“From what I gather, they’re terrified,” Father answers as he flips through reports. “Some fear us and the control we’re exerting, but many fear Altos and the nobility who have fallen under his sway. They believe we may be losing control.”
“Are we?” I find the courage to ask. “Losing control?”
“No,” Father says. “Though powerful, Calladan and Paloran have been contained, and the danger of their influence is already waning. When Paloran is found guilty and executed before the rest of the High Court, what little dissent exists will disappear with him.”
“Iliana,” Uncle begins. “Did you notice something at Paloran’s banquet that would make you question? What is the disposition of the nobility? Did you overhear anything?”
“Nothing on that front,” I answer. “But I uncovered more than one mystery. Such as the identity of the imposter Teldaran Hollenzar.”
“What?” Father drops his papers so quickly it’s like he has been stung. “You spoke with this boy?”
“More like confronted. He escaped, but I was able to learn that he is actually a ward of the historian Reknor. He goes by the name Jace.”
I ignore the twinge of guilt that uneasily wends its way through my stomach. This boy is clearly leading Torlas astray. Defying the kingdom, hiding information… this isn’t the Torlas I know. He shouldn’t need anyone but me. Torlas shouldn’t want anyone but me.
“We will investigate immediately,” Father says, sitting back in satisfaction. “This is a boon for us. I think the boy could be important.”
“How?” I ask, honestly curious. “He is just a boy.”
“If my suspicions are confirmed, I’ll tell you, but until then they are merely baseless conjecture,” he says. He stares squarely at me when he says it. I fight the tense note of disquiet that squirms out of the back of my mind. Calladan is the liar. I’ve chosen to trust. “You mention another mystery uncovered.”
“I met another Shaper,” I say, holding up a hand to forestall their questions as they both open their mouths to speak. “It was a woman, an Islander, who was a performer at the banquet. I watched her float in the air without aid, almost as if she were the Vengeance herself. The symbol of her power was there on her face. I thought it was a tattoo at first, because her symbol was black, like oil. What power is represented by darkness?”
The two men share a look, but eventually Father shakes his head. They both appear at a loss.
“Do you know anything else about her?” Father asks, leaning forward. “Any other abilities, defining features, what have you?”
“She was a thief,” I say, shrugging. “An Islander, though lighter skinned than most. She stole a necklace from the Duchess herself.”
“Which necklace?” Father demands, his face contorting into an expression both intense and fierce. “What did it look like?”
“I only saw it in a flash of light, but I think it was… ruby?” I say, staring off into the distance as I try to remember.
“Gordyn,” Uncle rumbles immediately, and he does not sound pleased. “He has sought the amulet for years.”
“Jon Gordyn?” I ask, confused. “The banker?”
“The very one,” Father says absentmindedly. “I knew he had been in some quiet war against a collection of thieves, and it appears he won.”
He turns to Uncle, who nods.
“The rumors of this thief were not so far-fetched as we believed. The power of the Unknown, rising again in our time,” Uncle declares quietly, a note of awe in his voice. I’ve never heard that tone from him. He always seems so sure, so certain of himself. It honestly scares me.
“Perhaps you should pay Mr. Gordyn a visit, Kranos.”
“The Unknown?” I ask quietly.
“Iliana,” Father says, as if noticing me again for the first time. “We’re proud of you. You’ve grown in the last few seasons from the little girl of our memories to the woman seated before us now. Kranos and I have agreed that you are ready to assume more responsibility.”
“Of course, Father,” I answer slowly. I see the deflection for what it is, and I scowl. He can clearly see the anger in my face, because he frowns in return.
“You have to learn to control yourself, daughter,” he lectures, his finger coming up like the Creationist who once schooled me in the faith. “If you wish to ever sit at this table as an equal, you can’t allow your emotions to rule you. Some secrets, even mentioned in passing, could disrupt the very fabric of our civilization as we know it. We risk much just by allowing anyone with the knowledge to live.”
“I can keep a secret,” I mutter, but I can hear the petulance in my own voice. Deliberately smoothing my irritation away, I replace it with a stoic mask. “Should I tell you the last of my revelations?”
“Another?” Father asks incredulously. Uncle sits back and looks at me in surprise.
“The Shaper of Thought is, or is at least pretending to be, a scribe in the Khalintar of the Coin. He came to my coming of age, and used his powers to block the memory from my mind. I have just now managed to fight through whatever wall he put up around the memory.”
Uncle and Father exchange a long look, a look of both relief and realization, as if this knowledge has solved a dozen mysteries at once. Father glances at me, his eyes leading, and Uncle turns to look as well. They seem to be evaluating me, sizing me up again and perhaps finding something there they didn’t before.
“It is growing impossible for Kranos and I to control the breadth of this kingdom we created,” Father says quietly. “There is too much to manage, too many fools and rebels and dissenters. Would you like to be a part of how this fragile kingdom stays strong? Tell me, daughter. What do you know of the Deep?”
Chapter 20
Bastian
The Final Day of Spring
In the year 5222, Council Reckoning
“What? What the hell?” I ask everyone and no one in particular.
“There is a way to transition from one life to the next. We gave up our lives so that we might serve future Shapers as the Ensouled,” Jynn responds. “Instead, our world collapsed along with the kingdom we all lived and died for.”
“Some of us lived for it,” Asimir grumbles. “Some of us fought against it. Keep your zealotry to yourself.”
“And yet here we all are,” Jynn snaps. “Fighting to fulfill Elitrea’s dreams.”
“Don’t speak as if you knew her,” he growls. “She had fallen into the trance a dozen generations before you even existed.”
“I stood at her side and listened to the—”
“Enough,” Eligio says, his accent still eluding me. Though I know he speaks in another language, I’m still surprised not to be able to place it. “Forgive my companions, Bastian. This is an old argument, one which neither side has ever acceded so much as an inch. You do not recognize my voice because my people were extinguished so long ago that your histories have no mention of us.”
“I’m sorry,” I say lamely.
“The wound is so old I can only see the scar; I can’t even feel it. But I thank you nonetheless.”
“Where did you live? You and your people?” I ask.
The chorus of voices falls silent, the murmurs and whispers of the others dying down. Why would they stop speaking for this man?
“We were the A’kai’ano’ri. Isa was originally our land, these environs you call the Broken Isles our domain. But our lives were lived in a time before the Ways, a time before the great sea, a time before even the Eternal. We began as many civilizations do: warlike, exonerating fighters and generals and burning the collected knowledge of any who did not agree with us. As we matured, however, we turned introspective, scholarly. We began to pursue the spiritual realm, to study the nature of the world and the workings of those you call Shapers. We created the Voice of the World; the People still speak a form of the language that originated with my people. We started the Process: the path to becoming Human, the path to becoming a Blade, the path to reaching the Zenith. W
e believed we had ascended beyond the mortal concerns and the failures of our species. We were mighty, and no other people in the world could challenge us.”
“Then what happened?” I ask. “Why are we not all speaking the I’wia?”
“The dissent came from within, of course. The debate that tore us to pieces was the same that people still argue today. Who was the Creator? We—each civilization which has arisen throughout time—each know of the Creator’s existence. It is accepted as fact. Why? How do we know he lived? Why does no one question his existence? Where did he go? What did he care about? If he existed, how could he cease to be?
We took centuries to study the past, using our own Masters of Time to peer deep into the veils of the distant past rather than following the maddening strands of the future, as Queen Elitrea did. What we ran into was quite shocking: eventually, the past has an end. Or, really, a beginning. This world, and all that it is and was, started in one moment. Man was created and placed on this earth whole and aware. The Shapers were there from the beginning, the tools placed into their hands to tame the wild and lush land of our ancestors. But how? How could we have been given these tools of creation? Are there others like us? Other worlds, other species, other timelines? Where does the power of the Creator stop?”
“Did you find an answer? To any of this?” I wonder.
“We had our… hypotheses. But our own questioning of the fabric of creation led to our downfall. As we peered into the past, Shapers concerned far more with the present arose to power. They were elected; we had no form of government so barbaric as a monarchy. But the true A’kai’ano’ri fell out of politics. How can you care about the goings on of the present when the secrets of all that we are drift just out of reach? By the time we realized we needed to care, our laws and policies had been replaced. Our knowledge had been deemed heretical. The Temple of the Creationists had taken over.”
“The Temple? The priests?” I ask incredulously.
“The very same. They had formed an entire religion based upon one of my ideas: that the Creator was still alive and well and cared for his creations. The paper I published was more satire than fact; how could any being with the might to create all that ever was and is care about the fate of his creations? What would possibly possess a being of unlimited knowledge and might to busy himself with our petty squabbles?
Be careful, Bastian, of the most dangerous force this world has ever known: hope.
The A’kai’ano’ri had achieved what we believed to be physical and spiritual perfection, but some of us were not satisfied. There had to be more, they said. There had to be something better for those who reached the Zenith. What use was the Process if it didn’t lead somewhere? They did not understand the journey was the goal, and the journey would never be completed. Instead, they grew fearful of the journey’s end instead of welcoming its peace. These men and women needed hope, and my brief and ill-considered treatise ignited that for them.” Eligio falls silent for a time.
“What happened to you?” I prompt.
“When the assassins came for us, no one wept. They slaughtered us wholesale. I briefly considered fighting, but I knew my efforts would only further destroy what little chance we had of our knowledge surviving. So I gave myself up. I entered into this ring, shucking my mortal coil in the process. The Creationists found me and placed me on a pedestal in their first temple; the power of my soul an offering to the Creator they believed still looked down on them. There I languished for centuries, until finally I was graced with companions.”
“The time approaches,” Ulia breaks in, her voice frightened.
“Yes, Bastian,” Jynn continues. “It is time for you to help us.”
“What can I... what could I do for you?” I ask the waiting collection of souls. The sun drops towards the horizon, the tower’s summit the perfect place to watch the fiery orb set the waves ablaze.
“We have reached a crux in the fate of the world. Our future, the fate of all that lives and breathes on this earth, will be determined tonight,” the Seer’s rich voice is grave.
“Uh, what? Isn’t that a bit dramatic?”
“No, it isn’t,” she answers solemnly.
“Queen Elitrea fell into a trance that lasted centuries,” Jynn says. “Many believed she had gone insane, that the weight of untold centuries of life had broken her mind once and for all. They believed that the burden of knowledge was too much, that no one person could safely peer into the ever-mutable, ever-shifting river of the future. They didn’t listen when we told them otherwise.”
“The queen was not broken,” Ulia picks up the tale. “She was searching. The Masters of Thought who stood at her side could listen, for a time, our power allowing us glimpses into the vast and endless tide of possibility Elitrea explored. We understood the terror that drove her to continue the search, the humanity that drove her to follow an endless number of strands to their inevitable conclusion. In every single future she followed, every branch, no matter the choices, our world ends. In fire.”
“My dreams,” I start slowly. “The world burning, the fire feeding on life…”
“The future,” Jynn agrees. “We decided to show you the visions of the Master of Time so you could come to understand the gravity of this moment. The importance of what we do tonight.”
“If it all ends in fire, what’s the point? To delay? To put off that end?” I ask skeptically.
“She found a strand, there amongst the myriad ends of our collective life, in which we do not die. We do not fail. We fight, we thrive, and we continue to exist for so long she abandoned the strand for the centuries grew too long even for her patient sight. There were a handful of futures that led to that one shining strand, each balanced upon a knife’s edge. Our lives and deaths hang on the most inconsequential of decisions: actions taken or not, thoughts voiced or withheld, anger kindled or forgiveness granted.”
“Why didn’t she tell the world what she was doing? Why allow them to believe her broken?”
“There were no futures in which her kingdom could save us,” Jynn answers. Ulia’s sorrow hangs as a palpable weight in the nothingness that is their existence. “She gave herself up so that we might live. And even now, her efforts may have been completely wasted. We are ever in a game against the capricious and uncaring nature of history and the turning of the world. Over the past five thousand years, those dim candles of hope have been snuffed out one by one.”
“Let me guess,” I say sourly. “There’s one left?”
“Yes and no,” Jynn hedges. “There are several futures after tonight in which our world has a hope for continued survival. But all of them, each and every remaining future in which we exist, can be extinguished tonight.”
“Over centuries, the Eternal was able to pinpoint a few particular individuals in a few significant moments in history who would determine our fate,” the Seer says, her face a stoic mask. “If we wish to keep the flame of hope alive, we must act. Tonight. We have lost futures we thought would never go dark due to the decision of a man to turn left on a leisurely stroll instead of right, thereby missing the one chance he had at laying eyes on the woman he loved, and so their child never existed, which annihilated an entire line of altruistic and brilliant people who would have steered the world towards unity and strength. We lost entire swathes of possibility because he turned left. Now, tonight is everything. Every. Single. Future.”
“What am I supposed to do about it?” I ask, shaken.
“There are three souls at stake tonight, three individuals of such significance the events that transpire tonight will strengthen or destroy the last hope of our future. One must be saved, one must be broken, and one seek vengeance,” the Seer gestures at the ring on her hand and seems to encompass me in the motion. She says the list as if it were a litany, but somehow, it feels unfinished, like she deliberately ended the chant before its conclusion. “We are going to keep the flame of life alive.”
“What do I get out of it?”
&nbs
p; “What?” the Seer responds, clearly stunned.
“What do I get out of it?” I repeat impatiently. “Despite your cleverness and deliberate obfustication, I can sense from dear Ulia’s surface thoughts that the end of the world is quite a ways away. I could die tomorrow, having never seen nor worried about the fire of the future. You could kill me the second I finish helping you because ‘it’s necessary for the future.’ Oh no, you manipulative little pricks, I am going to need something in return if you want me to stir even one metaphorical finger to help you.”
“The fate of the world isn’t enough for you?” Ulia speaks as if in a daze. “You would let all life cease?”
“I won’t be around to see it, neh?” I answer, smiling. For the first time since I woke up in that damned cage, a flicker of the confidence which was so thoroughly stolen from me by these people returns. “No, I think I quite have the power here. You need me far more than I need you. I have some things you’re going to need to do for me if you want to see it done.”
***
“Does it bother you?” I ask the Seer as she leads me down. The starlight sets the diamond walls glimmering with a soft muted light. “Lying so blatantly to your people?”
“It had to be done,” she answers without turning around.
“What? You have raised your people on a false religion that, surprise, you’ve known all along is false, and all you have to say is ‘it had to be done’?”
“The People believe as they believe for a reason, one which I will not explain to you now. Just know… it was necessary,” her eyes cloud, the warmth draining from her voice.
The Seer’s personal chambers are a strange kaleidoscope of styles. Sumptuous silks drape right next to ascetic stone chairs, and brightly colored lamps hang beside tragic tapestries of long forgotten battles. It’s as if a dozen people have all been given free rein to decorate, and none of them can agree an ounce on how the rooms should look. There are figurines from a dozen periods in history, tribal masks, a pair of short, curving knives, an ancient helmet corroded by salt. It is chaos, splintered, anachronistic and entirely unrelated. The crystalline walls are translucent, but not transparent, and the oddness of the structure and the lighting only adds to the eccentricity of the rooms.
The Crux of Eternity: Eternal Dream, Book 1 (The Eternal Dream Saga) Page 52
