Hubris - 59. Welcome to the Show

Crowe's senses told him it was shortly before midnight. His eyes were still shadowed from sleep and not for the first time he wasn't entirely sure if he was fully awake; Caldreath had a way of creating that sense of being trapped in a dream-spun demimonde. Only hours before the villagers had been stumbling through the streets and fields, carting torchcoat bodies to the mass grave but there was a charged sense of renewal in the air. He could hear music and voices coming from the direction of the platform. Gyrell had not been lying; it seemed all of Caldreath was gathering for a show after all.

Crowe's angel escorts were nowhere in sight. He could not say why, but he was exceedingly grateful for this. Something about their presence made him feel uneasy. I will never trust the sight of a Seraphim so long as I live.

The platform came into view. Wooden benches had been set before the stage in an organized fashion. He could see people roaming through the trees, laughing and chattering excitedly. Tonight was a night to be celebrated not feared. Many of them were dressed in costumes: they wore cat ears cut out of paper; many had painted their faces to look like animals or spirits. Barghast gawked at them in fascination, his tail tapping a beat against the bench. His eyes flashed brightly.

“I haven't seen a performance in so long, twin o’rre! I am so excited!”

“I am too,” Crowe replied and was surprised to find he was telling the truth. As they drew closer to the platform, the practitioner could feel the anticipation unfurling inside him like butterfly wings.

Barghast leaned forward; given the cramped confines of the carriage he wasn't able to lean forward much. He sniffed eagerly at the sorcerer. “Do you have any more of that delicious aether wine, twin o’rre?”

The carriage stopped beside a tall billboard with the words WELCOME TO THE SHOW painted in flourishing letters. Hours ago the billboard had not been there, but like most things in Caldreath, it looked new and complete. Caldreath has had plenty of torchcoat blood to feed on. I have a feeling this billboard isn't the only addition we’ll see.

The practitioner and lycan followed the path of the music to the bench at the front of the audience. By this time the sorcerer's cheeks were warm from drink and the press of painted and half-familiar faces was a blur. Loras and Rake were seated at the front as well…and so was Jalif and Kara.

Crowe stopped when he saw them, already prepared for the chill that shot down his spine to the tips of his toes. The last time he’d seen the girl, she'd been in a dark room playing with her dolls; Jalif had called him and Rake by name when days ago he'd been like a simpleton who only knew the same words. During his time here, Crowe had not seen either spirit - he didn't know what else to think Jalif and Kara as - leave the church. Now they're here as members of the audience. Additions, indeed.

Gyrell gave him a familiar knowing look that made him feel as if he were made of glass. “Jalif, Kara, and I never missed a show,” she told him. She circled a finger through Kara’s blonde springs. “Jalif and I would take turns sitting her on our lap and bouncing her. She never took her eyes off the stage. Do you remember, dear husband?”

Jalif nodded. He looked at Gyrell with a level of admiration similar to the way Barghast looked at Crowe. “I remember those nights very well.” He tilted his head up at the sky. “We would sit under stars as bright as these.”

Crowe was glad Rake sat between him and the ghosts. The thought of sitting shoulder to shoulder with the commander’s dead husband made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Looking at Rake’s narrow face, he didn’t look too happy about it himself.

Rake leaned towards him. “Got anymore of that aether wine?”

“I’m afraid Barghast and I drank the last of it on the way here.”

“Damn it!”

“I’m sure more will arrive. Things have a way of magically popping up in Caldreath at a moment’s notice.”

Rake dropped his voice down to a whisper. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not sitting next to the living dead!”

Before Crowe could answer another goblet of aether wine appeared in his hand. He blinked. No, make that two glasses. He handed one to his friend. “Here you go. Ask and you shall receive.”

“How about another bench?”

The practitioner glanced around. There wasn’t room to sit anywhere else. Every bench in sight was filled from end to end with audience members eager to bear witness to the show.

On the stage a dozen figures appeared with instruments. They carried violins, a trombone, and cymbals, and there was a drummer. They wore headpieces and jewelry made of bone that caught the lantern light from the trees. The women were bare breasted; the men wore loincloths. They stood completely still, waiting. And Crowe knew just who they were waiting for.

Sure enough the group split into two groups of half a dozen. The Mother appeared in the center, moving with that same silent feline grace that Crowe had attributed to her. She waved her hands. The music picked up, the band members springing into life as if they were merely extensions of the Architect. Perhaps they were. Perhaps they weren’t even there; perhaps they were only there as long as she wanted them to be. A disturbing thought. What does that mean for us?

But the thought was a distinct echo. Already he could feel the Architect working her spell on him. Working her spell on them all. The music was a roar that made his skin buzz and his heart soar. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d heard anything so beautiful. A chorus of song rolled through the crowd. One by one everyone rose to their feet. Soon Crowe and Barghast - even Rake - were compelled to join them. With each new voice added to the pitch, the song rose in volume until it seemed that even the trees and stars joined in. Winged figures appeared above the trees, human-shaped, but vague, as if they wanted to make an appearance but they didn’t want to intermix with the crowd. The practitioner recognized they were Seraphim. Were they really there or were they just more conjurings created by the Mother? It was hard not to watch them streak across the sky in lazy flurries - as if they too were buoyed by the music. For the voice of Caldreath did not just belong to one person but wall who dwelled within it.

The Mother’s arms dropped to her sides.

The music stopped.

Caldreath’s song stopped.

“Tonight we have a special show for all of you, but in particular for our dear herald,” the Mother said. Her voice carried over the night effortlessly. She stepped to the side. She beckoned to him. “Come, stand beside me. No one has a greater role in this than you do - after all, you are the star of the show.”

The practitioner was pulled by her voice. The raspy appeal of it. The light all around her seemed to extinguish everything. He looked back at Barghast. There was always a part of him, no matter what his duty has herald called for, that never wanted to be far away from the lycan even as the rest of him was pulled towards the stage.

Barghast beamed at him, his lips curled in a lazy grin, his ears pressed back against his head. Crowe could tell from the way he swayed on the bench that he’d had quite a bit of wine. “Go on, twin o’rre. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Crowe believed him. Knew that he would keep his promise. He always does. He’s always there when I need him. The practitioner watched the Okanavian recede until the light swallowed the audience whole. He climbed up the steps of the platform on wobbly legs. No amount of war speeches or the leading of rituals would completely dispel his stage fright.

Slowly the angels gliding in the sky converged around the stage. Up until he’d only encountered two Seraphim and both encounters had been frightening; both had forever seared themselves inside his mind. But these Seraphim were different. They did not demand anything of him - his youth or his fingers. Up close one was hard to distinguish from another. They all had pale skin, pale hair, cat-like eyes, and androgynous features. He thought of Charoum and his obvious desire to set himself apart from his brethren. He was more human than he was capable of admitting.

“Herald,” they whispered. They sang it. They knew his name. He did not hear commands or seething fury in their voice, only reverence.

But do they serve me? Would they cut down my enemies if I asked them to? Or do they serve the Architect? The sorcerer took position besides the Architect.

“The herald's journey is long and arduous.” The Architect spoke solely to him but her voice echoed loud enough for everyone to hear. “It is full of responsibilities and suffering…sometimes it seems more than any being can bear but suffering is the string that binds the fabric of existence together. Your journey has always led you to this moment. You already know you’ve stood in this spot before - not just in this Iteration but previous Iterations. In order to become what you must become you must understand as they did. To help you understand, you will witness how it all began. The making of the first people, their unmaking…the conception of the Second Iteration and its downfall.”

“I understand,” he said without hesitation.

The Mother offered him a goblet of aether wine; it seemed they stood on the stage alone.

He drained the goblet of its contents until wine sloshed down his chin. A warm pleasant feeling swept over him. He closed his eyes, wishing the light and the warmth would stay. Stay with me where you're wanted.

But of course good things don't last long.

The platform sucked at his boots. He felt them sink through the wood. He looked down to see a sinkhole had appeared beneath his feet. He helped. He tried to yank his feet out but his efforts merely pulled him deeper.

“Do not be afraid. Embrace what is happening,” the Mother told him.

But Crowe was afraid. Very afraid. He threw himself to the ground, scrabbling at the wood until a fingernail came free. Already the pit had devoured him up to his hips.

“You must accept what is happening,” the Mother informed him.

That's easy for you to say…

“There's no going back.”

He screamed for Barghast. He called for the lycan but the lycan did not come. The lycan could not help him.

“Petras was not afraid. He accepted his fate. He did what had to be done.”

At these words his arms went slack. He stopped struggling. He glared at her. “Show me what you have to show me and be done with it.”

The pit swallowed him whole.

…

“The Void is all around us - above our heads and below our feet. Only a thin porous wall separates us from it.” The Mother’s voice echoed through the blackness. It seemed to come from everywhere at once and nowhere at the same time.

He plummeted through the Void, a matterless black space in which there was no ground to stand on or walls to grab. And he was cold. So cold it was impossible to breathe, impossible to think. It reminded him of the terror he’d felt when he’d first astral projected. At least in astral projecting he’d been able to gain control. Here, in this place - in this absence of place - he was powerless.

“There is not much I can tell you about the Void. Even we immortal Architects fear it. It is a desolate place, with no warmth and very little light. You might be lucky enough to fall into another place, but it would be no paradise. No paradise ever truly lasts long.”

He would have felt despair if it wasn't for the mind-breaking terror that numbed him to all other emotions. In the distance he could see small pinpricks of light. If he’d been submerged in water he would have tried to swim towards them, but there was no direction to go other than down. No tide to stop his fall. All thoughts of Caldreath and the war with the Theocracy were the furthest things from his mind. The futility of existence pressed in on him from all sides. It threatened to crush him like a bug in a box.

“The Void has been here long before the first Iteration. No one knows if it has an origin. But we know this is the place where the Prime - your predecessor was born. Into darkness he was conceived. Who conceived him no one knows. All children are born from parents - even I was born from the womb of another, but as the story goes he was the very first being of creation…”

Suddenly his descent slowed before coming to a full halt. He dangled in the center of the cosmos like a worm on a hook. Even a worm on a hook would have more agency than I do right now.

“Imagine your life taking shape in such a place. Born to a darkness cold it seeps into your bones - seeps into your soul…”

He was an ant. He was smaller than an ant and the Void was the thumb that pressed down on him. Only to be pressed into the dirt - pressed until the legs were ripped from the body and the body crushed under the pressure - would have been a mercy in comparison to this.

“To be but not to understand why you are here. And so it was for our creator. Born into nothing without understanding, without guidance. For millennia he lived in the cold…the very cold you feel right now. It is this nothingness to which Petras was born, to which you were born. To which we were all born and we all eventually return to. It is the emptiness all Architects fear, even myself.”

Loneliness. Despair. Confusion. And anger. So much anger. Why me? What did I do to deserve this? To walk through life unwanted. Even from the first moment of conception I was an orphan with nowhere to call home.

“But the child, while alone, was not powerless. He had the power to shape anything he wanted…he merely had to think of it. Merely had to want it. What he wanted is what we all want: a place to call home. A place to be warm. And so his first thought was that he didn’t want to be cold anymore and so he made himself a home. That home became the place we call Metropolis.”

A vaporous cloud of light blossomed in the cosmos. It fanned out in all directions. He braced himself to feel pure agony, but when the light reached him he only felt warmth. It was like basking in the sunlight while lying in a field. Utter bliss. It was the warmth of creation. Monad’s fire. After a moment the light receded before rounding out into a ball that he realized was the sun. The same sun I feel on my skin everyday.

He watched a second cloud form and round out like dough beneath a rolling pin.

“From darkness we are all born and from darkness Monad made the first lights and from the first lights he formed the first oceans, the first mountains…”

From the light came the first sea: Waters so blue and crystalline it stole the breath away to look at it. From the water mountains rose from the surf to help form the beaches and the sky. Mountains so tall they breached the clouds. Fine jagged things that looked like the molars of a dead leviathan.

“From the light, he constructed the towers and streets of Metropolis...a place of warmth, of life, of crystal and pearl. A place whose streets he could run through with abandon. A place in which he could do anything he wanted. Like a child in their first years he was happy for a time running and playing through the streets. But as you know no good thing is meant to last: Even the most complacent of children need companions. He decided Metropolis was much too big for one soul. It was time to really begin building something…”

The mountains shook under the will of the force that had created them. They burst apart, giving birth to monolithic towers made of pearl and crystal. Lines criss crossed across the landscape, forming streets and canals. Below ground giant gears and pistons burst into life, releasing steam into the air. Scaly creatures he’d never seen before but somehow knew names of - whale, shark, octopus - materialized in the water. Trees sprouted across barren rock like dandelion heads. Animals grazed in grassy fields, feasting on wheat.

“As Monad continued to grow and realize the full power he was capable of, so did the complexities of his creations. Like a scientist, he experimented. Many of his creations were beautiful…quite a few of them were terrible…”

Powerful jaws stretched open to reveal row upon row of razor sharp teeth; a maw that went back into the black as far as the eye could see. Twisting tendrils. Claws that could punch furrows into the very earth.

“For many more millenia it continued like this until at last he made the first Architect…”

He held a squalling, writhing babe in his arms. The baby was naked and cold. I pulled you out of the Void…Pulled you out of the very cold from which I was born and I pressed you to my chest. And I named you Hamon. You see, I thought if no one wanted me, then I would make someone who wanted me. And I would give them a better birth…a better life…than what I had. They would not be born into nothing. They would come into this existence knowing that they came from somewhere and they they were wanted above all else…

“With Hamon, Monad was no longer alone. There was another sprung from Monad himself. Another being with a mind of their own; another being with the ability to create anything they so desired. A being who was both a part and individual from our creator. The kingdom was no longer empty. No longer alone, our creator desired nothing more than to share his kingdom with another.

“If Monad was born to cold and darkness and loneliness, then Hamon was born to light and warmth and love. He wanted for nothing. Everything he desired, Monad gave to him or taught him how to get it for himself. His thoughts and feelings were valued. They were two sides of the same coin. Together they continued to build. It was from this union that myself and the other Architects came into being…”

More towers sprung out of the bedrock. Statues as tall as the lowest mountain stood vigil over the streets of the Eternal City.

“Monad taught us to build beautiful things of our own. He was kind, creative, benevolent. Very quickly we learned to love him for it was he who made the sky, who made the sun…We loved him more than we loved ourselves. And yet something was still missing. And so we made the first people: Monad's children.”

Monad’s people paraded through the streets of Metropolis. They carried banners with the Lion-Headed Serpent inscribed on it. Balloons large enough to darken the streets floated between the buildings. The smell of bread wafted up from merchant booths. He heard the sound of laughter. The sound of music. I made this. Shaped it all with my own bare hands. Who knew such beauty could come out of the nothingness of the Void? His heart glowed with pride. With love.

“For many centuries the first society thrived. They knew only happiness under Monad’s benevolent rule. They did not know the meaning of hunger or want. We loved them. We gave them everything they could ever want. War was not a concept Monad’s people knew, nor illness, nor envy, nor death. We knew only power and freedom. We had the power to shape mountains with our will and conjure fire; we could leave our bodies and travel through the world in spirit; we could bind others to our bidding with only a drop of our blood. We could look up at the sky and know we were loved. But as you know, no good thing is ever meant to last. Just as civilizations are built and grow, it is their destiny to fall.

“Unbeknownst to us Architects a plague was growing in the mind of our creator; with the growth of his powers, the plague also grew. The changes were subtle at first. It started with sleepless nights fraught with nightmares of our beloved city plunging into darkness. These nightmares would wake him up in the middle of the night and he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep.”

Restlessness. Panic. The sense that something inevitable was on the horizon. If only he could find it, then he could stop the chaos before it ever started. But how did you find something when you didn’t know what to look for? Sleep. I must sleep…but I can’t. There’s so much that needs to be done. My people are counting on me.

“We did what we could to help our creator, but by the time we knew something was wrong it was already too late. The beginning of the end had begun. Over the passing of centuries, Monad’s condition grew worse not better. The illness that kept him from sleeping turned into paranoia. Not only did he stop sleeping, he didn’t eat or leave his room. He isolated himself. He closed himself off from his kingdom. He was convinced that someone had poisoned him so they could take the throne from him. He was not entirely wrong to be paranoid. There will always be those who love you because they want something and there were those who loved him only because they sought his favor…his position.”

The panic grew in his chest. It spread open like the wings of a butterfly. He sensed something malignant growing behind his back like a tumor. His own creations were turning against him. How can they do this to me after everything I’ve given them? Without me they would have nothing! Why is this happening to me?

“In his paranoia…in his fear Monad abandoned his people. Abandoned his creations.”

Somewhere doors slammed shut with a heavy thud.

“Without Monad to guide us, the responsibility of his children fell to us - the Architects. Such a responsibility should have brought us joy but the raising of children is no easy task. How can you raise a child when you are only a child yourself? How can you expect children to manage a crisis? We could only watch in despair as the plague spread through our ranks and through the streets of Metropolis…”

Black tendrils spread through the streets of Metropolis. Fires bloomed into view, tearing through fields and farmland and acres of forestland. Men, women, and children fled through the streets in a futile attempt to escape the darkness that pursued on their heels. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. How could you escape something when the dark seed was planted from within…planted from the moment of conception?

“The plague ate at us. Ate at our minds. Ate at our memories. We lost the ability to build, the ability to bind, the ability to conjure fire, and feed ourselves. Dissent was brewing between the Architects: Those who were loyal to Monad’s people and those who thought we should abandon them in order to save ourselves. Hamon was the first to start the rallying call. Feeling abandoned by his creator - as so many of us did - Hamon set out to wrestle the throne out from under Monad. I remember those days well. The streets no longer smelled of baking bread and perfume, but of defecation and fire. I remember how we would stand around, watching the city burn while we waited for our beloved creator to leave his room and give us counsel. The fear I felt is the fear you feel now. There were many of our kind who began to resent and turn away from him. For what child doesn’t hunger for independence over their parents?

“When Monad emerged from his chambers, the city was in ruins. The skies were orange with fire. Hamon, once Monad's favorite creation, had turned against the one who had given him life. Many others joined him in his dissatisfaction. Those who were truly loyal stayed with Monad to fight Hamon and salvage what we could of the city. Those who could not decide took to the Void in the hopes that they could find a place where they could build a life of their own…”

Eerie winds moaned through empty streets. Pale faces streaked with grime and hollowed by strife stared forlornly from the mouths of shadowy alleyways. Somewhere he could hear a child sobbing.

“Upon seeing this Monad fell to his knees in despair…”

He stood a top the tallest point in the Eternal City. Pillars of smoke rose above the smoldering streets. He fell to his knees, unable to understand how any of this could happen. Betrayed…by those who I thought would always stand beside me. And my people have suffered because I turned my back on them. I am the ultimate fool.

“Despair turned into fury. Nothing but thoughts of vengeance could douse the sting of betrayal. Not only had his most faithful and loyal creation left him, but he'd started a civil war. He rallied his own forces and challenged his first creation to battle. For the first time Metropolis knew the meaning of the word, ‘War’...”

Balls of fire slammed into ice, turning ice shards to slag. The world shook with each impact. Towers groaned before crumbling into ash. Smoke and piles of bodies filled the streets. People hacked at each other with blades, their screams filled with the thirst for blood and murder.

“The war wreaked devastation on Metropolis and its people. Already driven mad by the plague, the rest were caught in between the two opposing forces…”

He stood before a mass grave that spanned as far as the eye could see. Millions of lifeless faces stares at him in accusation. This is your fault, those eyes said. Why did you let this happen to us?

“I-I didn't mean to. I-I didn't know.” But his excuses were useless. They fell on dead ears.

“The war reached such levels of chaos it attracted the attention of another entity: the being you know as Elysia…”

A comet of fire streaked across the sky - the fire so bright it blotted out the sun.

“In passing over the Eternal City, she saw the devastation and suffering that Monad's people had endured. She became convinced that Monad, our beloved creator, was the cause for this suffering and the only chance of salvation was to excise him the way a surgeon might a tumor…”

The streets of Metropolis shook. Towers groaned. Birds took flight. Wildlife fled into the forests where they hoped to find refuge. A sinkhole yawned open in the center of the city. Through the open mouth he could see the endless black of the Void.

“It was not Monad or Hamon who ended the war, but Elysia. It was Elysia who cast our creator out of Metropolis into the Void. Stricken and disenchanted, many of Monad's people turned their allegiance to Elysia, for it was she who put an end to their suffering. Only it was not the end…”

Cries of despair floated up from the ash-covered streets of Metropolis. The city no longer looked like the crystalline sanctuary he’d built for his people. Everything I touch turns to ash.

“Taking pity on Hamon and his ilk and the people of Metropolis, Elysia banished the Eternal City where it would forever exist out of time and space. Since the final days of the First Iteration, it has stood empty ever since. Elysia warned them that one day Monad would return from the Void to take back what was is, so she formed the Theocracy, a religion of her own to thwart Monad's attempts at reclamation.”

A flag with the symbol of a silver torch flapped in the wind.

“Returning to her own dominion, Hamon and the Architects were left alone to do as they wished. Hamon, still full of righteousness, believed it was his responsibility to rule over the new people…he believed he could be an even better ruler than our creator. He constructed cities that greatly resembled the monuments in Metropolis. He grew forests and fields of great abundance. Much like the First Iteration, Monad's people, now living under Hamon’s rule were happy. The great sufferings of the last Iteration fell to shadow, gathering the cobwebs of time.

“But cycles repeat and the Second Iteration was doomed to repeat the tragedies of the First; for the same plague of madness that started within Monad also started to take hold and grow within Hamon like a tumor. And like the First Iteration if spread through the people. I think you can see how the war between Monad and the Theocracy started.”

He thought of the smoldering streets of Metropolis; he saw Petras kneeling on the floor, bleeding from a gash where he’d cut himself with a sliver of glass. They didn't want the same events to repeat again. But what if in trying to prevent Monad’s failures they became the cause of them? The ultimate paradox from which there is no escape.

No more. I don't want to see anymore. I’ve seen enough!

“We are not done here,” the Mother told him not without sympathy. “You must see things through until the end…”

He was powerless. There was nothing he could do but watch this new world burn to ash the same as the previous world. Fire engulfed trees both new and old. Fields, once verdant, were plucked barren by desperate hands and trampled into the ground by imperial horse hooves. Blood so red it was almost black sprayed across white snow.

“It was amidst such chaos that Monad emerged from his prison in the Void. Not the same Monad who let his kingdom fall to ash in the First Iteration, but a new Monad with a new name but the same face. The same Monad you knew once as Petras…”

Life and light after so long of cold and darkness and desolation. He stepped out into a world ravaged by war, for it was the war and cries of human suffering that had drawn him from his eternal sleep.

“Born alone into the world already a man, Petras trekked through this new place, thwarting the Theocracy whenever he could and freeing the unfortunate souls who were enslaved. One by one they flocked to him, proclaiming him the herald of Monad…”

A tall figure stood atop a canyon. A blazing sun rendered him down to the human outline of a shadow. Droves of people gathered around the canyons by the thousands. They thrust their fists into the air, screaming in joy and the need for retribution.

But Petras failed.

“Yes, Petras did fail. In the end he almost succeeded in preventing the repetition of events that brought the collapse of the first society, but he too eventually succumbed to the plague of madness.”

Not for the first time he saw his mentor, a feeble aged man clinging to life with broken fingernails, his mind shredded to pieces by dementia. Is that to be my fate? Will I leave the world the same way?

And you think I will fail as well.

“I have witnessed the falling of two Iterations. I was there when Monad fell from grace, banished to the Void. I witnessed the rise and fall of his predecessor. I witnessed the breaking of the second world, a world that is now nothing but fire and ash and death. The very world to which Hamon is chained to and can never leave without another vessel. The world you know of as Inferno. I swore to myself that I would not allow the falling of a Third Iteration come to pass. Will you make the same mistakes as your predecessor?”

Clearly there is nothing I can do to convince you of my intentions, only that you and I want the same thing! he cried back in his mind. I want this nightmare to come to an end once and for all. I’m tired of seeing all the death and suffering! Help me…

“What do you think I’m doing?” the Mother snapped and he recoiled internally out of fear of igniting her fury. “I am reshaping you. Teaching you so that you do not make the same mistakes as your predecessors…”

And still the cold crushing him from all sides. The terror of floating in the middle of a lightless, airless vacuum. The eternal feeling that his lungs would explode and his blood would turn to ice.

So teach me, he told her through his mind. But release me. I’ve seen enough. I know what is at stake. I know my mentor failed. Shape me from splintered wood into impenetrable steel. But in the name of Monad, release me from this dark place - I beg of you!

The air shifted with a rushing sensation. He blinked, suddenly blind. He could feel solid wood beneath his kneecaps. His robes clung to him, glued in place by cold sweat. He no longer dangled in the center of the Void (the Void has no center, he reminded himself), but knelt on the platform in Caldreath.

The moment he opened his eyes the wailing of instruments died. The light flickered like a candle winking out before finally dying. A second later the platform and the audience were engulfed in shadow. An almost shocked silence filled the night. Had they witnessed the same thing he’d witnessed? By ingesting aether wine had they descended through the Void in a sort of shared vision?

Do you really want to know? Do you really care?

No - I don’t. I hope I never experience anything like that again.

You will. Many times. You’ve already experienced it before and you will experience again. Having unpleasant visions is part of the burden of being herald.

“Twin o’rre?” The tall broad form of his lycan appeared before him, bringing with him the familiar smell of wet earth and rain. He felt paws close over his arms. When those paws pulled at him, he did not resist. Was too tired to resist - his brain felt like a white-hot coal that smoldered in the center of his skull.

“I-I w-want out of here,” he managed to squeak in a tiny voice. “T-take me home. T-take me to bed.” He shivered. He could still feel the cold shock of the Void.

“My beloved, you are cold as ice. Your very breath mists the air.” Thick arms covered in dark gray fur pressed him

to the Okanavian’s chest. “We will leave at once.”

                             ...

Crowe sat in Barghast's lap; his head rested against the lycan's chest. They sprawled out in front of the fireplace, watching shadows dance on the wall. Neither had spoken since returning from the platform. The practitioner was grateful for the silence. He had yet to shake off the feeling of unreality that made time feel incongruent and porous. He was grateful for the warmth after the unrelenting cold of the Void…a cold even greater than that of the Mirror Expanse. After a moment a thought came to him.

“Barghast?”

The Okanavian shifted behind him. “Twin o’rre?”

“What happened after I went up on the stage? What did you see?”

“Darkness and cold,” the Okanavian whined. His tail began to tap anxiously on the floor. “I felt as if I was falling. I was so cold I couldn't breathe. All I could think about was you and yet you seemed so distant from me…out of reach…”

The practitioner nodded, understanding.

“And then I stopped falling and I heard her voice in my head. The Mother.”

“So you saw the same thing I did?”

“It would seem so.”

They lapsed back into a heavy but not entirely uncomfortable silence. And then Barghast said, “It was terrible and beautiful at the same time.”

The sorcerer hummed in agreement, drowsy and drifting towards sleep.

“I still don't trust her,” Barghast growled.

“The Mother?”

“The Mother or the Bitch. I know you don't want me to call her that, but I can't think of her any other way. I don't like how she talks to you, how she treats you. How either of them treat you. All they want to do is use you.”

“Such is the life of the herald,” the practitioner murmured bitterly. “I don't trust them either. At this point I don't know who frightens me more: the threat of the Pope or the Mother. It feels as if the world is closing in from all sides…”

Barghast nuzzled Crowe's cheek with his own. “You know you can trust me. You know you can always trust me. I will keep you safe. I will not let Drajen and the Mother harm you.”

“I know you won't,” Crowe lied. He thought, What chance does a lycan have against an Architect?

                            ...

Barghast listened to the soft flutters of his beloved’s breaths. He didn't want to get up or shift Crowe and disturb his slumber, but it had to be done. There are things I must do before he wakes up.

Carefully he lifted his beloved into his arms before carrying him to the bed. He pulled the blankets up to his chin. Guilt churned in his belly. “I am sorry my beloved,” he said in a low whine; his ears and tail drooped. “I’m sorry for going behind your back, but I will not let the Mother or the Bitch take you. You are mine and mine alone.”

The seer materialized, stepping out of the shadows behind him. “What you intend to do is foolish!” she snapped. “You will only get yourself killed! Then who will be around to protect your beloved from harm?”

Barghast grabbed his rifle from its spot leaning against the wall; he slung the strap over his shoulder. “I am protecting him,” he whispered. “I do not intend to harm the Mother or the white-haired bitch who serves her. But there is much we still don't know about this place…or about them.”

He gave Crowe's sleeping form one last lingering look before he stepped out into the night. He paused at the gate. His ears twitched. He listened. He watched two patrolmen pass by him. As he stole through the night a familiar sense of excitement built inside him. The thrill of the hunt beneath the moon and the stars. He reminded himself he had no need to be afraid of these people - he was considered one of them after all - unless he was caught.

He stopped at the bottom of the flagstone steps. He looked up at the tower where a buttery golden light glowed in the window. There, he thought. That is where the Bitch sleeps. If she and the Mother are working together then this is where I will find answers.

“Getting in will be the east part,” the seer said. Her eyes flashed in the dark. “What will you do once you get inside? What is your plan?”

“I don't have one!” the Okanavian snapped. He used a phrase he’d heard Crowe say many times. “I’m making this up as I go along.”

He vaulted up the steps in a single leap. He launched himself into the air a second time. His nails pierced the brick so that he clung to the outside of the church like an insect.

When he didn't hear shouts of alarm or gunfire, he ascended up the side of the building. At the top of the tower he paused. He could sense the guards on the other side of the wall. He peered around the corner.

Four guards sat around a rickety wooden table. A single lamp burned in the center of the table. Each guard held a hand of cards and a string of spirits. One of them laid their hands down, exclaiming happily before draining the contents of their stein; another grunted in disappointment.

Barghast pulled out a large rock from the folds of his tunic. He counted to three before hurling it at the window closest to him with all his strength. The report of shattering glass was deafening in the stillness of the night. The guards dropped their cards, scattering away from the table, knocking their chairs over in haste, exclaiming in excited-frightened voices. He heard a door fly open, the sound of boots thudding across concrete, and the door slam shut. He waited another three seconds before leaping over the wall.

He sprinted through the door the guards had just entered through. He’d only bought himself a few seconds but a few seconds was all he needed.

He bounded down the steps and around the corner. He paused again; already he could sense that he had slipped into her domain. His ears pricked up once more. He could hear chanting and the thrumming of string instruments somewhere beneath his paws.

“Foolish pup, I say it again though I know it will do no good, but you have made a big mistake in coming to this place!” the seer snapped at him. “Leave while you still can!”

He ignored her. The chanting and music pulled at him like a rope. When he heard the guards coming he ducked into an empty room. They muttered to one another as they matched past the cracked doorway; they did not sound distressed, only mildly confused.

Once they were past the door he continued his investigation of the church. The sound led him down another flight of stairs; the temperature in the building dropped the closer he drew to the chapel. He ducked through another archway, stepping onto a large balcony. From here he could see the stage. Hiding behind a large pillar, Barghast had to bite his tongue to keep from letting out a whimper of fear. I am a foolish pup! It was a mistake to come here!

“Leave!” the seer hissed in his mind. Her voice sounded echoey and distant; her voice was almost unintelligible. “Leave while you still can! Go back to your beloved - no more snooping. I will not be able to help you from here. The Mother is far more powerful than I. You will be on your own…”

Barghast ignored her, ignored his fear. It is for my beloved that I am here. To keep him safe from those who seek to do him harm. This is why Gaia made me. Once he was able to gather his courage, he peeked around the pillar again.

Hundreds of naked bodies stood in the chapel, their flesh pale and bare of fur. Monad’s people no doubt. They faced the altar, silent as the grave. The only thing they wore were ivory masks that had been carved out of bone. A lone figure stood atop the platform as naked as the audience except for the bone bracelets around her wrists and the skull perched atop her head. Her back was turned, her head lowered. Her voice was raised in a chant Barghast could not understand. Each time the woman paused, the audience repeated the last thing she said in a low droning voice that echoed throughout the chamber. Torches burned in brackets. The dim lighting inside the chapel reminded Barghast of when he would visit the seer in her cave…only this was unpleasant. This place instilled fear not joy. And still he could not turn away in spite of the seer’s warnings.

The woman on the altar rose to her feet. She turned to face the audience. With slow deliberation she removed the headpiece from her skull while the chant undulated around her. The audience chanted one word and it was a word Barghast could understand:

“Mother…Mother…Mother…”

The woman on the altar had painted her face silver. In spite of the paint, the Okanavian recognized her by her white hair and her natural scent; it was the Bitch. The night’s moon blazed coldly through the oculus in the ceiling, bathing her in light. Her followers mimicked her, reaching towards the moon with upturned palms, puppets under the influence of the string puller.

A door opened behind the Bitch. Two of her followers pushed a third figure through it. The third person - a young man who could have been Crowe's age - fell to his knees before the Bitch. Tears tracked down his cheeks; they glowed like liquid crystals in the torchlight.

The Bitch stalked towards the boy. She moved with the feline grace of a predator…however her eyes did not glitter with threat, but with love. The boy wrapped his arms around her legs and clung to her the way a frightened child might cling to his mother. His shoulders shook with the force of his emotions. It took Barghast a moment to understand that it was not grief that ailed the boy, but joy. The Bitch stooped, kissing both cheeks, and the boy laughed with joy.

You trust her, Barghast thought. He watched the boy intently from his hiding spot. He wished he could transfer the thought to him - warn him from a distance. You shouldn’t trust her. She is a liar. A trickster who will lead you like a lamb to slaughter. You are not her child, you are her slave…

The Bitch circled around the boy until she stood at his back. She rested a hand on one quivering shoulder. She raised the other hand. The chanting died immediately. She grinned resplendently, white teeth flashing. For several seconds she spoke, her voice both powerful and calm. Barghast could not understand a word of it, but her audience murmured and nodded in agreement so they must have liked her speech. When it seemed that her sermon was about to come to an end, the door towards the back of the platform swung open once more. A disciple approached her, bearing a cushion with a dagger resting on top; the blade was six inches long, the handle encrusted with fat jewels.

The Bitch held it up for the crowd to see.

Her audience oohed and awed in admiration.

Still resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder - she’d never taken it off - the Bitch said something to the boy.

The boy nodded eagerly.

Barghast felt his blood turn to ice. He sensed what was about to happen and still he could not look away.

The Bitch pressed the blade of the dagger to the boy’s neck. She pressed down until blood began to flow from the wound. The smell of copper and salt and heat erased Barghast’s fear. Now he felt only hunger. He’d tasted torchcoat blood only two nights ago, but a lycan’s bloodlust was an affliction that could only be managed, never entirely cured. He dug his claws into the wall. He pressed his teeth together hard enough to make his jaw creak. He silently willed the boy to draw away before it was too late.

It was too late.

A river of blood rained from the gash in the boy’s throat. Barghast trembled where he stood, enraptured; this time biting his tongue was not enough to bring him back around. I’m sorry, twin o’rre! I know you don't like it when I hurt myself, but this time I have to! He sunk his teeth into the meat of his wrist, drawing scarlet of his own.

The boy staggered drunkenly to his feet. Blood cascaded down the front of his chest, his legs, his feet, as if he’d bathed in it. His face was pale as milk. His eyes were glazed over in ecstasy. For this boy death was an honor. Death for the cause. A cause he was willing to forfeit his life for.

The Bitch soaked her hands in his blood before rubbing them over her face, mixing it in with the silver paint, her breasts, the slit in between her legs. The audience had fallen to their knees and now rocked back and forth on the ground. Their worship mirrored the worship of the heretics in the Timberford temple. Different deity, same acts of worship.

The air thrummed. Barghast could feel a charge building up like an invisible electric current. The boy rested in his own spreading puddle of blood; his eyes were closed. To the Okanavian he almost looked as if he was sleeping. Another sacrifice. His blood has fed this place - fed her. Is the Mother feeding off her as well? Is it her memories of her past life that serves as a template for this place?

He wouldn't find the answer to this question tonight. It was time to return to the church; it was time to return to his beloved.

It took every ounce of will to turn away from the bloody scene in front of him; only the thought of returning home gave him the strength to do so.

He didn't make it far. Two disciples blocked the door leading to the disciple. One of them pointed a finger at him before letting out a blood curdling howl. Barghast cursed in Okanavian. He swung his rifle around on the screamer. He pulled the trigger. The rifle’s report was deafening in the wide space of the chapel. He leapt past the second disciple, claws slicing through flesh as he burst through the double doors in a shower of wood splinters. Shouts of alarm sounded behind him. He heard the Bitch scream something, her voice full of rage.

There was no room for courage or rage. All he felt was fear. He had not paid heed to the seer’s warning and now he would pay for it. And Crowe would pay for it, too.

I’m sorry my beloved! I am a bad, foolish pup!

He threw himself through a window, soaring through the night until his paws touched the grass. He crouched, listening, sensing that he was still very much in danger. He could hear voices raised in the night, drifting closer. He could see figures walking through the trees, heading in his direction. They carried rifles and farm tools for weapons. The Bitch or maybe the Mother…was there a difference between the two or were they one in the same?...had raised the alarm and now they were coming for him.

“You can run, Okanavian, but you cannot hide from me in my own town!”

The Bitch came around the corner of the church naked as the day she was born, her army of disciples trailing silently behind her. Her eyes shone like silver coins: proof that the Mother was indeed feeding off her. She grinned at him. It was a grin that held no humor; it the grin a predator might bestow upon its prey. He searched for an opening - an avenue for escape - but already he was surrounded.

“We welcomed you,” the Bitch said in Okanavian. “We gave you and your twin o’rre a home and you repay me by snooping around and betraying my trust? This is an affront that cannot go unpunished!”

Barghast cocked his rifle at her. “My beloved and I have stayed here long enough. We are leaving tonight…”

“You will not. We need the herald. We do not need you. You will never leave…”

The Okanavian pulled the trigger.

The Bitch’s head jerked back. The report of the fire reverberated through the night like the crashing of thunder. The shot should have knocked the commander down, but she remained standing. She glared at him with the eyes of the Architect; a red-rimmed wing marked the flesh between her eyebrows. Her lips peeled back from teeth bared in a feral grin. “It’s going to take a lot more than a bullet to kill me,” she said.

Barghast watched the bullet slide out of her skull; he watched it fall into the grass; he watched the wound restitch itself.

“I am sorry my beloved,” he whined.