An Abyss of Light (The Light Trilogy) (17 page)

“Oh, it was just a ploy. I thought if she wouldn’t leave the device with me, she might with you.”

“Hmm.”

“I had a bad feeling about her taking it out of this room. I don’t know why, I just did. She seems so—frail.”

Jeremiel gave him a sideways glance. Frail translated to incompetent, but he didn’t challenge the surreptitious assertion. Instead, he lifted the
Mea Shearim
until the globe swung before his eyes. Blue swirls eddied across the surface. “All my life I’ve heard about this sacred object. I know that it supposedly serves as a gateway to God. But what is it? I mean really?”

Rathanial stiffened, glaring. “What do you mean,
really?”

“I mean scientifically. What does it do?”

“It opens the path to God,” Rathanial insisted stubbornly. Then, changing the subject, he interjected, “I’m opening a bottle of wine, would you like a glass?”

“I would love a glass, thank you.” Quietly, he scrutinized Rathanial as the old man went about blowing the dust from a bottle and opening it, then pouring two pewter goblets full and handing one to Jeremiel. In a series of gulps, he emptied the glass and held it out for more. Rathanial eyed him curiously, but refilled it. His manner had grown terse, disinclined to discuss the necklace at all.

In a clear delaying tactic, the old man said, “Jeremiel, thank you for coming. Especially now, after Zadok’s … death. The people will feel lost for a time. They’ll be ripe for the picking by any false prophet who claims divine right.”

“Your message left me little choice, Father. Your exact wording was: ‘The very survival of Gamant civilization hangs in the balance. We desperately need your presence here.’”

Rathanial pursed his lips and stared into the dark wine. “And I meant every word. You’ve no idea what Adom is doing. He’s brutally murdering anyone who still holds to the old faith. He’s even set up a torture chamber, I’ve heard, to force unwilling prisoners to name their fellow ‘demon worshipers.’”

“Demon worshipers?”

“Oh, yes, he considers anyone who believes in Epagael to be a cohort of Aktariel’s.”

“He proposes a different God, I assume?”

“Milcom. A bastard God taken from some obscure ancient text.”

“After hearing about your plague and drought, I find it hard to swallow that people are buying this Milcom business. Can’t they see that since the Mashiah has come to power, their society and safety have crumbled?”

Rathanial took a long drink of his wine and, frowning, went back to drop into his chair. His brow furrowed deeply before he looked up. “I don’t understand it either, except that Adom has such a magnetic personality people can’t resist believing his explanations for Horeb’s destruction.”

Jeremiel took long drinks of his wine, wishing it were a strong Ngmora whiskey that would quickly soften the edges of his inner pain and anxiety. “And his explanations are?”

“Some preposterous notion that the plague and other scourges mean that Epagael has abandoned us to the pit of darkness. He says a more powerful deity has arrived to offer salvation.”

“Milcom.”

“Of course.”

“So people are supposed to convert and live happily ever after, is that it?”

“Yes.” Rathanial closed his eyes for a moment before saying with a quaver in his voice, “And those who convert do.”

“What do you mean, they do?”

Rathanial hunched forward, eyes pleading. “It’s … it’s frightening, Jeremiel. As soon as Adom immerses people in his consecrated water, they … they don’t get the disease and—”

“So maybe he generated the plague himself and has the only antidote? Given in the waters of his mysterious baptism? From your reports I’d expect as much.”

“I thank God you received my messages. Zadok never received any that I sent him. He knew nothing of our dilemma until I—”

“He never received
any
of your messages?”

“No.”

“Who did you send them by?”

“Our best couriers. Loyal Gamants. None of whom ever returned from their missions.” A brittle look of old sorrow touched his face and the goblet in his hands trembled slightly. He carefully set it on the table. “We sent out search parties, of course, but no remains were ever found.”

Jeremiel forced his face to remain bland, but his mind whirled.
Then how, my friend, did you get here so easily? Did they let you go? Why?

“Did you have any problems getting to Kayan?”

“No. But I took extraordinary precautions. You can’t imagine—”

“Uh-huh.” Jeremiel exhaled wearily and laid the
Mea Shearim
in his lap. Draining his wine, he offered the cup to Rathanial for refilling. The old man obliged, pouring it full. A slight glow touched him, the liquor blessedly soaking through his empty stomach. Too bad he hadn’t more time. If he’d had the luxury, he’d have found a quiet place alone and gotten reeling drunk while he screamed curses at himself.

“And after you arrived on Kayan, first Ezarin was killed, then Zadok?”

“Yes, but I—I don’t know if there’s a connection. I was very careful on Horeb. Only one other person knew of my departure, a trusted monk who’s been with me for a hundred years.”

“But clearly the information leaked. Who is this
trusted
monk?”

“He couldn’t be responsible!” Rathanial insisted violently. “I trust Father Harper more than I do myself! I swear to you, he never would have told anyone.”

“But the facts can’t be denied. Ezarin and—”

Rathanial whirled to slam a fist into the table. “You said yourself, the events could be unconnected! We don’t know for certain that my people on Horeb are to blame!”

“Certainty,” Jeremiel said and raised bushy blond brows, “is hardly something we can wait for. We must make decisions based on the best information we have. And, at this moment, that points to treachery.”

“Oh, all right,” Rathanial put hands on either side of his head and pressed hard, as though to force such a thought from his brain. “But it isn’t my people who are betraying me! Though … yes, I think I knew from the beginning, when Ezarin first disappeared that somehow the Mashiah had found out, but it couldn’t have been Father Harper. It’s … it’s the ‘listeners.’ They’re everywhere.”

The eerie glow that touched the old man’s eyes set Jeremiel on edge. “Listeners?”

“Yes. Terrible things, they come in the night and cluster in the shadows.”

“What are they?”

“We don’t know. They won’t speak with us, and we can rarely speak without one of them appearing.”

“Human?”

“No … no, I don’t think so.”

Jeremiel frowned, fervently praying the old monk wasn’t going to tell him real demons existed. He could bear anything except a retreat to the supernatural. “Then what?”

Rathanial swirled his wine uncomfortably, as if guessing Jeremiel’s thoughts. “Perhaps some sort of spectrum-projection with sensing abilities.”

“Projection?” A tingle of cold went down his back as he glanced frantically around the room. The Magistrates had very sophisticated devices and it was rumored they had a special project to work them into the religious frameworks of the people they wished to spy upon. “Have you seen them here?”

“No, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I haven’t, not on Kayan.”

“So the projector, if that’s what it is, has distance limitations.”

“I suppose. Regardless, they’re certainly the Mashiah’s tools or … or emissaries, sent to report on our activities.”

Jeremiel gave the old man a sidelong look, finishing his wine and retrieving the
Mea Shearim
again. The closer he brought it to his face, the brighter the globe beamed. “Is this ‘gate’ the only one in existence?”

“Yes, so far as we know. Though the ancient texts say there were thousands in the old days, the days of Exile.”

“How
does the
Mea Shearim
open the path to God?” He returned to the question he’d asked earlier. Rathanial’s face paled and he ran a wrinkled hand through his white hair.

“No one knows. It’s part of the mystery of Epagael.”

“Uh-huh,” Jeremiel grunted. Wiping the crumbs from his hand on his pants, he reached down and undipped his belt buckle, then hit the button on the back. A soft hum sounded, two hidden panels sliding back on the top. He circled the
Mea Shearim
with the buckle.

“What’s that?” Rathanial demanded, appalled.

“Hmm? Oh, a hand-corder. It’s—”

“It’s sacrilegious to subject a holy object to such things!”

“Yes, but fascinating. Look at these readings.” He tipped the corder so the father could read them, then smiled indulgently, realizing the man hadn’t the slightest understanding of the symbols and, in fact, despised his own curiosity about them. “Shall I interpret for you?”

Rathanial’s eyes narrowed with emotion. “What’s it say?”

Jeremiel smiled. At least the question marked a step in the right direction. “The outer containment vessel, the globe itself, consists of cooled beryllium ions. They seem to form some sort of magnetic trap.”

“Trap?”

“Yes, the ions are organized into a series of concentric spherical shells. They slip around the shells in a liquidlike phase, but rarely diffuse from one to another.” He blinked contemplatively. “Reminds me of Palaia Station.”

He hesitated, waiting for Rathanial to say something, but the old man’s jaws were clamped as tight as a clam’s shell. Jeremiel sighed and continued. “I think we—”

“Shells around what?”

“That’s certainly the brass ring question. I can’t tell with this small hand-corder. But I can say that whatever’s inside emits particles at a rather astounding rate.”

“What kind of particles?”

“All kinds.”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“Not even inadequately.” He threw the Desert Father a tired smile. “As well, the core of the object is extremely heavy.”

“How heavy?”

“About,” he murmured, checking the dial again, “four billion tons.”

Rathanial’s face puckered in disdain. “That’s ridiculous! I’ve held the
Mea Shearim
and it’s as light as a feather.”

“Yes … curious, isn’t it?” Jeremiel frowned at the blue ball. “I wonder if the ions are cooled by the same source that counteracts gravity. Or maybe the object itself isn’t actually in our space. Perhaps the mass exists in another universe and we see it through the ‘gate’?”

“Let me have it!” Rathanial demanded, rising from his chair and extending a hand. “With your reverence for it, you might break it.”

“I certainly would not want to break it,” Jeremiel said and handed it over. “Even with limited information, I’m fairly certain that could prove disastrous. Incidentally, Zadok said I was to give it to Mikael, his grandson. So don’t think you’re going to run off to Horeb—”

“I know how the tradition works.”

“Do you also know the history of the object? I’d be interested to know when it came into being?”

Rathanial returned to his seat and reverently put the
Mea
in his pocket. “The webs of mythology woven around the
Mea
are intricate. Some scholars say it can be traced to the ancient, and now lost, books of Exodus and Deuteronomy. Those works discussed two sacred stones, the
Urim
and
Thummim,
which were placed in a priest’s breastplate.
Urim
and
Thummim,
it’s said, meant
lights and perfections.
Even then they were connected with ascertainment of the divine will. The only surviving quote about them goes something like, ‘And thou shalt put in the breastplate of judgment the
Urim
and the
Thummim,
and they shall be upon Aaron’s heart when he goeth in before the Lord.”

“Who was Aaron?”

“Nobody knows anymore. Some priest apparently.”

“Curious,” Jeremiel said softly, “that the chain is long enough to insure the object still rests over the heart. What other myths discuss it?”

“Oh, there are hundreds. Sinlayzan’s people called them ‘thunder stones,’ and believed they were related to the gate of the world, the
loka-dvara,
through which a soul might pass to the beyond, wherever that is. There are even stories that Yacob, the Father of the people, went to sleep on a stone at the place where heaven and earth opened on to each other and God came to talk to him.” He lifted a hand and shrugged. “But who knows. There are other scholars who maintain the origin of the
Mea
goes no farther back than the Great Night of Glass.”

“Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember stories about the
Meas
being related to Indra’s Net. Do you know any of those stories?”

“No, though I’m sure Zadok did. I even heard him discuss fragments of that myth only last …”

A frigid wind gushed through the door of the small cave, snuffing the candle. A blanket of darkness descended. Jeremiel was halfway to his feet when a scream rent the air from the corridor, a scream of such wrenching agony that he felt his heart jump.