by B.J. Keeton
Chapter Twenty
Ceril, Chuckie, and Saryn’s plans to escape in the morning hadn’t been as easy as they had hoped. They made a few more physical attempts to escape, but those efforts were as unsuccessful as their attempts the night before. Since any actual fighting they did failed, Ceril figured that he might as well fall back on his scholar training—that’s where his heart was, anyway.
If he couldn’t defeat the guards as a solider, maybe he could learn from them as a scholar. So he developed a new plan, one based on his research on Instances.
It worked.
“The Ancestors left very specific instructions,” said one of the guards.
“What do the instructions say?” Ceril asked.
“They tell us to wait for the messiah. Very few still live who can read them, but they are there nonetheless. We trust the priests to interpret them. When we need to know more, we are told.”
“You’re placing an awful lot of trust in those priests, then.”
“It is what the Ancestors commanded.”
“Right,” Ceril said. “But what happened to your Ancestors?” He hoped his comments didn’t sound snarky to the angel in front of him. He was legitimately curious about the history of the place, and he didn’t want that ruined by misinterpreted sarcasm. That is, if the angels could even recognize sarcasm.
“We…do not know for sure. Much of the Ancestors’ legacy has been lost. We know there was an exodus from Jaronya, and since then, the cities have become ruins. Everywhere you see that is rubble, there once stood a majestic city made of out of crystal. Time transformed it into dull stone, cracked and ignored.”
“Why ignored? Why didn’t you fix them, keep them maintained?”
“We have access to very little of the magic the Ancestors used to create their cities. We do not want it, either. We are a simple people, and the priests have interpreted that none of us should seek out the Ancestors, physically or otherwise. They will return to us when we are ready to learn their ways and restore their world. The first step will be the messiah.”
“But you live here? In this rubble, these ruins?”
“The Ancestors blessed us with strong homes that would withstand the years. We also have their temples, their workplaces. Those are curated by the priests.”
“Where are the instructions written?” Ceril asked, returning to an earlier train of thought.
The angel pointed at an obelisk in the distance. “They are written.”
“What?” Ceril asked. He stood up and tried to see what was written on the obelisk. Without Conjuring to enhance his vision, he couldn’t make out anything on the stone pillar. With his concentration already split, Ceril didn’t bother. “So these instructions the priests read, they’re in public? They’re just sitting around for everyone?”
“They are not for everyone. They are for the priests.”
“Really? Because I would think something written on a sign on the side of the road wouldn’t be for the upper-class to read, interpret, and provide as missives. I’d think they were put there for everyone.”
Purple light appeared behind Ceril. The guard slammed his Flameblade onto the broken pillar beside Ceril and said, “You will not question the priests, Charon.”
Ceril leapt back, but he knew he was in no danger. The angel was just making a point. “I’m not questioning them. I mean it. I’m just saying that somewhere down the line, there’s a chance that this bit of information was mishandled. I just don’t understand why the Ancestors would leave behind a system where only a handful of people could read and understand their instructions.”
“It is not for you to understand. You are an outsider.”
“I know. I know I am. I just don’t like the idea of an entire caste of people being dominated.”
“We are not…dominated, as you say. Our people are free, and we look to the priest for guidance. We are not constrained or forced to do anything but live our lives, outsider. We exist to serve the Ancestors, and we await their return.”
“If you say so,” Ceril said. “How many priests are there? How many of…you are there?” Ceril didn’t actually know what to call the giant purple angel people.
“There is one priest in the Meshin temple. I do not know about the other temples. They are far, and we do not travel there. The priest has given us the Ancestors’ warning about venturing too far from Meshin. The last war left many places uninhabitable.”
Ceril’s shoulders dropped. He rested against the pillar. “What…last war?”
“It was well before my life began. The priest at Meshin is the only one alive today who witnessed the other cities die. There was no food or livable space. Meshin, however, was safe. The Ancestors built the city in the mountains for that kind of protection, made the valley we are in to surround their city. Other than the houses, though, only the temple still stands.” He pointed into the distance. Ceril could see a large structure rising from the horizon, a single spire amid the rubble. Surrounded by the broken towers and ruins in which Ceril and his team found themselves, the shining, purple temple was both ominous and awesome.
“I still don't understand what this has to do with us,” Ceril said.
“Then you are blind.”
“Maybe,” Ceril admitted. “But answer me this: what happens when something happens to the priest, when he dies? What then?”
The creature’s purple brow furrowed. “When our priest dies, another will assume the position. The Ancestors are very clear that those with magic hold the keys.”
“The keys?”
“I say again, you are blind, outsider.”
