The Sovereign Road

by Aaron Calhoun

  “It is not often that a child of the lower worlds visits the City Imperishable,” said Malkuth with an almost apologetic tone. “Do not fear. The Malakim are curious, nothing more.”

  “It’s alright,” said Garin. “I’m not afraid.”

  And in truth he wasn’t. Indeed, it was difficult to feel anything other than awe in this place. It was as if he walked in a vision of light, a dream that he wished never to wake from.

  The colonnade at last ended at the gates of a diamond palace that soared to impossible heights. From the topmost point of the palace rose an emerald thread that spiraled higher still before vanishing into the rosy brightness above like a staircase to infinity. The gates were open.

  Crossing the threshold, they entered a grand hallway with ceilings so high that they were covered in clouds. Light shone from every surface and mingled with the mists above to fill the air with a myriad of rainbows that spanned the walls like arches. The hall led to a vast chamber paved with diamond and chrysoprase. In the center of the chamber was a raised dais on which sat thirteen thrones, all but two occupied by beings similar to Malkuth (though with differently colored breastplates). The twelfth was empty and the thirteenth was charred and cracked, as if it had been blasted by lightning. In the center of the dais stood a golden plinth on which rested an obscure object the size of Garin’s fist. Then a bright flash of unearthly radiance drew his attention, and he looked beyond the dais to see two additional thrones of titanic size. Set against the back wall of the chamber, these were occupied by beings of such glory and strangeness that Garin’s mind could not arrange their appearance into a coherent image. The very attempt made him dizzy, and Garin closed his eyes momentarily to regain his bearings. When he opened them again, he saw that Malkuth had ascended the dais and taken a seat on the twelfth throne. Unsure what to do in the presence of such majesty, Garin knelt, his face downward.

  “Do not kneel to us, son of the lowest world,” said a deep voice. “Though our might dwarfs yours as a galaxy dwarfs an insect, we are fellow creatures like yourself. Only One deserves such honor.”

  Garin lifted his head and saw that one of the beings was now standing. His breastplate was of lapis lazuli and his miter was wreathed with a crown of stars. The being’s hand was outstretched, as if beckoning Garin forward.

  “Come forward, child of the low worlds, we would speak with you. I am Keter, the crown of life, known also Zeodotes and Chavath.”

  Trembling, Garin rose to his feet and ascended the dais. As he neared the object in the golden stand he saw that it was a glassy sphere containing an intricate cubic pattern. He recognized it almost immediately.

  “Is that the Cube of Cubes?” he asked, his fear vanishing as curiosity took hold.

  “Indeed, son of the low worlds. You stand before the eidolon of the great cube, or perhaps it is better to consider the world below the eidolon and this the reality.”

  Garin approached the artifact closer, and noted that a part of it near the center seemed fractured.

  “The flaw that you gaze at is the effect of Daath’s rebellion on the structure of the cube,” said Keter. “Into its perfect light he introduced a fragment of darkness and absurdity, and for that his place among the Two and Twelve was forfeit.” As he spoke, Keter gestured to the shattered thirteenth throne.

  Garin considered this for a moment. “Standing in the glory of this chamber, the fracture seems such a small thing.”

  “How could it be otherwise?” spoke a feminine voice. Turning from the cube, Garin watched as another of the beings approached them. Her breastplate was of shining platinum covered with the stylized images of burning candles, and her miter was topped with a seven-branched candlestick that burned with brilliant flames. “Creation’s wound runs deep, but its wholeness runs deeper still, for without the wholeness what would remain to be wounded? The Joy of Creation will not be bound to those who wish to live in hate and sorrow, and the Music of the Cosmos cannot be silenced by those who refuse to sing.”

  Garin was silent for a moment. “And yet, from within, it seems a thing of great power. I have been in Daath’s domain and seen the dark spheres in which he has bound the souls of those in his grasp.”

  “You misunderstand what you see,” said Keter. “Daath has not the power to capture and bind souls. No, those who follow him are bound only by their own refusal to turn their faces toward the light and ask for deliverance. And yet they do not and will not. The hell-spheres are locked from within.”

  “You yourself know this,” said the female being, whom Garin at last recognized as Tifereth, “for you called for such deliverance in the domain of my brother Gevurah, who is also called Rhadamanthos. There you confessed and turned from your part in the shadow. You were willing to lose your life and instead received it back again as a pure gift, both there and at the edge of the Abyss.”

  “But what, then, of Kyr?” asked Garin. “He delivered me, but who will deliver him.”

  This provoked a hearty laugh from Tifereth.

  “He who is Creation’s song, the Eternal Son of He Who is, needs no deliverance,” said Tifereth with a smile, “for it is He that delivers all things from their bondage to darkness. It is Holy Saturday, and even now he descends to the deepest pits of Tehom to free his Beloved from chains of death and chaos. All moments of redeeming are included in this one act that transcends the worlds themselves. When a soul from the wounded spheres looks toward the light and cries out for help, it is His hand that saves.”

  As Tifereth spoke a great bell sounded, deep and rich. The twelve dropped to their knees in worship and the two incomprehensible beings enthroned behind the dais cried out in unison with such power that it seemed the foundations of the diamond palace would crack.

  “THE MIDNIGHT OF CREATION HAS PASSED. THE DAWN SOON ARRIVES. CHILD OF THE LOW WORLDS, ASCEND NOW TO THE CRYSTAL ROSE ABOVE ALL CREATED POWERS. HE RISES! HE RISES!”

  Keter arose and looked at Garin. “The time has come. Ascend now even as Metatron and Sandalphon have entreated you.”

  “I do not understand,” said Garin.

  “Above the City Imperishable stands the Cosmic Rose,” explained Keter. “There rests the souls of the Kal Ekklesia, those who have died awaiting the coming of their deliverer. It is they that we were created to uphold, and it is they that Daath has rejected in his rebellion, for they were meant to increase and we to decrease. At the far side of this throne room is a door that leads to the Garden of Souls, the place in which this rose is planted. Go there, quickly.”

  As if in response to Keter’s words, a low rumbling sound filled the chamber, and an impossibly tall sliver of light appeared on the wall between Metatron and Sandalphon’s immense thrones.

  “I thank you, Arethoi, for assisting me as I traversed the Cube of Cubes,” Garin said with a deep bow.

  “It is our priviledge and joy, for within our realms we witnessed you awaken in the Beloved,” Tifereth said. “Now go, there is not long to wait now.”

  As Garin descended the dais and walked toward the back of the throne room, he saw that the sliver of light was emanating from an open door. Countless stories tall, it was only wide enough for one man. As Garin approached the door, he stole a quick glance at the figures of Metatron and Sandalphon, and was again overwhelmed as his mind fought to comprehend the sheer otherness of what he saw.

  Wheels within wheels made of unearthly metal…

  Hundreds of unblinking eyes, each filled with lightning…

  Vortexes of flame surrounded by rustling silver-white rings in endless concentric circles…

  “YOU ARE UNABLE TO COMPREHEND OUR VASTNESS, AND RIGHTLY SO,” said one of the beings (he could not tell which). “YET IN ANOTHER, FAR GREATER, WAY, IT IS WE THAT CANNOT COMPREHEND YOU: A CREATURE SMALLER THAN DUST, YET BELOVED ENOUGH BY THE LORD OF ALL BEING FOR HIM TO OFFER THE INFINITE DEPTHS OF HIS LIFE IN SACRIFICE. TRULY BLESSED, OUT OF ALL THRONES, POWERS, AND DOMINIONS, IS THE EKKLESIA.”

  Unable to frame an answer in res
ponse, Garin nodded and proceeded through the door. At first all was blinding light, but as his eyes adjusted to the brilliance he saw that he stood in a circular courtyard surrounded by ramparts of crystal. The ground of the courtyard was covered by a dark soil-like material that sparkled and flashed. Garin knelt down and scooped up the substance in his hands, and laughed in wonder as millions of tiny black diamonds coursed between his fingers. In the center of the courtyard was a great well, the bottom of which was lost in darkness far below. To the side of the well, a stem of emerald thicker than a tree trunk rose from the diamond soil and spiraled upward into the pink haze of the sky. Leaves of translucent jade, wider than Garin was tall, sprung from the stem at irregular intervals guarded by thorns as sharp as glass daggers. Garin approached the base of the stem and saw that a staircase had been carved into its upper surface. His path clear, he began to climb.

  The ascent seemed eternal, the stem circling round and round like an endless spiral helix rising to unknown heights. Soon he had risen above the highest spires of the diamond palace of the Arethoi, and he could see the entire City Imperishable spread beneath him like a shining diadem. Above, the rosy haze that he had seen from the streets beneath began to gradually come into focus, at last resolving into a vast expanse of softly curving petals that extended to the furthest extent of his vision. Then the stem expanded into a profusion of glittering leaves. Here the staircase abruptly turned, diving within the glassy foliage before continuing upward between the roots of the vast petals. At last he climbed the final flight, and as the gleaming walls fell away Garin gasped in awe at the sight before him.

  He stood upon a broad glassy plateau in the heart of a rose that dwarfed the city below in size. Row upon row of softly luminous petals stretched upward in gentle curves like the tiers of a mighty amphitheater beneath a dark blue sky. Each was covered with countless seats seemingly grown from their crystalline surfaces. At first Garin thought the seats were empty, but he soon realized that each contained the translucent form of a man, woman, or other sentient creature. Bright spirits like winged flames moved swiftly up and down each petal, ministering to the forms.

  Garin walked to the edge of the plateau and approached the ghosts (for so he had come to think of them) on the nearest petal. The translucent beings regarded him intently, slowly lifting their hands in a gesture of greeting. Though their forms were weak, Garin could see the vitality and memory that burned in their eyes, and he realized that in some ways they were more alive than many who dwelt in the Conclave. Still, their evident frailty troubled him. It seemed almost inconceivable that such creatures stood higher in the order of creation than mighty beings like Metatron and Saldalphon.

  “These are the souls of those who have died in faith. Here in the Cosmic Rose of the Kal Ekklesia they rest as they await a better world and a better resurrection.”

  The voice was both strong and feminine. Startled, Garin turned toward it and saw a semicircle of thrones near the plateau’s center surrounding a well similar to the one in the garden below. The thrones were carved of jasper and carnelian, and upon them sat men and women drawn from all races and species of the Conclave. These figures were far more solid in appearance than the ghosts, but a strange, almost luminous, quality seemed to hover about their faces, like moonlight shining in a clear sky. Then Garin noticed that one of the figures, a woman clothed in white and blue robes, had risen from her throne and was walking toward him. The woman reached out her hand as she drew near, and to his own surprise Garin reflexively took it and kissed it in a gesture of tender affection.

  “I am called Mater Marya,” she said gently, and Garin knew then it was she that had spoken.

  Her skin was an endless network of wrinkles, an ancient visage apparently millennia in age. Yet despite this she seemed to radiate an almost palpable aura of liveliness.

  “I am Garin, of Phaneros,” he replied.

  “Oh, my grandchildren and I know you well, Garin,” said Mater Marya. “We have watched your journey from our ancient homeworlds with great joy, and are thankful that you at last walk among us. Ever you have been in the prayers and supplications of the Fathers and Mothers, and the countless hosts of the Arethoi have long anticipated your coming.”

  “So then what I was told by the Arethoi was true,” he mused. “The great ones I have walked amongst beneath were created to serve us.”

  “Why, yes,” said Mater Marya with faint surprise, “but we would not say it like that. It is true that the highest calling of the Arethoi is to uphold and serve the creatures of the low worlds, but only so that we may in turn uphold and serve He Who Is. And even He has not exempted himself from this pattern, for it lies at the heart of His nature. So it is that He Himself became a servant for our sake,” said Mater Marya. As she spoke those words, Mater Marya’s eyes grew misty with tears, as if remembering a time from long ago. After a few moments she wiped her eyes and continued.

  “You have seen the flame-spirits that dart amongst the ghosts. Those are the ministers of the Arethoi, sent to succor us until the time of re-enfleshment is at hand. For aeons they have served us in our vigil, but we do not have long to wait now, not long at all. Now come, there is one last thing that we must do before the moment of ascension.”

  Mater Marya led Garin to the foot of the thrones, then raised her head and called out in a loud, clear voice.

  “Fathers and Mothers, Blessed of the Races, Heart of the Beloved, the last of our number has come. He is Garin of Scintillus, soon to be anointed prophet to a dying world. Love Him, my brothers and sisters, for he is the last, and after him comes the Apocatastasis.”

  The words struck Garin with the force of hammer blows. Suddenly he realized that the entire company seated there was staring intently at him, waiting for him to speak. Garin’s mouth was dry. He did not know what to say.

  “I am sorry,” he said finally. “I have travelled the Sovereign Road from Phaneros in order to see the truth of things, for I have always been taught that nothing existed beyond our cosmos and that all would soon dissolve back into the void. I am thankful that this is wrong, and have learned much. But… I know nothing of being a prophet.”

  “Boy,” said a wizened old man who sat in the throne nearest Garin. “What makes you think any of us knew what we were doing either? I too was called as a child, and spent most of my life living in the desert places of the world once called Sha-Ka-Ri, preparing the way of my master, and I dare say my mission was successful. Yet at no time did I ever know what I was doing.” Then his voice softened. “It is not your knowledge He requires, child. Indeed, He does not often choose those with knowledge, power, strength or wisdom to carry His words, but instead chooses the foolish to shame the wise and the weak to defeat the strong. Besides,” he added after a brief pause, “we have saved this throne for you for the past ten thousand years. Would you have us waste it?”

  As he spoke, he gestured to his right, and Garin turned to see an unoccupied throne near the end of the semicircle. As if in a daze, Garin walked slowly toward it and placed his hand on its softly gleaming surface.

  “It’s warm,” he murmured.

  “It is not for you to be seated there yet, child,” chided Mater Marya softly, “for you are not yet anointed, and have yet to face the trials you must endure in the worlds below.”

  Then a soft susurrus filled Garin’s ears. It was a sound unlike any he had heard before, as if ten thousand times ten thousand voices were whispering together in eager anticipation, and he turned to see waves of excitement rushing like wind through the ghosts seated upon the petals of the rose. Suddenly the fire-spirits leapt skyward, wheeling through the heavens in concentric rings of living glory, and a soft light like the first gleam of the sun in the morning sky began to shine from the well. With joy on their faces, the seated Mothers and Fathers rose in unison and gathered about its rim.

  “Join us at the Well of Eternity,” said Mater Marya, her hand extended toward Garin in a beckoning gesture. “Join us as we greet the da
wn.”

  “What is happening?” asked Garin in confusion.

  “Why, surely you know,” she laughed. “His long battle in Tehom is almost ended and the one you call Kyr rises from the deep to make all things new. Now come! Come and see the victory of my son!”

  A smile on his face, Garin walked with Mater Marya to the edge of the well and, gazing within, beheld a wonder.

  Chapter 33: On the Edge of the Night

  The Worldships Gog and Magog hung like dwarf planets in Vai’s darkened corona. Together they were a study in contrasts, the floral organic symmetry of the Gog contradicted sharply by the angular, irregular shape of the Magog. It was as if the ships had been constructed to embody the essential conflict inherent in the Conclave’s philosophy: one the image of the meaning an individual life could make, the other an incarnation of the meaningless chaos from which that life arose and to which it would inevitably return.

  Gedron stood amidst the towering infochrystic displays of the Gog’s bridge surrounded by the engineers and gravitomechanists of the College. In the air before him hung a holographic schematic of Vai. The image depicted the vacuum sculptor distribution as a blue mist of varying hues and intensities that covered the star’s photosphere like a blanket of luminous fog. This layer was itself cloaked in a fine mesh of green lines representing gravimetric readings from deep within Vai’s radiative layer. Further out still circled the Etherreaver fleet, shown as a ring of burning gold points that surrounded the star like a halo. Gedron studied the image, half-hoping to find some flaw in the seeding process, some drastic imbalance in the vacuum sculptor distribution that would render today’s exercise untenable even for the Entrope. But the local concentrations of the devices appeared to be uniform.

  “The distribution appears optimal,” commented Yithra-Gor redundantly.

  “Indeed, my friend,” sighed Gedron.

  Though he fought to portray an air of pride and confidence, it was hard to keep the sadness and exhaustion from his voice.