Bloodless

by Roberto Vecchi

  He was just about to continue his journey through the rest of the garden path when he was interrupted by a pleasant female voice, “Lord Intellos?”

  “Yes,” he answered as he turned to face her. She was slender, young, and well dressed in silky fabrics that complimented the bright blue color of her eyes.

  “Lord Artus bids you join him in The Sanctum. The preparations for the ceremony are complete,” she said as she curtsied slightly.

  “Of course,” he said. “Can you tell me what I am supposed to do, or even wear. I am sure there is some sort of formal attire for a ceremony of this importance.”

  “You will find your robes already prepared for you in your quarters,” she answered.

  “Thank you. But can you tell me exactly what my part is in this ceremony? I very much would like to perform whatever duty I am with as much perfection as I have experienced here today,” he asked her, hoping for some additional clarity.

  “My Lord, I have not been given such knowledge. However, I am sure you will be given more than adequate instructions once you arrive at The Sanctum. Lord Artus is meticulous with detail and I am quite certain he has not overlooked your inclusion,” she answered calmly.

  “Yes. You are correct. My apologies, My Lady,” he said.

  “No apology is ever needed from The Grand Wizard. Your presence alone honors our reputation,” she said as she curtsied low a second time.

  “You give me too much importance,” he said as he bowed to meet her eloquence.

  She smiled briefly and said, “Please, the ceremony cannot begin without you. Lord Artus awaits,” she said as she turned around and walked down the path Intellos was set to continue upon.

  His walk back to his room was one of anxious energy because he was to play a very important role in a ceremony he knew nothing about. Very rarely does the Grand Wizard not know what to expect in any situation, let alone a whole ceremony, he thought to himself. In spite of his lack of knowledge, he found it very exhilarating instead of fearful as some might. Fear was never part of his memory as the Grand Wizard. Sure, there were times when he was uncertain regarding specific situations and their eventual outcomes; however, never had his uncertainty grown into fear. Fear was a manifestation of one’s own negative expectation and not based on the certainty of events. As such, fear was nothing more than an imposed illusion, a fiction derived from the minds of those who were unable to control their own thoughts. And he, Intellos Sa’ik Sa’ir, The Grand Wizard of The University of Knowledge, was capable of great control.

  Resting on his bed, just as the woman had said, were his formal ceremonial robes. They were woven with such delicacy that it would not have surprised him had they been threaded with the finest silks directly from a spider’s web. He found it difficult to believe they were not woven with some form of gold and silver inlays because of the way they glistened in the rays of the sun shining through his window. If they had been, he imagined the weight of the robes would have been considerable; however, these robes, resplendent with their shimmering silks of deep silvers and blacks, carried barely more weight than moonlight. Perhaps that is what Lord Artus and his weavers were capable of, capturing pure moonlight and threading it evenly throughout their fabrics. Regardless of which technique they had mastered, it had yielded the most skin pleasing threads he had ever felt. He tied the resplendent robes around his waist with a thin, black cord that shimmered just like his robes. Before exiting, he took a moment to glance in the mirror and saw the robes transitioned from silver to jet black as he turned from left to right. How the illusion of color change was completed with simple fabrics, he could not begin to consider, but its effect was extravagant. In the mirror, he saw the little girl’s parchment sitting on the night table next to his temporary bed. and decided to add it to his pocket in the hope that he would see her either before or after the ceremony.

  The whole way, in each hallway and down each corridor, he felt as if the energy inside the walls was growing with its expectation of the ceremony’s completion. Indeed, even he was beginning to feel the palpability of excitement emanating from all around him. The pictures on the walls seemed alive. The picturesque tapestries of brilliant landscapes seemed to grow more real the closer to The Sanctum he approached. Even the candles within the wall sconces seemed to radiate greater light and heat with each passing step. As he approached the ornate, heavy double doors leading to the interior of The Sanctum, he glanced to his right and thought he saw the familiar little girl disappear inside through one of the other, smaller doors. He dismissed his vision. After All, what part could a little girl play in something so important.

  As he was about to reach for the handle and push open one of the doors, they both swung slowly open on their own revealing a circular room of immense size reflecting the same colors and patterns of his robes. The floors were composed of a black marble tile inlayed with thin traces of silver woven like a spider’s randomly patterned webbing. The walls had been painted the same silver as the marbling in the tile and glistened just like the fabric of his clothing. The ceiling seemed unending as its depth was easily fifty feet tall. Adding to its appearance of eternity, it had been painted so black it resembled the complete blackness of a moonless but perfect night sky. Dominating the foreground were two impossibly large candelabras set with well over a hundred candles, each burning a dark but luminescent shade of violet. Individually, the flames were sufficient perhaps for only a small room, but gathered together, they were bright enough to light the entire Sanctum. In the room’s center and directly under both candelabras, stood a raised dais at least ten feet above the floor. On it rested a circular altar that appeared to be made from the same marble as the floor. Against the purely white steps and dais, the completely black altar projected dominance and commanded attention. Capturing this perfectly was Lord Artus as he stood in front of it atop the dais, dressed in robes the deepest shade of red Intellos had ever seen. In the cushioned pews sat the inhabitants of The Osin Thion numbering at least three hundred, each dressed in similar, but not as splendid, robes as Lord Artus.

  “Come, Lord Intellos, Grand Wizard of The University of Knowledge, the Ceremony of Exodus awaits,” said the booming voice of Lord Artus, both commanding and pleasant with its deep baritone resonance. “Please, ascend the steps in front of you and take your place next to the other participants,” he continued. It was not until then that Intellos saw there were three other men and ten women already standing on the dais behind Lord Artus. They were vaguely familiar to him, which gave him pause; but then again, the halls and grounds of the Osin Thion seemed familiar to him as well, though he had never been there before. He wondered how he had not seen them when he entered the large and oppressive room, but dismissed away his thought as an effect of the splendor of The Sanctum itself. As he began to climb the steps, the people in the pews began humming a low and repeating sound. With each step he climbed, it grew in depth and quality. Lord Artus gestured for Intellos to take his place at the head of the others just to his right. He glanced down to the immaculate marble and noticed he had stepped inside some sort of design. It was intricate, complex, and resembled something he should have recognized. Dismissing his effort to identify it, he focused on Lord Artus who had raised both of his hands.

  “Brethren,” he began in a deep baritone voice of absolution, a voice much deeper than Intellos remembered him having, “long have we waiting and long have we watched. For lifetimes we have toiled and plotted against the injustice reaped upon us by powers that are unfit to command the reign they possess.” At the first sound of his voice, the audience began their low humming again, but it was rhythmical this time, repetitive and purposeful. “But nigh is our time for vengeance. Nigh is the hour when reparations for lifetimes of repression will be collected. We have been blessed with this task and now, after much strife, we will see it completed!” As he finished his statement, the rhythmical humming stopped allowing silence to voice its deafening enthrallment once again.

  Intellos
looked toward the audience, their faces lacking the joy he thought they should be feeling at such a monumental moment. Their eyes, no longer sparkling with the same exuberance he saw earlier in the day, had become glazed over, as if they saw, but did not see. Their lips, lips that had once reflected the inner joy he was feeling during his time in the castle grounds, formed no smiles or other expression of happiness. He looked from those who sat in the pews to those on the dais next to him, and though they were similarly dressed, their faces reflected none of the pride a participant in the ceremony should be feeling. In fact, their faces reflected nothing much at all. Absent were the small and instinctive facial expressions only the masters of disguise could control, and then only marginally. It was almost as if their faces had been frozen in time.

  “But now is not the time for words, brethren. Now is the time to begin!” Lord Artus said. As his speech completed, the people in the pews stood up and outstretched their hands toward the dais. “Dormock bragacik don dec de grosen,” spoke Lord Artus as he turned to face the center of the altar. “Nis sissin frinocs bogorator,” he said again, his voice beginning to take on a visceral demeanor.

  From beneath him, Intellos noticed the design he had been standing within, as well as the other designs encircling his fellow participants, had begun to glow the same eerie violet as the light from the candelabras. Complimenting it, or perhaps leading it, was the altar as it, too, began to glow a deep violet.

  The once wordless people in the pews began chanting instead of humming, “Tressin gaynos soocor,” they repeated over and over in unison.

  “Enceptrok denotrok Baguul!” said Lord Artus almost shouting.

  “Baguul!” repeated the crowd.

  “Enceptrok denotrok Baguul!” shouted Lord Artus again.

  “Baguul!” repeated the crowd.

  “Enceptrok denotrock Baguul!” shouted Lord Artus for a third and final time.

  But the crowd did not repeat the shout in response as they had the first two times. Instead, they began, softly and repeatedly, chanting one word over and over, “Baguul.”

  Intellos looked down again and saw that his design was glowing so brightly it stung his eyes. Had his robes not been as bold of a color, Lord Artus would have been drowned by the light from the altar as it began to engulf the whole of The Sanctum.

  “Baguul, baguul, baguul,” repeated the crowd as Lord Artus stood with his hands raised high.

  The altar’s violet light grew, drowning out all other sources of illumination, even the great central candelabras. Intellos felt what could only be described as a shifting of reality. The innate conditions and governing dynamics of life he had come to understand over the ages changed subtly; not necessarily the physical laws of nature, but the natural laws governing even those. Constants such as good aligning itself against evil, causes leading to effects, and the constant search for value and worth all became less defined as truths and more a result of perception. The brighter the violet light became, the more oppressively the shift weighed upon his spirit and desire to resist. What he knew as the governing systems of an ordered and created life were quickly draining away and being replaced by a whole new system of order.

  When the deep violet glow became so bright that not even closing his eyes lessened its penetrating effect, all conscious aspects of himself were sucked into the glow emanating from the center of the altar. Motion stopped, breathing stopped, feeling stopped, leaving that which was stemming from the altar as the only source of relevance, and from that relevance came an impossibly low rumble, as if a huge heard of esthuox was gathering its momentum in preparation for a thunderous charge. As it collected more and more force, even Lord Artus’s expression of surety began to change from peaceful satisfaction, to anxious hesitation. Following Artus’s lead, Intellos and the others on the dais descended the steps. At the bottom, all of them turned to face the glowing altar, listening to the deafening rumbling as it grew louder and louder, watching the light as it grew brighter and brighter.

  Then, just when their eyes and ears could withstand no more of the auditory and visual onslaught, hands covering whatever modality was less tolerable, the glow erupted in a silent release of its gathered energy stunning everyone within The Sanctum. They were all knocked to their hands and knees, even Lord Artus. The force of the eruption was so great that it extinguished all of the candles in the candelabras above as well as those lighting the sconces on the walls.

  He was not sure how long he had been stunned for, but when Intellos recovered enough to focus his attention upon the altar, he saw that it was no longer there. In fact, the entire dais upon which the altar once stood had been replace with a gaping hole. Had it not been for the faint, violet light now emanating from inside it, the entire Sanctum would have been shrouded in a covering of complete blackness. As his eyes adjusted to the darkened room, Intellos saw the other thirteen participants recovering their own sensibilities and were beginning to stand.

  After a few more moments, his eyes adjusted and he saw that Lord Artus wore an expression of pure and utter satisfaction on his face. However, Intellos shared none of his sentiment. He had been hoping his role would have been more expansive than just a passive participant. He had imagined himself saying important words, or performing important duties. It seemed, during the whole of his stay within the Osin Thion, that it all had all been built to this moment, as if the ceremony had been personally created for him, and without him, there would have been no such ceremony at all. Dictated by his assumption, he started to grow angry, or at the very least, disappointed.

  “Lord Artus,” asked Intellos, “is the ceremony completed?”

  “Yes. Now we wait,” he said still with his eyes closed and his head inclined as if in the throes of ecstasy.

  “Wait? Wait for what?” asked Intellos, further dejected by Lord Artus’s confirmation.

  “The feast,” he answered. “It will begin shortly.”

  “A feast?” he asked. “Will there be more of that delicious pompago?”

  Hearing Intellos’s question, Lord Artus opened his eyes and grinned, “Oh, I am sorry to inform you that there will be no pompago. But I can assure you, it will be a feast like none you have experience before.”

  “Excellent!” he said with excitement. “I cannot wait!”

  “Neither can I,” said Lord Artus with a grin as he walked over to peer into the hole.

  Intellos saw the other thirteen participants start shaking hands and offering each other congratulations for a task well done. He was about to join them when he glanced to his left and saw the little girl whose paper he had found. The man she was with earlier was with her now, but his attention was consumed by congratulating the several people around him. Intellos thought this was the perfect opportunity to return the girl’s paper.

  “Lord Intellos, do not go far. You will miss the best part of the feast if you do,” said Lord Artus.

  Intellos turned and smiled when he heard his name preferring a silent acknowledgement over an audible one. When he turned back in the direction of the little girl, he was surprised to see her standing right before him. Her robe, while the same material and design as the man’s, lacked the intricate stitching throughout the sleeves and torso. Her belt, just as simple as her robe, was tied loosely with two small books fastened to it by small, red leather straps.

  “Hello Grand Wizard Intellos,” she said.

  “I have your paper,” he said as he held out his hand.

  “That is not mine,” she said.

  “Then whose is it?” he asked.

  “It is yours,” she said with a smile.

  Pulse. Everyone who was inside The Sanctum turned their attention from whomever they were congratulating and focused it solidly on where the dais had been. Even Intellos and the little girl turned their heads. Much like the initial shift he felt a few short minutes ago, this was a movement of energy on a gravitational level; however, it had no traces of life and creation. Instead, the two prominent and governing truths
about the energy coming from the hole were hunger and need.

  “The hour is nigh!” shouted Lord Artus. “Witness the coming of our new God! Witness Baguul!”

  Pulse. Seemingly coordinated with his speech, another pulse of energy, this time strong enough to rattle the room, surged forth from the hole staggering those closest to it.

  “Bring them!” shouted Lord Artus. The previously peaceful attendees sprang into action and grabbed each of fourteen participants roughly ushering them to edge of the hole. “Hurry! Bring them!”

  “Lord Artus!” said Intellos, “What is happening?”

  “The feast is about to begin,” he said

  Pulse. Another energy burst shot forth from the hole, but instead of stunning anyone, or shaking the room, it struck firmly in the depths of their souls leaving all of them understanding that something was approaching. Intellos, now a few feet from the hole and being firmly held by two of Lord Artus’s servants, turned his attention toward Lord Artus once again, “Lord Artus, I demand to know what is happening!”