From this close, its artificial nature was readily apparent. The plateau was almost unnaturally level, as if the entire mountain top had been sheared off by a titanic blade, and though she was still several hundred feet above its surface, Trielle thought she could make out the faint greenish tinge of vegetation. But what drew her attention most was a circular cluster of oblong white shapes near the plateau’s heart.
Are those buildings?
If so, then this worldlet had secrets even the Conclave infochrysts did not know.
Trielle landed the ether chariot near the edge of the plateau. There was a momentary pain in her ears as the gravitic containment field dissolved and the air contained within rushed out into the thin atmosphere of the moon. Trielle took a deep breath, and then another. Thin, but breathable, as she had expected. Still, she would not be able to exert herself here.
The edge of the plateau was composed of a rough mulch of gravel and loose boulders, but this quickly gave way to grass covered soil as she moved toward its center. As she approached the cluster of objects, Trielle could see that indeed they were buildings. Organized in a half-ring around a central courtyard, the majority were little more than cubes of grey stone pierced by a single door and a single window. Near the courtyard’s center, however, stood a much larger structure that was quite different from the others. Though built from the same grey stone, this building had been created with more artistry, and was adorned with a myriad of stained-glass windows that gleamed like rainbows in Galed’s light. A tall, narrow door stood open at its front. Trielle scrutinized each building, looking for any sign of their inhabitants, but all appeared empty. A thin, chill breeze began to blow, carrying actinic scents from the sea far below. She stood in silence as the cold began to seep into bones. She did not know what to do.
“You really should follow me inside. This icy air could be the death of you.”
Startled by the voice, Trielle snapped her head around and saw a white-haired man approaching her. He was dressed in brown robes and carried a large pack slung over his left shoulder.
“My apologies if I frightened you,” the man said, laughing. “I was out gathering vegetables from my garden. May I welcome you to the Abbey? It’s not much to look at, but it suffices for my needs.”
“Thank you,” said Trielle, willing her voice to remain steady and confident despite the lingering feelings of shock. “My name is Trielle, and I am looking for Tseramed. I was told to search for him on the fourth moon of Galed, and this is the only settlement I have seen so far. Do you know of him?”
“Indeed I do,” said the man, his eyes sparkling. “In fact, I have known him my whole life. I, my dear, am Tseramed: abbot, and currently sole member, of the Holy Order of Gatekeepers. Now I would very much like to know why it is you search for me, but I will not ask you to tell your tale out here in the cold. Come inside! There is a fire by which we can warm ourselves as we speak.”
Tseramed lead the way into the nearest of the buildings, a cozy dwelling lit by a leaping fire. A cauldron of some dark metal hung over the fire, the steam wafting from its interior heady with the aroma of roasting vegetables. Near the fire stood a table with three chairs, and Tseramed motioned Trielle toward it. As she sat down, grateful for the warmth, Tseramed took an iron ladle and filled a bowl with some of the cauldron’s contents.
“I hope you don’t mind me having my dinner while we speak”? he asked as he sat down beside her. “I find that I can focus better on matters at hand when my stomach is at least somewhat full. Would you like some? There should be enough for both of us.”
Trielle shook her head in a gesture of polite refusal.
“Alright then,” said Tseramed goodnaturedly. “But feel free to take some later if you decide you are hungry after all.”
As Tseramed began his meal, Trielle studied his face. In the flickering firelight, the deep wrinkles that furrowed his skin stood out in sharp relief. His aged appearance seemed almost youthful next to her memory of Kyr. Still, the idea that age had been banished from their society had taken such deep root in her mind that she could not help but widen her eyes in surprise.
At this Tseramed put down his spoon and chuckled.
“Not used to the elderly, eh?”
“No,” Trielle admitted, “though I have seen age before.”
“Really?” said Tseramed, his eyebrows arching with skepticism. “You look like to you come from one of the inner worlds, either Latis or Ravallon I would guess. No one has aged naturally there in centuries.”
“I know,” she replied, “but, well, that’s how this all started. Not long ago my brother and I met a beggar in the streets of Scintillus. I never asked his age, but by his appearance he was much older than you.”
A look of bewilderment crossed Tseramed’s face as he considered her words. “Both poverty and age,” he said at last. “I would think it quite unusual to find these things on Latis, thought I have not visited the inner Conclave for decades.”
“His appearance wasn’t even the strangest part,” replied Trielle. “As we passed by, he grabbed my brother and asked him about the story that the world told itself.”
Suddenly Tseramed’s goodnatured smile vanished, replaced by a stony, guarded look, and his once mirthful eyes became distant and shadowed.
“Where I come from,” he said warily, “we have a saying, a question used to instruct the young and instill in them the beginnings of wisdom. For aeons, men have told themselves stories about the World, but what is the Story that the World tells itself. Think back! Is this what the beggar said?”
Trielle nodded in silent affirmation.
His dinner forgotten, Tseramed leaned forward. She could feel his breath on her face.
“Trielle,” he asked slowly, “What was the beggar’s name?”
“Kyr,” she said.
Tseramed sat back, lost in thought. “I think you had better tell me the whole story,” he said at last.
Trielle nodded and began her tale. She left nothing out, telling of the beggar, the dream and the map. She told of Garin’s departure and the new discoveries she had made in the Arx Memoria. She told of her father and his role in the failed reignition of Vai. When at last she finished Trielle sat back in the chair, exhausted, but strangely relieved, by the telling. For a long time they sat together in silence: Tseramed staring absently into the flickering firelight, lost in thought, Trielle waiting patiently for his response. Then his lips parted in a near-inaudible whisper.
“From the brink of holocaust he trod the path, the skies a pavement to his feet…”
Suddenly Tseramed turned to Trielle, his eyes bright. “I think, nay, I know, child, that your tale hints of events that we have long awaited. As I have said before, I am of the Order of Gatekeepers, a long-lived and noble monastic brotherhood that has existed since the Great Loss. As a gatekeeper, it is not my place to give you the knowledge you seek; rather, it is my job to protect the path to the Beloved. Know this, young one! If you continue through the door I will show you, there is no return. To enter will mark you as an enemy of the Conclave forever. Therefore count the cost, young one, before you make your choice.”
Trielle knew that the words were meant to caution her, but curiously she felt no fear, only a mounting confidence that she was exactly where she needed to be. “Tseramed,” she said, “My brother risked his life to find something I am still not sure even exists. In the face of his courage how can I remain in safety and risk nothing myself? Besides,” she added, “If even half of what I have learned is true then the Conclave has taught me nothing but lies my entire life. And if that is so then in my heart I am already their enemy.”
“So be it,” said Tseramed. “Come.”
The pair exited the house. The azure sphere of Galed was setting in the west, casting the plateau into an eerie twilight. The sky above was almost black, lit only by the glimmer of a few distant moons. The wind was stronger now, and the cold it carried was almost a palpable thing, a living presence that inv
aded her body and pulsed through her veins like a heartbeat of ice.
They quickly crossed the courtyard and entered the large building she had seen earlier. In the half-light, the stained glass gleamed softly, sending strange multicolored shadows skittering across the interior walls. The building was dominated by twin rows of wooden benches. Between the rows, an aisle stretched forward to a raised dais upon which stood an altar draped with a cloth covered in unrecognizable symbols. Two lit candles and a large bell rested atop the altar.
Tseramed shut the door behind them and led Trielle down the center aisle, indicating that she should sit upon one of the benches nearest to the dais. As she rested there, watching the soft glow of the candle flames as it played across the bell’s bronze surface, Trielle found herself strangely comforted, as if a part of her had always been waiting for whatever unknown experience would come next.
“I ask that you be silent and focus solely upon the altar during what is to follow, Trielle,” said Tseramed as he ascended the dais. “Though the prayer is not long, it does require a degree of concentration.”
Without waiting for her answer, Tseramed stepped behind the altar, raised his hands skyward, and began to chant. The language seemed a mixture of words she partially recognized and words she had never heard before, almost as if the tongue in which he spoke had split at some point in the not too distant past from the common speech of the Conclave, but had since evolved in near isolation. Straining to catch a few phrases, Trielle was left with the clear impression that this speech was an invocation of sorts, calling on powers, or was it one power, to come to his aid. Abruptly Tseramed ceased chanting, raised a metal rod, and struck the bell once.
Trielle frowned. Had it made a sound? She thought she had heard something, but could not be sure. It was as if she had felt the ringing directly in her mind. For a few moments there was an absolute silence so dense that Trielle was uncertain if any sound could possibly end it, then the building was filled with a roaring, surging tumult of wind that rose, peaked, and died in the space of a heartbeat.
“You have called, my brother, and I have come.”
The voice seemed familiar. Forgetting Tseramed’s injunction, Trielle rose and turned, a smile blooming across her face as she saw who had spoken.
“Anacrysis!”
“I see you received my message,” he said, a look of utmost seriousness on his face. “Then you truly wish to see En-Ka-Re and know the truth of things?”
“Yes,” said Trielle resolutely, her smile hardening into a look of steely determination.
“So be it,” said Anacrysis with a smile. “But first you must understand the truth about me as well. I’m afraid I couldn’t be entirely forthcoming with you in the Arx Memoria…”
“I don’t understand?” said Trielle, her eyes narrowing.
Anacrysis said no word in response, but instead crossed his hands in front of his chest and closed his eyes as a soft light began to shine through his skin. Like a candle wick catching fire, the light grew in intensity until his form was surrounded by a brilliant nimbus of golden effulgence. From his back two great wings unfolded like sails made of beaten gold, transparent as glass.
“What are you?” said Trielle as she took an involuntary step backward.
“I am one of the Anastasi,” said Anacrysis. “Don’t be afraid, Trielle.”
As the initial shock of his transformation subsided, Trielle realized that she felt no fear at all, only a baffling sense of calm. “I… I’m not,” she said. “I can’t explain it, but somehow this doesn’t strike me as surprising.” She paused a few moments, then said: “My father told me about the Anastasi. Were you truly created from the noetic patterns of our dead ancestors?”
“After a manner of speaking,” Anacrysis replied. “My mortal life was almost twelve thousand years ago. My name then was Saturninus, and I lived during a particularly dark period of Terran history.” His eyes closed in remembrance. “I was only twenty three years old when the came for me.”
“Who?” asked Trielle.
“The provincial governor Hilarianus and his soldiers,” said Anacrysis. “There were six of us in all. They tried to make us recant but we held fast, even when they led us to the stake to be burned. The pain only lasted a short while, though, and soon we were welcomed into the Presence.”
Trielle’s eyes widened. “You remember your death and… the time after?” Her words trained off as she grappled with this new revelation.
“Oh, quite well,” said Anacrysis. “I also remember the day when my body was called from the dust and I returned to this realm. That is what Anastasis means: resurrection. But enough for now. Time grows short, and there are things that are better seen than spoken of. Come, I will take you to En-Ka-Re.”
Anacrysis stretched out a shining hand toward Trielle and a brief flash of warmth passed between them as she took it. Drawing Trielle close, Anacrysis folded his wings about her, transforming them into a sphere of translucent gold that surrounded Trielle like a shield. There was a sense of swift motion, and then the world around them fell away as they were borne aloft, caught on a flaming wind that blew from a mountain of stars and blackness.
Chapter 24: The Vessels of the Everlasting Light
Garin stood on a wild, windswept plain amidst a gloaming twilight. Overhead, violet clouds raced across the face of a low crescent moon that filled over half the sky. Althought no-one was in sight, Garin could not dispel the sense that someone, or something, was watching him.
The transition to this world had been different than the others. As before he had approached the crystal sphere, and as before the sphere had opened, falling away to admit Garin to the world within. But then everything had changed. The new world’s reality collapsed around him almost immediately, trapping him within a rigid crystalline matrix like a fly in hardened amber. He tried to turn, to escape, but to no avail. He could not see. He could not move. He could not even draw a breath. It was then that he heard the voices. As soft as whispers, their words seemed to reverberate through the crystal that surrounded him. He could not hear everything, and some of what he could hear was incomprehensible to him. Still, he was able to grasp fragments of what was said.
“Shall we deny admittance?”
“The World-Fracturer follows on his heels.”
“He cannot move yet within the matrix.”
“I will translate him.”
“He must begin the ascent!”
As the voices trailed off a strange vibration surged through his limbs. For a moment he feared that he would be shaken apart, but as the sensation mounted he realized that he could now move again. Suddenly the pressure surrounding him abated and his vision cleared, revealing a vast crystalline matrix filled with scintillating patterns of light. When he looked down Garin barely recognized what he saw, for his body had also been changed into a pattern of scintillations. He had felt a mighty tug, followed by a sensation of falling as he plunged through an iridescent membrane. A moment later he had arrived at his present location.
Garin looked about the bleak landscape, unsure of what to do next. The plains were empty as far as his eyes could see. Indeed, there seemed to be no landmarks at all save for the glaring sickle of the moon, and so, lacking better options, he began to walk toward it. A few moments later he realized that the moon was larger than it had been a few moments ago. With each step the moon grew, as did the strange sense of being watched he had felt on his arrival. Then a booming voice sounded across the barren plain.
“You may approach me, small one, though indeed you seem to be doing so already…”
“Please,” said Garin, a cold pit of fear forming in his stomach. “Who are you? Where are you?”
The voice laughed jovially.
“I am the Lord of this domain. As to where I am, I thought you already knew, small one, given the course you are now taking. But no matter. I will make things clearer for you.”
The ground convulsed with sudden violence as a double row of jagged st
one pillars erupted from the violet plain, forming a pathway toward the cloud-swathed moon. Garin proceeded between the monoliths, the moon growing higher and larger with each step until at last it was directly overhead, its luminous crescent filling the entirety of the sky. Standing beneath the moon, Garin felt as if an immense weight were pressing down on him, the regard of a presence as vast and massive as a planet.
“Ah, that’s better,” said the voice. “Now, tell me, what business do you have in the Cube of Cubes?”
“Cube of Cubes?” asked Garin.
“Hmmmm,” mused the voice, with more than a hint of mirth, “you are lost then… Do you not know where you are?”
“I know that I am in the world above Mythos, on the Cosmic Mountain,” said Garin. “But of this world I know nothing. It was my hope to find someone who could tell me of this place.”
“Ah, then you are not entirely without knowledge, or at least you know what it is you seek. It is of no matter. In the end, these things are the same. I will give you the information you require. You travel in the lowest sphere of Arethos, the world of the Arethoi, also known as the Cube of Cubes. Now I must ask what it is you seek here. My brethren will not forgive me if I fail in this. Indeed, some of them were against me translating your form into the language of the crystalline matrix at all.”
Garin pondered this for a moment.
“So it was your voice I heard when I was trapped in the crystal.”
“Yes,” replied the voice.
“I thank you then,” said Garin, “for I do not believe that I could have survived that way much longer.”
“In that you are correct,” replied the voice. “The crystalline matrix in which you were trapped is the native form of Arethos and is the substrate out of which the Cube of Cubes is constructed. Before you could exist here, you form had to be translated into the language of that matrix and integrated into its flow. From there it was easy to bring you to this place, which in fact is but an expression of my mind as it stands in connectivity with the Cube. All this is but a small task for the Arethoi, but the need for it serves as a barrier to keep those from our world that we wish to deny entrance.”
The Sovereign Road Page 22
