Atlas

by Nicholas Gagnier

  I was fatally mistaken in that regard. Barrett and the High Priestess are present. The natural order’s most perilous traitors are outfitted now — the surviving Maester’s robes are gold, rather than their traditionally caked browns. He seems quite pleased with the change; much more so than Seraphina, who shuffles in a disconcerting silver dress which is ill-fitted to her tall frame.

  Hannah disregards both of her underlings as Tim and I are shepherded before her. The Brotherhood disperses beyond the central rotunda, leaving the man who calls himself Death and I alone at the Dark Lord’s mercy.

  “Things have obviously gotten off to an uncomfortable start,” the blond woman says from her throne, awaiting no cue or permission from the gods to speak. “Revolution is often a messy affair — that so many lives were lost was an undesirable outcome.”

  Neither of us respond, earning a smile from Hannah.

  “Atlas has been incompetently ruled for three Ages, and a change in leadership was never suggested. It was inferred, as told by Tomas’ rebellion — which we all know was a sham created by a fellow Nephalim named Gabriel to siphon more power away from the ruling Council. And do you know where he is now?”

  Finally, Tim speaks — the tone is bitter, long soaked like a cloth under spilled chloroform.

  “Yes. The Phoenix and I killed him.”

  “Correct,” Hannah says. “It seems Gabriel was emboldened by the Nephalim’s downfall. He ceased to represent the realm he was sworn to protect, and only cared about angelic supremacy. Gabriel was corrupted by Light, and Earth paid for his malfeasance.

  “Ziz, on the other hand, understands balance.” Her right hand lifts, a black shape rising from her flat palm into the silhouette of flame. It bubbles and expands, cancelling out any connotation of natural elements. On the other hand, Hannah’s raised fingers hold up a blinding ball. Within seconds, the blond woman encloses both displays in her fists, and they evaporate from the conversation.

  “Darkness and Light. One was born from the other. They are a set. One can exist alone, but would be incomplete. The other would not survive in solitude, because that would be like a person without oxygen, wouldn’t it?

  “The problem,” she says, “is that organisms created in the Light forgot to properly include Darkness in their grand plans. And why would they? Darkness is such a wild, misunderstood creature. It holds all of our fears, the underbelly of our faith. Most people would run from it, and soon forget it is the source of everything.”

  Hannah admires her blank palms which previously held elements of her fascination, turning them over— opening, closing, flexing their power.

  “In their misunderstanding, Atlas embraced the Light without regard for its true creator, and the side of Creation nobody was willing to represent.

  “Zizzik did. He stood for Creation, when all the other gods and angels harvested Light for their self-interested endeavors. His transformation into Ziz is often glossed over in Atlas’ history. I’ll have to tell you sometime.”

  I have no desire to hear this woman’s voice another second — she is apocalypse in a pretty dress, recklessly throwing Creation around like a wrecking ball to suit whatever ends she has.

  Power, she says in my memory— of such magnitude, to go back to a time without it would leave me a skeleton of what I am — a weak, dishevelled being that would make the longest-tenured Whisperers look like the belle of the ball.

  “Enough, Hannah,” Tim says. “Stop with the games, and just tell us what your plan is.”

  “You want to know the plan, is that it?” she asks, and turns to Barrett, who nods and disappears as Hannah reverts her attention to us. “Very well.”

  The angel who returns with the Maester is larger than Luca, who neared eight feet tall and was taller than any Nephalim he was outlawed from standing with. The newcomer has dark hair and gorgeous wings. His suit is golden steel, jangling as some pieces scrape against others with his stroll. A giant longsword sits on his chain link belt. His hair is knotted down his back, and beady blue eyes look out over a thick beard as he stops next to Hannah.

  “This is Mykul,” Hannah says. “A creation of the Council who sought to infuse their soldiers with catastrophic amounts of Light in the First Age. Certainly another bit of concealed history, isn’t it? We found him in the Obelisk’s basement, kept catatonic by the Nephalim. I had my men free him.”

  The Council tried to make the angels like the artifacts they had successfully infused with Light. It failed, and they locked their experiments away.

  “Your champion,” Hannah explains, “will battle Mykul for the title of Death. And whosoever is the victor will retain control of Aumothera.”

  “Making this freak the new Death if he wins,” I say.

  “No,” the blond woman chuckles. “Mykul is merely a champion, representing a vested interest.”

  “You?”

  Hannah giggles.

  “Please. I have my sights set on greater things than that cesspool. The fact is, the Phoenix will participate — her forfeiture is also yours, Tim —”

  “Why are you doing this?” Tim asks. “All this destruction, for what? Do you realize what you are following here?”

  My ears perk up, because a theory has bubbled under the surface for just as long, and this is my chance to confirm it. But Hannah shakes her head— we are gnats in her clockwork, and she owes us no justification.

  “I will hold your friend — she requires training to make the spectacle worth holding. We wouldn’t want a quick death, would we? In the meantime, you are free to go. I will send for you both when the time is right.”

  With a final wave of her hand, we are allowed to leave — the crowd of plague doctor masks disperses further, allowing us to cut through their numbers. Neither Tim nor I speak passing the Spire’s double doors no longer held by the Royal Guard, but groaning Behemoths overhead, putting a second thought in the head of those who would endanger their mistress.

  Beyond the Seat, glancing out at all the destruction of the last few days, I have no words, only motive.

  I have no consolations left— only bare ambition.

  I am going to murder that cunt.

  Follow the trail. It has protected me in the past, when going off-road might have ended very differently. I have to follow Harper’s involuntary map, and see what lies in the Cathedral’s ruins.

  But first, there’s somebody I need to see.

  And it’s all thanks to Barrett.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I was never religious as a mortal. Part of that may have had something to do with my parents’ deaths, but they seem like such a small consideration now. God’s absence seems to have been the byproduct of ambivalence— if the nature-nurture argument is to be believed, it had mostly to do with Maya being non-religious. She hung about a sham tarot dealer named Glenda, but never attended a mass in her life.

  It wouldn’t have helped — the handful of Scripture I know is the byproduct of human imagination to comprehend a void. The Atlas was happy to let our fictions take root and inspire the living.

  My return to the Barracks is less tense without the mob of Brotherhood pulling me between them. Tim went off in search of something. I told him to meet me at the Cathedral in two hours. It would be long enough for what I need to accomplish.

  The Obelisk is haunted by the sterile Light washing over it. No angels and Royal Guard pass each other on its steps, exchanging nods on their respective patrols.

  The doors are unlocked, the interior emptied of legendary warriors once responsible for guarding the Council; who failed, and were relegated to the sidelines until Ziz wiped them out. The art is still on display — mighty depictions of Nephalim dwarfing Creation’s monsters, of whom I am not one. The visual tales range from Lovecraftian horror to mutant beasts, leading to the one in themselves they were unable to overcome. Different monsters control Atlas’ airspace now, answering to a single master, and those mighty warriors are just some creations in a painting.

&
nbsp; I came here with purpose — sneaking back into the one place Ziz nor his agent expected me to turn, and don’t linger.

  Hannah says she found Mykul in the Obelisk’s basement, hooked up to tubes like some Nazi experiment.

  Contrary to my secular nature, I pray for something of a similar nature.

  ***

  Some things about people never change. Whether one travels to Narnia or Atlas, key tenets of humanity remain predictable, leaving a trail in the darkest times to something resembling hope. I don’t know if hope is still tenable in the supreme realm, given the degree it has buckled and crumpled under the Dark Lord’s forces.

  There is something about transitioning from impending to full-blown crisis that rocks the most stubborn souls, finally wrangling a concession from humility’s long-forgotten wreck. They’re not suddenly more helpful or eager to please.

  They do, however, go where they feel safest.

  That is the case for Elion, the portal caster from when I first spoke with Maester Quorroc. I lost track of him at the ball when Linus and company crashed the party, and have scarcely seen or heard of the Magi since.

  The only other place I ever saw one was the Obelisk, and that is where my bets are hedged.

  The Maester and Nephalim orders have effectively collapsed. Hardwick is gone, and my only other ally is a murderous woman with a weird map around her neck. She’s a start, but I would be insane putting all my eggs in her basket.

  After twenty minutes of wandering the ground level — and perhaps stopping to admire marble busts I missed the first two times blazing in here — the second floor was cleared much faster. There are no elevators or stairwells, but ramps that gently ascend between stories.

  In a large chamber on the third floor, the Magi number less than five when I expected a full group. The four of them mediate, heads pointed down, thumbs and forefingers forming a circle at the vertices of crossed legs. Purple robes contrast the room’s color scheme of stone beige and they sit like monks; a front-facing teacher, with his students’ back to me in a line.

  Their leader, whose eyes are firmly shut, lifts his head. His hair is fine like threads of silk, but he is old and the slicked-back hair running down his neck has grown sparse. In front of him, a pool of clear liquid manifests from nothing. The puddle grows, expanding into a solid; like a moving worm laying itself flat, it grows to a quarter inch, then a half— and soon, it begins to morph.

  The body rises. Pieces branch from the central mass, taking symmetrical forms. The middle fattens, rounding out — eight tiny threads descend from the belly. The oval’s point smooths, becoming like the smaller head of a snowman, and a green bulb lights up its thicker end. Before long, the puddle from nothing is some sort of firefly, lighting the teacher’s catatonic state.

  Osmosis.

  My awe reaches its crescendo, and the man opens his eyes. There is no other subject of interest — he is aware of my presence, and exactly where to find me.

  “Ramona Knox,” the teacher says. His expression is blank, neither surprised or questioning why I’ve come. “We were expecting you.”

  Okay, now I’m uncomfortable.

  “You were?”

  “Yes. Since Atlas has fallen, and the Nephalim fell with it, you are the last true-blooded angel in the supreme realm. We are at your service.”

  There must be some mistake.

  “Um,” I chuckle. “I’m not an angel, okay? Luca was an angel. Pol and the others were angels—”

  The teacher interrupts me. His students do not turn away from their mediation.

  “You have taken the Oath, have you not?”

  “I took an Oath,” I reply. “But I don’t have wings or a big fucking sword, if that’s what you’re saying.”

  “And was there a light during this Oath taken?”

  The weird constellation that closed around me after the Council pronounced me a Nephalim? What does that have to do with anything?

  “Yes — it had stars in it.”

  The old man smiles, the first hint of genuine emotion he has displayed. The glowing insect flutters around his head as he speaks, and I am spellbound by both.

  “Then the Oath was taken, and you are Nephalim — one with the Light, and its last sworn defender, by my last count.”

  “You don’t know me,” I scoff. “I came to speak with Quorroc. Elion will tell me where he is, if you won’t.”

  But Elion doesn’t lapse, nor do his two peers. It doesn’t matter — no confrontation would predicate Maester Quorroc rounding the alcove, which is exactly what he does. The frail elder that Luca and I arrested is no worse for wear. His robes are their original soot color, encompassing everything Barrett left behind in his quest for power. If he holds a grudge over my interrogation tactics, it doesn’t show.

  “Ramona,” the old Maester says. “You have come in our darkest hour, child.”

  Looking between the two elders — one who should, by all rights, hate me; the other is half a monk praying to delusion, practicing osmosis on the way — I have no words but vomit them up anyway.

  “Did you know?”

  “About Barrett? Yes,” he admits. “None of the other Maesters took measures to defend themselves from our leader. He is the worst kind of power-hungry. At least Tomas and Gabriel were brash, their struggle on full display.

  “But Barrett — his search for knowledge went too far. He wanted to be the smartest man in Creation. He craved knowledge like others do power. But knowledge has a corrupting effect, much like power does. And whatever he has seen, it drove him to help destroy Atlas.”

  There will be time to avenge these traitors later. The unnamed Magus teacher wakes his students. Elion’s eyes open slowly like the others, also intuitively aware of my presence. But Quorroc is a Maester— perhaps the only decent one left, whose legacy is tarnished by years of humiliation at Barrett’s hands. Luca saw him as a troublemaker, but now he may be our only hope of not fighting Ziz blind.

  “How do we stop it?” I ask, cutting right to the heart of the matter.

  There are no games left to play.

  Quorroc sighs. There is more life in his gray beard than either Siskett or Barrett, and the lines of stress don’t run as deep. He may have been innocent the day Luca and I arrested him, carted away for nothing more than entertaining children.

  “The Behemoths themselves are a force all their own to reckon with. If the gates to Ezzark are opened — their homeworld and breeding grounds — their presence will be infinite. Not to mention the involvement of the woman,” Quorroc says, emphasizing the woman. “She is the true wild card in the Dark Lord’s plot.”

  “And they want the Avatar,” I finish, because the plot’s endgame is all that matters now. “All the spectacle and grandiose bullshit aside, Maester — that’s what they’re after.”

  “Correct. The Avatar’s role is often minimalized, but she is the key to controlling Atlas, or destroying it. We have no way to know what Ziz plans to do with her, but the outcome would be catastrophic for every soul in this room.

  “Make no mistake, Ramona. You are now the highest-ranking official that Atlas has. Seraphina and Barrett forfeited their rightful place in the hierarchy by abdicating. All the Nephalim are dead, save you. This means we must protect you at all costs.”

  “Why would I need protecting?”

  The green firefly passes the Magus teacher’s amused look. He looks up to Quorroc with a half-smirk and cocked head.

  “She doesn’t know.”

  “Of course she doesn’t know!” Quorroc snaps. “I am trying to tell her in a way she will not go into shock.”

  “Ah. Carry on, then.”

  Quorroc rolls his eyes.

  “Forgive him. This is Avalon, the Magi’s leader. He is under the impression he has mastered the school of confusion, but all he manages to confuse is our perception of him.”

  “Nonsense,” Avalon replies.

  “The point is, Ramona — this is the greatest threat Atlas has ever f
aced. It makes the Nephalim rebellion look like child’s play. Without the Council, all of Creation has been dislodged from order.”

  I don’t need a long, drawn-out explanation. I need to follow Harper’s map, save her from Mykul, and kill Tim’s wife.

  A behemoth task, to be sure. Tim’s words echo from a time the worst I had to worry about was men like Stephen Hardwick, operating in the shadows.

  “Tell me what I need to do.”

  Quorroc smiles.

  “There is much work to be done. But first, a ray of light in this dark time.”

  Before I can inquire what in the world the old man is on about, a familiar face rounds the same alcove Quorroc did. The sight of blond hair and angel wings, with a sword in a sheepskin sheathe brings tears to my eyes.

  “Luca?”

  The angel bows his head. I rush forward and hug him. His red robes are gone, replaced with ragged white matching the feathered wingspan. As we separate, I ask the only question I can muster.

  “But...how?”

  The angel steps back, joining Quorroc. He is much taller than both of us — a fact I had forgotten but am happy to be reminded of.

  “Just prior to your arrival, the Council summoned me,” he replies. “Told me they had concerns about Barrett — that he had been reported as working against their interests, citing his search for knowledge. At the time, I had no true indicator to how deep the Maester was, and proceeded as I always have; with extreme caution.

  “The morning before the Cathedral attack, I spotted Barrett conversing with a blond woman. It was the first time I had seen her. I reported my findings to the Council, and recommended using their projected forms for the party. Were something to happen during that event, I was to go dark and survey Barrett from afar.”

  It was all a ploy. It may have been all that saved Luca’s life, and despite my annoyance over wasted feelings, I’d rather him here.

  At the same time, all I have are questions. They come out aggressive, failing every attempt to sound measured.