by Brandon Barr
“I can tell you a lot about them,” said Dicameron starting down the darkened tunnel. A light glowed in his left hand, illuminating that side of his face. “They are the smallest order that I know of in the Guardians. Eight total, plus one man called Galthess, who is beyond my security level to investigate.”
“How can someone be beyond your security level?” said Karience. “Your sigil marks you as a Captain.”
“In my twenty-seven years of service, I’ve encountered three such individuals. They are accountable only to the Sentinels, I have no authority over them. Galthess is one of them. He serves some alternative function for the Consecrators; what that is, I haven’t discovered.”
Aven noticed that, though Karience remained silent, the information seemed to trouble her.
Dicameron continued. “In the Consecrator’s order, the women are called Sanctusses and the men are Sanctors. A Sanctuss called Voyanta is the one who will be interviewing Winter.”
“I know only her name and title,” said Karience. “And that her rank is powerful enough to alter protocol for me and my Magnus Empyrean. What is this interview?”
Dicameron led them onto a moving platform in a larger tunnel. “It is not just an interview, but I am not allowed to say more than that. I wish I could. If you haven’t picked up on my tone, let me make myself clear. I very much distrust the Consecrators.”
“Why is that?” questioned Karience, her concern etched on her face.
“Do you remember what I told you about Humanity Kind?”
“Yes,” said Karience.
“If Humanity Kind were compared to a body, the eight Consecrators would be its heart and soul.”
“Then the Guardian leadership have accepted Humanity Kind?”
“They’ve largely been embraced, all but the radical members, like the Execrata. The Guardian order’s purpose, and reason for being, is at the very heart of Humanity Kind’s underlying philosophy of life.” He glanced at Karience. “You, being an Empyrean should know this. You’ve been given charge of a world to nurture and protect. To guard against the malice of the Beasts and the indifference of the gods. This is not a new thing, this philosophy. It’s just been given a name and the focus of a movement.”
“I was trained as an Empyrean to counteract the Beasts,” said Karience. “But the gods—I received no training about them. They do nothing to hinder our mission to bring peace to the galaxy. Why have they become important?”
“If you find out,” said Dicameron, “let me know. All I can say is that the Oracles have always been of interest to our order. The Consecrators, I am told, are as old as the Guardians themselves.”
“Is my sister going to be in any danger?” said Aven, anxious for Winter.
“No physical danger will come to your sister.”
Aven mulled Dicameron’s answer over, and it quickly took on a sour taste. Something was not being said.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” tapped Aven.
“I’m curious about it,” tapped Winter. “I’m not afraid.”
“Listen to your voice of reason then.”
“What does my voice of reason have to say?”
“He thinks it might be good if you were a little afraid?”
“I am a little, I suppose.”
The moving platform slowed to a stop.
Aven looked at Winter. Her eyes were waiting confidently for his, and though there was no smile on her lips, her entire face seemed to be glowing with a sly grin.
“Why do I even bother worrying?” tapped Aven
“Because you love me.”
Aven nodded. “Stupid love.”
_____
WINTER
Sanctuss Voyanta’s kind but intense eyes combed Winter’s face under the glow of fireless candles fastened to the earthen walls. Winter was glad Aven and Karience were seated beside her, and that Dicameron stood by the door, as if keeping watch.
The journey to where they now sat had taken a long time, as they had to weave their way through a large underground city, turning right and left so many times that she would be hopelessly lost if she tried to return to where they had started from. Once they’d reached what Dicameron called the Consecrators Den, Winter found herself awestruck as they had passed through a vast library of books in large vaulted rooms, before finally stopping here, in this small and seemingly insignificant room at one corner of the library. There were a trio of chairs, a bench, and candles.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Winter.” The Sanctuss smiled at Karience and then glanced at Dicameron. “It is protocol that I speak with Winter alone. If you’ll kindly excuse yourselves and give us some time alone.”
Karience turned to Winter at the Consecrator’s words and their eyes met. A silent understanding passed between them.
“After our ordeal today,” said Karience, “I’m sure she would rather not be alone with strangers.”
Winter appreciated how protective Karience was of her. She squeezed Aven’s hand and looked the Sanctuss over.
The motherly-looking woman did not wear the traditional uniform of the Guardians, but was wrapped in an elegant cloak that looked light and silky and had a shimmering green color that reminded her of a lizard common to the farmland. Her sigil, partially obscured by her frizzy red hair, was sewn to the cloak and had a pattern of white-black-white. There was a warmth about the Sanctuss’s face that made Winter feel comfortable. It was round, smooth, and light brown in complexion, and a youthfulness to her features made her age uncertain. But something about her eyes betrayed her years. She must be close to fifty, like Karience.
A thin, young man named Theurg stood beside the Sanctuss, hands clasped in front of him, face expressionless. His eyes flashed from face to face, but his head never moved. Theurg had been introduced as Sanctuss Voyanta’s apprentice.
A foul smell pervaded the room. Though she and Karience had bathed and changed into new attire, Dicameron’s security uniform still smelled strongly of smoke, and burnt flesh.
He leaned forward. “Sanctuss Voyanta, you do what the girl wants.”
The Sanctuss turned her calming eyes on the man. “You know it is against our practice to interview an Oracle in the presence of others. Do your job, Captain, and I will do mine.”
Dicameron stared at the Sanctuss. “I didn’t save the girl’s life just to hand her over to your kind. Mankies—all of you—and I wonder if I do not smell the scent of Execrata.”
“Why must you be so brusque? There are only eight of us in the Consecrator’s order, plus Galthess, and not one is an Execrata. And despite your assumptions, I do care about the girl. Her name is Winter, by the way, and my heart is to heal the inner wounds she has accrued as an Oracle.”
Sanctuss Voyanta turned and looked at Winter. “Being an Oracle comes with challenges far removed from most humans.”
The Consecrator’s words drew Winter in. They also seemed to steal the edge off Dicameron’s anger.
Dicameron’s eyes broke from the Sanctuss and fell upon Winter for a moment, then shifted to Karience. “I spent two years infiltrating that Execrata sect that attacked you,” said Dicameron. “They are devotees of the Consecrators’ work, as I’m sure Sanctuss Voyanta and Sanctor Theurg will admit. Is that not right?” he said turning back to the Sanctuss.
Winter got the distinct impression Dicameron was simply throwing jabs at the Consecrators. Much of what he said, he’d already told her and Karience.
“You make it black and white, trying to connect the two groups,” said Sanctor Theurg, the Sanctuss’s apprentice. He looked earnestly at Karience and Winter, as if hoping to alleviate any concerns Dicameron had raised. “Humanity Kind is a peaceful movement. What happened to the Oracle earlier today was not from Humanity Kind, but the radicals. I hate the Execrata as much as you, Captain.”
“I doubt that,” said Dicameron. “The Execrata live and breathe the same air as Humanity Kind. You know this well, Theurg. You are one of the Mankies. The lack of cooperatio
n from your movement leads me to wonder how many peaceful Mankies are nothing more than shields for the Execrata. Humanity Kind, after all, is the mother group whose teachings spawned these radicals.”
“You are deluded, Captain, and please, do not call us Mankies. It’s insulting.”
Dicameron stood and walked around the chairs, stopping a finger width from Theurg. His face seemed perilously close. Winter waited for one of the two men to turn away, all the while her mind reeling at the idea that there were people dedicating their lives to fight the Makers.
“I know you have a sympathizer among you,” said Dicameron, “Someone within the Consecrators let slip that an Oracle was coming. I’ll be paying close attention to you and your friends. I promise you that.”
Dicameron stepped back. “Karience, if you have any further problems, do not hesitate to contact me. The four security officers outside will stay with you until you leave Bridge. We can’t be too careful.”
With that, Dicameron turned and left.
The moment he was gone, Sanctuss Voyanta stood. “I suppose after that hostile tirade I’m going to have to alter protocol this one time.” She turned to her apprentice. “Theurg, you are dismissed. You are to go to Sanctuss Exenia and give her a full account of today, including your poor behavior. An apprentice should not open his mouth in front of an Oracle unless instructed to do so.”
Theurg lowered his eyes and managed a stiff nod, then turned to leave but stopped. “Do not play with your life again, Sanctuss. Please, cover yourself.”
“I’ll decide if and when to gamble with the gods. Now leave us.”
Theurg turned with a hesitant air and left the room.
Winter noted how the Sanctuss’s eyes softened when they turned upon her. The woman’s presence, despite all that was said moments ago, made her feel safe. Winter felt true concern flowing from her.
“Karience has told me there are other kinds of Oracles,” said Winter, “but my VOKK doesn’t seem to help when I think upon this question. How many Oracles are there, and what are their different gifts?”
“I dare say the number of the Oracles in our galaxy is likely in the billions, for it is estimated that there are billions of worlds in our galaxy. The Guardians in more recent history, acquire an average of two new worlds every month, but it is very difficult to find an Oracle. We were extremely fortunate to have happened upon you by blind luck, since you were a candidate for Emissary. The order of Consecrators normally must search each new world chartered by the Guardians, but even then, every world is so large and we are just a few. The last Oracle we found before you was four months ago.
“And as to the second part of your question; there are many different types of gifts. We are still discovering new ones every few years. You are a variety of seer, although we won’t be able to classify what kind until after a few sessions. As to gift types, I’ll list a few that I find most interesting. A Scriver is an Oracle who is directed to write thoughts or messages down onto parchment. We have a small room called the Scriver’s Den in this very library, where we keep our entire collection of writings we have retrieved. There are also Empaths. An Empath is one who feels impressioned toward certain people—sometimes giving a man or woman words from the gods, or in some cases, giving them something physical. There are currently twenty-seven different classifications of Empaths. I could go on of course, but for now, I think you get the broad picture.”
Winter found herself nearly overwhelmed by the information. To know that there were others like her. “Why did my VOKK not inform me of these things when I thought of them?”
“There are certain subjects that the VOKK is restricted from delving into too deeply. Oracles are one such subject. Beasts are another. Now, I am eager to officially begin our session. If you wouldn’t mind accompanying me into a private den in the library, your brother and the Empyrean can remain here.”
“May I have them join me?” asked Winter. “It’s been a difficult day. I would feel more comfortable if they stayed.”
“That is a reasonable request. If Dicameron’s security teams had only uncovered the Execrata’s plot against you, our introductions could have been much more cordial. But can I request a compromise? May I have a personal conversation? We sit at a private table in the library while your brother and Karience remain in sight, at a table on the far side of the aisle? I want a warm, intimate setting for our session. Would that be comfortable enough?”
Winter nodded.
The Sanctuss’s eyes flashed warmly and she smiled. “I have been waiting to meet you, Winter, for several months now. Your gift, as you call it, is fascinating. I have helped many Oracles on their personal journeys, but never one who is a seer. It is a rare gifting. Let us move to the library.
“And please, ask all the questions stirring inside. I know you have many. And, remember, nothing is out of bounds.”
CHAPTER 16
SANCTUSS VOYANTA
Sanctuss Voyanta listened carefully to Winter tell the story of her encounter with the Maker.
From the start, the Sanctuss had hoped for an easy transition for Winter. No matter how many Oracles she helped, it was always an emotional moment, meeting a new case for the first time. She spent weeks reviewing the beetle feed of her subjects, watching their life. Often she found herself in tears. She certainly had with Winter.
Winter had lost loved ones, and through the conversations the girl had with her brother, Sanctuss Voyanta knew the deaths aligned somehow with the girl’s gift. She had also glimpsed the girl’s confusion surrounding the darker revelations molesting her mind, but Winter’s inner strength and hopeful spirit proved both inspirational, and crushing, at the same time. It was like seeing a virtuous girl married off to an abusive drunk, and watching her devotion despite the bruises and cuts marring her heart. Men could be just as cruel as Makers and Beasts, but most of the Oracles would never bow down wholeheartedly before an abusive husband, but for the Makers—yes, they saw it as their duty. They believed there was a purpose in the punishment, and the Makers always seemed to give them just enough hope to keep them going forward.
And this girl was among the sweetest, purest young women she had studied. The Sanctuss desperately wanted an easy, freeing deliverance for this dear girl, but knowing Winter’s story, and now, hearing it told to her in passionate detail, she sensed a long road ahead, the end of which remained uncertain. Winter had an intense sense of destiny and a certainty of calling. Unlike any Oracle she’d encountered, Winter had been given a physical token from the Makers. A butterfly which she believed housed the seer spirit. The Sanctuss did not know what to make of this.
But most troubling, Winter was one of the few Oracles who had physically experienced a Maker—had even been given a name to call them by. Leaf. The Makers knew how to imprint a heart forever. The Sanctuss knew this too well.
Voyanta sat on the edge of her chair as Winter finished the telling of the memory of her and the Maker. The Sanctuss’s body was tightly wrapped in her silk cloak and her hands were shielded in fitted black gloves. Theurg’s urgings had fallen on stubborn ears, for though she’d donned her gloves—as she always did before a session—she’d left her veil mask unclipped so that her eyes were not all Winter saw. Theurg was too cold and calculating to understand the ways of the older Consecrators, like her. She wouldn’t miss out on the important exchange of facial expressions. It was a necessary risk. Far too much was lost masking the intimate dance played out in a sad smile or the concerned creasing of a brow.
She flaunted the curse laid upon her, as she had, ever since her own deliverance many years ago.
“Clearly it was not a dream,” said the Sanctuss.
“Nothing has ever been more real,” said Winter. “I am as certain of it as I am of us sitting here now.”
The Sanctuss nodded as tears fell unbidden from her eyes. How could she ever remove this girl from the grip of such an alluring monster?
“It is a beautiful experience,” said the Sanctuss, m
asking the source of her tears behind her words. “I can see the positive effect it has had on your heart. It has given you balance when tragedy would have toppled most others to their knees. That is one of the great mysteries of our universe, the juxtaposition of our experiences between what we deem good, and what we call bad. Beauty and ugliness. Strength and frailty. Life and death. The Makers have created a curious world, have they not?”
The Sanctuss noticed Winter’s eyes turn to her brother across the room. It was there, in Winter’s brother, Sanctuss Voyanta had an ally.
“You spoke earlier of healing my inner wounds,” said Winter. “What did you mean?”
“You have questions,” said the Sanctuss. “Questions that spring from your relationship to the Makers.”
Winter closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said and a breath escaped her lips that was almost a sigh. “Yes, I do have questions.”
Where an ember had smoldered behind Winter’s eyes, the Sanctuss now saw flames. The questions were burning her alive from the inside. They needed only to be drawn out. Then she could find some relief.
“I am a traveler, just as you are, Winter. All men and women are on a path. We climb the same mountain, only you and I are farther along on our journey. Higher up on the mountain than most. The air up here is clearer, and we have a strong vantage point that allows us to see farther as we look out at the world, at the horizon of the world’s origins, and the opposite horizon of its future. Our questions then become bigger, they take on more perspective, and too often we wrestle alone with what most men and women do not see.
“I shall be open with you. I stand on the opposite side of the mountain as you. I do not trust the Makers. I oppose them. But I have no loyalty to my side. In truth, I wish I could be on your side of the mountain. I was there once, a long time ago.”
Winter looked pale. The Sanctuss noticed her lips part, and knew intimately the question on the tip of her tongue.
Finally, the girl released it. “What made you cross to the other side?”