by Tim Akers
"How do you know all this?" I asked.
"The archives of Amon. He studied such things. Especially in the early days of the Brothers, when they were just ... becoming. He wanted to understand what was happening to them, in a very rational sense. And, of course, it wasn't a very rational thing. But he tried."
"Okay. So, many Titan gods, and then no gods, and then the Brothers. What's your point?"
"I didn't say no gods. The Feyr rose up against the Titans and overthrew them. Right here, in fact, in the city of Ash. They burned the city, and then they drowned the city. And in time, they tried to atone for that. I don't think they ever stopped trying to atone for it, actually. One of the reasons they fell to us so easily."
"Easily? Hundreds of thousands died in those wars."
"Yes. But how many would you expect to die in a battle with the gods?"
"Gods? They weren't gods, they were just ... just the Feyr. Just funny little people."
She leaned against a steel spar and peered out between the slats of the cladding. The rain had passed, at least here, and the sun shone on her face, and on the aura of smoke that hung around her.
"They were more than that, I think. It's not clearly defined, but godhood seems to be ... some kind of power. Power in the air, in the earth, in us. The Brothers assumed godhood by their actions, and by their actions we honor them. The Titans were the same way, raising gods from among their own, elevating them to godhood by their actions and their deeds. The Feyr did not take that route. They had no individual gods. They were a race of little gods."
"What?"
She shook her head and grimaced. "It's hard to explain. Godhood is a power that settles in people. It builds up in great people, making it easier for them to build up even more power. Someone becomes famous, and the power of god gathers in them, and then they are able to do more marvelous things, becoming more legendary, gathering more power. It's a cycle. But like any power, there are limits. There are capacities that can be exceeded."
"You make this all sound very rational. Are these Amon's theories?"
"No. These are the things he learned from the Feyr. While studying the impellors." She moved away from the sun and stubbed out her cigarette. "If you take a battery and keep charging it, it holds more and more power until it can't hold any more. And then what? Either you discharge some of that power or it explodes. The Titans had many gods, so they were able to hold the power for a long time. Their divinity was distributed across many people. Maybe it wasn't enough. Maybe they were losing control of it, and that's why the Feyr rebelled against them. Either way, when the Feyr assumed the mantle of godhood, they realized you couldn't just hold it in a couple people. You had to spread it out. And they figured, hey, why not spread it out across all of us?"
"They didn't seem like gods. Hell, they're still alive, still have some power."
"Very little, because they were only very little gods. But they were able to hold that power for a very long time, and gather a great deal of it."
I crossed my arms, my pistol forgotten, and sat down.
"So what happened when we threw them down, and the mantle of godhood came to us?"
"We had our three Brothers Immortal, and that's all."
"And now we're down to one?"
"Yeah. The math is terrible."
We were quiet for a while, listening to the airships and the wind. Finally, I stood and stared down at the archive.
"Something I don't understand. What the hell does this have to do with the impellors? And why does it mean people want to kill my Cult?"
"The Feyr used the impellors as a kind of pressure valve. They invented them late in their empire, when their numbers were dwindling and the accumulated power was overwhelming them." She lit another cigarette and blew a long, deep breath out into the room. "They were venting god."
"Do the impellors still do that?"
"Who knows? And as for why anyone would want to kill your Cult over this? Well, here we have proof that Amon knew about how godhood worked, and that you had to have multiple gods to keep it from destroying those who held that power."
"So?"
"So," she whispered, then turned and looked me in the eyes, "why would he want to kill his brother Morgan, if the idea was to have more gods, not fewer?"
I sat up and stared in confusion. My mind was unhinging at the implication.
"You're saying Amon didn't kill Morgan. That he wasn't the Betrayer."
"I am. Leaving only-"
"Alexander," I breathed, trembling. "Godking of Ash."
The throne of the godking sits in the Spear of the Brothers, the white tower in the old district of Ash. I was taken there for my acceptance into the rank of Paladin. At that time Matthew was still with us, before he led his fated crusade against the Rethari in distant Herion. Four of us went to the throne: Matthew, me, Barnabas, and an Initiate of the Bullet named Emily, who also went with Matthew on his little crusade.
The Spear sits in the oldest part of Ash, the quarters along the edge of the city-island where the forces of the Brothers Immortal first made landfall. There had been much bloodshed cracking the defenses of the collar countries, and the landing had been murderous. Amon, sickened by the loss of life, drove his spear into the ground and declared his part in the conflict over, swearing never again to take up arms. Morgan and Alexander took the rest of the city, and Amon came after, to sweep through the ruins and collect artifacts. When the harsh street fighting was over and the peace was signed, Amon came back to his driven spear and built a temple. That temple became a tower, and that tower became the seat of power for the three brothers. Later their Cults split, but the Betrayal left only Alexander. He settled into the tower, even reclaiming the spear Amon had abandoned and putting it on display.
I remember looking up at that spear as we entered the building. It hung in the grand foyer, suspended by wire in midair. The tip was polished iron, intricately barbed, with two flanged wings at the base of the head. The shaft was black wood, runed with the symbols of the secret language of the Scholar. The base of the shaft was capped with dull iron, and still bore the dents of a thousand counterstrikes and crushed helms.
"Why do we hold this thing up?" I asked my brother Matthew as I stood beneath it. "It is the weapon of the Betrayer, is it not?"
"There are stages to our lives, even for the Brothers," he answered. At the time I thought of him as an old man, but I realize now he couldn't have been much through his thirties. He laid his hand on my shoulder. "The Spear of Amon symbolizes his renunciation of the battle, of violence, and his commitment to knowledge. It is the holiest symbol of the Cult of the Scholar. That moment in our lives when we put struggles behind us, and commit to something pure."
"Like the broken plow, for Morgan."
"Yes. Morgan left behind his fields and his wealth, and warred against the Feyr in their madness. There was once a sect of our faith that worshipped Morgan the Farmer, did you know?"
"What became of them?"
"What becomes of all of us," Barnabas answered. "They passed on. Come, the godking awaits."
We walked ceremoniously up the wide, curving stairs of the foyer and past a line of stiff guards in shiny plate, and tabards of white and gold. Up to the terrace of the throne. It was not a large building, at least not this part of it. We waited patiently on the reception terrace while voices rumbled from beyond the curtain. When an attendant came out, we bowed once and then were led inside.
The ceremony was simple. Matthew carried my blade, Emily my revolver. The ceremonial garb of the Paladin was symbolized by a cloak, draped over the Fratriarch's arm. I walked barefoot, in simple linen. The marble floor was cold, and the room smelled like old books and too much incense.
Alexander awaited. He sat on the throne of the Brothers quite casually. Depictions of the Brothers always show them as larger than life, giants among men, their shoulders broad and their faces divine. But he was just a man. An ancient man, and a man of great thought and certitude, and a
man who had seen a hundred thousand dawns and raised his sword to a million foes, certainly. But still, just a man.
Alexander's hair was dark, and his brows and lips were heavy. He looked at me with simple brown eyes, but there was a depth to his gaze that weighed on me. We lined up in front of the throne and knelt. When I looked up he was leaning forward slightly, like a bored man who has seen something unique. He raised a cupped hand, and we stood.
"You have brought my fallen brother's latest scion?" he asked.
"We have, Lord." Barnabas put a hand on my shoulder and indicated I should step forward. I did. "Eva, daughter of Forge, Initiate of the Blade. We have examined her, and recommend her for acceptance into the role of Paladin."
"Initiate of the Blade." He stood from his throne. No taller than any other man. No taller than me. But his voice was soft, and carried generations within it. "An unusual choice. A brave choice. It was always my brother's choice, as well."
"You honor me, Lord," I said.
He walked around the four of us, pausing to examine the vestments draped across Barnabas's arm. When he came to the sword, balanced across Matthew's palms, he lifted it and looked down its length before handing it back to Matthew.
"The Grimwield is a hell of a blade, Eva Forge. Even this figment of its dream will serve you well in battle. Have you seen my brother's true blade?"
"Yes, my Lord. I stood my night beside it, meditating on the acts of god Morgan."
"Of course. It is good that you follow the old ways." He returned to the throne, and an aura of fatigue seemed to settle about the room. "More should follow that path. Enrobe her, that she might stand before me."
I knelt, and Barnabas draped the cloak across my shoulders. I turned to Emily, and she presented me with the revolver and belt of bullets, laying them over my arm. Matthew stepped in front of me and presented the hilt of my blade. There were no words to the ceremony, as Morgan took the blade without grand speeches or stirring exultations. He led with actions, and with steel.
Sword in hand, robed and armed, I walked humbly to the feet of Alexander.
"I have never liked war, Eva Forge. That was my brother's calling, and his burden. When he fell, I took the mantle of his vengeance and carried it out. Since then I have offered the final blessing to his initiates in his stead. And so now I offer it to you. Will you serve the Fraterdom, in all your days, against all its enemies?"
"I will."
"Will you carry the sword and the bullet in true faith, protecting the weak, defeating the strong, opposing those who oppose you, standing with those who stand beside you?"
"So have I sworn."
"In faith Morgan raised you, and in faith he has clothed you. Find comfort in the actions of his life, in the deeds of his greatness. Find strength in his memory, and courage in his courage. Remember always his death, and his life."
"His life," my three brothers whispered behind me.
"In all things, honor him. Morgan, god of war and of the hunt, Brother of my Brother, Betrayed by the Betrayer. Stay true to him and he will guide you. Depart him, and he will depart you. Fight for him, and he will fight with you."
"Forever," we said in unison.
"Forever," Alexander answered. He touched his finger to my forehead, and then my sword, and finally my bullistic. He settled into his throne, and the energy went out of him. We left the room quietly, while he stared out the window at the lake. Just as we reached the door, he raised his head and called to me. The others were already in the hall.
"Eva," he said, though so quietly I could barely hear his voice. "Your sword may be Morgan's last. May your blade bear much fruit."
"I ... yes, Lord," I answered, and then left. The others gave me curious eyes, but I shrugged.
"He seemed tired," I said.
"Alexander gets like that sometimes," Barnabas said. "Especially when discussing the Betrayal. It saddens him."
"I imagine it saddens Morgan, too," I answered. Matthew grinned, but the others didn't like it so much. We were quiet until we got outside the Spear. I pulled on the boots I had left with the attendant, then wrapped the ceremonial robe more tightly around me.
I told the others what Alexander had said, about my blade possibly being Morgan's last. At the time they chuckled nervously and changed the subject. Later, I thought he was speaking to the general dwindling of the Cult, and the lack of new recruits. He was right in that. No more initiates passed the Rites of the Blade, and very few even entered the path of initiate.
And now there were no more initiates, and no more Cult, but only my blade. The last of Morgan.
sat cross-legged on the floor, the blade across my knees, sharpstone in hand. The stone rasped as I drew it against the edge. It was a drone that was familiar to my ears, like a prayer for calm. The girl was still staring at me. Waiting for me to do something.
"You were in a hurry a minute ago," she said, after several long minutes filled only by the stone's song.
"Things change," I said.
"Just in the short time I've known you, you've always been the sort to act. Rather than sit."
"I am. But now I must also be Barnabas, and Tomas, and Isabel." I turned the sword over and started on the other side. "I am the Council of Elders, and the legion of Paladins, and the armies of the initiates. I have to be the whole Cult, Cass. The luxury of being only the Paladin is ending."
"And this is what the Council of Elders would do? Sharpen their blades and think things through?"
"In a way. They sit and they think and they ask questions. Like this: Where did the archive come from?"
Cassandra stood up, paced the room, peered out the slatting, and then sat down again. "I don't know. I don't know why it matters, either."
"Matters? It's probably the most important thing right now. It came to us at this time, in this way. You said yourself it was a message. But a message from whom?" I stopped my sharpening and put away the stone. "Better yet, why now?"
"Maybe this was only recently found. Maybe whoever found it didn't trust the Alexians to convict their own god-"
"A reasonable mistrust," I said.
-and didn't think anyone would believe the Amonites. So they gave it to Morgan."
"No one would believe the Amonites. And yet here we are. You, an Amonite, asking me to believe what you've read on the archive." I got out a rag to polish the sword. "And what you've read is that your god is innocent, and the only god we have left is the true murderer."
"I swear, Eva, that's what it says."
"Perhaps. And if it does? What are we to do? Proclaim Alexander as the Betrayer, and lead a popular revolt among ..." I waved my hand dismissively. "Among the civilians? Lead an army of trash pickers and fishermen against the Fraternal Army?"
"We would join you! Free the Librarians Desolate and we would provide you with-"
"Stop. No one will believe the scions of Amon. Joining you to the cause would only invalidate it in the eyes of the people." I leaned back against the tower and closed my eyes, the rag and sword forgotten in my hands. "I haven't said I believe you, yet. The more I think about it, the less I believe. It's too perfect, and too easy to conceal. Some Amonite cult mocked up a pretty-looking machine and snuck it into the monastery. It didn't make any sense to us because it's just a pile of junk made to look nice, so we summon an Amonite. The Amonite `deciphers' the archive to reveal that the Scholar has been innocent all along." I opened my eyes and clutched the rag. "How could you expect us to believe that?"
"How do you explain the murders, then? Someone wants to keep this hidden."
"Or is willing to kill to make the story look good," I answered.
"Gods, why are you so stubborn?" She stood up and threw her arms wide. "They've declared you apostate! For no reason! Alexander has burned your monastery and is going to kill your Elders! And you're debating over who the enemy actually is?"
"For two hundred years we have carried the banner of the Fraterdom. We have hunted the scions of Amon throughout the earth
!" I stood as well, because I looked more impressive standing than this skinny, curly haired little girl, and I didn't want her to forget that. "Amon has been the Betrayer for all that time! Do you expect us just to abandon that crusade, to make amends and turn against Alexander? On your word, you, an Amonite?"
We stood trembling at each other, fists balled, jaws set. I at least had my arm thrown over a mighty big sword. She didn't back down. She wouldn't back down.
"Really, I don't care if you take my word. But it's true. I don't know what has to happen for you to believe that, but it's true."
"The timing is crummy," I said, after a space of many breaths. "The Rethari are marching. They could have spies in the city. They could be spawning those ... monsters, agitating the Betrayer Cults. They could have fed the archive to us, and fed false information to Alexander, implicating us in the attacks. The Alexians could be acting in true faith. The Rethari could be setting us against each other in the hope of finally throwing us down and raising up their own gods."
"You have a lot of theories," she said. "But I'm not hearing a lot of answers, and fewer plans."
I sighed and nodded. "Yeah. It's easy to ask questions." I sheathed the blade and buckled on my holster. "I need to know more, though. I need to know that this is true, before I act."
"Who else can you ask? The Alexians? They're not just going to say, `Oh, yeah, right. We're the ones who killed Morgan. Sorry about that,' and go away."
"No, they're not. And if it's true, I'm willing to bet most of them don't know, anyway. No, I need to find a different source. Someone I can trust."
"Who?"
I looked around the little platform, at the wreckage of our short stay. This might be a holy place, someday. The last temple of Morgan.
"The Feyr. Amon's research led to them, didn't it? Maybe they still have the same answers to his questions."
"There aren't many Feyr still around."
"Nope. But I know where to find them." I motioned to the archive, and her shotgun. "Get that stuff together. We're going, and we're not coming back."