroom. He was seated on a round stool, much too high for him, his fragile young legs dangling down but remaining still. In the corner of a room with an unlit stove, the only illumination from a torch on a far wall and a candle in front of him on the desktop, the boy read quietly in the corner, the picture of good behavior and diligence.

 
"//Let me out.//"

 
Ashley recognized the tangible suffering there immediately, the bitter, hovering awareness of betrayal, of abandonment. Of being thrown away. It stung his eyes to see it.

 
"//My song…//"

 
The solitude of the figure was absolute: thin, sickly…wasting away in there. He was reading sheet music. And he was cold.

 
//Forgive me.//

 
Ashley awoke then, not by any external stimulus, but from shock that his dream had ended so abruptly. It had left him with a very strong, strange ache all around him, inside him. He realized his chest was tight with some unfamiliar strain. He sat up, and closed his eyes and opened them. Then he heard a small whisper of a sound and looked down.

 
Sydney had just sighed a little, dreaming. He was nestled up against Ashley’s left side, curled into the shape of a comma in sleep, struggling closer to gather more of his companion’s warmth.

 
Ashley paused. And allowed himself to smile as he ghosted his fingertips over Sydney’s hair, feeling his chest loosen as he relaxed. He settled himself back down, smiling again at Sydney’s unconscious frown as he tried to readjust to still another position shift after having just readjusted…and then he let himself slip down again and drop off to sleep.

 
 
 
The next morning, after their first meal, Ashley and Sydney discussed possible plans of action, which in three hours time had produced no ideas more profound than ‘go out and look, then try and think.’ Sydney was not as helpful in planning as Ashley had hoped, and kept offering riddles as replies to questions, frustratingley.ley. But in time Ashley demanded that they stop their useless circular reasoning and "Act!" pushing back his instinct never to jump into a mission without a clear design, but unused to contriving one himself.

 
Sydney asked him why he hadn’t said so sooner, and went off before him.

 
 
 
It was already well past noon. Ashley had traveled to the Graylands, to spy out the Batisti palace there, the Cardinal’s family mansion. The Holtherther himself had his choice of three palaces, but this was his preferred residence during the colder months. Ashley was situated on one of the flying buttresses outside the western wall of the great reception hall, three stories above ground. He was listening.

 
The Cardinal wasn’t in, but he was expected home later in the evening, and it seemed that four high-ranking officials were being entertained at his house. But they weren’t talking business.

 
In a few hours, he had gathered from the servants’ conversation that they were there only to meet with the Cardinal, and were waiting for his return in order to consult him about a financial dilemma. One of them was a bishop, on leave from his throne in Rhenn. Only one of them was from the city Valendia, Father Laertes Dominus of the Order of Iocus, abbey father of the Valendian monks. So far, all that the four men had done, in the two hours Ashley had been eavesdroppings eas eat a scant meal of unsalted grain, bitter herbs, and vinegar water, and then read and discuss scripture. They repeatedly refused any unnecessary comforts, and insisted that the servants not wait on them. They even spurned chairs; they took their supper sitting on the floor.

 
He suddenly heard his name. In Sydney’s voice. In Kildean. His discernment became tangled at the stark austerity of the sound. It echoed the legendary reply which the first man, blameless in his unalloyed humility, was said to have given to the god who created him, when asked what his name should be:

 
//I am the dust, and the ash.//

 
He wanted to respond, but his ability to do so slipped, and he forgot how. In a moment Sydney spoke again, using common language.

 
"You must immediately teleport to Arx Valendiae. Batistum is holding a meeting in the conference room, on the far south end of the citadel. It is already commencing!"

 
Ashley paused and considered. From here to Valnain, the civic and administrative district, was a longer distance than he’d ever before teleported, and he was unsure that he would have the power to go so far.

 
He had no trouble, however. He arrived unseen and made himself invisible. The travertine citadel had been converted from the stronghold it once was, before expansion of the Capitol City, when the district now called Valnain was all of Valendia. It nowadays was an extravagant meeting place for dignitaries, but was almost always used for secular functions. The Cardinal’s presence here was peculiar.

 
It was a very large building, and it took him a few moments to locate Sydney. He was sitting on the wet ground with his back resting against the posterior wall.

 
"I am going back to the lodge, Ashley. I know what they will say, and I have no desire to hear it."

 
"Then tell me."

 
"You should listen for yourself."

 
Puzzled, but too curious to argue, Ashley nodded and peered through the wall. He felt Sydney’s presence dissolve behind him just as the voices of pinched old men reached his ears.

 
It apparently was a council of officials and elders of the Church of the Valendian kingdom. Every man was arrayed in all of his official ceremonial accoutrements, so Ashley was able to recognize each man’s dignity by his costume. Aside from the Cardinal, there were thirty men present, two from each city with a bishop’s throne, of which three were archbishops, accompanied by the bishops ruling under . T. The only bishop not present was the Rhennian, waiting at the Cardinal’s palace. The other men seemed to be the appointed seconds-in-command to their respective bishops, many of them decorated archabbots. Every order of monastic service was represented, with the Order of Iocus represented by a subordinate abbot, since the abbey father was in company with the absent bishop.

 
The Cardinal had just entered, and each churchman was kneeling before him in turn to kiss his ring. They proceeded to seat themselves afterward, with Batistum sitting himself down first at the head of the table, high on a modest, mostly-gilded throne inlaid with carved ivory reliefs.

 
First off, the minutes from their last meeting of four months ago were read aloud by a young man of no rank. It took almost a half hour to complete the recitation, which consisted mostly of monetary earnings collected from pilgrims, detailing the distribution of their offerings. The next order of business was still on the topic of funds, which was almost as interminable as the reading of the minutes, except that there were a few times when arguments erupted between churchmen over whose undertaking was more deserving of auxiliary appropriations. The Cardinal’s opinion settled every dispute, since no man dared challenge his word.

 
Ashley was beginning to assume that the reason Sydney did not want to witness this assembly was because he’d known how tedious it would be. The topic of discourse changed to the reception of a foreign prince in Valendia, who would be meeting with the Cardinal himself at the Iocu Regia palace in two days, and was expected to make a large donation to the church. Batistum requested the presence of two of the bishops and the Valendian archbishop.

 
Next, one of the archbishops rose and requested permission to speak. He informed the assembly of the "regrettable" demise of the Right Reverend Monsignor Sextus of Alneans, who, he had received word just that morning, had died two days prior. He said that the monsignor had died from his excessive mortifications of the flesh, but Ashley could hear the speaker’s mind announcing very loudly that the old fool had drank himself to death.

 
Ashley couldn’t stifle a quiet chuckle at this irony, but he realized at once that he had now been outside for a considerable length of time. The sun was already low in the sky. Although his new clothing was much warmer than his old, he was feeling very chill. He wished he knew of a Grimoire to keep his bones warm…

 
He forced his attention back to the council. He must have accomplished a hundred thousand covert operations more difficult and more boring than this; he knew he had no excuse to drowse. Batistum was rising now, preparing to address the assembly. There was silence for over a full minute before he began to speak.

 
"Children of God, friends and protectors from all over our glorious kingdom, I welcome you as your brother in the name of Saint Iocus, blessed be the Way."

 
"Blessed be the Way. Amen," they all replied, automatically, not one voice falling out of line with the rest.

 
"Servants of God, loyal defenders of the Way, you all have seen the depravity that strangles this, our most loved fatherland. Everywhere the Blessed Name is profaned. Verily, it is sweeter for a man to be stillborn, than to use his tongue against our Lord!

 
"All of you have seen the perversion of the sacred texts, the sacred rites! You have seen the numberless ingrates, forming riotous bands of brigands into cults, all practicing devilry in the streets, so boldly, even in the light of day! You have seen their ponderous impudence, joining themselves together into small armies, defacing the Order of our land, poisoning the air with treachery, breeding violence! They provide arms to criminals, to enemies of our state, endangering their own safety with their foolish vice.

 
"You all know of the Dark, the wicked force that kept our world a thrall to degeneracy before Saint Iocus, Blessed be the Way, came as our Light to deliver us. You all know of the palings we have established to keep this Dark at bay, so that it never again may corrupt God’s children, so that it never again may be a cankerous disease in the flesh of men.

 
"You also know that Leá Monde, once a thriving city, has for the past twenty-five years existed only as a pool for this noxious Dark. It has gestated there, festered there this many years. And now a small, but malicious fanatical cult, only one week past, has successfully removed the paling from around this, our land’s most dangerous fountainhead of calamity!

 
"We have for years known the men responsible for this to be shameless heretics, with no fear of the priesthood of Iocus. This disaster, that has ended at leasurscurscore men already, and that will doubtless slaughter more before contained, could have been prevented if action had been taken against these blasphemers!"

 
Ashley’s back burned and sang, and his gut tightened.

 
"Our lives, our kingdom, our principles and our posterity are in serious danger if action is not taken, just as was the case twenty years ago. Only a like solution will solve a like problem. We must look to the precedent of the Heretical Inquisition. We must purge these pestilent, slanderous ruffians out from our country! Men of God, Seekers of the Way, I am today issuing an official edict that the Inquisition be reinstated.

 
"I have earned the king’s approval in this matter, as well as several members of Parliament. We will accomplish our goal and once again bring peace and safety to the chosen kingdom of St. Iocus.

 
"May the blessings of the Name be with you in all that you do, and may all our efforts to wash the toxic stain from our homeland be answered with triumph. Go with God, defenders of the Way. Peace be unto you. Amen."

 
"And also with you. Amen," they chanted as one.

 
 
 
Ashley had opted to walk the seven miles home instead of teleporting, in the empty hopes that a little more time alone to think would change something. When he arrived, he found his companion sitting perfectly still on his own bed, facing the far wall, looking down at his hands in his lap. It was well past dark now. The fire was lit but not bng, ng, and the low, wavering light just barely illuminated the faint memory of Sydney’s absent brand.

 
"I set your dinner on the wash table, Ashley. It should still be warm."

 
He saw the baked chicken-half on the plate there. The washbasin, filled with fresh water, had been moved to the floor, and there was a corked wine bottle next to the food on the table. But Ashley did not move to touch his meal.

 
He approached Sydney’s bed. The other man did not turn, nor stir at all, not even when Ashley knelt behind him, close enough to feel his breaths. He didn’t even move when Ashley’s hand slid around his waist and began to stroke his belly. But he winced and stiffethe the instant the ghost of his Blood-sin was touched.

 
Ashley, perceiving that his companion wished to be left to himself, swallowed his longing and rose to retrieve his plate and drink.

 
The evening was silent and the wind was still. Crickets and cicadas were long dead or dormant; nocturnal birds would not yet be astir for at least another hour. There was no sound at all. And yet no calm, either.

 
Ashley ate standing up. And afterward, he changed and laid himself down in his own bed, alone.

 
 
 
"Toward the glory of immortal Khlöelle, may her name be blessed, Mistress of the Nine Stars, we offer up this skin..."

 
It was dark, hot, squalid. Torches lined the stone walls of the room that seemed much smaller than it was because it was so dimly lit. The air was thick and smothering like muddy water in his lungs. There were six men in hooded robes, and a naked young man chained tightly by the neck and waist on top of a high table with thick white linen draped neatly over its surface. Three of the men were standing behind the table—an altar, Ashley realized—standing stoically still and rigid, chanting in Kildean undertones:

 
"//This night will bleed. We offer up this bleeding night to you. May nam name be blessed.//"

 
One of the men was standing to the left of the altar, holding open a book that he wasn’t looking at and speaking. Another had been slowly circling the young man, and now without stopping he sprinkled what seemed to be water in three quick shakes of the wrist at different points of his slow revolution.

 
"Toward the glory of Voay hay his name be blessed, Lord of Oceans and of the Rain, we offer up this bone…"

 
Most menacing of all was the lone figure at the foot of the altar, whose face was hidden because he was looking down, and who with both hands held a long and thick sword pointed to his feet, already dripping new blood, the back of which was jaggedly serrated. The circling man changed directions and shook three small measures of some white powder on the boy, who was perfectly still and silent, eyes open and unblinking.


His face wasn’t as thin and bony, but there was no question who it was. Much younger, with longer, softer blonde hair, and with living arms of strong and tender flesh. He was beautiful and unblemished, almost grown but not quite yet a man.

 
"//This night will bleed. We offer up this bleeding night to you. May your name be blessed.//"

 
Ashley knew what would happen. He didn’t want to see. But his dream would not allow him to wake.

 
"Toward the glory of O’ncor of the Great Eye, may his name be blessed, by whose will the hells swirl eternally with flame, we offer up this blood…"

 
The man sprinkled oil this time. Then he retrieved a large torch from the wall and circled around the boy, holding it, and with his free hand he sprinkled something that looked like soil, as the orator recited slightly louder:

 
"Toward the glory of Dyu P’htar, Father both of Earth and Heaven, may his name be blessed, who rules from on high over gods and men, we offer up this pain…"

 
The man with the sword lifted his head and came to the right side of the altar and stood by the boy’s shoulder, and the circling man ended his final cycle there also, by the other man’s side.

 
"It is written: That which is born of the flesh is flesh, and that which is born of Spirit is spirit. Except a man be cut off from the flesh, he cannot be born into the Spirit."

 
"//This night will burn. We offer up this burning night to you. We pray your name be blessed forever.//"

 
The man with the torch took up a small bottle from his belt and opened it, and poured out all the liquid from it overney’ney’s arm, then held the outstretched limb firmly in place. The other man took up the weapon and placed the bladed end, the part closest to the hilt, on the tender flesh of Sydney’s arm. He drew it slowly toward his own body until the entire edge of the knife had passed through the boy’s flesh, slicing easily through skin and muscle, down to bone.

 
He didn’t cut at the joint, but about a palm’s-width below it. There was no blood for a long moment as Sydney’s flesh seemed not to notice yet the deep new gash, and when it came, it came up slowly at first in small dots of red around the edge of the blade. But in moments it was seeping out copiously, pouring out onto the linen cloth and the men and the floor. When the first stroke was finished, the sword-wielder flipped the edge over and began to saw brutally through the boy’s living bone.

 
The boy did not cry out, but closed his eyes and yielded tears. He kept both arms in place. He didn’t even jerk involuntarily from the pain.

 
The man who had severed the limb took it up and walked to the foot of the altar, where there was an oblong flat basin, and he set the bleeding arm inside. The other man held his torch up to the blood-pouring stub hanging off of Sydney’s shoulder and kept it there for several minutes, while the three men behind the altar continued their chant, and the sword-holder waited at Sydney’s feet, gripping his blade again as he had before the operation.

 
The sick smell of burning flesh filled the room. When Sydney’s wound was no longer bleeding, the torch-holder crossed to the other shoulder and was joined by the other man as he prepared the second limb with another vial of the same fluid.

 
"It is written: The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it comes, and whither it goes: so is every one that is born of Spirit."

 
This arm was cut off in exactly the same way, except that Sydney did not cry. He only kept his eyes closed, not tightly, and allowed his earlier tears to dry on his face.

 
"//This night will burn. We offer up the ashes of this night to you. We pray your name be blessed forever.//"

 
The man with the torch replaced it on the wall when he was finished sealing off Sydney’s bleeding, and returned with two axes, handing one to his associate, who laid his bloody sword down lengthways on top of Sydney’s chest. They had up to this time both moved with the grace and ease of ritual, but now they both just positioned themselves by the sides of Sydney’s hips, and without warning swung both their axes down at the same moment, severing both of Sydney’s legs messily at the pelvic joint, scattering blood everywhere.

 
But suddenly, before the men could even dislodge their axe heads from the wooden altar, a white-robed male figure swung open the doors to the room and entered.

 
"//His legs are to be returned him. Their use will be required.//"

 
And with that, the man left again, and the two men set down their axes at the heel of the altar and picked up the legs. And put them back on. The blood that the injury had released did not disappear, but the limbs healed back into their joints immediately as the small chorus still hummed on in the background, the torches still flickering, and all else silent.

 
Sydney opened his eyes.

 
 
 
Ashley sat up in bed, thirsty and shivering, his heart and mind savagely burning from the dream. The fire was waning; it was very cold in the room. When he got up to give the sparse flames more fodder, he remembered that Sydney had the thinner blanket on his bed.

 
Even if he was a bastard child, Ashley knew his friend was accustomed to higher living than this. He himself could be comfortable sleeping outside with the horses right now if he were required to, but Sydney…

 
Sydney was precious.

 
Ashley retrieved his wool coverlet and draped it over the quivering mound of metal and fabric and flesh on the neighboring bed. He turned around to climb back into his own, but decided he’d have a drink first, and so stepped around to where he’d left the bottle on the small table. He tried not to think about the dream.

 
The dream that he knew was not apparition, but history.

 
"//Come back.//"

 
Ashley stopped and turned. He found he was no longer bewildered by the fluid, staccato timbre of Kildean; it was familiar to him now, as though inborn. He walked back over to the other bed.

 
"Did I wake you?"

 
"No."

 
Ashley waited, but Sydney did not explain why he was stalling him. He tried again.

 
"Do you need something?"

 
"Yes."

 
It was startling, watching Sydney’s countenance grow shaded with appetite, gentle and desperate, talons gleaming in the bronze trickle of light as he pushed covecovering down. It was incisive, carnal. Ashley was pulled into the bed without being touched.

 
Sydney had gone to bed naked, and was still shivering a little as Ashley wound him in his arms. He was struck by the way that it felt to have the body of a man underneath him—something so firm, but yielding— unashamed and sensual and undeniably there.

 
Alive.

 
Thin, wine-sweetened lips opened to him, and he felt new heat and moisture sinking into his mouth, a slick tongue caressing his, slowly and rhythmically. Long, steel edges slid up behind his neck, pressing him farther down into the mouth that consumed him.

 
He slid his own hands down Sydney’s sides, resting on slender hips and forcing them up hard, rubbing Sydney’s bared erection against his own groin.

 
"Take your clothes off," Sydney rasped, scratching leaden, deliberate lines down Ashley’s back with his claws. He was thrusting steadily into Ashley, tracing his tongue along the roughened jawline above him.

 
"You will have to let go."

 
Sydney paused for a moment, but quickly relented, allowing Ashley to unbutton his pants and slide them down, letting them drop to the floor. He laid himself back down on the other man, slipping his hands behind Sydney’s buttocks again and drawing him up, relaxing into the delicious shock of the contact of their sexes.

 
Ashley kissed him again, this time not so cautiously. The action was quickened as his desire scraped out his self-control, and he began pushing his cock nearer to Sydney’s opening, longing to penetrate him. Sydney broke the kiss to groan under his breath, rocking his hips back up to meet Ashley’s, then seized the other man’s lips fiercely, petting the roof of his mouth with his tongue.

 
Ashley couldn’t wait any longer.

 
"Sydney…"

 
"It’s on the fireplace mantel. Hurry!" he ground out, his voice strangled.

 
Ashley obeyed, retrieving the small oil tin promptly, but he paused on his way back to the bed. Sydney was perfectly still, but tense and shivering, drunk with hunger…

 
"Please. Ashley," he stumbled on a shaking breath and sighed, and Ashley noticed himself moving toward him, already dripping the thin, mostly transparent oil over his fingers and into his palm. He knelt over Sydney’s pale frame and oiled his sex, already slick with pre-ejaculate, then worked on his own as he still touched the other man. Sydney’s moans were quiet, wavering sighs as he was caressed, but his breath hitched when an oiled finger entered him.

 
"//Deeper.//"

 
Ashley pushed it in farther, to the end of the third joint, then began to slide her her in. He watched Sydney’s eyes, dark as iodine tincture, cloud over and droop shut. Tightening, he arched his back when he was entered by a third, issuing a very short, muted howl and biting the rest of it back, clenching his fingers into strange fists behind his head.

 
Everything about Sydney was sex. Hot, resounding movement, wild red ready. Ashley tucked himself between his slender legs and pressed his cock up against his entrance, listening to the blood and the breathing and Sydney’s half-whimper as he sank…

 
In.

 
He lingered there for a couple of breaths, until Sydney began to struggle, trying to show Ashley how much he needed him to move. He withdrew a fraction of his length and drove back in, holding himself tightly against Sydney, as deep as he could go inside of him. He allowed himself to be kissed as he thrust, drugged with heat and pleasure, cool fingers clasped behind his neck and a scorching tongue twisting in his mouth.

 
Sydney wrapped his legs around him, desperate to get closer somehow. In reply, Ashley draped an arm in back of his shoulder and drew him up, sitting him up in his lap as he knelt, steadying him with a hand behind his hips. Sydney held on fast, still kissing him furiously, groaning deep in his throat at the change in position.

 
There was no more room for equilibrium. Ashley growled and plunged in, up then back, surrendering to the demands of his flesh. Sydney responded deliciously to the shift in rhythm, severing the kiss to toss his head backward, loosening his grip in an arch and a gasp. Ashley immediately compensated by tightening his hold, reaching down to stroke Sydney’s cock in time with their coupling.

 
Sydney’s thighs began to tremble, and his breath caught in his throat as he stammered out Ashley’s name. He crushed himself into his lover as close as he could and ejaculated violently between their bellies, tearing his fingers down Ashley’s Blood-sin involuntarily, almost hard enough to break skin.

 
Ashley pitched Sydney, still quaking, down onto his back and pressed himself on top of him, driving into him fast and mercilessly, forgetting his breath as he shivered and growled and emptied himself inside the smaller man. His hips thrust weakly twice more, still carried by the momentum. And then they were both still.

 
For several moments they only breathed together, re-focusing their eyes and gathering themselves from out of the blur of sex. Ashley found himself wanting to hold Sydney tighter, and did so, allowing himself to smile when he heard his partner’s faint moan.

 
Before long, Ashley recognized that Sydney was uncomfortable with so much weight on him, trying without success to shift underneath. He slid to Sydney’s side, and was a little surprised at the delicate way the smaller man sleepily curled up around him. He reciprocated the sideways embrace and let himself relax, feeling more than a little dazed. He had just made love with Sydney.

 
He was exhausted.

 
 
 
Sydney’s bed was farther away from the window, and so the sunlight didn’t wake Ashley as early as it otherwise would have. It was grey outside and, he guessed, most likely even colder than yesterday. He sat up and swiveled around, wincing at the chill of the floor.

 
Definitely much colder.

 
"Good, you’re up. Go get breakfast."

 
Ashley hadn’t noticed Sydney was awake, but wasn’t surprised. The man seemed to be a natural early-r. A. Ashley remembered how difficult it was for him, when he was beginning military training, to wake before dawn, since he wasn’t a person who did so intrinsically.

 
He shook his head. He couldn’t even trust such trifling memories. He probably never was in the kingsguard. Everything he remembered was suspect.

 
He got up and dressed himself quickly, aware that Sydney was staring at him, but not feeling like he was being evaluated. Sydney must have fed the fire earlier without waking him.

 
"Oh, and another thing," Sydney called softly to him as he cast his disguise and neared the door. Ashley stopped and half-turned, waiting.

 
From the bed, the blond, satisfied heap of warmth and insolence cooed, "A benefaction?"

 
Ashley couldn’t stop the corner of his lips from turning up at Sydney’s coy tone.

 
"What would you have, Nestor?"

 
"No eggs the morning, please," he theatrically pleaded, smirking dangerously. Just as Ashley was stepping out into the hallway, he heard the kittenish, parting jeer gurgled at his back.

 
"Horace."

 
He pronounced it, "whore-ass."

 
 
 
Sydney was already washed and dressed when Ashley returned with a small loaf and two apples, sitting on the edge of the bed, waggishly spinning his metal thumbs over and around each other in a parody of twiddling. He made no move to get up, so Ashley brought him his meal, punishing him craftily by handing him the blemished apple.

 
"So parliament stands bribed and the king seduced," Sydney commented, noticing the bad spot in his apple before biting in, and making a quiet ‘tsk’ when he realized that his fingers could no longer simply surgically remove it.

 
"It looks that way," Ashley agreed.

 
"What will you do?"

 
Ashley continued as if his comrade had not spoken. "How did they prevail upon the king? That is what I don’t understand."

 
"He is illiterate to the Dark," Sydney elucidated, deciding to just dodge the worm’s hole. "And therefore without protection against its siege."

 
"Bewitched, then?"

 
"Probably. It would be easy to do."

 
"Then why hasn’t it been done before?"

 
Sydney looked up from his meal, quite obviously amused.

 
"What makes you think it hasn’t? Hell, I’ve done it before. I had him lean his head over, missing the arrow meant for him last winter."

 
"You saved him?"

 
"He is a good king," Sydney reflected, giving up on the apple, on which he’d found another bruise. "Nothing like his father. I would like to see him restored. If only he weren’t so unmindful…"

 
"I would have us focus our efforts on parliament. The king’s power is second to theirs."

 
"Parliament still is easier to bend. All you have to do is piss gold on them." Sydney broke the bread, but Ashley didn’t take his half since he was still eating his apple. "The economy has changed, and feudalism is long demolished. Still they hold their high names and expensive habits, even as their treasuries run dry. They sell their daughters to merchants for coin."

 
"And their votes to Batistum, who doesn’t suffer their same financial dearth." Ashley took up his bread, allowing this new information to trickle in and settle. He was so used to immediately converting thought to action, it was difficult for him just to sit here and wrap himself up in guesses and uncertain plans.

 
"What if he suddenly did?" Sydney prodded, deviously.

 
"Lose his wealth?" exclaimed the other man, astonished. He felt a spark go off in his mind. Was this possible? If he found…

 
"If you have an idea, Ashley, go ahead and say it aloud."

 
"Sydney. A prince is going to donate a great deal of money to the church soon. They spoke about this at the meeting. We could convince him not to do this."

 
"Accomplishing naught in so doing. The cogs of this thing are already begun to turn."

 
"But if we snip the…"

 
"How."

 
"How did the old feudal system fall? With scandal. Schism."

 
"Ashley. If you’re talking about a revolution, know that those can backfire. Do you recall the civil war? You were not so young then, were you? Gods, you fought in it, although you don’t remember…"

 
Ashley ignored the revelation. It was not significant now, compared to the important things he had to decide. But Sydney interrupted.

 
"He has an army, don’t forget. And no scruples."

 
"His army is weak. Don’t you remember? He is short on forces. He is wealthy enough to hire sellswords, but his troops are poorly trained and can barely move in their own armor! He used all of his best men at Leá Monde, and lost scores. They will take time to replace."

 
"Don’t underestimate such a foe! He has…"

 
"He has dissidents even on his own side; he wouldn’t even allow them to attend the announcement. The Valendian abbot, the Bishop of Rhenn…"

 
"…the DaAshlAshley! His powers could overturn anyone’s! An army of thousands’!"

 
"Not mine."

 
It took an effort for Sydney to stop talking. He swallowed. And he was silent for a few seconds’ time, staring.

 
"No. Not yours," he finally conceded.

 
"Tell me, Sydney. You are a cultist, and know more than I do about these matters of the faithful. Might there be enough dissidents to start a small insurrection?"

 
Sydney lowered his head.

 
"There are enough dissidents to start a very large insurrection," he explained slowly. "But all of them disagree! There wobe dbe dozens of small, disorganized factions with no clear goals. And with such stupid, callow, besotted fanatics for leaders! They care more for the sexual ecstasy of martyrdom than for the victory of their cause." He looked back up at Ashley. "It would be a disaster."

 
"How many of them could be united against Batistum?"

 
"Not one would side with him."

 
Breakfast forgotten, Ashley got up and donned his coat.

 
"It’s time now for a new Cardinal."

 
 
 
Outside, the two men walked circles through the courtly areas of Valendia proper, their disguises cast, their gazes returning always to the great spires of Iocu Regia. Cautious that they may be overheard, Sydney had insisted that a false conversation be cast about them, so that the infancy of their scattered, feeble plans would remain safe from the ears of clever spies.

 
"His name is Fritz-something. From Loerens," Ashley said.

 
"Prince Frissier."

 
"He is already arrived today in the city, and will meet with the Cardinal tomorrow. He is staying in the Regia apartments."

 
"Those are reserved for emperors," Sydney corrected. "He is probably at…"

 
"He’s there. Or, his things are there…he is elsewhere now." Even though he didn’t know exactly what to do, Ashley still felt great urgency to get it completed. The lack of information was the greatest obstacle to overcome in his search for an objective, he knew. "What do you know about him?"

 
Sydney seemed to bite a little on the insides of his cheeks, pausing to look very mildly irritated before answering.

 
"He’s a snobbish, rich, corpulent imbecile who spends his time with strumpets and knows nothing of politic."

 
Ashley’s mind darted around this information, groping for any hollow at all to lay snare in, finally asking, "Does he gamble?"

 
"He doesn’t need to," Sydney replied immediately, seeming to have found a new reservoir of patience to humor Ashleyh. h. "People gamble who desire more money. He has what he thinks is an endless supply."

 
"How can we stop his alms-giving?"

 
"He’s doing it by instruction of his father. I don’t think it possible."

 
Ashley started at this, not knowing that any of the northern principalities still had kings. "Why doesn’t his father come instead?"

 
"Because he’s about to die, and wants to do so at home in hisherihering country."

 
"He is come to secure an indulgence for his father?"

 
"Yes. Although most likely he views the trip as a chance to meet new courtesans."

 
Ashley slowed his pace to look again to the formidable grey towers, east of where they stood. "He leaves the day after tomorrow. We could get him to…"

 
"Do what you will. His gift is a kettle of tea poured into an ocean." A little bit of Sydney’s patience dropped, but he quickly gathered it back up again. Ashley ignored the reaction, brooding at the dark pointed towers of the palace, resembling four inverted spikes nailed into the sky.

 
"More like a river," he absently rejoined. "It moves, and drains, and has a source."

 
"Its source is the people, and a cut from the government’s levies. I don’t see how to dam it."

 
"There is no way to dam it as it flows so strong and deep. It must be split into two smaller branches. Thus weakened, it would be possible."

 
Sydney finally sighed. "Your vagaries are worse than mine."

 
"This isn’t caprice! Listen. We will keep this foreign prince so thoroughly inundated with drink that tomorrow goes by unnoticed, and he will go home and deceive his father, saying he gave the money, when in fact he foolishly ‘lost’ it."

 
"What is your point?"

 
"We become thieves and falsifiers. I could assume the visage of the prince and speak that I am withholding my gift, on account of the Cardinal, who during my stay in Valendia, I’ve learned…"

 
Ashley hesitated, trying to decide what he should say the Cardinal’s chief vices were. But Sydney seemed now to catch his intention perfectly.

 
"Batistum’s woenemenemies are his own rancor and licentiousness. He has been privately rebuked for this by almost all church officials, including some of his closest allies."

 
"We’ll use his sore spots then."

 
Sydney stopped walking and turned to Ashley. Their pretended discourse droned beside him in his sil-"a , a caution about dealing with the cotton vendor at the corner.

 
"But for such bold speech, the prince would be excommunicated."

 
"In order to save face, then—later—he might join our side."

 
"How do you mean?"

 
"We’ll keep doing it."

 
"Withholding tribute from high offices?"

 
"And forging rebukes. The poor are poor; common people constitute only a trickle of the church’s wealth. Eventually it will be in the church’s best interest to remove Batistum."

 
Sydney seemed to offer a shade of a nod, but then frowned. "A cardinal can’t be removed. He has to die."

 
"He can dien.&qn."

 
"Remember, Ashley. He knows we’re at large. He will be expecting such an attack! He searches for us. We must avoid such open confrontation."

 
Ashley turned from the spires and looked to his partner.

 
"We have to do what we can. We don’t know the specific consequences that our actions will unfurl. We will have to adapt to whatever situation springs up from our sabotages."

 
He for some reason looked now to the old cotton vendor that they were supposed to be talking about, a hoary caricature of an old man, haggling with a wintry woman who was limping with the gout. He set his jaw and looked back at Sydney.

 
"Whatever catastrophe is to come, we must begin this now."

 
 
 
It was very easy to keep the young prince drunken. It seemed he had intended to do so, in any case, and a few shining gold coins and simple instructions to a small group of industrious prostitutes were all it took to hold him secure in a prison of wine and sex. Back home in their room, Ashley bade Sydney handwrite the document, not admitting that he had learned to read and write only for intelligence purposes when he was trained a Riskbreaker, and still wasn’t very skilled with letters.

 
He could really barely execute his own name.

 
But Sydney’s script was magnificent, delicate and bold and refined, long, threadlike strokes with subtly curling serifs; it was as though he were writing music. It was a perfect forgery, and in every way befitted a prince’s longhand.

 
And it only took the man a couple of minutes’ time to complete the handiwork.

 
Ashley was mesmerized, watching the metal hand sweeping gently in curt rhythm along the parchment, cutting graceful letters into the fawnskin, and was startled out of a trance when it was finished. Sydney had noticed him staring and offered his trademark dangerous smile. Ashley drunkenly nodded, half to assure Sydney that he was satisfied with his work, and half to assure himself that his head was still on his shoulders.

 
And then, swelling with a torrent of emergency that even surprised himself, Ashley said it.

 
"//Get. Down.//"

 
He yanked Sydney over to him and shoved him onto the bed, and for the first time, he saw genuine surprise onney’ney’s face. It was a close simulation of fear. But his trust was unwavering, even as Ashley tore the front of his pants open, biting and sucking his throat as hard as he could without drawing blood. The pants were on the floor, ruined and forgotten in one breath. And Ashley was on him, forcing him down, breathing him, closing him deep into his greedy mouth.

 
He growled. Sydney’s cock was deep inside of him, there for him to eat... meat in his throat. His skin was so smooth there, under his tongue now, now pressing against the insides of his cheeks and he moved his mouth around it…devouring him. He could feel Sydney’s heartbeat, throbbing through his steel-hard cock; he could smell the precome leaking out in his mouth, sharp and bitter and sour and soft and delicious and hardly there at all, a feeling together with a taste.

 
He spread Sydney’s legs with his hands, too flooded with desire to hear the hoarse, strangled groans he was causing, driving his hands aimlessly to pull Sydney up to him even as he pushed his mouth down on the other man as hard as he could, ightight as he could—with all of his strength holding Sydney underneath him.

 
He sucked. He wanted to drink. He wanted this, to slake his thirst with this, so hard and wet and hot and tight and real…

 
He could hear the harsh moans then, unbridled and frantic, loud enough to wake the sleepers in the charnel houses. They weren’t howls, but guttural low gasps…quick and long and choking.

 
//Harder.// He needed still to go harder. He needed more of him.

 
He pushed himself down again, with such force he knew it hurt them both. And he took Sydney. Heturetured, seized, harnessed him. And he sucked him fiercely, moving the inside of his mouth, rocking his head up and down, never breaking the contact between his lips and Sydney’s testicles.

 
But the desire to speak overcame him, and he came up for air, growled foreign words boiling helplessly out of his mouth. He spoke with his throat and his lungs; hips aps and tongue moved of their own volition.

 
"//I want you. I want to feel you. I want to swallow you. I want to strip the bark off of you!//"

 
He looked up at Sydney, who was squinting at the pleasure like a love-starved boy, all self-constraint forgotten, eyelids heavy with the strain of this want. He sputtered out his broken reply in the disconnected poetry of desperation, "//I want to feel you poured out underneath me, to feel you clench and shuddering; I want your need…Ashley…//"

 
Sydney was cut off by the sensation of his own movement, tripping over a breath with no air in it. He recklessly peeled Ashley’s clothes off, and hoisted the larger man up onto the bed with unforeseen strength. Wordlessly begging for contact, Ashley quickly assisted with the last of their clothing and sealed his lips hungrily to Sydney’s mouth, unconsciously twining his fingers of flesh with cool metal ones atop the other man’s smooth, naked shoulder.

 
By some miracle Sydney had obtained the oil, and sometime during its retrieval, Ashley had sunk to the floor and was supporting himself with his hands clamped on the bed. Sydney slid down behind him and prepared his passage roughly with a blunted claw dipped in oil, quickly followed by a second.

 
Ashley hissed at the pain, panicked with lunatic fear that it might stop. Sydney’s tongue glided up his back lengthwise, lingling over his shoulderblades, sending shocks of light somehow behind his eyes that seemed to stab up from his Blood-sin, his own desire ringing in his ears as his skin burned with Sydney’s sweet caress.

 
He was entered without warning, with pain so piercing that it shot up through his teeth, and he held onto the bed with the grip of a drowning man. Sydney removed his hands from the body he was seated inside, and began to drive himself in and out, stripped from his moorings, slamming into As rut ruthlessly, incapable of caution. This pressure, this friction, this hot blood swirling through their interlaced veins—these were the only things in the world that existed now.

 
The lopsided, overwhelmed moans in Ashley’s ears resonated like dithyramb, and he thought he almost felt a new and strange kind of peace in this. In Sydney. He sounded like wind; his touch was war. He smelled like water poured out over stone.

 
He tasted like redemption.

 
So much of Ashley’s life was a lie. But this was real. The man inside of him was real. Timeless and inviolable, white hot and eternal, moving in the way that a flame moves. Glistening with sweat or tears or mystery. So deep inside of him now.

 
Ashley snapped his eyes open, suddenly feeling something sharp in his bloodstream, and he whipped his head back and tried to bite down on air as release began to squeeze deep through the inside of his abdomen, suddenly uncoiling and detonating. He shot four quick ropes of semen out onto the side of the bed, some hitting the wooden legs and some spilling onto the floorboards. Sydney collapsed down onto Ashley’s back and followed him, unable to breathe underneath such heavy fruition, climaxing unstably with a whimper of too much rapture.

 
Ashley’s knees had given slightly when Sydney had crumpled down onto him, and he rose back up now, while Sydney managed to pull out and sit back on his heels.

 
They breathed for a moment.

 
"Ashley. You’ve destroyed my pants."

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Author’s Notes:

Part of the liturgical chant from Sydney’s limb sacrifice is ripped off from the Gospel According to St. John, 3:6-8. I altered it slightly for my purposes. Sorry, Iohannes.