The next time Hawk awakened, the Archon was absent, but her breakfast was present. It was similar to…well, she couldn’t call it yesterday, now could she? The day hadn’t passed back home—she suspected it hadn’t been even an hour—and there was no sun here to mark time. Days must be a foreign concept. Her clothes were present, folded and cleaned and little more than ribbons after the Shadowbeast incident, but beside them were a collection of silk gowns and robes, and a beautifully calligraphed note: I invite you to wear our robes until you’re well. If you feel up to it, you may join me in the garden. There was no signature.

Hell with it, she thought, and went for the silk.

It took her a minute to guess at how these garments were meant to be layered. She found her own underwear (for some reason the thought of the Archon undressing her wasn’t disturbing. The man had all the sexual presence of a lamppost) out of the pile of fatigues, and figured the simplest gown of rough, cream-colored silk was an under-dress, like a chemise. A better, finer, ankle-length tunic had slits from ankle to just above the knee, and a panel of delicate embroidery, of flowers and what looked like ants on a background of circles. She suspected some religious symbolism, but she was largely thrilled to see ants as an attractive motif. The chemise felt like putting on a gentle breeze. The heavier samite was, she guessed, the outer robe. This had no slits for ease-of-walking, save for down the middle. When she put it on, she felt more modest than if she’d put on a nun’s wimple.

Fortunately it was very cool down here, and the heavy outer robe was welcome. There were also a pair of soft boots, lined with fur. She put them on. PETA would probably choke on this place…but the Shadowbeast would gladly finish them off. There was a time and a place for that sort of activism; down here was not it. She shuddered at the memory of that…thing. It had been beautiful in its own right, but tigers were glorious too. They still ate you. Of more interest to her was…how had it gotten up to the geode where the drill and her friends still were, when it looked damn near impossible without hammers, spikes, and climbing gear. Why had it attacked her? And what sort of evolutionary chance had brought it to life?

There were no answers. She chose to leave the room instead.

It was her first true adventure outside, into a pocket universe. She didn’t know what to expect. Riotous florals hadn’t been on the list, but she faced a huge bank of some white climbing vine. Its leaves were bleached and pale, and the blooms were a vibrant, well-lit helitrope. Veins of phosphorescence traversed each petal. Pale moths flitted from flower to flower, their wings seeming dull at first. Then one of them flashed glowing eye-spots at her, a fierce visage that sent her stumbling back into a trellis of green-leafed wisteria…or something very much like it. The florals were soft, pinks and blues and lavenders, and the smell promised paradise. These close paths of flowers continued for a few paces, small doors tucked discretely here and there amongst the trellises. But it was the light that was impressing Hawk now. Everything architecture was made of that pale, warm milk-tinted crystal, and it glowed like daylight with an omnipresent shine. But the flowers also shed light. As she drew closer and closer to some unseen center, the flowers grew deeper in intensity. They also gained color, going from a moth-pale gray, bare as breath, to more robust shades. A vibrant orange ball of floral enthusiasm bloomed just as she passed it, a sudden explosion of pollen and floral scent that subsided only with the passionate burst of its neighbor. Each with a ping, a pop, a sigh as it settled into its own vegetative place.

She turned a corner stepped out into a world of perfection.

The ground beneath her feet was moss, patterned delicately around glowing orange and blue stones. Different colors gathered to different stones, and until she stepped out here, she thought it was chance that the white-veined moss stayed just so around its blue stone, the dark blue-flowering stuff clung to the orange. But the ground here had a pattern of moss, all of it spiraling round and round to a great light in the center, hovering six feet above the verdant ground. It was white and it glowed, heatless, as clear as any spring day back home. Around it were a seeming thousand thousand green leafed plants, though later Hawk would learn there were only twenty or so, each woven into the spiral around this central clearing. A band of flowers in every shade eased away from this main heart of light. There was a little spring-fed pool to one side, with a grate to let the water leave the walled-in boundaries of this garden. A sitting area bordered this, covered in moss save for one bare flag-stone in front of each chair.

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Around the main light, there grew a tree. Oh, this did not do the tree justice, because the tree made up most of the temple. It towered high above it all, and light seemed to flow up with it, crystal blending into the substance of the tree until it all seemed one great towering, living spire. Up, light went, up along the branches and through the roots. It was a fine wet-work of lines, veigns of light leading to arteries, leading to deep, pulsating pylons that were as much a part of the tree as its bark. Its leaves were alive with the light, its flowers trailing in what seemed like ten thousand colors. There was a glowing section of wisteria, a dozen roses in as many shades climbing along the back of one branch, only to end in an explosion of jasmine-like florals.

“Oh, My god,” she breathed.

“Some say it is,” said the Archon. He was standing in the Light, that high-intensity orb that the roots had grown into. It made him very hard to see. This was as bright as daylight—no, brighter. “Some say it is indeed the remains of our First God. Others say it is the plant from which all plants come. Others say that it is nothing more than a great tree, and it may as well be felled now as never.”

“Felled?!” she said, shock sluicing through her. She was, after all, already more than half in love with the thing.

The mask nodded. “Of course, that is the first law of Nasheth—that the God-Tree is to be felled at the hour of Unmaking, when the sky does fall and the world goes right, and the Master of Light returns to his bride once more. The second law of Nasheth is that all strangers who cannot recite the names of all Gods are to be hung from the tree until the end of time.”

“And this is supposed to be comforting?” Hawk said, dryly.

The Archon turned to her. “But of course. For how can you be hanged if the tree is felled? And there is the first name of the Gods for you. Argon, master of Fire and War. These two are interchangeable, you may call them by any of the three. Firemaster, Warmaster, Lord Argon. The same is true for the other three. There is Illyris, Master of Water and Muse, Kali’mar, Master of Air and Thought—t’was his disciplines that taught me how to read minds, with some small effort, and Nasheth, Master of Earth and the Mother of all Gods. She is also named She-Who-Waits, and Shefia.” This last was pronounced Shee-Fie-AH. “That said, I should have you out of here and back where you belong long before you’ll need to worry about such Catechisms. But should your healing be interrupted…” The mask paused and turned back to her, waiting.

After five minutes, she realized she was supposed to answer. “Um…Argos—”

“Argon,” the Archon said, rhyming it with gone.

“Argon, Fire and War. Illyris,” She pronounced this ILL-lir-is and got an approving nod from the mask. “Water and Muse, Kali-Mar—”

“Kal-IH-Mer.” The Archon corrected.

“Kal-IH-Mer. Air and Thought. Nasheth, also known as Shefia and She-Who-Waits.”

“And Mother-of-All-Gods. She will settle for ‘the Mother’ when she is in a good mood. That is seldom. Mother of all Gods is a title, and one She values above all. It is said that no follower of Shadow, and certainly none of his devotees, can speak the proper name of a God, or recite Her Names at all. Nashresh, Shefia, She-Who-Waits. The most sacred of mantras. Remember it, no matter how foul the names grow on the tongue.”

She let this last pass, though it left her with an unnerving feeling. “How often are they spoken?” Hawk walked a bit across the garden.

“At waking, at fast-meals—first and last, as you start and end duties. At night, you are also to say the Father-God’s names. Ehred, All-God, Master of Light and Life.”

“You sound bitter,” Hawk said, and then took a risk. “Wouldn’t that be…your god?” she guessed.

“Well. As I mentioned, I am Archon to the Master of Light. And the Master of Light has chosen these past few thousand years or so to fuck off.” And he enunciated the profanity quite carefully. “If you can forgive the ruder words of the ancient tongue.”

“It’s not ancient to me, it’s my tongue.” She said, laughing. “And fuck is my favorite word in it.”

This won a chuckle that died, swiftly. “These won’t keep you safe if you are grilled more thoroughly. One’s piety is the most important thing one has, above everything. Even money. So here,” And he took her soft hands in his. Her skin seemed to leap at the touch. He set a beautiful set of ivory linked beads into it. “This is a prayer. Its existence is the prayer, so you will have nothing to remember. If someone should arrive, you are a penitent who has surrendered your name. Answer the names of the gods, and then sit with the prayer beads and allow me to speak for us both.”

“I have surrendered my name,” She said, not in agreement but in memorization of her role.

“Yes. Bright girl. You are the champion of your prayer and, should you get it, you will submit to me as acolyte and future Archon of the White Tower.” He laid a hand on the buildings around them. “Or so that is what I will say, when asked.”

“I take it your people are a danger to me,” She said.

And this won her a chilling nod from the Archon in his mask.