The Source- Origins

by A J Witt

  Grabbing a robe and pulling it atop her shoulders, Rex Ruga looked back to the blue ocean on the horizon. Although she still hoped undiscovered land existed, she was well acquainted with the reality. The Great Expedition leaders had been methodical in their quest, one which yielded conclusive and grim results. The commandant remembered the contagious excitement that spread through the Dominion two decades earlier, when the major source manipulator had announced the development of new Source-powered vessels capable of traveling the sea for days on end. The Noble Assembly had commissioned a fleet, hiring the best boatsmen to navigate it. Many aspirants also joined the crews, promising to return with wild tales of adventure and riches lining their pockets. Rex Ruga, then just a cadet at the Temple, had attended the send-off ceremony along with thousands of other Phaidrosians. Their collective enthusiasm was matched only by their disappointment when the fleet came into sight in Portown a week later, empty-handed and having crossed the entire ocean. They went out again, each time on a different trajectory, returning to Dominion lands having encountered nothing but open water and agitated geegas.

  Rex Ruga stared at herself in the wardrobe’s mirror, contemplating her tight stomach and muscular limbs. What a small place we live in. The morose woman’s short bleach-blond hair was matted as a result of the engaging night, though her aquamarine eyes were crisp as ever. She dipped her index and middle finger in a small container, applying the gel to the terse strands of hair near the top of her head and creating little upward spikes. Some, like me, might even call it an island. Rex Ruga reached for her white pants. An island filled with filthy Nobles. Slipping into them, she snatched her coat. And presumptuous Adepts. One last look out the window. And a bunch of morons.

  Najara was waiting for her in the hallway. “You slept well, Commandant?”

  The confidante, as she was called, was an elderly woman who had been at the Temple for an eternity. Like every other Overseer, she wore white robes, though hers had taken on a shade of gray, making them look like those of an initiant. This bothered Rex Ruga, but she had yet to convince her closest advisor to commission new ones. “I never sleep well, and you know it.”

  “Perhaps you need to clear your thoughts.”

  “And how do I go about doing that?”

  “You can start by getting more rest.”

  “What do you think I do at night?”

  “You mean who you do at night?” Najara’s purple lips contorted into a venomous smile, her sharp eyes contrasting with the lines of age marking her face.

  Rex Ruga clenched her teeth. What do you care? For a moment, she felt an urge to shove the confidante, knocking her onto the cold floor. Hopefully her dread head wrap falls off. Everyone wanted to know the shade of the old woman’s hair. Most likely the same color as her withered robes.

  “The Senate’s waiting for us,” Najara remarked.

  So they made their way to the Great Staircase serving as the main access to the Temple’s multiple floors. Why do I keep trusting her? The one person Rex Ruga was supposed to feel comfortable sharing her secrets with elicited the opposite sentiment. Doesn’t that defeat the whole point of a confidante? To confide in her? Najara was too conniving, it was an impossible task to ascertain her numerous and shifting ulterior motives. Few denied she was one of the cleverest individuals in Phaidros. A woman rising through the ranks of the Temple or any Dominion institution was becoming more commonplace, yet during Najara’s youth, it was inconceivable. She had muscled her way to the top, using her wits to secure a position on the Senate which she held for several decades. Though commandants had come and gone, the confidante remained, lurking in the shadows, whispering in their ears and forever scheming.

  Rex Ruga was no fool, she knew far too well Najara orchestrated her nomination following Rex Quintus’s murder. In a matter of hours, the confidante had garnered sufficient support from the voting lieutenants, despite the stronger and more capable candidate, her opponent Tibon. They continued down the stairs. Why didn’t she take the title for herself? Rex Ruga knew the answer. Being commandant would have exposed Najara to new responsibilities and, more importantly, thrown her into the spotlight. She performed best in the background, controlling the true decision-making while a manipulable figurehead sat in office. A figurehead like me … And the Temple was divided into a structure that allowed the confidante to do just that.

  Overseers belonged to a class, one which bestowed upon them varying levels of power. At the lowest tier were the initiants, most of them sent to the Temple by their families. Discernible by the gray robes they were required to wear, the initiants spent much of their time studying the Book of Provenance. One gained the privilege to don the white when he or she had graduated and been inducted into the ranks of the general Temple population. These cadets, as they were called, made up the largest class of Overseers. A small selection rose to become lieutenants, a prestigious status that enjoyed voting privileges. Even fewer would join the Senate, a group of five nominated to serve a lifetime appointment to the Temple’s highest authoritative echelon. Upon the death of a senator, lieutenants voted for a replacement, with none more important than the commandant, their de facto leader. What Rex Ruga had discovered was that a senator could sometimes have more power than the commandant. And she feared she was looking at one in that very moment.

  Najara exhibited nimbleness as she clambered down the final steps, always a surprising sight given the plumpness she had accumulated over the years. There were those who said the confidante had been a great beauty in her youth, though Rex Ruga hardly believed the gossip. While age played a role in masking beauty, the latter never disappeared. On the contrary, it could always be seen frolicking behind the wrinkles, caged by the morbid yet unavoidable reality of elderliness. Nothing spectacular was perceivable underneath Najara’s wrinkles. Probably just a rumor she made up herself. Rex Ruga smiled at the irony. The confidante cared little about her image, certainly not at the expense of her power. Or does she? Gorgios often asserted all women were in tune with their personal appearance. Maybe he’s right. The neatness with which Najara tied her headscarf caught Rex Ruga’s attention. She observed the old woman’s simple yet elegant necklace, the eye shadow she was wearing, the two rings on her left hand, the subtle polish on her fingertips … She is! She’s still trying to be beautiful.

  They were the last to enter the grandiose hall that served as the Senate’s meeting point. Limestone statues, depicting notable Overseers from centuries past, surrounded an immense pentagon-shaped marble table. High ceilings gave way to a round skylight allowing for a single ray of sunlight to descend into the middle of the room. The effect was symbolic, but it was also a practical disaster as senators found themselves squinting at each other during the clear summer months. If Rex Ruga had any say in the matter, she would have long ago covered up the hole with a plank of wood.

  “You’re late.” An older man with a white goatee and thin wire-rimmed glasses was speaking to them.

  “And we appreciate your patience, Tibon,” answered Najara.

  Rex Ruga settled into the largest of the two remaining empty chairs.

  “Even my patience has limits,” Tibon shot back.

  “From what I hear,” said the commandant with a nasty smile, “patience is only one trait of yours which has limits.”

  “How dare you! Do you know—”

  “Who I am? Yes, I am your superior. And if I want to joke around about your impotence, you will accept it.”

  Tibon slammed his fists onto the table, alarming Gorgios, who until then had been disinterested in the conversation.

  “That may well be true,” answered Vasant, the fifth senator at the table and Tibon’s closest ally. “But procedures do exist for the deposition of insolent and foolish commandants.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  Vasant did not pause. “Yes.”

  Rex Ruga was unnerved. Not the answer I expected.

  “That’s an expressed defiance to her authority,”
noted Najara. “Perhaps you misspoke?”

  “No, I did not.” Vasant turned toward Tibon, as if to confirm the appropriateness of his next comment. “Tibon may be … ahem … impotent, but he is not perverse. And there are rumors circulating within the walls of this great institution—”

  “Enough!” Rex Ruga exclaimed.

  Gorgios, entertained by the exchange, was now paying full attention.

  “It is far from enough,” persisted Vasant, undeterred. “It is my duty as senator of Overseer affairs to bring to light these allegations.”

  “Not if those allegations are false.”

  “Girls have approached me whispering of blasphemous acts.” Vasant looked around the table, bearing a sinister frown. “Unthinkable things.”

  “You are wrong, and you will retract these words,” warned Rex Ruga.

  “Not two days ago, a young Overseer was thrown in the dungeons, without so much—”

  “Gorgios, as your Commandant, I order you to arrest this man.”

  “That’s not an order I’m allowed to follow,” replied her Master of Arms. “You know very well senators carry immunity.”

  Rex Ruga shoved her chair back onto the cold stone floor. “Fine. I’ll do it myself.” The commandant took several menacing steps toward Vasant, prompting Gorgios to leap to his feet. The giant man pulled from under his belt a long broad sword.

  “Enough!” hissed Najara. “We don’t have time for this. There are more pressing matters.”

  “Are there?” Tibon asked the woman he hated.

  “Yes.”

  “And why should we trust you? After what you did to me, never mind the Temple, when you gave the power to this … this fool of a girl.”

  Najara stood. “Why should you trust me? Do you doubt my loyalties to this Temple, Tibon? I find that to be an insulting remark to the person who’s transformed this institution into the strongest in Phaidros. Was it not I who consolidated the support of the population after the failure of the Great Expedition, by launching a propaganda campaign blaming it on the Academy’s brazen promises? Was it not I who insisted on investing in the smoking lounges, despite their illegality? A decision that has refilled the Temple’s coffers to amounts we could not spend in an entire lifetime. Was it not I who—”

  “Yes, fine,” interjected Tibon. “I don’t doubt your loyalties.”

  “Was it not I who spread the recent rumor that our own commandant was killed by militant Adepts? Senators, there are attacks going on in the countryside, as I’m sure you’re aware. And they correspond with the narrative we’ve been building throughout these years.”

  “Which is?” asked Gorgios.

  “That Adepts are a threat to the peace. Terrified villagers are flocking into the city in droves, at a time when the Temple has never been stronger. They’re pounding on the gates of the Academy, demanding accountability and blaming them for these horrid events. With our help, they could succeed in bringing down those gates. Senators, this is too good an opportunity to miss.”

  Vasant looked at Rex Ruga. She turned around, picked up her stray chair, and returned to her place at the table.

  “Whatever these accusations against our commandant, I give you my word they will be handled,” promised Najara. “Internally.”

  Tibon gave a slight bob of the head. “There is an even greater matter, one you have yet to address.”

  “The vacant Council seats?”

  “Right.”

  “I was getting to it.” Najara paused and readjusted her head wrap. “From my sources, it looks like Lord Hanstun is in line for the Noble Assembly’s open seat. The Academy will have heard the same information, and Marrek is surely sending his Adepts to make overtures.”

  “Then I’ll go talk to the Noble as well,” Gorgios declared.

  “Yes,” concurred the confidante. “Try to gauge the direction he might be leaning so we may plan ahead.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to show him the benefits of the Temple’s patronage.”

  “Very good. Which leaves us with the Overseer seat. Our seat.”

  “What must we discuss?” asked Rex Ruga. “The Council representative is always a commandant, and I intend to keep it that way.”

  “No.”

  Rex Ruga swung around to face Najara. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that Tibon will sit on the Council, not you.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A massive wave battered the hardened walls of the Sea Tower, crashing into the rough stone with vengeful force. It dissipated and retreated to the security of the ocean, ceding to a new series of waves preparing futile strikes of their own. Through the endless assault on its foundation, the Sea Tower stood tall, as it had for many centuries. Legend asserted the building was the first Academy structure, erected in the bay to protect Adepts escaping persecution. As the Academy’s territory expanded together with its influence, the Sea Tower’s purpose waned. Now it remained abandoned, though many students found the relic to be a popular destination for late-night escapades.

  In one of the tower’s highest chambers, a lone figure stared at a rising wave from a balistraria. Eyes glazed, Edvon watched as it picked up speed and came slamming into the stone below in a cloud of foam and mist. Failed again. He walked toward a large armchair in the middle of the room. As the Adept sat down, he brought his hands up to his head, massaging his temples and letting out a heavy sigh. Edvon had been there on many occasions. The quietness and seclusion of the Sea Tower, a satisfying getaway from the Academy’s commotion, appealed to him.

  At that moment, any rational thought was unattainable. After his meeting with the preceptor, Edvon had found his way out of the Ivory Spire and across the narrow bridge leading to the Sea Tower. He had followed his feet, oblivious to where they were taking him. His instinct had him hold the guardrail, and the Adept trudged along, sluggishly climbing the numerous stairs to the room. My father … My father? The Adept’s mind swirled with uncertainties. Who was he? What did he look like? Is he still alive? Does he have something to do with the village attacks? Most puzzling to Edvon was Marrek’s timing. Why not wait until I get back? It just makes no sense. As the sun set, he remained seated, succumbing to a deep sleep.

  Edvon woke up with a startle. He looked around in confusion, rubbing his sore neck. The Adept took in a deep breath and his expression changed from one of self-pity to one of determination. There was a mission to accomplish, and the young man realized he was wasting time moping around. The quicker I get this done, the quicker I can get back to the Academy for an explanation. With newfound conviction in his step, Edvon marched to the door, slamming it shut on his way out.

  They were waiting just inside the main gates of the Academy. Elias was irritated, as his less than subtle body language indicated, hands on his hips, left foot tapping, and neck twitching. The officer tilted his head to the side as Edvon approached, the young man’s disheveled look taking him by surprise. Kyran was smiling, delighting in his brother’s untidy appearance.

  “Hardly an appropriate time for a late night,” announced Elias.

  “I—”

  “That’s his kind of behavior,” cut in the officer, waving a hand toward Kyran. “Instead, he was here five minutes early. The Dominion has turned upside down.”

  “I—”

  “Come on, let’s go.” Elias spun around, shaking his head. “And don’t get lost on the way.”

  As they followed behind, Kyran turned to his brother, never missing an opportunity to taunt. “Left her alone in the Sea Tower?”

  “You know I don’t do that,” Edvon replied, too tired to be annoyed.

  “Probably not what she—”

  “And keep up!” shouted Elias, putting an end to what was becoming a contentious exchange.

  During congested times, it took Adepts several hours to walk to the Noble District. Built near the salt marshes, where the nobility acquired a substantial portion of its wealth, the district had systematically encroac
hed into Phaidros, with Nobles buying out precious land upon which to expand their growing estates. The massive compounds, flush with sumptuous gardens and lavish villas, differed from the packed and simple buildings found throughout the rest of the capital.

  Elias hated the chaotic nature of the city. The narrow streets and dense crowds gave him headaches, and he avoided those at any cost. A passerby bumped into him. Gods! Again? As they approached the market, the streets narrowed, and the mass of citizens thickened, making it difficult to move unimpeded.

  “I can walk first for a bit,” offered Edvon. The tall Adept stepped ahead and cleared a pathway.

  Pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, Elias cursed his short height. It should be Marrek in my place. Going to the Noble District will just make me jealous. He imagined himself in his room back at the Academy, its quaint terrace high above any commotion. What could the preceptor be doing that’s more important than this? Could it have to do with … Elias shook the thought from his head. No. It was something he should have never stumbled upon. And I promised never to speak of it.

  “Why are we going again?” Kyran asked.

  “I already told you,” replied the officer.

  Edvon was hoping for a more telling answer. He knew it was related to the Council of Five. The loss of two members threatens the Council’s pro-Temple majority which they’ve held for more than a decade. If the nominee from the Noble Assembly supports the Academy, then a shift in the balance of power can be expected. And for whatever reason, Marrek had picked him and Kyran to make first contact with the likeliest replacement. “Wait, why isn’t the preceptor coming to this meeting?”

  Elias looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Didn’t I tell you why yesterday?”

  “Umm … I don’t think so,” lied Edvon.

  “Gods. Well, the reason …” Elias tried hard to conjure an answer to the question he was also asking himself. “I don’t know,” he said. “So let’s just keep going.”