Chapter 240
"…This—this is a sin that can never be undone, Cárcel."
For a long while the sound of iron smashing marble boomed through the great hall, terrifying in its echo. If it had been anyone else, no matter how seditious his heart, it would have been impossible. But with that body, the story was different.
"For Lady Ines's sake, at least…"
"I am."
It didn't even seem like the strength of a single man. The sound of the Apostle's ankle splitting wide, then the crack spreading all the way beside it, didn't feel real at all. And yet, far from looking like a man gone mad, Cárcel, with an icy, composed gaze, simply gauged how much of the image he had destroyed.
"…You must be insane…"
"Rest easy. I'll say you never agreed and that you're not mad."
With that cold reply, Cárcel drove his foot hard against the upper portion of the statue. The body slid off the ankle again and again and, at last, slowly toppled left.
In the meantime Emiliano was yanked back in shock by Cárcel's hand, which had quickly seized his arm and pulled it behind him.
"…Cárcel, what on earth are you—"
With a resounding bang, the image crashed to the floor. Shards flew as far as the spot where Emiliano had originally been standing, at a distance. He stared, dumbfounded, at the marble fragments just a few paces ahead, then rubbed his brow anxiously and spoke.
"…What on earth have you done?"
"No matter how I try, I can't remember how Ines died in Mendoza."
"..."
"I can't even remember what happened after you died in Seville."
"..."
"So."
He answered with composure. Even as blood was pouring down from his split scalp, he seemed not to notice at all—just as he hadn't when tears had soaked his face.
Emiliano swallowed a deep sigh. "Cárcel. God's answer must be sought only through prayer."
"If it's fucking prayer, I did it every morning the moment I opened my eyes. I was goddamn devout."
"..."
"And the answers that came back were your damned necklace that sprang out of nowhere—and my future as a would-be traitor."
Such coarse words, which he had never imagined he'd hear in a holy place, tumbled out in a string, and Emiliano again found himself at a loss for words.
Cárcel even shoved at Anastasio's shoulder with his foot like a barbarian kicking a corpse. Emiliano, panic-stricken, grabbed him.
"Please! Please, no more—the image… anything but a sin worse than this…!"
"It's laughable that you think you can stop me by force. Let go."
"I don't claim to know all the power of House Escalante, but I know that no one can escape the sin of destroying a sacred image."
"This kind of thing you rebuild with money. You can always create a culprit and an excuse."
"How would you excuse iconoclasm… And I didn't mean only the Order's punishment. God will—"
"So I humbly took my punishment in advance."
He pointed carelessly at his own blood-soaked face, then looked at the shattered image.
"It makes no sense to 'punish yourself' in advance. Even if you vent your anger on the stern Apostle like this…"
"It's not venting. I'm waiting."
Whatever he was waiting for, he set his foot on the face and stared down at the throat with a quiet savagery, as if seeking the point where he would snap it.
Emiliano stepped fully into his way. "First, treatment… get treated. You don't know when they'll arrest you, so before they do, please… It's only lucky that it's supper time and everyone's in the refectory on the far side—if the paladins were patrolling nearby…"
"Even if they don't see, God will be watching."
"..."
"Because you've already painted Him there."
Cárcel strode back to where he had set down the sacred object and, as if it were a light leather ball, set it on his palm and gave it a few little bounces. Emiliano went pale in an instant. If, like this, he smashed another image—
But instead of returning to the fallen statue or heading elsewhere, he simply gazed down at the fragment that was all that remained of Anastasio's ankle.
"…Anistēmi."
He slowly pronounced the ancient word carved across the Apostle's instep.
Carefully edging closer, Emiliano looked down at the letters with him.
「ανιστήμι」
"…I've always wondered—that's how it's pronounced, then. What does it mean?"
"To raise again. To restore."
"It must be the Apostle's mission inscribed there… How do you know that, when you're no priest?"
"I was staring because I found it odd that I knew it."
"..."
"Seeing as I'm no priest, as you say."
Suddenly he brought the sacred object down on the instep. A crack engraved itself across the holy letters. Emiliano's face twisted.
"What on earth…"
"'On the day the image of the sanctuary is destroyed, the Apostles of War shall descend upon the earth.'"
"..."
"I remain faithful to my belief, Emiliano."
"…Are you yoking a prophecy about the end to your unauthorized destruction of a sacred image?"
"I need to see the Apostle."
"That is only when you've met an untimely death…"
"I can't wait until I die."
"…If this only leaves you with a great sin on your hands—"
"I also wanted to smash it, besides, so it doesn't matter."
"..."
"If he's alive, I want to kill him. That man."
"..."
"If breath still clings to him, I want to throttle that neck."
Sweeping his blood-wet hair back, Cárcel stared expressionlessly at the toppled image.
"Even if I can't harm a single hair of his, I want to ask."
Without the least wince. Like a man whose whole body has been drained of blood in an instant.
As if that blood had been anger, or despair, or revulsion.
Thus he stood, simply looking at the broken image. For a time he stood like a statue himself—his broad back held straight, devoid of any life.
A very brief stillness felt like eternity. At length he let a threadlike laugh slip between slightly parted lips, and under the blood that still would not cease to flow, he lifted eyes burning icy-blue. Emiliano had been hunted to life's end by men with blades and guns; he recognized it.
Murderous intent. Or perhaps some emotion grubbier than that—like a clot of blood scraped from the very bottom.
"As far as I remember, I was always a naval man—and so, in any life, a killer."
And in a quiet voice that carried not even the smallest shard of feeling:
"…In a holy war that advances beneath God's blessing, there is no such thing as a private murderer. Therefore you—"
"If what I snuffed out was someone's breath, if what burst under my bullets was blood and flesh, if what died was a person who had been alive—"
"..."
"Even if it were not Calstera's bishop but God Himself placing His blessing on my head as I marched out, I'd still be a murderer."
Even as he stared at Anastasio like a man set on killing him, his voice confessing sin was calm as a windless sea.
"So I don't understand. That woman…"
"..."
"That small woman who never harmed anyone with her own hand—why should she bear a punishment even I don't receive."
Quietly, Emiliano followed his gaze and looked at the Apostle's shards.
"I have killed so many."
"..."
"Ines never hurt anyone. Why should she, not I, be punished? Why—why not a killer bastard like me, but instead someone who would rather kill…"
"..."
"…a woman who chose to kill only that one."
All at once his voice warped. The hard set of his face collapsed in an instant.
Merely for having spoken of her suicide.
With eyes that had lost their focus, Cárcel let tears fall as he smiled vacantly.
"Why does God punish that poor woman."
"..."
"I wanted to ask at least that. Now I've committed a sin even worse than the murder you speak of…"
"..."
"Why can't I even share Ines's punishment yet."
Clutching at his larynx—red with the prints of fingers, as if someone had throttled him—he wept, jittery.
"Why can't I remember it all. Why can't I be complete. I have to save her. Back then—I should have saved her…"
"..."
"I was the one who needed that fucking punishment. From start to finish."
As if he wanted to twist his own neck off.
"Because of me—that son of a bitch—he said it was because of me."
"..."
"He said he ruined Ines because of me. Just to show me that sight…"
"..."
"Even looking felt like a waste. So I didn't even look. Sometimes I feared my eyes would wear her down—feared she'd vanish like salt dissolving… That woman I didn't even dare look at, because she was too precious; because I feared she'd be hurt; the woman I never once even pressed a kiss upon the back of her hand…"
"..."
"He said he treated her worse than a dog just so I would see."
His vision reeled. Though he had toppled the image as the damned prophecy said, the Apostle gave no answer.
A fitful, bitter laugh burst out. He raked at his throat as if stripping his own hide, until at last blood welled. His head was just about to pitch forward.
Watching him quietly, Emiliano eased him down very carefully and sat him on the floor. Propping him against the wall, he saw that Cárcel could no longer hold up his head, having already bled too much, and only panted in ragged breaths.
Clearly he had lost his balance some time ago. Emiliano tore the lower hem of his own shirt and pressed it to the wound. The man sobbed and laughed like someone deranged.
"…If only I had died like you. If I'd begged like that and, that way, remembered everything from the beginning."
"..."
"I'd never have gone anywhere near Ines."
"..."
"Rather than appear even once before Ines's eyes, I'd have died instead."