Debris of Shadows_Book II_The Forgotten Cathedral Read online

  “Phoenix, Arizona,” said Sister Theresa. A muscle in her jaw twitched. “Over two hundred thousand souls lost.” She bowed her head, and closed her eyes.

  The expression of shame that crept across Asher’s face was real, this time. “I beg your pardon, all of you,” he said in a subdued voice. “I didn’t hear anything about it.”

  “Because it wasn’t made public,” said the abbot. “But perhaps it is a fourth–circle’s place to find out such matters.”

  Asher looked at his plate. There was no answer he could give. He was not among friends here, he never would be. Even Jacob had let him make a complete fool of himself. Look at the squid, he thought. There is nothing but this fat, rubbery, putrid squid. Clear your mind of everything but the squid. He filled his chest with slow, deep breaths.

  Leo took another bite, and chewed. His eyes scrunched up in a mockery of contemplation. “Then again,” he said, his mouth full, “it was only a few hundred thousand, not like the three million souls of San Domenico. Perhaps their numbers were too low for you to notice?”

  The abbot rapped on the table again. “That is enough,” she said. “This is not a subject for open conversation.”

  “Please forgive me, Mother,” said Leo through his food. He swallowed, and took another bite. Asher bit the inside of his cheek, stabbed at his squid, and did the same.

  After breakfast, Asher walked back to his cell with measured steps, his face without expression. He stared at the air in front of his eyes, focusing on the sound of his bare feet padding the cobblestones.

  Poisoned Sands.

  Madness.

  He entered his room. He could feel the eyes of the passersby upon him until the door inched shut, and the latch clicked into place. Then he ran to his tablet, and switched it on. His teeth ground together as it booted. A notification popped up. He had one missive from the abbot, forwarded from the cardinals for fourth–circles and above, that had been waiting for thirteen hours.

  He read the words, unable to believe them. The Sands of Phoenix — Life Sands — had become tainted and cursed during resurrection. That fact was in the cardinals’ message, but how they had been lost was not. Why? Was he expected to go to the abbot and find out, or was he supposed to know that this lack of detail was the will of the Church?

  He searched the archives for the name of Phoenix’s resurrector. No information was available. He searched for previous reports of poisoned Sands. At least four other cities had been lost in the past decade alone, making a total of seventeen, but the records gave no causes.

  The cold dread of failure crept from his stomach to his chest, and he forced it back down. Failure meant a reduction to the first circle, and a reversal of the sacraments. He opened another search, and asked how many of his order had been defrocked, their cloaks ripped from their shoulders. The answer came back with a chirp. There were no available names, no data.

  Poisoned Sands.

  Irresurrectable.

  What did that even mean? What could poison Life Sands? He searched. Again, there was no available data.

  He threw the tablet across his cot. That was just typical, to publicly humiliate him for not seeking out knowledge, and then withhold knowledge from him. No, he had not made any friends since transferring here, but what did that matter? He was supposed to be a resurrector, not a politician.

  His frustration became a physical thing, a painful tightness within his chest. His eyes fell upon the scrolls of San Domenico, rolled out on the floor where he had left them. His shoulders slumped. Had he really been so careless? He sighed, and knelt on the cold stone.

  “Please,” he said, his voice thick in his throat. He caressed the beckoning glyphs. Their rough textures felt hot beneath his fingertips. “Please, help me.”

  A soul came to life beneath his touch. His name had been Bones, and he was already dying when the Shadows came. The worm in the pit of his stomach knew that he was going to Hell. It had always known. And now that the moment was upon him, it was impossible to keep the worm silent.

  He was going to Hell because of Marcy. It was all her fault, not his. When he flicked Marcy out, and her steel glinted in the streetlights, no one dared give him any shit. He just had to make her dance while staring wild–eyed at the sheep, and they’d give anything he asked for.

  Marcy had been a cash magnet for everyone, except for that one slack–jawed, moon–faced idiot who had just grinned. Mooney did not care about Marcy. Truth be told, Bones did not really care about Mooney. He had even felt bad once he had realized that the guy was a retard. But a reputation was a reputation, and if word got out that he had let Mooney get away, then every little punk in Southside would start getting delusions of grandeur. Double truth: Bones had never actually snuffed a man before. But Mooney was grinning, and the crowd was looking, so Marcy’s only option had been to slash.

  Bones had just meant to give him a warning scratch. Instead, Mooney’s arm split open, and suddenly, Mooney was not grinning anymore, he was shrieking like a little girl. Bones punched him in the gut, and the idiot fell to the asphalt, screeching as he clutched his flayed arm. So Bones had kicked him in the teeth (which had made a nice, crunchy sound), and vaulted over the turnstile into the subway. And now, one misspent lifetime later, Bones knew that Mooney was going to appear at any moment to drag him into Hell, his wide, stupid face shrieking through jagged, crunchy teeth. Then Bones would be the one to shriek, like a —

  “Brother, what’s wrong?”

  Asher cried out, his fist shooting upward. His eyes rolled in their sockets. Mooney was coming for him. He was going to sink his shattered teeth into Asher’s cheeks, bite, and chew, and it had not even been Asher’s fault. It had all been Marcy’s —

  “Asher, what the hell are you doing?”

  Asher looked up. He lay flailing on the floor, grinding his beautiful cloak into the stone. Pain shot through the side of his tongue, accompanied by the taste of blood. Brother Jacob knelt beside him, his hand extended. Asher swatted it away.

  “I’m fine,” he said, rolling onto his hands and knees. “You startled me.”

  “Stay there, kiddo, I’ll call the doctor.”

  “I said I’m fine.” Asher glared at him. He rolled up the scrolls, and placed them in their case. “You startled me, that’s all. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “You know you’re not supposed to go deeper than level five, not alone. None of us are.”

  Asher’s eyes narrowed. “It was an accident,” he said. “It won’t happen again.”

  Jacob held his gaze. “I’m telling you now. If it does happen, I’ll have to report it.”

  “I said it won’t.” Asher ran his hands over his scalp, and pulled them away. They were slick with sweat. He gestured to his chair, ignoring the pain in his mouth. “Look, I’m sorry. Thank you for caring, and trying to help. Please, sit down. You were right, I was at six.”

  Jacob blew out air from between his thick lips, and sat on the creaking wood. “‘You were right,’” he repeated. “Of course I’m right. And you can drop the supplicant act. You’re not fooling anyone.”

  Asher pulled himself onto his cot, and sat on the edge of the mattress. “It’s not an act, I am grateful.” He brushed the side of his tongue with the tip of his finger. Raw pain stabbed through his mouth, and he winced. “Tell me something. Have you ever resurrected before?”

  The elder monk scratched his bulbous nose. Asher guessed that he was somewhere around sixty, maybe even seventy. Giant pores spotted his cheeks beneath the crow’s feet that framed his milky eyes.

  “A few towns,” he said, “some suburbs, nothing like what you’re about to attempt.” He looked at his calloused hands. “I’m not a big shot. I never really had the mind for anything huge.”

  The raw spot on Asher’s tongue accidentally brushed the top of a molar, sending another jolt of pain through his head. He squeezed his eyes tight, and grunted. “That bitch.”

  Jacob brushed the shoulder of his cloak with the
back of his hand. “I’m going to pretend I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “Well, forgive me,” said Asher. “Forgive me that I was performing my sacred duty, and studying the scrolls of my city. Forgive me that I take my vows seriously, and didn’t stop every five minutes to check my mail.”

  “Oh, listen to you,” Jacob said. “Wah.”

  “It’s not my fault that Brother Leo’s so jealous. It’s not my fault that he’s still fourth–circle, when he’s older than most eighth–circle cardinals.”

  “‘It’s not my fault, it’s not my fault.’ No one gives a rat’s ass about fault. What, you think that you’re the first newbie–fourth to fall for something like that? You want to play with the big boys, then act like one. The more you complain that someone’s picking on you, the more they’re going to do it.” Jacob stretched, arching his back. “Now are you going to learn from the lesson, or are you just going to moan about it?”

  “So I’m supposed to make sure that I read all my mail before mealtimes. Got it.”

  Jacob smacked him on the back of his head. “No, jackass, that there’s more to being in the middle ranks than just burying your ugly face in the scrolls.” He pointed a worn and knotty finger at the case. “There is amazing power in there, but there is also responsibility. You can’t have one without the other.”

  The younger monk folded his arms. “They don’t trust me.”

  “Nope.”

  “So, how am I supposed to change that?”

  Jacob groaned, and looked at the ceiling. “By being trustworthy, moron, how else?”

  “But —”

  “No buts. Why am I wasting my time with you? You want the respect that goes along with your rank? Well, the only way you’re going to get it from any of us is by earning it. So earn it, or they’ll find a way to take those scrolls away from you.”

  “Oh, the abbot would love that. Everyone already wants to see her put me in my place.”

  “Yep, especially me. That’s why I’m here right now.” Jacob stood, and pulled his rough, freckled cloak around his shoulders. “You think you should have it easy because you’re young, because you’re so brilliant, because you’re a wunderkind who’s going to shake up the Church and show them all. Well, you’re not. So you’ve got the second highest aptitude score in the history of the order. Whoopee. You think —”

  “Second highest?” Asher cut in. “Whose is higher than mine?”

  Jacob raised an eyebrow. “Brother Leo,” he said.

  Asher’s eyes grew wide. “But… but he’s —”

  “Eighty–three, last month. And from what I’ve heard, he had much more ability and potential than you.”

  Asher swallowed. “So, what happened?”

  Jacob shrugged. “That’s not my story to tell. A super–duper fourth circle member does not necessarily make a great candidate for the fifth. Keep that in mind.” He rubbed a hand across his walnut–wrinkled jowls. “Just remember this. Whatever ability you have been given, you have been given to serve the Ophanim. That means you’re supposed to memorize your scrolls to protect your charges and facilitate their exact resurrection, not get your rocks off to their soap operas.”

  “My what off to soap who?”

  “Never mind, you understand what I’m saying.”

  Asher’s jaw tightened. “I’m getting sick of everyone talking down to me,” he said. “I’m not obsessed, I can handle it.”

  “Really? Let’s recap. You found out this morning that we lost everyone in Phoenix. Then you got your ass handed to you, because you didn’t know about it like you should have.”

  “So what?”

  Jacob shook his head. “So then, what did you do?” Asher opened his mouth, blinked, and closed it. He could feel his face grow warm. “I’ll tell you what you did. You came straight back here, and took refuge in the emotions of your charges. They’re not here to give you comfort or be a hiding place from your fears, but that’s exactly how you used them.”

  Asher lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

  Jacob clasped his shoulder. “You have too much pride, my young friend, so I’ll appeal to it. Get your shit together, or this cup shall be taken from your lips. Got it?” He squeezed his leathery hand. “You’re not the first to become too absorbed, and you won’t be the last. Promise me that you’ll take a day of meditation before going in again, and never past level five on your own. Do I have your word?”

  The younger monk nodded. Jacob patted him on the back, and left.

  Asher sat motionless. His thoughts spun across his mind, as if trapped in a whirlwind. He slipped his hand behind his mattress, and pulled out a thick scrap of bark. He wedged it underneath the door. He took the scrolls from their case, knelt on the floor, and, as he caressed their glyphs, began to cry.

  Chapter 2

  Matthew Galbraith crawled across the desert, invisible beneath his Mirage. Its low drone echoed within his skull, vibrating the roots of his teeth. A bead of sweat ran down the side of his neck. His left shoulder crackled with a faint whisper, the cleft at the top of his arm blossoming every few seconds with hair–thin forks of lightning. Each burst of static made the cloaking shroud hum a little louder. He pressed his lips together, and tried his best not to feel annoyed.

  All that mattered was the Cathedral.

  He could feel the center of the Mirage creep away from his boots. He closed his eyes, and sighed. 7907 had fallen behind again. Another annoyance. Sadly, the Cyleb was still important to the mission. Otherwise, he would have left the poor wretch behind in the last city. He stopped moving, and let his brother catch up.

  The Mirage was a skill he had recently mastered, a way of cloaking his presence within this foreign Sage. Under normal conditions, he would not even need to think about it to make it work. But when he was pushed to his limits, it took all of his concentration to control. Its backward pull lessened as 7907 crawled up to him, gasping for breath. The third generation Cyleb had features almost identical to his, except that he was hairless, and looked twenty years younger. If he were healthy, his complexion would be a uniform silver. Instead, glowing orange veins streaked from his nostrils, branching into his cheeks. Matthew ground his teeth, and swallowed his irritation. He rested on his elbow, and held out his hand.

  7907 stared at the ground. Rheumy tears welled in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Matthew,” he said. He snorted, coughed up a wad of golden phlegm, and spat it into the sand. “I won’t do it again, I promise.”

  Matthew said nothing. His left shoulder smarted as its opening continued to arc. Every tiny fork stole minutes from his life. The greater the gap in his joint, the faster he aged. He guessed that he was probably somewhere in his forties. He had lost track. It did not matter anymore. Like almost everything that had happened since they had left NorMec, the story of his youth had faded into the fog of the past. All that mattered was moving forward. He looked at his cybernetic brother, his hand extended.

  7907 muttered a curse, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a handful of amber rose petals. They illuminated his palm with an orange glow. Matthew pinched them between his thumb and forefinger, and slipped them into a pouch on his belt.

  The Cyleb’s eyes grew sullen. “I’m not stupid,” he said, “it was just a tiny piece. Don’t judge me, you self–righteous asshole, you don’t even have a brain or a body. You don’t know what it’s like.”

  Matthew remained silent. After a moment, his brother’s face crumpled. “I’m sorry,” he said, “please don’t be mad at me. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.”

  A pang of guilt tugged at Matthew’s gut. It’s not his fault he’s addicted, he reminded himself. I never should have let it happen.

  “Just stay with me,” he said. “We have at least another ten kilometers to cover.”

  “Eleven point zero five three.”

  Matthew nodded, a dull smile coming to his lips. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s great. But ri
ght now, I need your head as straight as can be. When you chew Tangerine, you lose focus. I’ll give it back to you when we reach the target zone.”

  “Promise?”

  Matthew’s face fell. His cheeks grew warm. “I wish I didn’t have to. This garbage is killing you. When we get back home, I’ll get you healed, I promise.”

  7907 gnawed his lower lip. They had had this discussion more than a few times, and never with a satisfactory outcome. “We’re never going home, Brother,” he said. “Don’t you get that yet?”

  With a sigh, Matthew resumed crawling. He glanced at the sparking division, its strobing light flickering through his desert fatigues. He would not be able to keep the Mirage going forever. He thought of the last decrepit city they had found. Its few, near–starving survivors had taken to farming cattails on every available patch of mud. Like all the denizens of the Sages he and 7907 had passed through, they had had no clue that they existed within a virtual reality. It had been called… shit. Why couldn’t he remember its name? So many of his thoughts were like that, lately. It was as if —

  7907 jumped onto his back, knocking the wind out of him. The Cyleb wrapped a scrawny but muscular arm around his neck. “Give me back my Tangerine!” he screeched in a wretched facsimile of Matthew’s own voice. Claw–like fingers dug into his salt–and–pepper hair as the Cyleb drove his face downward.

  Matthew separated his shoulder another inch. Its thin tendrils of electricity converged into a band of silvery light. The sand and rock rushing towards his eyes slowed almost to a halt, taking on the scarlet tinge of redshift. With a pop, the Mirage winked out of existence. A growl of frustration escaped his lips. With any luck, they would only be exposed for a few seconds in real–time, but that might be enough to get them killed.

  He struggled against the Cyleb’s frozen arm, but it clung with desperate strength. He widened his division further. A wave of energy shot up his spine as the glow from the top of his arm intensified. 7907’s gibe had technically been correct. His “body” consisted of two artificial intelligences which were at constant war with each other, barely joined at his left shoulder. Dividing them created a power that he could use to speed up his relative time, and reshape the virtual worlds in which they traveled. However, doing so consumed days, months, and even years from his life.