The Office of Shadow (58 page)

The Chthonics were a respectable old faith, but hardly relevant in
modern Fae society. Even those who professed the faith tended to downplay
it; many of its adherents acknowledged their gods with a wink, insinuating
that theirs was more of an ancient tradition than a true belief. Weddings and
funerals were often held in Chthonic temples because of their grandiose
beauty. But attendance at holiday services, especially in the cities, had been
in a slow decline for hundreds of years.

When Ironfoot entered the temple, its sanctuary was empty. Smoke from
incense drifted lazily into the still, cool air. Light from pentagonal windows
set high up in the circular space sent shafts of light through the smoke, intersecting in strange geometries.

The smoke from the incense burned Ironfoot's nostrils. It was part of the
smell from Selafae, a distinct part of it, but not all of it.

Ironfoot stood at a railing looking down at the center altar, also five-sided,
which was encircled by rows of pews. Above the altar hovered a glowing, multicolored object, suspended in space, about three feet in diameter. The cynosure.
Directly beneath it was a wide brass bowl, a stylized alchemist's thurible.

Ironfoot made his way down a nearby aisle toward the altar. As he
approached, he saw that the cynosure was a polyhedron, multifaceted, each
face a pentagon. It spun slowly, its various facets casting moving smears of
light in the dim room.

He stopped at the altar and examined the cynosure. It looked solid
enough, not a glamour. A simple binding held it aloft; he didn't need Insight
to tell him that. He channeled Insight into it anyway and found that the
object was made of ceramic, hollow, but what was inside he couldn't determine because of the reitic resonances on it. Whatever the thing was, it had
channeled plenty of re in its time. He couldn't remember having seen one like
it at the wedding he'd attended, but that had been a long time ago.

"Are you Master Falores?" came a voice from the far side of the sanctuary.
A priest about Ironfoot's age was coming down one of the aisles opposite him.

"That's right," said Ironfoot. "I appreciate your taking the time to speak
with me."

"I am Guide Throen," the priest said, bowing. "I am properly addressed
as Guide, if you wish to do me that honor."

"A pleasure," said Ironfoot. "Now, this is going to sound a bit odd, but
I'm in a hurry, and I'm hoping we can skip courtesy and just get down to
business."

"Any way I can help, although your sprite left me a bit confused. Are you
here on behalf of the university, or on behalf of the Foreign Ministry?"

"Which will make you more forthcoming?"

Throen smiled. He had a serious look about him, though, that the smile
didn't temper much. "Either way, I am at your service."

"Thank you," said Ironfoot. "I have some fairly in-depth questions about
your cynosure here; I can't give you much of an explanation for that, but I
can tell you that this is a matter of vital importance to the Crown."

Throen was nonplussed by this. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Just tell me about it, if you'd be so kind."

"The cynosure," he said slowly. "It is the central symbol of the Chthonic
faith."

"Yes. But what is it for?"

Throen looked confused. "It is the mystical dodecahedron. Twelve faces,
one for each of the bound gods. Five sides per face, one for each of earth, air,
fire, water, and re. Twenty vertices to represent the twenty stations of repentance. Thirty vertices to represent the thirty virtues.

"It is placed on the altar during holiday services; one just ended about an
hour ago. I was about to return it to its cabinet just before you arrived."

"It has some rather interesting reitic properties," said Ironfoot. "Can you
tell me what it does?"

Throen faltered. "Its thaumatic aspect is designed to ... heighten the
awareness of the faithful. Some herbs are burnt, a simple mnemonic recited.
That is all."

He was holding something back. "Are you sure?" said Ironfoot. "Because
I'm channeling Insight through it, and it seems a bit more complex than
that."

"Why are you asking these questions?" said Throen, stiffening. "I'm glad
to help the Crown, of course, but this is highly irregular."

Ironfoot wasn't sure how to proceed. It would have been a good idea, in
retrospect, to have brought Sela along with him. "I don't mean any disrespect to you, Guide Throen, but I think there's more to your dodecahedron than
you're telling me, and believe it or not, it may be the most important information you've ever dispensed, so please tell me the truth."

"Are you threatening me?" said Throen.

"No. But I very much need you to tell me the truth."

"These are the deepest mysteries of our faith," said Throen. "It's not the
sort of thing one simply discusses with anyone who walks through the door."

"I'm not just anyone," said Ironfoot. "That's what I'm trying to tell you."

Throen thought briefly, uncertain. "Fine," he said. He reached into his
robe and took out a small prayer book and a packet of herbs. "When the
service begins, these herbs are burned in the thurible, along with a few drops
of blood. The Guide's blood, that is. Mine. The herbs are a combination of
things: some fairly common, others decidedly more rare. We read the incantations here." He opened the book to a well-thumbed page and indicated an
incantation spelled out in angular runic High Fae script. "That activates the
focusing charm."

"This incantation is just a call to a stored binding," said Ironfoot. "What
does it actually do?"

Throen looked confused. "I've already told you; it focuses the reverence
of the faithful."

Ironfoot held up the herbs and sniffed them. The smell, like that at
Selafae. Missing only the added texture of burning blood. What did this
mean?

"Do you even know what the stored bind does?" said Ironfoot.

"I'm not a thaumaturge," said Throen, beginning to lose his temper. "I'm
a Guide. This is a sacred object, not a spellbox."

"I don't think you're going to like this," said Ironfoot. "But I've got to
take your cynosure with me."

"That's impossible!" said Throen. "You can't simply come into this
temple and walk off with our most sacred instruments! This is outrageous!"

Ironfoot reached for the cynosure, removing its Motion enclosure with a
flick of his wrist. The thing fell into his hands; it was much heavier than it
looked.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I truly am, but-"

Throen flung himself at Ironfoot. "Get your hands off of it!" he shouted.
"You are desecrating it!"

Throen grabbed at the cynosure and pulled; he was stronger than he had
any right to be. Ironfoot pulled back. Throen's face was red; he was grunting.

Suddenly Ironfoot was struck by the absurdity of what was happening.
Here he was, in a church, fighting with a priest over a holy relic as if it were
a game ball. He almost laughed, but before he did, Throen shoved him hard,
knocking him off the altar dais and slamming him into the first row of pews.
The sound of the impact echoed like a cannon shot in the huge sanctuary.
Throen was still on him, still pulling at the cynosure as if his life depended
on it.

"Let go!" he shouted.

Ironfoot winced and pulled as hard as he could, throwing all of his
Shadow strength into the motion. The cynosure came free of Throen's grasp,
and Throen fell to the floor.

Ironfoot took the thing and ran.

"You will pay for this obscenity!" Throen shouted. "The Church will sue
the Foreign Ministry for this!"

"Tell them to go after a Lord Everess," said Ironfoot over his shoulder.
"He's the one they want."

A little later, Ironfoot and Silverdun were in the mission room, huddled over
the cynosure. Sela sat on a nearby table, watching.

"Right here," said Ironfoot. "Separate it along this edge." Ironfoot was
getting impatient. He was on to something and he knew it. He watched Silverdun channel Elements carefully into the ceramic enclosure of the object,
splitting it open.

"Careful," he said.

"You mentioned," said Silverdun. "I'm being as careful as I can. If you
think you can do better, by all means be my guest."

Ironfoot looked up to see Pact coming down the steps.

"What are you two doing?" said Pact. "We've got work to do."

"Ironfoot's decided to set off a holy war," said Silverdun. "So we're boldly
desecrating a holy artifact. You might want to let Everess know that if we all
survive the next week, he's going to get a very unpleasant visit from the
Synod of Chthonic Bishops."

"Careful, Silverdun!" snapped Ironfoot.

"Wonderful," said Pact. "And where did we get this artifact?"

"Ironfoot beat up a priest in a Chthonic temple and stole it," said
Silverdun.

"May I ask why?"

"Remember our report from our first visit to Annwn?" asked Ironfoot,
looking up. "When we spoke to Prae Benesile's son, he told us that Hy Pezho
stole something from Prae Benesile. A box. The son didn't know what was in
it, but I'm almost certain that it was one of these-a Chthonic cynosure."

"What good would it have done him?" asked Paet.

"If this relic does what I think it does, it may be the very secret to the
Einswrath," said Ironfoot. "Under better circumstances, this would be the
discovery of a career."

"Well, get on with it then," said Paet. "And Ironfoot, I don't need a
thesis. I just need a way to stop the damn thing."

"I'll write the monograph later," said Ironfoot.

Paet went into his office and shut the door.

Silverdun finished the cut, and Ironfoot removed the ceramic casing.
Inside was one of the most complex thaumatic mechanisms he'd ever seen.
Tiny plates of solid gold and silver sandwiched together, inscribed with
minuscule runes and lines of force. Diamonds were set into these lines. They
were probably reitic capacitors of some kind.

"This is unbelievable," said Ironfoot. "I've never seen anything like it."

"What is it?" said Silverdun.

"I'm not entirely sure," said Ironfoot. He pointed to one of the leaves of
gold. "Look at this. It's a force binding. And this is ... no, that's not
possible."

"What's not possible?"

Silverdun looked closer. "This bit here," said Ironfoot. "What does that
look like to you?"

Silverdun shrugged. "It looks like ancient High Fae that I was never particularly good at deciphering."

"It's the binding for a fold," said Ironfoot. "This thing channels Folding."

"That's ridiculous," said Silverdun. "Only Masters of the Gates can fold,
and it takes years of training. No priest could channel anything useful into
something that small."

"What are you two talking about?" asked Sela.

"The Gift of Folding," said Silverdun. "It's what powers the locks to
travel between worlds. It allows objects and energy to pass through the folded
spaces."

"But the Gift is extraordinarily rare," said Ironfoot. "Almost no one has
it, and those that do are immediately snapped up by the Masters of the
Gates."

"And look here," said Ironfoot, pointing again. "These figures specify the
target for a translation." He paused. "I think."

Ironfoot separated a few more of the thin leaves from the device. At the
center was a tiny mesh of silver, of threads so narrow that they were barely
visible.

"And what is that?" asked Silverdun.

Ironfoot channeled Insight into the mesh. He couldn't believe what he
saw there. It was the same sensation he'd gotten when Lin Vo had responded
to Timha's attack. The same impossible, unchanneled essence. The music
without pitch. Division by zero.

"Well?" said Silverdun.

"It's undifferentiated essence," said Ironfoot.

"The Thirteenth Gift," said Silverdun.

"It's not a Gift," said Ironfoot. "It's beyond Gifts. It makes the Gifts
obsolete."

"So?" said Sela. "What does it mean?"

"I have an idea," said Ironfoot. He'd never been more excited in his life.
What Lin Vo had said to him in the Arami camp was beginning to make
sense. You're all going to have to learn how to think things anew.

"Give me a little time," he said. "I think I understand. Everything."