Chapter 235 – Whispers of Dead Gods and Old Spirits

The descent down the stairs started as a solemn one, the drama of it only slightly ruined by Jherica’s heavy breathing.

“Teaching and research never involved much exercise, I’m afraid,” they said apologetically. “My knees are killing me.”

Mirian cast a quick healing spell on them. “If you progress enough in soul magic, Rostal in Palendurio could teach you dervish forms that could help.”

Xecatl gave Mirian a quizzical look. “Mirian, what was the purpose of that spell?”

“Healing,” she said. “Why?”

“You are aware that healing injuries requires specific constructions—you would say rune sequences—to avoid negative side effects, right? That appeared to be raw soul energy.”

“Hmm? I think the cultists I learned from mentioned that, but it hasn’t been a problem.”

Xecatl raised an eyebrow, then looked back at one of the nagual who were following them. “Elder Ocelo, can you expound upon that subject for me?”

“Yes, Emperor,” the nagual in question said, stepping forward with a bow. “Uncontrolled soul energy, even when properly converted and aligned with the subject’s soul, can, over time, cause physical erosion of tissues. Each injection also increases the likelihood of the development of tumors. Some tumors can be excised, but other tumors are resilient, and still others can spread. The long term prognoses for subjects repeatedly exposed to raw soul energy is poor.” She finished, bowed again, then resumed her place in the line of nagual behind them.

“They manifest purely as physical problems, though, yes?”

“Yes.”

Mirian shrugged. “Then it’s not a problem. I’ve been doing that on myself for over a decade. The cycle resets it.”

Xecatl frowned. “It’s bad practice,” she grumbled in a very unemperor-like way.

Then the solemnity returned as they neared Xylatarvia’s body.

From the valley, it was impossible to tell that the spires and cliffs of jade resembled a humanoid shape. They loomed high, shining brilliantly in the light.

The first building they encountered was another shrine, also with a fountain. Xecatl recited another set of prayers, and a nagual used a control water spell to wash the Emperor’s hands and feet. There was more praying; Mirian caught the meaning of only a handful of words. Then, they proceeded past the shrine.

There was a workshop set up for masonry, as well as cuts of focus jade and half-finished pieces. Currently, it was abandoned. How much have they taken? And what happened to the other Gods?

There were at least three other types of god-stone used in focuses. There was the white stone with red veins used by the Cult of Zomalator. They painted Them dead. But what happened to the rest of the body? There was the silver-gray stone of the focus she wore now. Who did that come from? Last was the black focus stone that her father used. Most of that had been deliberately destroyed after the fall of the Triarchy. Does that mean three Gods died? Four? A chill went through her. Everyone knew about the Gods’ War. It was taught in sing-song tones in schools to children, then in more subdued tones to anyone who went to preparatory school. Priests spoke of it in their sermons. And yet, a part of her had never reckoned with the idea of it. She had known there had been a terrible war, that it had caused the Cataclysm and nearly wiped humanity from existence, but she had thought all the Elder Gods they worshiped had survived it. Priests spoke of the Ominian’s sacrifice, but then they also spoke of Their life.

Here, as they approached a giant slab of jade, it sank in. How many of the Gods died for us?

Then, another thought.

She remembered—from those strange soul-fragments she’d seen at the bottom of the Mahatan Oasis—the world erupting into fire. The mage who’d sacrificed himself to shut the Gate down. Entire cities, pulverized. Entire countrysides, turned molten. The world upended.

How many people died for us?

Those people had lost everything.

They’d kept going. It was their sacrifice too that was the reason she was alive. That any of them were. It was a humbling thought; some person’s long-forgotten heroism meant she could draw breath. It demanded humility of her.

She felt another wave of sorrow pass through her.

Then she was looking up at Xylatarvia—or part of Her. Even this colossal corpse of stone was a fragment of what She was—and what She had been. She looked up at the jade cliff before her, then, tentatively, she reached out her hand and reverently placed it on the stone.

***

The whispers were fragments. Incomplete thoughts. Like a voice that was too faint to hear, no matter how she strained. A distant image, too far to make out.

At first, she struggled to force something understandable from what she could feel. Then, she relaxed, and waited.

For the longest time, there was nothing. The minutes dragged by into hours.

Then, she felt the faintest memory.

She saw a field of stars. A strange tower, tilted on its side, the bottom of it spewing fire into the void. In the distance, she could see more of the towers like it, thin slivers of fire the only thing breaking up the endless stars. There was no sun in the void. No Enteria.

A pang of sympathy. A sense of pity.

They’re lost, she knew somehow. They’ll die.

Then it was over. Silence reigned again.

Mirian took her hand away and opened her eyes. She realized she was sweating. The sky was darkening into twilight. Xecatl and Jherica were gone. A nagual and two priests watched over her.

“How long?” she rasped, throat dry.

“Several hours.”

Mirian nodded, and headed back for the Veiled Temple, levitating up the mountainside. What she’d seen was as confusing as it was interesting, but it didn’t seem relevant. There was a mystery here, but not the one she needed to solve. Stay on the path, she decided.

***

They headed back to Uxalak the next morning. Xecatl would need to commune with the sacred tree there before the cycle ended. Mirian wanted to see what the Emperor’s researchers had discovered about possible Elder Gate sites. As they traveled, Mirian instructed Jherica on soul magic, and several nagual worked with Mirian on spirit constructs.

One evening, when she was going through her arcane magic exercises, Jherica came to watch.

“Gods above, what are you even doing!” they asked. “It has to be raw magic because I don’t see your spellbook, but you’re cycling through four forces at once.”

“Five,” Mirian said. “You just can’t see magnetic fields very well. So you’re a polytheist now?”

“I think I have to be after seeing that. You know, the Ominian’s body—vessel—whatever it is—is smaller than Xylatarvia’s by an order of magnitude at least. You do this every night?”

“I told you my training regimen.”

“Yes, and I forgot half of it instantly. I still prefer astronomy. So did Xylatarvia, it seems.”

Mirian stopped casting and turned to face the older wizard. “You saw the stars?”

“A glimpse. Enough to know it was nowhere near Enteria. The constellations were all wrong.”

“Any idea what it means?”

“Not at all. Alright, what do you do next?”

“Intensity exercises. One force, as powerful as I can make it. I keep it confined to a small space so no one thinks a war is breaking out.” She projected simple heat energy, keeping it in a pin-point sphere.

“Bloody hells, I felt that. Right, fine, yes, I should go practice myself. Got to beat Tyrcast still. It would be fun to rub his nose in the dirt in a contest, especially if he didn’t break 100 myr during it.” Jherica stood off to the side and started going through their own exercises. She watched for a bit. Their control was sloppy, and their intensity low.

Everyone starts somewhere, she assured herself, then went back to her own session.

***

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One morning, back in Uxalak, Mirian was carrying around a mug of spiced hot chocolate, enjoying the gardens, when she looked out towards the port. She admired the gulls soaring overhead and the bustle of the city. People were out, talking and eating. The mood was mixed. She could hear laughter, and see tears. Xecatl had ordained that the last days of the cycle would be a celebration of life. It was a kindness she could appreciate.

Something was missing, though.

Mirian squinted at one of the plazas near the port. Then she realized: the Akanan airships were missing.

She dropped her mug, shattering it, suddenly alert. In an instant, her spellbook was in her hand and she used accelerated levitation to rush over to the area where the Akanans had been.

“What happened? Where did they go?” she demanded of a Tlaxhuacan guard.