Hunters & Heretics (II)

"Where are you taking us, Harrence?"

Harrence didn't know. His girls were far ahead of him, casting back and forth like a pair of wolves, merging into the landscape for a while and then popping up again, grinning and waving him in. They were looking for the right spot. It needed either high ground or an expanse of trees. It had to be close to the firebreak, and it needed a good source of dry wood. That's what Ma'Tocha said she wanted. Harrence's craft girls would provide.

The farmer braided as he rode, long stems and rows of tiny Bardiya's Blossoms. He had a chain of them many meters long now. Yara had pointed them out, and he had set to collecting them ever since, enough miniature trumpet blooms to fill a pillow to bursting.

"Harrence!" Ma'Tocha was getting impatient.

"We're still looking for what you want. Don't worry! I'm confident we'll find a place." They were well south of the town where they had seized the priest and killed his soldiers, had passed from its outlying farms into the coppiced wood that separated it from the next township. They would find what they needed here for sure.

Somewhere behind Harrence and Ma'Tocha, the priest was riding his appalon bound and gagged, eyes by turn begging or threatening. Harrence wondered why they were keeping him alive if they weren't going to ask him questions. Instead, they hauled him like cargo. Weren't they supposed to be collecting intelligence?

There was a new word he had learned, or anyway, an old word put to new use. He had taken in a lot of new words in his few days with the ex-disciple and her followers. They used a language that sounded like Unity but sometimes wasn't, not the way he knew it. Intelligence. Textual. Mendicant. Moral calculus. Phenomena. Doctrine. And, they knew a lot of scripture. Whole chapters came out of Ma'Tocha word for word as he had heard it in the temple.

Their conversation was fascinating, but there were times he couldn't follow. When that happened he only had to remember that Enclave was burning children to death, and the people he was with were trying to prevent children from being burned to death. It was simpler that way. Easier. It was only right to stick with the protectors.

"This might be your spot," he told Ma'Tocha. Indeed, Brynn was waving at him from the edge of the woods in big sweeps of her arms. To the south were fields belonging to the next town. To the east was a steep climb up to the hilltop road. And next to Brynn, piled high by some industrious farmer who had cleared the local underbrush, was a significant pile of dried wood. Most of it was branches and vines and such, but there were thin logs also, too crooked or dead from summer's heat to be useful as anything but fuel.

"Good job," said the ex-disciple. "It's perfect."

The sun was well past its zenith when they tied the priest in his place on the pyre. They had cut the central pole themselves with a bronze axe, or Dash had, complaining the whole time about how much harder it was to do chores like that without the benefits of prayer. They got the pole stuck firmly into the ground, the priest tied to the pole, and all the logs, branches, briars, vines, leaves, and weeds stacked tight around him. It wasn't until then Ma'Tocha pulled the rag from his mouth and gave him his first sip of water. He drank greedily from the leather waterskin, like a baby animal on the teat.

"Let's start with your name," she said when he was done, "and where you're from."

"Maxum Namalous. I'm a priest from Johnson's Crossing. You have no idea what you've done. I'm a Defender of Pure Faith. I take my orders straight from Leadership, from the president himself! They called me to serve Olyon. Me! And you're interfering! They'll hunt you like rats. Burn me and you'll burn in turn! God's justice will find you all!"

"Shut it, or I'll shut you!" She shook the gag at him. "You're going to die today, so make your peace with it. If you answer my questions then you'll die quick. Piss me off, and I'll burn you alive. I don't have to tell you how horrible that is, do I? You've done it plenty of times to others, so you know how it goes. The pleading. The begging. The screaming pain. That's what'll happen to you if you make this difficult."

"My heart is pure. God will grant me a blissful next life, to reward me for my service in this one!" His words were brave but his body was shaking. Sweat ran down his face to darken the neck of his cassock.

"Nobody who burns children alive gets to claim righteousness. How many people did you kill?"

"They were heretics. They deserved to die."

"How many!" Ma'Tocha signaled Callie, who held a torch close to the brush.

"Five! Only Five! But that's my job! Find and eliminate heretics! Leadership commands it!"

"Whose idea was it to burn them alive?"

"We were told to make a show of it! Why wouldn't we burn them? Don't you understand? I'm helping you people! If we let heretics run around doing whatever they want, they'll pollute our church! God will turn His back on us! Where would we be then? Put the torch away, please!" He struggled against his ties, but the leather thongs only bit deeper into his skin. His hands were turning purple.

As pleading wasn't working, the priest turned to bargaining. "I get it. I do. You only see the killing and you want to get justice for them. That's admirable. But Enclave would never command something like this if it wasn't for the greater good. If we don't root out the heretics now they could take over, like they did in Lavradio." The priest became more desperate as he spoke. "They could ruin the church, steal it from the five families who have guided the continent for hundreds of years. You didn't know. You thought we were madmen, or soldiers gone to banditry. Let me go, and I'll forget your face. It'll be like it never happened. I promise!"

"Where did you get this?" She held up the mysterious lantern, closed to keep the light inside.

"You shouldn't touch that! It's a holy relic, handed to us by President Phrenos himself!"

"How many are there?" When the priest didn't answer, Callie lowered the torch into the dry brush again. "How many!"

"Six! One for each Defender. They're dangerous, you know. It can burn you if you aren't careful."

"Oh, I know," said Ma'Tocha. "I have one just like it. Where did they come from?"

"Liar! It's a relic of the Chosen. He hid them away for times of need." Quieter, he added, "Leadership entrusted them to us."

"Is that what Leadership told you?" Ma'Tocha looked at the condemned priest with pity. "Are you sure they tell you the truth? About anything?"

"Doubter! Whisperer of lies! Why would you have one?"

"You haven't figured out who I am? I'm the heretic Ma'Tocha, Scourge of Bandits." She showed him her fragment lantern, of a different wood than his but remarkably the same. She opened it briefly as proof of what it was, and let the light spill out brighter than the sun. "Unlike the fools in Enclave, I know what the fragments are for. All of us who do the work know."

She twisted the lantern closed with a snap and regarded Maxum, the desperate and confused man she intended to kill. She already knew most of what he'd said so far from looking at his journal and other effects, but she didn't have the information she wanted.

She held a full waterskin to his mouth and gave him another long drink, as much as he wanted. She waited, and let him threaten her with a variety of violent ends. She waited until the worst of his fury was spent.

"I know what Leadership saw in you, why they chose you over all the other priests in Dace. You have a reputation for being harsh on unbelievers, and you trust Leadership without condition. You're so eager, so zealous, so faithful, you wouldn't question anything they told you. You'll be faithful to the end.

"Me, I'm just a defrocked disciple, with no prayers. What do you think would happen if I chased after the other defenders? Do you think I can kill them all?"

"You're doomed no matter what you do," said the priest, his face wet. "They'll hunt you down and kill you. You won't stand a chance."

"Probably, but I have to try. I am a heretic, after all. Now, I can go wandering around all over Dace, spreading my heresy wherever I go, until I get lucky and find one of your fellow defenders. Or, you could tell me who they are and where they've gone and I'll head straight for them." The lantern was open again. "Which course do you prefer?"

The priest smiled. His life would end here, that was certain, but he had a chance to send the dreaded Scourge to her demise. Without her disciple powers, she would be easy to kill and the lost fragments could be recovered. This was good.

From that point on he answered her questions. Who the other defenders were. Where they had been sent. How they communicated with Leadership. When they were expected to meet up again. Everything she needed for her fruitless pursuit. Her quest would kill her.

He gladly took Ma'Tocha's sword into his heart, at peace with knowing he had served Olyon to his last breath. And, he never had to feel the pain of burning.

❖ ❖ ❖

Harrence stood with the party of the victors and watched Defender Maxum's final pyre. Its smoky column was a signal flag, a call to Maxum's twelve remaining spears.

"I can't believe he told you everything."

Ma'Tocha shook her empty waterskin. "Interrogation is a simple task when prisoners are drugged by water flask."

"A drug that makes them talk," he said, "I never heard of such a potion."

"The opposite," said Marlowe, "it makes them listen. They'll believe whatever they're told provided nothing said is too outlandish or too bold."

"The trick is to bend their minds a little," added Dash, "without breaking them. Convince them talking is in their interest. Give them enough reasons, and let them reason the rest."

Brynn and Yara stood near Harrence, close enough to hold his hands if they weren't specters, and watched the pyre with solemn faces. Five more fragments, and defenders with them. There were many innocents left to save. Yara pointed in the distance (though Harrence had seen them first) to a clump of men quick-marching in the distance.

"They're coming," he told his new companions. "Put this on the fire when they get close." He offered up his length of flowers, long enough to coil like rope. "The stems throw out an irritating smoke."

Dash, the fastest of them all, was bait to pull their foes into the trap. He took the poisonous coil and waited by the fire, while Ma'Tocha and the rest retreated to the wood. Men on foot were slow, but they knew their priest was missing, and here they saw a pyre with a human form inside it. Their pace picked up, and still Dash waited, pretended not to notice them until he knew for sure the soldiers spied him. When they came close he turned and fled, but first he tossed aside the irritating stems into the fire.

The soldiers chased him, directly into the smoke which made them cough and burned their eyes.

"Get him!" ordered their leader, "I want him alive!"

Half-blinded soldiers entered the wood of coppiced trees, their many-fingered branches furling out their summer leaves. Between the unfamiliar forest and their teary smoke-stung eyes, the soldiers never saw the trip-lines until the first few fell. The second rank was met with javelins, thrown with deadly aim and force by atlatl. Three men went down, and then two more from a second round. Ma'Tocha's team turned tail before the rest could catch them, and ran to where Harrence and his bow were waiting.

Deeper in the wood there stood a group of trees allowed to flourish, their grander trunks grown wide to yield broad planks and sturdy beams. Harrence had his stand in the first of these, high above the forest floor. As long as Ma'Tocha and her fighters stood, he could safely shoot the enemy. His first shaft flew beyond the leader to strike the man behind him, the next one farther still into the helmet of another. Their armor was good quality and neither man was killed, but both of them lay staggered and half-blinded on the forest floor. Three more javelins took down their leader, one each in leg and chest and neck. The spear against his heart was turned away, and the leg wound was minor, but the point run through his throat was the end of him.

With odds now four-on-two, Ma'Tocha and her bulwark closed the gap and finished them with sword and shield. Harrence thought his work was done until a motion, barely seen, attracted his attention. An arrow fleeter than his own blurred the air and only reflex saved him. He turned in time to take the broadhead in his arm instead of heart, but the impact threw him from his perch and sent him down and down and down until he hit the earth.

❖ ❖ ❖

When Harrence woke up he found his legs were tied to keep him in a saddle, badly numbed to sleeping and immobile. His bow arm folded over, held up by a sling of cloth, hurt in ways he'd never felt. The forearm bone was cracked, he was sure of that, the muscle deeply torn. The wound was packed with healing herbs but burning, an infection spreading. Death was in his blood and stalking.

North. They headed north in darkness, instead of south as planned. Instead of hiding in the eastern wilderness, Ma'Tocha took the Dacian roads, the roads that led to bigger towns. And past those towns lay cities on the coast. She aimed to get them all, every fragment, every priest, prayer or no prayer, help or no help, despite whatever enemy may stalk them. That woman was determined.

"You bounced," said Marlowe, who rode beside him. "We wouldn't move you typically but …"

"We're on the run," he said, "I get it. But are you sure that it's okay when someone's been unconscious for a day, to have the first words they hear on waking be: you bounced?"

She laughed but didn't answer. "This is going to hurt," she warned, and loosened the ropes that held him. New pain came creeping in, a thousand stabbings needle-thin. Several times, he nearly lost his seat but stayed upright atop his appalon by holding fast with his draw hand. Soon his arm was cramped, and his fingers ached. But what was one more pain to him?

The night was not a desperate one, but they refused to stop for rest. They filled the waterskins while appalons drank from crossing streams, and ate from purloined stores that came from Maxum and his men.

"They weren't soldiers," Marlowe filled him in, "but mercenaries. The Hyskos Grand Company, have you heard of them?" Harrence hadn't, peasant that he was. "Their tattoos gave them away. The families sometimes use them. Bodyguards, caravan protection, and sometimes jobs less savory."

"Like dressing up as Dacian soldiers."

"That's right. And killing unsuspecting citizens."

"But I don't understand," he said, "if Enclave has so many mighty bulwarks, why employ a mercenary?"

"Because they haven't trained a proper bulwark since Sacred Blade reformed the practice. Heritage disciples hated training with men beneath their station, and worthy men refused to be their meat-shields. When Mobeen gave up his post of lector and ventured back into the field, the classes stopped. That was years ago. And recently, the job of bulwark has had a very poor survival rate."

"More monsters. Less training."

Harrence felt his wound was wearing on him, draining all his strength as their mounts plodded on by darkened road. By dawn he was sick and seeing visions, not only of his dead daughters but also his wife, three years now in her grave. They waited for him patiently at every bridge and sudden turning, and by every distance marker. They stood beside the yearning silent landmarks. He kept on riding so he could see them, again and again and again.

When camp was made he was barely conscious. They laid him down and put some liquid in him, steeped with bitter herbs to fight his fever. He was a burden now, he knew, and not worth keeping.

"Leave me here. I can't help you," Harrence begged them, in a moment of full waking, "I'll slow you down and get you caught or killed."

Ma'Tocha's face emerged above him, soft brown eyes so full of care, not at all her fighting self. "We're safe. You should sleep. Let's see what evening brings."

His daughters squatted next to him, their silent chins atop their folded knees, the young one and the old one paired, as they'd always been. He imagined their stolen futures, filled with light and all the blessed disciples' power, spear and shield and hands that healed, set loose upon the world, the great disciples they could have been if Enclave hadn't murdered them.

If he must die then it was good to die for them and others of their kind, to save the ones who might save all the world.

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❖ ❖ ❖

Taylor opened the usual meeting room in his mind, vast but separate from his carefully guarded private spaces. It was a temperate forest dressed in fall's golden hues, trees talking to each other on a stiff evening wind. Beneath the bright canopy, the wind was reduced to a pleasant breeze rich with scents of soil, leaf decay, over-ripened fruit, and hidden mushrooms. He flopped on his back and rolled about, squirmed back and forth to scratch all the hard-to-reach places grunting out his pleasure all the while.

In this place, he took the form of a futobel, a six-legged mammal similar to a pig with a short trunk for digging and broad antlers for fending off predators. Futobels were clever beasts, more powerful than their short stature would suggest, and very tasty on account of all the fruit and mushrooms they ate. This particular futobel had four gleaming stars suspended between his antlers, just like Taylor's personal symbol.

It was important to have an avatar when speaking on the wind. They allowed for good expression of one's intent while hiding what one wished to keep private. If an avatar was injured or destroyed the damage to the owner should be minimal. Taylor would only summon friends to this space, but even great friends sometimes brought bad things with them into thoughtspace.

Futobel-Taylor shook himself clean and chose a patch of sun where his coat and stars would best reflect the light. He sat on his haunches regally, and one by one he called his remote allies to the forest.

First came Leila in the shape of an antelope with a fawn and black coat, long legs, and two golden spirals of horn on her head.

Then came Edos, who appeared as an eight-foot-tall giant made of white stone. Taylor doubted the giant's face was Edos' own: it looked too much like the young man's late teacher, Mobeen the Sacred Blade.

Next was Souzane, a magnificent bird with bright plumage and a cruelly hooked beak.

Last came the obsidian woman with four arms and four curved swords, Ma'Tocha, Scourge of Bandits.

Each of them was a defrocked disciple. They had enough control over their spirit to join Taylor if he reached out to them first, but they were barred from the church's prayers. Currently, they were spread out all over Tenobre and trying to meet up with him to be anointed in the Nexus church. But travel was difficult when one was hunted by the church, and doubly so when one was famous.

They gathered like this every third sundown to exchange news.

"You must be running hard west now," said Bird-Souzane, "the hour is later than last time."

"Did they give you any trouble at the gate?" wondered Giant-Edos.

"I have an urgent matter I need help with," interrupted Obsidian-Ma, "and some ugly news. Enclave is using a fragment of sun to hunt and kill people with talent." She told them about Harrance's village and her heist of their fragment.

"He only joined us to get justice for his family, but now he's wounded. I'll leave him behind if I have to, but if there's anything someone can do to help us … "

"I'm all the way in Gallia," said Edos.

"Hyskos," said Leila.

"I'm on the far edge of Kravikas," said Souzane, "but that still puts Brother Phillip closest."

"If I dispatch a team now, they can be there in … maybe four days? Can your new friend hold out that long?"

"Not if we have to keep moving." Obsidian-Ma's frustration and sadness burned around her in a writhing red aura. "The infection will spread and he will die unless we amputate. It'll take months to restore his arm, even with the best healer support. That assumes we aren't caught and killed."

The other disciples had suggestions for herbs and poultices that might beat back the infection, but there was nothing better than holy prayers. Futobel-Phillip looked to the sky and tuned out the discussion. To have prayers one had to be anointed. One had to take the Disciple's Oath in the light of a fragment of sun, be witnessed by three disciples, and be accepted by them.

Instead of sending one disciple to aid Ma'Tocha's party and then escort them to the desert, Taylor could send a cadre of three to anoint her. While they were at it they could help her hunt down the rest of the fragments. Enclave could have as many as six in their possession. Well five, now that Ma'Tocha had stolen one of them. They all had to be recovered, to keep Enclave from using them to kill their competition.

"It's too bad you can't anoint her from a distance," said Bird-Souzane, "that would solve her problems instantly. It would solve all our problems." It would, too. With their disciple powers restored it wouldn't matter how hard Enclave chased them. They would be too strong to be stopped by scouting parties, and too fast to get caught by armies. These weren't new recruits of uncertain character. All of them except Edos were seasoned professionals, and Edos had been trained and anointed by the greatest monster hunter in recent times.

The words "anoint from a distance" and "solve all our problems" stuck in Taylor's head. Why couldn't they anoint at a distance? They needed a fragment (which Ma had) and three disciple witnesses (which Taylor could produce). They could at least try it.

No, that wasn't right. He didn't have to try. Taylor had written Nexus's Book of Prayers, to replace the magic origin no longer available to them since the Great Defrocking. He had defined the powers and limits of each prayer for their church. He was the one who decided the rules and he could do anything he thought was right. There were good reasons behind the details of the anointment ceremony and he wasn't willing to change them, not even to save a valued life. But none of those rules demanded participants be physically present.

Futobel-Phillip whirled in circles seven times, his six little hooves kicking leaves and dirt high into the air. He stopped suddenly, and spun the other way seven times. He stopped again and snorted happily to see all the dust and leaves get picked up by the wind and carried away. His four stars throbbed with excitement. He didn't need to change any rules to help his fellow disciples regain their powers. He only needed to push the boundaries a little.

"I know what to do! Follow me!" he trumpeted and took off running through the forest. The place had grown, both with his frequent visits and the influence of his many visitors. It had become so real it was at times impossible to tell it wasn't real. The avatars kept pace behind the beast, dodging trees and climbing hills until Phillip ran to where his mental world ended, on a spit of rock that jutted out over the nothingness that was the space beyond. A world of clouds at the edge of his imagination, soft void, gentle chaos, a place of forever falling. (If anyone should step into the vast void beyond they would find themselves against a wall. The infinity beyond was pure imagery, without space, a trompe-l'œil painting.)

There, on the spit of land that jutted over infinity, the futobel halted and said, "we need a proper temple for this." The beast ran in circles again, this time in very large ones. He grew bigger with every turn, his circles wider. The debris dug up by his heels was hard rock that flew in the air, merged, and came down as blocks on top of other blocks. A mound began to rise, and then benches, and fluted columns, and then a dome perched on top of the columns. The temple had no walls. The stone was ancient, softened only a little by their millennia of solitude over the cloudy realm. The inside of the dome was tiled in brilliant blue lapis, specks of bright pyrite dappling above like stars. Beneath the dome was an ancient altar, and a seven-pointed star of marble rested upon it.

"Brother Darius, come forth! Thalia and Montague and Hypha, come forth! Mahzad come forth! Brother Mataba come forth! Your witness is required!"

"All right all right," said a cranky arkto, a massive six-legged ursine creature white as snow. He too sat on his haunches and stuffed his mouth full of berries. Mataba was Taylor's most experienced healer, re-anointed as a disciple in the Reformed Church of Olyon. "I can't sleep in these carriages anyway. The younger ones will need a minute."

Darius, Thalia, Montague, Mahzad, and Hypha all appeared as indistinct clouds, but gradually resolved into their various forms. Darius's avatar looked exactly like himself. Thalia was an orange and black spotted feline. Hypha was a carving of herself made of living wood and clothed in a short dress made of spring leaves. Montague, Minty to his friends, was a giant sloth as big as Arkto-Mataba. Mazahd had not decided, and so remained a cloud. Taylor had been training them in mental techniques so they were somewhat familiar with the forest he used for meetings, but none of them had seen what lay at the farthest edge.

The students gazed wonderingly around them. They gathered near the altar with the ex-disciples, stared up at the dome, then around at people they hadn't met before.

Minty-Sloth asked, "Why did you build the temple here, and not in the center?"

"I always think of god as living beyond the edge of human knowledge," Taylor told him, "our protector against unfathomable infinities and chaos. If Olyon lives in the infinite void outside creation, shouldn't Their temple be on the edge of that void? This is where we are closest to Them."

The students looked like they were taking his words far too seriously, and were about to ask follow-up questions. Taylor didn't have time for that now. "Don't take that as gospel. Concepts of god are very personal by nature. I want you all to meet some people."

Taylor introduced his students to the defrocked disciples. With the exception of Edos, their works were well-known in Nexus. A disciple's deeds were recorded in The Luminous Histories, and copies of every year's deeds were distributed to the major temples. A fraction of Enclave's disciples were responsible for almost the entirety of Works performed, so these names were well-known to Taylor's students. He explained their situation and what he was attempting to do.

"That's why I called you here, to witness and approve their anointment. You have mastered Speak On The Wind well enough to join us here."

"Mmmph," grunted Arkto-Mataba around a mouthful of rainbow fruit plucked from the last tree at the edge of Taylor's forest. "You only need two of us. Can I go?"

"It's an historic occasion, Brother Mataba. Nexus gains disciples already in the field and pushes the boundaries of our art. We gain more advantages over Enclave, without them knowing. Stay."

The beast grumbled. "I'll just bend reality a little, he says. I'll plot a new future for the world, if you don't mind, and crush Enclave and give orders." He wiped his claws onto his fur and ambled over to the temple to take a place near the altar. "But I'm not a hierarch, he says, that's too grand a title for little old me."

The younger disciples were shocked to hear Arkto-Mataba say such things. Antelope-Leila and Bird-Souzane laughed at him. Obsidian-Ma'Tocha turned even blacker with anger. "Your mockery isn't welcome here, Brother Mataba. He steers a course for all of Tenobre. If it weren't for Brother Phillip the world would be torn apart by monsters while Enclave claimed we were all content to be thus eaten."

The ursine disciple lumbered to its feet, and bowed deeply to the others. "I apologize. Especially to you, Brother Phillip. I didn't intend to mock anyone. I only meant to complain that our Hierarch won't admit to what he is. If he sent this old man into a pitched battle, he would go without hesitation. I only wish our leading brother would accept the title that is due to him.

"Also," he added with a crafty smile, "as long as Phillip the Younger takes that role, it won't fall on any of us." He scratched at his sides with long claws. "I love the world enough to serve it, but not from that great a height. Let the young chart the world's future, I say. It will be theirs to inherit."

Obsidian-Ma stood with both sets of arms crossed, her black anger swept away. "That's … a fair observation, Brother Mataba. The strongest and the most experienced disciples in Nexus are gathered here. Is there any among us who thinks they would be a better hierarch than our brother, Phillip the Younger?"

Taylor felt a thrill of alarm. Where exactly was this conversation going?

"Not it," said Antelope-Leila.

"You know I don't want it," sang Bird-Souzane.

"Too lazy," added Arkto-Mataba.

"Not even close," said Mobeen-Edos.

Taylor's anointed students Darius, Mahzad, Thalia, Hypha, and Minty took a step backward, away from the altar, all at the same time. They were clearly not interested.

Taylor tried to stop them. "That's not what we're here for, people."

Obsidian-Ma raised one hand. "All in favor of elevating Brother Phillip the Younger to Hierarch say aye."

"Aye!" said the assembly.

"That's not a binding vote," Taylor scolded them, "there's a lot of people who aren't here."

Obsidian-Ma smiled. "When the time comes, you will have all our votes. And we'll sway others to your side. Not that you'll need it."

The other disciples nodded their agreement.

"I appreciate the sentiment. I really do. But we're here to solve Ma'Tocha's immediate problem, so let's focus on that."

"Yes, Your Holiness!" they said in chorus.

"I said it wasn't binding!"

"Sorry, Your Holiness!" they chorused again.

"Sister Ma approach the altar!" he commanded, desperate to change the topic of conversation.

"Yes, Your Holiness," she said, more meekly than she had ever said anything to him. She knelt before the altar and placed her two sets of palms together.

"In the real world, open your fragment lantern. Let it shine into …," but he didn't have to finish the sentence. The fragment's aurora surrounded her. The avatar faded, and in its place knelt the woman herself, fortyish but strong, dusky skin and orange eyes aglow in the fragment's light. Near her were three bulwark standing guard, and a fourth lying on the ground.

Taylor looked around him, and he could see through all their avatars. Many of them were riding in train cars, eyes closed, heads wobbling with the motion of their travel. Mahzad and Thalia were mounted on appalons, surrounded by their bulwarks. They had been on patrol when they were called. Souzane relaxed against a rock, next to a rivulet of water. Leila was in a cave, and Edos had made a camp among evergreens.

These were his exiles. Whether they were far away or in the next train car, they were Taylor's people, lit by the divine impulse, trying to do a little good in the world.

"Our religion is pretty simple," he said on inspiration. "We believe there is a divine god who made everything. We believe our souls never truly die but return to god, who sends us on to our next stage of existence. We believe we are given power to help others. All the rest is details and complications.

"With that in mind Sister Ma'Tocha, we will hear your oath."

Sister Ma knew the words by heart. They all did.

> I swear to walk in Olyon's light.

>

> In witness, I will speak truth.

>

> In strife, I will stand with the innocent.

>

> In wealth, I will feed the hungry.

>

> In divine love, I will know no borders.

>

> I will shine his light in the dark places and recite prayers for his children.

>

> Let my life and death nourish his creation.

The transformation to disciple was easy for new practitioners, a release of whatever binds this world put on their powers. For more experienced hands, re-anointment was more intense, an unexpected surge of new life in their blood. Taylor didn't understand why it felt different. His best theory was that Enclave's origin limited the maximum spiritual power a disciple could have, so they were feeling the true extent of their abilities for the first time.

Ma'Tocha had to reach out to one of her bulwark for support.

Edos was the first to speak. "Are you well, Sister Ma?"

Ma'Tocha nodded. "I'm more than fine," she whispered, "I'm growing, I think. For years I wondered, had I hit the end? Why couldn't I get stronger with the arts?" Her voice gained strength. "They kept us chained, didn't they? They bound us like the healers, and they never told us."

She turned to her fallen bulwark, the farmer she had picked up in some frontier village, and healed him with a rapid prayer. She unwrapped his wound, washed away the puss and blood with water to reveal new skin, perfect and pink.

The once-wounded man came out of his stupor. "It doesn't hurt," he said with wonder. If he could see all the strange avatars in Taylor's thoughtspace watching him, he would probably faint with wonder.

"Eat something," Disciple Ma'Tocha commanded her bulwark, "then go back to sleep. I have some things to take care of." She closed her lantern and the double vision disappeared. Once again, it was only avatars in the farthest temple.

Futobel-Phillip trumpeted his happiness. "Who wants to go next?"

None of the other ex-disciples could blend their local perceptions with thoughtspace like Ma'Tocha could, but she was a good teacher to them. Patiently, she coached them until each acquired the skill well enough to take their oaths. One by one, Nexus gained new disciples. It was an extraordinary day's work.

When they were done Taylor gave them further instructions, then dismissed all except Souzane. The two of them retreated to the forest, where she sat on a high branch and plucked cherries off the trees. For each one the colorful bird ate, she tossed one down to Futobel-Phillip. He caught them in his mouth and popped them with his molars. Sweet juice sprayed into his mouth. It was impressive how real his thoughtspace had become. His private areas were evolving the same way: his library had three floors, display cases full of mineral samples, and books that smelled like real paper.

"You spent time with the Calique, right? The Histories say you were there for two years."

"That's right." She snipped the stems of several cherries with her beak and let them rain onto the futobel's starry head. "What did you want to know?"

"Well, I read this book by a nobleman who lived with the Calique for several years. He lived in Sand Castle for three years before they invited him to a different garden. How do I get them to trust me? I don't think killing their monster will be enough on its own."

"You're right." She hop-fluttered to another swaying branch and freed more cherries to fall on him. Then she ate two clusters in a greedy gulp. "You must demonstrate you can work within their culture. I will share a technique with you, one that will put you on the path to greatness in their eyes. For a price."

"You want to bargain with your hierarch when the future of Nexus hangs in the balance?"

"Always get something of value for your efforts, no matter how small," quoted Bird-Souzane. "Precious few outsiders have ever been close to the Calique. I promise you this is good stuff. In return, I want you to show me something new. Something you haven't shown the others yet."

Taylor rummaged around the forest floor for the fallen cherries, thinking. Souzane was rather famous for her sexual appetite, but she sought intimacy more than simple carnal thrills. She could build earthworks and heal, but her works in The Luminous Histories included de-escalation, peacemaking, hostage negotiation, and ending a blood feud that spanned four generations. Souzane was a people person. She didn't want some new cryptic prayer or secret knowledge about the world. She wanted a piece of him.

After a good deal of contemplation, Futobel-Phillip took one of the ripe cherries from the ground and held it aloft in his trunk. With a few moments' concentration, the fruit turned yellow like the trees around them. Against the shady forest floor, it gleamed.

The large bird let itself down to the ground to inspect the golden fruit. "What is it?"

"A memory," said the futobel. "A happy one."

Bird-Souzane snapped it up in her beak and swallowed it. Then, she disappeared.

"She should have asked what it was about."

❖ ❖ ❖

Souzane was on a wide terrace of an impossibly tall building. The terrace wasn't even at the top of the building, but somewhere in the center. Yet more tower rose above them, glass skin over steel skeletons that could endure high winds and earthquakes. The view was just as amazing. The tower was one among a city of towers. Each one housed thousands of people. The city was a hundred times bigger than any she had seen, stretching for many miles, with clusters of towers (the word "skyscraper" came to her mind) sprouting here and there.

She must be in Emristar, Phillip's home.

No, she reminded herself, he was Taylor DeLanion here. He had a life before my world called him away.

The terrace had an open cooking area, seats, grass clipped short for children to play in, and trees in pots. The DeLanion family lived in the tower and had taken over this common area for a special occasion. Taylor had passed his exams and been accepted as an intern at a famous hospital, and they had come out to celebrate. He was the second-youngest medical magician in history. His adoptive mother and father were there, and their two adult children. Several family friends had shown up for him. Aunts and uncles had flown in from around the country to attend.

Flown? Souzane looked to the sky and quickly found the telltale white lines left behind by high-altitude aircraft. She wanted to move close to the edge of the terrace and look down, but she couldn't move away from Taylor, because it was his memory. He looked even younger than he had when she met him in Enclave.

The entire family and all of their acquaintances were accomplished. Scientists and economists (new words to Souzane), politicians, engineers, and military officers. They were elites, of the hard-working kind.

The DeLanions were proud of their adopted son. The father in particular kept a cloth handy to wipe his eyes. Souzane couldn't understand the language they were speaking but she had no trouble catching their meaning. Congratulations. Good Luck. We're so proud of you. Don't get cocky.

What Souzane didn't see was any children of Taylor's age. There were a few toddlers falling over each other on the grass, but nobody to play with the boy of the hour. He stood with the adults, talked to them like he was one of them. There were no games of pretend for this one, or bouts of tag. Perhaps that was because he didn't play. He studied.

The DeLanions didn't know it then but it would be the Last Good Day with their precocious son. They would barely see him once he entered his residency. And then he would disappear, with only a note left behind to thank them for their years of care.

I'm sorry for your loss, Souzane thought to the DeLanions, but we need him more than you do.

❖ ❖ ❖

Bird-Souzane was back in Taylor's forest. Darkness was settling on the place. The brisk wind had died down to gentle brushes of air. Soon the fireflies would come out. She wiped away a single shining tear with her wing.

"Was it sufficient?"

"Oh yes, it was plenty," she said. There was more she could say, but she didn't want to spoil his happy memory by pointing out all the sadness in it. "You have more than earned the secrets of the Calique. When the men challenge you, brag without shame and show them how strong you are. They love the strength of other men and think meekness is weakness.

"When the women call you into their circle, pay careful attention to what they tell you. Ask questions before you brandish your opinions at them. They want to know you'll consider your actions' impact on their people, without needing to scold you like housewives."

"Prideful with the men, thoughtful with the women. Got it."

Bird-Souzane cawed merrily and took to the air. She circled him once, weaving among the trees with reckless speed. "The girls in the garden are really going to like you!"

"That what now?" called Futobel-Phillip, but the bird was gone.