Chapter 120 – The Ninth Binding

The antimagic surge had broken two of the glyphs inside the levitation wand, so they took the narrow stairs that spiraled around the inside of the basilica dome, with Mirian helping guide the frail pontiff. He was still more dejected than scared as they descended.

When they arrived in the upper chamber, several Arcane Praetorians and Luminate Guards waited for them, wands raised and pistols drawn.

“Step away from His Holiness,” one of them demanded.

Pontiff Oculo looked at Mirian, then back at the guards. “I have proclaimed her a Prophet,” he said at last.

A stunned silence settled over the room. Then, Mirian took a step forward.

“Kneel before the Sixth Prophet,” Oculo said.

One by one, they knelt.

Mirian churned with a thousand feelings. She still felt lingering contempt for Oculo and all the crimes he must be behind, but at the same time it felt surreal to watch all these people kneel for her. It was like she was watching someone else, or like a moment in a dream where things became too improbable to be real.

But here she was, and they knelt for her. We’ll settle the doctrinal differences about which number Prophet I am later, she thought sardonically.

Soon enough, Mirian was down in the main chamber. Four Luminate Guards had fetched a massive grimoire, which they carried on a litter and set down on the table with great ceremony. The cover of the book was made with the scaled leather of a drake, and all along the outside were glowing glyphs of preservation and reinforcement.

As soon as Oculo opened it though, she gasped. Hundreds of pages had been torn out of the book. It was sacrilegious in more ways than one.

“What happened?”

“The Church split,” Pontiff Oculo said, tracing his fingers gently along the binding. “Then there was war, and many things that were known to be true became inconvenient. The Grimoire of Light was supposed to compile all the knowledge of the Prophets, but little remains of that.”

“And the Ninth Binding is there?”

“No. It has never been committed to paper. The archbishops know different halves of it, in case a pontiff passes before it can be passed down, but only I know the whole thing. But it has the runes you need to know and practice. It will take some time to—”

“I know those eight,” she said, pointing to the open page. “I just need those five.”

He stared at her, then said, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Over the next few days, Mirian learned as much as she could. While the Luminate Guard stood watch, they brought her runes to study, and repositories that had been protected in vaults within the palace to use for practice. Mirian memorized both the rune formations and how the vaults could be opened. When Oculo tired, different archbishops would take his place.

“How is the process for a new Prophet supposed to go?” she asked Oculo on the evening of the 3rd of Duala.

“There’s a long history you should be told of your predecessors, but much of it was lost, and if the hour is as late as you say, there will be little time to teach you it this cycle. Suffice to say, the previous Prophets had far more time. Decades, not days. There was time for slow consideration, since anointing a Prophet is not something one should do lightly. How many times…?”

“This is the hundredth,” Mirian said.

A chill settled over the room. The Luminate Guards who were present shifted, and Oculo shivered. “Something has gone wrong, then.”

Mirian decided not to mention the Cult of Zomalator or the other Prophets, but that something had gone wrong was obvious. “I need to know more about the conspiracy,” she said. “I can’t stop this cataclysm if I’m busy dealing with Baracuel being invaded.”

Oculo ground his teeth, looking miserable. Finally, he said, “I know less than you think I might. My family did indeed ally with the Corrmiers and the Sacristars, but I was only told my part, and what would result. I thought it would be for the greater good.”

And the greater good of your families, with the other noble families’ assets ready to pilfer, she thought. “Who is pulling the strings?”

“No one,” Oculo said. “Or at least, not one person. There’s hundreds of puppeteers, and thousands of strings. I never met with the others directly. Other people did that for me. The Order liaisons with Director Arturus Castill, so I’m sure much has been passed along that way. As pontiff, I am no longer allowed to attend the gatherings of the nobility; I gave up that name when I ascended. But from time to time, I would see my former family members, and each of us would make their wishes known. You will never find people meeting in a dark room, only ten thousand little conversations as the interests of people slowly align.”

Of course, it could never be simple, Mirian thought. But that’s twice I’ve heard Arturus’s name. Sulvorath is sending him letters, which means that not all these ‘puppeteers’ are equal.

“It is less a conspiracy and more an inevitability. It is the nature of an empire to grow. Akana Praediar has surpassed Baracuel, its former master. There was always going to be conflict. With preparation and coordination, the conflict could be made short and merciful, as Shiamagoth demanded. If the Luminate Order is allowed to re-merge with the Church of the Ominian, the centralized nature of the Luminates would prevail over the decentralized Church. Baracuel would become a part of the Akana’s republic and shed its outdated monarchy, and the Luminates would stand as a pillar that supports the whole.”

“And the sacrifice of Torrviol, an army, and thousands of people was the price you were willing to pay. My friends. My teachers. Me.”

Oculo clenched his jaw. “Better that than an extended conflict. Look at the endless wars in Persama and Zhighua. Look at what happened during the split, and then the Unification War! War is like uncaging Carkavakom. Far better to keep our hands on the wheel of Xylatarvia’s ship and steer humanity through the stormy waters of history.”

“But why would the Akanans stop? Their Prime Minister is assassinated. They’ve all been told the magical eruptions are our doing.”

“The assassin would have been traced back to a small group of radicals. With their weapon of terror captured, the threat would be nullified, and the group would be caught and executed. General Corrmier, with the help of Parliament, would broker a quick peace. The Akanans would be satiated. Baracuel would heal.”

Mirian couldn’t help but feel that the plan Pontiff Oculo was talking about was too neat and easy, even without the apocalypse interrupting it. After all, the Akanans were ordered to capture the Divine Monument, but Marshal Cearsia always destroyed it. Would the conquering commanders of the Akanan army really stop?

“What about the war to the south, with Persama?”

“An unexpected setback. But Persama hasn’t been united in centuries. Any time a leader rises there, they inevitably taste the assassin’s blade, and then it’s back to all the warlords and small sovereigns warring with each other. Eventually, we could bring them back to the one true Order of the Ominian, and the world would know peace.”

Stolen story; please report.

“And what of Zhighua?”

“They will bow to civilization eventually.”

Anger flashed through Mirian, but she suppressed it. People like Jei don’t need ‘civilizing,’ she thought, but she also knew she was talking to someone who was set in his prejudiced ways of thinking. And as Nicolas would point out, how nice that he, Pontiff Oculo, would end up at the top, where history might record him as the great uniter.

Perhaps his plan would have worked, but she doubted it.

“Did any of the Prophets make allusions to… other Prophets they had visions of? Ones that shared their journey?”