by Brandon Barr
LOAM
“Killing Oracles should not be taken so lightly.”
“This from the mouth of my Oracle hunter? I could not agree more. I fear the frenzy Sentinel Cosimo is initiating. It is aggressive and unnecessary. It turns the Consecrators from rescuers to rogues.”
“I wonder if my mission to Loam is unwarranted?”
“I’ll admit, Sentinel Cosimo is the impetus behind your mission, but Winter is dangerous, as you well know.”
“I’ve been studying Winter’s beetle feed and her psych report. I am almost certain she is the Contagion, and yet, I wonder if there isn’t something we can do. Hire someone to follow her…send her to another world outside the Triangle.”
“Galthess, your heart is in the right place, but she’ll always be one portal jump from Loam. Do you still feel up to the mission?”
“It is my duty and I will perform it. I’ll pray that Theurg can spare her from my hands.”
“Pray? Pray to whom?”
“Fate. Destiny. Wisdom. To you perhaps, Sanctuss Exenia.”
-Discussion between Galthess and Sanctuss Exenia, Bridge.
Chapter Thirteen
WINTER
Winter woke to undulating sunlight sparkling through the portholes in her quarters. She sat up and breathed in the unfamiliar scent that permeated the underwater facility.
Two days ago, her brother was taken by the mercenaries. She’d spent all of yesterday in bed, mourning him. Karience had brought her a container of tissues, which were now littered about the floor around her bed. The tears had seemed endless. This morning, however, she felt different. She felt a clarity that hadn’t been there before. One thing was clear to her above all else: she wasn’t mourning Aven as if he were dead.
Unless she saw his body and touched his cold skin, he was still alive to her. She realized that what she’d been doing wasn’t grieving his death, it was mourning his absence. Her whole life he’d been there for her, and now he was gone. But she did not believe he was dead. There was still hope, and as long as there was, she would continue to trust.
There was nothing she could do for Aven now. He’d been taken from her. But she still had her god-given destiny.
The portal beckoned to her now more than ever. Back home, people had called the portal the God’s Eye, and she felt certain that if she were to walk through it, the eyes of the Makers would be on her, and their hands would guide her to the destiny that Leaf, the Maker who’d rescued her from the river, had promised her.
On your shoulders stand many heroes, and under your feet, the life of a Beast.
She didn’t know exactly what that meant, or how it would happen, but she trusted in it. Aven’s absence didn’t change that. She realized that now. However, with Aven gone, there was nothing keeping her on Loam. Nothing stopping her from stepping into the mysterious future promised her by Leaf. Maybe that was why Aven was taken from her, so that she would be free to pursue her destiny.
The Consecrators wanted to stop the Makers’ prophecies, but Winter would seek to fulfill them.
She felt a pang of hunger. She hadn’t eaten yesterday, and now her appetite had returned. She took Whisper’s new vial and placed it around her neck. Someone had knocked yesterday and set the vial inside her room. Who the considerate person was, she didn’t know.
Pulling a white Guardian tunic over her head, she left her room and went in search of the kitchen. She found Rueik outside in the hall, gazing thoughtfully out a porthole.
Rueik turned and flashed Winter a whimsical grin. The sunlight that lit his face through the porthole momentarily darkened, as if a wisp of cloud had passed over the sun.
“I bet you’ve never seen anything like this,” said Rueik, and gestured toward the porthole.
Winter stepped up beside him and looked through the glass. Enormous, diamond-shaped creatures hovered outside, ghostly shadows outlined against the sparkling surface above. Strange flaps rippled smoothly at their wing tips as the thick, white undersides of the creatures tapered into a long thin tail.
“Are those sharks?” asked Winter, both terrified and mesmerized.
“Manta rays,” said Rueik.
Winter had never heard of such a creature. They seemed so peaceful, gracefully hovering near the surface of the water. And yet, she wondered…
“What would they do if someone were to swim near them?”
“Are you asking me if they eat people?” asked Rueik.
“Partly, yes.”
“Don’t worry, they’re as docile as puppies. They eat plankton—uh—little sea creatures smaller than ants. Wanna go for a swim?”
Winter eyed Rueik, unsure if he was joking. “No thanks. What time is it?”
“Almost midday. You caught up on sleep?”
“Please tell me there’s food down here,” said Winter. “I’m famished.”
“There’s food, but…it isn’t as good as what we ate at the tower. It’s edible though. I’ll show you. I see you found a new vial for your butterfly.”
For some reason Winter didn’t care for Rueik’s attention to Whisper. “Someone was nice enough to leave it in my room yesterday.”
“Wasn’t me,” said Rueik. “I like Whisper up in your hair better. Kinda like a flower. Pretty on you.”
Winter looked at him, puzzled. No one had ever used her butterfly’s name like that before…and had he called her pretty?
“Come on,” said Rueik, pushing off the wall. “I’ll take you to the common room. That’s where the food is.”
She took one last look through the glass and wondered what it would be like to swim with such large, tranquil animals.
The common room was only a little bigger than her quarters. Hark sat at a table with his wife and child. Arentiss was bent over some papers, reading as she sat on a seat anchored to the wall. She looked up and gave Winter a stiff nod.
“Here’s what we got,” said Rueik. “Freeze-dried meat and rice. Egg. Freeze-dried vegetable and fruit. All sorts of combinations. Feel like beef stew?”
Freeze-dried. The VOKK processed the term. The water had been removed from the food and then a special technique was used to suck all the air from the silvery packages so the food wouldn’t spoil.
Winter took a packet of meat and rice and then some kind of egg and bacon mix. Rueik showed her how to prepare it.
She sat down and squeezed the bags onto a plate. They smelled kind of odd. She took a hearty scoop, her stomach undaunted by the smell.
“How do you like the vial I found for you?” asked Arentiss.
Winter smiled and tried to finish her mouthful quickly, so she could respond. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” said Arentiss.
Winter remembered the bizarre conversation she’d had with Arentiss about the woman’s awkward request to be matched with Aven. She still wasn’t sure what to make of that. She turned to her food again. The egg and bacon mash proved to be flavorful. The beef stew, on the other hand, had chunks of meat that were tough and flavorless.
The door opened, and Karience rushed in just as Winter was taking her last bite of eggs and bacon.
“Winter, I need you to come with me,” she said. “You have visitors.”
A sudden queasiness stirred in Winter’s stomach.
The Consecrators. She hadn’t realized they were coming today. They would try to deliver her—push her to renounce her gift and the gods who gave it—just as Sanctuss Voyanta had been doing when Winter inadvertently touched and killed her. The horrific event still plagued her thoughts. Winter left her tray and followed Karience into the hall.
“I’m sorry,” said Karience. “The new Sanctor is here with his apprentice. I was not told they were coming so soon, but it seems their order has special privileges vested by the Arbiters and Sentinels.
Winter felt slightly dizzy. Why did such high-ranking individuals find her so important?
“His name is Sanctor Theurg. He was Voyanta’s apprentice,” said Karie
nce. Her lips tightened. “Don’t let them push you around, Winter. It’s your gift. I will support your decision and back you, whatever you choose.”
“Thank you,” said Winter. Karience’s encouragement was exactly what she needed. “With Aven gone, you’re the one person I trust most.”
Karience placed a hand on Winter’s shoulder. “Are you ready for this meeting? I might be able to delay it.”
“I’m ready,” said Winter. “I have questions for them that I’d like answered.”
Karience slowed her pace as she neared the conference room where they had gathered two nights ago. “Theurg and his apprentice were respectful when I met him at the portal, but I still wouldn’t trust them. I don’t know what their full agenda is with you, but I wish they’d leave you alone. You’ve saved my life twice with your gift, and now they want you to throw it away. I can’t pretend to have answers to the deeper issues of the Makers and why we should or shouldn’t trust them, but I trust you, and I trust your gift.”
Winter put her arms around Karience and embraced her. “That means a lot, thank you.” Winter stepped back and looked at the door. “I’ve made my decision. I’m ready to face them.”
“Please, sit!” said Theurg excitedly.
Winter found a chair one seat away from Theurg and the apprentice beside him. Theurg wore a green robe with a white-black-white sigil on his breast that marked him as a Consecrator. He appeared distinctly happier than the last time she’d seen him. Thin and youthful in appearance, his face was long with an angular chin. A smile hung like a crooked half-moon on his face.
“Winter, it is an honor to see you again,” said Theurg. He gestured to the man beside him. That man also wore a robe, only it was yellow, and the black-white-black sigil on his breast had a shimmering gold ribbon sewed to the top and bottom.
“This is my apprentice, Galthess. He is new to your case, as well as new to his duty. Before this assignment, he served the Consecrators in the library.”
The apprentice’s name rang in Winter’s memories. Dicameron, the security officer who had saved her and Karience from the Execrata attack, had spoken of this man. She remembered Dicameron saying that Galthess was beyond his security level to investigate. If she remembered right, Galthess was accountable only to the three Sentinels, the highest authorities in the Guardians. Silently she thanked Dicameron for divulging the information. What was Galthess doing here? And why was he pretending to be Theurg’s apprentice?
“I have some questions before we begin,” said Winter. “You say your apprentice worked in the library. I’m curious about that. What did he do there?”
“The usual librarian duties,” said Theurg. “Acquiring new books, organization, so forth.”
“I specialize in the writings of Prophets. We call them Scrivers, because they are writers inspired by the Makers,” said Galthess.
Theurg adjusted his position in his seat. “Yes. Galthess has dealt with innumerous Scrivers’ manuscripts, but nothing you need concern yourself about. He was chosen for apprenticeship because of his knowledge of Oracles.”
“The Oracles fascinate me,” said Winter. “Sanctuss Voyanta mentioned that there are dozens of types of Oracle with subcategories to each, but I hadn’t heard of Scrivers. What kind of things do Scrivers write about?”
“Prophecies, wisdom, and history,” said Galthess, his eyes intense as he gazed at her. His dark hair was cut close to his head, and he looked to be thirty or more years old. Much older than Theurg.
“Do you have any copies of their writings with you?” asked Winter.
A light sparked to life in Galthess’ eyes. “I am never without a manuscript or two to read.”
“I’m afraid it is not permissible for you to look at one,” said Theurg. “And Galthess is prohibited from sharing their contents. Even to me. So, let’s move on to a new subject. How are you faring?”
She knew Theurg wanted her to mention Aven’s capture. But she didn’t want to talk about her brother, not with Consecrators. She wouldn’t give them the pleasure of her tears. There were other, less painful subjects she could redirect them to. “Sanctuss Voyanta’s death still haunts me,” said Winter. “I wish I would have known about the danger of touching her.”
“She always lived dangerously,” said Theurg. “Rarely would she wear her face cover.”
“Do you live dangerously also?” asked Winter. “I see you have no coverings.”
“I was never an Oracle. Neither was Galthess. It is only Oracles who renounce their gifts who have to be wary. Now tell me, Winter. Have you thought on Voyanta’s words? Do you have further questions I might help you with?”
No one had sharpened her doubts about the gods’ goodness more powerfully than Sanctuss Voyanta. The woman had forced her to fiercely question whether or not the Makers were worthy of following, or if they were cruel like the Beasts. The fact that Sanctuss Voyanta had once been god-touched like Winter made her reasons for doubt all the more painful.
Even now, after wrestling through the issues the Sanctuss had raised, the mere recollection of her words came with a pang of doubt. Winter cast the doubts aside, knowing she’d dealt with them the best she could. But she did have other questions.
Winter pulled her legs up against her chest, heels resting on the edge of the chair. She removed Whisper from under her tunic, sliding the twine from her neck and placing the vial on the table. “Do you know why I was given this butterfly? I thought that the butterfly was how the Makers gave me my visions, but I found out that even when Whisper is far away from me, I still get them.”
Theurg’s brows scrunched together as he leaned forward and inspected the vial. “Sanctuss Voyanta wondered about your butterfly too. We don’t know the butterfly’s significance. However, it seems to be part of a trend we have only just begun to see in the last year or two, a new phenomenon that is beginning to spread amongst the younger Oracles. What the Makers are up to, we do not yet know.” He turned hesitantly to Galthess. “Do the Scrivers’ writings shed any light on this new occurrence?”
“Surprisingly, no,” said Galthess. “There were, in the early days of all civilizations, spiritual creatures called Cherah that gave gifts to humans. But these animals were not material, as your butterfly is. And as you say, your butterfly doesn’t provide you with Sight. I’ve never read of a Seer with a pet. Pets are, however, associated with Beasts.”
“How is that?” asked Winter.
“Beasts inhabit an animal of flesh. And commonly they woo a powerful person, such as a king or a politician, through an animal body they have taken possession of. They can communicate telepathically and have the ability to control the person, who becomes their slave, basically. They give gifts to their human slaves, such as a long life or absurd levels of happiness, as if they have been drugged with an opiate, but the gifts themselves are the chains.”
Winter’s VOKK processed the word, opiate. She wrinkled her nose at the definition.
“Are you saying that I’m a slave to Whisper?” asked Winter, slightly unsettled. Were they concerned that she was controlled by a Beast?
“Not at all,” said Galthess. “Why the Makers gave you the butterfly is a question we’d like an answer to, but we are not suspicious of your being under the control of a Beast. Your behavior recorded by beetle feed showed none of the signs of possession.”
Winter felt relieved at his words. “Tell me more about Cherah,” she said.
“I’m afraid Galthess has already said more than he should,” said Theurg, casting an eye at his apprentice. “I don’t mean to stifle your question, but it is a rule of our order not to reveal the content of Scriver writings.” He sighed. “Upon my arrival here this morning, I was informed about the mercenary attack. I’m sorry to hear about your brother, along with the others who were taken.”
Winter looked into Theurg’s eyes. Something seemed false about his condolences, as if he was using the tragedy to further his own ends. “I miss my brother but losing him has convinc
ed me to place even more trust in the Makers. My faith is even stronger than before. I’ve decided against being delivered.”
The color drained from Theurg’s face. His mouth hung open, as if frozen.
“I don’t understand,” said Theurg. “Why would this tragedy increase your trust in the Makers? They could have prevented it.”
“Leaf warned me this would happen, that my gift would save more than it would kill. I had visions of all that would happen, the destruction of the Tower, my brother being taken.”
“Yet still you trust the Makers?” pressed Theurg. “Beings with enough power to rescue you, your brother, and all mankind, yet who continue to allow cruel events to torment their creations?”
Winter looked down at her hands, then said quietly, “I want it to make sense…I think it can.”
“How?” asked Galthess solemnly.
“As long as there is something good gained through the suffering…I want to believe that suffering, in this life, is overcome by purpose.”
“But it isn’t!” said Theurg, a little too passionately.
“You can’t know there isn’t a good reason behind it,” said Winter quickly. “If my brother is to be taken from me, I’d rather his loss have meaning. If the world is as you believe it to be, then Aven is just lost or dead and there is no larger meaning.”
“But we can make our own meaning out of it. We don’t need the Makers,” said Theurg. “Your loss could show you the powerlessness of the Makers, that they can’t even protect the loved ones of their own Oracles—nor the Oracles themselves.”
“But what if there is a reason they don’t interfere?” Winter asked.
“And what reason would that be?” asked Theurg.
Winter tried to grasp at a thought she’d had. “Because…if they always intervened, our lives would lose their value, their essence. We’d never fear our choices…there wouldn’t be real consequences.”
“You are not the first to consider that possibility,” said Galthess. “A number of Scrivers have expressed similar thoughts.”
