Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra

by Stephen Lawhead

  Closer to the heart of the city, traffic thickened. Other driverless vehicles sped along beside them. Treet noticed that the evee adjusted its speed according to the traffic patterns around it. Most of the vehicles appeared to be heading toward the same destination: a great seven-sided obelisk surrounded by a half circle of smaller obelisks and set on an expanse of rising land amidst a carefully tended grove of miniature trees.

  The evee swung into a long circular drive at the foot of the rise below the edifice, and they disembarked, joining the throng moving up the hill. With the lowering sun directly behind the obelisk, scattering the last of the sun’s rays, the slim spike seemed to become a spacecraft lifting from its launching pad on a burst of white fire. Men and women were disappearing behind the standing ring of smaller stone obelisks, and coming closer Treet saw that a steep hollow had been dug in front of the main structure, forming an open-air amphitheater. Fieri were streaming down into the amphitheater, taking seats along the stairstep sides.

  Treet and his companions approached the standing stones, passed between them, and descended into the amphitheater. Only then did Treet remember that he was the featured speaker for the evening. The realization gave him a sudden case of stage fright. His palms grew clammy, and his stomach fluttered; his feet stumbled as he moved down the narrow aisle. He felt instantly awkward and forgetful, afraid to open his mouth—whatever might come out was beyond his control.

  Talus apparently sensed his discomfort, for he put a large hand on Treet’s shoulder, leaned close, and whispered, his voice small thunder, “Be at ease. All you see here are your friends. They wish you well.”

  “I wish there weren’t so many.”

  “Ordinarily there would not be this large a gathering. But you and your friends have stimulated our interest, so we are meeting in the amphidrome tonight. I’ll stay with you every moment.”

  They made their way down to the floor of the amphidrome and found seats on the first row. Preben excused himself and disappeared as two men came hustling up, one white-haired, the other dark-haired but with a beard graying in the center and at the edges. Both wore faded blue cloaks over their clothes. The white-haired one Treet recognized as Bohm, whom he had met at the airship. Bohm spoke first, greeting Treet and Talus, and presenting the stranger to Treet. “Orion Treet, allow me to introduce you to Mathiax, Clerk of the College of Mentors.”

  The man’s bright eyes glittered with excitement as he extended both hands, palms upward in the manner of the Fieri. Treet took the hands and squeezed them, saying, “I am pleased to meet you, Mathiax.”

  The Clerk nodded and glanced at Bohm, his expression stating emphatically. Oh, this is really something. He even speaks our language! Treet felt like a lab specimen on display, a feeling that escalated with each passing second. But when Mathiax replied, it was in the warm, intimate tone of one trusted confidant to another. “You must forgive us our ebullience at your expense. We sometimes forget ourselves in our haste to embrace new awarenesses.”

  These people are so polite, considered Treet, so formal, so different than I expected. It’s hard to believe they share the same common ancestry as those who live in Dome.

  “I am only too happy to—ah, serve in any way I can.”

  Mathiax nodded happily and said, “We will begin in just a few minutes. I want to be certain all are here, so if you will excuse me … Talus, you will act as Prime Mentor this evening. I will give you the signal when it is time to begin.”

  With that he and Bohm left, hurrying off together. Treet heard the Clerk say to Bohm, “Yes, I see what you mean …” as they passed from earshot.

  “Please be seated,” said Talus, lowering himself to a seat. He patted the one next to him with his hand. “Relax. There is nothing to be concerned about. You will do well.”

  Treet sat down absently, scanning the rapidly filling amphidrome in the process. “How does this work?” he heard his voice asking.

  “This?” Talus waved a hand to the rows of spectators. “A conclave is a general session of all Mentors and certain invited guests who have an interest in the subject area under investigation.”

  “Am I under investigation then?”

  Talus wagged his head earnestly. “No, no. We only want to hear what you can tell us.”

  “What can I tell you?”

  “What you know.” Talus seemed about to elaborate further when Preben arrived with a blue cloak for his father. The big man put it on and was about to sit down once more when the clear pealing tone of a bell rang in the air, a pure and beautiful note as if rung from a crystal bowl. “Ah, that is the signal.” He smiled and rubbed his heavy hands together. “At last we can begin.”

  Talus stepped out onto the floor of the amphidrome and held up his hands. The audience grew silent instantly, as if the sound had been switched off a holovision. He raised his resounding voice in a brief invocation to someone or something called the Seeker Aspect. Treet did not catch all the words—he was too busy wondering what he would say to all these people who had turned out to see him. Had he known he would draw such a crowd, he might have prepared a speech, or maybe sold tickets.

  Then Talus was saying his name and waving him forward. Two high-backed stools were produced by aides in green cloaks. As Treet climbed into the nearest one, his aide pressed a diamond-shaped tag onto the front of his shirt. In the center of the tag a glittering bit of glass or crystal winked in the early twilight. The obelisk rising behind them held a golden luster as if the sun were striking its surface, though the sun had set behind it. The sunstone was beginning its night’s work of converting Fierra into a city of light.

  Talus nodded at Treet encouragingly. Treet turned his eyes to all the faces peering down at him from the rising gallery, fierce in their intensity, expectant. What could he say to them? What had they come to hear?

  “Go on,” whispered Talus. “Don’t think about it, just say what the Teacher puts into your mind to say.”

  Okay, thought Treet. Here goes nothing. He swallowed hard and opened a mouth gone suddenly dry. “I am—” he croaked, and heard the echo of his amplified voice ripple through the amphidrome. The Mentors waited, leaning forward in their seats. He took a deep breath and plunged in headfirst.

  “My name is Orion Treet, and I come to you from a world beyond your star …”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  When Treet finished speaking, it was very late. The sky over the amphidrome glimmered with its ghostly aurora, through which the stars winked like jewels from behind a shimmering veil. The assembled Mentors sat in awed silence, gazing upon this mysterious stranger who had materialized in their midst. Treet expected questions to come thick and fast, but the crystal bell tolled once more and the entire gathering rose and began climbing the steps, filing quietly from the amphidrome to disappear into the night.

  Treet breathed a long sigh of relief for having survived his ordeal. He’d told them, as simply as he knew how, nearly everything—which was more than he’d planned on telling, certainly. But once he’d gotten started he hadn’t known where or how to stop, so he dumped it all out—everything from the arrival of their transport to their rescue by the airship.

  Talus rose from his stool on Treet’s right hand and came to him. “Do you think they’ll vote for me?” asked Treet.

  “I do not understand,” said Talus, shaking his head slowly. “Much of what you said I do not understand.”

  “Never mind. What about the parts you do understand?”

  “Those I find most disturbing.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “No, I believe you. No one could speak as you do if it were not true. And that is what troubles me.”

  “I think my friends will tell similar stories,” pointed out Treet.

  “Again, I believe you. Understanding—that is another matter entirely.”

  Just then the busy Clerk came running up. He shoved a folded card toward Talus. “This has just come from the Preceptor.”

  Talus took t
he card, unfolded it, glanced at it, and handed it to Treet. “Your presence is requested. At once.” Was it something I said? wondered Treet.

  They whisked along the near-deserted streets of Fierra. Over delicate arches and through brightly lit tunnels, past open markets and blocks of dwellings, along thoroughfares lined with glowing pylons they went—Talus and Treet accompanied by Preben and Mathiax. Treet could tell by the long sideways glances he was receiving from the others that they were dying to ask him some of the millions of questions that were bubbling up inside their brains like lava from a hot volcano. Mercifully, they let him sit quietly and watch the enchanted city slide past.

  “There is the Preceptor’s palace,” said Mathiax, pointing to a many-tiered pagoda rising from a clump of trees ahead. The evee slowed as it turned into a narrow lane, and the Preceptor’s palace swung full into view, glowing, thought Treet, with a rosy luster like those floodlit castles that were so popular with the postcard crowd. The drive ended a few meters inside the grounds, and the vehicle stopped. The passengers got out and made their way across a wide, dark lawn, spongy underfoot with thick vegetation.

  Two Fieri, one male and one female, met them at the open entrance to the palace. Both were dressed in a high-necked jacket with deep sleeves and a large triangular patch of bright silver over the heart. On the patch was a symbol Treet could not make out. It looked like a ring of circles, each one blending into the next, yet somehow separate from the others. The image appeared to be spinning so that each time he tried to look directly at it, the symbol blurred and shifted.

  The male attendant held out his hand, and Talus placed the folded card on his palm. “Thank you for attending our request,” said the woman. She smiled warmly. “You will find our Preceptor awaiting you in the audience room. I will be glad to show you the way.”

  “No need,” said Mathiax. “I know how to find it.”

  “As you wish,” she said and waved them through.

  The Clerk led them up three levels on a sweeping spiral staircase to an enormous room that took up nearly the entire third level. “This is the reception hall,” explained Talus as they trooped across the threshold. The interior of the hall was lit by several large columns of sunstone, which cast a soft, rose-tinted light all around.

  Treet thought, upon entering the reception hall, that the room was empty, but then saw a tall, slender figure standing before heavy, floor-to-ceiling curtains worked in designs of green and gold. The Preceptor wore a short copper-colored robe over silver knee-length trousers. The robe was cinched at the waist by a silver belt; silver boots met the trousers at the knee. Yellow sunstone chips glimmered in a wide silver band around a graceful throat.

  The Preceptor waited for them to come close, her long, fine hands clasped in front of her, gazing intently at them as they crossed the polished expanse of floor, their footsteps tapping the stone. She smiled as they came to stand in front of her, extending her hands to Treet, and then to the others in turn, saying, “I realize you must be tired. You do your leader a kindness by coming at this late hour. I won’t keep you long.”

  She stepped lightly to the curtain and pulled it back. The audience room was a small chamber concealed behind the draperies. They filed into the room, and the Preceptor entered, waving them to long, low divans arranged in the center of the room. She seated herself across from Treet and gazed at him with intense violet eyes that probed his directly. He realized that if he remained very long in this woman’s presence, he would have no secrets left. Those eyes—hard and bright as amethysts, set in a face of intriguing angles above a straight, aquiline nose and a strong, almost masculine jaw—would pierce like lasers anything that did not yield instantly to them.

  “I listened to your story,” she began. “I was much amazed by all you said.”

  “You heard me?” It was a dumb question, but it was out before Treet could stop it.

  She pointed to the badge still stuck to the front of his shirt. “My crystal is tuned to receive sympathetic vibrations. I heard every word.” She studied him for a moment, as if making up her mind about him. Then she said, “No one has ever come across the Daraq. The few who risk the journey die in the attempt. We find them, but always too late.”

  “Others have come before us?”

  “Not many. And not for a very long time. But the Protector went with you, and the Sustainer watched over you until we could send a balon to rescue you. Therefore, we can assume that the Infinite Father has a purpose in sending you here.”

  Treet sat still. He had nothing to say on that score. The Preceptor continued, “We must find out what that purpose is so that we may fulfill it. Would that be agreeable to you?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Treet. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Stay with us, learn our ways. My kinsmen Mathiax and Talus will guide you, and all of Fierra will be open to you. Then, when the All-Wise reveals His purpose, teach us.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you want me to do?”

  The Preceptor nodded slightly. “Yes. What more is required than that we fulfill our spiritual purpose?”

  “Can I see my friends?”

  “If you wish. Your love for your friends is commendable. But it would be better if you wait until each of your friends has spoken before the Mentors. However, this is a request I make, not a precept. You are free to do as you will.”

  “Talus explained your request to me. I accept it, although I’d like to point out that I hold nothing over any of the others.”

  “But they might hold power over you.”

  Treet considered this, and rejected it. “No, there’s nothing like that at all. I’d know about it, wouldn’t I?”

  “Perhaps not. Power comes in many subtle forms, some most difficult to recognize.”

  Treet saw that he was getting nowhere, and decided to abide by the Preceptor’s request. “I don’t mind waiting. May I send a message to them?”

  She shook her head imperceptibly. “They already know that each of the others has been saved and that all are being cared for. I know it is difficult, but have patience—you will all be together again soon.”

  It occurred to Treet that he’d heard a similar promise recently; Supreme Director Rohee had mouthed words to the same effect, and look what happened. He had been lying. Was the Preceptor also lying? Before Treet could wonder further, she rose, signaling an end to the audience. Mathiax, Talus, and Preben, none of whom had said a word throughout the interview, stood and extended their hands. The Preceptor clasped hands and spoke a few intimate words with each one before they were ushered from the private chamber, back across the empty reception hall, and down the spiral staircase and out into the dwindling night.

  It will be dawn in a few hours, Treet thought. And in a few hours I resume my career as a sponge.

  He should have been ecstatic at the prospect of probing into the secrets of the Fieri—delving into exotic cultures was his life, after all—but there was something missing. Something had a name, and the name was Yarden.

  He walked out onto the darkened lawn, heavy with bitter disappointment. He puzzled over the feeling and realized that subconsciously he had been hoping up to the very moment of their dismissal by the Preceptor that he would see Yarden. He would turn a corner and she would be there, or he would enter a room to find her waiting. The whole time he had been with the Preceptor, he had been hoping Yarden would step unexpectedly from behind the curtain.

  Without knowing it, he had been waiting to see her. Now he knew that he would not—at least not for several more days. The thought depressed him.

  By the time they reached the waiting evee, Treet was in such a black mood that he sat sullen and silent all the way back to Liamoge, staring blankly at the bright wonders of Fierra. They had, for the moment, ceased to hold any charm for him.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  “The thing you keep forgetting,” said Mathiax, looking directly at Treet, his fingers combing through his graying bead, “is that each and every F
ieri is aware of the Infinite Presence at all times. We are permeated with this awareness—it informs all we do.”

  Treet thought about this. Yes, in the last several weeks he’d certainly seen evidence of this awareness Mathiax was talking about. “I understand your religion is very important to you, but are you telling me that it even influences your technology?”

  “Why not? Why should that be so hard to accept?” Mathiax leaned forward and tapped Treet on the arm. “Let’s walk a bit further—it’s good for the brain.”

  They were sitting on an empty stretch of beach by the silver lake. They had been walking most of the day, stopping to rest and discuss, moving on when they reached an impasse in communication or came to a subject which required additional thought in order to translate it into terms Treet could properly understand. Mathiax was a quick and able teacher, and it had been his idea to take Treet out away from the city to walk along the lakeside for part of each day’s session. “Less distraction,” he’d said. This gave Treet time to assimilate what he’d seen and heard before returning to Talus’ pavilion.

  In three weeks’ time Treet had learned much about the Fieri. Most of it had to do with their simple religion. Apparently everything the Fieri did or thought was in some way rooted in this intense spiritual awareness Mathiax had been describing. The Fieri religion was not difficult; its central tenet could be summed up quite simply: A Supreme Being existed who insisted on concerning Himself with the affairs of men in order to draw them into friendship with Him.

  That was the basic idea, plainly stated. The Fieri believed that this Being was a pure spirit who expressed Himself in many different personality modes or Aspects. They recognized any number of the Aspects—Sustainer, Protector, Teacher, Seeker, Creator, Comforter, Gatherer, and so on. But all were merely individual expressions of the One, the Infinite Father, as they called Him.