was bored. Bored, bored, cooped up on a tiny platform in a tiny tower, listening to the wind and the airships and the girl and her archive, bored. When I woke up she was already at the feet of that machine, turning dials and muttering to herself, the crumbled remains of some of the flatbread I had stolen from a vendor cart scattered about her. All morning it had been like this. Dial, mutter, invoke, mutter, dial. I was going nuts.
"So how do you know how to work that thing?" I asked while cleaning my revolver. Again. This was the eighth time, I think. Cleanest gun in all of Ash, and no one to shoot.
"It's my nature," she said.
Silence. Mutter. Dial.
"Learned anything?"
She didn't answer for a long time. When she did, it was like she was answering a different question.
"He wasn't asking the questions I would think of." She pushed back from the archive and pulled a tangle of hair out of her face. "I suppose that's what made him the Scholar."
"This is the great secret that's gotten most of my Cult killed? That Amon asked strange questions?"
She smiled and shook her head. "I suppose that's the heart of it. But I'm not sure what this has to do with… anything else. You asked how I know how to operate the archive. Experience. We have one of these in the Library. Much larger, in fact. Our keepers tell us that it's the sum of Amon's knowledge, minus the profane knowledge that led to the Betrayal."
"Is that what this is?" I asked, rising to my feet. "The profanity?"
"I hope not. It would be the dullest blasphemy ever. Besides, everyone thinks Alexander keeps that close. If you show especial talent with the archive, with sorting it and plumbing its knowledge, the whiteshirts disappear you."
"Doesn't sound like it would pay to be good at that," I said.
"Who knows? We think they get taken off to a secret archive, hidden away. Something Alexander culled from the main body and kept for himself. Secret knowledge does have a certain appeal, doesn't it?"
"So this archive here, it's part of that secret knowledge?"
She shrugged. "I don't know all of the main archive, obviously. This doesn't seem like something you'd want to keep hidden." She turned the archive toward me, revealing a screen of garbled runes, flooding past like a waterfall. Images popped up, but they made no sense to me. "It's his research on the impellors. It looks like they're an offshoot of some kind of Feyr creation. When Amon wrote this, he was just beginning to apply the principle to the monotrains. Really, it's kind of dull, in a fascinatingly detailed sort of way. But I can't imagine there's anything here to justify… you know."
I paced around the archive, making one circuit before I stopped and sighed.
"And that's it? That's all that's in there?"
"Oh, gods no. I mean, it all seems to be related to this, but I've only just figured out the subject line. There are noetic pounds of knowledge in here-research, tangential investigations, technical drawings. It's a very thorough history of the process. And it's fascinating to see his mind at work. How he made the leap from the Feyr device to the monotrains."
"The Feyr didn't use them for transport?" I asked.
She shook her head, then leaned in to the machine and flittered through the text. "Near as I can tell, they just shot them up in the air. No idea why."
"Hm. Well, how much longer do you think-"
"I have no idea, woman. Knowledge is not something you can measure in time. It does not drip into our heads at a set rate. It comes suddenly, or not at all."
I sighed and started taking off my armor. She squinted at me in puzzlement.
"That won't make learning any faster."
"I'm going out. I can't sit here while your knowledge doesn't come. And I can't wander around in the armor of a Morganite." With my armor off, I unclasped the dozen icons and emblems that marked me as a Paladin. Even my holster and the articulated sheath went away. My padded coat and linen pants were plain enough. I shuddered at the thought of being separated from my oath-bound blade, but I just couldn't risk carrying it. I tucked a knife into my boot, and the bully into my waistband. "So I'm going out, like this, before I go nuts."
"Do you think that's wise?"
"You're the Scholar. I'll leave wise to you."
She didn't say anything else, and I climbed down the tower and through a garbage chute before making my way to the street. By the time I was there I smelled like cabbage and looked like a bum. Nothing like a Paladin of Morgan.
* * *
I bought a half-cape that buttoned down the front. It had a hood that hid my face without looking too much like I was trying to hide my face. And it let me keep a hand on my revolver without drawing attention. I had left the tower with no plan in mind, but as soon as I was on the street my boots turned toward the inner horn, and home. Toward the Strength.
It amazed me how life kept going in the wake of my apocalypse. Vendors were selling food, pedigears cluttered the roads, civilians went to jobs and came home. The streets were alive. Just like any other day. I felt as if a barrier had come down between me and the city of Ash. They had their lives and their futures and their plans. And I was just this hunted creature, alive only to run. I didn't like that. It didn't feel natural.
Of course, there were signs of change in the life of the city. There were more guards, especially anywhere there was open water. The canals looked like they'd been closed down. Patrol boats drifted lazily off the coast, and this was a city of many coasts. There were even valkyn in the air. There couldn't be more than, what, fifty of those beasts all told? It seemed crazy to have them on patrol. Then again, the city had been attacked. We had been attacked.
I approached the Strength from on high. There were elevated walkways that brushed up against the monastery's round plaza, public routes that were usually crowded with tourists from the collar countries. Today they were more crowded than usual. Almost impassable. I climbed higher, thinking the extra stairs might thin out the crowds, but no luck. Even on the top tier it was shoulder to chest. I kept my arms under my cloak, crossed over the cold weight of the bully. Wouldn't be good to have someone brush up against that.
It was a cloudy day, last night's clear skies betrayed by a low mass of pewter thunderheads that rumbled at the tips of the city's towers. My raised hood brought no comment as the first heavy drops of rain spattered down on the crowd. Even in the growing torrent, the crowds didn't thin. I worked my way forward slowly, listening to the gossip.
And of course, they were talking about me. I had gained quite a reputation. By my hand, the Chanter's Isle had split, and at my command the dead had flooded the hidden heart of that strange sect of the Alexian Cult. It was whispered that I was apostate, that I (along with my Elders of Morgan) had declared for Amon the Betrayer, and was leading a secret war against the godking.
None of it made sense. The whiteshirts had been helping us search for the Fratriarch, had lent us an Amonite, had guarded us against the attacks of the Betrayer and stormed out only at our command. We stood together against the Rethari. Why would we betray them? Why would they abandon us?
When finally I reached sight of the Strength, I was horrified. They had great spotlights thrown up against its side, and armed barricades all around the plaza. Smoke stained the windows and doors, and all the glass was broken. The front door hung intact but open.
"What in hell happened?" I whispered. But of course, in a crowd a whisper is a conversation. The man in front of me turned and answered.
"They had to break on in, did the Alexians. Thank the Brother they did, too. That whole Cult had gone bad in the soul. After the Chanters' bloody sacrifice, trying to hold one of them at bay, Alexander sent his boys up. Tried to talk, but those damned sons of Morgan suck ered 'em in and killed a whole platoon. Whiteshirts had to go in in force. Burn the whole place out." He nodded to the wagons that were lining the promenade. "Still counting the bodies, they are."
I felt sick in my stomach. I looked at the stacks of blackened bundles, bleeding ash in the rain. My brothers of Morgan, my sisters of the Warrior. Murdered, and now burned and accused of murder. Of rebellion. Apostate.
A tinny voice echoed over the crowd, and I squinted in the direction of the main door. The voice was coming from a loudspeaker, erected on a stage. There were three platforms above it, hastily erected against the side of the Strength, and three spotlights on them. At first I had taken them for siege engines, but now I saw they were nothing but stationary wooden platforms. On the stage, a man was reading a list of accusations in a very proper, very precise voice. A familiar voice, distorted by the loudspeaker. I focused on him, and saw. And understood. Nathaniel, the man from the abandoned shrine of Alexander, the man Simeon had met with, the Betrayer. Hidden in the arms of Alexander. He was speaking accusations against the Cult of Morgan, gesturing widely up at the platforms above.
And on each platform, an Elder. And on each Elder, a sentence of death.
They stood chained, arms spread, their robes torn and heads shorn, blood on their faces and chests. A metal plaque had been struck with the ancient symbols of apostasy, the sigil of the godking as a blessing and a condemnation. Each of them stared down at the crowds in slack disbelief. Simeon. Isabel. Tomas.
"They're going to kill them," I said.
"Oh, they'll try them first. Then they'll kill them."
I fell back into the crowd, shoving people out of my way as I ran. I had the bully in my hand, and damn it to hell if anyone tried to stop me.
* * *
"We're out of time," I said as I rushed onto the hidden platform. "I need answers now."
The girl was facing away from me, her hands loose in her lap, her eyes closed. The screen reflected her face in pale green brilliance. She didn't move when I entered, didn't show any sign of caring when I strode over and shook her shoulder.
When she woke up, it was as if I hadn't been gone at all. Like a machine turning back on.
"You're back?" she asked.
"What the hell was that? I thought you were dead!"
"Yeah, pretty much. The forms of these machines can be tricky. Easy to get lost inside." She stood up and stretched, then noticed the look on my face and the revolver in my hand. "What's wrong? What's happened?"
"They've burned the Strength and declared the Cult apostate."
"We knew that-"
"They have the Elders. They're going to kill them. They say we, that I… that we're trying to overthrow the godking."
"Again, that's nothing new. We-"
I grabbed her by the collar and pulled her toward me. "Listen. To. Me. The man who tried to kill Simeon, the damned Betrayer-he's there. He's in charge of the operation. Right now he's reading the accusations against the Elders. He means to kill them."
She held my gaze with hers, trying to burrow into my head with her stare.
"That sounded an awful lot like an accusation."
"The Betrayer has infiltrated Alexander. He knew. He's the one who knew that the Fratriarch was at the Library Desolate. That I was his only guard. Where he was going. He stood guard while Elias was killed. Had Owen follow me around, keeping tabs on the Paladin. Gods know what else he learned, what Simeon or Tomas was telling the Alexians behind our backs. And now he has us falsely accused and on the run. And the people believe him! They're anxious for the trial, anxious to see the Cult of Morgan put down. They believe him!"
She peeled my hand off her cloak, one finger at a time, then pushed the bully away from her belly.
"Are you ready to trust an Amonite now?"
"I'm not ready to trust anyone, anywhere. Tell me what you've found, or get out."
She sighed and sat down by her damned machine. "Where did this thing come from?" she asked.
"We don't know. Just appeared in the Strength one day."
"That's what your Elders told you, at least. Fair enough. And you don't know who sent it to you?"
"I said as much."
She nodded. "Someone is trying to send you a message. A warning, really. They could have been more direct about it, but I don't think you would have trusted them if they had been."
"Who? And what message?"
"I don't know who. And I'm not sure of the message."
I spat. "You're being a hell of a lot of help here. Do you have anything that will help me prove the Elders are innocent? Anything that will save their lives?"
She turned and powered down the archive, then folded her arms and leaned back against the machine.
"It's a matter of belief, Eva. You're being led on a path, by some hidden agency. I don't know if they're the ones killing your friends, or if someone is doing that to drive you away. I don't know why I was the one chosen to interpret this device, why Barnabas gave his life to protect me. I think he knew what the device meant, but couldn't decipher it. Couldn't bear the message."
"Yeah, I'm going to barrel out of here and start shooting whiteshirts if you don't hurry the hell up."
She smiled and nodded. "Okay, okay. Let me explain, and then you can decide who needs shooting. I get the feeling it's going to be more people than even you're comfortable with."
"You'd be surprised."
She stood and fished out the cylinder of cigarettes. I hadn't seen her smoke since we'd left the Strength. When she was lit, she paced in a slow arc across the platform, trailing a blue haze.
"Amon discovered the Feyr device that we think of as the impellor, in the days after this city had been taken from the Feyr. Like I said, it appeared that the Feyr were just shooting them up into the sky. No real apparent purpose. Most of the devices were destroyed, or had shot down into the lake when their towers collapsed in the fighting. Amon retrieved what he could, and began to study them." She paused and toked a couple times, her hands shaking with the nicotine rush. "What do you know about godhood?"
"That there were three gods, and that we're down to one."
"And before us, before the Brothers Immortal rose up from their humble childhoods and led the tribes of man against the Feyr-who was god then?"
"There was no god. Just stories of gods, from ancient days."
"Yes and no. The ancient gods were from the race of the Titans. In their time, the Titans were just people, and a few among them ascended to godhood. Just like the Brothers, in their own way. They had more than three gods, so many in fact that most people don't realize there were regular Titans as well. Only the names of the gods come to us through history, and the mythologies of the Feyr."
"How do you know all this?" I asked.
"The archives of Amon. He studied such things. Especially in the early days of the Brothers, when they were just… becoming. He wanted to understand what was happening to them, in a very rational sense. And, of course, it wasn't a very rational thing. But he tried."
"Okay. So, many Titan gods, and then no gods, and then the Brothers. What's your point?"
"I didn't say no gods. The Feyr rose up against the Titans and overthrew them. Right here, in fact, in the city of Ash. They burned the city, and then they drowned the city. And in time, they tried to atone for that. I don't think they ever stopped trying to atone for it, actually. One of the reasons they fell to us so easily."
"Easily? Hundreds of thousands died in those wars."
"Yes. But how many would you expect to die in a battle with the gods?"
"Gods? They weren't gods, they were just… just the Feyr. Just funny little people."
She leaned against a steel spar and peered out between the slats of the cladding. The rain had passed, at least here, and the sun shone on her face, and on the aura of smoke that hung around her.
"They were more than that, I think. It's not clearly defined, but godhood seems to be… some kind of power. Power in the air, in the earth, in us. The Brothers assumed godhood by their actions, and by their actions we honor them. The Titans were the same way, raising gods from among their own, elevating them to godhood by their actions and their deeds. The Feyr did not take that route. They had no individual gods. They were a race of little gods."
"What?"
She shook her head and grimaced. "It's hard to explain. Godhood is a power that settles in people. It builds up in great people, making it easier for them to build up even more power. Someone becomes famous, and the power of god gathers in them, and then they are able to do more marvelous things, becoming more legendary, gathering more power. It's a cycle. But like any power, there are limits. There are capacities that can be exceeded."
"You make this all sound very rational. Are these Amon's theories?"
"No. These are the things he learned from the Feyr. While studying the impellors." She moved away from the sun and stubbed out her cigarette. "If you take a battery and keep charging it, it holds more and more power until it can't hold any more. And then what? Either you discharge some of that power or it explodes. The Titans had many gods, so they were able to hold the power for a long time. Their divinity was distributed across many people. Maybe it wasn't enough. Maybe they were losing control of it, and that's why the Feyr rebelled against them. Either way, when the Feyr assumed the mantle of godhood, they realized you couldn't just hold it in a couple people. You had to spread it out. And they figured, hey, why not spread it out across all of us?"
"They didn't seem like gods. Hell, they're still alive, still have some power."
"Very little, because they were only very little gods. But they were able to hold that power for a very long time, and gather a great deal of it."
I crossed my arms, my pistol forgotten, and sat down.
"So what happened when we threw them down, and the mantle of godhood came to us?"
"We had our three Brothers Immortal, and that's all."
"And now we're down to one?"
"Yeah. The math is terrible."
We were quiet for a while, listening to the airships and the wind. Finally, I stood and stared down at the archive.
"Something I don't understand. What the hell does this have to do with the impellors? And why does it mean people want to kill my Cult?"
"The Feyr used the impellors as a kind of pressure valve. They invented them late in their empire, when their numbers were dwindling and the accumulated power was overwhelming them." She lit another cigarette and blew a long, deep breath out into the room. "They were venting god."
"Do the impellors still do that?"
"Who knows? And as for why anyone would want to kill your Cult over this? Well, here we have proof that Amon knew about how godhood worked, and that you had to have multiple gods to keep it from destroying those who held that power."
"So?"
"So," she whispered, then turned and looked me in the eyes, "why would he want to kill his brother Morgan, if the idea was to have more gods, not fewer?"
I sat up and stared in confusion. My mind was unhinging at the implication.
"You're saying Amon didn't kill Morgan. That he wasn't the Betrayer."
"I am. Leaving only-"
"Alexander," I breathed, trembling. "Godking of Ash."
* * *
The throne of the godking sits in the Spear of the Brothers, the white tower in the old district of Ash. I was taken there for my acceptance into the rank of Paladin. At that time Matthew was still with us, before he led his fated crusade against the Rethari in distant Herion. Four of us went to the throne: Matthew, me, Barnabas, and an Initiate of the Bullet named Emily, who also went with Matthew on his little crusade.
The Spear sits in the oldest part of Ash, the quarters along the edge of the city-island where the forces of the Brothers Immortal first made landfall. There had been much bloodshed cracking the defenses of the collar countries, and the landing had been murderous. Amon, sickened by the loss of life, drove his spear into the ground and declared his part in the conflict over, swearing never again to take up arms. Morgan and Alexander took the rest of the city, and Amon came after, to sweep through the ruins and collect artifacts. When the harsh street fighting was over and the peace was signed, Amon came back to his driven spear and built a temple. That temple became a tower, and that tower became the seat of power for the three brothers. Later their Cults split, but the Betrayal left only Alexander. He settled into the tower, even reclaiming the spear Amon had abandoned and putting it on display.
I remember looking up at that spear as we entered the building. It hung in the grand foyer, suspended by wire in midair. The tip was polished iron, intricately barbed, with two flanged wings at the base of the head. The shaft was black wood, runed with the symbols of the secret language of the Scholar. The base of the shaft was capped with dull iron, and still bore the dents of a thousand counterstrikes and crushed helms.
"Why do we hold this thing up?" I asked my brother Matthew as I stood beneath it. "It is the weapon of the Betrayer, is it not?"
"There are stages to our lives, even for the Brothers," he answered. At the time I thought of him as an old man, but I realize now he couldn't have been much through his thirties. He laid his hand on my shoulder. "The Spear of Amon symbolizes his renunciation of the battle, of violence, and his commitment to knowledge. It is the holiest symbol of the Cult of the Scholar. That moment in our lives when we put struggles behind us, and commit to something pure."
"Like the broken plow, for Morgan."
"Yes. Morgan left behind his fields and his wealth, and warred against the Feyr in their madness. There was once a sect of our faith that worshipped Morgan the Farmer, did you know?"
"What became of them?"
"What becomes of all of us," Barnabas answered. "They passed on. Come, the godking awaits."
We walked ceremoniously up the wide, curving stairs of the foyer and past a line of stiff guards in shiny plate, and tabards of white and gold. Up to the terrace of the throne. It was not a large building, at least not this part of it. We waited patiently on the reception terrace while voices rumbled from beyond the curtain. When an attendant came out, we bowed once and then were led inside.
The ceremony was simple. Matthew carried my blade, Emily my revolver. The ceremonial garb of the Paladin was symbolized by a cloak, draped over the Fratriarch's arm. I walked barefoot, in simple linen. The marble floor was cold, and the room smelled like old books and too much incense.
Alexander awaited. He sat on the throne of the Brothers quite casually. Depictions of the Brothers always show them as larger than life, giants among men, their shoulders broad and their faces divine. But he was just a man. An ancient man, and a man of great thought and certitude, and a man who had seen a hundred thousand dawns and raised his sword to a million foes, certainly. But still, just a man.
Alexander's hair was dark, and his brows and lips were heavy. He looked at me with simple brown eyes, but there was a depth to his gaze that weighed on me. We lined up in front of the throne and knelt. When I looked up he was leaning forward slightly, like a bored man who has seen something unique. He raised a cupped hand, and we stood.
"You have brought my fallen brother's latest scion?" he asked.
"We have, Lord." Barnabas put a hand on my shoulder and indicated I should step forward. I did. "Eva, daughter of Forge, Initiate of the Blade. We have examined her, and recommend her for acceptance into the role of Paladin."
"Initiate of the Blade." He stood from his throne. No taller than any other man. No taller than me. But his voice was soft, and carried generations within it. "An unusual choice. A brave choice. It was always my brother's choice, as well."
"You honor me, Lord," I said.
He walked around the four of us, pausing to examine the vestments draped across Barnabas's arm. When he came to the sword, balanced across Matthew's palms, he lifted it and looked down its length before handing it back to Matthew.
"The Grimwield is a hell of a blade, Eva Forge. Even this figment of its dream will serve you well in battle. Have you seen my brother's true blade?"
"Yes, my Lord. I stood my night beside it, meditating on the acts of god Morgan."
"Of course. It is good that you follow the old ways." He returned to the throne, and an aura of fatigue seemed to settle about the room. "More should follow that path. Enrobe her, that she might stand before me."
I knelt, and Barnabas draped the cloak across my shoulders. I turned to Emily, and she presented me with the revolver and belt of bullets, laying them over my arm. Matthew stepped in front of me and presented the hilt of my blade. There were no words to the ceremony, as Morgan took the blade without grand speeches or stirring exultations. He led with actions, and with steel.
Sword in hand, robed and armed, I walked humbly to the feet of Alexander.
"I have never liked war, Eva Forge. That was my brother's calling, and his burden. When he fell, I took the mantle of his vengeance and carried it out. Since then I have offered the final blessing to his initiates in his stead. And so now I offer it to you. Will you serve the Fraterdom, in all your days, against all its enemies?"
"I will."
"Will you carry the sword and the bullet in true faith, protecting the weak, defeating the strong, opposing those who oppose you, standing with those who stand beside you?"
"So have I sworn."
"In faith Morgan raised you, and in faith he has clothed you. Find comfort in the actions of his life, in the deeds of his greatness. Find strength in his memory, and courage in his courage. Remember always his death, and his life."
"His life," my three brothers whispered behind me.
"In all things, honor him. Morgan, god of war and of the hunt, Brother of my Brother, Betrayed by the Betrayer. Stay true to him and he will guide you. Depart him, and he will depart you. Fight for him, and he will fight with you."
"Forever," we said in unison.
"Forever," Alexander answered. He touched his finger to my forehead, and then my sword, and finally my bullistic. He settled into his throne, and the energy went out of him. We left the room quietly, while he stared out the window at the lake. Just as we reached the door, he raised his head and called to me. The others were already in the hall.
"Eva," he said, though so quietly I could barely hear his voice. "Your sword may be Morgan's last. May your blade bear much fruit."
"I… yes, Lord," I answered, and then left. The others gave me curious eyes, but I shrugged.
"He seemed tired," I said.
"Alexander gets like that sometimes," Barnabas said. "Especially when discussing the Betrayal. It saddens him."
"I imagine it saddens Morgan, too," I answered. Matthew grinned, but the others didn't like it so much. We were quiet until we got outside the Spear. I pulled on the boots I had left with the attendant, then wrapped the ceremonial robe more tightly around me.
I told the others what Alexander had said, about my blade possibly being Morgan's last. At the time they chuckled nervously and changed the subject. Later, I thought he was speaking to the general dwindling of the Cult, and the lack of new recruits. He was right in that. No more initiates passed the Rites of the Blade, and very few even entered the path of initiate.
And now there were no more initiates, and no more Cult, but only my blade. The last of Morgan.