He followed the stone floor for several more dozen paces until the far wall of the hall came into view — and in it, six tall, heavy black stone doors set in a row. Two on the right, four on the left.
The asymmetry was very much in keeping with what the Solomon Empire had favoured during the Fourth Epoch.
"Is that carved pattern on this door the Storm Church's aureole?" Vincent said, pointing to one of the left-hand doors.
He walked over, applied Distortion, and the door ground open with a low rumble. Inside: a statue of a severe-looking middle-aged man in black armour, standing atop rolling waves, storm winds coiling around him, lightning blazing at his back, a trident gripped in one hand.
"..."
Bernadette seemed to go very still. Several seconds passed before she spoke, voice low and shocked: "This is — a statue of the Storm Lord?"
The seven Church bodies had used only their respective aureoles to represent the gods for as long as anyone could remember. To see an actual god depicted in stone, here in this ancient tomb — it was genuinely beyond imagining.
And if this one was the Storm Lord, then the other doors…
"Open them all."
Vincent had known what he'd find, in a general sense — but actually standing before the statues and looking up at them was different. This mausoleum had been built by Emperor Tudor. That meant these statues had almost certainly been carved by someone who had looked upon the six gods with his own eyes.
In other words — this was probably what the six gods actually looked like.
He proceeded along the left wall, opening the remaining three doors in sequence: the Eternal Blazing Sun, the God of Steam and Machinery, and the God of War.
Then the two on the right. The first held a pure white statue four or five metres tall — a full-figured, graceful woman, sheaves of grain growing from beneath her feet, a spring of fresh water encircling her, robes flowing outward and embroidered everywhere with medicinal herbs, flowers, and the forms of various animals. Her bosom was full. She cradled a swaddled infant to her chest with both hands. The impression was holy. Dignified.
The Earth Mother.
And the last door — belonging to the most reticent, most backstage, most lethally subtle of all the LOTM gods. The Evernight Goddess.
As the stone door swung slowly open, a woman came into view — face soft and indistinct, yet undeniably beautiful. She was reclining on a stone platform, one hand propping her head, dressed in layered black classical robes that felt elaborate without being cluttered. Beneath her head, a ring of radiating lines. On the fabric of her dress, scattered glints of light — gem chips, each one bright and clear, as though she had put on a robe made of stars.
And in her arms — she was also holding an infant.
"???"
"!!!"
Vincent stood there for a moment, then rubbed his eyes. He stepped back several paces and compared both statues — checking once more against the Earth Mother.
The grain, the herbs, the flowers, the animals — unmistakably the Earth Mother. The woman with the star-scattered robe, the reclined pose, the halo of rays beneath her — unmistakably the Evernight Goddess.
Both holding infants.
Why?
Birth, nurture, new life — every one of those authorities belonged to the Earth Mother. There was nothing in any Church teaching, tradition, or piece of received lore that tied the Evernight Goddess to infants of any kind.
And I'm fairly certain the original novel never had anything like this.
"Bernadette…"
After a long quiet, Vincent said in a low voice: "Do you know what this means?"
"I don't."
Her voice carried a genuine edge of surprise. "I've never seen anything that connected the Evernight Goddess to an infant. Birth and nurture are fully the Earth Mother's domain. Perhaps in the Fourth Epoch, this kind of representation still carried some different meaning we've since lost."
Vincent scratched his head, and a wild thought surfaced: "Is there any chance this infant is the Evernight Goddess herself—"
Before he could finish, Bernadette said, very quietly: "If you'd like to die, please don't take me with you."
"Right, right — just a reasonable speculation."
He coughed a couple of times and shook his head with a sigh. "If anyone outside ever saw this statue, I honestly don't know what would happen."
This went beyond blasphemy. It was on an entirely different level.
He looked at the statue one more time, turning it over with unease: What was Tudor thinking? He wouldn't have carved something obviously wrong. Either there was a reason behind it, or he was deliberately trying to provoke the Evernight Goddess. But if so — why doesn't this appear in the original novel?
He'd wondered before whether in some future timeline he'd gone back through a Time-Turner to Roselle's era and changed something in the past.
Could this statue also be connected to me somehow?
That felt like a stretch too far.
"Let's go," Bernadette said. "And then forget everything we just saw."
"Understood."
Vincent nodded. "With the Evil Spirit gone, what do we do about Stephen?"
She thought for a moment. "Go see the pub owner. We suspected his sudden opening of that bar was connected to the Evil Spirit's influence — he might know something."
...
Several minutes later, outside the Sour Plum Wine Tavern.
Compared to the quiet, tentative atmosphere of its early days, the place was now genuinely busy — not even noon yet and more than half the seats filled with drinkers, talkers, people just resting.
Vincent went to the bar. The same bartender greeted him with the same professional smile. "What can I get you, sir?"
"A juice, please."
He settled onto a stool, accepted the glass, and said: "I understand the owner of this establishment is Sub-Baron Raffert Pound?"
The bartender nodded pleasantly. "That's right, sir."
"Is he here now?"
"He is — just over there."
The bartender gestured to a corner table by the window. A well-dressed middle-aged man in a neat tailcoat, hair immaculately groomed, was chatting and laughing with a noblewoman.
He looked entirely different from the last time Vincent had seen him.
As if sensing someone looking his way, Raffert turned — and their eyes met. He made a graceful bow to the noblewoman, excused himself, and walked over.
"Can I help you, sir?"
Vincent took a sip of juice and smiled pleasantly. "Sub-Baron, I'm a little puzzled — you've clearly got the means to run a place like this. So why couldn't you manage to pay back the money you borrowed from me?"
Raffert's smile flickered. "Are you certain I owe you money, sir?"
"Absolutely. Two months ago, you'd hit a losing streak at the tables and borrowed three hundred pounds off me. Said you'd repay six hundred if things came in. Two months on, and clearly you're doing well. Time to settle up."
Raffert studied Vincent for a long moment, then turned without another word. "Come with me. I don't carry that much on me."
"Very direct. I like that."
Vincent knocked the glass down and followed Raffert through a door behind the counter, up a staircase, and into a private room.
Raffert crossed to a desk, picked up an empty glass, poured a measure of red wine, and handed it to Vincent. "The money's in the safe — one moment."
He bent down, worked at the combination with a series of clicks and quiet rattles — then straightened abruptly, his face twisting into something cold and violent. A revolver appeared in his hand, aimed directly at Vincent.
"Who the hell are you, trying to run a con on me? You think you can just walk in here and—"
Raffert blinked.
The man was simply in front of him. No movement visible. Two fingers had closed around the revolver's barrel, and bent it upward with a soft, metallic complaint.
Creak.
The steel barrel bent. The dark muzzle pointed at Raffert's own face.
"..."
A stunned silence. Then Raffert dropped the gun, raised both hands, and forced out a very uncomfortable smile.
"I think six hundred was too modest. Twelve hundred — what do you say?"
To be continued…
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