Manifest (The Darkening Trilogy) (15 page)

Ever so briefly, I ponder the circle I traveled from my youthful ignorance to my wiser agedness regarding that place in the distance.  Then, so far back in years, I called it the power lane.  I called it thusly because it was its name.  Undarkened know it as nothing else.  Then I became a sentiner and for many, many years I referred to that curious place as
the cell
.  I would perch hereabouts and watch it from a distance, till the sun rose and fell, and rose and fell again.  I would study it endlessly, till the birds came to nest nearby, so accustomed to my unmoving presence they mistook me for a portion of the church itself.  And even time and again, I would lead an expedition to its very boarder.  But never, never, did I make the connection.  So simply he replied to me with his innocent eyes when one evening I happened to mention it.

“Oh.  Like bars, Miquel?”

His word’s struck me like a blow and I staggered, recalling the horizon as vividly then as I see it now before my open eyes.  Endless smoke stacks from coal plants connecting the ground to the smoggy clouds.  How relative my ignorance had been.  Since knowing Ezra I have returned to calling it the power lane, though perhaps not for being informed, but for being afraid to nonchalantly utter a word so chillingly apropos.

Never before this night past have I seen anything emerge from the power
lane while my boots still tread upon Gothican soil.  Never has the wickedness entrenched there ventured in – least of all at
me
.  But I am prepared to wait as long as it takes to see if another of those creatures, like the one which attacked me, emerges from the coal plants. 

But aloft.  What’s that?  A crow in the sky above?  It circles, d
oes it not?  And there, upon its leg.  I can see something tethered, even through this torrent of precipitation.  I must follow this quarry.  My legs stiffen as I rise and despite my intimidating height and generous girth, I keep my balance along the buttress and begin to follow this bird.  Across my churches I stride, adding character to many as my boots leave cracks and my shoulders crumple through the stone.  Perhaps I may return to repair these bits, but for now, I
must
reach this fowl and my churches will simply have to bear my load. 

Curious.  The bird knows I pursue it and yet it has chosen to rest upon that cross.  And now, as I approach it slowly, it hops clumsily down to the base of the steeple, unafraid where not a few moments ago, it seemed to be fleeing for its life.  A strange creature indeed
. As it flies away, climbing high into the rolling purple clouds leaving behind what I suspected it carried all along.

A blank piece of parchment sits in a tight coil with a scarlet ribbon wrapped around its center.  Could it be? 

Red Scroll! 

A Reckoning?

†
CaptainCassandr
a
†

M
arley Ranico.  I read the tombstone to myself for the millionth time.  No dates, no effigy, no eulogy, just the name on an arched slab.  My feet must be sinking into the ground; I’ve been here for nearly half an hour.  It isn’t raining, but it’s just after a good downpour and the cemetery smells like wet pollen. 

In my hands is a bouquet of amaranth bulbs and anemone blossoms.  I grip the stems hard, squeezing nectar from them until it oozes out between each of my angry fingers.  I think back to him, the way he would touch my face.  His eyes could look into mine and see more than I could ever know about even myself.

But he’s dead.  I open my hand and let the flowers drop, then wipe the excess goo on my windbreaker.  I feel my hip through the clothing and am startled at how thin I’ve gotten.

The car is on the other side of the cemetery and I slowly walk through the mossy grave yard, running my hands on all the tombstones I pass.  I’m lost somewhere between my old life and my new one, wanting neither, existing in neither.

Taurus sits in the car.  He pouts.  Tonight we’ll have sex, and he’ll feel placated.  It will be rough, animal sex, like it always is.  He won’t kiss me, and his eyes will be elsewhere.  It will be an act of dominance, not love.

When he’s done, and I’ve showered, he’ll ask me about becoming an auxilia.  He’ll know I’m weak now.  And I am.  So very weak.  I’ll tell him yes.  And when we fall asleep I’ll put my back up against him and pretend he’s Marley.  And I’ll try not to shudder as I cry and fall asleep.

I get in the car and start to redo my makeup.  There’s something about putting on lip-gloss and eyeliner that makes any girl’s face look emotionless, even if my golden eyes are streaked with mascara.

“Cassandra?” Taurus says.

“Yeah, uh-huh, what?”

He sneers at me.  “Are you done?”

I can’t hide my contempt for him.  “You can drive while I do this.”

Suddenly a crow, which was perched on a willow tree in the cemetery, flies down and lands on the hood of the car.  It hops right up to the glass and lowers a small piece of paper down from its beak.

“What the?”  Taurus goes to shoo it away.  It cocks its head at him and then chooses to leave.

I get out of the car and pick up the paper.  Dear god, Delano, what have you done now…

†
Delan
o
†

I
’ve had no physical contact with the other sentiners since they arrived in Central Gothica.  Just the usual methods of code and espionage.  My fear is that any large unsecured gathering would be too dangerous.   

“How much longer?” Sabetha asks me, looking out the rain streaked window.  She’s unusually apprehensive about this reckoning.  We’ll be separated only by a few blocks and a small black fence but what that distance represents is far greater.  At least she won’t be alone.  Every auxilia will be waiting outside, even the ilk ones remaining in the safe houses out of compassion for their comrades who cannot enter Neo Square. 

“Tomorrow,” I reply softly.  I am stretching myself out into the consciousness keeping a close eye on our surroundings.  Sabetha looks back into the window, a crack of thunder rumbling through the streets.

H
ow do I look?” I ask Sabetha, presenting myself.

She doesn’t feel like joking right now, but makes an effort.  “Like royalty.”

I give her a smirk and smooth over my vest, sticking out my chest regally and looking myself over in the mirror.  My black, knee-length leather boots are polished, my double breasted overcoat and under it, doublet, are buttoned, and my frilly white shirt is fluffed.  It’s quite a ridiculous getup, what with the coat tails and shoulder-boards, but I have to wear it for ceremony’s sake.  Personally I would prefer my black
colonnade
suit with a pale blue tie, but at least I get to wear a trench coat.  It’s ankle-length brown leather with a cheek-bone high collar.  The sleeves end in absurdly enormous cuffs and a mock-cape drapes down off the shoulders, front and back, forming two layers to the jacket.  It hardly seems like the kind of thing to wear to a clandestine meeting, but the suits actually act as kharmatic camouflage and so long as we do nothing to provoke attention while wearing them, we appear however we need to appear to be unnoticed by others. 

Sabetha helps me into the coat and then steps back to make sure everything is in place.

“Don’t forget your token.”

“Thanks,” I say as she hands me the small item.  I place it inside my vest with an affectionate tap.  The token is the symbol with which a sentiner votes at a reckoning.  Each sentiner is given one upon initiation and we use it like one would a paddle at an auction, raising it to signify a “yes.”  It is a personal reflection of who we are and how we operate as sentiners.  Miquel, Captain of West Gothica, has a paint brush, Cassandra,  Captain of South Gothica, a black rose, and Corbin, Captain of North Gothica, a can of spray-paint. 

Mine is a small box of matches. 

“I’ll see you soon,” I say to Sabetha reassuringly, placing the three pointed hat atop my head and then heading for the exit.  Stepping outside the front door and pulling the high collar up to my eyes, I spot another sentiner leaving a nearby safe house.  Shrinking into my shoulders I step out from under the safety of the building and brave the torrential rains, boots splashing through the half flooded streets.  From all around Neo Square we are converging, but something is wrong.  There are too few of us. 

I hasten my pace and abandon the sidewalk to head straight for the emerald rim.  Cyncurity, which provides Hyperion security, is well aware of this night’s significance and so side-hopping the black fence is tolerated.  On either side, a few hundred yards apart, five more Sentiners make their way across the black barrier.

Pantheon Theatre is in the distance, flood lights aimed at the columns and piedmont, illuminating the stone and marble giant surrounded by the glowing glass and steel towers of Neo Gothica.  In the plaza in front of the theatre, a crowd of men and women with their hands in their pockets and heads down, jog through puddles to the safety of the monstrous building.  More are inside and more will arrive soon.  I hope.

No one speaks as we funnel through the front doors, the two Cyncurity elites in suits and trench coats standing on either side, cold and unmoving.  I can already sense the anxiety, the multitude of minds brimming with stories and urgency.  I pass through the small lobby and enter the theatre, finding my seat in the front row and then waiting patiently for everyone else to find theirs. 

The building is such that the massive domed ceiling comes to its equator just where the top and back row of seats begins.  The rest of the seating follows the lower form of a sphere
, and at the very bottom is a raised circular platform that acts as Pantheon Theatre’s stage.  Directly overhead is the oculus, a cut-out in the coffered ceiling which lets in light during the day.  For members of the Hyperion, the oculus offers a glimpse into the sky beyond the clouds where we can gaze upon the stars, moon and sun.  Lightning flutters, casting blue shadows over the theatre and though rain enters through the hole, it never lands within, evaporating mysteriously somewhere during the fall.

It’s getting late but everyone is hesitant to begin.  We are short twenty-five sentiners who should have already arrived.  It would be the most ever to be unaccounted for during a Reckoning and no one will dare speak this fact aloud.  I sigh and join the others in hoping they arrive late.

The lights dim and a chord from unseen stringed instruments plays.  It has a particular significance, a cue.  Damnit.  I thought maybe we would dispense with ceremony due to the urgency of this reckoning, but apparently not.  I rise and, to my sides, stand the other three captains, Corbin, Miquel and Cassandra.  In unison we square our corners and walk down to the small path that connects the stage to the dressing areas for the actors.  Above us, as we leave the sphere, is a special tinted glass box, rented out to wealthy patrons during normal shows and the booth for the Hyperion Council members during Reckonings.

I walk with my left arm cradled regally across my stomach and my right shoulder against Corbin’s left.  He feels awkward in our official uniform and it shows.  Behind us is Miquel, captain of West Gothica, who looks like he pioneered this fashion, and Cassandra, captain of Sout
h Gothica who far from androgynous looks exquisite wearing this masculine uniform.

When we get to the end of the hall, I turn left and Corbin turns right, Miquel following me and Cassandra following Corbin.  We meet at the top of the sweeping double stair cases where the five council members wait – decrepit, wrinkled, papery old figures draped in black velvet robes and darkness.  We four captains integrate into their line of five and take their arms, leading them to their seats in the booth.  Once this
honor
is complete, we return to our seats hurriedly and await the next phase.  

The council members speak from their booth and we, from the audience, echo.

“Observe and learn,

              Do not interfere.

Wisdom hampers rash action,

              Seeing is our survival, action is our downfall.

There is always more to learn,

              More to see.  More to know.

Our quest is never ending,

              There is no final answer.

Only questions

Only knowledge

Salvation through knowledge.

              Knowledge is salvation.”

“Have the cupolas any amendments?” The council asks. Cassandra, speaker for the cupolas, the sentiners who are jacks-of-all-knowledge, stands and says, “No amendments, High Council.”

“Have the propriats any amendments?” Miquel, speaker for the propriats, the sentiners who specialize in a specific area of study, stands and answers for them.   “None, High Council.”

“Are there any new initiates?”  We four stand and drone in unison.  “No, High Council.” 

“Captain Delano.  You have been patient thus far.  What is your reason for bringing us here ahead of schedule?”

I stand, bow to them, to the other sentiners, and then step up onto the circular stage.  I begin, slowly at first, “As we can all see, there are…” the final count, “thirty-five sentiners not with us tonight.  Is there anyone who can account for any of the missing?”