Curious. The bird knows I pursue it and yet it has chosen to rest upon that cross. And now, as I approach it slowly, it hops clumsily down to the base of the steeple, unafraid where not a few moments ago, it seemed to be fleeing for its life. A strange creature indeed. As it flies away, climbing high into the rolling purple clouds leaving behind what I suspected it carried all along.
A blank piece of parchment sits in a tight coil with a scarlet ribbon wrapped around its center. Could it be?
Red Scroll!
A Reckoning?
†CaptainCassandra †
Marley Ranico. I read the tombstone to myself for the millionth time. No dates, no effigy, no eulogy, just the name on an arched slab. My feet must be sinking into the ground; I’ve been here for nearly half an hour. It isn’t raining, but it’s just after a good downpour and the cemetery smells like wet pollen.
In my hands is a bouquet of amaranth bulbs and anemone blossoms. I grip the stems hard, squeezing nectar from them until it oozes out between each of my angry fingers. I think back to him, the way he would touch my face. His eyes could look into mine and see more than I could ever know about even myself.
But he’s dead. I open my hand and let the flowers drop, then wipe the excess goo on my windbreaker. I feel my hip through the clothing and am startled at how thin I’ve gotten.
The car is on the other side of the cemetery and I slowly walk through the mossy grave yard, running my hands on all the tombstones I pass. I’m lost somewhere between my old life and my new one, wanting neither, existing in neither.
Taurus sits in the car. He pouts. Tonight we’ll have sex, and he’ll feel placated. It will be rough, animal sex, like it always is. He won’t kiss me, and his eyes will be elsewhere. It will be an act of dominance, not love.
When he’s done, and I’ve showered, he’ll ask me about becoming an auxilia. He’ll know I’m weak now. And I am. So very weak. I’ll tell him yes. And when we fall asleep I’ll put my back up against him and pretend he’s Marley. And I’ll try not to shudder as I cry and fall asleep.
I get in the car and start to redo my makeup. There’s something about putting on lip-gloss and eyeliner that makes any girl’s face look emotionless, even if my golden eyes are streaked with mascara.
“Cassandra?” Taurus says.
“Yeah, uh-huh, what?”
He sneers at me. “Are you done?”
I can’t hide my contempt for him. “You can drive while I do this.”
Suddenly a crow, which was perched on a willow tree in the cemetery, flies down and lands on the hood of the car. It hops right up to the glass and lowers a small piece of paper down from its beak.
“What the?” Taurus goes to shoo it away. It cocks its head at him and then chooses to leave.
I get out of the car and pick up the paper. Dear god, Delano, what have you done now…
†Delano †
I’ve had no physical contact with the other sentiners since they arrived in Central Gothica. Just the usual methods of code and espionage. My fear is that any large unsecured gathering would be too dangerous.
“How much longer?” Sabetha asks me, looking out the rain streaked window. She’s unusually apprehensive about this reckoning. We’ll be separated only by a few blocks and a small black fence but what that distance represents is far greater. At least she won’t be alone. Every auxilia will be waiting outside, even the ilk ones remaining in the safe houses out of compassion for their comrades who cannot enter Neo Square.
“Tomorrow,” I reply softly. I am stretching myself out into the consciousness keeping a close eye on our surroundings. Sabetha looks back into the window, a crack of thunder rumbling through the streets.
How do I look?” I ask Sabetha, presenting myself.
She doesn’t feel like joking right now, but makes an effort. “Like royalty.”
I give her a smirk and smooth over my vest, sticking out my chest regally and looking myself over in the mirror. My black, knee-length leather boots are polished, my double breasted overcoat and under it, doublet, are buttoned, and my frilly white shirt is fluffed. It’s quite a ridiculous getup, what with the coat tails and shoulder-boards, but I have to wear it for ceremony’s sake. Personally I would prefer my black colonnade suit with a pale blue tie, but at least I get to wear a trench coat. It’s ankle-length brown leather with a cheek-bone high collar. The sleeves end in absurdly enormous cuffs and a mock-cape drapes down off the shoulders, front and back, forming two layers to the jacket. It hardly seems like the kind of thing to wear to a clandestine meeting, but the suits actually act as kharmatic camouflage and so long as we do nothing to provoke attention while wearing them, we appear however we need to appear to be unnoticed by others.
Sabetha helps me into the coat and then steps back to make sure everything is in place.
“Don’t forget your token.”
“Thanks,” I say as she hands me the small item. I place it inside my vest with an affectionate tap. The token is the symbol with which a sentiner votes at a reckoning. Each sentiner is given one upon initiation and we use it like one would a paddle at an auction, raising it to signify a “yes.” It is a personal reflection of who we are and how we operate as sentiners. Miquel, Captain of West Gothica, has a paint brush, Cassandra, Captain of South Gothica, a black rose, and Corbin, Captain of North Gothica, a can of spray-paint.
Mine is a small box of matches.
“I’ll see you soon,” I say to Sabetha reassuringly, placing the three pointed hat atop my head and then heading for the exit. Stepping outside the front door and pulling the high collar up to my eyes, I spot another sentiner leaving a nearby safe house. Shrinking into my shoulders I step out from under the safety of the building and brave the torrential rains, boots splashing through the half flooded streets. From all around Neo Square we are converging, but something is wrong. There are too few of us.
I hasten my pace and abandon the sidewalk to head straight for the emerald rim. Cyncurity, which provides Hyperion security, is well aware of this night’s significance and so side-hopping the black fence is tolerated. On either side, a few hundred yards apart, five more Sentiners make their way across the black barrier.
Pantheon Theatre is in the distance, flood lights aimed at the columns and piedmont, illuminating the stone and marble giant surrounded by the glowing glass and steel towers of Neo Gothica. In the plaza in front of the theatre, a crowd of men and women with their hands in their pockets and heads down, jog through puddles to the safety of the monstrous building. More are inside and more will arrive soon. I hope.
No one speaks as we funnel through the front doors, the two Cyncurity elites in suits and trench coats standing on either side, cold and unmoving. I can already sense the anxiety, the multitude of minds brimming with stories and urgency. I pass through the small lobby and enter the theatre, finding my seat in the front row and then waiting patiently for everyone else to find theirs.
The building is such that the massive domed ceiling comes to its equator just where the top and back row of seats begins. The rest of the seating follows the lower form of a sphere, and at the very bottom is a raised circular platform that acts as Pantheon Theatre’s stage. Directly overhead is the oculus, a cut-out in the coffered ceiling which lets in light during the day. For members of the Hyperion, the oculus offers a glimpse into the sky beyond the clouds where we can gaze upon the stars, moon and sun. Lightning flutters, casting blue shadows over the theatre and though rain enters through the hole, it never lands within, evaporating mysteriously somewhere during the fall.
It’s getting late but everyone is hesitant to begin. We are short twenty-five sentiners who should have already arrived. It would be the most ever to be unaccounted for during a Reckoning and no one will dare speak this fact aloud. I sigh and join the others in hoping they arrive late.
The lights dim and a chord from unseen stringed instruments plays. It has a particular significance, a cue. Damnit. I thought maybe we would dispense with cere
mony due to the urgency of this reckoning, but apparently not. I rise and, to my sides, stand the other three captains, Corbin, Miquel and Cassandra. In unison we square our corners and walk down to the small path that connects the stage to the dressing areas for the actors. Above us, as we leave the sphere, is a special tinted glass box, rented out to wealthy patrons during normal shows and the booth for the Hyperion Council members during Reckonings.
I walk with my left arm cradled regally across my stomach and my right shoulder against Corbin’s left. He feels awkward in our official uniform and it shows. Behind us is Miquel, captain of West Gothica, who looks like he pioneered this fashion, and Cassandra, captain of South Gothica who far from androgynous looks exquisite wearing this masculine uniform.
When we get to the end of the hall, I turn left and Corbin turns right, Miquel following me and Cassandra following Corbin. We meet at the top of the sweeping double stair cases where the five council members wait – decrepit, wrinkled, papery old figures draped in black velvet robes and darkness. We four captains integrate into their line of five and take their arms, leading them to their seats in the booth. Once this honor is complete, we return to our seats hurriedly and await the next phase.
The council members speak from their booth and we, from the audience, echo.
“Observe and learn,
Do not interfere.
Wisdom hampers rash action,
Seeing is our survival, action is our downfall.
There is always more to learn,
More to see. More to know.
Our quest is never ending,
There is no final answer.
Only questions
Only knowledge
Salvation through knowledge.
Knowledge is salvation.”
“Have the cupolas any amendments?” The council asks. Cassandra, speaker for the cupolas, the sentiners who are jacks-of-all-knowledge, stands and says, “No amendments, High Council.”
“Have the propriats any amendments?” Miquel, speaker for the propriats, the sentiners who specialize in a specific area of study, stands and answers for them. “None, High Council.”
“Are there any new initiates?” We four stand and drone in unison. “No, High Council.”
“Captain Delano. You have been patient thus far. What is your reason for bringing us here ahead of schedule?”
I stand, bow to them, to the other sentiners, and then step up onto the circular stage. I begin, slowly at first, “As we can all see, there are…” the final count, “thirty-five sentiners not with us tonight. Is there anyone who can account for any of the missing?”
“This meeting was ahead of time. Perhaps your birds did not reach them,” a somewhat resentful voice says from the darkness.
“Perhaps,” I reply. “I’ll get right to the point, then. Who among us as been attacked under unusually strange circumstances… perhaps involving a corrupted and disappearing creature?” About half the members in the audience raise their tokens. “As have I; on three occasions. Of those attacked, how many found that the moments preceding the creatures’ presence caused an inexplicable fear perhaps accompanied by a surge of powerful kharma?”
All of the veteran sentiner’s tokens stay raised while some of the newer members waver, unsure if the fear they felt was more than the normal terror of their nightly existence. Nevertheless, a murmur begins.
“Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly,” I say to quiet everyone for my next question. “Did any creature communicate a message – of any kind?”
All tokens fall, and I am left ambivalent, both relieved and terrified. The theatre is silent for three seconds. I break the tension by recounting my three exploits, sharing my suspicions of a pattern and ending with the message from the spider. “…You are all shadows.” Another three seconds of silence. Not a breath is taken or released. “I would like to move the discussion to the causes of these attacks and…”
“Let us not be hasty in our assessments, Captain,” says one of the council members. I turn over my shoulder to look at the tinted glass booth as he continues. “We must make the most informed judgment possible, and that requires a thorough examination of the testimonies. Since nothing has yet been entered into an official report, the council must be informed of these events here and now.”
“With all due respect to the council, I believe we must move quickly in our assessment of this threat.”
“Your position is noted, Captain. We will now hear from the other sentiners on the matter and then return to the message you received.”
I take my seat and listen to two dozen accounts of these odd attacks. They appear, they’re scary, they die, they disappear. Finally, I call a halt to the proceedings asking if anyone still waiting to tell their story has anything that doesn’t fit our established profile.
“Be seated Captain,” the council orders me, and I step off the stage. “We will hear all accounts.”
We go alphabetically and by rank, each sentiner describing similar situations. I try not to be impatient but the trend is established well before we come close to hearing the last story.
It’s just a few hours till morning by the time everyone has recounted an even remotely related incident, and I’ve reached no new conclusions. The council calls a short recess so they can discuss things in the privacy of their booth. The lights rise and everyone takes a break to stretch. I turn to the seats next to me, the other captains leaning in, and we all take out our handheld notepads and ultra-fine tip pens. In a room full of sentiners, there’s no way to even whisper something you don’t want everyone to hear. Same with lip reading so we write in a script so tiny it can only be seen by experienced sentiner eyes, right up close.
Well that was a waste of time, I write.
A true sentiner at heart, Miquel offers some value to the proceedings. Perhaps their overly methodic approach will yield new answers.
Corbin though, has never found this argument very comforting. The youngest one on the council hasn’t been outside her bubble since Delano joined. The only things they know come from us.
If they are misinterpreting the world outside, we have no one to blame but ourselves, he replies.
Cassandra weighs in with her perfect loopy penmanship. We’ll do what we have to, when we have to. Till then, let’s at least appear to get along, for the sake of the others. We follow her advice and put our notepads away; the lights are dimming again anyway.
The council addresses us after another musical cue. “Upon further reflection, we have decided that this is indeed a significant threat. Furthermore, a coordinated approach is needed to understand it. We relinquish the discussion’s mediation to Captain Delano. You have the floor, Captain.”
I rise and take my place on the stage as Mediator of the House, conducting the conversation with my hands, and calling on raised tokens. “The cause,” I prompt.
“It can’t be unconnected.”
“Agreed.” I take it to a vote. Unanimous.
“A crafter, then. Someone very powerful in the arts.”
“But what motive?”
“To steal our position.”
“No.”
“To blind us.”
“Blind us from what?”
“Yes, a distraction.”
“Nonsense!”
“No, it’s not a crafter. This is kharma.” My stomach tightens at this suggestion even as the rest of the theatre begins to murmur their disbelief.
“Kharma? Certainly not.”
“It can’t be.”
“How absurd.”
I silence them and ask the young sentiner to continue. “What are you suggesting?”
“We have finally come to know too much.” His reasoning is hardly what I had anticipated – or feared.
“We are an integral part of the cycle. Without us, everything else would collapse. What motive would the system have for eradicating us?” another interjects.
“Maybe the times are changing. Maybe the manifestations of th
e collective consciousness are getting stronger,” the bold, younger sentiner suggests.
“You’re too young to know such things.”
It starts to get heated so I interrupt. “Stop, stop, stop. There may be some merit in this. Who among us can honestly say that they have never interfered with the system in some way, even since the last reckoning?” There is a tense silence among the audience. We all profess the code here, but the streets require a certain amount of discretion. “I fear that this might indeed be related to our actions, or perhaps worse… our inactions.”
“Watch yourself Captain,” one of the council members warns. “The Hyperion represents the most informed, balanced, and faithful group of people in the city. The sentiners are the last people the consciousness would want destroy. These are factors, perhaps, but we cannot believe they are the true cause.”
Timidly, Nigel goes next. “I have been noticing a small resurgence of cult activity in Central Gothica. Perhaps there’s more to it than we are aware. After all, no one’s paid much attention to the cults since well, since the genocide.”
Mentioning this makes things even tenser. The genocide was the most recent time that any of the captains, let alone all four, blatantly broke with the code and got deeply involved in the city’s affairs, fighting against a dangerous plot that might have destroyed Gothica. It was the most recent time the cycle of the city was interrupted, two hundred and twelve years ago. The council formally condemned our actions but allowed us to stay within the Hyperion because of how widespread the sentiners’ disobedience was.
“In retribution for our acts!” Someone shouts. I’d love to cut this thread of the conversation here and go over and smack Nigel on the back of the head, but I can’t. I must let the council rule over me.
Manifest (The Darkening Trilogy) Page 11