by Brandon Barr
Winter appreciated how protective Karience was of her. She squeezed Aven’s hand and looked the Sanctuss over.
The motherly looking woman did not wear the traditional uniform of the Guardians but was wrapped in an elegant, silky cloak. The cloak was a shimmering green color that reminded her of a lizard common to the farmland back home. The Sanctuss’ sigil, partially obscured by her frizzy red hair, was sewn to the cloak and had a pattern of white-black-white. There was a warmth about her face that made Winter feel comfortable. It was round, smooth, and light brown in complexion. A youthfulness to her features made her age uncertain. But something about her eyes betrayed her years. Winter thought she must be close to fifty, like Karience.
A thin, young man named Theurg stood beside the Sanctuss, hands clasped in front of him, face expressionless. His eyes moved from face to face, but his head stayed still. Theurg had been introduced as Sanctuss Voyanta’s apprentice.
The smell of smoke and burnt flesh pervaded the room. Though she and Karience had bathed and changed into new attire, Dicameron’s security uniform still reeked.
Dicameron leaned forward. “Sanctuss Voyanta, I ask that you do what the girl wants.”
The Sanctuss turned her intense gaze on the man. “You know it is against our practice to interview an Oracle in the presence of others. Do your job, Captain, and I will do mine.”
Dicameron didn’t back down. “I didn’t save the girl’s life just to hand her over to your kind. Mankies—all of you—and I wonder if I do not smell the scent of Execrata.”
“Why must you be so brusque? We Consecrators have had no dealings with the Execrata, nor will we. And despite your assumptions, I do care about the girl. Her name is Winter, by the way, and my heart is to heal the inner wounds she has accrued as an Oracle.”
Sanctuss Voyanta turned and looked at Winter. “Being an Oracle comes with challenges far removed from what ordinary humans encounter.”
The Consecrator’s words intrigued Winter. But they did not take the edge off Dicameron’s anger.
Dicameron’s eyes broke from the Sanctuss and fell upon Winter for a moment, then shifted to Karience. “I spent two years infiltrating that Execrata sect that attacked you,” said Dicameron. “They are devotees of the Consecrators’ work, as I’m sure Sanctuss Voyanta and her apprentice will admit. Is that not right?” He turned back to the Sanctuss.
Winter got the distinct impression Dicameron was trying to rile Voyanta.
“You make it black and white, trying to connect the two groups,” said Theurg. He looked earnestly at Karience and Winter, as if hoping to alleviate any concerns Dicameron had raised. “Humanity Kind is a peaceful movement. What happened to the Oracle earlier today was not the doing of Humanity Kind, but the radicals. I hate the Execrata as much as you, Captain.”
“I doubt that,” said Dicameron. “The Execrata live and breathe the same air as Humanity Kind. You know this well, Theurg. You are one of the Mankies. The lack of cooperation from your movement leads me to wonder how many peaceful Mankies are nothing more than shields for the Execrata. Humanity Kind, after all, is the mother group whose teachings spawned these radicals.”
“You are deluded, Captain, and please, do not call us Mankies. It’s insulting.”
Dicameron stood and walked around the chairs, stopping a finger width from Theurg. Winter waited for one of the two men to turn away, all the while her mind reeling at the idea that there were people willing to die to fight the Makers.
“I know you have a sympathizer among you,” said Dicameron, “Someone within the Consecrators let slip that an Oracle was coming. I’ll be paying close attention to you and your friends. I promise you that.”
Dicameron stepped back. “Karience, if you have any further problems, do not hesitate to contact me. The four security officers outside will stay with you until you leave Bridge. We can’t be too careful.”
With that, Dicameron turned and left.
The moment he was gone, Sanctuss Voyanta stood. “I suppose after that hostile tirade, I’m going to have to alter protocol this one time.” She turned to her apprentice. “Theurg, you are dismissed. You are to go to Sanctuss Exenia and give her a full account of today, including your poor behavior. An apprentice should not open his mouth in front of an Oracle unless instructed to do so.”
Theurg lowered his eyes and managed a stiff nod, then turned to leave but stopped. “Do not risk your life again, Sanctuss. Please, cover yourself.”
“I’ll decide if and when to gamble with my life. Now, leave us.”
Theurg turned with a hesitant air and left the room.
Winter noted how the Sanctuss’ eyes softened when they turned upon her. The woman’s presence, despite all that was said moments ago, made her feel safe. Winter felt true concern flowing from her.
“Karience has told me there are other kinds of Oracles,” said Winter, “but my VOKK doesn’t seem to help when I think upon this question. How many Oracles are there, and what are their different gifts?”
“I dare say the number of the Oracles in our galaxy is likely in the billions, for it is estimated that there are billions of worlds in our galaxy. The problem is finding them. The Guardians contact an average of two new worlds every month, but it is very difficult to find an Oracle. We were extremely fortunate to have happened upon you. The order of Consecrators normally must search each new world chartered by the Guardians. But even then, every world is so large, and we are just a few. The last Oracle we found before you was four months ago.
“As to the second part of your question, there are many different types of gifts. We are still discovering new ones every few years. You are a variety of seer, although we won’t be able to classify what kind until after a few sessions. As to gift types, I’ll list a few that I find most interesting. A Scriver is an Oracle who is directed to write thoughts or messages down onto parchment. We have a small room called the Scriver’s Den in this very library, where we keep the entire collection of writings we have retrieved. There are also Empaths. An Empath is one who feels impressions when they encounter certain people, sometimes giving a person words from the gods, or in some cases, giving them something physical. There are currently twenty-seven different classifications of Empaths. I could go on, of course, but for now, I think you get the broad picture.”
Winter found herself excited about the information, to know that there were others like her. “Why did my VOKK not inform me of these things when I thought of them?”
“There are certain subjects that the VOKK is restricted from delving into too deeply. Oracles are one such subject. Beasts are another. Now, I am eager to officially begin our session. If you wouldn’t mind accompanying me into a private den in the library, your brother and the Empyrean can remain here.”
“May I have them join me?” asked Winter. “It’s been a difficult day. I would feel more comfortable if they stayed.”
“That is a reasonable request. If Dicameron’s security teams had only uncovered the Execrata’s plot against you before it could be put into effect, our introductions could have been much more cordial. But can I request a compromise? May I have a personal conversation? We sit at a private table in the library while your brother and Karience remain in sight, at a table on the far side of the room? Would that be comfortable enough?”
Winter nodded.
The Sanctuss’ eyes flashed warmly, and she smiled. “I have been waiting to meet you, Winter, for several months now. Your gift is a fascinating one. I have helped many Oracles on their personal journeys, but never one who is a seer. It is a rare gifting. Let us move to the library. And please, ask all the questions stirring inside you. I know you have many. Nothing is out of bounds.”
Chapter Fifteen
SANCTUSS VOYANTA
Sanctuss Voyanta listened carefully to Winter tell the story of her encounter with the Maker.
From the start, the Sanctuss had hoped for an easy transition for Winter. No matter how many Oracles she helped, it was a
lways an emotional moment, meeting a new case for the first time. She spent weeks reviewing the beetle feed of her subjects, watching their lives. Often, she found herself in tears. She certainly had with Winter.
Winter had lost loved ones, and through the conversations the girl had with her brother, Sanctuss Voyanta knew the deaths were directly related to the girl’s gift. She had also glimpsed the girl’s confusion surrounding the darker visions she’d had. Winter’s inner strength and hopeful spirit proved both inspirational and crushing at the same time. It was like seeing a virtuous girl married off to an abusive drunk and watching her devotion remain intact, despite the bruises and cuts marring her heart. Men could be just as cruel as Makers and Beasts, but Oracles who would never bow down before an abusive husband would for the Makers. They saw it as their duty. They believed there was a purpose in the suffering, and the Makers always seemed to give them just enough hope to keep them going forward.
This girl was among the sweetest, purest young women she had encountered. The Sanctuss desperately wanted an easy, freeing deliverance for this dear girl, but knowing Winter as she did, she sensed a long road ahead, the end of which remained uncertain. Winter had an intense sense of destiny and a certainty of calling. Unlike any Oracle she’d encountered, Winter had been given a physical token from the Makers. A butterfly, which she believed housed the seer spirit. The Sanctuss did not know what to make of this.
But most troubling, Winter was one of the few Oracles who had physically experienced a Maker, had even been given a name to call them by. Leaf. The Makers knew how to imprint a heart forever. The Sanctuss knew this too well.
Voyanta sat on the edge of her chair as Winter finished the telling of the memory of her encounter with the Maker. Theurg’s warning had fallen on stubborn ears, for though she’d donned her gloves—as she always did before a session—she’d left her veil open, so that her eyes were not all Winter saw. Theurg didn’t understand how important the exchange of facial expressions was in a situation like this. It was a necessary risk. Far too much was lost masking the intimate dance played out in a sad smile or the concerned creasing of a brow.
In remaining uncovered and vulnerable, Voyanta flaunted the curse laid upon her by her own deliverance from the Makers many years ago.
“Clearly it was not a dream,” said the Sanctuss.
“Nothing has ever been more real,” said Winter. “I am as certain of it as I am of us sitting here now.”
The Sanctuss nodded as tears gathered unbidden in her eyes. How could she ever retrieve this girl from the grip of such an alluring monster?
“It is a beautiful experience,” said the Sanctuss. “I can see the effect it has had on your heart. It has given you balance when tragedy would have brought most others to their knees. That is one of the great mysteries of our universe: the juxtaposition of our experiences between what we deem good and what we call bad. Beauty and ugliness. Strength and frailty. Life and death. The Makers have created a curious universe, have they not?”
The Sanctuss noticed Winter’s eyes turn to her brother across the room. It was there, in Winter’s brother, that Sanctuss Voyanta had an ally.
“You spoke earlier of healing my inner wounds,” said Winter. “What did you mean?”
“You have questions,” said the Sanctuss. “Questions that spring from your relationship to the Makers.”
Winter closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said, and a breath escaped her lips that was almost a sigh. “Yes, I do have questions.”
Where an ember had smoldered behind Winter’s eyes, the Sanctuss now saw flames. The questions were burning her alive from the inside. They needed only to be drawn out. Then she could find some relief.
“I am a traveler, just as you are, Winter. All men and women are on a path. We climb the same mountain, only, you and I are further along on our journey. Higher up on the mountain than most. The air up here is clearer, and we have a vantage point that allows us to see farther as we look out at the horizon of the world’s origins, and the opposite horizon of its future. Our questions are bigger, they take on more perspective, and too often we wrestle alone with what most men and women do not see. I shall be open with you. I stand on the opposite side of the mountain as you. I do not trust the Makers. I oppose them. But I have no loyalty to my side. In truth, I wish I could be on your side of the mountain. I was there once, a long time ago.”
Winter had turned pale. The Sanctuss noticed her lips part and knew intimately the question on the tip of her tongue.
Finally, the girl released it. “What made you cross to the other side?”
“First, tell me your biggest question, the one that never quite leaves your mind.”
“All right,” said Winter, shifting in her chair. “It’s a question I only ask myself when I feel like I’m failing in my gift. When I’m in a dark mood.”
“This is a safe space,” said the Sanctuss. “Have no fear. Let it out.”
Winter released a deep, shaky breath. “Why do the Makers tolerate all that is cruel? Death and suffering. Dark-hearted men like the Baron my brother and I lived under. And then, I wonder why cruelty exists at all? How was it born?”
Winter’s face was marred by a reticent, almost guilty, expression. As if she were a good wife unaccustomed to voicing her husband’s bad traits to others.
“Your questions are the very heart of the issue. They were my questions. You are not alone, Winter. Every Oracle broods over these questions. We want to know the origins. How things became as they are. Knowing the beginnings orients us to see the present as it really is. When we hold the hand of a dying child, we want to know, why?
“As for your questions, there are many answers. We each must choose which best fits the world we see, but I want you to recognize that the way you framed the question reveals where you stand on the mountain. ‘Why do the Makers tolerate cruelty?’ That question assumes they are tolerating cruelty. What if cruelty is part of their design?”
Winter nodded. “Yes. I’ve wondered if, somehow, death and suffering are in some way good. If they serve some purpose that I cannot see.”
“That is a healthy attitude, Winter—trying to find a way to turn cruelty into a good. It is a view that takes seriously the starting point of that darkness and considers that cruelty comes from the Makers.”
“Is there not a way around that?” asked Winter. “A way in which cruelty can exist apart from the Makers?”
“Some try and find justification for the Makers by laying cruelty’s origins at the feet of the Beasts. Others attempt to put it upon humans themselves, as if our freedom to do evil came into existence uncaused and unforeseen, catching the powerful Makers by surprise.”
Winter stared for a time at the polished floor. The Sanctuss knew some of what she had said required translation from the VOKK, but she knew these questions of Winter’s were deeply personal. The girl’s greatest fears were being fed seeds of doubt that, if watered by future circumstances, or by the Sanctuss herself, could lead to her deliverance.
A small scowl formed on Winter’s face. “What are the Beasts? I know nothing of them, other than they are to be feared.”
“That is a question almost as complex as the one already at hand. But I will say what is known. The Beasts are spirits, like the Makers, only they are restless and crave to live in a body of flesh. They choose an animal to inhabit, and then, from that animal, they woo the allegiance of men. They are, without question, cruel. They fight against the Guardians and each other, as if our galaxy were one large gameboard, with man and Beast fighting for rule and dominion.
“I could say much more, but what is relevant to our discussion of the Makers is the question of where the Beasts come from and how they became cruel. This same question can be asked of us humans. What did the Makers do, or fail to do, that brought cruelty into being?”
Winter shook her head. “These questions torment me. Some nights, I lie awake debating with myself, questioning and defending with no answers…”
Winter continued, a resolve deepening her voice. “But in the end, the Maker who pulled me from the river is beyond these questions. Leaf was good and pure in a way I cannot express. In those arms, I felt something I will always crave to feel again, no matter whether I understand cruelty or not. If cruelty exists because of the Makers, then so be it. I can only trust it has a part to play.”
The Sanctuss closed her eyes at the current of her own doubts that washed afresh, as Winter’s confidence and hope battered against her own choices. It was time to dredge up her own heart and run it through the mud. Winter had done as much, and now so must she.
“Winter, I wish I could have felt what you did. My own experience was powerful, but not like that. Not as intimate. It began when I was sixteen. I was sleeping when a noise awakened me. Outside it was that grayish haze of early morning. By my bed stood a man with a knife in his hand. He said if I didn’t do what he wanted, he would kill me and my younger sister, who slept on the mat beside me. I began to remove my gown, as the man commanded, and that is when the Maker appeared to me. I suddenly felt safe, despite the man’s presence. I felt a portion of that warm presence you described, tingling on my skin. The man took hold of my arm, and that’s when the Maker gave me my gift. I was given words to speak.
“‘Your mother loves you,’” I told him.
“The man let go of my arm and stared at me. More words came to me that were not mine. I told him his mother was still searching for him, and then I remember telling him these exact words: ‘It has been ten years, but not a day passes where your mother doesn’t remember your face and think of you.’
“The man left, sobbing like a child, blubbering apologies. I never forgot his face. I was given words to speak from that day on. They were always hopeful words. Words that healed the inner wounds of a broken relationship. A father whose child ran away. A wife whose husband never returned from sea. A friend long departed who, on their deathbed, had wished to say they were sorry. They were precious words, and I cherished speaking them. But like you, Winter, I had questions. I began to see every stranger’s face I passed as a mask for pain. What cruelties had left scars on their hearts? Why wasn’t I given a message for more people? I knew there were many that I passed who needed a word. Many people in my everyday life told me of sorrows, but no words were given me to restore them. I began to wonder how my heart could hunger so much for the healing of these people around me, when it seemed the Makers chose only a few. That led me to question the Makers’ goodness, which I had assumed from the start.