"All endings root from their beginnings. Thus, to study the faith-order of Karina Myterism—known commonly as the Church of Karina—we must begin at Pitch-Pit Dark. Do not be deceived by the Priests Templar and their sentient swords; their story did not begin upon Thablis, nor on the fabled world of Cassander. Seek their roots instead in the Trail of Treats, and be wary of the helping hand—for they take particular care that the balance between good and evil remains exact. In their glinting eyes lies the lesson: no aid comes without its price."
Study of Established Faiths in the Persean Sector
By Professor Anita Baird, Provost of the Academy and Governor of Hellebron
prologue
The man opened his eyes reluctantly.
The chatter from the outer halls had risen to an unbearable frenzy, and the restless flutter of pigeons struggling for balance upon his window rail only worsened the noise.
It was a warm morning at the Temple-Castle of Thablis. The grand edifice served as the permanent seat of a Padre and stood among the holyiest sites of the man's faith. A temple that was more library than shrine and more school than fortress often came to life in the hours before the first light of dawn.
This summer had been full of restless nights—three grand balls for the graduation of the new generation of Priests Templar, and a brawl between Silvion and Seluk that had left the latter disgraced. To be expelled from Thablis overnight and denied entry thereafter was a stain no Padre could forgive. Still, Mirander thought, Padre Silvion had always been dismissive of Admiral Seluk.
The past week had been one of agony. At least now he could no longer smell the rot in his wounds—a sign, perhaps, of healing. Yet the itch beneath his skin remained raw. He had argued with the medics to revive the skin before the flesh, insisting the texture beneath was less important than preserving the children's sleep.
"Better they not see a burnt beast roaming the halls," he had rasped in his cracked voice.
He dragged himself from the bed and sat upright, his head bowed toward the floor. The skin of his left leg was still milky white; his toes, a feverish yellow. That leg had burned the worst. Those damn butterflies, he thought. They burned me clean past the skin.
The fat had melted away, and much of the flesh had been surgically removed during recovery. Nanomachines had since rebuilt muscle, fiber, and organ from charred bone—but the healing would take time.
He limped to the window. The draperies hung wide, letting the light spill in. Below, children played by the River Panticar.
It was well past dawn.
I've never had the habit of sloth, he murmured, opening the window. A gust of cool summer wind struck his face.
"I love the color in his eyes—Hassar green—and the way he smiles, oh, his round plump lips..."
He heard the girl's thoughts clearly from where she sat beneath his window.
All that agony, he thought, just to learn what others think. A cheap trick.
He turned to the bedside table, reached for the pitcher of milk, and flexed his fingers around the handle. The tingling in his wrist grew to a sharp itch. The jug would not move. He dropped his hand, disgust heavy in his gaze.
He could have called for servants—if not for his pride.
"What kind of man can't lift his own drink?" he muttered with a weary sigh.
Outside, a flock of birds took flight. In the beat of their wings he could hear the changing wind.
Summer was ending. Fall would soon set in—those short, joyless days he despised. He never stayed for the season; he always found a mission, a planet, an excuse to leave before the gloom descended.
His eyes fell on the far table, where a basket of straws lay waiting. Silvion, he thought. She alone remembers my weaknesses.
He limped across the chamber, plucked a straw, and returned to the pitcher. The milk was cool and sweet. Such a simple pleasure, he thought as he drank.
Then he turned to the door. Someone was coming. He could hear her mind before she entered: Padre Silvion had summoned him.
Three soft knocks.
The door opened.
"Master Mirander," the woman said, her voice wavering. "Padre Silvion has enjoined you to attend her in the book chamber."
She froze beneath his gaze — the kind of gaze that met her before she had even crossed the threshold. There was knowledge in it, quiet and unnerving; he had been waiting for her, as though he had sensed her presence long before she arrived. The fear that seized her was not born of his rank, but of that unspoken awareness.
"There's no need for fear," Mirander said softly, a kindness in his tone that made the woman shiver all the more.
"I will join her as soon as I'm out of these robes and into proper clothing," Mirander said, glancing at the blood crusted on the folds of his garment.
The woman whirled and left. The oak door closed behind her with a solid sharp thud.
Mirander drew upon the remnants of his will and crossed to the nearest door. Pulling the wardrobe open, he muttered, "Black, black, and black… what a choice." His voice carried a dry humor, but the reflection in the mirror offered none.
He took up a formal jacket, its hue as dark as his cropped hair, and held it before his face, comparing its shade to the pallor of his own visage. Then he tossed it toward the bed—missing by a wide margin.
In all his years of service to the Order, through every wound and hardship, he had never felt such desolation. It was almost like walking that damned street again. The thought struck him like fire through oil; anger coursed through his blood, hot and relentless, burning most fiercely in his chest and gut.
He seized a pair of trousers and let them fall to the floor, unheeding of their texture or color. His mind was already elsewhere—on that street again: the blood upon the stones, the panic in his heart, the wide eyes, the cold sweat that had stood upon his forehead.
Mirander raised his gaze to the mirror. His breath came unevenly. With the sleeve of his stained robe, he wiped the sweat from his brow. It was warm—the sweat of wrath, not of the frightened, lost child who had once stood upon that blood-stained street.
He donned the black elegant jerkin overtop a fine thin silk shirt with mismatched trousers. The effort fatigued him out; he relied on the wall on his way to the door and opened it. With a shift of his wrist, he pulled the door as the wind pushed his will. It was almost harder than lifting the jug of milk.
He evoked one of the lessons he had learnt as a child: "We are all animals; no human can pass the limit of his pride. We are bound by humility of our will."
He pulled harder against the wind; he felt an increased tingling in the flesh of his hand with every twitch. "We are all animals; no human eats only as much as he needs. We are bound by temperance of our will."
The tingling turned to an agonizing itch; the pain reached an excruciating frenzy. "We are all animals; humans strive only for ascendancy to the corruptest form they can be. We are bound by chastity of our will."
He managed to push past his will; the door flung open, and he stepped out with a smile. Fortunately, he had dodged the chant just before his favorite sin. Behind him, the door closed with a gust of wind.
The hall was a baffling mess. Children fenced with wooden swords. As the door closed, he glimpsed at the stream of their thoughts— a noisy jumble he couldn't cipher into a single word, just a long continuous hiss. A couple passed him in a hurry, swinging their swords at each other's blades.
"Careful not to hurt each other," Mirander warned.
"Yes, master," one of the children replied with an unfamiliar respect.
He passed the children through the arched corridors which viewed the lower, closed garden—packed with groups of children, some reading, some gossiping, and a few fencing amongst the long plantations. Midway to the stairs, Mirander glimpsed an open entrance. A girl was brushing her hair. His onyx eyes locked with the amber in her eyes, and she blushed. Just for a blink, he desired to peek into her mind. Something deep cut him; he resented the idea as much as he liked to know what the girl thought.
He took one step. His eyes drifted back to the corridor—its arches and the fine marbling on the floor. Fifty more steps and there it was: the stairs. Silvion's study was at the highest level in the temple walls. His hand gripped the railing and he took a step to climb. Pain jumped through every vein. He nearly fainted as sweat dripped from every part of him. He felt a sharp knife cutting his ankle—past flesh, cracking the bones, reaching marrow with the first step in the stairs. One done, a thousand more to climb, he told himself. He renewed his tired breath, and his left leg lifted, followed by the right.
Once he reached the door, he heard the quibble. Silvion was arguing with a voice he recognized—Padre Allas, he figured—as he crossed closer to the wooden gate of Silvion's study.
Mirander had not yet learned finesse. Only the clearest thoughts reached him: the sharp ones of the focused, and the slow, echoing ones of the old.
Mirander peeked at their conversation through the narrow crack of the open door.
"Padre Silvion, it's an honor to be present here at Thablis. After all, it is said you have barred other Padres' rightful admission to your schoolrooms," Padre Allas said allusively.
The wisecrack stung Silvion's pride.
"And which Padre is barred entry? Are we not in the middle of a decent consultation? Are we not on Thablis?" Silvion rattled.
"I am not complaining for my own self; I am merely conveying others' concerns," Allas replied.
Silvion opened a letter on her desk, disinterested in the ongoing conversation.
"Seluk is barred out of Thablis for good reason," Silvion said, her head lowered to the table.
Mirander could see, in her mind, an image from a past long gone—when she had been a child no older than the children playing in the halls. In that remembrance he saw her sneak out of the castle walls on a cold winter night. She had dressed poorly for the weather; only a red tippet wrapped her neck in warmth. A shadow of a child longed for her in that dark, beneath a tall oak tree.
"Given your history, some may consider his departure to be out of prejudice and not justice," Padre Allas needled, cutting across Silvion's thoughts.
"Well, that much has elaborated my Seluk. Has he failed to consider sharing the actions that led to his part? His speech about bravura—telling children the ultimate glory is to die," Silvion exclaimed.
"But Padre Seluk wants the good of children. There is chatter outside this room that you have limited children's fencing lessons to once a month. The colossal carving of Karina outside your room is a telltale that our order is one forged out of war," Allas pointed.
Silvion stirred in her chair to look upon Karina's petrified visage.
"Bright a white light—if there be any glory in war, let it rest upon men like her. Our founder, glorious be her name, fought with her life to defend the orphans, not to throw them into war," Silvion said.
Mirander shivered at her words, and he felt Silvion and Allas shiver the same—in pride.
" still we need soldiers to win the approaching wars " Allas muttered Mirander followed his stream of thought to a parley with seluk in which the Admiral had bade him to ask for fresh swords.
" approaching wars , Nth Nth Nth ... be aware Padre you words sound of self fulfilling prophecies you know people always don't win wars"
Silvion lectured tilting her head to left and right
" Admiral is yet to disappoint us a worthy of spear he is after three wars and four dozen battles not a lone loss"
Allas said assuredly
Mirander got caught in the same remembrance eavesdropping to the past conversation to Seluk pleading the grand Steward for a bolster of his image in Silvion sight Mirander couldn't figure to what end Seluk himself was absent to read his mind ,guesses swarmed his intellect to what end might an old lover want to appeal to their loved ones eyes .
" there is always a first doesn't it fit better to quit waring a winner " Silvion shrugged invincible Admiral's might
" while we can win more Admiral seems to be our orders luck " Allas chuckled
" luck , yes luck but the coin of luck has two sides algebra dictates winning too many times always grantees a loss" Silvion said a pitiful concerned smirk hunting her face wide.
"battles are won by men not odds" Allas shrugged in shiver his voice betrayed his words.
" but everything is odds ,life is odds ,you and I speak here based of odds you of all people grand Steward must know this that numbers rule our world exceeding what we like" Silvion said In response
" speaking of numbers two million graduates this fall and as I hear a new mage" Padre Allas said in a calculative voice
" Yes Mirander has exceeded our expectations " Silvion replied
" forty three mages thirty seven of the graduated directly from here a superb job indeed sometimes I ponder how much of Seluk victories lay on your shoulders Karina has woven in you a true book keeper"
Allas said in praise
" Mirander lives propinquity metamorphosis I never thought he had it in him what gift had Karina bestowed upon him is it yet known?" Allas asked
in reading his thoughts Mirander figured this questions purpose Allas seeked interest in Mirander's gained aptitude from propinquity metamorphosis.
" we do not yet know of the nature nor extent of his gained abilities " Silvion conned in the matter so seamlessly that even Mirander aware of his master's awareness took belief in her lie .
" that's a pity to think your apprentice lives and not knowing his mights " Allas said doubting at Silvion's lie .
"Young souls are impatient for knowledge and power. We old folk have outgrown that hunger. Odd, isn't it? They have all the time in the world, yet they are always in a rush; we, who have so little time left, never hurry," Silvion said.
Mirander caught the drift of her thoughts — a quiet longing for older times.
"I remember when we were young," Allas said, reminiscing, "when a recent mage was assigned to our ranks. Those were the days — the winter feasts, the dancing, the eating, the drinking. Seluk didn't ask for your hand. He was a bit grumpy that night."
"Have I ever told you," Silvion replied, "that I went through propinquity metamorphosis only to spite Seluk? 'Are you stupid, Silvion? You will die, Silvion. What you are doing — is this a pageant to you? A tourney? A contest you think you must win?'"
She chuckled, raising her voice in imitation of the Admiral's tone.
"Was that before or after he went through metamorphosis?" Allas asked.
"After. He was dead scared. Waited outside the room for a solid eight hours — then barged through the door the moment he knew I had survived. I thought he meant to hug me first, but he picked up nagging exactly where he had left off."
"Well, you must give the man some credit. If you go through the process yourself, you certainly don't want that fate to befall your foe — let alone someone you love that dearly," Allas said.
Mirander saw, in Allas's mind, an old frame of Silvion and Seluk in their juvenescence: walking the inner yards — or rather, Silvion fleeing Seluk's relentless chase through open corridors much different from the ones Mirander walked today.
"A young mind worries too much," Silvion said with a smile.
"A young mind… off. In Halphran we lack young minds. Have you found time to review my petition?" Allas asked.
Mirander found, in the old Padre's thoughts, that this was the true reason for his long voyage from Halphran.
"Yes. It is the most admirable appeal," Silvion said, "but its overreaching nature clouds our ability to provide that many students."
"If it is their comfort you have in mind, I must say they would be provided most decent quarters — six times the minimum wage — and the best education money can buy as they pursue higher learning and the prospect of employment in Halphran," Allas pleaded.
"True. But four hundred thousand out of two million graduates is a large sum. Even percentage-wise, it is vast. It is well to grant them a decent higher education — but here, the schools are in disarray. It would cost fifty billion Persean credits to rejuvenate Nagrath Palace alone," Silvion said.
Mirander followed Allas's thought — edging toward a bribe.
"Fifty billion… that is a sizeable sum. And to think we've only just finished renovations here. I suppose we could add fifty billion credits to Thablis's budget in this cycle's allocation plan, to mend the old school," Allas said, swallowing with a dry throat.
"Actually," Silvion replied, her lips hinting at a smile, "I was hoping for a five hundred billion Persean credit increase for this fiscal cycle."
"Five hundred billion? That is unacceptable — outrageous," Padre Allas barked, desperation rising, while Silvion remained calm.
"I beg to differ. It is merely one ship. How much funding is dedicated to Seluk's fleet? Ninety-five trillion. If we can field a fleet that large, surely we can spare a crumb for the institutions that feed that fleet — institutions impaired and plagued by lack of funds," Silvion chanted, her voice unruffled by Allas's sudden bark.
Mirander sensed the shift in the Grand Steward's mind. Allas knew Silvion needed the funds far less than he himself needed the fresh hands. This is the philosophy of need, Allas thought: the one who needs less is always relentless, and the one who needs more always concedes more.
"Oh, who am I to argue with words most right and wise," Allas sighed unwillingly. "I suppose we can afford a ship less," he added, yielding to Silvion's extortion in disguise.
"I am sure the pupils will be most pleased," Silvion said. Allas's reluctant grin spread wide across his face.
"And on your part?" Allas asked.
"And on our part what?" Silvion replied, counterfeiting a baffled look.
"Cut the act, Silvion. You wanted a bartering of favors. Let's do a bartering of favors," Allas said bluntly.
"I am most displeased with your assumptions of my requisition, Padre — and to suggest such a heinous exchange." Silvion maintained her baffled façade.
"What is most heinous about this ordeal is that you deny the suggestions you made openly and clearly."
"You can find snakes in twigs if you look for them — but the snakes you spot are predominantly just twigs."
"I wish what you wish, Silvion: an act of altruism in response to another of its kind. Remember the nature of our Order — give and take."
Allas heaved himself up from the cushioned armchair and crossed the spacious room toward the entrance, toward the crack of the open door.
"Silvion, I will allocate your beseech as soon as you accede to my entreat — not a second sooner," Allas said, offering few pleasantries. He raised his fisted hand along his torso in an arch.
Silvion returned the courtesy in the same manner, flexing her clenched fingers open. Allas did not return the final gesture; his knotted hand remained in a fist as it fell in the same arch in which it had risen.
Silvion did not budge at the Grand Steward's affront. Allas pivoted on his left leg and exited, sealing the door behind him with a gentle thud.
Mirander caught sight of the aging Padre — his hair grayer than before, black follicles giving in to decay, and his oval face drawn with a few extra wrinkles around his perfect green eyes. Those eyes reminded Mirander of his father — and of the ones who had killed him. The sight of wolves.
"Well, well, well… a new mage lives," Padre Allas said as he eyed the young priest.
Mirander bowed as low as he could.
"Karina fit your days to last, young man. Your master is waiting for you, I suppose, so I won't bother you much — but we must have a detailed conversation at your earliest convenience, dear boy," Allas said, offering Mirander a smile of neat white teeth.
"As you order, Padre," Mirander nodded respectfully, bowing again.
"Go on now, boy. Don't keep Silvion waiting," Allas ordered, then strode to the far end of the hall.
In his thoughts, Mirander read his intentions — Allas meant to root out whatever Silvion had seeded deep out of his sight. And he was damn certain he could crack Mirander to talk.
Only if I didn't know your purpose, Padre, Mirander thought.
He crossed to the oak-carved door of Silvion's study chamber with steady, faltering steps and cracked it open with a creak.
"Come in. I've anticipated your arrival so long, I have grown weary to remain," he heard Silvion say as he entered the room.
Silvion sat on her tapestried chair. Long years had done a number on her, yet the Padre lingered still in the semblance of her youthful prowess as she sat there at the rear of the chiseled podium — the room with one sealed entrance and three thin glass walls.
In her oval face, in the gray hair still black at its tips, in the way it fell across her hazel eyes, he sensed her restless stare.
Mirander walked into the room with a slight bow.
"I wished not to disturb your parley," Mirander said.
"You certainly did not," Silvion sneered. "I've been told it is clearer to discern in a motionless pond."
"I sought not to spy on you, Padre."
"Dear child," Silvion said, "with what you have lurking and skulking, it comes as a given. It might not be your wish that wishes the verbatim of what others think — yet such lack of desire does not make your power any less potent."
She gestured toward the cushioned chair at the other end of the podium.
"Sit. Allas has done so much to warm it up for you," she added.
"I dare not commit such transgressions," Mirander said reverently, overdrawing his tone.
"You are comfortable in a Padre's head but not in a Padre's chair?" Silvion sneered with a wide smile. "Sit, boy. I can hear your bones crack. And wipe that grin away — you've been kissed by our God and you still live. Rejoice. That is a rare upshot, even among the willing participants."
Mirander sat reluctantly. He found the chair as comfy and balmy as Silvion had promised. The walk and the climb up the stairs had given his legs unnecessary exertion; he felt a needle pressing into every muscle, a shiver in every bone — even in those that were not remotely used for walking or any manner of movement.
"What is the first lesson I gave you, boy?" Silvion asked.
"What you can't hide from others, you certainly can't hide from yourself," Mirander answered.
The crossing had enervated him completely, yet his stubbornness needled at him more than the pain that gnawed at his flesh. His skin twisted and burned with every stir, an itch with every twitch. He would have stood from the chair out of sheer pride if he did not feel his legs reduced to little more than hollowed bones.
"Yes, boy," Silvion said, "I can see your legs shaking. No need to feign strength — you are clearly spent."
"Of course. No need for that. We are so absorbed telling others lies," Mirander replied, braving Silvion's calculating hazel stare.
"You've gotten a sharper tongue, boy. If you wanted Allas to take me on my lie, you could have opened your mouth and sung him your little song — but you stood with the lie. Why?" Silvion asked, her tone sharpened with intent.
"Because I trust in your better judgment," Mirander replied.
"You do…?" She tilted her head. "Would you care to guess what my better judgment might be?"
"You want me to spy on Padre Allas — to see his mind," Mirander answered plainly.
"Reckon," Silvion said, "I can read Allas's mind without the ability to read minds. We lived as children, grew as friends, matured to adults in the same quarters. And even if not that — he is an open book. Too simple a man to hide his intentions. His intellect does not desire disguise."
Mirander wondered whether her words held truth. Respect and fear mingled in him, holding him back from entering his mentor's mind.
"Then why?" Mirander asked.
"Try to read my mind," Silvion said boldly.
"Pardon?"
"Go ahead. Try. Don't be shy."
Mirander peeked into Silvion's mind — a zesty smell, a crunchy crust, creamy sweet raisins in every bite, the inside too soft. A reenactment of a treat — a cookie, no, a cake — with a glass of hot white-white milk at its side. A fragment of a memory, not a whole picture; bites and pieces entering the light before slipping into the dark.
The image made Mirander's stomach turn with excitement. He could feel Silvion tasting every bite of the imaginary cake. He could not discern what the taste was — neither could Silvion — but both knew it to be pleasant. Beyond that, he saw little else.
"Now, what do you see?" Silvion asked.
"A cake."
"Wrong. You see what I desire you to spot."
Mirander looked deeper — and found he could not decipher anything beyond the cake in Silvion's mind.
"Your talent is worthless on aware specimens. As you observe, it is better tested on those who are unaware."
"You said you don't want me to lurk in Allas's mind."
"Correct. We do not spy on ourselves. That would be stupid. But if we tell Allas, he will tell Seluk, and he will tell ten of his troupe, and they will do the same — until the number of the aware lot intensifies so greatly that our open secret becomes a mouthful of rumors traveling the galaxy far and wide. And then we lose the ability to play with our new toys."
"That's why I'm here — to learn how to play with this toy."
"No. You are here so we can converse. To master this toy, you need but patience, practice, and time. Now tell me — why didn't you read the girl's mind?"
"Which girl?" Mirander asked, his face flushing.
"Oh… the one who eyed you up when you were coming up the stairs — the one with bronze hair and gray eyes. You lingered at her door, shared a stare with her, and then moved on," Silvion replied.
"Was that you? Did you put her up to that?" Mirander snapped.
"Is it so unfathomable, so unfamiliar to you, to be liked?" Silvion sneered with a hidden frown. "The girl is in awe of you. You are now a mage, and girls will fancy you. What do you think of that girl?"
"She is pretty."
"That's it? Just pretty?"
"Well… she is."
"'Well, she is' — that is all you can say of her? She has more to say for you and your stare. I can hear her speaking three levels below, chattering with her friends — all about you," Silvion said, wrinkling a motherly smile onto her visage.
"What is she saying?" Mirander asked at once.
"Do you prefer her to Dorrin?" Silvion asked abruptly.
The question caught her apprentice off guard.
"What does that have to do with this?" Mirander responded.
"You cannot love two women at once. And she is as much a daughter to me as you are a son to me."
"I… I can't say."
"Then I can't say what she chats and chatters. It is most inappropriate to reveal a lover's love to an unwilling prospector — don't you think?"
Mirander could have read Silvion's mind to learn what the girl had said — but he knew well that Silvion played his field better than he played his own. Behind those hazel eyes, he found only cracks and fragments — too few and too far apart.
"Men are so hopeless," Silvion said. "They yearn for women who turn them down — as though the unattainable were some sacred prize. This girl soothes you far better than that snake, from whom you will see nothing but harm."
Her voice carried a ragged edge, resentment clinging to the name of the girl Mirander sought.
Strangely, he felt a ragged pulse in his veins — his heart beating in an uneven rhythm. What if Dorrin liked him as intensely as this girl did? Even separated by worlds, the thought clawed at him.
In those arrhythmic gasps of breath, he recalled every advance Dorrin had declined. And now, with this gift — with the ability to read minds — he could know for certain whether he was disliked. And even if he were, this new insight could prove enough to reshape her thoughts entirely. To shift her will.
"Your blood jumps and jolts, I hear," Silvion said, cutting clean through the spiral of his thoughts. "You are thinking of a girl, I fear. Which one?"
Mirander glanced over Silvion's shoulder at the stone-carved Karina, who stood a hundred meters tall on account of the blade she held aloft. The infamous sword Blave furthered her reach toward the heavens—forty meters of that hundred. As Silvion had often praised, a crepuscular ray pierced the gleaming clouds, their corona emitting a golden hue along the edges.
Indeed, the star, the clouds, fate itself, seemed to bless his God with that beam of light, regardless of war or its pending glory. His eyes drifted back to the clouds: dark at heart with the promise of coming rain, whiter further back, and gold at the edge.
Silvion stirred in her more-than-elegant chair and peered at the same sky.
"Shifting weather. Fall is upon us—and you will no longer wish to frequent with it, I reckon."
A flock of pigeons swept past the castle wall and nearly collided with the left glass pane of Silvion's study. The chamber, with its three glacial walls, felt more like a balcony—one from which the entire outer plot could be seen, along with the children playing on their day of rest. But aside from the light and the view, it offered nothing but a bone-deep chill that lingered in every corner.
The thick carpet failed to keep the warmth—how could it, when three vast escapes allowed heat to flee?
"We should kill those birds for their own sake," Mirander muttered, shivering, the cold bristling at his nape, cutting through his chattering teeth.
"Pigeons would beg to differ," Silvion said. "They might ponder that they benefit from life. If they did not, why would they dodge the wall?"
Mirander could not detect the same chatter in her tone that he felt in the words.
"Damn things didn't let me sleep all night. And they're plagued by disease—they harm the children, harm themselves even. If they could think, they would ask for death. But they're dim-witted animals," Mirander pressed.
"So they took your slumber, and you reflect that they wish to die. Strange. I've read much on mages blessed with precognition—scrolls never mentioned reading pigeons." Silvion taunted his line of thought.
"You need not say it. You said you read Allas with wit alone. I suppose if you can do that, I can read pigeons fine," Mirander replied.
"How long have you lived with pigeons to claim such?" Silvion asked.
"Since I was ten. Fifteen years is long enough—their constant cooing, their filth, their flip-flop across every wall. They are pests," Mirander grunted, watching the endless flocks wheeling across the sky.
"We can rid them, yes—but we, they, the cats, the rats, and the few stray dogs are the only animals that linger here. Pigeons are loud, lousy, irritating. Were they not, you would not have taken them for your nemesis. But they are alive—and if we kill them, we kill the only creatures that exist here besides ourselves. And an alone animal is always a depressed animal; an irritated animal is pleased and cheerful. Life comes with its ups and downs."
Silvion rose from her tapestried armchair and crossed to the central glass wall.
"Have I told you the story of the storks?"
"I've seen golden storks. The planet is teeming with them."
"Yes—but once, they nested here too, for a while, during their journey south in mid-fall."
"What happened to them? Did we kill them?"
"No—not willingly." Silvion's voice softened. "I was nine that fall. A woman, Katrin, was to kiss Karina in propinquity metamorphosis—graduating from pious to mage, much as you have now."
Mirander heard a faint sob in her tone.
"I've never heard of a Padre or mage called Katrin," he said.
"Because she did not make it." Silvion exhaled. "We often underestimate our God's propinquity metamorphosis. We think it a cheat to power we cannot hold—but we shun the truth that we cannot anticipate the results."
"That night, Karina took a full kiss from that poor girl—and she was pretty. Even for 'pretty,' she was pretty. Golden hair, hunting eyes, amber in color. She did her best to contain the agony. She only took the storks with her—all of the storks. Even the eggs. And nothing else but herself."
A chill crawled along Mirander's spine—one not born of cold.
"I felt that night the butterflies. Some children said they had seen them. You see the butterflies once you face certain demise. She controlled it—diverted it—to the storks. But had she not, the whole school—if not the planet—would have become part of the Trail of Treats. Instead of picking beaks and feathers from that reeking orange substance, we would have picked teeth, hair, and whatever else remained. A mockery of our Order—one unable to contain its own might."
Silvion turned to face him.
"Young mage, I still miss the storks. Would you have this old heart yearn for pigeons too? To look at a sky with no creature in sight?"
"Life could be more pleasant if it had no downs and only ups."
"Such a line would be plainly flat once its shape is realized. Anyhow, I haven't called you here to kill all pigeons; we rather have a pressing subject to discuss."
Mirander's eyes drifted once more to the statue. Karina's head was tilted to the left. Wrinkles of her fitted, stony gown had been decorated and scarred by cracks and mold, and yet she still retained the Blave in her right hand in a firm grasp, whereas her left hand was straight at the same level as her shoulder with an upturned palm. Her toes and her hands were the jest of a ballet dancer, and one could mistake her as such if not for the Blave and her frown.
"So what do you want to talk of?" Mirander asked with disinterest.
"The place you would frequent for the next couple of months."
"And where is that?"
"Have you ever heard of planet MelasOon?" Silvion asked. She stretched the name to emphasize its scale.
"No," Mirander answered presently.
"It's a fringe world, a fief under Sinderian dictate, often called a prison planet— in truth, a slave world."
"And what is our subject of interest?" Mirander asked, nearly confused.
"Our sources report on engaging occurrences that require our inquiry," Silvion answered.
Mirander tried reading her mind: a sweet taste he couldn't figure—crunchy yet soft— and with a glass of milk, a cookie… no, a cake with a glass of milk. Fragments of a lost memory shaped to shroud Silvion's mind.
"You still think of the cake?" Mirander asked, his teeth grinding, the sheer cold impacting in unison with fear on his jaw.
"MelasOon has no living creature besides men who are bound to be on opposing sides of a ring of chains, so you wouldn't have to worry about pigeons or other pests," Silvion answered, ignoring Mirander's urgent quiz.
"Why are you still remancing the cake? Is there something I must know?" Mirander pressed.
"It's a pleasant memory. I'm trying to recall the recipe of the raisin orange cake. It's just that now..." Silvion sneered a fake smile.
"But why now? Are you trying to hide something from me? Why—is it deadly or something? A trap? Are our sources consistent?" Mirander cut Silvion's line. Among all words he uttered, one—the word deadly—mingled with Silvion's shroud and lifted the veil for a flash. The words repeated from a recording device in absolute panic— a certain panic in the face of a certain death:
"It's not human, it's not human...."
The jabbering words on the recording hurried at an impossible rate. Every pronunciation was wrong on account of panic, yet the loud shrieking tone guaranteed the verbatim of said words.
"Keep your hands on your hilt and your blade sharp and unsheathed, and you will be fine," Silvion said. Mirander caught wind from her tone that she had recognized the moment Mirander had peeked past the veil.
"The planet is prone to birth events that will reshape the entirety of the Persean sector if our sources are to stand correct. Your mission is simple: descend to the mines of MelasOon, climb back up, and report solely to me. Understood?" Silvion added.
Mirander obligated with a nod.
"Is there anything else I should know of?" Mirander inquired in desperation.
"Stand awake until you reach comfort— a pity to die in one's sleep, a folly to fall with dreaming eyes, a gritty finality to slumber into the endless night." Silvion's answer shivered Mirander hard.
"Rest now, mage, but soon you must part."