“That is Yochenath, High Overshepherd of this Cathedra,” whispered Anacrysis. “He is the one you need to speak to.”
Trielle began to walk forward, but Anacrysis laid a restraining hand on her shoulder.
“Not yet,” he whispered. “For now, you must observe, and perhaps understand.”
Trielle watched as Yochenath swiftly ascended the dais, raised his hands, and began to sing. A few moments later the congregation joined in and the space was filled with a soaring melody infused with beauty that Trielle had never before known. Like the prayer spoken by Tseramed when he had summoned Anacrysis, the language of the song was similar enough to her own that she could make out many of the words, although their meaning was often barely comprehensible to her.
“World without end…”
“Light from Light…”
“Begotten, not made…”
The phrases were strange and evocative, unlike anything she had heard before in the Conclave. Their very structure seemed archaic, as if lifted from ancient modes of thought beyond her understanding.
“The song invokes the presence of He Who Is,” whispered Anacrysis in response to her bewildered expression. “They rehearse the stories of His great deeds in Phaneros.”
“Like what Xellasmos showed us?” asked Trielle.
“Those, and others,” said Anacrysis cryptically.
The song was followed by a responsive chant, and as the words flowed back and forth Trielle realized that she was viewing the reenactment of a conversation that had taken place aeons ago, an exchange of such importance to the Sur Ekklesia that its memory had been preserved in this shared ritual. Then a flicker of movement caught her eye and she turned to see a white-robed figure enter the Cathedra bearing a golden plate and chalice in his hands. The congregation ceased chanting and stood in silence as the figure ascended the dais and placed the vessels on the altar. Yochenath approached the golden vessels, raised his hands skyward, and cried out in a loud voice that seemed as if it might shatter the glass walls of the Cathedra with its power. Although he still spoke in the archaic language of the song one phrase stood out with crystal clarity, though she could not begin to fathom its meaning.
“Anacrysis,” she whispered with a frown, “did he say ‘sacrificed for us’?”
“Indeed he did,” said Anacrysis with a smile.
“Who is he talking about?” asked Trielle. “Who was sacrificed?”
Anacrysis paused for a moment.
“He Who Is,” he said finally. “He Who Is was sacrificed for us.”
“But I thought you and Xellasmos said that He Who Is was the source of the cosmos?” asked Trielle, her mind reeling.
“So we did.”
“Then how could He sacrifice Himself?” she whispered. “I don’t understand!”
“None of us do,” answered Anacrysis simply, “and yet it is the foundation of all things. Even now, even here, He gives himself for us.” Anacrysis thought for moment, and then added, “Perhaps this truth is better seen than heard. Prepare yourself, for I am going to show you a mystery.” All at once his wings folded about Trielle and she felt a sudden lurch as they lifted free from the cosmos.
Hovering just above the frosted crystalline surface of Phaneros’ world-shell, Anacrysis and Trielle could still see the ceremony within the Cathedra as it unfolded. Yochenath was now holding up a white disk of what looked like bread in one hand and the golden goblet in the other. Although she could not hear his words, she could see the joy in his eyes as he lifted these elements to the heavens. Then she felt Anacrysis’ warm hand on her shoulder.
“Behold, Trielle, He comes.”
Trielle looked upward and saw the cosmic mountain, the stars that formed its substance sparkling like ice in the morning light. She saw the worlds nestled in its slopes, each a crystal sphere that pulsed with life and light. She also saw the shadow, a great serpentine mass of darkness and fog that writhed and twisted up the sides of the mountain in its attempt to strangle creation. But above all, she saw Him.
Far above, at the mountain’s burning peak, stood a figure that shone like the noonday sun. He was surrounded by rainbows as green as emerald, and in his hand he held a bright star. Then the figure raised his arm and a beam of brilliance stabbed downward from the star like a bar of solid light, transfixing the worlds below with its power. It surged through the crystal spheres one by one, each grabbing hold of and magnifying it as a lens magnifies the rays of the sun, until at last it reached Phaneros.
Even within the protective shell of Anacrysis’ wings Trielle could feel its heat, and she reflexively she raised her hands. But they did nothing to impede the brilliance, and with wide eyes she watched as the burning light shone through her flesh as if it were a mist.
“It’s as if this light is more real than I am,” she murmured.
“Indeed it is,” said Anacrysis. “It is the life of He Who Is, the Eternal One.”
The beam poured through the word-shell beneath them in a mighty cataract, falling on the bread and cup held in Yochenath’s hands and inflaming them with its power. A few moments later the torrent ceased. Trielle watched as Yochenath set the cup down and broke the bread, the light still burning within them. One by one the congregation came forward, and as the ate the bread and drank from the cup the fiery light entered into their bodies, flashing through their arteries and veins, filling each of their cells with new strength.
Trielle turned to Anacrysis, an expression of awe and fear on her face.
“Come,” said Anacrysis gently, “You have seen enough.”
There was a sense of downward movement and a brief shudder as they breached the world-shell. Then the golden sphere of his wings unfolded and they were back in the Cathedra.
Though there was more to the service, Trielle could not pay attention. Over and over again she wrestled with the implications of what she had just witnessed, at last surrendering in the face of realities much greater than herself. When her focus at last returned to the world around her, she was surprised to learn that the ceremony had ended and the last attendees were in the process of filing our. A few moments later the Cathedra was empty save for Yochenath, who was carefully cleaning the altar vessels.
“Yochenath,” called Anacrysis.
The robed figure stopped and lifted his head.
“I have someone here that you must meet.” Anacrysis paused for a moment before adding, “The time of the Canticle appears to be at hand.”
Setting the vessels down on the altar, Yochenath stepped down from the dais and walked swiftly toward them, proffering his hand in a gesture of greeting.
“Good day miss…” His voice trailed off.
“Trielle. My name is Trielle,” she replied.
“Thank you,” he said, then gestured toward Anacrysis. “I see that you travel in exalted company.”
“You flatter me,” Anacrysis said with a laugh, “but come, greater matters await.”
“Yes, yes,” said Yochenath dismissively. “You mentioned the Canticle, yet I seem to recall that we have trod this path before. You Anastasi always seem to think so… cosmically…”
“You say this after conducting the supper?” said Anacrysis with an air of feigned incredulity. “Surely there is nothing so cosmic as that? Tell me Trielle,” he said, suddenly turning to face her, “what were your thoughts on what you witnessed?”
Trielle‘s eyes widened at her sudden forced entrance into the conversation. Unsure of what to say, she opened her mouth to speak in the hope that the right phrase would come out, but before she could utter a word Yochenath laughed and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Our apologies,” he said gently. “I have known Anacrysis my whole life. I find it difficult to have close friends in my current position, and his encouragement has always been a source of strength to me. Still,” he added, “there have been many times over the past millennia that the Canticle has been invoked to explain this or that occurrence in the Conclave, yet this has never pro
ven to be the case. I am curious as to what makes this time different.”
As he spoke, Trielle could hear the skepticism in his tone. Yet beneath this, an occasional flash of eagerness surreptitiously crept through.
Anacrysis turned to Trielle, all traces of levity gone from his face.
“Trielle, tell him about Garin and your father.”
Trielle took a deep breath and began. At Anacrysis’ encouragement she spoke slowly so as not to leave out any details, and as her tale unfolded the faint online of a smile began to grow on Yochenath’s face. Twice Yochenath stopped her for clarification, his evident satisfaction growing with each answered question. When at last she finished, Yochenath raised his hands skyward and cried out in jubilation.
“Glory! The time is near! The end of the siege of the Sur Ekklesia is at hand!”
Abruptly his head snapped back downward, his piercing eyes focused intently on Trielle’s face.
“Child,” he said. “You have told me your story, now I will tell you one in return. It begins a little more than a thousand years ago by your reckoning. At that time a great empire spanned the galaxy that then was, ruled by He Who Is, Son of He Who Is.”
“I know of the empire that was,” said Trielle softly.
“Then you also know of the Conclave’s rise and the war that they began with the people of the Dar,” said Yochenath.
Trielle nodded.
“The events I will relate to you occurred three months before the final battle,” continued Yochenath, “at what would turn out to be the last gathering of the Seven Shepherds of the Dar.”
Trielle’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“I apologize,” he said in response. “I have lived so long in this vale it is easy to forget that the children of the Conclave know nothing of these things. The seven shepherds were the highest leaders of the empire, although empire is really the wrong word for what the Dar represented. Kingdom is a much better choice. Regardless, each shepherd oversaw the administration of one of the galaxy’s spiral arms, ruling from their seats in the seven great Cathedra. This building,” he added with a sigh, “is the only Cathedra left.”
Yochenath’s sadness at this prospect was palpable, and Trielle bowed her head in a gesture of respect. After a long pause, Yochenath continued.
“Even then it was clear that the weapons of the Conclave were having deleterious effects on space-time. Already the outer fringes of the galaxy were unravelling and the Conclave had begun herding its worlds toward the galactic core, leaving the worlds of the Dar to be swept up in the cataclysm. The seven shepherds gathered on Urien, the fourth world of the star Xecrux in the Sagittarius arm of the galaxy. The system was far from the primary battlefronts and the shepherds hoped they could meet there undisturbed. For seven days they prepared for their deliberations, seven days of fasting, prayer, and worship. They spoke to none, not even each other, as they sank deeply into the realm of the spirit, awaiting the word of He Who Is. But on the eve of the last day, the forces of the Conclave attacked.”
“They seemed to come out of nowhere. One moment the skies were clear and in the next they were filled with shrieking trails of fire as a battalion of stellar dreadnoughts rained white-hot plasma on the planet. Four of the shepherds were killed outright in the attack, but the rest managed to flee deep underground into the network of tunnels and catacombs that riddled the Urien’s crust.”
“It is not the first time that the Ekklesia has been forced to gather in the catacombs,” mused Anacrysis.
“Indeed,” said Yochenath. “And like many of those ancient men and women, it is only through what they have written and passed down to us that we know of their deeds. In this case, only one shepherd survived in the end. Wounded in the final assault and taken prisoner onboard the dreadnaught Achamoth, he knew that he was soon to die and recorded a testament of their final moments. Miraculously, the ship’s surgeon was sympathetic to the Dar and carried his manuscript to safety. It is known by the Sur Ekklesia as the Book of Utohu, and is the last of the scriptures written during the Philosoph war. Many years ago it was given to my predecessor for safekeeping, and he, in turn, gave it to me. Come, I will show you.”
Yochenath led them from the dais to a small door set in the rear wall of the Cathedra. Reaching into his robes, he removed a silver key, unlocked the door, and motioned for Trielle and Anacrysis to follow. Beyond the door was a narrow passageway with walls of polished marble and high, narrow windows. The floor seemed level at first, but as they proceeded it began to slope sharply downward. Soon the windows, vanished and the smooth marble gave way to rough-hewn bedrock. As they walked onward, Trielle idly ran her hand across the cold pitted stone, and wondered just how deep their destination lay beneath the planet’s surface. At last the passage ended at a round antechamber lit by a single luminous globe suspended from the ceiling by a chain. Twelve stone doors lined the chamber’s walls, each engraved with a different symbol.
“Beyond these doors are the Archives of the Sur Ekklesia,” explained Yochenath. “All of our most sacred artifacts have been stored here against the day of our release.”
Yochenath led them to a door with the image of an open book etched into its surface. It opened at the touch of his hand. Beyond it lay a small room containing nine lecterns, each bearing an ancient-looking book. Some of the books were massive tomes, ornately bound with clasps of gleaming metal. Others were thin folios only partially protected by their time-worn leather covers. But of all the books one stood out. Little more than a sheaf of brittle yellow papers, it looked as if it might fall apart at the slightest disturbance. Although the lectern bore no labels, Trielle somehow knew that this was the Book of Utohu.
Yochenath reverently approached the lectern, unbound the papers, and began to search through them. He moved carefully, scanning each page and then gently setting it to the side. A few moments later he found what he was looking for. He glanced up at Trielle, as if giving a silent command to listen, then placed his finger on a line of script near the top of the page and began to read.
For eight long nights we were sealed in the abyssal chapel of Dar-Em-Rhiolta with no food and little water. Still, the chapel was close enough to Urien’s core that the planet’s inner fires kept us warm. It was a small blessing, but one for which we were profoundly grateful. Each day the sound of explosions grew louder, and each day our fear grew that we would soon be discovered. But we had not forgotten the purpose of our gathering and desired that our time together, if it were to be our last, would not have been spent in vain. It was with this prayer in our hearts that we entered worship, and the answer it received exceeded our greatest expectations.
It came as we laid prostrate in meditation. One moment all was darkness and silence, and in the next the chapel was filled with brightness. What happened then was little short of a miracle. One by one we rose to our feet as words came to our lips, words not of our own making that burned and smouldered in our souls long thereafter. These words I give to you now.
And it came to pass
As he stood at the end of all things,
That he saw all that is
In a grain of sand:
The world, and the seed of its desecration.
How with a million others its tale was set for nought;
Its grammar shorn of meaning.
Though the fractured virtue of the high places
Still strove beneath it yet;
The harrowing of the Pit.
A grain of sand
Glistening in the sun of the last day,
A rose wet with the final morning’s dew,
A road splashed with drops of blood,
Ascending the mount of stars.
From the brink of holocaust he trod the path,
The skies a pavement to his feet,
To plead with the riven heart of the usurped king
That the fires of night be quenched
And the morning come one more day.
And with those words came a rev
elation, a vision of an age of exile wherein the Dar Ekklesia would suffer in bondage to the powers of the Conclave. Yet at the end of this time a child would arise from the darkened spheres, one who would ascend to the heights of creation and there be given power to speak and call the peoples of the Conclave back to their true place in the light.
“We call it the Canticle of the Last Morning,” said Yochenath as he looked up from the text, “and ever since the fall of the Dar Ekklesia, and the beginning of our imprisonment, it has been looked to as a source of hope.”
“But what does it mean?” asked Trielle in confusion.
“Literature of this nature often admits for multiple meanings,” admitted Yochenath, “and this passage is particularly difficult. Still, our philosophers have agreed on some basic themes. Look here.”
Yochenath pointed to a series of places on the page and Trielle’s eyes narrowed as she tried to read the words. The script was ornate, and the letters cramped and tiny, but surprisingly she was able to make out most of them.”
“Sand, tale, virtue?” Trielle looked up at Yochenath in confusion. “But those are just metaphors, aren’t they?”
“Perhaps to you,” said Yochenath, “but to a philosopher who has devoted his life to the study of ultimate things, these words carry great significance. You see, for aeons men have debated about how reality is ultimately structured. Many theories have been proposed and many discarded, but one venerable approach sees a fourfold order to the causation of events in our world. Consider the lectern on which this book sits. Of what material is it made?”
“Wood,” answered Trielle.
“Correct,” said Yochenath. “Now, how did it come into being? How was it made?”
The Sovereign Road Page 27