The Source- Origins

by A J Witt

“Oh no …” moaned Sabine.

  Edvon held up a hand. “Let’s stick together. If these passageways splinter off even more, we might never reunite again.”

  The Adept was proven right. For an hour they raced through the tunnels, stepping on scattered bones, taking different turns, and losing any sense of orientation. They paused at another intersection and caught their breath.

  “I feel like we’ve been here before,” said Sabine. “Look. Isn’t that the same skull we just saw?”

  “I have no clue.” Kyran took notice of the fading torch. “It wouldn’t surprise me if we’re running in circles.”

  “Hold on, I have an idea.” Edvon ripped a piece of cloth from the bottom of his pants. “I’ll put this on the ground, and if we somehow come back here, we’ll know not to go this way again.”

  “Looks like you’ll be executed naked.” Kyran’s deadpan remark elicited a giggle from Sabine. Twenty minutes later, they found themselves back at the same intersection. “I think this maze has no exit.”

  “Of course it has an exit.” Edvon tore another piece of fabric. “Otherwise, what’s the point of building the maze to begin with?” He placed it at the mouth of another tunnel and froze. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” Kyran whispered.

  “There were voices.”

  Sabine gasped. “They must have heard the explosion in the Crypt.”

  The three rushed into another tunnel but soon hit a dead end. Kyran waved around the dying torch. Only walls looked back at them. “Okay, we’re done for.”

  There were no replies.

  “Just like him,” continued Kyran, pointing at a skeleton hunched against the side of the tunnel. “Probably got stuck down here, too.”

  Edvon frowned. “Got stuck down here?”

  “Exactly, and—”

  “Come to think of it, what was that person doing down here in this tunnel?” The older Adept took a moment to ponder over his own question, stroking his chin between his thumb and index finger. Then, coming to an astonishing realization, he snatched what remained of the torch from Kyran’s hand. Edvon pointed it toward the ceiling, eyes darting back and forth. “There!”

  “What?” asked Sabine.

  “The stone. Don’t you see it? There’s a stone up there sticking through the ceiling.”

  “So?”

  Edvon smiled. “This isn’t just a tunnel. It’s a grave.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “When Kyran and I were in the wagon going up Mount Kilda, I noticed a cemetery to the south of the Temple. These tunnels, they’re under it, I think. I mean, why else would a skeleton be sitting here?”

  “Why would there be tunnels under a cemetery?” asked Sabine.

  “Escape routes for high-ranking Overseers?”

  “Wait …” Kyran pointed upward. “You mean that’s actually the underside of a gravestone?”

  “I think so.”

  The younger Adept looked at Sabine, unsure whether the theory was the figment of tunnel fever induced imagination.

  “Fine, don’t believe me,” Edvon said. “But let’s at least find out if I’m right or not. What do we have to lose?”

  “Nothing,” muttered Sabine.

  “Exactly. Kyran, I’ll lift you up. Try to wiggle the stone and see if it will push out.”

  Above ground, a widowed grandmother was making the weekly visit to her beloved husband’s grave. The shock was unmeasured when, out of nowhere, a headstone erupted, flying high above her head and smashing in a cloud of dirt. Confusion only grew as a young man, eyes shining, popped up where the headstone had lain. “And we shall be castigated once more for ignoring the Recital Supreme,” she shrieked, “and They will punish us for our sins!”

  As the old woman scurried away, convinced the Temple's prophetic messages were materializing, Kyran surfaced into the daylight. He took in a whiff of fresh air. “You see? That was much easier than displacing it by physical force.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Just give us a hand up.”

  Reaching for Kyran’s outstretched arm, Sabine emerged from the tunnel. She brushed dirt off her dress and gazed up toward Mount Kilda, overcome with sadness. Will I ever come back? With a heavy heart, the young woman faced the brothers.

  “What now?” asked Kyran.

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “Come with us.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the Academy. You’ll be safe there, I promise.”

  “Not a chance,” interjected Edvon. “Don’t you hear those bells? There’s no way we make it back through the city without getting caught.”

  “Oh yeah? And what do you suggest?”

  “I say we hide out in the countryside, wait for this to blow over.”

  “Are you crazy?” Kyran shook his head. “The Academy is the safest place right now.”

  “You seem to forget that the Academy is brimming with Overseers,” his brother replied. “Our presence there could cause an all-out conflict, and we can’t put other Adepts in jeopardy. The right thing to do is wait for the commotion to die down. We’ll follow Merchants Road south, and—”

  “No, we can make it, we can—we …” Kyran realized the futility of his proposed actions, and his voice trailed off.

  Sabine weighed her options. And I don’t have many. She could either follow them on their journey or venture out on her own and hope not to get caught.

  “Fine, you’re right,” conceded Kyran. “Forget the Academy.”

  “Good.” Edvon straightened his back. “As I was saying, we can follow Merchants Road south and seek refuge in a village along the way.”

  Kyran turned to Sabine. “Are you coming?” He extended his arm.

  The young woman hesitated, feeling the urge to distance herself from the Adepts and take heed in the lessons from the Book of Provenance. She grabbed Kyran’s hand. “Yes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The long table was filled with nutritious options. There were bowls of steamed rice, various legumes, fresh diced fruits, and vegetables. In the middle of the buffet, trays sitting over Source-powered burners held an assortment of meats. Criss drowned her food in chunky yellow sauce and placed a heavy dish on the cashier’s scale. The Battalion’s second-in-command paid and found a spot to sit near the large windows.

  Cases came and went. A longtime agent of the peace, Criss had handled all types of situations. Many were straightforward, easy to deal with. Only a handful required closer attention and revealed in the end an unexpected motive. Or a surprise culprit. This investigation was different. Something about it made her uneasy, if only for the sheer magnitude of the act. Aiden kept his focus in the wrong direction, and her frustration was mounting. I know the suicide bombing was brutal. Though to Criss, the murders came second to what she considered to be the pressing matter, the abhorrent one more deserving of their energy.

  Not since the barbaric Dread Days had there been anything like this. The Battalion needed to be stalking the countryside, predicting the next attack. In due course, they would find the person responsible for the deaths of Commandant Rex Quintus and Lord Lester, of that Criss had no doubt. The evidence pointed to a conspiracy, rather than a lone act. And conspiracies always have too many loose ends. Too many mouths to keep quiet. The destruction they were witnessing was incomprehensible. As far as Criss could tell, there was no logical reasoning, in that no one stood to gain from such death and carnage. Entire villages. It reeked of pure cruelty, and it was disturbing.

  “Then, she called out to the Gods themselves.”

  Criss observed a group huddled around Mira boards.

  “And what happened?”

  “Auralus Himself appeared, and—”

  There was a slight pause in the conversation.

  “And?” one of them inquired.

  “He guided the coin.”

  “And?”

  “The Adepts were sentenced to die.”

  Their eyes widened upon
hearing the insane anecdote. Criss, who had already gleaned several versions of it, was finding this particular one amusing.

  “But then, listen to this.” Leaning in, the storyteller lowered his voice. “They managed to escape.”

  “Wait, they got away?”

  “Yep.”

  “How?”

  “I heard they killed several Overseers.”

  “Monsters.”

  “It’s what they’re saying. They’ve become vicious beasts, destroying anything in sight.”

  “I even heard one of them was shooting It out of his eyes.”

  Criss’s chuckles attracted the group’s attention.

  “What is it, ma’am? You don’t believe me?”

  “No, I don’t,” replied the agent. “They can’t do that.”

  “And how would you know?”

  Gulping her last spoon of rice, Criss got up to leave. “I used to date an Adept. And he didn’t know how to shoot much of anything.”

  The group laughed, then one of them decided to try his luck.

  “Well if you want a real—”

  “Save it,” snapped Criss, and she walked out. Just incredible how smooth men think they are. What a bunch of geegabrains. The agent had shared parts of her life with a few of them and would invariably grow tired of catering to their needs and concerns. She glided through the food district, dodging the masses and taking in the smells that delighted her. Before eating. After a meal, they become overwhelming and difficult to bear. Just like a man.

  Criss had important matters to deal with. It was indeed a strange story, the one about the Adepts that she heard repeated in the eatery. A crime had yet to be reported, meaning it was the Noble Assembly’s problem, not theirs. Gods, I hate them. Hatred concededly derived from jealousy, as the agent was first to admit. Lords and ladies, living in their lavish estates and doing nothing more than attending pointless social functions, made for an easy target. It’s so unfair to blame individuals. They’re just products of the system, right? An oft-repeated narrative Criss was tired of hearing. Who changes a system if not the individual?

  The agent tried to make sense of her sporadic thoughts. Then she remembered her last conversation with Aiden, and how wrong he had been. Not everything has to always be connected. The village attack, the bombing, and the growing tensions between the Academy and the Temple, even the escape of two Adepts suspected of killing. Though strange, those were events that could have arisen independently of each other. Just because they may influence one another doesn’t mean they’re connected. She had mentioned it, but no one else at the Battalion agreed with her. They always want a perfect answer, something they can tie up with a nice little bow.

  At the Main Complex, Criss cleared the security checkpoint and raced up the stairs, entering her office and closing the door before anyone could see her. The half-finished report detailing a previous case sat on her desk, though it would have to wait a while longer. I have no desire to think of past crimes. She sat down, tapping her fingers on a stack of papers. They had been unable to collect any valuable information from the bombing scene given how ferociously the fire had burned. “Making it that much harder for us to get our guy,” mumbled Criss, imitating one of her many off-putting colleagues. Did they even consider the possibility that the bomber might have been a woman?

  Nothing would ever get accomplished sitting in her office. There’s only one place to start. Soon, the agent was taking in the dazzling colors of the flower market. A great variety of plants had been set out in front of the stalls, some hanging from pots fastened to overarching poles. It felt wonderful and enchanting, until Criss imagined what it must have been like for the suicide bomber walking through the aisles. She shuttered.

  Hurrying down the infamous alley, the agent arrived at the crime scene and stopped in her tracks. Aiden was examining something on the wall. What in the Gods is he doing here? Criss backed up and ducked behind the nearest corner. The chief looked tired which enhanced his attractiveness, and it bothered her tremendously. What is it? His intellect perhaps? His different colored eyes? Or is it his well-built physique? She cursed herself and shook the questions from her mind. The agent lusted after Aiden, though when she was his superior, the desire had been more pleasant and fleeting. Now she was the one looking up. And my perspective’s been altered. Criss was preparing to leave when the chief turned around.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I could ask the same of you.”

  Instead of firing back at her, Aiden sighed. “Did you hear the news?”

  “Yes.”

  “All I need right now is another drowning in a baqua pool,” mumbled the chief. “Anyhow, do you think those two Adepts are still in Phaidros?”

  “I don’t.” Criss paused. “Chief, if I may, it might be a good idea to spread out your team. Taking advantage of our resources to relieve stress. Put a junior on the Temple case, and—”

  “Send a small independent task force to Portown? Have them investigate the village attacks?”

  Criss stepped back, annoyed, and she stared into the distance.

  “And perhaps you would be interested in leading that expedition?” Aiden knew there would be no reply. “Look, I need you here.”

  “What’s going on out there is—”

  “Save it,” snapped the chief, giving Criss a taste of her own medicine. “I said I need you here, sorry. Can’t we discuss this later?”

  His second-in-command kept gazing away.

  “Now come check this out, I think I’ve found something.” Aiden was pointing to potted flowers underneath a window.

  “From the market,” Criss said in a dry mechanical tone.

  “Not the flowers, the decorations above them.” Several strands of fabric graced the side of the wall, in a dainty display that complemented the floral arrangement. “Don’t you see?”

  She eventually noticed the anomaly. “This one doesn’t belong.” Criss removed one of the strands which was wider and of a different texture. “And?”

  “And how did it get there, then?”

  “The bomber …”

  “Right,” answered Aiden. “It must have been part of his clothing, a shred that somehow survived the explosion. Do you recognize it?”

  “Sailor’s stripes?

  “Precisely. Our suspect’s a boatman …” Aiden sighed once more, much to Criss’s displeasure.

  “So what?” she retorted. “Let’s head to the docks and figure out who wears these stripes.”

  “Yeah, I already know which ship he’s from.”

  “And how’s that?”

  “I was on its crew twenty years ago.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “The voice guided him, further still. And Blind Lutigas ascended the tepui. Higher and higher, until he could feel but only mist. To its summit he climbed, with the courage of a thousand men.” The preacher paused, glancing at his copy of the Book of Provenance. “Until he could walk not a step more. Then the mist parted. And the Gods Themselves arose before his crippled eyes. Bathed in a crimson light, in all Their glory.”

  The pilgrims assembled in the Inner Sanctum let out a collective gasp, much to Rex Ruga’s annoyance. Like they haven’t heard this story a hundred times. She remained stoic, not a trace of emotion perceivable on her cold face.

  “‘Noble Lutigas,’ They said. ‘You who have been so pious, and so faithful. Come forth, that you may hold Our hand.’ And Lutigas did so, his tears …” cough “flow—”

  The preacher coughed again, cutting short the verse. The commandant, known for her rash and impulsive decisions, resisted the urge to storm the altar and scream at the old man to wrap it up. Rex Ruga was well aware many in the crowd had their eyes fixed on her. Appearances are key. She represented the Temple, as Najara often reminded her, which was the only reason to attend such an uninspiring sermon. I have real issues to deal with.

  “The Gods exclaimed ‘Our children sinned! For that, they were punished, and
now you must pay the price. But beware, Lutigas, for your brethren sin once more.’”

  Rex Ruga tilted her head to the side. The Temple’s bells had been tolling for close to an hour now, and she was dying to find out why. Only an archaic rule preventing the Inner Sanctum from being unsealed mid-sermon kept the commandant in her seat. A rule about to be broken if this preacher doesn’t get on with it.

  “Blind Lutigas bowed his head, and he repeated the Recital Supreme.” The preacher looked up.

  “Thou shall not use It,” the pilgrims chorused.

  “And when Lutigas raised his head once more,” continued the preacher, “the Gods had disappeared.”

  There was a long pause, and Rex Ruga almost stood up, thinking the sermon to be over. An honest mistake for an Overseer who had read no more than a few scattered lines from the Book of Provenance.

  “There shone a ray of light that guided him back. And he descended the tepui with a heavy heart. And once more, Lutigas sought out the hermits in the Cave of Dust and Bones.”

  By all the … there’s more?

  “‘Fear not, blind Lutigas,’ said the hermits. ‘For your sons and their sons will one day build a glorious shrine where every one of Gods’ children shall reside. And they will take heed in the words you have heard today.’”

  Pilgrims applauded, many moved to tears. The story of Auralus’s forefather was one of the most celebrated moments in the canon. Not only did it foretell the Temple’s creation, the narrative also included a direct visitation by the Gods, a rare occurrence.

  Rex Ruga got up and offered a polite clap, hoping it might speed up the proceedings. She was dumbfounded when the pilgrims followed suit and gave a standing ovation. The tribute lasted several minutes. Having unwillingly instigated a delay, Rex Ruga was ready to pull out her own hair.

  “Thank you, kind Commandant,” said the old preacher. “The moral of these verses is quite clear.”

  The pilgrims sat again. Rex Ruga remained standing, unprepared for the verbose address.

  “Adepts are using It with greater impudence. This has caused death in villages, as well as in our very own city.” Reciting words that had been hand-fed to him by Najara, the preacher went on. “Today is the time to be pious, today is the time to unite. We, as the Gods’ chosen children, must make this Temple stronger.”