The Ryle of Zentule

by Michael Green

  They approached one featuring a dark, golden carpet. Once inside, Andy noticed dozens of ryle sitting around tables, going over large tomes and charts. A few ryle were writing at lecterns, while ychorons were organizing the books and rushing back and forth with writing materials.

  Scores of ryle lifted their heads to watch Andy and his escort cross the room.

  Approaching a platform topped with a fine chair, the brutox directed Andy to sit.

  His escort fanned out, surrounding the platform. The mantis, who seemed in charge of his guards yesterday, was nowhere in sight.

  Ychorons laid a few books on a table across from where Andy was seated. They opened the books to specific pages. Andy strained to look and saw drawings on those pages.

  The ychorons then set up glass jars on the table. On one side sat two glass jars, one full of purple stones, while the other was full of jade stones. On the other side of the table were three jars, each empty, though there were placards in front of the empty jars, facing away from Andy.

  An ychoron took a chair and sat to watch the empty jars, a plain piece of paper in one hand, and a quill in the other.

  Andy stared, and a memory from Sentinel’s Watch rose in his mind. He realized there would be a vote. There were three choices and, somehow, two pools of voters. Andy tried to imagine what the placards read.

  Death by ravager. Death by slither horde. Death by whatever lives in the pool in the hall.

  He stifled a grunt; his instincts about libraries were still in effect.

  All would be terrible ways to go, though they would probably be quick.

  Ryle and ychorons lined up to inspect the books, take a stone, and then cast it in one of the empty jars. The two pools of voters were now clear: ychorons and ryle.

  Andy sat still, rolling his eyes for what felt like hours as the procession moved through the library to cast votes. There were quite a few ryle, but there were far more ychorons. Andy noticed there were no flapping heads, brutox, or slithers taking part.

  Slithers can’t be capable of much thought, but the brutox are more than they seem.

  Finally, the pale mantis arrived, trailed by another dozen brutox. These were more like spiders to Andy’s eyes, and they bore crossbows, quivers full of javelins, and maces.

  The brutox set about clearing the library. A scuffle nearly broke out as an incensed ryle pushed a table over in protest. Andy was shocked to see a spider club the ryle over the head.

  It was surprising, but, clearly, the hierarchy wasn’t as rigid as he expected. Of course, the brutox were obeying orders. Since ryle war with one another, brutox warriors and enemy ryle must come into conflict.

  That made sense to Andy, but the sight still unnerved him, and he couldn’t say why.

  A few minutes after the room had cleared, Ziesqe arrived with a pair of ychorons in tow. One’s feathers shone verdant green. It was sheathed in shining brass strands, sewn in a way that evoked spider webs. The second was orange with a blue face, garbed in braided cables of matte black metal.

  Ziesqe wore a simple, honey colored coat over a black button up shirt. His pants matched the coat. Andy found this strange, as the other ryle wore various types of robes—much like the ones he was draped in—but here was Ziesqe in fashions that looked like they were from the surface, if several decades behind.

  Ziesqe accepted a piece of paper from the attending ychoron, who shuffled away as quickly as possible. Andy assumed the paper was an account of the votes.

  Ziesqe considered the paper before showing it to his attendants. Some conversation passed between them before he approached Andy.

  “Have you figured it out yet?” he asked.

  Andy took a moment before answering. “They show up, look at the books, at me, and then cast a vote.”

  “That’s a summary of mechanical occurrence, and possibly the weakest answer you could have given. The ideational occurrence—what happened in the realm of motive—was my focus, though a guess as to what was concluded would not have gone amiss, either.” Ziesqe snapped a claw and gestured to the table. His attendants picked up the books and brought them forward. “This might make it clearer for you.”

  They held the books open for Andy to see. There were images of paintings, statues, and even sketches of humans wielding the Argument. They wore disparate outfits, some featuring armor, while others bore flintlock muskets, and still others were garbed as royalty. Andy looked to the other book and saw a rendering of a mosaic featuring a familiar man in classical armor. It bore a strong resemblance to the mosaic he posed for in Caspia.

  “They were voting on if I am Caspian,” Andy guessed.

  “Ha!” Ziesqe chortled, and an awful shriek came from his throat. “What a thing to say. Quite close, but no. I merely asked them if you resembled this slain hero.” He pointed to the mosaic and continued, “One jar for yes, one for no, and one for undecided. Can you guess which won?”

  “Undecided?”

  Ziesqe inclined his head and held out the paper. Undecided won by a large margin, with yes and no nearly tied. “Curiously, my spawn were more likely to see a resemblance, though I expect the undecideds were hedging their bets on the safest—read, least likely to upset me—option.” Ziesqe paused to let Andy absorb the information. “Now, before I tell you why I’ve done this, I’ll need you to think back to yesterday. I asked how you knew what a Juncture was. I need you to tell me now,” Ziesqe said politely, but Andy could tell that underneath lay an expectation of obedience.

  “I made a deal with Pythia,” Andy said.

  The ychorons looked wary at this.

  “Hmm. The details please,” Ziesqe said, folding his arms.

  “I would serve Pythia with my abilities as a Seer, and with a piece of Argument, one night a year. In exchange, she would free Letty, and we would enjoy safety from you in her lands.”

  “I see. I think we know where this goes next,” he gestured at the verdant ychoron, “Inxa, would you relate the notice in question?”

  “Certainly,” Inxa said, unrolling a piece of paper and then reading it, “Inexperienced warlord Q’telwe is slain in his holding: Nicomedia fortress, Disputabat. His forces defeated via infiltration, executed by unaffiliated goblins, supposedly led by a rogue ychoron and a youthful Seer. These reports are unconfirmed.”

  “Those goblins weren’t unaffiliated; the snake knows when not to wave a banner,” the blue and orange ychoron quipped.

  “What did you find in Nicomedia?” Ziesqe asked.

  “She wanted a way into the Juncture…” Andy silenced, as the ychorons were tittering at his claim.

  Ziesqe held up a hand.

  “I got us inside,” Andy said, annoyed.

  Even Ziesqe looked torn at hearing that. “That Juncture in particular has been sealed for quite some time.” Ziesqe paused, and held a claw to his chin. “History tells us that a meeting took place there, before it was sealed. Those who attended never returned. Did you see any evidence of them?”

  “Yes.”

  That surprised Ziesqe. “Were they trapped? How many were left?”

  Andy shook his head. “All that remained were blood stains. Pythia claimed that it was ryle blood.”

  Ziesqe blinked.

  “There was something inside the Juncture. Something monstrous that chased us. I bet that it killed those ryle.”

  “Describe it.”

  “That’s not so simple. The monster was invisible. It was man shaped, about the height of your pale mantis, but bulkier. Its body, mostly blades. I saw it tear a massive table in two, and then lift both halves, one in each hand.”

  “Axiomechina,” Ziesqe mumbled.

  The blue and orange ychoron hadn’t heard her master. She asked Andy, “How can you describe its dimensions if it was invisible?”

  Ziesqe nodded. “Fair point, Zava.”

  “It was Pythia’s idea. She managed to—what was the word she used—fold? She folded the blood on the table and moved it with her will. She threw a glob of
it at the monster, and then we could see it.”

  Ziesqe unfolded his arms. “Obnoxious, traitorous, and yet, occasionally ingenious.”

  “We evaded the monster for a time. I had some trouble with Pythia at this point—”

  Ziesqe snapped his claws. “Details, Lysander.”

  “She tried to get me to stay. She spoke a prophecy. It claimed that I would be your prisoner.” Andy paused.

  The ychorons looked to their master, curious about his response, but he was placid.

  “She thought that I could avoid capture if I stayed in the Juncture. I tried to leave, but something happened in there. I don’t remember most of it. I only escaped because the monster kept chasing us, and eventually it jarred my memory.”

  “He’s lying,” Zava spat.

  Ziesqe held raised his hand. “He’s omitting. He hasn’t lied yet.”

  Inxa rushed towards him. “I’ll cut off his nose. It’ll improve his aesthetic, and teach him respect for the truth.”

  Andy leaned back and nearly knocked his chair over. She reached out and pulled him forward.

  Ziesqe clicked, and she stepped back.

  After a tense moment, Ziesqe asked, “This prophecy, what were the words?”

  Andy shook his head. “I can’t remember all the words. Most of it had to do with me and you in particular. She said you would torture me with that dream device.”

  Silence.

  “She said that you would like me and hate me all at once.”

  “So far this is true,” Ziesqe said.

  Andy sighed, seeing they expected more. “Finally, she said that I would spend my life being tortured. She claimed the torture would benefit you, but none of that made any sense.”

  Inxa grinned sarcastically, while Zava was perturbed by the conversation.

  “Inxa,” Ziesqe spoke, as he gestured her way, “will you explain the fyr to our young friend?”

  “Certainly,” Inxa said, considering where to start. “Ryle civilization runs on etherium, negative etherium in particular, but there is so little of the positive stuff that it isn’t worth mentioning.”

  “Why did you then?” Zava sneered.

  Inxa ignored that. “Ychorons as a species are born from ascended slithers, who are born from raw etherium. The same is true for the brutox queens, and the brutons, and the ravager spawn. I’m sure you follow by now. The problem is that the supply of etherium derived from the Counter-Argument could not meet our needs.”

  “Wait—Counter-Argument fuels etherium?” Andy asked. The mice had etherium tipped weapons, and the minoe was made from it too.

  “Again, either false-Argument or Counter can be synthesized into positive or negative etherium respectively. There is no demand or supply for the positive element, so we omit it from our discussions altogether. The important detail is that a piece of Counter-Argument, even one the size of a marble, can be made to bear a hundred brutox, thousands of slithers, or, eventually, something special, like me.”

  Ziesqe held out a heavy orb the size of his fist.

  Andy saw something glitter in the ychoron’s eyes as they stared at the orb. Yearning and revulsion, simultaneously.

  “Yes, this piece, while it may look small to you, could become another ravager,” Inxa said, her eyes still locked onto it.

  Ziesqe curled a lip at them and flexed his fingers around the orb. It vanished, but Andy felt his skin crawl as the air shimmered around Ziesqe.

  “Wait, you said the supply was running dry centuries ago,” Andy interjected.

  “Yes it was, until the revelation. A ryle, Archmaster Mazij, pioneered the fyr. He discovered that your cursed bloodline paradoxically contained the true salvation of our civilization.”

  “The point, Inxa,” Zava complained.

  Inxa batted her eyelashes at Zava. “History deserves an occasional flourish,” she responded, before continuing, “Our salvation, when broken down into mere mechanics, involves the capture and imprisonment of your kind in devices like the one you awoke from a day ago. The process of monitoring Seer consciousness in the dream-state and accelerating that consciousness into a flux of piqued terror is fyr-threshing. When fyr is attained, the product is essentially Counter-Argument.”

  “We call it precursor, but it becomes the fuel of our civilization,” Zava added.

  Andy tried to wrap his mind around what he was being told. They torture people like me, the Seers, because the torture itself produces their Counter-Argument.

  “What, so an orb just rolls out of my ear when you torture me?”

  “It is expelled as condensate from the lungs, though success has also been had in extracting it from the blood. Generally, the condensate pools into a connected container. We believe the precursor is simply the Seer’s natural response to the fyr.”

  “Why aren’t I in the machine then? Or am I?” Andy asked, suddenly alarmed at the thought.

  Ziesqe snorted. “You will never be productive, Lysander. Not even in a thousand dream years would you yield a mote of etherium. We have tried. That is why you woke up yesterday.”

  “So, the prophecy was false. I won’t be of value to you.”

  “Regarding net loss and gain, you’ve already cost me two skillful fyr-threshers, and that’s just since you arrived. The mantis died at my command in the pit, so I won’t fault you. The brutox lost in capturing you are another story, but all this is incidental. Now the prophecy: Pythia nullified it herself when she took you inside the Juncture. The fyr draws motivation through the Junctures, particularly the Junctures under ryle control. Can you see the issue here?”

  Andy considered for a moment. The fyr nightmares were just like the Juncture. Nothing made sense, and the shifting places and people eventually tipped me off.

  Finally, Andy spoke, “Pythia was so desperate to get me into the Juncture because she hoped to cancel her own prophecy.”

  “Precisely!” Ziesqe’s voice echoed loudly. He moved towards Andy and locked eyes. “And the question is why? Why you? Why would she care to simply give you what I pay so dearly for? Why did I arrange this charade of voting today? Why did you survive the pit yesterday? And the vexation that changed my plan: Why did Thrag call you Caspian?” Ziesqe’s stare was intense, but Andy tried not to look away.

  An ychoron flanked by a pair of brutox appeared with a scroll. “I beg your forgiveness, Master.”

  “Not now!” Zava snapped at the messenger. “He is busy.”

  “It is critical,” the messenger retorted snidely.

  Ziesqe took a deep breath and finally broke eye contact with Andy.

  The messenger held out the scroll.

  “Just the pertinent points,” Ziesqe said.

  The messenger was uncomfortable, but he didn’t need to be told twice. He unfolded the scroll and read. “Zyzqe Ziesqe: Hierophant Prime of the 187th Ward. You have allowed your surface holding to fall into primitive hands. The fyr devices have been made secure, at great cost to your peers. It is in the best interests of our species that you report to the Maelstrom for ascension this year. Do not let your heretofore untarnished record become damaged any further. You are meant for greater…” the messenger looked up from the scroll, “it goes on—”

  Ziesqe snatched the scroll from him, looked at it for less than ten seconds and then nearly ripped it in two. To Andy’s surprise, he relented and handed the scroll to Zava.

  The messenger slowly backed away as Ziesqe resumed staring at Andy.

  “Such failure,” he said.

  “You knew it was coming,” Zava said.

  “Is it time to flee?” Inxa asked.

  Ignoring them, Ziesqe’s eyes flamed, his brow tightened and finally, he leaned close and whispered to Andy, “In the ruins of my ambition lie such fragments, and you, Lysander, are the mortar. With you, these fragments might shape a victory beyond yesterday’s hope, but have I the genius to shape you?” Ziesqe grimaced and turned away. “Zava, with me. Inxa, mind the boy.”

  Ziesqe stormed from th
e room, with Zava right behind.

  “What’s happening?” Andy asked.

  Inxa wore a look of deep concern.

  Andy stood, stretched, and finally nudged Inxa.

  “Hands off, human! You’re unclean,” she snapped.

  “Fine,” Andy said walking away.

  She huffed and followed. The beetles formed up around Andy, but they did not bar his way.

  “So, what was the big deal about that scroll? Something about ascension?” Andy asked coyly.

  “The big deal is that we might all end up with different masters,” Inxa sounded genuinely upset as she spoke. “And I’m sure this catastrophe can be traced to you as well,” she said, disgusted by his closeness.

  I wonder what happened. Andy grinned. I hope it was Letty, and I hope that Ziesqe can’t worm his way out of the punishment. He won’t make very good martyr out of me.

  Full of energy, pleased his captor was suffering, and surrounded by his personal bodyguard, Andy went for a stroll. He took corners and stairs at random, and eventually found a barracks. The lazing or sleeping brutox sat up on their wooden slabs to stare. A few were eating in a nearby canteen. One dropped a fork in surprise as Andy and his guard passed.

  Andy reached the far end of the barracks and only found a training area.

  “How about you lead us outside? Somewhere with a view, please,” Andy said to Inxa, who was fidgeting, deep in thought.

  Inxa looked around and realized where they were. “How the hell? Come on, you idiot. Voice of the Dead God indeed…” she continued cursing him until they mounted the stairs.

  A minute later, they were in the main hall again. A horde of slithers rushed by and nearly tripped Inxa, who was still distracted. A beetle kept her from falling, but in that moment, Andy saw her feathers flicker. It looked like electricity flashing. Andy recalled Martin.

  “Why is it that ychorons here don’t change their colors very often?” Andy asked.

  She gawked. “Very often?” she repeated. “It takes several minutes of focus, or fear.”

  “I knew one of you—I’m sure his feathers changed color, and it didn’t take minutes. He could do it in seconds.”