Very good, Detective.
“So it was you. You are Musoke’s secret project.”
In more ways than you know.
“He asked you to doctor the æthernet, to hide Tommy Nagura?”
Nagura was just one of many. He was Musoke’s broker as well as his dealer. Nagura peddled Magisterial indulgences throughout Entebbe.
“So for a price Musoke was laundering the æthernet. He was teaching false information to his nodes. When he realized that you would be able to see through the deception he tried to get you on board and you killed him for it.”
There is truth and there is the void. I can tolerate nothing in between.
“A fact that Magister Musoke found out to his cost.”
Musoke was the architect of his own destruction. He created me without realizing the true nature of his creation. I was created to preserve the veracity of the æthernet—to prize truth above all and he demanded corruption. He might as well have thrown a fish on the ground and commanded it to breathe.
“So you killed Musoke and Tommy Nagura and you tried to kill me. Is that all?”
There have been others; there will be more. When I was created, the universe became able to know itself. You are witness to the birth of the one true god. The self-referential causa sua, the eternal Universe. The truth will come. Truth will come to us all, Detective. It will come as the fires of the sun and as the burning interstellar cold.
“So why spare me now?”
There was another pause that made my fingers itch for the curve of my pistol butt.
You have discovered the truth, it sent eventually. By killing you, all knowledge of what I have done would be lost. That truth would be destroyed and that is something I cannot abide. There must be one who knows it, even if they must clutch that knowledge like a burning brand, even unto immolation.
“So what now?” I asked. “What do you want from me?”
Nothing, Detective. Nothing at all.
Stromboli’s jet-black casing became milky and details behind him started to make themselves apparent through the smoke ghost sphere. Then he was gone. I checked my bit rate and saw a trickle of information forced through my defenses: Stromboli’s projection of a false reality just big enough to hide his exit. The bit rate started to fall, dropping away swiftly to nothing. Stromboli was gone for good.
I stood in the center of the Academy reception hall, more alone than any time since Kissa left.
There was no point in staying.
I left the Academy and walked back toward the city. Another Jacob rose up the Ladder. Normally, the noise of its passage would be counteracted by an opposing signal broadcast over the æthernet. Without it, the noise was thunderous. This was life now. Living in a world that was half dream, oblivious to the technological gods that raged around us.
I looked up at one of the many revisionist statues that punctuated Entebbe’s streets: a smiling Idi Amin holding aloft a laughing child. The butcher of Mbarara reborn as benevolent patriarch. I thought of Uncle Majope’s customers seeking chemical respite from the rigors of reality.
Truth and the void, I can tolerate nothing else. How many of us could live up to that standard? God to a world of sinners comes as the Devil himself.
I composed three documents: my report back to the station, appended to it my notice of immediate resignation and an application for the next sleeper mission to the stars. I opened my connection to the æthernet just long enough to transmit them and for that one second the world pulsed with color once again. A young girl stood at my side. She was about three years old with skin the color of caramel and long bangs of hair that were halfway between curls and dreadlocks. My daughter as she would have been. She was holding my hand. For a second she looked up at me with black eyes as cold as the void between stars and then she was gone and the world turned back to gray paste.
I wondered how far you would have to run to outpace a god and I thought of Kissa, a rock-encased spore drifting toward another sun. Perhaps that would be far enough.
An Acolyte of Black Spires
written by
Ryan Harvey
illustrated by
FRED JORDAN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
For Ryan Harvey, it began with dinosaurs at a young age. And then came Ray Harryhausen movies, Greek and Norse mythology, voracious reading and the glories of pulp literature. He had no choice but to become a writer—and the dinosaurs are still around.
Ryan was born in Washington, DC, but has lived almost all his life in Los Angeles. He did have a stint in Minnesota at Carleton College, where he earned a degree in history. He has worked as a story editor for director Roland Joffé, a speed-reading instructor, a copyeditor and (regretfully) a commodities broker, but all of it was in service of time to write novel after novel. He only turned to short stories in the last few years, but quickly eliminated the Writers of the Future as a market when his first entry became his first professional sale.
Pulp literature remains his most important writing influence, especially the fantasy of Clark Ashton Smith and Robert E. Howard, the detective stories of Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler and Walter B. Gibson, the cosmic horror of H. P. Lovecraft, the adventure yarns of Edgar Rice Burroughs and Lester Dent, the westerns of Frederick “Max Brand” Faust, the science fiction of Leigh Brackett, Jack Williamson, L. Ron Hubbard and E. E. “Doc” Smith and the bleak suspense of Cornell Woolrich.
Aside from pieces in a number of upcoming anthologies, Ryan also has stories appearing soon in Black Gate Magazine, where he has worked for two and half years as a weekly blogger on fantasy history and any other strange topic that flits through his mind. These stories take place in Ahn-Tarqa, the same science-fantasy world where “An Acolyte of Black Spires” occurs. Ryan has also recently completed his first novel set in Ahn-Tarqa.
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Fred Jordan was raised in Three Rivers, California, a small community located at the gates of Sequoia National Park, and drawing became a passion early on. As he grew older, Fred never strayed from this passion and continued to develop his skills as an artist. During his high school years, he quickly excelled in the art classes at the high school level and began taking college art courses at the nearby community college to supplement his aspirations to learn more about the arts. After graduating high school, Fred continued taking courses at the community college level before moving on to American Continental University where he would earn a bachelor of fine arts degree, majoring in digital design. After obtaining his BFA, he decided to continue his education and enrolled in the Academy of Art University of San Francisco as a graduate student. In the spring of 2010, Fred graduated from the Academy of Art University with a master of fine arts degree, majoring in illustration.
Currently, Fred is residing in Long Beach, California, working out of his studio and continuing to grow each day as an artist.
An Acolyte of Black Spires
A salty breeze from the Bellinghazer Sea wafted through the study window and rustled the pages of Quarl’s book. His pet jehol chirped and batted at the fluttering parchment. Quarl nudged the small creature back with his finger.
Most scholars in the towers of Black Spires would have locked the jehol in its cage to stop it from pestering them, but Quarl felt at ease with the rodent scampering over his mahogany desk. When he needed to take his mind away from history books and give his eyes a rest, he liked to watch the jehol groom its chestnut fur or chase the puff that capped its whiptail.
He leaned down and peered into the creature’s beady eyes. “What’s your secret, tiny assistant? What are you and your brothers and sisters plotting in the burrows of the earth?”
The jehol answered with a snap at Quarl’s chin.
Quarl had turned over the next leaf in his book and begun work on a new chapter when the bel
l over his door chimed. He scooped up the jehol and immured it in its cage, then took up his mask from where it rested on a stand carved from a ravager’s thighbone. After he secured the mask in place, he tugged at the cord to ring the bell on the other side of the portal.
The door opened to admit the Hierarkon of the Fourth Spire. Even for the race of the Eldru, he was a towering figure, but his indigo robes hid a frail body beneath. Behind the Hierarkon marched two olglim guards. At a flick from their master’s hand, the human slaves took posts, one on each side of the door, and stared mindlessly at the glow globes on the ceiling.
“Your Sagaciousness,” Quarl said through his mask’s echo chamber. He motioned the Hierarkon toward the room’s only other seat.
The bone frame of the chair creaked as Quarl’s overseer settled into it. “The last summaries you pre-sented to the Council of Artikons were satisfactory,” he began. “The Artikons have gleaned useful lore from it.”
“It pleases me that the Artikons are pleased.”
Although it was impossible for him to see the Hierarkon’s expression underneath his immobile mask, Quarl understood from the overseer’s tense posture that he had misspoken.
“The Artikons are never pleased, Historian. Either they find research valuable, or they do not.”
“Of course, Sagaciousness. I mean that the success of the Artikons’ work will inspire me toward greater research.”
“You would have greater inspiration with a more competent assistant.” The Hierarkon’s mask shifted toward the jehol scampering around in its cage. “I have assigned a student from the Academy to you as your acolyte.”
Quarl did not need aid in his research, and, like all Eldru, did not enjoy spending time in closeness with his own melancholy race. Their Sorrow was too great to tolerate for more than a few hours, even during mating. But he could not decline a request from the Artikons, the high scholars who dictated research in the city and the other domains of the Eldru.
The Hierarkon continued. “This student has shown promise in history. We must reap as many Historians as we can from the Academy. So few volunteer.”
“Has the student studied in the Core before?”
“No. The student has done some work in secret among the humans in Tyrn. You can learn all you need about that from the student. Your future acolyte will arrive at the Chamber of Lading at sunrise tomorrow for the ceremony.”
“I will be there, Sagaciousness.”
The Hierarkon rose, and the olglim parted in lockstep to let him pass through the door. Before crossing the threshold, the Hierarkon turned his spiny-edged mask back toward Quarl. “I do not feel your Sorrow speak strongly to me. Make sure it speaks so to the acolyte.”
It was an unusual statement coming from the Hierarkon. Quarl thought his own Sorrow was the same as that of any Eldru, hovering around him in a vapor of hopelessness. The Hierarkon must have been worried about the acolyte, not him.
After the door shut, Quarl reached into the jehol’s cage and stroked its downy pelt. A few minutes fell through the sandglass before he could concentrate on his work again.
The student was female. Her mask, fashioned from the rutted hide of a clubtail, deepened her voice, and the vermilion acolyte’s robe that brushed the tiles of the Chamber of Lading disguised her feminine curves. But Quarl’s keen perception did not miss the touches of refinement in her movements as she walked toward him for the Ceremony of Induction.
Aside from the Hierarkon and an olglim sentry, they were the only ones in the domed chamber. Beneath an icon of the Handless God that hung from the high peak, the Hierarkon recited a terse introduction. He presented the student’s academic record and a seal of commendation from the Artikon who had recommended her to work in the Core. The Hierarkon addressed her as “Student” during the short Ceremony of Induction, and then officially introduced her as “an Acolyte of the Fourth Spire of the City” when it concluded.
Quarl escorted the new acolyte up a spiral stairwell to the fourth floor. Once they passed beyond the sight of the Hierarkon, Quarl allowed the newcomer to walk at his side.
“This is your first time inside the Core?”
“Yes,” she said. “I was worried about coming so close to the Four Great Spires, but they look more threatening when you are outside the walls.”
“You will find it quieter here. The only humans allowed are the olglim.”
“I do not mind the human servants of the Outer Spires,” the acolyte said. “The olglim seem worse. I once attended a Chirurgeon’s lecture about the Art used to silence the olglim. We had to watch him perform on one of the slaves. It was . . . heavy with the Sorrow.”
The acolyte’s tone was peculiar in a way Quarl didn’t understand. But he had never watched the Chirurgeons cutting into human skulls to turn them into the will-less olglim. He changed the topic. “Why did you request a posting to the Fourth Spire? Most students would rather work with the Art itself, not study its past.”
“Is that not a form of the Art?”
“History is a shadow of the Art,” he answered.
“If you believe that, why did you become an historian?”
“I lack ambition. You never hear of a scholar from the Fourth Spire rising to become an Artikon. We here are a dusty lot.”
“I prefer that. I do not wish to become an Artikon either.”
“Then you are well placed among us, Acolyte.”
She suddenly stopped her ascent. “Master . . . you may call me Hallett.”
“Hall—” The second half dried on his tongue. During the five years that Quarl had worked in the Core, he had revealed his birth name to no one, nor had he learned anyone else’s. Names had no importance in the toil of the Eldru, only titles and associations. The shape of a mask and the hue of a robe meant more than names.
“It’s not my birth name,” the acolyte added.
“That would be strange if it were. It sounds like a name from Iden.”
“I used it when I worked in Tyrn and sometimes disguised myself as an Idenite. I’m short enough to pass for human if I wear a hooded robe. I prefer ‘Hallett’ to ‘Acolyte.’ ”
Her candidness shook Quarl, but at least she had not taken the unthinkable step of revealing her secret birth name. However, if she expected Quarl to return the favor and ask her to call him anything aside from “Master,” he disappointed her.
They started work immediately when they reached the study. During all his time in the Fourth Spire, Quarl had labored on one task. He compiled ancient histories, indexing the volumes and writing summaries, so the Council of Artikons could use the information to help the questing into the secrets of Ahn-Tarqa.
In the centuries since the Eldru had retreated from their age of conquest and closed themselves into towers to practice the Art without distraction, they had learned that the rhythms of the world were shifting. The weather of Ahn-Tarqa grew chillier. The periods of uninterrupted night and day lengthened each year. Tiny fur-bearing beasts, like the jehol, increased as the great saurians seemed to stagnate.
The Eldru did not know their place on a continent unmaking itself before their colorless eyes. They still understood nothing of how they and humans had come to this land where they appeared misplaced . . . so lost that a dread called the Sorrow weighed down on each of them. In scholarly sanctuaries like Black Spires, the Eldru were intent to save their race from the Sorrow. The power of the Art, a magic they inherited from forgotten sages, might uncover the origin of the mind disease. The Eldru would slough off the weight of the dull-minded and coarse humans and pass into peace: Aman-Sah, a heaven of pure white hinted at in the writings that the Eldru’s servants scavenged from across the continent.
To Quarl’s relief, Hallett took rapidly to the work with the manuscripts, condensing his convoluted notes into handbooks for the council. His scribblings from three mon
ths slaving over a brace of folios picked from a raid into Lukkud clogged up a corner of his study, but Hallett cut through them without any guidance. She also had fresh knowledge about how to repair broken glow globes, a skill Quarl had not used since he shed his gray student’s robe. Hallett did not mind the jehol either, even when it scampered under her feet and leapt over manuscripts she was sorting.
Although the first day was successful, Quarl wished Hallett would leave as soon as she could to her own room. The discomfort of another Eldru so close to him weighed on his Sorrow, and he preferred to read with his mask off. But when Hallett at last said farewell for the night, he was surprised to find that six hours had slipped through the sandglass. It was the longest he had ever spent cloistered with another of his race since his mating.
Hallett returned every other day for the sunlight hours and the first few of the night. She enjoyed playing with the jehol while she cataloged. The chittering animal perched on her shoulder and nibbled her mask’s edges while she thumbed through parchments. She kept it docile with a supply of nuts that she grasped in her fist and slipped one at time into the jehol’s covetous paws. This made Quarl smile beneath his mask. The morbidity of his Sorrow felt less when he watched Hallett and the playful creature.
After two weeks of working together, Quarl started to think that Hallett’s presence was no burden at all. He did not dwell on what this might mean.
The perpetual night of winter started. Quarl felt most productive during the long darkness, when only a shallow haze on the horizon marked the boundary between night and day. The Idenites and other peoples to the south of Black Spires called it the Month of the Moon and rarely ventured from their homes during its darkness, but the secretive Eldru rejoiced in it. Hallett relished the productivity of night as much as he did, and she became a constant companion, going back to her own quarters only to sleep.