Blake
Stained glass inlaid with millions of moonstones filters silver hued light across marble tiles as my footsteps carry through the cavernous network of hallways in the temple. It’s a busy day here in the center of the spiritual mecca that both priestesses of the Goddess and the Mystics call home.
Women in silver robes walk in pairs, clutching books, talking in quiet tones. Some wear masks of crystal while others, normally much younger women in training as acolytes, wear veils of white fabric to cover their faces. The priestesses are more laid back, often wearing plain clothes within the temple, sometimes covering their hair with veils, but otherwise they’re a great contrast to the white and silver of ordained Mystics and their younger counterparts, the acolytes, who have yet to don their crystal masks.
Everyone, however, stops to bow and curtsy as I walk down the long, wide hallway with a cathedral ceiling that makes even the softest whisper boom.
My noise canceling headphones drown out what they murmur at me, but it’s the same as it always is. The same two words repeated over and over, from mouth to mouth, as I leave them in my wake.
The tight headphones sent a hint of classical music through my brain, just loud enough to keep the chorus of unintelligible voices at bay–the stars themselves–always chattering back and forth even in the middle of the day when they should be sleeping, but I digress.
I step through a doorway that leads out into a sprawling, tidy and wondrous courtyard. More women in robes kneel as they pick weeds from a garden. Some are sowing garden beds, preparing to plant this year’s crop, whatever that’ll be. Archways lead off the temple into the rectory, which blooms with more hallways of white marble and a lot more chatter. This section of the temple isn’t open to the public, which means these women are more comfortable taking off their veils or masks here, and thankfully, after several years of my comings and goings, they don’t jump out of my way to don their masks and hide their eyes anymore.
A trio of acolytes whispers in a sunlit corner, their bodies draped in pale blue and white robes. I pass, ignoring them, but they trail me with their eyes, giggling. Acolytes come in all ages–some young, some old. It doesn’t matter. They all have the same power–reading the stars to pull prophecies from the sky, and that can develop at any point during their lives, and they’re always called here, called home.
Another courtyard, much less formal than the first, greets me as I move through the rectory and back into the steady, unyielding spring sunlight. The larger of the two private buildings belonging to the temple stretches ahead of me. It’s four stories high, cast in the shadow of the cathedral, but it’s domed. The glass ceiling shines in a glare of sunlight. I cross under another marble archway and into the orrery, where my powers simmer and stretch against my will.
The foyer branches in eight different directions, leading to offices and classrooms. I walk straight, skirting around a bubbling fountain of carved moonstone, and fall back into shadows that lead to the room housing the orrery itself, where I find the woman I’m looking for.
Calliope turns to me as I enter the orrery and reluctantly remove my headphones. The classical hum is instantly replaced by a chorus of voices deep inside my head–pounding, screaming, laughing. The orrery before me turns and grinds. It’s massive–ten times larger than the one my grandfather had built decades ago. Larger even than the orrery in Rifthold, which is under constant guard as it stands. Smooth, flawless brass keeps models of stars and planets suspended under the glow of the glass ceiling. Mystics move around the marvel of ancient engineering with notepads, scribbling away while they try to decipher the erratic movements of the stars compared to the slow crawl of each planet in our solar system, prophesying.
But the mystical voices in my head grate on my gray matter, making my ears ring. My powers whirl, trying to decipher what the voices are hoping to tell me even while I forbid them to act.
I hate coming here, but this is… where I belong, unfortunately.
The voices fade when the Dame of the Mystics, their leader, so to speak, takes a few steps in my direction with two other Mystics at her side.
“High Lord,” they say in unison, bending at the knees with their veiled heads bowed.
No one but the Mystics call me High Lord. I’m not even sure what they mean by it. Occasionally, I’m addressed as High Priest, but only by them. To the Order of the Moon Goddess, the priestesses of the Church, I’m just Prince Blake.
But the Mystics are something else entirely, despite being able to live in unison with their religious counterparts. It’s a symbiotic relationship, I suppose. The Mystics divine the stars and heavens, and the priestesses bear witness to their findings, relaying it to the world at large.
Here, I am king. That’s plain. It’s written behind their eyes, the rest of their expressions shielded by masks or veils.
“Any updates?” I grind out, narrowing my eyes to slits to stop from looking over their heads at the orrery.
Calliope rises first, shaking her head just once. “No, my Lord. Not today. Hannibal Arachnis is not in Eastonia.”
“Then where is he?” I ask, my voice sharpened to a knife’s edge but losing its luster with every syllable.
“No one has seen anything. It’s not written in the stars,” Calliope says in a monotone, high-pitched voice. I’ve never seen her face. She sounds beautiful, though, but they all do. They’re a single unit of thought. Somewhere in their training —the same training I escaped from all those years ago, they merge, so to speak, losing themselves to the collective.
I don’t know how else to describe it, but I know that while I can read the stars and decipher the movements of the orrery, like they can, I’m different. I can see and feel more, as well as manipulate the very fabric holding our world together.
I can reach into a mind and flay it open. I can stop time in a soul, cutting them off from reality for as long as my powers hold. I can make shields of stardust. I can travel through space and time at will.
I can see the day a person dies, but I can’t change it. That’s the one thing my powers can’t do.
Not yet, at least.
I’m trying.
“He is not of our world, High Lord,” Calliope says, her voice losing its fragility and turning to something husky and real instead of that practiced calm all Mystics develop during their training. She sighs, turning her head ever so slightly to dismiss the other Mystics, who go back to their work in silence. “He is not a being of this plane of existence.”
“I am aware. What I need to know, what you and your people are meant to be doing, is finding him, where he came from, and what he is. It is imperative that we know as soon as possible, even if it’s just a theory for now.”
“He is… ancient,” she says, turning toward the spinning stars. “Immortal.”
I stare at her, trying to gauge the flicker of emotion behind her tone. “Is he a god?”
“Likely,” she says, turning back to me. “Like you.”
I swallow, my throat contracting against the motion, against a knot that won’t untangle. “The second there’s a… break–a commotion–in the fabric of our plane, alert me.”
She nods, tilting her head ever so slightly to the domed ceiling. “If that is all, my Lord, I have a meeting, and the new acolyte has just arrived. I must meet with her after she’s been evaluated.”
I nod, watching her silver-white robes ripple as she moves like water out of the room. I won’t pretend I know everything about these strange beings. Some people think Mystics have the souls of angels, and that might be somewhat true. They’re not witches. Some are shifters, of course, given that we’re the majority population-wise, but those gifts fade as their Mystic abilities come into maturity. Mystics don’t just appear out of thin air, like some of my family would believe. They’re born, like we all are. They have parents and families who love them. New acolytes are rare, however. I know that much. Mystics seek each other out, like they can sense a sister outside of the fold.
I put my headphones back on and turn to walk out of the room, exhaling in relief and looking forward to going back to the palace to sit in my office, where everything is quiet and just how I like it.
A group of Mystics lingers in the hallway I took to get here, and I decide to turn, following a different route out of the orrery. My footsteps echo, blocked by the music, as I move in and out of shadows. I take a hallway I’ve never been down before. It’s wide and cavernous, slightly chilly with the spring air bleeding through the stone. The light grows bright when I near the foyer again, where stone benches line the hallway before the corridor opens to the foyer and the massive, sparkling fountain.
My powers surge. My heart thumps once before stopping completely. A woman sits on a bench with her face in her hands, her body convulsing with a silent sob.
I rip the headphones off my ears and break into a run. Marianna lifts her head, her eyes widening, her pupils blown so wide the corn-flower blue of her irises shrinks until her eyes are black with shock.
“Blake?”
“What are you doing here?” I rush out, a feeling of dread tying my stomach into a knot.
She sucks back a sob, stammering, “They–they took her down the hall, and they said I couldn’t come. I don’t know where she is! They sent me a summons yesterday. I had to bring her. They haven’t left me alone–alone since–-” Another choking whimper steals her words.
My blood runs so cold I feel ice crystals moving through my veins. “Come here.” I grab her arm, forcing her off the bench, and whirl us back down the hallway I just left. The act of touching her is… overwhelming to my senses. Warmth blooms, trying to gnaw through the dread coiling through my body like a snake. I’m jogging, resisting the urge to break into a run, but she’s keeping up with me, just as frantic as I feel. I pull her to a stop in front of a door. The voices in the aether ring through my head like a death knell. My powers yank me toward the door, and I open it wide, unprepared for…
Her.
A little girl with red Mary-Janes kicks her feet as she sits on a wooden chair, staring at a globe of pure moonstone. Her dark hair ripples when she looks over her shoulder, her… violet eyes shining with… power.
“Mommy?” she says, her mouth widening into a smile I see in my dreams.
I brace my hand on the doorframe, my other still clutching Marianna’s arm. Skye turns her gaze to me.
The last time I saw her, she was a newborn. Had just taken her first breath.
She looks like Marianna. A spitting image. As if just seeing her again isn’t enough to absolutely shred me to fragments from the inside out, she has to look like Marianna, as well.
“No,” I snarl, tearing my eyes from my daughter to look at the trio of Mystics standing behind the table. “No. She’s too young. Get out. We’re done here.”
The Mystics glance at each other, none of them moving.
“I said no,” I repeat so firmly I can taste the bitter cold ice on my tongue. I feel Marianna stiffening and sense Skye’s eyes scanning my face. “Do not approach this child or her mother again. She is not an acolyte and will never be one. She is too young. Go away.”
“Dame Calliope tasked us with her evaluation. She is gifted. She is powerful,” they say in unison.
Marianna trembles. I can taste her fear like copper on my tongue, thawing the ice. It coats my mouth, and my dread turns to fury.
But Skye is totally unaffected, blinking at me with a slightly curious, but closed, expression.
“If I find out,” I continue, my voice as cold and hard as steel, “that they’ve been bothered again, I will take action. Do not approach this child. She is too young for this. You have been warned and will not be warned again. Out.”
The center of the trio turns and walks out of the room through a side door, taking the globe with her, her sisters following with silent, unnerving steps.
Skye watches them go, her expression neutral. Maybe even a little bored.
Marianna takes an audible breath, and I realize with a start my hand is no longer on her arm.
Our fingers are now intertwined, and she’s squeezing my hand.