A gunshot. The tolling of an alarm bell. The bark of a dog. The slam of a door. Another gunshot. A foghorn. The call of a rot crow. The pattering of rain. The scream of a woman.
Rambolt Eells heard all these things over the course of a single hour. The city was loud tonight. Reeling and stumbling over itself, desperate for someone or something to notice its torment. The wretched filled its streets like a virus, gorging themselves on debauchery and madness. They prowled through the darkness, drinking and killing and fucking until their bellies were so full of sin that they got stuck in the gutters. There they waited until dawn, when they crawled themselves out and masqueraded as civilization. But when night fell their depraved appetites once again overcame them. Few realized the irreparable damage they were doing to their very souls. None fathomed that they were dragging the wailing city into damnation along with them.
Rambolt Eells alone heard the city’s tortured cry. All others were deaf. For years he had tried to uncover their ears, but none of them cared. The disease would not listen to the body’s protestations. From his open window high above the infected streets, he listened to Celadin’s death rattle.
He heard the heavy wooden door behind him open with a creak. He turned, and saw a man in a dark blue robe enter his room cautiously.
“Brother Rambolt?” the man said in a whisper.
Rambolt Eells did not respond. He turned back to the window and felt the rain splash across his naked chest.
He heard feet shuffling nervously behind him.
“Brother Rambolt,” the man said. “The Council, they wish to…”
“Brother Thomas,” Eells said, tasting the rain on his tongue. He motioned behind him. “Come. Tell me what you hear.”
After a hesitant moment, Brother Thomas joined him up on the broad sill of the window. Eells glanced at the bald man beside him. Thomas lifted a hand to his face to block the rain. Eells gently placed a hand on his lower back, and he felt the monk tremble.
“Brother Rambolt, what is—”
“Shhh… Listen, Brother. Listen, and tell me what you hear.”
Thomas was quiet. He wiped the rainwater from his face, leaned forward slightly, then leaned back and wiped his face again.
“I can’t hear—what am I listening for? The rain?”
“Shhh.”
Thomas shook beneath Eells’ hand. Eells remained quiet, and waited.
Thomas looked up nervously. “Brother Rambolt, I don’t know what this is, but the Council—”
Eells gripped the back of Thomas’ robe and thrust him out into the night, suspending him in midair.
“Listen to her,” Eells said over Thomas’ screams. “Listen to your city, Brother. Hear that mournful sound she makes? That horrendous shrieking? She is in pain, Brother. A demon lashes her with its whip. Do you know this demon’s name?”
Thomas only screamed.
“The demon is man, Brother. He fills her veins with his madness and his evil, and he feels no remorse. He stabs her with hooks, lashes her down with chains. But do you hear what accompanies that pain, Brother? The underlying tone to her scream?” He pulled Thomas back in slightly, so that his head was resting over Thomas’ ear. “It is a moan of pleasure. It is lust. Because she is beginning to enjoy it. Man is not content with simply destroying her, Brother. He intends to pull those chains and drag her into the Aether along with him.”
Eells yanked Thomas back into the room. Thomas sprawled across the floor, soaking wet and gasping. Eells stepped down from the sill, leaving the window open. He crossed the room and grabbed his own blue robe, draping it over his sleek shoulders and fastening the buttons across his chest. He threw on his brown leather boots and tied the red sash across his waist.
“Soon it will be too late, Brother Thomas. The city will be completely consumed by the disease that runs rampant through her veins. There will be nothing that any of us can do. She will die.”
Thomas sat up, running a hand over his face again. He looked at Rambolt Eells, his skin completely white. “The… The Council… They wanted to—”
“I’m aware, Brother Thomas,” Eells said, securing his rapier at his side. “I wish to see them myself. There’s been a Schism.”
“A Schism?” Thomas said. “That—Are you certain?”
“I have felt it. For the first time in ten years. The Council will want to speak with me. And you, Brother Thomas, you will go again to that window and listen. When the cries of ecstasy and death finally reach your ears, you may leave.”
Rambolt Eells strode from the room, leaving Brother Thomas in a puddle on the floor.
#
Not a single noise reverberated through the Council chamber. Rambolt Eells paid careful attention to his breathing, so as not to let a stray ragged gust defile the sanctity of the place. Thousands of years of tradition created the Ritual of Silence that was constantly observed within the alabaster walls of the Council chamber. It was claimed throughout the history of Prevalistic literature that the Aether uses human voices to scratch down the walls between worlds, but Eells wasn’t so sure. The Aether manifested itself in other, more sinister ways.
He stood on a white circle that was illuminated by radioactive gas, a property that Eells had heard was termed ‘neon.’ It seemed to him like magic, torn from the dark realm of the Aether. He didn’t understand so much of science, but magic he knew plenty of. He knew it could shed light on many things beyond simple patches of floor. Burning gas didn’t seem sustainable enough to provide he constant, even light beneath his feet. But if the white light was power by magic, he could understand that. He consciously recognized that it wasn’t, of course. It couldn’t be. The Aether hadn’t bled into the Real in a decade.
Until that morning, that is. That was why the Council had summoned him, why he had awoken in the night and listened at the window.
Seventeen electric lights ignited in a circle around him, casting pillars of illumination over seventeen robed figures standing behind tall podiums. Eells resisted the impulse to blink as the lights came on; the slight brushing of his eyelids might be seen as a desecration of the Ritual of Silence.
The seventeen figures were each wearing silver masks. Completely opaque and featureless, these were the masks of the Ascetic Council, the highest authority within the Order of Prevelistics. The masks kept their identities unknown from those that they preached to. None knew who they were outside of the chamber and without the masks. From this tower they opined and judged, as they were the only beings deemed holy enough to speak during the Ritual of Silence.
Eells stood perfectly still and held his breath.
“Brother Rambolt Eells,” one of the figures said. The sensation of noise shook him to his bones. He was not sure which figure had even spoken; none moved, and the voice seemed to come from everywhere. He held his stance and did not speak.
“Early this morning the Council became aware of a significant distortion within the Real. This event, which we reluctantly refer to as a Schism, is now considered alarming, and worthy of our attention. You have felt this, have you not?”
Eells said nothing.
“We grant upon you the temporary gift of palaver,” the Council said.
Eells looked around at the Council members. Had he heard them correctly? They were allowing him speech during the Ritual? He licked his lips, and let out a noisy breath. None reacted. Nothing happened, and he realized that for the first time in his life he was being allowed to converse with the Ascetic Council.
He cleared his throat. “My Council,” he said, an address that very few had ever given, “you are correct. I felt the Schism myself. It woke me from my sleep.” His words echoed loudly, returning to his ears unclean. It made his skin crawl.
“Then it is true,” the Council said.
“If he is too be believed, “ the Council said.
“We are to believe him. He is trusted by his abbey; he has always been a devout servant,” the Council said.
Eells tried to follow the conversing voices, but could not.
“His senses are finely attuned, yes, but his past shows his overzealous nature.”
“That was merely piety.”
“The events at Gorga Sak Dromas were piety?”
“Of the utmost kind.”
“It was madness.”
“It was duty.”
“He is violent. He takes immeasurable risks. He endangers everything around him to follow his narrow-minded goals. You would trust him with such a task as we have?”
“You would trust any other?”
The Council fell silent.
“Brother Rambolt Eells,” the Council said. “Why do you believe that it was you who felt the Schism, and not another?”
Eells swallowed, his voice still not ready for the idea of talking to the Council themselves. “Because I felt the last one,” he said. “The last Schism. Ten years ago. I felt it, and I followed it. I lost its trail, a failure that haunts me to this day, but now that Schism has returned.”
“You are certain it is the same affect that caused this Schism? The same leak between the Aether and the Real?”
“I am certain, My Council.”
“Where would you fathom that this Schism occurred?”
“At the same place as the last.”
“And where is that?” the Council asked.
Eells felt a spike of impatience. The Council knew exactly where the Schism had occurred. They were testing him, because some among them didn’t believe him.
“The Lormian-Celedin Aperture,” Eells said.
“You see?” the Council said. “He knows. He can sense the Schisms.”
“It was mere guesswork. Extrapolating from the last Schism ten years ago.”
“You truly think this?”
“What else could it be? There isn’t a single soul attuned enough to sense the exact location of the disruptions…”
“And yet he did last time.”
“There are myriad factors that could have influenced his last conclusion. As you said, that was ten years ago. And as he himself said, that venture ended in failure. It could be that he was simply incorrect about the location of the Schism.”
“But that does not explain the—”
“My Council,” Eells said, turning all seventeen masks to him. He looked up, breathing calmly and loudly. “I know the location of this Schism. Regardless of the hours you spend bickering over it, you know that I know. After all, you summoned me here for a reason.”
The Council stood quiet for a moment. Then, one voice spoke. “Brother Rambolt Eells,” it said. “You are no doubt aware of the current tumultuous state of the Commonwealth. An event such as this Schism brings alarm to us all, including the Holy Emperor himself. It is not completely improbable that this Schism is somehow connected to a rebel plot to undo the Commonwealth, or even to eliminate our Holy Emperor. In such dangerous times, a loose thread such as this cannot be allowed to unwind. You have proven yourself a resourceful and powerful instrument to the Order. We bestow upon you the title of Bereaver, and task you with uncovering the source of this Schism and destroying it. You have access to the entirety of the Order’s wealth. You are granted immunity from all municipal, provincial, and inter-world governments. Your methods for accomplishing this task will not be questioned, your progress will not be hindered.”
Eells couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The legend of the Bereaver was ancient, nearly as old as the Order itself. Every citizen of the Real knew of the Bereavers. It was a temporary title, only fabricated during times of great distress. He’d studied the stories of the Bereavers in the abbey. Bereaver Santi ended the Great War. Bereaver Chormakin brought about the Culling of the Reticent. And then of course there was the myth of Bereaver Gaias Tushar Saddantian, who fought back the leaking of the Aether and ascended to the throne of Holy Emperor. Was he really to join such esteemed ranks?
“We expect much of you, Bereaver Eells,” the Council said. “Do not fail us.”
There were no words with which to respond to what he was just told. Of course? I will not fail you? Thank you seemed trite, almost condescending coming from the tongue of… of a Bereaver.
“I am the wall against which the Aether breaks,” he said at last.
“Excellent,” the Council said.
“Satisfactory,” the Council said. “You are merely our tool, Eells. Remember that. Any glory you achieve is in the name of the Order, not yourself. Any grievances you commit are yours to bear. Now prepare yourself for the brand.”
The brand. The mark that identifies the Bereaver. The mark that shows all others that he is above them, that his action is law, that his word is right. Rambolt Eells braces himself as one of the Council members approached him with a large iron tool, its four-pronged end glowing hot red.
#
His face stung. He felt the freshly burnt flesh across his face as he descended the steps of the Council’s tower. Two thick lines, running from his temples to the sides of his jaw, crossing each other over his nose. Soon it would heal into a scar; a permanent, unmistakable mark labeling him Bereaver. It was who he was now, blasted into his skin. He could have no other profession. He could have no other life than his commitment to the absolute ideals of the Order.
He would have it no other way.
Rambolt Eells walked past the two guards at the main door of the Council’s tower. They had given him much guff upon his entrance. Demanded to see his identification, asked him his business, removed from him his rapier. But now they cast him a quick glance, and then in shameful realization turned their eyes away. He stopped, extended his hand. One of the guards—still carefully keeping his gaze away from the Bereaver— gently placed the rapier in Eells waiting palm. The guard dropped to a kneel and removed his helmet, bending his head forward so as to expose the back of his neck as much as possible. The gesture surprised Eells, but he quickly recognized it and removed his rapier from its scabbard. He placed its blade softly on the guard’s spine.
“You leave your fate up to me,” Eells said. “As a sign of sacrament, yes? A ritual of forgiveness treating me with such brashness when you knew not what fate intended me to be? I could sever your head right now. Immediately. Without consequence. But… you are a faithful servant of the Order. You were merely protecting your Council, as I would have done were I in your position.” He ran the blade slowly across the guard’s skin, drawing a thin line of blood. “But, as the Council has declared, I am not in your position.” In one strike he severed the guard’s head.
Blood spilled across his boots, and Eells could almost feel its warmth through the leather. He’d only killed once before this moment, and that was in self-defence as a boy. He’d trained his fencing skills to their peak, practiced against armored opponents with dulled blades for years, but never once had he expected to actually use his blade to take the life of another. Monks of the Order of Prevalistics were peaceful by nature, and only carried their swords as a symbol of tradition, harkening back to battle-torn days long past. He’d long ago resigned himself to a life of pacifism and contemplation. Decades of meditation within the abbey supposedly parted his mind with any temptation to cause harm to another living being. And yet here, within moments of acquiring his new position of power, he took the life of an innocent man who wished only to atone. It was alarming, unexpected, and exciting. He loved it.
He half-expected another guard to come racing down the hall, gun raised. But he found himself standing above a corpse in the early morning with no consequences.
The other guard gasped and dropped his rifle. Rambolt Eells turned to him. The guard, tearing his eyes away from the decapitated body that sprawled out between them, immediately silenced himself.
“I am the voice that the Aether cannot steal,” Eells said to no one in particular. “I alone have the power to snuff out the Pale Light and free the Real from the sin and corruption that consumes it.”
He pushed open the large stone door of the tower, and stepped out into the streets of Celedin.
The sun was dim overhead, struggling to shine through clouds of smog. The tall gabled roofs of the surrounding buildings loomed over him with their latticed roofs and their oblong windows, surrounding him like walls in a maze. But Rambolt Eells did not feel trapped in a concrete labyrinth. He looked around at the dense crowd that filled the square in front of the Council’s tower and felt nothing but freedom.
So many lives.
So many wrongs to right.
He stepped down the marble steps, and into the cobblestone street. Through the doorway behind him he heard a cry, but he ignored it. Nothing in the past, even moments before, mattered. He was a creature of the future. An engine of progress.
“There is no sin that escapes my sight,” he said. A merchant walking by him turned, evidently curious about the unprovoked statement. Eells met his eyes, and smiled as the man’s skin turned pale and his eyes widened. Eells lifted his blood-streaked rapier to the man’s face. The merchant shouted, dropping his bundle of fruit and vegetables and throwing his hands into the air.
“Please,” the merchant said. “I’ve done nothing. What’s—”
“What do you do at night?” Eells said. The crowd around him hushed. He could feel their fear suddenly igniting, growing like a wildfire.
The merchant’s lips trembled before speaking. “What? I sleep. I mean, I—”
“Recite for me the Nine Writs.”
The merchant blubbered without words. He looked around at the crowd. No one responded to his silent begging. In fact, they backed away from him. He looked back at Eells.
“The… the… The Writ of Subjugation…”
“Which is…?” Eells said, poking the rapier’s tip into the merchant’s skin.
“‘One shall subject himself to the will of the Holy Emperor…”
“And?” Eells said.
The merchant licked his lips. “And… the Writ of Purity… which says ‘one will withhold from any desire—er, no, wait—temptation, to engage in congress with the Aether, unless explicitly directed by the Order. I mean the Order of Prevalistics. And… the Writ of Finalization—”
“What about the Writ of Saturation?”
The man blubbered. “I was— it was— I mean—”
Rambolt Eells ran his rapier through the merchant’s chest. The man’s eyes widened with terror and sorrow, and Eells grabbed his chin.
“‘I hold myself to the standards of the Order of Prevalistics,’” Eells said. “‘I bathe myself in its teachings, for only through complete saturation in knowledge and scripture can I be saved from the eternal torment of the Aether.’” He pulled the blade from the merchant’s ribs, spilled blood across the cobblestone, and the crowd shrieked.
“‘Go not into the abyss alone,’” Eells said, “‘For the Order goes with you, and fights back the dragons of the Pale Light to deliver your soul into sweet oblivion unmolested.’”
The merchant clawed at Eells face, reaching out desperately, and then his eyes rolled back. Eells dropped him. Immediately six uniformed officers of the constabulary burst from the crowd, drawn by the screams or some complaint of a concerned citizen. They raised their pistols and demanded that Rambolt Eells drop his weapon or be fired upon.
For a split-second Eells felt supreme self-doubt, a fear that he had done something outside of acceptable boundaries and would face the terrible consequences. He heard his mother’s voice chastising him, felt his father’s belt upon his flesh. But then he remembered who he was now, and he stood tall, turning to the constables.
They beheld his marked visage and his blue robes, and they lowered there guns.
“I am the wall against which the Aether breaks,” Eells said. He walked. The constables let him pass without even a word.
For the first time in his life, Rambolt Eells was happy.
But that happiness was compounded by the fact that he had a job to do. An important job. Something—likely someone—had disrupted the fragile boundary between the Aether and the Real. This was supremely dangerous, and—more importantly—supreme sacrilege. He would find this source, the cause of this Schism, and he would destroy it in the name of the Order. But where to start?
The Schism had occurred at the Lormian-Celedein Aperture. That was as good a place to start as any.
No comments:
Post a Comment