Prologue
Don’t be disappointed, friends, to find the notebooks you gifted me still untouched. Too long have I sung of the questions that crowd our shelves. For what I know to be true, a few lines suffice.
STARS ABLAZE, BESIEGED BY TIME
COLD BEGOT YOU, COLD AWAITS
LIGHT OUTRAN BY THOUGHTS OF HOME
COLD BEGOT YOU, COLD AWAITS
STARLIT VOICES, CONSCIOUS FRIENDS,
MAY YOUR SONGS OUTLIVE OUR FATES!
Fahdey, sailing solar winds.
Chapter 1
We won’t condemn two young men for the tragedies that followed, for in those days of our Memory, the true nature of Creation was veiled from the senses. Instead, we’ll distance ourselves from our illustrious predecessors. We’ll remember the roots of the conflict and recount its effects through the choices and experiences of those who first faced the Outcry. To do so, we’ll begin by retracing what followed the disappearance of Crown Prince Revyad Grahritan.
Doctrine, Book of Ages, Thirty-Seventh Amanuensis
Trelin Vemeura tried to loosen the collar of his ceremonial uniform.
Beyond the balcony archway, the turquoise sun of late afternoon washed over the Court gardens and, farther off below the cliff, turned the gulf’s glints emerald, picking out the contrails of atmospheric shuttles.
He drummed his fingers on the windowsill, summoned the perceptual practices that set him apart as a Visage of History, and forced himself to swallow the acidic anguish rising in his throat. Behind him, heavy footsteps echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling, while outside, wavering in the heat shimmer, the reassuring silhouette of the Sensorium cut across the twilight halo of the planet’s rings.
He inhaled through his nose and blew toward the ritual torches burning in the corners of the antechamber. He would never know horizons other than this.
The tongues of flame trembled faintly, then went back to licking the incense diffusers, releasing the government palaces’ ever-present fragrance. The sweet, smoky aroma soaked into clothes and hair, clung to skin for days. Maybe it was only habit, but the young Visage had always preferred the Cult’s gentler scent.
«Vemeura!» the man Trelin was waiting for thundered, still some distance away.
Trelin turned, adjusted his fragrance vial with studied nonchalance, and feigned surprise. The other, almost at a run, snapped his heavy muscles into motion, gripped the gravito-magnetic hilt at his waist and slid one end into the sheath on the left side of his belt, then yanked it free, drawing out what it held. A dark wake of loose grains took the shape of a saber in one fluid gesture, made instantaneous by decades of elegant violence. A sharp flick of the wrist turned it into a whip that cracked in warning.
Trelin Vemeura swallowed against a dry throat. The guilt squeezing his lungs climbed his windpipe until it pressed against his eardrums.
«I don’t have the grains,» he confessed.
The armed man’s stance slackened.
«You don’t have the grains?»
Vemeura unclipped the case he wore on his right, opened it, and turned it out over the windowsill to show it was empty.
«I don’t.»
The other man started to retort, then hesitated. He gave up, let his weapon break apart into its sheath, and burst into a belly laugh that stirred the scorching air.
«I could’ve killed you, Trel.»
Trelin smiled and stepped toward him.
«That wouldn’t change if I were armed. My point is, you wouldn’t.»
They embraced, both stifled by ceremonial garments designed to prevent movements that wide.
«If I were you, kid, I wouldn’t be so sure.»
In the antechamber of the throne room, Commander Qutal Raan sat down, gesturing for the young man to do the same. Trelin felt the knot in his stomach cinch tighter. He took a seat on the sofa and leaned forward, trying to look more curious than anguished.
«Did something happen?» The rigid collar stole his breath.
«Took the words right out of my mouth.» The soldier gave him a violent but friendly slap between the shoulder blades, tugged him closer, and murmured, «What’d you do this time?»
«Nothing!» Trelin realized he’d shouted; he lowered his voice. «Nothing, really. I kept my head down, like you told me. I thought it had something to do with you.»
It was more hope than conviction, and he knew he was wrong.
«Me? Please. Again: you stopped asking questions, right?»
Trelin swallowed to moisten his dry throat. Not only had he not set aside his obsession, there was a very real chance Qar had hit the mark. Every one of his terrible choices flowed from the search for the book.
«It’s been years since I’ve even talked about it…» he hedged.
«But you never stopped looking!» The soldier shook his head between broad shoulders. «Just like your father: you confide, you ask for advice, then you do whatever you want. At least he had the good sense to keep the crazy talk to himself, and he was armed!»
«But the Voices were pacifists, they followed the Prophet’s example.» Vemeura bit his tongue.
«And lunatics. And dead, all of them.» Qar brought his hands to his temples and massaged them. «I’m tired of having this conversation, Trel. Let’s stay in the present. What do we know about this surprise audience?»
Trelin glanced around to make sure they were truly alone and edged closer despite the heat.
«Not much,» he admitted. «Ididel seemed irritated. Someone must’ve forced his hand.»
«They overrode the Priorate’s authority?» Qar huffed. «That’s not a good sign.»
«I know. I’m afraid it’s about Rev. I haven’t heard from him since he left.»
As if reacting to the name of Revyad Grahritan, the Crown Prince, a sudden gust revived the torches. Their scent spread thicker than before as the throne room doors opened with a groan under the weight of time. The automatic system hadn’t been replaced in millennia, since little attention was paid to innovation in a building meant to remind visitors of the might of Harit’an’s children, colonizers of an entire galaxy.
Trelin and Qar sprang to their feet, instinctively finding a more dignified posture to present themselves to the sovereign. The young Visage felt the shirt stick to his back, slick with nervous sweat.
Some subjects claimed they respected Yarek the Fraternal, Ethnarch of the Harites and Patron of the Memory of the Conscious, for his sheer physical presence; others for the cold stare buried beneath brows perpetually thickened by his judging scowl; more still for the steadiness of his voice. In truth, everyone feared him for his mind, because the genetic gift of his bloodline showed itself in him with an intensity never seen before, and he didn’t hesitate to exploit it.
For all those reasons, and plenty more, Trelin Vemeura trembled as he waited to be received.
They advanced in small, composed steps, crossed the threshold, and raised their eyes, ready to prostrate themselves, one in the clergy’s manner and the other with the salute of the Guard’s officers. Neither had cause. The sight of the empty throne, lit by sunset through the tall stained windows, shook Trelin to the bone.
«Where…?» he murmured.
«Don’t drop your guard, kid. And sharpen your tongue.»
Yarek never entered last. He always made sure he was already seated. Always. Rev had once told Trelin he did it because he believed an unoccupied throne stirred in subjects the urge to sit in it. Yet right now the seat was empty, and so was the rest of the hall. Even without the sovereign, the air remained oppressive.
Fears that had been manageable until then detonated in the heart of the young Visage of History, forcing him to muster every scrap of concentration to take the reins of his mind again without drifting away from reality. He anchored himself to his senses, to the smell of incense and the pale green light, to the rough weave of his uniform, to the details of the countless objects adorning the room, gifts from planetary regents to generations of ethnarchs. He thought of Revyad.
«I should’ve gone with him,» he breathed. «Something’s happened.»
«Don’t work yourself up. You can’t know that.»
The Prince’s departure had been rash, but neither of them had any say. The last word, by tradition, belonged to the heir to the crown. Revyad had chosen to bring his trial of valor forward, unwilling to explain himself or hear reason.
«If he’d waited a couple days…»
«Trel, listen to me: it’s not your fault.»
It was. For far more reasons than Trelin was willing to admit, even to himself.
«I studied the route, I plotted the course for him! If he’d waited for my initiation, I could’ve helped.»
«He’s got cartographers with more experience than you, kid.» Qar knew nothing. «He’ll be fine.»
Trelin Vemeura pressed his lips between his teeth. How could he tell his mentor that the Court cartographers had approved a false route? How could he explain that far more was at stake than colonizing a forgotten chunk of rock in some corner of the galaxy?
When he was on the verge of giving in and telling him everything, he didn’t get the chance. From a small door at the far end of the nave, hidden behind a column to the right of the throne, a gaunt, hunched man emerged, short of stature, dressed in his usual dull gray. He extended an arm toward them in a choreographed gesture.
«This way, please,» he squeaked.
Without waiting, he vanished again, and the opening closed behind him.
«Vlespo seems in an even worse mood than usual,» Qar remarked. «I didn’t think it was possible.»
«Let me do the talking.»
«With pleasure.»
Only a handful of the most trusted bureaucrats were allowed into that wing of Palace Grahritan. Passing through a series of anonymous little administrative offices, those corridors stretched to the private wing where the ruling family usually resided. Even here, nothing had changed in millennia.
The little man ahead of them hadn’t gone far. As always, he scuffed his shoes along the polished floor, instantly signaling his presence to anyone who’d had the misfortune of dealing with him more than once. He stopped in front of a small door identical to all the others, pulled a ring of keys from one pocket, and clicked the mechanical lock twice. He smiled at his guests and went in. An old metal plaque fixed beside the door read “Office of Planetary Cartography”.
The room was far larger than it appeared from outside, vast enough to house a grand plastic projection grid that belonged in a museum. Trelin, hanging by his fingertips over an abyss of anxiety, tightened his grip by focusing for a moment on the symbol of the merchant corporation that had manufactured the machine, remembering it had been out of business for at least four centuries. The metal wore a layered patina of grime, damp, and incense ash, like the rest of the junk in the room. Closed windows and shutters let in only a few blades of light.
Gemiun Vlespo, the Court Curator, settled behind his pompous desk.
«Sit, sit, by all means.» He indicated the other two armchairs across from him. The aquiline nose tipped high, the few glossy hairs slicked back, the saturated wake of incense that followed him everywhere, everything about him broadcast his lack of any sense of the ridiculous. «Novice Vemeura, it is an immense pleasure for me to see you again, even in such… unfavorable circumstances. Unfavorable indeed.»
The Ethnarch’s personal adviser had a markedly theatrical way of speaking, developed to soften the sovereign’s ill temper. He’d become skilled at hiding the worst intentions behind the pleasantries prescribed by high society, and that refined, unnatural quality in his manners made him exude a kind of slickness that was hard to scrub off, even after just a chance exchange of a few words.
Trelin tried not to let it distract him. It was partly thanks to Vlespo’s endless lectures that, from childhood, he’d learned to win people over by adapting to the way they spoke. That talent, useful in many settings, now served the essential function of loosening his tongue for a few minutes, prying it away from the fears rising in his mind and churning his stomach.
«Curator Vlespo, I return the courtesy and offer you a warm greeting in turn.»
Vlespo readjusted the scarlet fragrance vial fixed to the medallion at his throat.
«Must I detect a hint of irony in your words, my dear Novice?»
The young man arched his brows in an expression too cartoonish to be sincere.
«I wouldn’t dare!» He ran a hand through his hair. «However, to be precise, as befits a man of your rank, I find myself, to my regret, obliged to correct you: I’m a Visage now.»
Gemiun Vlespo lowered his chin and clasped his hands before his mouth in reverence.
«Why yes, a Visage of History! I offer my sincerest apologies for my absence at yesterday’s ceremony. In such difficult times, I hope you can forgive me, Visage Vemeura. Visage Vemeura…» he repeated in a sing-song tone, «such a palatable smoothness to it.»
A coarse laugh spread through the room. Qar’s voice followed it.
«Forgive me. Or rather: I beg pardon, humbly, I prostrate myself, and so on. When I’m away I forget how things are done here in the capital.» Qar had sat in the armchair farthest away. He’d never managed to put on a polite face with the Curator. He continued. «Just one question: the circumstances… what was it you called them? “Unfavorable”? Right. I’d like to know why we’re here.»
«Commander Raan, the situation is rather delicate and requires a decent measure of tact. The terms of your scheduled audience have changed, I fear. It is certainly my desire to inform you, yet I find myself in an uncomfortable position. Uncomfortable, indeed.»
«In that case, gentlemen…» Qar slapped his palms on the armrests and stood. «I’ve got better things to do. I’m no diplomat. When you need a pilot, you know where to find me.»
He started toward the exit; Trelin waited for the Curator’s predictable reaction. Cornered, Gemiun Vlespo jolted nervously in his chair.
«Commander!» His voice had gone higher. «Stop, please.»
Trelin shot a glance at Qar, who indulged the request.
«Ask what you need to ask, Curator. I just landed, I’d like a shower and to meet up with a few ladyfriends.» Qar folded his arms.
Gemiun Vlespo shot him a draconic look for a moment, then turned back to Trelin.
«Visage Vemeura, correct me if I am mistaken. Was it your purview to agree with the heir to the throne on the planet most suitable for his trial of valor?»
Trelin answered with a nod.
«You’re not mistaken.»
«Excellent. You will therefore surely have the kindness to share with me the reasons for your choice. Those reasons, you see, interest me particularly. With your permission…»
He reached across the desk and grasped a translucent sphere resting on a gilded pyramidal stand. At his touch the sphere vibrated with a faint hum, began to levitate, and filled with an orange glow that warmed the room.
Before the young Visage of History’s eyes, the plastic projector’s ancient mechanism awoke, spitting malleable yellowish matter into the air, which immediately began to take shape. First it was a sphere, then a geoid, then mountain ridges rose and deep trenches opened. Rings formed; a satellite appeared on an orbit wildly out of scale. The room was large, yes, but not large enough.
The Curator pointed at the new creation of his antiquated system.
«What do you see, my dearest Visage? Do tell.»
Trelin inhaled.
«13.G-91389/a.»
«Or?»
«In the plans I agreed with the Prince, I refer to the planet as Nearitt’an, if that’s what you’re asking.»
Vlespo grinned, revealing every wrinkle that scored his forehead.
«That is exactly what I wished to hear. Interesting choice of name. I must admit, Visage Vemeura, the resemblance to our world is remarkable. Someone might even call it implausible.»
«And it just so happens that someone is you,» Qar cut in, purely for the pleasure of irritating him.
No reply came. The Curator swallowed and continued.
«And it is implausible. Is it not so, Visage?»
Trelin fixed his gaze on the planet’s details and on the machine’s hum, and refused to sweat.
«I’m afraid I don’t follow, Curator. It’s an extraordinary discovery, I grant you. However, I can’t accept too many compliments; it was only luck. I stumbled by chance on some papers that had escaped the notice of…» he glanced at Qar «…cartographers far more experienced than I am.»
«What delightful modesty. Too much!» Vlespo clasped his hands. «How could it be mere luck? This is pure talent. A feat of intellect worthy of an entire page in the Book of Ages. Visage Vemeura, you have discovered a planet almost identical to ours, a perfect candidate for a glorious colony, in a galaxy where we believed we had planted banners on every single speck of dust. Surely you will grant that a man in my position might feel a keen curiosity about the matter and decide to investigate it thoroughly.»
There was no doubt now, his deception had been uncovered. Trelin felt stomach acid burn near his heart and his mouth dry out; he braced for the panic attack that would surely strike him any moment, and that he would have to smother like all the others. Gemiun Vlespo had him in his grasp. He knew Nearitt’an didn’t exist, that it was a forgery crafted to conceal the true destination of the journey the young Visage of History and the Crown Prince were meant to make together. The journey toward the Silent Spiral, the last unexplored galaxy, where the trail of the exiled Wayfaring Voices had been lost.
Down there, beneath an unfamiliar sky, lay the sacred remains of the Prophet Fahdey, the reformer, the father of Doctrine, and with him rested his final writings, the vanished book known only by its title: Sailing Solar Winds. In those pages, every answer. In those pages, the key to refounding the order of the Voices. In those pages, the only hope of surviving entropy and the end of time.
Trelin Vemeura tried to loosen his collar with a finger, certain he would die for the search as his father had.
«It doesn’t exist,» he confessed. «Nearitt’an doesn’t exist, you’re right.»
Gemiun Vlespo slammed his pale hands on the table and burst into a cry of jubilation.
«What wonderful news! Now that every secret stands revealed, allow me one final question: by the boundless grace of the Maker of the cosmos, where have you sent Prince Revyad?»