***
For two agonizing days, we waited, until at last, a one-word response arrived: agreed.
Part one: success. We would control the time and place of the meeting. Now we had five days left to prepare.
As Nathaniel and I labored over the script, a story more expansive than any we’d attempted before, I gained a new appreciation for the effort that went into producing the videos in the keep.
After we finished each segment, we reviewed it with Kara, who would cloister herself with the dreamers to search for appropriate memories, extract the relevant algorithms, and add her own creative touch.
Finally, the day arrived. To be safe, the three of us moved the projectors to the site well before dawn, though the vicars had agreed to keep their distance until dusk. Jacob and his craftsmen had built a platform upon which the signing ceremony would take place, tall enough so everyone in attendance would be able to see. Now we added dirt mounds on either side, apparently to create a barrier to protect the leaders from their people.
In these mounds, we hid Kara’s projectors, and before each we piled a decorative pyramid of stones.
We spent the remainder of the day practicing our roles and praying to any god who would listen.
As the sun settled below the treetops and crept its way toward the horizon, we signaled to let the temple inspectors in. I held my breath as they sniffed about, but as expected, they searched mostly for weapons. At last, they seemed satisfied, and ordered the guards to admit the crowd into the protected area.
Our troops, along with villagers from Riverbend and surrounding towns, entered from the south and west, each arriving empty-handed and waiting annoyed as deacons patted them down.
The temple army marched in from the north, where for the moment, the keep still lay. A column of gray friars followed, with red skull caps and crimson sashes across their chest, most looking glum at the prospect of losing their newfound playground. Next came the clergy, vicars and monsignors, bishops and arch bishops, each garbed more splendidly than those who went before.
And last, the usurper himself, self-proclaimed grand vicar, the human embodiment of the light on this earth, his silver-laced cape exaggerating his slight shoulders, and the smugness of presumed victory plastered on his face. The truce seemed to have left him confident his rule would survive.
It took more than an hour for everyone to be checked out and file in. When all had settled into their designated spots, Nathaniel and I climbed onto the platform from one side, and the usurper and his envoy from the other. The envoy unfurled an elaborate scroll, the ceremonial document to be signed.
I nodded to Kara, no more than a barely perceptible tilt of the head.
She needed no black cube, as the dreamers had done their work, and she required no bonnet, having pre-programmed the projectors. She needed only a tiny switch hidden in the palm of her hand.
She responded to my nod with a head tilt of her own.
The air above us shimmered, and a circular chamber appeared, similar to the vicars’ teaching chamber but with some notable changes. In place of the vaulted stone arches, a false sky arced overhead, supported by the muscular figures of seven giants. At the front, the high desk of the vicars loomed, tenfold taller than that which had once terrified me in Temple City.
Behind the desk hung the tapestry depicting the battle of light and darkness, but with two differences: its increased dimensions matched that of the desk, and the images upon it had come alive. Storm clouds scudded across the sky, bolts of lightning flashed and thunder boomed, and the host of praying vicars, rather than holding their ground, cringed in fear.
The viewing throng fell back a step as the scene came into focus, their gasps hissing through the night air.
The usurper looked up as well, but with the knowing smirk of a fellow conjurer of magic. His smirk vanished, however, when he recognized the pitiful figure in the center of the chamber, hunched by the lid of the teaching cell.
Kara and the dreamers had plucked from my memory a perfect image of the Little Pond vicar who long ago had dragged me and Thomas off to our teachings. He appeared as he had on that day, with a scrawny beard, and no red stripes on his hat, lacking the outlandish embellishments of a grand vicar. In a clever calculation of mathematics, Kara had rendered him tiny compared to those sitting in judgment upon him, a child quivering before giants.
The young usurper’s holo image stared up wide-eyed at the panel of judges, gaping like his real-life counterpart.
Who were these judges?
In the center hovered the spirit of the deceased arch vicar, glaring down at the traitor who’d ordered his death. To his left sat Kara’s grandfather, the mentor, towering over his colleagues, and to his right, still dressed in rags, the earth mother.
The arch vicar pointed a bony finger at the usurper. His dark eyes burned and his brows billowed over them like smoke.
“You!” His words resounded to the farthest reaches of the throng, his thundering voice now amplified by Kara’s craft. “You stand accused of crimes against the light. The Temple relies on its rules, and you have violated many—blasphemy, praising the darkness, and inciting others to follow. What do you say in your defense?”
The projected usurper answered, not in the temple voice, but in the nasal whine I learned to loathe during our three-day trek to the teaching. “Perhaps I overstepped, but my intent was pure. What crime in being too zealous in preventing a return to the darkness?”
“Yet that’s what you did—use our zealousness to grab and maintain power—and in so doing you brought us to the brink of the darkness. Here is the list of your crimes: snatching the title of grand vicar by force without being elected by the council; forcing your way from the middling rank of bishop and bypassing the required years of learning; pilfering the tools of the keep to resurrect the horrors of war, reconstructing weapons not seen for a thousand years, causing carnage, pain and death; imprisoning, torturing and killing innocents....” He leaned in, the blood draining from his face to make him appear more like a ghost, another of Kara’s effects. “...and murdering me. Thank the light, the dreamers have granted me this final chance at justice.”
“But I—”
The arch vicar slammed the flat of his hand upon the desk to silence him and turned to his left.
The mentor pressed down with both hands and winced in pain as he rose to standing, unfolding himself to an impressive height. His long face tensed, and the bits of lightning that comprised his incredible mind flashed in his blue eyes.
“I am the mentor, leader of the machine masters who created the black cube. We bestowed it with power far beyond what resides in your keep, including the ability to save lives or destroy worlds, but we conferred upon it wisdom as well. Now you come before us demanding we dismantle the keep and shatter the cube, repositories of the accumulated knowledge of our forbearers. Why? What is it about knowledge that terrifies you so? Do you rely so much on ignorance to rule, or false magic to delude your people? You want magic? I’ll show you what your so-called magic has wrought.”
He waved his hand at the tapestry behind him. The cloth rippled and blurred as if driven by a sudden gust, and the battle of light and darkness transformed. The four horsemen from the hall of winds appeared, and these now took on life, galloping out from the tapestry and growing in size, accompanied by the sound of a raging wind.
As they flew out over the frightened throng, the mentor declared in a somber tone, “Desolation, despair, destruction, and death.”
The arch vicar stood as well and raised both arms above his head, waving toward the riders and crying out to the crowd. “Is this what you want for yourselves and your children?”
The phantom horsemen rode off into the night and vanished. The roar that accompanied them diminished and died, leaving a vacuum of sound.
The arch vicar’s brows drooped at the corners and the smoldering abandoned his eyes, replaced by sadness. His voice quieted, not much more than a whisper, though thank
s to Kara’s magic he could be heard by all. “Do not destroy the keep. Its walls have been sanctified by those who have given their lives to save the knowledge of their day. The darkness lies not there, but in your own hearts.”
He turned to the mentor, whose lids hooded his eyes as he shook his head. “Do not destroy the ‘arc of the dreamers,’ because the minds of those who strove to make a better world still dwell within.”
Then both took their seats and nodded toward the third member of the panel.
The earth mother rose, slighter and more frail than the others, but with her craggy features and square jaw, a powerful presence no less. She scanned the throng to her left and right, as if trying to gaze into each set of eyes.
At last, she spoke in her gravelly voice, more befitting a man. “Both the earth and the light are sacred, as is the human mind, for we are neither the children of darkness nor the children of light. We are the stuff of stars. Time for us to aspire to more. Time for the light of reason to shine.”
She waved a hand at the tapestry, which rippled once more, and on the blank space the horsemen had left behind, a phrase appeared in flames:
The greatest truth must be... that in every child is the potential for greatness.
The words escaped the confines of the cloth and flew out overhead, growing in size and circling like the dragon had once circled me. They danced to the sound of Thomas’s flute, the lilting tune he’d played on our way to the keep.
The earth mother grew in stature, and her voice, through Kara’s craft, grew as well. She pointed at the usurper. “If the greatest truth must be that in every child is the potential for greatness, the greatest sin must be to deny that potential, and so, you—” Her arm stretched toward him, her enormous finger reaching close as if to poke him in the chest. “—must be the greatest sinner.”
Despite knowing the false magic behind the image, the usurper fell back a step, lost his footing, and tumbled off the platform into the awaiting arms of his followers.
His envoy jumped down to rescue him, the silver cape slipping off his shoulder, revealing a frailer man. As he helped his superior scramble to his feet, and the two tried to climb back up, many hands restrained them, fellow clergy and friars holding them back.
The human embodiment of the light on this earth had lost the faith of his flock.
By happenstance, at that moment, fiction mimicked reality—the teaching cell cover in the holo slid open and the young usurper tumbled inside. His cries died out as the lid closed, casting him into a darkness deep enough to haunt one’s dreams.
The scene faded—the grand chamber, the sky supported by giants, the outsized judgment desk, and the bare tapestry behind it—all scattered into bits of light, each winking on and off like a firefly before vanishing.
No one remained on the platform but Nathaniel and me.
How insignificant we must seem after such a grand show.
A confusion spread through the crowd, murmurs of doubt, cries of anger, expressions of awe, sentiments too complex to read.
All eyes fixed on us, two poor souls huddling alone and exposed. We were mortal now, but for Kara’s remaining magic—a bright light that shined upon us, and the science that amplified our voices.
Nathaniel strode to the edge of the platform. “You know us, the seekers of truth.”
I joined him. “The ones who led you to this point.”
“Don’t be afraid,” Nathaniel said. “Like so much of what you’ve been taught, all is illusion.”
I raised my chin and lifted up on my toes, trying to appear taller than I was, hoping to speak louder than the beating of my heart. “But here is what’s real. You possess the power, and the time has come for you to judge.”
I turned to Nathaniel, unable to face the crowd, relying on his strength.
Now is our moment of truth.
The pulse on his temple throbbed and his chin jutted out, but the words we’d agreed to never wavered. “We are frail and flawed beings like you. In the name of peace, we deceived you. There’s no magic but that which lives in your minds and hearts. Now our fate is up to you.” He waved his arm, gesturing below to the pyramid of stones at the base of the platform. “Stone us if you must, or choose peace and a better world.”
We stepped back and waited. A few vicars grabbed rocks from the pile, as did a handful of deacons as well.
Before a rock could be thrown, Thomas hopped onto the platform, a move we’d never rehearsed, and the three of us locked arms—as we did on that chill morning in Little Pond so long ago.
Then a row of gray friars appeared, led by the old prior, and set a wall between us and those who bore stones, with the glare from the projectors shining off the tops of their skull caps.
Next Caleb and his men came forward, with no axes or weapons now, to block the way.
Jacob, Devorah, and Kara followed.
Others joined in, our people first by the dozens, and then by the hundreds, and vicars and deacons too.
Last of all, slipping between legs and squeezing past elbows, the slight figure of Zachariah scrambled onto the platform and grasped my hand.
He glanced up at me with eyes too big for his head. “Potential for greatness? I like the sound of that.” His lips curled into a grin, and he winked at me. “But I’ll still tell your story forever.”
EPILOGUE
A year had passed since our grand show on the former battlefield outside Riverbend, and so far at least, the peace had held.
After a week-long trial attended by many, a panel of judges, consisting of the old prior, three bishops, and five elders from the children of light, found the usurper guilty. Yet the new order had banned teachings, stonings, or any other form of harsh punishment, so they struggled to come up with a sentence. Following four days of deliberation, they condemned the would-be grand vicar to be locked up at night, but allowed to work during the day in the Temple City kitchens—a penance Thomas found amusing to no end.
Most of those who’d served our cause returned home to resume their former lives, though many relished sitting around a fireplace and telling exaggerated tales of how they’d overthrown the vicars. Others used their newfound freedom to change their preordained lot, and we all discovered that the pursuit of potential took many paths. Craftsmen switched to farming, and farmers to crafts. Some sold their farms, moved to the larger towns and became merchants. An odd few like Thomas took up musical instruments or experimented with new approaches to art. With no more temple restrictions, ground-breaking fashions and forms began to appear daily.
With an end to secret rituals, and knowledge open to all, the gray friars discarded their sashes and skull caps, and disbanded. A relieved few, no longer bound by the oaths of their youth, returned to their villages to raise families and work for the betterment of their neighbors, but many stayed in the keep, blending in with the scholars and relishing the chance to choose what to learn.
The once bitter enemies, Caleb and Kara, had made their peace through their endeavors on our side of the world and sailed home as allies, sworn to bridge the gap between technos and greenies. Most of those who’d accompanied them across the sea returned as well.
Jacob took back detailed diagrams of devices to simplify the lives of his people.
Devorah bore with her bags of exotic spices and intriguing flavors of tea, and patterns from which to make bright-colored clothing and festive quilts. Most of all, she carried with her a commitment from Kara to build a new mending machine, one that would reside with the greenies and allow her to take up her place as the village healer.
Only one traveler from our original crew stayed behind—Zachariah. After so many silent years, and with neither parents nor home to lure him back, the boy had asked to stay with Nathaniel and me. We quickly agreed.
And so, the three of us trekked back to Little Pond, no longer seeking truth but a quieter life instead.
At last, my roving mind and wandering spirit found a chance to rest. I spent my days roaming about t
he village and reacquainting with old friends, and teaching Zachariah how to work the loom. He, in turn, continued my learning of the flute, although given my limited ability, with less successful results.
Elder Robert and elder John invited Nathaniel and I to join them on the council and help run Little Pond, but we declined, insisting we were too young for such a role. Instead, Nathaniel’s father helped us stake out a plot on the former site of the NOT tree, and we began construction of a modest cottage, which one day would become our new home.
In between, Nathaniel and I went for long walks and pondered all we’d wrought. I’d stare at him as he gazed at the horizon with the sunlight reflecting off his face. A thin crease had formed on his forehead, the start of a worry line, a well-earned badge of honor from all those times he’d wrinkled his brow since coming of age.
Kara had committed to return as soon as possible, so we might begin trade between our peoples, exchanging those goods fitting to each of our talents. First she needed to build a fleet of new boats, so that once such commerce started, we could maintain a steady flow.
“In four months,” she’d said, “look to the west for the high masts poking their tops above the horizon.
We waited through the chill winter, but as soon as the snow melted, we lit the candle atop the watchtower and posted a lookout, with messengers positioned at intervals to herald their arrival.
At last, the first sparkles appeared as the silver sails in the distance caught the sun’s rays. A sequence of crow caws echoed back to the village, and all those able raced to the west and scrambled over the mountain pass to the shore.
Within hours, the boat had settled into the shallows of the bay at the base of the granite mountains. My neighbors gawked as the crew unloaded new inventions, designed by the children of the machine masters. In exchange, we bartered crafts and tools, and plants and grains unknown on their side of the world.
Now, the rare week passes without a new boat arriving, laden with the fruits of the tree of knowledge. We began to trade people too. Our young craftsmen, artists, and farmers, those without families to tie them down, sought their fortune on the distant shore, where land was plentiful and their expertise would be rare and valued. One by one, some of the older techno children came to us as well, taking up residence in the keep to mentor the scholars and provide a more cordial instruction than those stilted recordings on the screens.
The Light of Reason (The Seekers Book 3) Page 21