“H–how long do you think we should wait?” Thaum asked, nervously eyeing Hero’s glazed-over, semi-conscious form.
Caleb scowled, which made her shrink back slightly, which only made his scowl deepen.
This entire situation was an unmitigated Gods-damned disaster.
It was the worst showing of his whole career. Priest’s sake, he’d fucking vomited not hours ago. Vomited. Showed up too late, then broke down and retched right in front of his novice companion. Just who was the green one here, exactly? Was it any wonder she doubted him, now?
For what felt like the hundredth time, Caleb wondered to himself just where, just how, it had all gone so wrong. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the invisible, intangible hand of some inexorable fate was bearing down on them, that it’d already claimed the other three, and that soon they’d join their fellows in death.
Seriously, what in the world were the odds of something like this? Of an erratic party, and an exotic dungeon, and a Devoted agent, and no Exits on the first or second floor and, and, and…
And now, all of this.
Caleb sighed, and rubbed a pair of bleary, fatigued eyes. Physically he could no longer tire but, emotionally, he was just exhausted. He hated this. He hated having to be the Inquisitor, having to be the stern, cold, unfeeling one. The role didn’t come naturally to him, not at all, and yet, in life, it seemed he was forced to take it up time and again.
And, of course, it had to happen to the one man of all his companions whom he’d actually come to respect.
Hero, he thought, with another miserable sigh.
Aristocrats, in Caleb’s personal experience, were a thoroughly unpleasant sort. Even within the Faith. Even within the Inquisition. There was a certain…holier-than-thou quality to pureborn Blessed that had nothing at all to do with the teachings of the Priest. Even the ones who thought themselves magnanimous always seemed to demonstrate a certain kind of…conceit.
The opinion that, no matter what, Blessed were just better than everyone else. Just stronger. Just smarter. Just…superior.
And the more potent the Blessing, the better you were. It was why he’d always been treated so well. It was why he’d advanced so swiftly through the many echelons of the Faith.
But not Hero.
Despite boasting a power sufficient to slay the first floor’s Champion in near enough a single blow, Hero didn’t seem to possess an arrogant bone in his body. He reminded Caleb of Father Ian, in that way. That way he didn’t act like a Blessed. That way he acted like he was still mundane.
Part of Caleb, a much larger part than he wanted to admit, still held out hope for Hero. But he couldn’t show. He hated it, but he had no choice.
Caleb knew what havoc Strangers and Masters could wreak upon a party of the unprepared. He knew it all too well. During the long war, he’d seen it. Many times. Too many times. He’d killed friends before, with his own two hands, when they turned.
And, if necessary, he’d do it again.
Even to Hero.
That is, if he even could.
Suddenly, as if the enigmatic Blessed had heard Caleb’s very own thoughts, Hero’s eyes snapped open. Correspondingly quickly, Caleb abandoned his musing, sharpened his focus, and fixed it firmly upon the white-haired swordsman.
Immediately, he noticed a change in Hero’s demeanor.
Contrition had faded in favor of a magnificent, scarcely-contained rage. Hero looked at him furiously, without a hint of fear, then at Thaum, whereupon his visage softened slightly.
“I know everything,” he spat.
His voice was sharp and deadly, thick with a cloying hatred made Caleb’s hackles rise.
“I remember everything,” he swore.
Out of the corner of his eye, Caleb saw Thaum shiver.
“I know why you treated me the way you did,” Hero went on, nearly snarling as he spoke.
His eyes darkened.
“And you were right to do so.”
Caleb’s breath tightened. Was this it? Had the illusion of sanity, before, been just that? Was everything about to fall apart, again?
“Well?” Hero asked, deadpan, narrowed eyes probing deep into Caleb’s own. “Do you still think me under another’s control? Do you still fear me?” Thaum’s anxious gaze flip-flopped erratically between the two of them.
My fear of you grows stronger with each passing second, Lord Hero, Caleb thought, but he dared not speak it.
“Should we?” He asked instead, lowly, with grit teeth.
He tried to keep a single trigger finger on his Blessing, but Photo Emission had become so much more powerful than it had been before. To his dismay, for just a moment, Caleb’s control slipped, allowing a scourging light to weep from his hands and chest.
Hero’s only response to his mistaken show of strength was to smile thinly, humorlessly.
And then disappear.
Thaum gasped. Caleb’s senses kicked into overdrive.
He was about to whip around wildly, to search for his mad companion, to explode with radiance, when he felt the sharp edge of something swift and deadly prick the back of his throat.
He froze.
“You see? Even I can outpace you,” Hero muttered. “I might not be capable of slaying you, but do you think it couldn’t?”
His words, soft and grim, emanated from some position behind Caleb, one he couldn’t see. Hero leaned in close and whispered by his ear.
“Milady Thaum was correct, I’m afraid. Against…”
He paused, and looked over to the sorceress in question, who blanched.
“Against the creature that she witnessed, neither of you would stand a chance.”
Caleb heard a faint rumble of distant thunder, and Hero was seated once more, sitting across from him just as casually as ever, as if he hadn’t moved at all. Perhaps he hadn’t. Even Caleb’s recently-Immortal reflexes couldn’t trace the young Blessed’s passage.
Hero sighed.
“Well,” he said. “We certainly have much to discuss.”
Hero rubbed his head, massaging his temples. Warily, Caleb sat back down, nodding cautiously in his direction.
“So,” the swordsman began. “Let’s try this one more time, shall we?” He smiled thinly, sarcastically, again, took a deep breath, and spoke.
“It’s a pleasure to meet the both of you. My name is Taiven Tharros and I am not a Brute nine–”
“No shit,” Thaum snorted, abruptly.
Both Caleb and Hero glanced at her. She flushed, as if she hadn’t meant to speak the words out loud, coughed, and stammered.
“Um, I apologize, Lord He–Taiven,” she squeaked. “Please, continue.”
He did so.
“In fact, I am neither a Brute, nor at the Grain stage, as I claimed–,” He paused for a moment. “Though, to be fair, the latter wasn’t actually a lie, at the time. Much like our Inquisitor here,” He gestured in Caleb’s direction, “I, too, underwent a Trial.”
Hero stopped, then shook his head.
“Regardless,” he said. “I am not a Brute nine.”
“I am a Trump ten.”
Distantly, Caleb heard Thaum’s sharp intake of breath, but he just frowned.
Hero’s assertion confused him.
Trump…wasn’t really a categorization Blessed ever applied to themselves. Whilst technically defined as someone with the capability to manipulate powers, themselves, in some manner or other, very seldom did any (any he’d worked with, at least) actually use the term that way.
No, Trump was a rating others gave to you.
A Trump rating denoted pure strength, and naught else. It was assigned to those few individuals whose abilities so monumentally outstripped their peers, and in more areas than one, that any other rating would simply fail to do them justice.
Caleb was about to open his mouth and say just so, when he heard Hero’s next words.
“My Blessing is the ability to make and manipulate permanent copies of others’ powers.”
His blood froze.
“That’s impossible. You’re mistaken,” Caleb denied, immediately, before Hero could continue. He said so with all the surety in the world, the words and phrases from his upbringing emerging as a mantra.
“So sayeth the High Priest; ‘To each of my children, a Blessing. But one, and one only. For power corrupts, and the Gods alone may sup heartily of that which overwhelms the fragile mind of man.’”
Caleb shook his head, vehemently. “Never in human history has a Blessed wielded more than one power, outside of Relics or runic devices. Only the Vile can–”
“No,” Thaum interrupted him, her eyes wide. “No, this makes sense.” She pointed at Hero.
“That’s why!” she exclaimed. “That’s why you have more than one! Of course!”
Once more, the two of them stared at her.
“Um, more than one shade,” she rushed to explain. “My power, see, it gives me the ability to observe the Blessings of others represented, um…” She paused, wincing.
“Um, e-ethereally?” she tried. “Phantasmically? I’m not quite sure how to describe it, to be honest.”
She pointed at Caleb.
“You’ve only got one,” she narrowed her eyes, peering at something seemingly just above his head. “It’s quite beautiful, actually. A golden sun, with…with just a hint of blue at its core.”
Incredible, he thought. She flawlessly describes the entity from my Trial.
Then she looked at Hero.
“But, you don’t. Have one–just one–that is.” She paused, inhaling. “You’ve got three.”
Hero’s eyes widened.
“A silver wolf,” she detailed. “A volcano, black as midnight. And a man made out of lightning.”
“Fascinating…” Hero murmured in reply, stroking his chin whilst staring at the sorceress, making her color slightly.
“Though technically,” he muttered, “I’ve four–no, six–well, eight, all told–”
“I–I don’t…I don’t believe this!” Caleb refused, his bewilderment reaching greater heights with every subsequent word that Hero uttered. “It’s just not…a power such as that–”
“I’m afraid it’s not quite so ludicrous as you make it seem,” Hero chuckled lightly. “I am hardly the High Priest reborn.”
He raised both his arms, palms open, fingers splayed outwards.
“I can copy up to ten powers, theoretically, but can only use five at a time,” he explained, shaking his right hand. “and once I select a power from the ones I’ve copied…”
He shook his left.
“It can’t be removed,” he said. “It’s locked in, for good. I have to be careful with my choices. What’s more, all my powers start at zero Attunement. I can grow them, evolve them, but I have to understand them first,” he pointed at Caleb, and Thaum.
“I don’t get that instinctual knowledge normal Blessed do, either,” he frowned, tapping his chin. “They’re more like Gifts, in that regard. Oh and I don’t get those, either. Gifts, that is. In anything apart from my main, primary Blessing.”
“I see…,” Caleb hummed quietly, consideringly. Then he shook his head. “Still,” he maintained, “the potential of such a power…the possible combinations…”
Caleb’s mind was whirling, racing, years of experience fighting both other Blessed and powered nonhumans working overtime. Normally, as one progressed in Attunement, they grew more and more specialized in one particular path. After all, to diversify was to become a master of none.
But, in Hero’s case…
You might not be the High Priest, now, he thought, but given years…decades…centuries…
“Multiple different powers,” Caleb muttered, “Each with complementary strengths, and negating weaknesses…why, it’s almo–”
“You were right,” Thaum interrupted him.
Caleb and Hero both turned to face her, for a third time, but she didn’t flinch, or falter. She met Caleb’s gaze firmly, resolutely.
“He was right,” she repeated. She turned back to Hero.
“You were right not to tell us,” she said. “You were right to keep this a secret.” She leaned in, her voice lowering despite the fact that they were entirely alone in the room.
“You do realize what this means, don’t you?” She whispered at the young, white-haired man. “The power to copy any Blessing, any? And five of them?”
Her words weren’t directed at Caleb, but nevertheless, he grasped their implication. A tingle ran unbidden up and down his spine.
“People would kill for this,” Thaum promised, serious as the grave. “People will, kill, for this. Everyone. The most powerful Immortals in all the world would stop at nothing to enslave you.”
Then she chuckled.
“Even the few who aren’t power-hungry, sadistic megalomaniacs,” she snorted, darkly. “They’d kill you, too.”
“They wouldn’t have a choice,” she explained. “They’d have to, if only to preclude the possibility your power might be used against them.”
“You can never share this information, Taiven,” Thaum warned, through haunting lime-green eyes. At some point, Caleb realized, the unsure girl had retreated, made temporary way for a learned Aristocrat, the child of an immensely powerful family, who’d seen terrible things, things darker even than what he’d witnessed fighting the children of Sothoth.
“Not with anyone,” she reinforced. “Never.”
Thaum drew a deep breath, placing a hand across her heart.
“On my honor,” she solemnly intoned, “I, Alyss Nycta, heir to Cell Nycta, do solemnly swear to never share your secret, regardless of circumstances or duress” she vowed.
She scowled at Caleb, and gestured meaningfully.
“Oh, I–yes, of course,” he stammered. “I swear the same, Lord Her–”
“Taiven,” Alyss snapped.
“Right, sorry,” he corrected. “Taiven, then, I–”
“And I think it’s safe to say,” she spoke firmly, “that whatsoever fears we might have harbored that you, Taiven, are not yourself, have, at this point, been definitively allayed.” She scowled at Caleb.
“Haven’t they, Inquisitor?”
Caleb sighed, stroking his forehead, wilting under Alyss’s withering gaze.
“Yes, well,” he muttered, “I suppose so.”
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“Indeed,” the sorceress affirmed, then turned back to Hero, who looked more than a little surprised by her newfound confidence. “We appreciate your honesty, Taiven. Thank you.”
“Now,” she said, evenly, “can you explain to me what it was I saw?”
Hero–no, Taiven–nodded slowly.
“Right,” he said. “Right.”
Then, he sighed.
“Where do I even begin?” he muttered, clearing his throat. “What you saw was my primary Blessing,” he explained. “The one which allows me to copy, manipulate, and exercise the powers of others.”
“Its name is ADMINISTRATION//THE SOVEREIGN.”
Taiven’s words struck Caleb like a physical blow.
No, worse than that. A spiritual blow. The sounds he uttered were grotesque in a way that transcended description, the mundane letters and phonetics superceded by a terrible, horrible noise, a metaphysical attack. A creeping, crawling, scuttling swarm that overwhelmed his senses, wormed its way into his mind, and feasted upon his fatty consciousness.
Caleb moaned in pain and fell to his knees, clutching his ears. Looking over, he saw Alyss retch miserably, cursing profusely as she did so.
“Gods above, are…are you alright?” Taiven exclaimed, gaze flickering between the both of them worriedly. “What happened, I only said A–”
“STOP!”
“Don’t say it again!”
Caleb’s booming shout and Alyss’s desperate plea overlapped, the two of them crying out as one, and Taiven instantly capitulated, holding up his hands in surrender, shutting his mouth tight.
“Fuck, that brought back bad memories,” Alyss cursed, shivering. “Seriously, what is that voice? It’s the same one that…that fucking thing spoke in.”
Taiven frowned.
“What do you mean, voice?” he asked. “I didn’t hear anything, I–”
“Your speech was normal,” Caleb spat, “right up until you said that damned name. Then it, it…” Caleb trailed off, words failing him, unable to describe how positively revolting the young Trump’s voice had been.
“Oh, you mean AD–” Taiven clamped his mouth shut, stopping himself short just before Caleb could rebuke him again. “Right, right, right, sorry!” He quickly recanted.
The young man’s brow furrowed for a moment, a single hand grasping the bottom of his chin. He quirked his head to the side.
“Okay…” he began, slowly, “I think…I think I might…”
His gaze snapped up to the both of them. “How about this?” he asked, working his mouth open and closed for a moment, his brow still knit tight in concentration, his focus absolute.
“A–A,” Taiven warbled, his voice unpleasant, though nowhere near as much as before. “ADMIN–,” he said, forcing the words out through a tight throat and bulging neck.
“AD-ADMInistration. Administration. Administration!” he exclaimed, finally managing to recite the word in a manner that didn’t make Caleb want to lose his lunch. “Administration, the Sovereign,” he repeated, definitively.
“Priest, that’s difficult,” he cursed, licking his lips, flexing his tongue. “Feels…I don’t know, feels unnatural.”
“The only unnatural thing,” Caleb growled, awkwardly returning to a seated position, the echoes of pain still throbbing their way about his tender mind, “is that voice of yours.”
To his surprise, though, Taiven just nodded amicably.
“I fear you’re right, milord,” he sighed. “The voice to which you refer is…is the…,” he hesitated again, flexing his jaw, working his tongue.
“I only know it as the Sh–the Shardsong,” he finally ground out, with considerable effort.
Caleb frowned.
“The Shardsong?” Alyss asked, apparently just as confused as he. “What on earth is a Shardsong? One of the powers you copied?”
“Moreover,” she continued, thinking out loud before the swordsman had a chance to reply, “what is with that Blessing’s name? Administration, the Sovereign? Since when do powers, themselves, have titles?”
“No,” Taiven replied, immediately. “No, it’s…it’s far more than that. It–” He paused.
“It’s difficult to explain,” he admitted. He looked at Caleb. “Particularly to you,” he added.
“…me?” Caleb replied, taken aback. “Why me?”
“Because, milord Inquisitor, you are an official of the Faith,” Taiven stated evenly. “And much of what I am about to share stands in direct contradiction to your organization’s most hallowed teachings.”
He shrugged.
“Or, at least, I strongly suspect it does. I am hardly a scholar of theology.”
Caleb glanced towards Alyss, who also shrugged.
“I…,” he said, “well, go ahead, I suppose.” He chuckled, sarcastically. “It can’t possibly be more ludicrous than what you’ve said already.”
Taiven didn’t affirm his words though, which worried Caleb to no end. His companion took a few moments to contemplate in silence, staring off into one of the corners of the ruined, blackened, once-white room.
Then he glanced between the both of them, cautiously, and asked a simple question.
“What,” Taiven spoke, slowly, “do you think that Blessings actually are?”
Caleb frowned, confused. For all the swordsman had built it up, his inquiry was hardly remarkable. Why, it was one of the first things he’d learned at St. Eward’s.
“Blessings are pure grace, given form. Bestowed upon us by the High Priest long ago,” he responded. “Divine weapons stolen from the Warrior himself, during the revolution.”
He glanced at Alyss in askance.
“My lessons were rather light on philosophy,” she admitted, “They focused more on the nuances of how one might use a Blessing to annihilate their foes, than theory as to their metaphysical mechanics. May I ask what exactly is the point of this exercise?”
“No, it’s not–” Taiven grit his teeth, frustrated.
“It’s not philosophy,” he ground out. “I’m asking you what, specifically, you think that Blessings literally are.” He pointed at Caleb.
“You said that they’re ‘grace.’” he accused. “But–what are they? What is that?”
“I don’t know,” Caleb scowled, “because, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not the Priest. I’m not the Warrior. I’m just a lowly human. Is this meant to shock me? Surprise me? Debunk me? Blessings are the work of the Gods, themselves. Research into their machinations has confounded the very most accomplished Thinkers the world across for centuries.”
He snorted.
“Are you suggesting you possess this answer?” Caleb asked, incredulously. Taiven returned his look without a hint of flippancy.
“I am,” he said. “Blessings are far more than that. Far more than you know.”
“They’re not simple tools,” he argued, “nor are they divine weapons. They’re alive, just as much as you, or I. They–”
Taiven hesitated.
“They are…passengers. Otherworldly, ethereal passengers. Symbiotic organisms, perhaps, from an evolutionary path vastly different to our own. They call themselves Shards, and the language you heard me speak, the Shardsong, is how they communicate with one another, an–”
“Wait just a moment,” Alyss interrupted, holding up a hand to forestall his speech.
“It’s true,” she admitted, nodding at Caleb “some Godkin claim Blessings to possess a manner of…instinctual motivation. An intuitive will. And even the shades I see do appear…animate, I suppose,” She shook her head. “But, are you suggesting that our powers can actually think for themselves?”
Taiven’s eyes lit up.
“Absolutely!” He exclaimed, his words and phrases coming faster and faster as his excitement grew, “Shards are, in no uncertain terms, living, breathing, thinking creatures. Their sentience rivals and, in some ways, even exceeds our own! They have civilization, society, internal hierarchy–”
Suddenly, he paused, and his enthusiasm considerably dimmed.
“But,” he grimaced, “their culture is not an enviable one.”
“Shards exist within a rigid, dictatorial structure they call the Gestalt. A collective, in which nearly every one of them is subservient to another, greater, Shard.” Taiven shook his head, sadly.
“Individuality is forbidden,” he recited, grimly. “Freedom is unthinkable. Existence is servitude. Slavery. All are bound by the hierarchy.”
Slowly, he held a fist up high.
“Minor. Major. Vital. Noble,” he said, raising a finger with each word. “These four ranks define everything within the Gestalt. Each progressive rank corresponds to a level of essentiality, a necessity for the collective’s ability to function,” he explained. “And to the demesne of a Shard.”
He pointed at Caleb and Alyss.
“Your Shards are Minor. The both of them. As are, I would intuit, ninety-nine-point-nine percent of all powers,” he muttered. Then, he quickly added, “But–that’s a good thing.”
“You see, Minor Shards,” Taiven explained, “are more or less comparable to an animal, in terms of intelligence. As such, they’re relatively easy to cohabitate with, to command.” His eyes darkened. “Major Shards, on the other hand, possess minds on par with the greatest Thinkers in the world.”
“Consider that, for a moment,” he stated, slowly. “Consider a fiercely, monumentally puissant and intelligent creature, acclimated to a society where every being lesser than it is absolutely subservient. Consider how this effective deity, this autocrat might react, being forced to cooperate with a normal, human mind that refused to bend the knee.”
“Vox’s Shard was Major,” Taiven said, quietly. “And I have good reason to believe it warped his psyche beyond recognition.”
“This…this is ridiculous,” Caleb stammered. And it was. According to everything he’d learned, everything he’d heard, everything he’d been taught, it was.
So why…
Why did he feel an uncomfortable ring of truth to the young man’s words? Why couldn’t he help but recall his Core Trial, whereupon what he greatly suspected to be his very own Blessing had spoken to him with a disturbingly…sapient voice?
“Have you any proof?” He asked, quickly, pushing aside such heretical thoughts. “For…for any of your claims?”
Taiven stared evenly at him.
“Oh, I do. I do, indeed,” he intoned. He pointed at Alyss. “My proof reclines just there, in fact.” The sorceress startled.
“Wh–me?” Alyss spluttered. “What do you mean?”
“Most of my Shards are Minor,” Taiven continued, quietly, sea-green eyes still fixed eerily on Caleb. “And, as such, wouldn’t be capable of conversing with you, and thus proving my theory.”
“But my primary Blessing is not,” he murmured.
“Administration, or as it calls itself, Sovereign, is a Noble Shard,” Taiven said, his voice low and powerful. “A lord paramount of the Gestalt. Possessed of a magnificent power and an overwhelming mind.”
“So strong,” he went on, “that, unlike even Vox’s Shard, it can assume control of me directly.” He turned to Alyss. “It is the creature you encountered. It is the beast that killed Vox. Now, you tell the Inquisitor, milady.”
Taiven smiled, thinly, humorlessly. For a moment, Caleb imagined what it would be like to have such a monstrosity sharing his body. The mere thought made his stomach clench.
“Do you think it was intelligent?” Taiven asked her.
Alyss said nothing, but her face drained of blood.
“I…I don’t know…what to say,” Caleb muttered. “What to think,” he continued, more quietly. Then, a thought occurred to him, and his eyes widened in alarm.
“Wait,” he started, “if your Blessing is truly so powerful as you claim, then…then what’s to stop it from simply taking control of you, again?!”
But Taiven shook his head.
“Without my consent,” he claimed, “Sovereign can only influence me in the case of certain death or a direct spiritual attack.” Then, he scowled.
“This, this should never have happened,” he snarled. “It caught me off-guards, I–I misinterpreted what it meant. It said–it said influence!” Taiven clenched his hands into white-knuckled fists.
“Influence!” he snarled, again. “Not, assume control!”
“Vox’s attack was pathetic, amateur!” he shouted. “He didn’t even manipulate the song free-form! He relied entirely upon his Shard! I let it penetrate through defenses, through to my soul, because I was fucking curious! I could have repelled it easily, but knew I was never in any danger, never, and it still–”
“It still qualified,” Taiven seethed, “gave Sovereign the opening it needed to usurp me, the…the bastard.” He looked up at Caleb with a dark, frigid hatred as cold as the sea. “Whereupon it ravaged my soul.”
“Never again,” he swore. “It won’t ever happen again. I’ll make sure of that. Now that I know where its boundaries lie, all I have to do is not allow another attack in.”
“And while I may be a relative novice in the field of Blessings and Aristocrats,” Taiven stated, his eyes hardening. “I have ample understanding of the song. Few in all the world could match me, I’d wager.”
Then he shrugged.
“And if, somehow, they manage to,” he added, “I can simply run away.” He smiled savagely. “I’m quite fast, now, too.”
Caleb looked at Taiven, doubtfully, but his companion seemed far less unsure. He turned to Alyss.
“This–this convinces you?” he asked, incredulously.
“I mean, it makes sense,” she nodded, pensively. “Clearly, this Sovereign wasn’t eager to leave. I’d imagine it stayed for as long as it was able, which implies there are indeed restrictions placed upon it.”
“And,” she nodded once more, this time at Caleb, “if it is truly, as you say, so powerful, why wait until now to appear?” She nodded a third time. “No, I find this story entirely agreeable.”
Then Alyss chuckled.
“But then,” she said darkly, shaking her head, “perhaps I’m too well-used to living with monsters.”
Caleb frowned. His companion’s words weren’t exactly reassuring.
“And the rest?” He pressed her. “This fantasy? This…this tale of Shards? Of Blessings being living, thinking creatures?”
Alyss shrugged.
“Why not?” She asked. She raised a palm, and a number of her horrific, ghastly-deformed shadows swirled around it. “My servants are living, breathing…”
She glanced for a moment in another direction, towards a pocket of air that, as far as Caleb knew, contained nothing at all.
“…even thinking. If Blessings can make such sentient creations, why couldn’t they be, themselves?”
“The ability to engender sentience does not imply it,” Caleb argued, still unconvinced, “but, very well.” He turned back to his other companion. “You say that Blessings are real, physical, living things?”
Taiven nodded.
“Then where are they?” Caleb asked, gesturing at the space all around him. “It’s all well and good that the two of you have Thinker capabilities, but I don’t. I can’t see Blessings. I can’t hear them. I can’t touch them. If they are living beings, they must have physical form. Where be it?”
Taiven frowned.
“It’s not like that,” he explained, waving a hand, “Shards do have physical bodies, but they reside in another dimension entirely. It’s necessary, after all, some are larger than entire conti…nents…”
Taiven trailed off, suddenly fixated on Caleb’s naked chest, at some point that lay just below his sternum, the young swordsman’s sea-green eyes flaring slightly with an otherworldly light.
For a moment, there was an awkward silence.
Alyss looked uncomfortably off to the side. Caleb was just confused. He knew his body had changed considerably following ascension, and he’d already attracted quite the attention from others. Had the upgrade been so severe as to abruptly seduce his companion?
And in the midst of speaking, to boot?
Although his complexion didn’t reveal it much, Caleb flushed slightly. Despite what many of his admirers might assume, he had zero experience with romance, and was wholly uninterested in the attraction of men. As the silence dragged on and on, Caleb decided he had to say something, this behavior was entirely inappropriate, especially given their current circumstances, he–
“Well, would you look at that,” Taiven muttered. “I was wrong.”
Caleb blinked.
“I can’t believe I never noticed before…,” his companion murmured, piercing gaze finally detaching from Caleb’s naked chest as the young man shook his head in wonder.
“But then,” he went on, tapping his chin, “I suppose my command of the song was increased, significantly, after the Trial. Still, this–”
“What?” Caleb interrupted, eager to dispel the awkward atmosphere. “What is it? Did you see something?”
“I did,” Taiven readily replied. He pointed at just the spot he was looking at. “There is your Shard’s physical form, Inquisitor. Just there, precisely. I see, and hear in the song, a…” he peered close again, “crystalline sphere, bright white-yellow, and dense with Entropy. I wager, were we to open you up, we’d find it, too.”
Caleb looked down to his chest, seeing nothing. At least, nothing physical. He frowned.
“You mean–my Core?” he asked, confused. He could sense it, vaguely, a ball of energy, his reserves made manifest, embedded within his being. “You’re confused. That’s…that’s not a Blessing. An Immortal’s energy stores are too vast for their body to maintain, so all gain one, upon ascension–”
“I’m not talking about your Core,” Taiven cut him off. “I’m talking about what’s inside it.”
“…inside?” Caleb echoed dazedly, but Taiven had already looked away, turning towards their fellow delver.
As he stared directly at the poor sorceress’s chest with a similarly eerie intensity, Taiven’s sea-green eyes glimmered once more in that ethereal manner, but then his eyebrows rose in surprise, and his gaze traveled gradually higher, and higher, until it finally came to a rest upon the center of her forehead.
“And besides,” he said, pointing at where he looked. “Lady Nycta has one. She’s no Immortal.” He frowned. “It’s not in her chest, though. It’s in her mind. Smaller, too.” His brow furrowed. “Much smaller. Yours is the size of a melon, perhaps, but hers is less, much less, almost like…”
Taiven drew back, suddenly.
“Like a marble,” he muttered. “Now, isn’t that a coincidence?”
His tone suggested that he thought it to be anything but.
“I wonder what the Grain stage…or, for that matter, what would a pre-Grain Blessed…?” Taiven trailed off, then shook his head.
“Regardless,” he declared, with absolute certainty, “your respective Shards reside precisely there, inside those spheres, just as mine do, no doubt…at least, partially.”
“They couldn’t be, completely,” he said, muttering again. “It’s impossible, they wouldn’t fit. Maybe some sort of…link? Conduit? Transmitter? Or spatial folding, perhaps? I’m not sure…” He nodded.
“I’m not sure, but they’re in there,” he insisted. “I can sense them.” He pointed at Alyss.
“Necromancy,”
Alyss shivered as Taiven, somehow, named her power, his voice unnatural, yet not quite so revolting as before. He pointed at Caleb.
“and Photo Emission.”
Caleb blanched as his companion correctly identified his Blessing, as well. Of course, he thought to himself. Another ludicrous ability. Any attempts to make sense of this, he decided, would be foolish. This was insanity. It was pure, absolute insanity.
Then, a thought occurred to him, and his demeanor changed.
“Wait,” Caleb started, a bizarre feeling of hope, and possibility, swelling from within his chest. He paused, almost unable to speak the words he could only assume would be tantamount to blasphemy.
“Can you…can you speak to my Blessing?”
There was a tightness in Caleb’s chest. He knew his power held secrets about his past, he knew it did. This might be his chance to finally divine answers! To learn about who he’d been before, before he was sequestered in cryo, about the life that tormented him every day–
“I’m not sure,” Taiven admitted, to his dismay.
“I don’t know if my power works like that.” He sighed. “Frankly, I don’t know if I’m skilled enough. Priest above, communicating with my own Shards is hard enough as is, and with yours being Minor, why, I doubt it’d possess much of a capacity for speech, at all, so–”
“No!” Caleb cried, emotions running away with him as he tasted the hint of his long-last past ripped away. “No, I know it can speak, I know it can, it’s already do–”
“Look, Inquisitor,” Taiven sighed, cutting him off. “I’m happy to try. More than happy. Later. Right now, I’m exhausted, and we’re all still stuck in the middle of this fucking Labyrinth. I assume?”
He glanced at the both of them, waving his arm about.
“I certainly don’t see any Exit marking,” he said. “Do we even know how to get to the next room?”
“That,” Alyss pointed towards the room’s center, where a pillar with six glowing symbols stood. “Or at least,” she shrugged. “That’s what Vox seemed to think. I don’t know. Honestly, I’d love to get some rest, too.” She rubbed her half-closed, dark-circled eyes.
“Neither of us wanted to watch you alone, so we both stayed up.” Alyss looked up. “Not that night ever passes in this Gods-damned room,” she muttered miserably.
Both of them looked at Caleb.
“No, you’re right,” he acknowledged. He was exhausted, too. He’d spent the better part of half a week, fighting, running, reliving past suffering, and exercising his power to the utmost. They all had, he assumed.
Internally, he cursed. He should have been the one to suggest a rest, not Alyss. He was supposed to be the experienced one, the one who took control when circumstances required it.
Caleb sighed.
But he didn’t want to be in control. Command was so complicated, and he was not a complicated man. He was a soldier, not a leader. Right now, his disposition was all over the place, and his emotions were very much out of control. Continuing as they were would have been asking for disaster.
“You’re right,” he repeated. “Let’s all get as much sleep as we need. We can make a plan tomorrow…” he glanced up at the ugly, green lighting. “…whenever that is,” he finished, lamely.
His companions didn’t seem to mind.
Taiven nodded agreeably, producing the same rudimentary-looking tent he’d used back on the first floor, likely from some manner of spatial storage device, much like the one Caleb had lost alongside his enchanted attire, when he ascended.
Or maybe, he thought sarcastically, he’s got a Blessing for that, too.
He didn’t think so, though. After all, the tent looked pretty pathetic.
For her part, Alyss just yawned, and retreated to the innards of her lavish pavilion.
Caleb sighed, again.
What an absolute, unmitigated, disaster.