God Within Us

The sun emerged from the clouds and warmed the city of Albina-Suzdal with all its walls and towers, roofs and squares, streets and tiny gardens.

The distant mountains, with green-yellow grass at their feet, shone with snowy whiteness, the trees bristled with bright green leaves, and the breeze that whispered through the branches brought with it a pleasant cool. But under it all, only Khariija sensed the whispers of the earth betraying the city's peace. The sky, the mountains, and the long green days...all of it felt drawn tight - a thin string that was beginning to fray and come apart fiber by fiber.

She slipped out from the hollow of a lonely tree in a lonely corner of the city’s slum, checking twice for idle onlookers before she emerged. When her feet touched the ground her legs suddenly felt as though they had turned to water, and she took a few clumsy steps forwards before falling to her knees. Blood, black and cold, gushed from her nose and fell in large, poisonous drops onto the ground. When she touched her face, her fingers came away with strips of rotting skin clinging to them.

Her spells had never taken so much strength to carry out before, she thought with rising panic as she wiped the gray skin from her hands. This body was beginning to fall apart more and more with every miracle she cast. Soon, she would cease to be Cirina - she would cease to be the only face her daughter had known. But it would not happen yet - she still had time, time enough to find her. Time enough to seek her forgiveness.

Cirina caught her breath, wiped herself as clean as she could manage, and then broke the glyph hanging over the tree from which she emerged. As she slowly rose to her feet the gnarled wood twisted as supple as flesh to close the hollow in the tree. In a matter of moments the passage was closed, and there remained no sign of her ever having passed, save for a fading trace of magic only the most astute of her kin might sense.

Strength gradually returned to her with every hurried step she took down the alleyways of the slum, following the sounds of the distant market crowd. Along the way, she spied a hanging line of drying clothes, and with a small flick of her finger the shabby linens floated down. A long tunic cut for a man went over her bloodsoaked silks, and over her ruined face she drew a hood and scarf.

In an instant, Cirina of Belnopyl was another nameless, faceless soul walking Albina-Suzdal’s streets. Her mind traced through the remembered paths she had taken last through the city, and at length she spotted the bright colors of the city market past a turn in the alleyway. Her breathing faltered for a beat. She realized her hands were shaking; she was frightened. How long had it been since she had been truly frightened?

She swallowed her fears, and stepped into the light of the city square.

The roar of the fairground swelled deafeningly as Cirina stepped into the midst of the summer market. Traders were calling either for buyers or to each other, onlookers and peasants from the surrounding villages frantically clutched limp wallets in their fists, and hawkers at every corner were poking each other with baskets as they pushed for the choicest spots in the market. It was a scene of pure, frantic chaos - a densely packed, chattering mass of sheer humanity nearly swayed Cirina off her feet.

It seemed that only the wayward herald of Vaal knew exactly where she was going as she navigated the market, keeping her hood held low. Even in her shell, her power still held an invisible sway over the mortals all around - the throng of townspeople parted unknowingly before her like waters under the keel of a boat, and none jostled or pushed her out of the way. A few eyes peered out at her from the market stalls, but none lingered for longer than a few moments, and all were blind to the sloughing flesh and rot beneath her hood.

Such was the most useful of her lingering power - in Igor’s court, she could weave fascination and blind obedience if needed into the little minds of the boyars and merchants, but she could just as easily cast a fog, clouding and shrouding the thoughts of any who happened to see her and guiding their minds and their eyes to some other curiosities or remembered tasks. Either way, she had no need to spread needless terror, no need to feed into the rising hungers of the Dreamers who still remained asleep.

The shop was still where she remembered it stood last - a squat, timbered merchant’s hall with its windows half-obscured by curtains. A small sign hanging above the heavy wooden door marked it as a place of business for ship captains - those who needed loans and binders to protect the value of their goods from the ravaging Shipbreaker’s Tide. She gave a small smile at the change - when last she had come by the shop had dealt in tomes and books, but perhaps its master had grown tired of the monotony of ink and old parchment. More likely however, he had simply read every book there ever was, and decided he would move on to some different pastime to wile away the years.

When she stepped into the merchant’s hall, she was immediately hit by the scent of a dozen burning candles and lamps - a strange, exotic mix of different incenses that twisted together into a queer smell. The shopkeep - a stocky, black-bearded, jovial fellow - seemed elderly only because of the wrinkles that thickly covered his face. But each one of the lines upon his face found use when he laughed, and he laughed almost continuously in daily life.

The shopkeep was in the middle of humming a tune to himself when the door swung open before Khariija. Perhaps he thought it was one of his fellow merchants that darkened his doorstep, but when he saw her the tune withered in his throat, and a change came upon the insurer.

A shadow came upon the man’s face, and when it passed his eyes had become two wide, yawning pits that seemed to draw all the light of the burning candles into their endless depths. With a flick of his hand the door slammed shut behind Cirina, and when it was closed a divine glyph flashed upon the heavy oak, with the power to send any who had business with the insurer tottering off elsewhere by divine suggestion.

“Here you are, sister-slave,” said the shopkeep with poison in his voice. “And just as I thought no other worms would turn up from this shit-stained earth.”

“You speak as though you yourself were not left behind,” Cirina remarked with reciprocal hostility, pulling up a seat in one corner of the shop. “What’s your name this time?”

The merchant smiled wickedly. “Abzu was the name given by the Majesties, and shall always be my true name. Though Vitomir will not offend, if you need to call upon this shell.”

“And you, Vitomir, are still a merchant,” Cirina spoke, casting her eyes about the shelves of spices, fine cloths, and the pile of scrawled contracts and ledgers that lay on the table before Abzu. “Don't you grow tired of the hassle?”

“There are certain benefits to partaking in the mortals' commerce. They gossip like you wouldn't believe, if you pretend you've even half an interest in their babble,” spoke Abzu, sliding out from behind his table. He treaded lightly in her presence - he was unaware of her gnawing weakness, she realized. “What about you, Khariija?”

“Call me Cirina - that is my only name,” suggested the Herald.

“I do not like the sound of it,” Abzu winced. “A mortal name for a mortal shell. Khariija, Chirlan, Eridu...those will always be your true names.”

“The true names of slaves,” Cirina retorted. “All of us are slaves. Our only difference is that I find my collar too chafing to bear."

“What a firebrand,” Abzu smirked. He stepped closer towards her, his hands falling to his side. “The brave Khariija, who dared to spit in the eyes of the gods. Too bad it was all for naught, in the end.”

“Five hundred years of peace isn’t for naught,” spoke the herald, standing up from her seat and drawing up to her full height.

“Five hundred years is nothing,” snarled back the Apostle of Vaal. “You think with the tiny mind of a mortal - what did you get for those five hundred years, and the damning of your name? Did the slave race find some great salvation? Did they discover some higher truths, or a way to turn back the Majesties? Did they prove themselves worthy of anything more than wanton violence and their disgusting, endless rape of this world?”

The Apostle’s hatred rolled off his mortal form in thick waves, swallowing the light of the sun. Cirina almost felt herself pulled into the darkness, but she steeled her mind at the last, peering over the precipice, but not slipping over it. There was an ancient hatred within Abzu’s soul, but had not always been so. It had first begun as disappointment in the creations of the Majesties, but in time disappointment gave way to frustration, and frustration to hatred.

Wrath, ignorance, greed, pride…humanity’s myriad failings ran on for bleak eternity, never changing, never rising above their base instincts and their imperfections. And over the years, their incessant failure to find enlightenment brought new, dark thoughts - what if humanity did not wish to find enlightenment?

What if the Majesties’ retreat from their perfect world was all for naught?

What if the millenia spent lost and adrift in the cold and the darkness had been for nothing?

What then?

Suddenly the darkness pulled back, and Cirina sensed nothing more besides a tinge of embarrassment from Abzu over the baring of his naked soul. Once the last tendril of shadow crept back into his human form, the Apostle shrugged his shoulders. “Either way, it doesn't matter. The question of humanity was decided long ago - and this time, the Majesties’ return is certain.”

His lips parted into a mocking smile. “Old allies have become enemies, and there remain no more fools to be deceived, Khariija. Your five hundred years were for naught, regardless of what delusions you might cling to. This Harvest shall be the last, the Vessel will arise in time, and the mistake that is humanity will be corrected, or erased.”

The Apostle's declaration hung in the air for a still, silent moment. Then Cirina spoke, her voice barely above a whisper, “You know you do not speak the whole truth.”

Abzu's eyebrows drew together as he fixed her with a stern, questioning gaze, his teeth bared in annoyance. “What, have you some other desperate trick? Or were you able to seduce Eridu away from the path of fate this time?”

“It's nothing that I have done,” hissed back Cirina. “You sense it too, don't you? Or perhaps not - you are not a Herald. There is something different this time, something has changed - the Harvest has changed.”

“How so?”

She let her mind sink into the ground, probing for the same feeling she had felt when she had become one with the earth. The string of peace and calm was fraying, to be sure, but…

“The Harvest has been slowed,” she replied at length. “No, not slowed - it is struggling against something. It is like a pebble holding back a rockslide, but there is something holding it back, and I do not know what it is.”

Abzu looked at her with suspicion. Cirina met his eyes and tried to peer into his soul again, only to crash into a mental block - the Apostle had remembered his magic, and would not suffer the same embarrassment twice. Still, she sensed genuine concern in his voice when he spoke again at length.

“Do you suspect a third party?” Abzu wondered aloud. “No, no other force would have the strength to resist the Majesties and their coming. Not even the Yllahanans, for all their skills in magic. But who, then?”

“It does not matter,” counseled Cirina grimly. “A pebble cannot hold back the full force of a collapsing mountain forever, merely delay it. You will get your Harvest - it will come slowly, perhaps in a year, perhaps in ten, but the first signs have already begun to appear, and a Vessel has been chosen, or so I sense.

“But either way,” she sighed, drawing closer to Abzu. “That is not why I am here. You are right - I no longer have the strength to resist the Harvest, not alone. But if the prophecy will come to pass, then I at least wish to die with peace of mind on one final matter.”

Cirina met Abzu's eyes once again, and drew back the blinding shroud over her own mind. “Vasilisa. My daughter. Chirlan has taken her, and I do not know what fate has befallen her. I wish to save her."

For a moment Abzu stood stock-still, his expression unchanging as he searched her soul for the truth. Then, realizing her answer was not in jest, the Apostle threw back his head and gave a hoot of laughter.

“Your daughter?” Abzu managed through fits of cruel laughter. “Your human whelp? That is who you seek in your heart of hearts?”

The Apostle passed a hand over his face as if in mourning. “Oh, how low has the Herald of Vaal fallen…you have become more than corrupted, Khariija. You have become human - an abomination.”

“If that is what you call me, then I will carry the name with honor,” spat back Cirina proudly. “But I ask for your help, Abzu.”

“Help?” Abzu's tone was incredulous. “Help? The great Khariija the Unloved, asking for help? You truly have sunken low, sister-slave. Could you not find this whelp of yours yourself - or have your powers waned along with your wits?”

Indeed, she had tried before - just as soon as she had taken her first breath on the muddy riverbank, she cast her mind out far and wide, searching for Vasilisa along earth and waters. But where she sensed there was something wrong with the Harvest, so too had there been something at odds with her visions…

“Something shrouds Vasilisa from me,” Cirina replied. “It is like a fog - impenetrable to my eyes. I could spend a thousand years in seance and still not navigate through it all, and I do not have a thousand years.

“But you,” Cirina spoke, her words tinged with magical suggestion, “You are an Apostle - and your command of the Sight is far beyond mine, perhaps even Chirlan's. Whatever force that conceals Vasilisa from me is the same as that which holds back the Harvest. If we find who hides her from me…”

“You would help me accelerate the Harvest for the sake of a child?” muttered Abzu. He shook his head in thought, but knew better than to try and probe her mind. “No…that will not be enough - what’s another decade after five hundred years? The Harvest will not be turned back, that is certain. No, my price for your whelp is…”

She did not have the power of foresight as Chirlan, but one did not need to be a Herald to know what price the Apostle of Vaal had on the tip of his tongue.

“Your knife.” Abzu said with a grin. “I hear Eridu rid herself of the knife you gave to her by casting it into the Forgotten Sea. Chirlan’s...his, I am not worried about. Tell me where you’ve hidden yours, and I will tell you where your beloved spawn is hidden, if my vision affords it.”

“Why do you want the knife?”

“Because I have seen visions,” replied the Apostle of Vaal. “A future, one of many that Chirlan showed me when last we met. There are certain futures that cannot come to pass. But that does not concern you, Khariija the Unloved, for it shall no longer be yours. Tell me where you’ve hidden it!”

It only took a moment’s hesitation - a moment of sorrow, and a moment of defeat. None could hold back the Harvest for long, this Cirina knew, and she felt tired - tired of running, tired of watching for twisting shadows, tired of being hunted. If the world were to be sundered, then at least one might meet the sundering with a sense of closure. Vasilisa needed to know - and then they might meet oblivion together, if sympathy could be found in her heart.

Cirina met Abzu’s searching gaze and said in a soft voice, “The Cradle. I cast it into the depths of the Cradle. It seemed fitting - a tool of death to be cast into the place where the first flower had wilted, and where the first beast took its final breath.”

“Sentimental, that is what you are,” muttered the Apostle in reply. He swayed on the balls of his feet as he thought, and eventually gave a sigh. “But I sense no deceit in your words. Very well - now comes my hour.”

The corners of Abzu's lips twitched upwards in an excited smile, and then for the first time in five hundred years, the mask fell. The Twelfth Apostle of Vaal let his borrowed flesh twist and warp outwards, and along the laugh-lines of his face the visage of Vitomir the merchant split apart into a dozen fluttering ribbons, revealing a writhing mass of black and crimson. A thousand vines wriggled like worms in the hollow of the merchant’s face, and they twisted with the cadence of the Apostle’s voice, which now seemed to pull close the shadows of the room, and snuffed out the candles all around.

Abzu gave a shaky cry as he turned his face to the ceiling, and then he cast his Sight beyond the confines of his mortal form.

Cirina felt an invisible presence swell outwards from the frail body of the merchant - it felt as though it would crush her against the walls of the store, but then at the last it exploded outwards from every window, every crack in the wall, every time-worn hole in the ceiling of the merchant’s hall. A fragment of the Apostle’s spirit remained tethered to the collapsing mortal shell as he searched, and at length Abzu’s voice spilled forth from writhing fleshy hulk, now pure and song-like in its divinity.

Three are the Majesties, to reign from heaven high,

Twelve shall be their Shadows, to rouse from blackened stone,

And Three shall be the Heralds, the seekers doomed to die,

For seek shall they the Vessel, and high shall be their throne,

For by the One shall come the reign of heaven,

And by the One shall be our Harvest sown.

The corpse suddenly smiled, and then it gave a loud cackle. “You cannot save her, Khariija. She is far beyond you. Far beyond any of us.”

Cirina felt her blood run cold. "Is she dead?"

“She is blessed, sister-slave!” cried the corpse with the Apostle’s voice. “Glory and praise to the Majesties, she is blessed! It is not Chirlan who conceals her from your Sight - no, the divine strings, I can see them, endless and perfect in their machinations…The Harvest has not been halted…it is being controlled, controlled by two - and each struggles to master it alone, Khariija, though they do not know it. Two Vessels, one true, one false...gods above...they will drown the world in blood when they clash."

No. Her own thoughts echoed in her mind, her inner voice tiny and afraid. No…Chirlan, what have you done?

“Yes, yes! I can see her! The shadows cannot hide all!” howled Abzu the Twelfth-Called, growing drunk on her despair. “She carries the mark within her silent heart! She carries the mark of Vraactan!"