Ironfoot ran past her into the den and attacked the piles of books on his desk.
"Prae Benesile was an Annwni scholar who was murdered in Blood of Arawn five years ago," he said, digging. "Before he died, he'd received a few visits from one Hy Pezho. Looking at Hy Pezho's plans, Prae Benesile is referenced more than once, but we had no idea why. I started to assume that Hy Pezho included the references to him just to confuse those who came after him."
"But you don't think that anymore."
"No. It didn't make sense. Why did Hy Pezho go so far out of his way to meet with this doddering old lunatic? Why did the Bel Zheret kill him during the Fall of Annwn?"
"And now you think you know?"
"I'm beginning to, yes." Ironfoot found the book he was looking for. It was Prae Benesile's Thaumatical History of the Chthonic Religion.
"I believe that the answer we're looking for is right here," he said.
"Do tell," said Sela.
Ironfoot opened the book and began paging through it. He was instantly reminded why he'd only glanced at it before now; it was a collection of incoherent ramblings, observations about history, religious maunderings. Though it claimed to be a "thaumatical" history, there was no formal thaumatics anywhere in it.
"Hm," said Ironfoot. "This may take a while."
The Temple of Bound Althoin was a towering, imposing heap of gray stone located in a once-fashionable part of the City Emerald. It was one of twelve Metropolitan Chthonic temples scattered throughout the known worlds. These were the focal points for the faith, each overseeing a large collection of smaller temples.
The Chthonics were a respectable old faith, but hardly relevant in modern Fae society. Even those who professed the faith tended to downplay it; many of its adherents acknowledged their gods with a wink, insinuating that theirs was more of an ancient tradition than a true belief. Weddings and funerals were often held in Chthonic temples because of their grandiose beauty. But attendance at holiday services, especially in the cities, had been in a slow decline for hundreds of years.
When Ironfoot entered the temple, its sanctuary was empty. Smoke from incense drifted lazily into the still, cool air. Light from pentagonal windows set high up in the circular space sent shafts of light through the smoke, intersecting in strange geometries.
The smoke from the incense burned Ironfoot's nostrils. It was part of the smell from Selafae, a distinct part of it, but not all of it.
Ironfoot stood at a railing looking down at the center altar, also five-sided, which was encircled by rows of pews. Above the altar hovered a glowing, multicolored object, suspended in space, about three feet in diameter. The cynosure. Directly beneath it was a wide brass bowl, a stylized alchemist's thurible.
Ironfoot made his way down a nearby aisle toward the altar. As he approached, he saw that the cynosure was a polyhedron, multifaceted, each face a pentagon. It spun slowly, its various facets casting moving smears of light in the dim room.
He stopped at the altar and examined the cynosure. It looked solid enough, not a glamour. A simple binding held it aloft; he didn't need Insight to tell him that. He channeled Insight into it anyway and found that the object was made of ceramic, hollow, but what was inside he couldn't determine because of the reitic resonances on it. Whatever the thing was, it had channeled plenty of re in its time. He couldn't remember having seen one like it at the wedding he'd attended, but that had been a long time ago.
"Are you Master Falores?" came a voice from the far side of the sanctuary. A priest about Ironfoot's age was coming down one of the aisles opposite him.
"That's right," said Ironfoot. "I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me."
"I am Guide Throen," the priest said, bowing. "I am properly addressed as Guide, if you wish to do me that honor."
"A pleasure," said Ironfoot. "Now, this is going to sound a bit odd, but I'm in a hurry, and I'm hoping we can skip courtesy and just get down to business."
"Any way I can help, although your sprite left me a bit confused. Are you here on behalf of the university, or on behalf of the Foreign Ministry?"
"Which will make you more forthcoming?"
Throen smiled. He had a serious look about him, though, that the smile didn't temper much. "Either way, I am at your service."
"Thank you," said Ironfoot. "I have some fairly in-depth questions about your cynosure here; I can't give you much of an explanation for that, but I can tell you that this is a matter of vital importance to the Crown."
Throen was nonplussed by this. "I'm not sure I understand."
"Just tell me about it, if you'd be so kind."
"The cynosure," he said slowly. "It is the central symbol of the Chthonic faith."
"Yes. But what is it for?"
Throen looked confused. "It is the mystical dodecahedron. Twelve faces, one for each of the bound gods. Five sides per face, one for each of earth, air, fire, water, and re. Twenty vertices to represent the twenty stations of repentance. Thirty vertices to represent the thirty virtues.
"It is placed on the altar during holiday services; one just ended about an hour ago. I was about to return it to its cabinet just before you arrived."
"It has some rather interesting reitic properties," said Ironfoot. "Can you tell me what it does?"
Throen faltered. "Its thaumatic aspect is designed to ... heighten the awareness of the faithful. Some herbs are burnt, a simple mnemonic recited. That is all."
He was holding something back. "Are you sure?" said Ironfoot. "Because I'm channeling Insight through it, and it seems a bit more complex than that."
"Why are you asking these questions?" said Throen, stiffening. "I'm glad to help the Crown, of course, but this is highly irregular."
Ironfoot wasn't sure how to proceed. It would have been a good idea, in retrospect, to have brought Sela along with him. "I don't mean any disrespect to you, Guide Throen, but I think there's more to your dodecahedron than you're telling me, and believe it or not, it may be the most important information you've ever dispensed, so please tell me the truth."
"Are you threatening me?" said Throen.
"No. But I very much need you to tell me the truth."
"These are the deepest mysteries of our faith," said Throen. "It's not the sort of thing one simply discusses with anyone who walks through the door."
"I'm not just anyone," said Ironfoot. "That's what I'm trying to tell you."
Throen thought briefly, uncertain. "Fine," he said. He reached into his robe and took out a small prayer book and a packet of herbs. "When the service begins, these herbs are burned in the thurible, along with a few drops of blood. The Guide's blood, that is. Mine. The herbs are a combination of things: some fairly common, others decidedly more rare. We read the incantations here." He opened the book to a well-thumbed page and indicated an incantation spelled out in angular runic High Fae script. "That activates the focusing charm."
"This incantation is just a call to a stored binding," said Ironfoot. "What does it actually do?"
Throen looked confused. "I've already told you; it focuses the reverence of the faithful."
Ironfoot held up the herbs and sniffed them. The smell, like that at Selafae. Missing only the added texture of burning blood. What did this mean?
"Do you even know what the stored bind does?" said Ironfoot.
"I'm not a thaumaturge," said Throen, beginning to lose his temper. "I'm a Guide. This is a sacred object, not a spellbox."
"I don't think you're going to like this," said Ironfoot. "But I've got to take your cynosure with me."
"That's impossible!" said Throen. "You can't simply come into this temple and walk off with our most sacred instruments! This is outrageous!"
Ironfoot reached for the cynosure, removing its Motion enclosure with a flick of his wrist. The thing fell into his hands; it was much heavier than it looked.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I truly am, but-"
Throen flung himself at Ironfoot. "Get your hands off of it!" he
shouted. "You are desecrating it!"
Throen grabbed at the cynosure and pulled; he was stronger than he had any right to be. Ironfoot pulled back. Throen's face was red; he was grunting.
Suddenly Ironfoot was struck by the absurdity of what was happening. Here he was, in a church, fighting with a priest over a holy relic as if it were a game ball. He almost laughed, but before he did, Throen shoved him hard, knocking him off the altar dais and slamming him into the first row of pews. The sound of the impact echoed like a cannon shot in the huge sanctuary. Throen was still on him, still pulling at the cynosure as if his life depended on it.
"Let go!" he shouted.
Ironfoot winced and pulled as hard as he could, throwing all of his Shadow strength into the motion. The cynosure came free of Throen's grasp, and Throen fell to the floor.
Ironfoot took the thing and ran.
"You will pay for this obscenity!" Throen shouted. "The Church will sue the Foreign Ministry for this!"
"Tell them to go after a Lord Everess," said Ironfoot over his shoulder. "He's the one they want."
A little later, Ironfoot and Silverdun were in the mission room, huddled over the cynosure. Sela sat on a nearby table, watching.
"Right here," said Ironfoot. "Separate it along this edge." Ironfoot was getting impatient. He was on to something and he knew it. He watched Silverdun channel Elements carefully into the ceramic enclosure of the object, splitting it open.
"Careful," he said.
"You mentioned," said Silverdun. "I'm being as careful as I can. If you think you can do better, by all means be my guest."
Ironfoot looked up to see Pact coming down the steps.
"What are you two doing?" said Pact. "We've got work to do."
"Ironfoot's decided to set off a holy war," said Silverdun. "So we're boldly desecrating a holy artifact. You might want to let Everess know that if we all survive the next week, he's going to get a very unpleasant visit from the Synod of Chthonic Bishops."
"Careful, Silverdun!" snapped Ironfoot.
"Wonderful," said Pact. "And where did we get this artifact?"
"Ironfoot beat up a priest in a Chthonic temple and stole it," said Silverdun.
"May I ask why?"
"Remember our report from our first visit to Annwn?" asked Ironfoot, looking up. "When we spoke to Prae Benesile's son, he told us that Hy Pezho stole something from Prae Benesile. A box. The son didn't know what was in it, but I'm almost certain that it was one of these-a Chthonic cynosure."
"What good would it have done him?" asked Paet.
"If this relic does what I think it does, it may be the very secret to the Einswrath," said Ironfoot. "Under better circumstances, this would be the discovery of a career."
"Well, get on with it then," said Paet. "And Ironfoot, I don't need a thesis. I just need a way to stop the damn thing."
"I'll write the monograph later," said Ironfoot.
Paet went into his office and shut the door.
Silverdun finished the cut, and Ironfoot removed the ceramic casing. Inside was one of the most complex thaumatic mechanisms he'd ever seen. Tiny plates of solid gold and silver sandwiched together, inscribed with minuscule runes and lines of force. Diamonds were set into these lines. They were probably reitic capacitors of some kind.
"This is unbelievable," said Ironfoot. "I've never seen anything like it."
"What is it?" said Silverdun.
"I'm not entirely sure," said Ironfoot. He pointed to one of the leaves of gold. "Look at this. It's a force binding. And this is ... no, that's not possible."
"What's not possible?"
Silverdun looked closer. "This bit here," said Ironfoot. "What does that look like to you?"
Silverdun shrugged. "It looks like ancient High Fae that I was never particularly good at deciphering."
"It's the binding for a fold," said Ironfoot. "This thing channels Folding."
"That's ridiculous," said Silverdun. "Only Masters of the Gates can fold, and it takes years of training. No priest could channel anything useful into something that small."
"What are you two talking about?" asked Sela.
"The Gift of Folding," said Silverdun. "It's what powers the locks to travel between worlds. It allows objects and energy to pass through the folded spaces."
"But the Gift is extraordinarily rare," said Ironfoot. "Almost no one has it, and those that do are immediately snapped up by the Masters of the Gates."
"And look here," said Ironfoot, pointing again. "These figures specify the target for a translation." He paused. "I think."
Ironfoot separated a few more of the thin leaves from the device. At the center was a tiny mesh of silver, of threads so narrow that they were barely visible.
"And what is that?" asked Silverdun.
Ironfoot channeled Insight into the mesh. He couldn't believe what he saw there. It was the same sensation he'd gotten when Lin Vo had responded to Timha's attack. The same impossible, unchanneled essence. The music without pitch. Division by zero.
"Well?" said Silverdun.
"It's undifferentiated essence," said Ironfoot.
"The Thirteenth Gift," said Silverdun.
"It's not a Gift," said Ironfoot. "It's beyond Gifts. It makes the Gifts obsolete."
"So?" said Sela. "What does it mean?"
"I have an idea," said Ironfoot. He'd never been more excited in his life. What Lin Vo had said to him in the Arami camp was beginning to make sense. You're all going to have to learn how to think things anew.
"Give me a little time," he said. "I think I understand. Everything."
A little time turned out to be almost a full day. Ironfoot worked without stopping, writing notes and equations, muttering to himself, shouting, sometimes hurling things. He was so close! Everything was coming together: the map, Hy Pezho's falsified plans, the cynosure. He now understood how Hy Pezho had sent the Unseelie thaumaturges in circles. He'd simply removed all reference to the Thirteenth Gift, knowing that none of them would ever suspect its use. How could they? Almost nobody had ever heard of it, and those who had didn't believe that it existed.
A few times, Silverdun or Sela or Paet would approach, questioning looks in their eyes, and Ironfoot would wave them away, sometimes gruffly, sometimes angrily. He needed to be alone. It would take as long as it took.
Finally he had it. He checked and rechecked his figures. Translated the etchings on the gold and silver plates twice, three times. Reread every word of Prae Benesile's Chthonic history. Now that he knew what the hell Benesile was talking about, the book was practically a reference guide. Benesile's problem had not been that he was a lunatic; quite the contrary. He'd been so brilliant that he'd assumed too much from his readership, hadn't bothered explaining what to him had seemed obvious. There were no equations in the book because Benesile had believed them to be implied.
It was as though a great weight had been removed from his shoulders. The tension of this one problem had been pressing down on him for the better part of a year, coloring everything he'd done and thought and said ever since he'd returned to Queensbridge from Selafae. It had hung like a vulture over his head the entire time he'd been a Shadow, watching him, waiting for him, until he thought he might go insane.
And now it was over.
He called Silverdun, Sela, and Paet into the mission room.
"Do you have some news for us?" asked Silverdun. "Or have you called us in to let us know that you have indeed gone stark, raving mad?"
"I know where Hy Pezho is getting the power for the Einswrath," he said. "The problem I could never understand is how he was able to condense so much re into such a small space. There's no way of doing it, and no way of binding it once it's done. And Hy Pezho must have sent the Unseelie thaumaturges who came after him into even worse fits than mine because he included every bit of instruction on how to create the Einswrath except for the one small bit of information that is the entire secret of his creation."
Ironfoot held up the ceramic
casing of the cynosure. "This relic is old. How old, I don't know. A thousand years? Two thousand? Ten? There's no way of knowing, and I'm not a history buff, but I think it's safe to say that this thing I'm holding in my hand has been in constant use for millennia."
"Doing what?" asked Silverdun.
"Taking in the re of Chthonic worshippers. Their spiritual devotion is focused onto this during their most private holiday services, those for believers only. In Benesile's book he describes the intensity of these rituals. On the outside, the Chthonics may seem like a fairly lackluster bunch, but these ceremonies are grueling affairs, lasting hours. There's a set of incantations that's said, some herbs that are burned, and it has the effect of drawing out the essence from everyone in the room and focusing it on the cynosure."
Midwinter 02: The Office of Shadow Page 39