On a clear bright morning at the end of a long, grueling summer, Raymond Aiminson, Ward of the Lord, walked briskly through the ancient hallways of the University of Jivanpur.
Patience, he reminded himself, is the conqueror of all.
Slowing his pace to avoid arousing suspicion, he turned into the Hall of Learning, the gateway to the University proper.
An awe-inspiring amalgam of artistry and engineering, the Hall was built by the Manipulation and Enfolding of both humans and aditarus, back before the aditarun war and the death of Allfather at the hands of the treacherous vine-dwelling bastards. Over a millennium of peace since the Treaty of Sangam had done little to dampen the rage of the true Disciples of Aimin. Cleansing rain to douse that fire of rage was almost within reach. As always, the key to success was patience.
After exiting the Hall, Ray took the pathway to the temple, his admiring eyes on the leaves of sal, mango, and banyan trees that still dripped water from the Monsoon onslaught earlier in the morning.
A small and ancient town nestled inside a huge and almost as old city, the University – or Uni to use the colloquial term – encompassed a total area of over fifteen square miles, spread across three layers.
The Lower and Upper Rings housed staff quarters, the guesthouse, dormitories and Labs, with most of the structures built around the gently sloping sides of the half-mile high Uni Hill. And then, at the very top of the truncated Hill, called the Circle, one could find the Hall of Learning, Administrative Building, the two temples, Arena and the famous Library.
Still, given the immense size, most of the Uni grounds, by decree of Aimin Himself, were covered in forests, parks, and playgrounds. As a result, after the downpour, everything looked a vibrant refreshing shade of green, Ray’s favorite color.
The sole Aiminist temple on the premises was a modest structure, at least above ground. He was one of the few to be aware of the labyrinth of passageways and rooms that existed beneath the holy ground. Mind stuck on the possible causes for the cryptic message he’d received earlier, Ray climbed the four steps – representing humility, service, truth, and last but most importantly, patience.
The front room of this temple resembled every such room in all temples of Aimin. It was rectangular, approximately two hundred feet long and half as wide, with the entrance through one of the shorter sides. The rectangle resided inside the triangular base, with the top of the temple tapering to a point. The entire outer structure was reminiscent of the sigil for the Mount of Matter. What set this particular temple apart from all others was its illustrious history. These hallowed floors were built by the hand of Aimin himself.
Their reputation was further enhanced by the paintings. Huge frescoes painted by the First Disciple Imril the Great, the legendary Earth Cleric from the 4th century AC, adorned the walls. His unique Aimin-touched ability to create artwork through the application of Manipulation was nothing short of miraculous. The centerpiece was one single mural of epic proportions gracing the ceiling. It depicted the night sky without any of the moons, with strange constellations unknown to any astronomer or historian. The debate among theologians concerning their true meaning had raged for over two millennia. Even to this day it remains an enigma, though the largest school of thought believes it to be the sky of Allfather’s home world, one destroyed by Sigrid.
Shaking off such irrelevant thoughts, Ray looked toward the large idol of Aimin at the center of the room, made from black marble, depicting Him in a sitting posture with one palm facing the devotee in a gesture of blessing.
The visage was that of a human male, with strong features, pronounced cheekbones, hooked nose, piercing eyes with an odd combination of austerity and kindness in them.
Whenever he looked at a statue, idol or painting portraying the Creator, whenever he faltered in his faith, in his moments of doubts, in his times of need, Ray remembered that fateful day almost two decades ago, a day etched indelibly in his memory.
Till then, he was one of almost fifty potential Acolytes – Aiminian equivalent of Novices – all orphans and brought up by the Honored Servants, Cleric-priests in the Temple in Aimingar. The one father figure that he did have was too busy to visit him daily, though he cared deeply for Ray, his adopted son. As for his beloved mother, that was a chapter too painful to recall.
Religion was part of his life, a large part, but never was it more than a means to a better life. Although he was a fervent believer in the Allfather, Ray couldn’t quite embrace it like some of his fellow Acolytes, who viewed it as the sole purpose of their existence, sometimes more so than the actual priests-in-training.
That summer day, it had all changed when the High Priest – Mouth of Allfather himself – had called Ray to his office. Then, he’d taken him to an underground chamber, the Holy Chamber where Creator was reputedly buried after being assassinated by the treacherous aditarun king, Julibar, an event that had sparked the flame of war between the human and aditarun races, altering the course of history.
There, at the chamber of his death, Ray had witnessed a miracle.
A resurrection, although admittedly, a temporary one.
It was also there that he had received his holy mission.
Reminder of the urgency of the dispatch he had received earlier today and sound of soft footfalls ended the journey into his murky past. Ray dipped his head, touching the forehead, then heart, with both his hands, in the traditional Aiminian ritual gesture, showing respect, humility, and willingness to obey the Allfather in the service of truth. Then, he waited patiently.
A priest in loose-fitting gray robe ambled up to him, motioning for him to follow.
The winding shadowy passages of this temple reminded Ray of his adolescence. Everything was quiet and peaceful, as it should be. A few open doors revealed priests sitting cross-legged on cots or the floor, engaged in studying or meditating.
His guide stopped in front of a closed door, then gestured for him to enter. Perhaps he had taken a vow of silence, either by choice or in penance.
Father Medilam, the head of the Order of Clerics in all of Jivanpur, was studying a parchment placed on the mahogany table in front of him, one Ray recognized as a communiqué from the High Priest by its texture and grayish color. He gestured for Ray to be seated. After a quick glance around the shadowy room, Ray took one of the two teak straight-backed chairs, carefully keeping his kernel signature composed.
“May the Lord bring happiness, not peace, to your soul,” he said in greeting.
“For the only peace to be found is in the Eternal Halls,” the priest said in a deep rumbling voice, ending the ritual. “It’s time for you to serve, my child.”
It had taken him years to realize that this was not the man’s natural timber.
“I humbly await Allfather’s instruction in the service of truth.” Ray dipped his head, and then leaned back in his chair.
“You have received new directives from the High Priest.” Medilam’s bushy eyebrows and the dim room made deciphering the emotion behind his eyes all but impossible. And of course, his control over kernel signature was impeccable. He would’ve been long dead otherwise in this place.
It sometimes occurred to him to wonder whether Medilam resented the fact that Ray, a mere boy half his age, had attained a position of such importance in the Order, and was favored by the High Priest himself with a task of this magnitude. Though both of them were technically Second Servants, there was a hierarchy even among them, one that often produced strong, if irrational, feelings of jealousy. This was a distinct possibility on this occasion since unlike him, the priest was a 5th order Cleric, though his skill-set was far too focused for him to be granted the title of a Grandmaster.
But Medilam was adept at hiding his true feelings, even from experienced Clerics here at the University, and in all his years working under him, Ray had never once sensed that deplorable emotion.
“Your objectives are as follows. Locate the Chamber of Creation. One exists right here at Jivanpur according to our intelligence reports. Also, if possible, locate the Globe of Gravity.” Medilam looked up from the parchment. “I assume you’re aware what these are?”
“Yes, Master.”
Ray had been initiated into the Legends at the age of thirteen, after that memorable day, nearly two decades ago. Unlike members of the general populace, he knew they weren’t mere legends. He had also learned that day what they actually signified. Or rather, what function they could serve.
“Your primary objective, however, remains the same. Find the location of the Tome of Time, and if possible, recover it. I will be in overall command of all the missions as usual, unless otherwise commanded by the High Priest. Understood?”
Ray nodded in acquiescence.
“So do you have any inkling as to who could have knowledge of the objects you seek?” the priest asked, for what felt like the thousandth time.
“The most probable candidates are, of course, the Royal Chancellor and Principal Hamilton,” Ray replied.
He had pondered this very question for over a decade, slowly shortening the list of possible persons by the process of elimination; by interacting with them, befriending them. And if necessary, through Compulsion.
He personally detested Compulsion, but sacrifices must be made for the greater good. Seeing Medilam Compel someone to gain access to certain information – a shiver went through Ray’s Heart – it almost made him waver in his faith at times.
But in the service of truth one had to use any and every tool available, no matter how vile they are. The High Priest had impressed this upon him a long time ago, perhaps anticipating this very situation in his infinite wisdom. Who was Ray to question the Mouth of Allfather himself?
“But they are also the hardest to read,” Ray continued, shaking off the odd moment of doubt. “I’m working on the next best option. Jamal.”
“What about the Sacred Journal?” Medilam inquired, not for the first time.
“I have searched high and low.” Ray let a grimace of frustration appear on his face. “If it exists here at all, logic dictates it should probably be at the Library, the oldest repository of knowledge in Sindria. But that building has more layers than even Jamal is aware of.”
Although it was Medilam’s prerogative and mission to recover the Sacred Journal, lost since the death of Allfather, Ray had agreed to provide help, since as a Power Cleric at the Uni, he had greater access to the Library, and the old archives it contained.
Strangely enough, the Rangers believed the Sacred Journal to be a myth, even when one of their number, the legendary Chiranjeev himself, was the one who’d informed the First Disciples of its existence, making it a grand total of four souls in all of Sindria who knew that it was more than a mere myth. Unfortunately, this was the location then, in the sixth century AC, and not now.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“Wonder why Chiranjeev never officially joined the Rangers, or even confided in them,” Ray mused aloud, hoping to gauge the priest’s reaction. The man was oddly well-informed about historical events from the first six centuries that followed the Cataclysm, often called the Age of Creation.
A small shake of the head followed while the priest placed the parchment on his palm. In the next blink, it crumbled to dust as a tiny ball of liquid was siphoned off using Manipulation. “He was not only the first Manifolder, but he could also peer farther into the future than his cursed son could into the past. Who knows what his Sight beyond Sight revealed??!!” he said, depositing the liquid inside a plain wooden chest.
“Still…”
“Fear not. The veracity of his claim was confirmed.” A wry smile crossed Medilam’s aged face. “By Allfather himself.”
Joy and amazement, both emotions entirely genuine, made Ray’s heart skip a beat. “Confirmed? To whom?”
“The High Priest.”
“Why haven’t we heard more rumors, then? More importantly, why haven’t the Rangers? Why do they believe that no such journal was ever written on Sindria?”
“Because none but a few Servants are aware that it wasn’t written on Sindria. It was composed before He arrived here.”
Ray swallowed, dipping his head in gratitude. “I’ll leave no stone unturned. If the Journal exists on Sindria, rest assured, it will be found.”
“I sure hope so. It’s simply sacrilegious that the Sacred Journal resides in a country more than half the population of which is heathens and non-believers, Dualists and Om worshipers. Its true place of honor is at the Great Temple of Aimin in Aimingar, or at least the Snippets of Time, not here languishing in anonymity in some dark corner of the Library.” Medilam’s eyes, and tone, hardened. “You have less than five years to complete all your objectives.”
“They’ll be completed within three,” said Ray, projecting more confidence than he felt. Then, hoping to divert the attention from himself and maybe learn something new about his immediate superior in the process, he asked, “How goes your plan for the Festival, Master?”
“Everything is proceeding as planned.” A small but potentially significant pause followed. “Speaking of the Festival, the other day I received a strange report from one of our priests – from Agnipur. Apparently, we are to be on the lookout for a boy of about nineteen, who could be enrolling at the University this year. According to all estimates, he might be talented enough to be eligible for the Journeyman Test to be held during the next Festival, or even this one.” Medilam adjusted his chair, seeming uncharacteristically anxious, the first such emotion, indeed the first emotional indicator of any kind that Ray had been able to detect today. Even a hint of eager anticipation could be discerned in his channels, both layers of which Ray was fortunate enough to be able to sense, a fact that was extremely rare among Power Clerics, who were naturally inclined toward being more sensitive to the energy layer, one that mostly followed the nervous system.
“What’s so special about this kid? Temperament is more important than talent anyway.”
“He’s Aiminian.”
“Why didn’t he enroll at the Academy in Aimingar?” One or two always slip by the net, but Medilam’s reaction suggested more was at play here than met the eye.
“That’s what interests me.”
If it did, it wasn’t the only thing about this boy that interested Medilam. Ray made a mental note to keep an eye on the boy if and when he arrived.
“Also, it seems Agalmar has finally decided to sanction the creation of a new Enfolding Department at the University. According to the reports of our spies in Ridmanya, the aditarus would be sending two representatives within the month.”
“That could complicate matters for us.” Ray knew better than to underestimate an Enfolder. As he was well aware himself, they could prove to be formidable opponents.
“My…superior is of the same opinion. As such, you – along with a few additional reinforcements sent by him – are going to act as a welcoming committee.” There was no mistaking the edge in Medilam’s voice. The man hated aditarus even more so than Ray.
This supposed superior, rarely mentioned and never named, was the subject of bells of speculation on Ray’s part. “Of course, Master. If there is nothing else…”
Medilam shook his head to indicate there wasn’t, still deep in thought, about this nameless boy if Ray judged correctly.
As he reached the door, right hand gripping the handle, Medilam’s deep voice rumbled, “Avoid the Tunnels from now on, unless absolutely necessary.”
The Narrows was so named because most places in that part of the city, the streets were such that you could touch walls on both sides without needing to stretch your arms. All forms of vehicle, as a result, were prohibited. Not to say there weren’t any hand-pulled rickshaws, ox-carts or palanquins around. Inevitably, every once in a while, chaos ensued. One such instance could be witnessed now, in the intersection up ahead.
The ancient rear axle of an ox-cart had given up the fight, and lay in two neatly broken pieces, with the clueless driver vainly trying to learn the whole craft of blacksmithing right there on the streets.
Several helpful young souls had materialized out of nowhere, led by an amiable man in his early twenties who engaged the reluctant driver and owner of the cart in conversation while his associates went about repairing the axle, and at the same time, started pinching a good portion of the produce – mainly cabbages and cauliflowers. While this drama was being played out, the flow of traffic had halted, requiring dozens of people to perform miraculous acts of acrobatics, at the end of which they found themselves on the other side of the cart, often with their bags bulging with a cabbage or two.
Wearing a bemused smile on his lips, Ray turned back the way he’d come, and not just because of the congestion up ahead.
He’d sensed someone familiar, someone he hadn’t sensed in a long time. Doubling back along with countless others, Ray took an even narrower lane, his feet deliberately purposeful but not hurried.
In these dark and dingy alleyways bordered by ramshackle houses made of brick, none but the truly desperate dared to venture, even during the bells of daylight. Of course, with a population of over five million, more than a third of whom could be categorized as poor, Jivanpur wasn’t lacking in the truly desperate, meaning the alleys were teeming with people.
Interestingly, even most residents of the Narrows were often unaware of the fact that a few of these houses hid startlingly posh interiors where business thrived, carefully treading the line between legitimacy and deceit. One such establishment was Ray’s destination, though given the state of affairs, a courier would’ve been preferred.
Confident his gait, vest, and cloak would hide him from all but the most perceptive Cleric, unless he’s looking for him specifically, Ray gave his worn mundane shoes a mournful look. Fraction of a bell later, the perpetual shadowy atmosphere inside the Narrows hid his identity as he started bartering with a cobbler who’d set up shop inside an alcove, enabling Ray to keep a goodish distance from most passers-by. It’ll definitely be unfortunate if the man happened to be passing less than ten feet from him. Or if he decided to get his own mundane shoes polished. As the head of the orphanage, Ray’s presence in these parts was not unprecedented or even unexpected. But it’d still require some finesse to explain away without someone like Hamilton catching wind of it.
“Can’t,” the old man insisted. “Eight iron’s just me breaking even.”
Ray pursed his lips, seemingly considering his options. Which he was, just not the option the vendor, or anyone else, thought.
With his back to the alley, Ray’s senses tracked the person roughly fifty feet behind, a middle-aged man of medium height wearing faded gray shirt and brown trousers, whose only distinguishing feature was how seamlessly he blended in with his fellow pedestrians – becoming one with the crowd, when in reality, he couldn’t have been more different.
For one, he was a Cleric. For another, as a Cleric, and a high-ranking one at that, his annual income was greater than the cumulative wealth of all of his fellow pedestrians in sight. Of course, both of these two observations held true in his own case as well, but at least Ray gave away two-thirds of his earnings to the orphanage.
Charity was the highest form of service. And Ray, above all else, was a Servant.
“I understand,” he said to the cobbler, ignoring the man’s blatant disregard for the truth. “Can’t offer more than seven, I’m afraid,” he added, his rougher than usual voice reflecting regret and desire both.
“Seeing as how you’re my last customer for the day, suppose seven irons would be alright, even if it’s daylight robbery.”
Fighting every instinct to flee and keeping a firm grip on his kernel signature, Ray gave a happy nod and the man started packing up the shoes.
His judgment of distance turned out to be spot-on as just over ten feet behind, the chief counter-espionage agent in Southern Satrap, Master Horindil Huriason, craned his neck, casual gaze locked onto a cloaked portly man with a head of curly brown hair jostling through the crowd fifty paces ahead. Even before the vendor had finished packing, Ray lost visual track of both the Cleric and his quarry, whoever he was. For Horindil himself to engage in pursuit, the person must be of immense importance – could even be an important member of another cell working in Jivanpur. Ray, of course, had no knowledge of any such cell, which is how it should be.
Standing there in an alley filled to the brim with people, Ray cocked his head. No other pursuer within his sphere of sense, which extended only about a hundred yards. Up ahead, at the intersection of three alleys, Horindil took the left one, probably still within visual range of his target.
Ray breathed a huge sigh of relief. After another glance to make sure no individual stood out, he moved toward the opposite lane. Despite the risks, or perhaps because of them, he must not miss his appointment.
Just as he entered the narrow street, half a mind still on the now-clearly-agitated Cleric, he was accosted by another vendor, selling evening flowers of the fragrant variety – a popular choice among the slightly well-off members of the Narrows. Nowhere in Jivanpur was the drainage system more in need of repairs. Any day now, after a particularly heavy spell of Monsoon, these alleyways would become a small network of streams, requiring tiny boats to navigate. For now, the refuse remained in semi-solid, though still odoriferous, state.
“Couple of bouquets of kamini for an iron, sir,” pleaded the young woman, her coquettish brown eyes quickly assessing Ray’s clothes.
After a moment’s hesitation, Ray took a deep breath. The heady smell instantly brought an involuntary smile to his face. “Couple it is, then.”
Even if he cannot gift the flowers – at least, not yet – a mere whiff would make her ecstatic. She loved flowers almost as much as an aditaru, which even Ray couldn’t fault, as he was no different.
While he waited for the girl to finish wrapping the intoxicating flowers up in paper, which she insisted on doing against his protests, Ray focused on his senses which indicated that dear old Horindil had lost track of his prey as he seemed to be standing at another crossroad at the edge of Ray’s senses and swiveling his head around in utter confusion. Thankfully, he displayed no signs of wanting to head back in this direction.
“Here you go, sir.” The vendor handed him the wrapped bundle, adding in a shy voice, “She’ll be delighted with the gift, your girl.”
Ray gave the woman dressed in threadbare blue salwar-kameez his undivided attention for the very first time. And as soon as he did that, a strange sense of familiarity enveloped his Crown, as if he had met her before. Countless times. Yet, she was a complete stranger.
“What makes you certain I have someone?”
“Everyone has someone special,” came the honest reply. “Or wants to have.” Something in her demeanor changed. “Or needs to.”
“True enough,” Ray said, searching the woman’s face and signature, neither of which revealed much.
Try as he might, he couldn’t recall where he had seen her before, which was highly unusual since he possessed an excellent memory when it came to faces in particular, and people in general.
“You seem well-spoken for a flower-girl.”
“Wasn’t always a flower-girl, was I?” came the flirtatious reply accompanied by an even more suggestive smile. Turning to head deeper into the Narrows, after her fourth step, she threw him an oddly intense glance. “Mind’s been a whirlwind lately,” she confided. “Better check to see if both the bouquets are in there.”
With those parting words, she melted back into the crowd.
After hearing the agreed-upon phrase, senses alert and heart thundering, Ray opened the edge of the wrapping to discover a small vial of green liquid nestled in between the stalks of kamini.
Seems he’d already fulfilled that appointment with the Alchemist, if indirectly, though something about the courier’s last words left him troubled. More troubling still was how the Alchemist, an absolute genius and a complete recluse, had even been aware that Ray required a courier.
Hand of the Allfather at work here? Or one of his dedicated Servants? In Ray’s mind, there was no difference between the two.
His ruminations were cut short when he noticed most of his fellow passers-by were curiously sniffing at the air around him, undoubtedly sensing the unmistakable presence of kamini.
Interestingly, the smell seemed to appeal to both the genders by an equal amount, hardly a surprise. What was, however, slightly odd was the emotion that the fragrance seemed to universally arouse.
Desire.
Sensing emotion from a well-guarded signature was all but impossible, even for someone as adept at it as Ray. But these were ordinary citizens, not highly trained Clerics or operatives. So he was fairly certain of his inference, if puzzled.
Perhaps he was reading too much into basic human instinct. After all, kamini and desire went hand in hand. Literally, if one considers the Sanbri origin of the word. Another reason to extricate the humans of Arunia from the insidious influence of those leggy bastards. But three thousand years of cultural intermixing would be hard to untangle. In the eighty-one years since the Blood Mutiny and the start of his blessed rule, the High Priest had done an admirable job of purging Aiminia off aditarun influence, but it was still a work in progress.
As his presence was attracting too much attention, after another glance at his fellow pedestrians, Ray tightened the wrappings and quickened his steps, heading deeper into the Narrows while trying to remember where he had met the flower-girl before.
He had another appointment to keep, though this one he wasn’t looking forward to.