Argent Night had come, when the three moons–Karillia, Belephon, and Hespyreus– all were full, casting a cold, silver light upon the Mist Sea below and setting it in a dull white glow. A zeppelin, dark against the moonslit mists, moved silently along over the expanse, its silver hull emblazoned with the nine-pointed cross of the Ennealogik Church.
Inside the zeppelin''s cabin, the Ninth Father prayed quietly, his fingers moving over the beads of his rosary. His gaze was fixed on the northeast, where Old Thal, the demon star, glowed with an eerie blue light. It was his guide tonight on the journey to the city. Two young monks, their faces drawn and pale in the Argent Night moonslight, stood guard beside him, their bell-staves clutched nervously in their hands. One, Theron noted, had knuckles white with tension.
Hours earlier, he had been woken by a dark figure on the balcony of his chambers, unmoving and silent beyond the sheer curtains waving in the cold wind. It was a Subtle Man, an assassin in the service of the Highmother. But this one had not come to kill. Instead, he had delivered a message, spoken in a flat, calm voice. "A matter of the greatest emergency," the assassin had said, "concerning your son."
He had departed for the north-east shortly afterward.
"Metagerion is close, Father Theron," Makelm, captain of his guard, interrupted Theron''s thoughts. He stood with his usual calm steadiness just beyond the novice guards. Theron turned towards the city, its grand twisting spires and wide promenades rising from the mist like a white blade, just then coming into view on the horizon.
But something was wrong. The eastern quarter of the city was shrouded in darkness, an unnatural blackness from which glowed a disturbing blue aura, and smoke billowed upwards, revealing glimpses of a horrifying scene. The zeppelin was rapidly approaching the city, and Theron felt a knot of dread tighten in his stomach. His breath caught short in his throat as he raised the spyglass, offered by Makelm, his hand surprisingly steady despite the tremor that ran through his body. He searched the darkened city quarter, and through the smoke, he could see a scene of utter devastation. Buildings were toppled, their roofs collapsed, while the streets were mangled beyond recognition. And then he saw them, the victims. Their bodies were stretched, distorted, smeared as a blotch of paint might be when on a canvas. The faces of the stricken, or rather those who still possessed an unwarped face, Theron could see their silently screaming mouths.
The Ninth Father looked away. Did they still live? They were like clay stretched out and torn. He thought he saw the eye of one of those poor wretches twitching.
The devastation. The savage distortion of bodies.
That devil-boy''s eyes, thought the Ninth Father, he would kill them all before the last days passed. The power of his gorgon eyes had finally been revealed to him.
He imagined the creature breaking free from his silver cage atop the Ziggurat and headed down there to the city. He was curious, Theron thought, as any boy his age would be. The boy must have been eager to remove his mask and see those around him coming and going. But merely opening his eyes was enough to trigger those ghastly eyes, and he felt pity for those who were in the boy''s immediate view. Their bodies were the most warped.
This was the scenario that developed in the Ninth Father''s mind after considering what he''d seen for a few moments. But perhaps the Highmother had simply unleashed him on those poor stretched bodies, a display of his growing power to warp, twist, and rake the very fabric of the world.
He recalled the twitching eye. The ziggurat was ahead.
The zeppelin rose sharply upward, and a gleaming, black pyramid came into Theron''s sight–The Ziggurat. It hovered over the rest of the city, floating in mid-air over Metagerion''s central sector. The peak of the Ziggurat''s pyramid was capped in shining church-silver, and several other airships were docked around it. The other Patriarchs were here.
The Ninth Father hastily finished the last of his prayers. A whitestone platform was extending from the ziggurat''s upper pyramid, the silver-capped prison where the devil-boy was now. The zeppelin docked with the whitestone bridge, and the gondola shook as the enormous mist-engines were turned to idle, its airlock hissing as it connected with the ancient stone. With a shudder, Theron, alone, stepped out onto the platform. It was suspended over the glowing city below. He could still see it in the east. The blacked-out city quarter in the east. There was light ahead in the silver pyramid''s sanctuary, where Theron could already hear the other patriarchs arguing. He was always the last to arrive.
- - -
All of the other patriarchs were present, standing like the hours of a clock around a bramble of roses in the center of the room. The room was round and dark, but hanging lamps ahead lit up the roses and made them look like red embers. Most of them hadn''t noticed the Ninth Father enter, too engaged in the arguments flying across the roses to stop.
He walked in the darkness behind them, observing the young boy who sat in the middle of the bramble, playing with the leaves and petals. His hair was dark, like his mother’s, and he was wearing a grinning silver mask, restraining his eyes under its shuttered eyeholes. The shuttered eyes were the only thing preventing the boy from twisting the old men gathered here into the twisted shapes down in the city. The boy seemed unaware of the heated arguing around him.
Theron passed by a cloaked old man who held out his hand to stop him, the Fourth Father, Aldalph. He was the eldest of the patriarchs, who presided over the monastery beyond the steppes of the far east. He was thin and bent, wearing a pointed hooded cloak that made him seem as if he were standing in a billowy tent. He looked at the ground but turned when he heard Theron''s steps.
"Father, you have arrived finally." The bent patriarch turned his head, his whole tent-cloak twisting with him. "Hell below the sea, Theron. You saw them down there? A hundred and fourteen souls, all... twisted. What other word is there to describe what happened to them?"
"Nine-Gods'' weeping, Aldalph, I saw them with my own eyes. I pray the stricken are at peace," Theron whispered, grasping the ancient man''s shaking hand as he continued on outside the ring.
"I doubt they are," he heard Adalph groan behind him.
He passed by a few more of them: the Second Father, a wide man in furs from the north; then the Sixth Father, one of the three patriarchs who administered the city as consuls. Most of the men in this room hated each other, but thankfully they only gathered when the city was in crisis.
"The alchemists of the third medic mission report that vitals are present in the...twisted," the Seventh Father grimaced, tall and dark. He reminded Theron of a crypt-mummy in his wrapped white vestments. He was the second of the consuls. "But the Akademia has thus far been unable to find the remedy to undo the effect."
Effect? Too little a word, Theron thought. A catastrophe, that was a better word. One that the boy could unleash upon them at any moment here if he were to just take that mask off and open his eyes. But he continued to occupy himself with the roses around him.
"The Auditoria has been making headway since the event," the Sixth Father reported, and Theron was reminded of a rearing cobra when he saw him. "My confessores have extracted numerous duressed confessions from the ziggurat''s servants suspected of allowing the boy out into the city. We''re close to finding where the fault in his containment was," he said.
Containment. Another interesting choice of words.
Theron found his place among the others at the rose''s edge. He was parallel to the First Father - the third of the city''s consuls - who hadn''t spoken yet since Theron arrived.
"No mere servant allowed this to happen!" the Fourth Father shook his long, crooked finger. "I charge that the Vespers are to blame for the lapse in competent guard-men. Are they not the constables of the law here in Metagerion? Are you not their sheriff, Third-Father Niklausus!"
The old men around the ring yelled in uproar at the Fourth Father''s accusation. Niklausus was standing near his allies, the Seventh and Sixth fathers. A copper round copper badge gleamed on his chest, pinned into the left breast of his black justacorps, the law-badge that all Vespers wore.
"I admire the Fourth Father for his candid opinion," growled the Third Father, "But he must be reminded of the Vespers'' good will with the people–"
"Goodwill? With what people?" The Fourth Father balked, placing his hand over his chest as it huffed in stifled laughter.
"What if we were to, ahem, forgive me," the Seventh Father started, from the other side of the bramble, "But what if we were to… just sew his eyes shut?"
Silence fell over the chamber for the first time since the Ninth Father had arrived. The ludicrous suggestion by that sweating toad had stunned them. But then more than a few of them began to consider how it wasn''t so ludicrous on second thought.
Still, the boy was playing in the roses, humming the quick pace of the Cat King''s Lullaby. Not even the mention of his eyes being sewed shut drew his attention.
"An excellent suggestion from the august Seventh Father. And I move we vote to consider it," the Third Father said with a wide grin, like a fox that had discovered the latch to the hen-house was left open. A man cruel for the sake of it.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
"Surely we aren''t voting for such madness!" cried the Eighth Father, pleading with his fists shaking in the air. "Surely the August Fathers gathered here have come to realize that regardless of his eyes, he is yet just a boy!"
"Hear, hear!" the Second Father rallied. "The Seventh Father should be censured!"
"Third Father Niklausus, are the Vespers under your control not orderlies of the law?" yelled the Fourth Father, the first he''d raised his voice. "I charge that it is the Vespers who allowed it to happen."
The three consuls and the Third Father shook their fists and yelled at the outrageous accusation. "And what advice would you give to the dozen or so Vespers down there right now," the Sixth Father said, coming to the defense, "Twisted as they are, just like the others."
Theron watched the Third Father open his mouth, but just as he was to speak, the far doors, opposite the ones Theron had entered through, opened, flooding golden light from the chamber beyond. A group of shadows was approaching the chamber. They belonged to the members of the Highmother''s court, wearing fine chiffon and plenty of jeweled finery. They began to part to either side, and then a shadow on the floor approached that was a head or more taller than the others.
Her Shadow.
The Highmother walked forward, a golden mask concealing her face. Her body was rubbed in ground gold, and behind her a long train spread behind her, reminding Theron of a mantis when she reached forward and touched her hands together in a humble gesture. She came to the foot of the bramble, the eye-holes of her wide-faced mask shuttered like the boy''s were. Theron saw the devil-boy was looking up now, finally paying attention. He was looking directly at her, across the rose bramble. Theron wondered if she''d heard the Fifth Father''s remarks about sewing the boy''s eyes shut.
"August Fathers, your wife graciously welcomes you home," her voice was pleasing, melodic, unmuffled by the mask. "Though your wife wishes it were for more welcoming circumstances. Our heart weeps for the tortured ones below."
Her voice imitates grief well, Theron thought.
"The dead are counted at over a hundred," the Seventh Father said, "I expect a hundred and a hundred more by the time my alchemists are done sweeping the city."
"The boy must be contained, Aestrigha!" the Second Father pleaded. "He will kill us all before the last days pass."
"My husbands misunderstand the meaning of our gathering," the warmness in her voice was fading. "I had devised the method of his safekeeping long before any of you arrived."
"Then why have we come here, Aestrigha?" Theron finally spoke, and her head turned toward him. On the ground behind her, he thought he saw her shadow''s head turn first.
The boy in the center was standing now, his mask gleaming in the lamplight. Two attendants had appeared at either side of her and each took one of her waiting hands. She began to walk across the rose bramble, her attendants on either side. Theron knew the roses had thorns. Yet they walked barefoot through the thorns at Aestrigha''s beckon. They must be cutting and jabbing into the poor attendants'' feet, yet they showed no sign of pain on their faces. The Highmother, Theron thought, had built a cult of fanatics around herself. The kind that would walk willingly over the thorns. It was a powerful kind of devotion.
She approached the center of the roses, where the little boy was waiting. She outstretched her arms, and he rushed to hug her around the hips. Her attendants backed away into the bramble''s thorns again.
“At the rise of the next Argent Night, the church will arrive with the boy at Zoter’s Wall,” Aestrigha decreed, the boy grabbing at her hip, “Where Ninth Father Theron will be his guardian there, safely away from the city.”
Cries of outrage bellowed from the other fathers,
Theron was stunned. The other Patriarchs were bellowing with outrage. He hadn''t expected of all things to leave this place the jailor for that mist-spawned demon. He clasped his rosary again, too shocked to think. Why did she mean to send him there, at the Wall? It was far away, as far away south as possible, he answered himself. And what if the devil-boy opened his eyes at the Wall? It would crumble the monastery into the southern sea and take every monk to the depths with it.
What did this mean for Zoter’s Wall? For the monk-sons who walked her halls? He needed desperately to tell the men on the ship to send word to the monks back at the Wall, to make ready a silver prison for the boy. The demon.
"I believe the boy will do well under the guidance of his father," the Highmother said, resting her hand on the silver cheek of the boy''s mask. "Take him from here, Ninth-Father Theron, to the south."
She used his name, now honoring Theron above the other patriarchs. He could see the rage brimming in the eyes of the sixth and seventh fathers. The Third Father smiled again like a hungry fox. He''d made enemies tonight.
"Aestrigha, great wife that you are, surely the boy, he''d be more comfortable in the arms of his loving mother," Theron lifted his hands, his rosary in the left one. "The Wall is no place for a boy so young and coddled."
"And my husband, greatly wise that you are, have arrived at the heart of the matter," the Highmother replied. "The boy no longer grows here. Now he must turn to his father on his journey to become a man."
Some of the Patriarchs began to disperse from the ring, but Aestrigha spoke again.
"And as for the blame, we need not resort to endless accusations," the Highmother had her long fingers on the masked boy''s shoulders. "As penance, you may draw lots to determine who here will take full blame for the ordeal tonight. He will have all guilt placed on him, absolving the others.
The departing fathers stopped in their tracks and turned back toward her, returning to their places at the bramble.
"Husbands, I ask that you cast your lot," Aestrigha said. "For the man here who will assume the blame for the failings tonight of many of you—"
The tone of her voice was sharp now, her former sweetness finally shed.
"Now."
"I vote for Third Father Klausus!" the Fourth Father shouted immediately, the eldest among them and the first to vote. "He is reckless and cruel, but not clever."
The old man fell silent. Klausus'' eyes were bulging like daggers toward the Fourth Father, whose head was turned down, not meeting his gaze.
"I cast my vote for Fourth Father Aldalph!" It was the Seventh Father, next eldest. "He tries to break the trust of this circle with unfounded accusations!"
The others allied against Aldalph cheered, yet the old man still looked down, grabbing the sides of his tent-cloak, billowing like it might float away.
"Father Aldalph!" yelled the Sixth Father, the cat-o-nine coiled at his waste clinking with his movements.
"That old fool Aldalph!" croaked the Fifth Father next.
Three against Old Aldalph so far, thought Theron. Another was surely to come from–
"Aldalph, the horrid man he is," the Third Father hissed, thrusting his arm out and pointing toward the Fourth Father. "His vulgar words attacking the Vespers attack the very city itself!"
Four against now. But now it was time to strike back. He felt at least the Second and Eighth Fathers would be reasonable, casting their marks against Third Father Klausus. The First Father, though. He still hadn''t spoken. He had a long orange beard and a frame like a bear. Theron couldn''t get a sense for what he may say.
"Father Klausus! A Disgrace!" the Second Father shouted.
Yes!
Theron was next, and he saw Klausus and his allies staring intensely his way. He closed his eyes and exhaled through his nostrils and said, "Third Father Klausus."
Only the First and Eighth Fathers remained. Theron exhaled through his nose and said, "Third Father Klausus." The men in the Third Father''s camp were yelling again. Theron had no doubt made an enemy out of every single one of them. But there would be fewer of them here soon.
"I vote for Klausus!" It was the Eighth Father. "High time we took the judge''s gavel from his hand."
One more! Nine willing.
There they all were, exactly where Theron predicted they would be. He knew the Second Father had a good heart. All that remained was for the First Father to–
"Aldalph."
Theron gasped and stared at the First Father. Johan, his name. He wouldn''t meet Theron''s gaze, apparently not willing to take the same risk the others had on behalf of the Fourth Father. With his final vote cast, the majority against poor Aldalph, the power shifted all toward Klausus, soon leaving Theron with one less friend and now the enemy of three men.
"Your humble wife is in awe!" the High Mother rejoiced, her hands together over her chest. "And what an example you set for our son."
Theron noticed that the masked boy had been watching them as they cast their votes, like deadly daggers hurled at the men named. He was now looking at the hunched-over Aldalph, who still looked down at the ground. Suddenly there were dark shapes behind him, the shadows of the Subtle Men coming to claim the poor old man. To Theron''s surprise, their method seemed quite caring, rather than the savage bloodbath he expected to come. One of the Shades took the eldest patriarch''s hand, while another guided him by the shoulders away. Theron shook his face, trying not to think about what the Subtle Men would do with him.
The Subtle Men escorted Aldalph away from the lamplight overhead into the dark outer areas of the pyramid. Theron watched them as they went, until they''d just seemed to disappear, melded into the shadows. The Fourth Father was gone.
Theron''s chest felt light. He knew Klausus cared little about the reputation of the Vespers but saw the opportunity to eliminate the most vulnerable of his adversaries.
"Fourth Father Aldalph, blessed he be," the Third Father said through his sneering teeth. He looked right at Theron. "Yet the blame he shouldered for our sake will reforge the circle of Patriarchs anew!"
Nine above, Theron thought, this city has been reduced to madness. He rushed back to the zeppelin, bidding the helmsman depart immediately. His heart felt heavy for the Fourth Father’s unjust ousting from the circle. Was he already dead?
The boy would arrive at the next Argent Night. One moonth.
He thought of the twitching eye again.
. . . Until the Last Nights Pass.