"Why did you ring the bell in here?"
"I didn't."
"Someone did. Everyone in the Castle heard it."
"There is no bell," said the Burning Man. "Only the sound of a bell. It's a warning. Part of the Cathedral's original design. It's there to warn the surrounding countryside of imminent danger. I created the whole warning system, back when I was still a holy man, and a fool. It still rings, despite me."
"Hold everything," said Fisher. "How can you have the sound of a bell without the bell to make it?"
"Magic," said Hawk.
"That just makes my head hurt. Something has to create the sound in the first place, doesn't it?"
"Think of it as a mental exercise," said the Seneschal. "Like the sound of one hand clapping. One of those religious riddles with no obvious answer."
"Exactly," said the Burning Man, looking back at Lament. "How many angels can dance on the head of a pin, holy man?"
Lament smiled. "Depends on the tune."
The Burning Man sniffed, and then beat his blazing hand against the wall as though trying to distract one pain with another. "I built a lot into this Cathedral. Most of it's been forgotten over the centuries. What it can do, as well as what it contains. No one remembers now, all the many innocent people impressed by force to build it, all the materials requisitioned from unwilling owners, all the peasants put off their land so the Cathedral could be built in the most propitious spot."
"More lies," said Lament, unmoved. "It was never like that. I've read old reports in church libraries. People traveled for miles just to be a part of such a marvelous project. No one was ever forced, and all materials were freely given, for the greater glory of God. Everyone knew good could not come from evil beginnings. This was to be a place of joy and celebration, and no stain of any kind could be allowed on its construction."
The Burning Man laughed softly. "All right, so maybe I exaggerated. You're so easy to manipulate sometimes. But you shouldn't believe everything you read in a church library. History is always written by the winners."
"Keep your petty nature to yourself," said Lament. "We are here to put things right at long last, and nothing will stop us now."
"Never say things like that," warned Fisher. "It's when you start getting all confident and cocky that everything suddenly goes pear-shaped, and nasties start jumping out of the woodwork at you. Usually with bloody big teeth."
"You understand nothing of what's happening here," said the Burning Man spitefully. "You're here because the Transient Beings want you here to open the Gateway. You're just pawns in a larger game."
"Why would they need us?" asked Hawk. "I thought you said they'd soon be powerful enough to force the Gateway open from their side."
"They're impatient," said the Burning Man. "They can feel their time coming round at last."
Fisher stirred unhappily, hefting her sword in her hand. "I'd almost feet happier if we actually had something physical to fight. This place wears you down, like fingernails scraping over your soul."
"It would be something of a relief," said Hawk. "To have something to strike back at. But I think the threats here are more spiritual in nature. We have to concentrate on who we are, and what we believe in."
"What do we believe in?" asked Fisher slowly. "I mean, after everything we've seen, everything we've been through, all the different people we had to be at different times, what is there left to believe in?"
Hawk looked at her and smiled. "We believe in each other."
"Yes," agreed Fisher, smiling back at him. "There is always that."
"Their legendary love," said the Seneschal, so softly no one else heard him.
Hawk looked cautiously down at the long stretch of steps they'd climbed, and then up at the long trail of steps still to go, and remembered another set of steps, from years ago. He'd been much younger then, a second son that nobody wanted, determined to prove his worth by climbing Dragonslair Mountain, to kill the dragon in its cave at the summit. He'd expected to die facing the dragon, but the climb alone almost killed him. The ascent was brutally hard, and the weather punishingly harsh, and the last part of the mountain had to be climbed by hand, over treacherous loose rocks and shifting scree. He could have turned back many times, but he didn't. And when he finally reached the cave at the very top, he found a friend in the dragon, and a love in the dragon's captive, the Princess Julia.
He smiled, remembering. Every now and again he got something right.
They started climbing again. Back and leg muscles ached viciously, and finally screamed in protest, but still they all pressed on. Hawk slowed his pace even more, but it didn't help. Time seemed to pass at a crawl. Their heads hung down, and they were too tired even to look down at the increasing drop. They finally reached the wide, gently sloping dome of the ceiling, and passed through the single trapdoor in the painted blue sky, climbing through into the next floor. There were more steps along the inner wall. And more floors above that one. They trudged on, trying hard to think only of the steps immediately ahead of them.
There were wondrous works of art everywhere now, magnificent and glorious, unseen by mortal eyes for untold centuries, all of them stained and disfigured with the blood of the slaughtered innocents. The Burning Man's treachery had put his mark on all the Cathedral, and he laughed to see it.
They'd just reached the ninth floor when Lament suddenly called a halt. Of them all, the Walking Man had felt the strain of the climb the least, and since it was the first time he'd called for a pause, everyone stopped and looked at him. He didn't seem tired, or even out of breath. Instead, he was staring thoughtfully at a simple, ordinary-looking door set directly into the wall they were passing. Lament reached out to touch the door, and let his fingers trail lightly across the pale brown wood.
"What lies beyond this door, murderer?"
"Treasures and horrors," said the Burning Man easily. "Dreams and nightmares in physical form, long lost to the world of men. Many precious things were brought and stored here, to add to the splendor of the world's greatest Cathedral. You can take a look if you like. None of these doors are locked. But remember, here you open doors at your soul's risk."
"Oh, shut up," snapped Fisher. "Why can't you talk like normal people?"
"I don't think we really have the time to go treasure hunting," said the Seneschal testily, mopping sweat from his face with his sleeve. "Maybe on the way back…"
"There is a wonder that's supposed to be here," said Lament. "A glory from the life of Christ."
"Oh, that," said the Burning Man. "If it's reliquaries you're after, you've come to the right place. Beyond that door lies the Ossuary, the Museum of Bone. We were brought all kinds of religious shit while we were building the Cathedral, so I had it all put in here on display. Take a closer look at the door, Walking Man."
Lament leaned in closer, until his nose was almost touching the pale brown door. His keen eyes slowly made out a fine network of interlocking lines or cracks, as though the whole door was one great jigsaw puzzle. He scowled thoughtfully as he tried to make out the patterns. It was all fitted so perfectly together. Then, finally, he recognized the shapes that made up the door, and he jerked his head back in shock and outrage. He spun around dangerously fast on the narrow step and glared at the Burning Man.
"What have you done, abomination? This is bone! Human bones! The whole door is constructed from human bones!"
"So it is," said the Burning Man. "Why else do you think it's called a Museum of Bones? Go in, go in. You haven't seen anything yet."
The door opened easily at Lament's touch, and he went in. The others followed him in, giving the Burning Man plenty of room, as always. The long narrow room leading off from the door was composed entirely of human bones. No pains had been taken inside the room to conceal its nature. Arm and leg bones had been forced together to form the walls, with fingerbones packed in to fill the occasional spaces. The ceiling was a sky of skulls, gazing down with empty eyes at their first visitors in ce
nturies. Two rows of commonplace glass display cases stretched away down the room, holding assorted objects within. At the very end of the Ossuary stood a blasphemous bone altar, with grasping hands for candleholders and a skull for a drinking vessel. The very floor rose and fell beneath their feet in waves of closely packed ribs.
"Where did you get so many bones?" asked Hawk, his voice hushed, not sure whether he was in a chapel or a graveyard.
"It wasn't easy," admitted the Burning Man. The bones under his feet blackened slowly from the heat. "I tracked down the burial grounds of every saint and holy man in the Forest Kingdom, every priest and hermit and religious nut, and had them all dug up so that their bones could be brought here to increase the Castle's sanctity. The bones of saints have always been venerated, things of worship for the common herd. I just extended the concept. In the end, there were so many bones, I felt I ought to do something useful with them, so I had them made into this Ossuary. Isn't it splendid? So much beauty that was only wasted in the cold earth."
"How many?" asked Lament softly. "How many people did you drag from their graves, and from their rest?"
"Oh hell, I don't know," said the Burning Man. "I lost track after a while. My attitude then was, you can't have enough sanctity. I had a lot of people working under me, locating the bodies, checking for frauds, paying off the right people so the holy corpses could be disinterred and brought here. Some of the people who did that for me are still here, down in the gallery with all the other sacrificed souls. Do you feel the same about them now you know what they did?"
"This is sacrilege!" said Lament.
"Nonsense. The church has always collected holy relics, so they could show them off to the faithful, for a small fee, as physical proof that what they were teaching was true. I thought you'd be more sophisticated than that. Walking Man. Bones are just bones."
"They'll all have to be returned," said Lament. "So that the families of the desecrated dead can at last be comforted. You never gave a thought about the distress your grave-robbing would cause to the families of the holy men, did you? No, of course not. What was a little human suffering, compared to the glory of your Cathedral?"
"You see?" said the Burning Man. "You're beginning to understand. But these bones aren't going anywhere. What I did to them here can't be easily undone."
"I will see them all put at rest," said Lament. "Whatever it takes."
The Burning Man grinned. "Oh, I love it when you talk like that. Hell loves nothing more than to see a good man fail to keep his word."
Lament ignored him, studying the ranks of display cases suspiciously. "What have you got here? More horrors, or the wonder you promised?"
"Depends on your definition," said the Burning Man, leaning casually against a wall. The bones blackened and cracked under the heat of his flames. "What kind of wonder did you have in mind?"
"Well, the Grail," said Lament, and then stopped as the Burning Man laughed again.
"Oh dear, are you still looking for that? And all the other religious paraphernalia? Rubbish, rather than relics. Most of it's fake, anyway. If all the supposed splinters from the True Cross displayed in churches were ever assembled in one place, you'd have enough wood to build a new Ark. Junk is junk. But there are a few genuine wonders here you might like to see. One of the Transient Beings, The Engineer, passed through here briefly, and was much taken with my collection. He paused awhile to manufacture killing tools from the bones of saints. The holiest of bones to make the deadliest of swords. The ultimate perversion, the most delicious blasphemy. The Engineer only made six of these blades, but they went on to become very famous, over the centuries. You know them as the Infernal Devices.
"The Engineer took three with him when he left. They ended up in the Armory of the Forest Kingdom. Three swords remained here, waiting patiently for someone to come and put them to use. What do you think? Do you dare awaken them and take them for yourselves? You're going to need powerful weapons when the time comes to face the powers and dominations beyond the Gateway."
He gestured with a flame-wrapped hand, and as though a curtain had been swept from their gaze, the others suddenly saw the three Infernal Devices standing together in their own little alcove in the bone wall. Three great long-swords, in chased silver scabbards. Fully seven feet tall, and six inches wide at the crosspiece, their foot-long hilts were bound with dark leather. There was nothing graceful or elegant about them. They were killing tools, designed for butchery and slaughter and the ruining of lives. And yet still, somehow, there was a dark glamour to the swords; something that called to the darkest places in a man's soul and promised satisfaction for his most private, bloody dreams. The Seneschal was already moving toward them when Hawk grabbed him firmly by the arm.
"Don't get too close," Hawk warned quietly. "You might wake them."
Fisher shuddered suddenly, a cold feeling of utter revulsion running through her. For a time in the darkest part of the Demon War, she had wielded the Infernal Device known as Wolfsbane. The sword had proved to be alive and aware and utterly evil. It had sought to corrupt and possess her until she gave it up. And sometimes she thought giving it up had been the hardest thing she'd ever had to do. Even now a part of her wanted to walk over and claim one of the Infernal Devices, take its dark power for herself again. To kill and kill, until all the world ran red with blood. She fought the feeling down, crushing it mercilessly, but was shocked at the effort it took.
"Magnificent, aren't they?" asked the Burning Man. "Soulripper. Blackhowl. Belladonna's Kiss. With three Infernal Devices at your command, you could conquer the world."
"Or destroy it," said Hawk. "Those damned swords have their own desires. Let them sleep here forever."
"I've heard the stories and the songs," Lament said. "Could whatever's inside those blades be the souls of saints, captive and corrupted?"
"Unfortunately, no," said the Burning Man. "Whatever's in them, The Engineer brought out of Reverie with him. A little bit of the dark world, free in the world of men. Sometimes you need more than one serpent."
Hawk turned his back on the Infernal Devices, and after a painfully long moment, the others did the same. They all breathed a little more easily. Lament glared at the Burning Man.
"You said there was a wonder in here. A genuine wonder. Where is it?"
"On the altar," said the Burning Man, reluctantly.
They all turned to look, and together they moved forward to stand before the altar constructed from human bones. In the middle of the altar lay a small wooden casket, six inches by four by two. Simple polished wood, with no obvious markings. Just two silver hinges for the narrow lid. It looked perfectly ordinary at first, but as they drew closer, drawn by some deep, primal attraction, they realized it was more than just a box. The casket had a presence to it, a feeling of enhanced, almost overwhelming existence, as though it was the only real thing in the room, or perhaps even the world. Just being in its presence was strangely comforting, the first time any of them had felt at ease since they'd entered the Inverted Cathedral. They felt welcome, like finally coming home after a long journey. And yet none of them wanted to pick it up or open it. None of them dared.
"What…" said Lament, then had to stop and clear his throat, and start again. "What is this box? What's inside it?"
"They know of this box even in Hell," said the Burning Man. He was still back standing with the Infernal Devices, his gaze averted. For the first time he sounded uncertain. "The box is older than anything here. Christ made it when He worked as a carpenter with His earthly father, Joseph. It is said that within the casket is the original spark, from when God said Let there be light, and the universe began. The single spark of light that was the source of all creation, preserved forever in a small wooden box. Is that enough of a wonder for you?
"It's said a man brought the box out of the Deadlands soon after their creation. Perhaps it was what the two sorcerers were fighting over. No one knows who the man was, though there are rumors. Some say it was the
surviving sorcerer, much diminished. Some say he was called the Magus. No one knows for sure, even in the inferno. Someone gave the box to the first Forest King, who commanded this Cathedral be designed and built to honor it. Did the Magus give it to him? I don't know. But he was right there when the King needed someone to undo the dreadful thing I'd done. Now he's back at Forest Castle while matters threaten to come to a head at last, and the fate of the world shall be decided. Who is the Magus? What is he? I don't know. All I can tell you is that he frightens me, and I have known the horrors of the pit."
"Why are you keeping your distance?" asked Hawk. "Can't you feel the peace there is here?"
"I can't even look at it," said the Burning Man bitterly. "Peace and hope are for the living."
"Has anyone ever tried to see what's inside the box?" asked Fisher.
"A lot of people have thought that, by all accounts," said the Burning Man. "Why don't you try?"
Fisher started to reach for the box, and then stopped abruptly. She couldn't touch it. Deeper than knowledge, deeper than instinct, she knew that the box was a holy thing and she was not worthy. She said as much, and Hawk and Seneschal nodded. And then they all looked at Lament.
"I have given myself to God," he said slowly. "If He wishes it, I shall take His casket out of this awful place."
He reached out his hand, paused briefly, and then picked up the box with no trouble at all. He smiled, almost shyly, and held the casket up before his eyes, studying the workmanship at close range. "To touch something that Christ touched…" He smiled again, then put the box in one of his coat's inner pockets. Everyone stirred unhappily as the feeling of peace and comfort diminished, and was gone.
The Seneschal sniffed loudly. "If you ask me, there's far too much religion in this quest. Religion should keep its distance from real life. It's far too distracting."
"Come on," said Fisher. "Your grandparents were the High Warlock and the Night Witch. You should be used to weird shit in your life."
"Well, yes, but that's just magic. Magic's everywhere. This is religion. If I actually believed in any of this, I think I'd be getting very worried."