Sacrifice of the First Sheason

by Peter Orullian

  Some time later, stirred from grief and anger by the shrill cry of a mountain raptor, Palamon stood and gently picked up his dead friend’s body and carried it into a stand of towering hemlocks. Just before easing the body into its final earth he shifted the body so that he could gently lay it down. As he put his hand under Manoa’s neck to guide him into his grace, his hand caught on something hard and sharp, drawing blood. He pulled from Manoa’s garment a serrated tooth half the length of his finger, studied it a moment, and dropped it into his pocket. He then finished dug a grave and buried burying his friend within sight of the Tabernacle—Manoa would have liked that. Then he returned and washed away the blood from the steps before others came to the Tabernacle to resume their labors of creation.

  * * *

  Palamon rode hard to Estem Salo, some ten leagues from the Tabernacle. The small town sat in a high valley of the Divide surrounded by forests of white pine and aspen. He kicked his horse often, riding directly to the archives where the Sheason did most of their work. Even before his mount had stopped, he leapt to the ground and rushed through the door into the warm light of oil lamps and the scent of burning candles. Usually these things calmed him and set the tenor of his studies. Today, his heart raced with urgency to find one person and one piece of information.

  On the main floor he dashed around study tables and shelves of books and working Sheason, angling toward the left wall, and Solera.

  Let her be here.

  His wife would ordinarily be recording those things spoken at the Tabernacle the evening before. These days she was responsible for documenting the many species and the uniqueness of each. She would record the gifts inherent in the formation of life, and those instilled by the framers. It was a delicate and difficult task, since the strengths and weaknesses of each species had to be balanced with those of all the others. The Fathers had taken this all into account beforehand, but the nuances of their creations were not easy to articulate. And increasingly, those who walked the Sky relied on Solera to inform their labors in advance. Her gift in this regard was matchless.

  But the burden of it—writing and informing the harmony they all sought for the people now being set upon the land—often took her out of the archive to rest her mind. Most often, she went to their aspen grove, where the slightest stirring of the wind brought the sound of rippling leaves that she described as laughter.

  He hoped she had not gone there today. As he slammed into the study where she worked he realized that for the first time he was feeling mortal dread.

  But immediately upon entering he saw her. She held a stylus in one hand. And when she looked up, an expression of surprise turned fast to irritation. As she started to scold him for being so careless and interrupting her, he drew her up from her seat and pulled her close.

  He felt her finally return his embrace. “What is wrong?” she asked.

  Palamon hugged her tighter still. The thoughts that had run through his mind…he couldn’t imagine life without her. She was his greatest happiness: sharing their evenings, making love, exploring topics that despite their work with the Founders continued to elude him and Solera both.

  She drew back and repeated, “What is wrong?”

  Briefly, Palamon considered telling her all he knew. And more than that, all he feared. The death of Manoa, the placement of the body, the bit of sharp bone in his pocket, and a few rumors he now recalled about one member of the council he’d not allowed himself to think too much upon…all of it led his mind to conclusions he hoped yet might prove false.

  “Nothing,” he finally said. “Just some foolishness. I’m sorry. Go back to your work.”

  He tried to leave, but she grabbed his hand with firm insistence. “Not good enough. If you want to tell me that you’re in a rush, and that you’ll explain later, I can accept that. And only if there’s nothing I can do to help. But don’t play false with your need and emotions. Or mine.”

  Still feeling the urgency of his second reason for hurrying to the Archive, he nevertheless smiled. “I love that you keep me honest. But it isn’t something I would speak of here.” Palamon looked over his shoulder. “I don’t want to worry anyone until I have answers.”

  “And you don’t need my help,” she said, her brows rising to suggest her offer to assist.

  “Not yet.” Palamon squeezed her fingers in reassurance. He then quickly took his leave, pulling the door shut again, much harder than he’d intended. But he was already rushing to the stairs. He paid no mind to either greetings or looks of concern and surprise as he sped past other Sheason engaged in their work.

  Up three flights of stairs he raced, glancing at many seated at tables, carefully recording in books and ledgers. He dashed past others who stood near smoothly plastered walls. Upon these walls were philosophies and precise drawings pertaining to those words, and all setting forth the guiding principles spoken by the Fathers in the Tabernacle of the Sky.

  A few called after him, inquiring, and one—Ilana—scolding. He ignored them all. Then he reached the fourth floor and wound his way recklessly between reading and study tables to a rear room with a closed door. He pulled up short, breathing hard. He clenched his teeth, firmly pressed on the latch, and threw open the door.

  He desperately wanted a confrontation, but there would be none. The room lay empty. Still, what he needed to find was here. It must be! Palamon rushed to low shelves and long, wide drawers, rifling through sheaves of parchment and strange, dark papyrus written on with a silver ink.

  He found nothing, and so forced himself to stop and think of his next course of action. The Sheason who served Maldaea, the member of the council set apart to refine mankind by challenging it with adversity, would have a filing system. Palamon had never been in this room to study or record, and knew he wasn’t supposed to even be here. But he had to find out what was really going on. It stood to reason that Maldaea’s Sheason would keep organized records.

  Palamon took the bit of bone from his pocket and looked at it more closely. He noticed now that blood—it had to be Manoa’s blood—had dried in the serrated grooves. A fresh surge of loss and anger swept through him, lending him a savage calm. He went back to the shelves and focused his search. A few minutes later, what he found left him feeling the kind of despair he’d thought he might never feel.

  The Sheason who served Maldaea had distilled their labors into elegant classifications and formulas that could easily and incrementally be added to the work Palamon and his brothers and sisters had been doing to aid the council. In the simple life of a flower or blossoming bush or high-growth tree, in the quality of sunlight, hue of water, and richness of the soil, in the forms of animal life, these servants had in most cases made only the subtlest change to poison or sully the purpose of that which the Founders had set forth on the land. It was genius. It was an abomination.

  With only a fraction of the effort, they’d produced a set of formation principles that would undo so much of what had been done since the dawn of this world’s creation.

  And then, they had begun their real work.

  Palamon moved fast, consuming what he could of the plans prepared by Maldaea and those who served him. His throat tightened as he read; the room seemed to grow hot.

  He could feel his own mind pricked with a canker at the simple introduction of these thoughts and semantics. He’d seen none of these things in the world beyond the archive, and yet here it was, written in the dark pages of this quiet study.

  He looked up, needing a break. Learning of these malefic things had strained him to the point of panting. His chest felt constricted. His hands were quivering as he went to the single window and pushed it open to gasp some air. Slowly, he regained the rhythms of his own heart and breathing, and hunkered down before a last bookcase. He ran his fingers over the spines, the intuition he had honed in so many years as Dossolum’s right arm warning him vaguely about what he would find.

  Then his fingers stopped, and he drew forth a volume with one hand, squeezin
g the bony tooth with his other, feeling neither its bite nor the blood that trickled through his clenched fist.

  He thumbed open the tome, reading its title scrawled in long pen-strokes: Y’Tilat Mor Sanctal Fanumen. Palamon dropped the book, and his hands again began to shake. He dared not think or utter the meaning of these words, written in the language of dominion and conception used by the First Ones themselves to call forth the world.

  Here, sitting on a simple corner bookshelf in Esteem Salo, this book spoke of that which went beyond.

  But Palamon remembered his friend Manoa, who’d been cast upon the marble steps of the Tabernacle of the Sky, and steadied his nerves once more. He began to turn back the pages, learning things that only the gods themselves should know and looking at the renderings of an expert hand. These illustrations showed creatures that people in their darkest nightmares could not have seen.

  Again, Palamon despaired. But he did not stop.

  He read onward, taking in the images drawn on the pages and the words that accompanied them, powerful verse crafted in a tongue that Palamon himself had never been allowed to fully know, even as close as he was to Dossolum.

  Then he paused. His hand no longer trembled as he stared at the page and the image of a creation—no, a demon that defied description, except for its open, snarling maw that exposed rows and rows…of serrated teeth.

  In his mind, Palamon suddenly played grisly scenarios of the death of his friend, who had had no notion of hatred.

  And Palamon realized, as he saw it in his mind, that so much of what he’d seen this day might only be prelude to what may come. Bloodshed was inevitable (and even necessary), but only after the High Season, after creation was complete; until then the Founders’ will and benevolence (at least from what Palamon had read of other worlds) held sway in the hearts of men. Here, the land had been formed, the light of the heavens by day and night prepared, the vegetation and animals placed, man most recently…but this kind of treachery should not yet have been unleashed into this world.

  What he had seen in the book had flowed from a diseased mind, and Palamon had to let Dossolum know. The very intention of the council, all their work, was at risk. Still reading, he stood.

  “You’re not allowed in here,” a voice said.

  Startled, Palamon whirled. Jo’ha’nel, Maldaea’s primary Sheason, towered in the doorway. His wide shoulders supported a thin, almost emaciated torso, but he gave the feeling of coiled power. He was attired all in black, tight-fitting clothes. His breeches were lashed to his legs with dark leather strips that wound up from his boots to his knees. Dark, silken hair fell down around his pale face.

  “Manoa has been killed,” Palamon said. “I fear something wrought by Maldaea’s hand is the cause.”

  “Be careful of your accusations, brother.” Jo’ha’nel smiled.

  Palamon found renewed calm at the thought of the work taking place in the outer rooms. They were not alone. He stared back. “Deny it.”

  The other laughed. “I am not yours to question, Palamon. Founders are not supposed to esteem one Sheason over another, and regardless, Dossolum’s fondness for you doesn’t worry me.”

  “I do not ask for him,” Palamon said. “I ask for the fallen.”

  Jo’ha’nel did not reply, but instead turned in the doorway and cast his gaze back into the archive where Sheason worked diligently at their many tasks. “Look at them,” he said.

  “Enamored of their own books and philosophies. You know, of course, that Dossolum has even asked them now to fashion a system of beliefs, morality…religion for your weaker races.”

  “Why do you say yours, Jo’ha’nel? The work belongs to all of us. We are not at odds, you and I. I help in bringing life to this place. Your part is to assist in that which will provide challenge and trial to the people of this world, so that they might find within themselves their own greatness.”

  “You are naive,” the other said, and laughed.

  “Then you do not deny that it is your craft that gave rise to this.” He thrust the open book toward Jo’ha’nel like an indictment, showing him the page where the creature was drawn.

  The other would not be baited. “Let us follow your reason, shall we? If the role of Maldaea and we who serve him is to create that which will burden and test those that flow from your merciful bowels, then this,” he pointed at the book, “represents nothing more than our desire for mankind to achieve his utmost.” Again he flashed the dark smile.

  “You exaggerate your role, Jo’ha’nel. This world is in a delicate balance just now. We are at only the beginning of imparting to the people the values that will lead them to the ethics of the Charter.”

  Maldaea’s primary Sheason frowned at the mention of this last. He muttered to himself, “Charter.” Then he turned in the doorway, squaring his wide shoulders and willowy frame toward Palamon. “The Charter is a fool’s doctrine. Its adherents will fall when greed and gluttony and pride fill the hearts of men.”

  “Your mind is twisted,” Palamon countered. “These are the very things the Charter is written to safeguard against. Without it, this world—any world—would crumble beneath the weight of its inhabitants’ baser instincts.”

  “And why base, Palamon? Because Dossolum says it is so?” Jo’ha’nel glared at him.

  As Palamon returned the stare, he realized something. “You knew. You knew Manoa was going to be killed and you did nothing.” And on the heels of this knowledge came something more. “And Manoa is not the only one, is he?”

  The other’s lips pulled back into an unsmiling grin that revealed carious teeth—Jo’ha’nel was changing…

  “You will not succeed,” Palamon said softly but with defiance. “I won’t allow it.”

  “You won’t allow it.” At that, Jo’ha’nel threw his head back and laughed. The hoarse sound of it was like the tearing of parchment. “You are a scholar, a historian, and maybe— at the best of times—a sage. But you lack any power to stem this tide, Palamon. Not even the one you serve can turn it back.”

  At that instant, Jo’ha’nel raised an upturned palm and pulled his fingers back in a summoning gesture. The book Palamon held was ripped from his hands and flew into the clutches of Maldaea’s Sheason.

  Dear Sky, he’s been given the power to render the Will!

  Feeling helpless and exposed, Palamon yet held his ground, and looked back intently. “Don’t do this, Jo’ha’nel. You know why we came here. We’ve done this work before. Don’t let this new gospel confuse you.” He pointed at the book the other now held tight to his chest. “Think on what it has done. This fiend has taken life. He’s ended all that Manoa was or ever could be. It puts the essence of things, matter and spirit—Forda I’Forza—out of balance.”

  “No!” the other cried. “There you are wrong. Balance remains. The difference is only who, on this world, will define that balance…and how. We are simply rewriting what your scribblers so arrogantly and ignorantly pen at the behest of the council.” Jo’ha’nel pointed behind him at the archive study tables.

  Palamon shook his head. This was madness. He looked it in the face. Jo’ha’nel, once his brother, now glared at him with malefic eyes. This servant’s countenance had changed in a way that left Palamon feeling cold for both the loss of a friend and the baneful intention he could see there.

  “You are wise, Palamon. You need to consider on which side you will stand when the time comes.”

  Then Jo’ha’nel raised a hand and quietly spoke a few words; a faint light pulsed across all the drawers and shelves of the dark study. He’s sealing the books.

  With that Jo’ha’nel tucked under his arm the book he still held and slowly walked to the stairs without looking back.

  Palamon surveyed the room, wondering what other dark arts were hidden in the writings around him. He could now feel the taint of this corner study, and hastened to leave. Once he got out of Jo’ha’nel’s room, his breathing eased and his mind cleared. With that, a single question occ
urred to him, and he rushed after the dark Sheason—once his friend—intent on having the answer. All the way to the door on the main level he ran, then into the street. But Jo’ha’nel had disappeared.

  And like salt poured into a wound, even as he stood there panting, peering down the street, rumors began to arrive, riders, messenger birds, all bearing the same news: the blood of innocents was drenching the land. And often the deaths reported were not quick, but savage and punishing.

  * * *

  A few days later Dossolum arrived in the Sheason village and gave Palamon a grave look; without a word they turned east, each knowing the other’s mind. They trod the path as they did once every cycle of the Lesser Light. From Estem Salo, they walked in silence all the way to the edge of a great promontory.

  Now, Palamon stood at the precipice. Beside him, still unspeaking, was Dossolum. Through the hazy light of early evening, they looked far away to the south and east. On the horizon slightly to their left some few stars had winked into life with the imminent arrival of night. Up from the face of the cliff rose a warm, gentle breeze scented with juniper and oak. It gusted lightly every few moments, causing the whisper of leaves as they fluttered in the wind.

  Palamon looked up into the half moon and smiled wanly. He was thinking of the peace, now lost, that he’d so recently known when gazing upon its simple beauty. It hung low in the dimming azure sky.

  After a time, Dossolum’s deep, resonant voice broke the silence between them. “You have secrets, my friend.”

  Palamon’s smile faded. “That you ask tells me they are not secrets.”

  “And yet you did not choose to discuss them with me. Why?”

  “I have no answers for my questions, no solutions to the problems I’ve encountered,” Palamon replied. “I hoped to bring you more than the trouble itself. The killings are only part of the story. I believe we can yet rescue Jo’ha’nel.”