by Brandon Barr
LOAM
“Killing Oracles should not be taken so lightly.”
“This from the mouth of my Oracle hunter? I could not agree more. I fear the frenzy Sentinel Cosimo is initiating. It is aggressive and unnecessary. It turns the Consecrators from rescuers to rogues.”
“I wonder if my mission to Loam is unwarranted?”
“I’ll admit, Sentinel Cosimo is the impetus behind your mission, but Winter is dangerous, as you well know.”
“I’ve been studying Winter’s beetle feed and her psych report. I am almost certain she is the Contagion, and yet, I wonder if there isn’t something we can do. Hire someone to follow her…send her to another world outside the Triangle.”
“Galthess, your heart is in the right place, but she’ll always be one portal jump from Loam. Do you still feel up to the mission?”
“It is my duty and I will perform it. I’ll pray that Theurg can spare her from my hands.”
“Pray? Pray to whom?”
“Fate. Destiny. Wisdom. To you perhaps, Sanctuss Exenia.”
-Discussion between Galthess and Sanctuss Exenia, Bridge.
CHAPTER 13
WINTER
Winter woke to undulating sunlight sparkling through the portholes in her quarters. She sat up and breathed in the unfamiliar scent that permeated the underwater facility.
More than two days had passed since her brother had been taken by the mercenaries. She’d spent all of yesterday in bed, occasionally standing before one of the portholes in her room. Yesterday she had been able to truly mourn for her brother. Karience had brought her a container of tissues, which were now littered about the floor around her bed. After all the thoughts and emotions revolving around Aven’s fate, one thing surprised her: she couldn’t mourn as if he were dead.
Unless she saw his body and touched his cold skin, she couldn’t help hoping he was still alive. Instead of grieving a death, she mourned his absence. As Arentiss had said, there was still hope, and though her hope surprised Winter, she found herself trusting in it.
And trusting also in her god-given destiny.
The portal of her world beckoned to her now more than ever. The farmers back on Baron Rhaudius’s land had called the portal the God’s Eye, and she felt certain that if she were to walk through it, the eyes of the Makers would be on her, and their hands would guide her to what they had foretold would take place.
She was to crush the life of a Beast beneath her feet.
What exactly that meant, or how it would happen, she couldn’t imagine. But with Aven gone, there was nothing left on Loam holding her heart. Nothing to keep her from stepping into the mysterious future promised her by Leaf, the Maker who’d rescued her from the river.
The Consecrators desired to stop the prophetic words of the Makers, but Winter would seek to fulfill them.
A pang of hunger ran through her stomach. She hadn’t eaten yesterday, but suddenly her appetite had returned. She took Whisper’s new jar and placed it around her neck. Someone had knocked yesterday and slid the jar inside her room. Who the considerate person was, she didn’t know.
Pulling a white Guardian tunic over her head, she left her room in search of the kitchen. She found Rueik outside in the hall, gazing thoughtfully out a porthole.
Rueik turned and flashed Winter a whimsical grin. The sunlight that lit his face through the porthole momentarily darkened, as if a wisp of cloud had passed over the sun.
“I bet you’ve never seen anything like this,” said Rueik, and gestured toward the porthole.
Winter stepped up beside him and looked through the glass. Enormous, diamond-shaped creatures hovered outside like ghostly shadows against the sparkling surface above. Strange flaps rippled smoothly at their wing tips as the thick, white undersides of the creatures tapered into a long thin tail.
“Are those sharks?” asked Winter, both terrified and mesmerized.
“Manta rays,” said Rueik.
Winter had never heard of such a creature. They seemed so peaceful, gracefully hovering near the surface of the waters. And yet, she wondered…
“What would they do if someone were to swim near them?”
“Are you asking me if they eat people?” asked Rueik.
“Partly, yes.”
“Don’t worry, they’re as docile as puppies. They eat plankton—uh—little sea creatures smaller than ants. Wanna go for a swim?”
Winter eyed Rueik, unsure if he was joking. “No thanks. What time is it?”
“Almost midday. You caught up on sleep?”
“Please tell me there’s food down here,” said Winter. “I’m famished.”
“There’s food, but…it isn’t as good as what we ate at the tower. It’s edible though. I’ll show you. I see you found a new jar for your butterfly.”
Winter didn’t care for Rueik’s new attention to Whisper. “Someone was nice enough to leave the jar in my room.”
“Wasn’t me,” said Rueik. “I like Whisper up in your hair better. Kinda like a flower. Pretty on you.”
Winter looked at him, slightly frazzled. No one had ever used her butterfly’s name like that before…and had he called her pretty?
“Come on,” said Rueik, pushing off the wall, “I’ll take you to the common room. That’s where the food is.”
She took one last look through the glass and wondered what it would be like to swim with such large, tranquil animals.
The common room was only a little bigger than her quarters. Hark sat around a table with his wife and child. Arentiss was bent over some papers, reading as she sat on a seat anchored to the wall. She looked up and gave Winter a stiff nod.
“Here’s what we got,” said Rueik. “Freeze-dried meat and rice. Egg. Freeze-dried vegetable and fruit. All sorts of combinations. Feel like beef stew?”
Freeze-dried. The VOKK processed the term. The water had been removed from the food and then a special technique was used to suck all the air from the silvery packages so the food wouldn’t spoil.
Winter took a packet of meat and rice and then some kind of egg and bacon mix. Rueik showed her how to prepare it.
She sat down and squeezed her bags onto a plate.
They smelled kind of odd.
She took a hearty scoop, her stomach undaunted by the smell.
“How do you like the jar I found for you?” asked Arentiss.
Winter smiled, and tried to finish her mouthful quickly. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” said Arentiss.
Winter remembered the bizarre conversation she’d had on the ride out to the barn. Arentiss’s awkward request to be matched with Aven. She turned to her food again. The egg and bacon mash proved to be flavorful. The beef stew, on the other hand had chunks of meat that were tough and flavorless.
Winter was taking her last bite of eggs and bacon when the door opened and Karience rushed in.
“Winter, I need you to come with me,” she said. “You have unannounced visitors.”
A sudden queasiness stirred in Winter’s stomach.
The Consecrators. She’d nearly forgotten about them. They would try to deliver her—push her to renounce her gift and the gods who gave it—just as Sanctuss Voyanta had been doing when Winter inadvertently touched and killed her. The horrific event still plagued her thoughts. Winter left her tray and met Karience in the hall.
“I’m sorry,” said Karience, waving for Winter to follow her. “The Sanctor is here with his apprentice. I was not told they were coming so soon, but it seems their order has special privileges vested by the Arbiters and Sentinels.
Winter felt slightly dizzy. Why did such high-ranking individuals find her so important?
“It’s Sanctor Theurg,” said Karience. Her lips tightened. “Don’t let them push you around, Winter. It’s your gift. I will support your decision and back you, whatever you choose.”
“Thank you,” said Winter. Karience’s encouragement was exactly what she needed. “With Aven gone, you’r
e the one person I trust most.”
Karience placed a hand on Winter’s shoulder. “Are you ready for this meeting? I might be able to delay it.”
“I’m ready,” said Winter. “I have questions for them that I’d like answered.”
Karience slowed her pace as she neared the conference room they had gathered in two nights ago. “Theurg and his apprentice were respectful when I met him at the portal, but I still wouldn’t trust them. I don’t know what their full agenda is with you, but I wish they’d leave you alone. You’ve saved my life twice with your gift, and now they want you to throw it away. I can’t pretend to have answers to the deeper issues of the Makers and why we should or shouldn’t trust them, but I trust you, and I trust your gift.”
Winter put her arms around Karience and embraced her. “That means a lot, thank you.” Winter stepped back and looked at the door. “I’ve made my decision. I’m ready to face them.”
--
“Please, sit!” said Theurg excitedly.
Winter found a chair one seat away from Theurg and the apprentice beside him. Theurg wore a green robe with a white-black-white sigil on his breast marking him as a Consecrator. He appeared distinctly happier than the last time she’d seen him. Thin and youthful in appearance, his face was long with an angular chin. A smile shone large on his face and hung like a crooked half-moon.
The man beside him also wore a robe, only it was yellow, and the black-white-black sigil on his breast had a shimmering gold ribbon sewed to the top and bottom of the Consecrator stripes.
“Winter, it is an honor to see you again,” said Theurg. He gestured to the man beside him. “This is my apprentice, Galthess. He is new to your case, as well as new to his duty. Before this assignment, he served the Consecrators in the library.”
The apprentice’s name rang in Winter’s memories. Dicameron, the man who had saved her and Karience’s lives from the Execrata, had spoken of this man. Dicameron had said Galthess was beyond his security level to investigate. If she remembered right, he was accountable only to the three Sentinels, the highest authorities in all the Guardians. Silently she thanked Dicameron for divulging the information to her and Karience. What was Galthess doing here? And why was he pretending to be Theurg’s apprentice?
“I do have some questions before we begin,” said Winter. “You say your apprentice worked in the library, I’m curious about that. What did he do there?”
“The usual librarian duties,” said Theurg. “Acquiring new books, organization, so forth.”
“I specialize in the writings of Prophets. We call them Scrivers, because they are writers inspired by the Makers,” said Galthess.
Theurg adjusted his position in his seat. “Yes. Galthess has dealt with innumerous Scrivers’ manuscripts, but nothing you need concern yourself about. He was chosen for apprenticeship because of his knowledge of Oracles.”
“That fascinates me,” said Winter. “Sanctuss Voyanta mentioned that there are dozens of Oracle types with subcategories to each. But I had not heard of book writers. What kind of things do Scrivers write about?”
“Prophecies, wisdom, history,” said Galthess, his eyes intense as he gazed at her. His dark hair was cut close to his head, and he looked to be thirty or more years old. Much older than Theurg.
“Do you have any copies with you?” asked Winter.
A light sparked to life in Galthess’s eye. “I am never without a manuscript or two to read.”
“I’m afraid it is not permissible for you to look at one,” said Theurg, “And Galthess is prohibited from sharing their contents. Even to me. So let’s move on to a new subject. How are you faring?”
She knew Theurg wanted her to mention Aven. His capture. She didn’t want to talk about her brother—not with Consecrators. She wouldn’t give them the pleasure of her tears. There were other, painful subjects she could redirect them to, and if she grew teary-eyed, so be it. “Sanctuss Voyanta’s death still haunts me,” said Winter. “I wish I would have known about the danger of touching her.”
“She always lived dangerously,” said Theurg. “Rarely would she wear her face cover.”
“Do you live dangerously also?” asked Winter. “I see you have no coverings.”
“I was never an Oracle. Neither was Galthess. It is only Oracles who renounce their gifts who have to be wary. Now tell me, Winter. Have you thought on Voyanta’s words? Do you have further questions I might help you with?”
No one had sharpened her doubts about the gods’ goodness more powerfully than Sanctuss Voyanta. The woman had forced her to fiercely question whether or not the Makers were worthy of following, or if they were cruel like the Beasts. The fact that Sanctuss Voyanta had once been god-touched like Winter made her reasons for doubt all the more painful.
Even now, after wrestling through the issues the Sanctuss had raised, the mere recollection of her wise, deep-cutting words brought with them a pang of doubt. Winter cast them aside, knowing she’d dealt with them the best she could. But she did have other questions.
Winter put her legs up against her chest, heels resting on the edge of the chair. She removed Whisper from under her tunic, sliding the twine from her neck and placing the jar on the table. “Do you know why I was given this butterfly? Even when she’s far away from me, I still receive the visions.”
Theurg’s brows scrunched together as he leaned forward and inspected the jar. “Sanctuss Voyanta wondered the same thing. We don’t know the butterfly’s significance. However, it is a trend we have only just begun to see in the last year or two. A new phenomenon that is beginning to spread amongst the younger Oracles we are encountering. What the Makers are up to, we do not yet know.” He turned hesitantly to Galthess. “Do the Scrivers’ writings shed any light on this new occurrence?”
“Surprisingly, no,” said Galthess. “There were, in the early days of all civilizations, spiritual creatures called Cherah that gave gifts to humans. But these animals were not material, as your butterfly is. And as you say, your butterfly doesn’t provide you with Sight. I’ve never read of a Seer with a pet. Pets are, however, associated with Beasts.”
“How is that?” asked Winter.
“Beasts inhabit an animal of flesh. And commonly they woo a powerful person, such as a king or a politician, through an animal body they have taken possession of. They can communicate telepathically, and can control the human. They give powers to their human slave, such as a long life or absurd levels of happiness, as if they have been drugged with an opiate.”
Winter’s VOKK processed the word, Opiate. She wrinkled her nose at the definition.
“I have a butterfly…are you suspicious of me?” asked Winter, slightly unsettled. Were they concerned about her beyond her simply being an Oracle?
“Not at all,” said Galthess. “Why the Makers gave you the butterfly is a question we’d like an answer to, but we are not suspicious of your being under the control of a Beast. Your behavior recorded by beetle feed showed none of the signs of possession.”
Winter felt relieved at his words. “Tell me more about Cherah,” she said.
“I’m afraid Galthess has already said more than he should,” said Theurg, casting an eye at his apprentice. “I don’t mean to stifle your question, but it is a rule of our order not to reveal the content of Scriver writings.” He sighed. “I was informed about the mercenary attack only upon my arrival here this morning. I’m sorry to hear about your brother, along with the others who were taken.”
Winter found Theurg’s eyes. She detected a trace of cheer in his condolences, as if the tragedy would work to his favor. “I will miss my brother, but losing him has pushed me to place my hope in the Makers. My faith is even stronger than before. I’ve decided against being delivered.”
Theurg’s color drained from his face. His mouth hung momentarily open, as if frozen.
“I don’t understand.” began Theurg. “Why would a tragedy cause you to trust the Makers? They could have prevented it.”
“Leaf warned me this would happen. That my gift would save more than it would kill. I was warned by a vision of all that would happen. The destruction of the Tower. My brother being taken.”
“It doesn’t seem like chaos to you?” pressed Theurg. “The madness of the Makers? Beings with enough power to rescue you, your brother, and all mankind, yet they continue to allow cruel events to torment their creations?”
Winter looked down at her hands, then said quietly, “I want it to make sense…I think it can.”
“How?” asked Galthess solemnly.
“As long as there is something good gained through death…and through things not being as they should. I want to believe that cruelty, in this life, is overcome by purpose.”
“But it isn’t!” said Theurg, a little too passionately.
“You can’t know there isn’t a good reason behind it,” said Winter quickly. “If my brother is to be taken from me, I’d rather my loss have meaning. If the world is as you believe it to be, then Aven is just lost or dead and there is no larger significance.”
“But we can make significance of it,” said Theurg. “Your loss could show you the lack of control of the Makers. They can’t even protect the loved ones of their own Oracles—nor the Oracles themselves.”
“But what if there is a reason they don’t interfere?” Winter asked.
“And what reason would that be?” asked Theurg.
Winter tried to grasp at a thought she’d had. “Because…if they always intervened, our lives would lose their value, their essence. We’d never fear our choices…there wouldn’t be real consequences.”