by J. Gibson
The man knelt, his wrists, ankles, and neck frail, atrophied. His hands rested on the uneven road, hide raw, scraped, busted at the knuckles, split at the fingertips and frames of the nails. Blood and dirt smeared the skin exposed from their position. A layer of filth cloaked his attire, torn at the edges and porous and thin in other places. She sat on her haunches to his right, watching, working to distinguish his overwrought pleading, or praying.
What has happened to you?
As if picking at her mind again, Bhathric echoed her contemplations. “Vekshia shows us this?” She faced the opposite direction with her hands on her hips.
Tilting her head to the side, Athenne assessed the man. “Aye.” In observance, she lost sense of the world around them. “Must be.” He had the hunched posture of one starved and beaten. Grey, white, and black peppered his hair and beard. Pink with irritation, his dull eyes watered. His tanned skin peeled, as it would if one had been under the sun’s watchful leer at length. The vision enraptured her, caused her back to stiffen.
She leaned forward, striving to hear him.
“What’s he saying?”
“I can’t—” Athenne answered. “He’s saying.” Her eyes shut. “The ichor.” No matter how close she moved, she could not hear him well. “The ichor that—swallows the world.”
His voice faded away, as if in response.
“Athenne,” she heard Bhathric say.
Her eyes opened.
Daylight had unfurled around them once more.
They had transported somewhere else, if they were anywhere at all. An expanse of sea thundered to the west, the storm impelling smoke from boats and steam from groaning apparatuses against a wharf’s walls and through open warehouses at their rear. Some few waves and an effervescent crown arched and strained to grasp the peak. Some fewer succeeded and capped the low parapet that fenced the wall, descending from view soon after. Inside the bay were calmer waters, turquoise and like glass, barely disrupted.
It was a waking imagining of a dream. A hallucination made real. The ground, air, sense of being so familiar and so foreign; an iridescent world of twirling particles and false noise, of flowers blossoming and unblossoming in broken pretense. Even the silences between the sounds felt contrived.
Without warning, the barricading wall burst. Savage ocean rushed in and drowned the rocky shore, rubble strewing wide. The water which funneled through formed a channel, seeping into every crack and crevice of the inner stone ground, eroding the material at its finest level, grating away loose bricks.
The surge started to run pink, a terrible color, until it ran dark with that terrible color. As swift as the water had risen, it drew back out. First feet and then yards, then into a distance indistinct to her eyes. The abandoned sand where the water had been almost glistened as the light touched it from above.
She wanted to flee, but could not. Bhathric stood juxtaposed, unflinching. A sour smell of corrupted flesh and brimstone trampled them with a tangible solidity, leaving her skin greasy and damp.
The fountains of the world broke apart and a great red death sprang forth. The wave gained and bloated, miles high; a wall, speeding, swelling, screaming, a malicious froth foaming between its snarling lips.
They needed to retreat, yet they hung under its path. Light rain caught them first, then the flood. It came in aweing fury, as though dragging with it the whole of the ocean.
When Athenne’s eyes separated in the wake of the deluge, she was dry, and had returned uninjured to the foremost chamber of the temple. Verglas and rime covered the room in white and clear patches with veins and webs from thinner to thicker layers, explosions in the frost. There were dangling stalactites as slender as their fingers and as big as their arms, coiled and bent upward at their ends to points in anomalous perfection. Despite the glaze of frozen water, a dense heat swelled in the space, like liquid air, too warm for freezing.
“What’s this to do with Eclih or us?” Bhathric cried to stone walls and ceiling, to the shuddering stillness in every angle, to this place as it held its breath, waiting to exhale and shuffle them off to another spectacle.
It was not real. What you saw was not real. Even as the sea had imbibed them, brutal and battering, she tried to remind herself. No matter her mental measuring and preparation, her hands shivered. The illusions were taxing.
The tome’s cover flipped over, revealing a fresh key and a second poem. Bhathric did not read this one aloud, but plucked the key from its holster and slammed the book shut. A spray of dust erupted into the air.
“We must abide her will,” Athenne said.
“If only our All-Mother was as enterprising. Why must we endure these false sights?”
“Gohheia has not forced us here. We—”
“Yet we are here, Athenne. You, Eclih, me. Are we not Her children? Does a mother cease to love one child because they defy her others, even when these others subjugate them, abuse them, deny them her favor?” Athenne’s comment had vexed her. “The Ennead sought to have me murdered!”
“So they did,” Athenne deflected with a gentle tone, steering the conversation toward their present circumstance. “The two spirits, hope and despair.”
“What of them?” Bhathric permitted the diversion, to Athenne’s relief.
“Vekshia is not a wicked god, but an agent of chaos. They say she does not lie, insofar as the showing of truths through untruths is not a falsehood, yet still a trick. Her aspects are hope and despair. She is a source for each—perhaps, the source. If she has summoned us to witness these visions, it must be for a purpose. We ought not to jump to conclusions as to the nature of this reason—her design.”
“Are the gods bound to their aspects or the cause of them? Did the aspects precede them before Gohheia bequeathed their stewardship?” Bhathric moved closer. “I’m not the theologian you are.”
Athenne detected no derision in Bhathric’s remark.
“What does it mean?” Bhathric continued. “Is Vekshia chained as a machine to act by one predisposition, alone, infinitely? If we have the capacity for a shift of heart or mind, why not she?”
“I cannot say.”
The key rose to level with Bhathric’s face, in the delicate clasp of her index finger and thumb. “I care not whether she spins lies or weaves truths. I want Eclih returned, unharmed.” She pivoted toward the door across from their last. “Nothing shall hinder me.”
CHAPTER X: ENIGMA
Garron
“Relax, Father Latimer,” said Archbishop Sangrey. “The sculptors of perversion shall be exiled this day.”
Waiting, he quivered, and attempted to collect himself, his focus on the individual directly in front of him. Camille Sangrey. Studious, clever, somber, a beacon of power and control. An exemplar of one of the three pillars of the Matrian Truth as a pure embodiment of order. Despite having worked long in her service, Garron did not know her intimately, but he knew a great deal of her, and had learned even more in his present stay at the Priory. If Umbra served as the mouth of the Ennead, Sangrey and Aramanth represented the mind.
Archbishop Sangrey had been born the daughter of a wealthy, doting mother, Magus Ailuin Sangrey, once head of the Academy of Metaphysics. Atypical of women in Imperial society, who as a standard took many partners over their lifetimes, Ailuin Sangrey held singular in her affections. A consequence of growing up in Reneris.
The elder Sangrey involved herself further in a civil union with a man named Errendon, who had by tradition assumed her surname as her wer, the lone man ever permitted into her coupling den after her flowering rite at year twenty. While most Imperial men, including fathers, resided with their mothers and aided in raising children in their matrilineal home, Errendon Sangrey had lived with his wif and raised his own daughter, Camille, beside her.
This deviant nesting and androphilic progressivism had rendered Camille’s mother a subject of ridicule, in spite of her station and talents. Later, this derision shifted to Camille. Many presumed that the daughte
r Sangrey’s particular personality and intense desire to govern everyone around her were a product of her unusual rearing.
From Camille’s youth, Errendon Sangrey had raised his daughter with the notion that order, as macro, as meso, as micro, epitomized the apex tenet of Matrianism, from which altruism and progress flowed as a natural result. In his rare role, Camille’s father had instilled in her an idiosyncratic industriousness, even in a society organized around industriousness. Yet this influence by her father, or her mother’s affection for menkind, or a man, had not inculcated in Camille the same measure of progressive fervor. Camille did not champion men’s exaltation, though she had not objected in public to Archbishop Breiman Umbra’s appointment as Vicar of Gohheia.
A number of ages had Sangrey been a member of the Matrian Church, silencing those who had mocked her and her mother, and many ages had she and Aramanth labored to perfect the merger of their combined gifts. Between them connected a confidence of brilliance.
Along with Archmagister Estatha Khraemine, who had assisted more as an architect than a builder, their united effort had produced one of the most intricate acts of magecraft in history, with the efficacy to subdue the Aether across the entirety of the Sacred Empire. Nowhere else throughout the continent of Imios had anyone achieved a feat comparable to the modern system of Imperial wards. Not since the days of the Andesite. Not in the golden sands of Abbisad to the northwest, the karst-laden hills of Beihan to the southwest, the grim mountains of Xarakas to the southeast, or the treacherous Renerin tundra to the northeast. Great minds abound, but none so accomplished.
The true power of the present Ennead lay with the depth of Aetherian knowledge possessed in Aramanth Delacroix, unrivaled by but a few, and the pathological diligence of Camille Sangrey. Through their principal works and the aid of their fellow members and the Order of Magisters, they had, as their ancestors, tamed the essence bestowed by the All-Mother. Not in defiance of Her, but to ensure an orderly employment of Her worldly blessing. So long in the past had the Aether without regulation resulted in chaos and destruction, bringing about disadvantage and suffering which threatened the existence of the Mother’s true kingdom in the underrealm. This cause, at its root, claimed the heart of their objectives.
Garron understood this, beneath his conflict over their current circumstance; their ethics, their honor, their purpose. Yet worry plagued him. He had left his room at ease, but doubt had infiltrated him along his way to the Ennead’s council space. The longer he had to reflect, the fuller with it his mind became.
His last several weeks had brought him such uncertainty and distress, not what he considered irrational ideation. If it were, of course, he could not know. Even as he stood in the chamber of the Ennead, the safest of any location on Earth, he vacillated between an assured hopefulness and irregular despair.
Aramanth and Sangrey helmed the ceremony, as he had anticipated. In the interim, their words flowing, what had occurred, and what might come next, enveloped his mind. If anyone could spare him, it would be then and there.
The nine archbishops surrounded him and chanted, their hands adjoined. They incanted in deep whispers, eerie when he held his eyes closed. Every word resonated in perfection, cut like quality jewels. He looked at them, their faces radiant in the glow of the caster circle at his feet. Their collective gaze concentrated on him, as subject and object. His mind felt clearer than it had been since before the massacre, more so by each passing syllable.
The running of time had slowed to his perception, for he resided within a sphere of mental magic within material magic within metaphysical magic. Their words distorted in pitch and frequency and reverberated and slurred. Disorienting, their movements blurred, drifted, and smeared. Light outside the sphere sifted through in colorful prisms, wavering and rippling as a distant image in the rising heat of deep summer. The air around him cooled and bore no odor, with enough static to set his hair prickling on end.
Not long after the ritual had commenced, it finished. The heaviness he had so long felt in his chest had dissipated. He inhaled deeply. The weight carrying on his mind had flown away as dust departed by the breeze. He could not move for most of the procedure, but had since recovered his usual wits and autonomy.
“How do you feel, Father Latimer?” Archbishop Mallum asked as the effect lifted.
“My well-being, as grave a concern as it has been, is right as the Mother, Your Reverency. My mind’s regained clarity. My body has banished its torture. I am glad of your service.”
The members of the Ennead returned to their places behind the council table, leaving him standing in the well.
“Father,” said Aramanth, “we have deliberated at length.” She sat next to last seat on the right. “Confining you to the Priory as we did may have been a mistake. The creature passed through the wards, which we have nonetheless reinforced, without breaking them. Restraining you to this place might have contributed to your mental deterioration, and therefore, to your mental susceptibility.” She leaned forward on the table. “We may come to regret this decision, but we would like you to take time to yourself beyond these walls. Leave here, visit the city at your pleasure. We only recommend that you return by nightfall, to be accounted for.”
Aramanth glanced to her left. “‘Twas Archbishop Mallum who first made the suggestion.” She smiled at her. “If it goes awry, we know to whom we’ll pass the blame.”
Garron’s eyebrows raised. After the state in which the inquisitors had found him, he did not expect the Ennead to grant him leave of the Priory for some time. On the one hand, it frightened him to think of himself strolling about the Imperial City, knowing that the Beast lurked in the vast beyond. On the other hand, he longed for any sight not of the stone walls and floors within this labyrinthine edifice, lovely as it looked.
“Thank you, Your Reverencies.”
Aramanth spoke again, her voice gentle, as always. “I shall ask Sister Halleck to accompany you, as she has requested further audience with you. You are protected such that I don’t believe this entity remains a threat."
One can but pray.
“If, of course, you’ve no objection,” she added.
“I’ve no objection, Your Reverency.”
“You’re dismissed, Father.” Mallum’s light brown eyes glittered. She wore a costume of teal and purple this day. “Be well. Inform us at once if you’ve any troubles.”
Garron thanked them and departed, his eyes glassy with tears at the sensation that inched over him. So long had an anguish strangled and crippled his spirit, caused an aching in his throat and chest. So long had he suffered terrors and wept and endured vile ideations. These were gone. He felt reborn.
He did not hear Sister Halleck as she approached.
“Father?”
“Sister Halleck.” They met near the exit of the main vestibule, amidst cleaning machines which went about their usual duties, humming and chittering, brushing, sweeping, wiping. “I’ve been given leave of our Grand Priory. I’m off to the Aros Athenaeum. You’re more than welcome to escort me.” Why had they chosen this deacon, in particular, to follow him? She seemed amicable enough, at least.
“Gladly.” The corners of her mouth curled into a fond smile, revealing even, pearly teeth, the whitest he might ever have observed, save perhaps Archbishop Sangrey’s. Care of health in Aros had always been excellent. Further south, care existed in fair quality, but less so.
Manicured hedges, twice his height, bordered the path at the fore of the Priory. Outside of these were towering oak trees aligned in rows about fifteen feet apart from one another. Sister Halleck’s slender features slipped in and out of the light as the branches overhead broke the sun’s rays. A pleasantness permeated the day, cool instead of frigid, the clouds above, thin and scattered against a pale azure canvas.
The aptly-titled street, Commerce Lane, opened at the edge of Crescent Plaza, a large market named for its zoning arrangement similar to a crescent moon. Merchants of all stripes stood at the
ir vendor stations, framing the road at the right and left. Women, men, and children filled the space, conversing, shouting, laughing, browsing, buying. As Garron and Sister Halleck approached, most made way, on occasion acknowledging them by their titles. Many had probably learned his in gossip.
“Father,” a man said with a courteous tilt of the head.
“Sister,” a woman murmured, stepping aside.
The pair returned polite gestures as they continued forth.
Merchants selling fine wares littered the market, along with inquisitors, keeping the peace by their presence. There were tables and racks displaying dresses of fabrics in multi-hued variations, garments from jerkins to trousers, leather and metal accessories, jewelry including earrings, bangles, and amulets, encrusted with precious stones. Around these were farmers and graziers at their goods carts and tables.
“Melons, apples, oranges, and pears! Best anywhere this side of the Black Canal!” called a man.
A woman near the end of one row sold brined beef ribs, spiced slabs of pork, and live chickens, which clucked and cawed from cages at her right, marching in circles around their wire enclosures.
Garron and Sister Halleck emerged on the other side of the Crescent and turned down Ash Route. There were a few more merchants strewn about here. Shortly, timber and stone houses with wooden rooftops slipped in, standing two or three stories high, shadowing the walking paths below.
The Aros Athenaeum rose into view.
“How long have you been in the Empire?” he asked.
“We moved to Kordyr in my youth. Family of middling standing, if you wonder.”
He had not, yet. “Your parents?” Not dead, he hoped.
“Still in Kordyr. My father resides with his mother to aid in the care of his sisters. Mother lives comfortably and works as a writer in the showhouse.”
“An interesting profession.”
“She wished that I would follow in her footsteps and write. I had little interest in the art. My passion lay with theology and service to the Mother.”