Song of the Worlds Boxed Set

by Brandon Barr

  Scrawled in her father’s own hand beneath his wax seal was one last sentence.

  I promise to forgive even the darkest of wrongs committed against the Hold, but they must be written down. They must be repaid.

  Meluscia looked up from the parchment. Her father’s eyes searched her face. “I will deliver your message, Father. I will do my best to impress King Feaor and help him choose peace.”

  “Remember, if you become Luminess, hold him to every restitution he gives. Valcere can help you do this. He is my most cunning captain.”

  Meluscia nodded. “I will crush Feaor if he does not live up to his word.”

  Her father reached out and held her hand. “Mel, my beautiful daughter. Be cautious. Hurry back to me.”

  She left her father lying confident in bed. She was not going to surrender this opportunity for anything. Her father had to believe in her. Even if her promises to him were mostly hollow. She would woo King Feaor to her side, and she would use her father’s letter, but not as he intended.

  As she left the room, Heulan stopped her and spoke quietly into her ear. “Rivdon wants to meet secretly with you. Not all is right at the Hold.”

  _____

  MELUSCIA

  Meluscia navigated the side of the boulder that held within it the Scriptorium. In the stout ancient tree overhanging the cliff, she found the squirrel hole and pulled the lever inside. The knotted wood door swung open and she ducked within the dim lit recess.

  At the base of the stairs stood Rivdon and Katlel, both of their faces marked with concern.

  Quickly, she descended the stairs.

  “You wished to see me?” said Meluscia.

  Rivdon’s eyes grew tender, sorrowful. “My Lady, you must ride in haste for the Verdlands, so I’ll speak swiftly. I am not certain Valcere is in his right mind. Having tasted of your father’s throne, and having judged in his stead, Valcere is not ready to relinquish his power. He has been spying again, using the soldiers beneath him to keep their ears on you. One of his informants overheard what Heulan told you this morning. He knows of your father’s change of heart—that the Luminar is again undecided. You must know that Valcere is very well liked amongst the soldiers, and this too has gone to his head. If your father should pass before making a decision, you are the rightful heir to the throne. But I believe Valcere will try to usurp the Kingdom should Trigon die while you are away.”

  The heaviness of Rivdon’s warning pressed down upon her. Meluscia looked to Katlel. “What else can I do? I must go to the Verdlands. My father has given me a mission.”

  “Pray he holds on until you return,” said Katlel, he smiled at her. “If I must lose my beautiful young acolyte, I want to lose her to the throne, not because a usurper steals her away.” Katlel’s eyes squinted in anger. “I’d quit if he forced me to train one of his broodlings. They’d set the place on fire before they’d read a verse of scripture.”

  Rivdon’s strong hand gripped Katlel’s shoulder, calming him. “I will beseech the Makers on your behalf,” said Rivdon. “But in the case that Valcere does seize the throne, know this. Though I have been appointed Valcere’s councilor, I will remain faithful to you. You never need question whom my allegiance rests upon.”

  “Nor mine,” said Katlel.

  “Thank You,” said Meluscia, reaching out and taking both men’s hands in hers. “Both of you have guided and encouraged me. If my father should pass, I will not be without fathers in my life. And if am made Luminess, the two of you, and Savarah, shall be my councilors.” She put on a stern face. “And I will not take ‘no’ for an answer.”

  “That is the privilege of Luminess. Not having to take ‘no’ for an answer.” Katlel grinned, his eyes squinting not in anger, but to hold back tears.

  “Ride like an ocean wind,” said Rivdon. “Return before your father enters the life after life. Spare us from Valcere.”

  BRIDGE

  Sanctuss Exenia,

  I believe Galthess’s special services are required at this hour…if the Oracle does not recant.

  -Sentinel Cosimo, sealed transmission to Sanctuss Exenia

  The closest our fleet can get to The Triangle within the Huntress constellation is the Star Portal Taeragostus. But only our smallest long range ships could make the journey to any of the three worlds there. Further, they would have only a matter of days to stay and perform any duties, needing to return to refuel.

  What possible mission could be worth such extravagance?

  -Jaurtice, Fleet Admiral, transmission from Bridge Fleet Docks to the three Sentinels.

  CHAPTER 18

  WINTER

  Winter held Aven’s hand as she stood before the portal, which rested atop a small hill of volcanic rock. She watched as group after group disappeared on one side of the portal, while other groups materialized on its opposite. Fourteen parties waited ahead of her, some accompanied by as many as five companions. Seven were solo travelers. Karience said some of them were probably Emissaries returning to their homeworld from a mission.

  Their party was the largest. Arentiss stood next to Aven and herself. Pike stood between Zoecara and Karience. She found Pike’s eyes were on her, a look of concern in them. She averted her gaze quickly.

  “How are you holding up, Winter?” asked Pike.

  The sincerity of his voice managed to touch her heart, despite herself.

  “I’m alive,” she said. She turned and hid her face against Aven’s shoulder.

  She wanted to tap things to him, but she didn’t have the words to express her feelings. Her thoughts were filled to overflowing with what had been said and what had happened.

  She remembered Sanctuss Voyanta’s body lying on the floor, the contorted expression on the Sanctuss's face at that moment she died. It was profound, but impossible to interpret. Had it been the highest elation, or the deepest agony imaginable? How could two opposite expressions teeter so closely together on a face?

  She did not talk when her brother first tried to comfort her. Not even with her fingers. She wanted to be alone in those early moments. She didn’t say a word until more Consecrators arrived and begged her to stay with them longer.

  When the first Consecrators had arrived, they asked her if she touched the Sanctuss. Winter had nodded, and they explained why she died. When an Oracle undergoes a deliverance, they disavow the Makers and their calling, and the Oracle’s power fades away. However, if that former Oracle ever comes in skin to skin contact with an undelivered Oracle, her life is taken by the Makers. The Consecrators called it the burning vengeance.

  “I want to go home,” Winter had said, repeatedly.

  Karience came to her defense when they insisted she not leave. A compromise was made. A Consecrator would come to Loam. But Karience insisted Winter be allowed a week of rest before they arrived. Karience had become fierce in her defense of Winter, and had made it clear that Winter’s wellbeing be made a priority. Winter didn’t care enough to protest anything, as long as she could leave this horrible world called Bridge. Winter’s only unvoiced wish was that it wasn’t Theurg assigned to her. He was there among four others voicing their desire for the role.

  Dicameron was there, also, quietly watching the Consecrators as he oversaw the removal of Sanctuss Voyanta’s body. She hadn’t caught his eyes on her more than a few times, but when she did, she noticed a change in them. Something like fear.

  She didn’t blame him.

  She watched them take the Sanctuss's body away.

  Her picture of reality was shaken. It felt as if the Makers had silenced the kind, old Sanctuss. Why would they take her? She simply had questions, just like Winter. If they, the Makers, had come to the Sanctuss and herself before, why didn’t they come again? Why didn’t they come and answer their questions? If they made the universe, surely they had the power to fulfill this need.

  She thought of her brother’s words he’d spoken in the past.

  Either way you look at it, it is ugly.

  The Maker
s killed Sanctuss Voyanta.

  The air on Bridge felt heavy in Winter’s lungs. Thickened by the vision she’d experienced when she touched the Sanctuss's face.

  The vision showed that her brother was going to die.

  And that…that could not be.

  She remembered the visions she had only days ago, before answering the Baron’s summons. In one of those visions, she’d seen Aven alone. Terribly alone. Now, in this newest vision, birthed, as it were, from the death of the Sanctuss, she saw Aven’s face white with fear before a towering animal. In one swooping motion, Aven’s head and chest were enveloped by the huge jagged mouth and crushed between its jaws, just as the bird’s body was crushed in her vision of the toad.

  Where were her warm feelings toward the Makers now? In the face of what had happened today, how sustaining was her one treasured experience with Leaf? The once sweet memory was now held captive by an army of unanswered questions.

  Her life felt out of control, her purpose uncertain, her gift a frightening enigma.

  Why would the Makers give her such a twisted vision of her brother dying? Unless…unless she could save him as she had saved the bird from the mouth of the toad. If this was its purpose, then yes, she would wield this gift as fiercely as a madwoman to do all she could to keep her brother alive.

  Perhaps, after a week, she would welcome another Consecrator’s arrival. She had more questions and they seemed so willing to give her answers.

  Answers.

  She craved them. As Sanctuss Voyanta explained, there were two sides of the mountain. Winter found her feet had slipped a good distance toward the opposite side. The bruises on her heart felt an awful lot like she’d received a shove from someone she’d trusted.

  Still, she clutched on to what she’d always believed. There had to be a reason for this. Once she got past this dark day, surely these ugly feelings would ease.

  Aven squeezed her hand, drawing her back into the present.

  Together, they moved up to the portal.

  “Let’s go home,” said Karience.

  _____

  GALTHESS

  Galthess sat at an ancient wood table in the Scriver’s Den, under the flicker of a candle. The Scriver’s Den was a small orifice carved into the granite walls of the vast Consecrators’ Library on Bridge, and was the smallest book collection in the facility, far out numbered by the shelves of philosophers and logicians, pneumalogians and socio-cognitists from both prim and upworlds.

  Ninety-seven books and several hundred loose parchments comprised the entirety of the Scrivers’ miscreant writings recovered by the Consecrators. Innumerable more were yet to be found. Scrivers were not too rare, but they were the most difficult for a Sanctuss to bring to deliverance. And of all the Oracles, they were one of the most dangerous, for their destructive work lasted long after their lifetime. Of the few Scrivers’ writings the Consecrators acquired, only a handful were given willingly.

  Most had been retrieved with the help of men like him. He and his kind had been around since the dawn of the Guardians. In those early days, they had hunted the Oracles out of fear, trying to curb their ability to inspire blind devotion to the Makers. The histories of the Guardians showed how the order itself experienced an almost identical progression to that of primworlds. A coming of age. A maturity in the growth of ideas. A loss of fear. At present, his kind saw the Makers and their Oracles more fully. There was much less need or urgency for his work.

  He was now the sole Oracle hunter.

  In his ten years of service, he had ended the lives of six Oracles, in order to rescue worlds from the overzealous grip of Makers and Beasts alike.

  Galthess rubbed his fingers over the parchment before him, but his eyes peered out blindly, consumed with a thought.

  What were the Makers doing?

  He’d spent far too much time here in the Scriver’s Den, scouring over words penned by the hands of Oracles. Over time, the manuscripts in this room had caused a raging storm of curiosity.

  And the girl, Winter…was she truly the one? The Contagion?

  The door to the Scriver’s Den groaned as the wooden hinges turned.

  Galthess did not look up, but stared blankly at the parchment, as if lost in study.

  A withered hand came out of the darkness and into the flickering light, coming to rest atop his right hand.

  “You work so hard, Galthess,” said the frail voice of Sanctuss Exenia. “Must you always be so diligent?”

  Galthess took Sanctuss Exenia’s hand gently in both of his. “The mind of the enemy fascinates me, Sanctuss.”

  Mercifully, the Magna Sanctuss removed her hand, and stepped back.

  “There may be need for your work, my friend. The Makers and Beasts are slowly squeezing away at the peace we so desperately fight for. Sanctuss Voyanta’s gentle spirit will be irreplaceable.”

  “If only sincerity and kindness were more common traits,” said Galthess. “I will miss my talks with her. She had a healing wisdom.”

  Sanctuss Exenia sighed. “I’ll never understand why she refused to cover herself. Now who will replace me when I pass?” She shook her wrinkled face. Her hand came to rest softly on his shoulder. “At least I still have your sincere heart to turn to, my dear son.”

  Galthess stroked her aged fingers. She spoke like this to him on occasion, when she was in times of duress. It wasn’t the first time she’d called him her son. If he could be said to love anyone, it was her. He had devoted himself to her ever since she rescued him from a lifetime in prison. He was sixteen when Sanctuss Exenia had looked him in the eyes as he sat in his cell and asked him if he felt his vengeance killings were justified.

  “If the Makers will not deliver justice, should not I?” he had replied.

  Using her power as Magna Sanctuss, she had him released and brought him into the Consecrator’s order. And it was here that she groomed him to be what he was now, an assassin.

  In the flickering light, Galthess looked up into Sanctuss Exenia’s thin, boney face. Twenty years had passed. He was thirty-six and she nearing eighty…

  “Is it Voyanta’s killer who I am to hunt?” asked Galthess.

  “Yes, the Oracle called Winter. I am sending you with Theurg. It is time for him to stand on his own feet. You shall act as his apprentice. The girl herself is not so much a threat—it is her location in the Huntress Constellation.”

  “Yes,” said Galthess, “I was reading just now from Contagion’s Drowning. From the Canticle of Fire, Corvair’s visions of The Triangle.”

  Sanctuss Exenia placed her hand upon his back. “You know the writings better than anyone. Remind me of what the riddle says.”

  “On one world, a Beast attains fire and flight, on another a sun-eyed carrier stays not still, on a third, Makers sing the songs of all, inhabiting to cry, and kill.”

  Sanctuss Exenia groaned. “If we know anything for certain about the Makers, it is their propensity for wastefulness. So many words to say so little. And so many Oracles’ lives with unnatural ends. Can it be that we, their creation, can collectively outmatch them? I truly think their cleverness has driven them mad.”

  Galthess nodded. He favored the Magnus Sanctuss's pneumonophany. The theory resonated with the world and the abuse of the Oracles. The greatest, most powerful spirits who’d brought the universe into existence had at some point gone mad in their genius, or had always been such. Mad in the way that a psychopath could love his family and be an idyllic parent and spouse while callously butchering into pieces the bodies of strangers. Their work at times was extremely lovely, and at other times it seemed reckless—even monstrous, their petty plans appearing to go disastrously awry.

  And yet, the Scrivers’ writings were slowly eating at his mind with their questions and complexity.

  “One thing seems sure,” said Sanctuss Exenia. “There are Beasts aware of The Triangle. And between them and the Oracles, we cannot afford to lose another prophesied constellation, like Heartbow or Deep Black.�
��

  “I am deeply curious if this Oracle, Winter, is the Contagion.”

  “Whether she is or not, she is in The Triangle. If circumstances were different, we could take a lifetime to care for and mend her.”

  The shadowed lines creasing Sanctuss Exenia’s eyes and mouth seemed to deepen in moments like these—deepen, and never go back to before. Her face had been formed by difficult decisions like these; pain followed by the resilience of wisdom and age.

  “I still believe she will be delivered,” continued Sanctuss Exenia. “But if Theurg is unsuccessful, then it may well be your most difficult mission yet. This Oracle, Winter, is a Guardian, and Karience, her Empyrean, has grown quite attached to the girl, and may try to protect her.”

  “Will the arbiters’ grant me the power to incapacitate the Empyrean?”

  “That is not an option. I have spoken to Higelion, the Magnus Empyrean over Karience. He worries she will not handle the girl’s death well. If Winter’s life must be taken, Karience cannot know it was by a Guardian’s own hand. I am confident you can find a way if the need arises, you’ve always had a gift for unraveling knots.”

  Galthess nodded.

  Sanctuss Exenia turned to leave.

  “One question, Sanctuss,” said Galthess.

  The old woman turned.

  “Where do you believe Voyanta’s spirit is now?”

  “You have read more of the Makers’ writings than I. I should ask you.”

  “I want to know how you see her when you close your eyes. What picture comes to mind?”

  Sanctuss Exenia reached out with a frail arm and braced herself against the carved rock entrance. “I see her in memories. That is all. I know the state this universe exists in, but if I try to picture life and existence after death, I lose heart. Between the Beasts and the Makers, we have no advocate but ourselves. What the Makers have prepared for our post-mortem self is a mystery. Perhaps the spirit is simply blown out like a candle. That would be a mercy, of a kind. If I have any hope, that would be it.”