Chapter 1
Eight-year-old Rashan Khouragabou stood at the foot of the massive temple and read the inscription at its entrance. Taking the dare, he craned his neck back as far as it would go, peering up, up, into the cloudless purple sky. His shoulders popped, his eyes burned--and he had his answer.
So.
The prophecy is true.
Legend held that it was impossible to see the spires of Hai Konuptra from outside the portal to the Chamber of the Holy Scrolls. One could stand on a hill to the north and see them clearly enough; they dominated the glass and steel skyline of this once ancient metropolis. One could even stand directly outside the main gateway arch that opened into the hundreds of gardens and courtyards surrounding the temple, but still be too far away to make out what the inscription said. For years he wondered why it even mattered.
This day, he understood.
His mind reeled. Now, at last, he had the--
“What're you lookin' at?”
As Rashan turned to look, euphoria quickly turned to revulsion. Making no attempt to hide his disdain, he replied:
“You know full well what I'm looking at.”
“Well, waddaya see?”
“What answer could I possibly give that would elicit your approval? No matter what my reply, I would remain in your eye but a braggart or a fool.”
The boy's face turned into a mask of horror.
“Ashraba! Ashraba!” the child screamed, running back to the group of children gathered by the Mystic Fountain. “He's making fun of me again!”
Grimacing, Rashan chastened himself under his breath.
“Poor choice of words. Story of my life.”
He didn't have to wait long for the other shoe to drop. He watched from the short distance as the teacher leaned over to listen, as the wretch who'd been the bane of his existence for as long as he could remember related with great animation his version of the exchange with wide, high sweeps of his arms and puffed-out chest in the manner he'd had years to perfect. The show seemed to go on endlessly, already far exceeding the duration of the conversation. The curtain finally came down when Xilio pointed a finger to his one good eye and left it there. The teacher straightened and turned to look at Rashan, who braced himself as the red-faced bearded man began walking toward him.
Rashan let loose a long sigh as Xilio smiled behind the teacher. He had managed to summon up a storm even on this, the sunniest of days.
* * *
Silently he glided past the rickety wooden tables. Swiftly through the unwashed masses, babbling and sweltering under the unrelenting sun. Unswerved by the stench of the festering marketplace meats strung over the shelves--chicken, snake, pig, cat. Unwavering in his focus to reach his destination and quarry at the appointed hour, he moved quickly and crisply, belying that which he appeared to be.
He smiled inside, secure in the knowledge that no one dared even question.
Cool he was under his flowing robe as the eyes followed him; cooler still because of the treasure he clutched tightly beneath its folds. As his own mind's eye flitted from first one, then the next, he watched through their eyes as they sneaked what they believed were hidden stares. There was a time when he could know their thoughts and more, but no longer; only sight remained. It would have to do, if only for a little while longer.
The fabric of his robe brushed a pair of upturned hands, and they took voice:
“ Alms, hashebi, alms...”
A hush fell over the throng as the figure came to an abrupt halt. Fear sliced the crowd so fast it could be felt; so strong it could be smelled. All knew what was coming next. What had to come next.
The irony of the moment was not lost on Bajid. It was as if God himself had placed them all in it for no purpose other than to teach him yet another lesson. As his free hand began to tingle, he could feel the rage continue to well up within him.
A mother standing close by covered the eyes of her child.
As if sensing his fate, the beggar drew breath to offer up his only defense:
Too late.
For the first time in over eighty years, the beggar's eyesight returned--just long enough for him to glimpse his headless body as it slumped to the sand.
No cry escaped from his lungs, no gasp rose up from the crowds. Merely the flapping of wings from the vultures gathering in the trees high above them all.
The priest sheathed his sword, turned, and strode his way.
* * *
Though Rashan's head still ached from the earboxing, his spirits soared. Today changed everything. He felt as if nothing could faze him now. He--as far as he knew, he alone--knew answers to questions that even ashrabi would not fathom for another thousand years. It would have been a heady, elating experience had it not been for a nagging sense of foreboding that tugged at his consciousness from some dark, hideous space inside him.
He tried to shrug it off, but could not. For the moment, at least, he was thankful that there was no one with whom he could talk about this. Lost in the crowd, lost even from his classmates, or so it seemed. Being chest-level with most everyone made it hard to tell whether he was removed from them ten feet or a hundred. He preferred solitude at this moment anyway. Even here, at the center of these pilgrims, at the center of this temple, at the center of the world, at the center of the universe.
Here am I.
A inner voice tried to speak, but Rashan was still compelled to hold the moment captive. He looked up, down, all around. The splendor and spectacle of what surrounded him was far beyond anything he'd ever heard or seen or was capable of imagining. The only visible manifestation of anything amiss were the tables of the moneychangers.
He had always been confused about their inclusion--intrusion, as far as he was concerned--in the temple. When he questioned the practice in class, the answer always seemed to be along the lines of acceptance of that which had always been. The answer was not to question. Now of course, he knew the true answer, and took comfort in the knowledge that he'd been right all along. Infinitely more disgusting in reality than they were in lectures, the sight and sound of them greedily hawking their useless trinkets and souvenirs made him want to retch. He looked away just in time.
There was, after all, much more to see.
The ornate multihued stonework shone forth in all its glory, filtered by the rays of the sun, bouncing rivers of color from all walls of the temple to all the others. Always moving, always flowing. Here, there, then back again, but never in the same combination.
Infinite complexity through syncopated choreography.
This, one of many descriptions he'd heard long ago bore witness of the inadequacy of language to the experience of that which defied expression.
It was said that the blueprint for the temple he was standing in was given to his ancestors tens of thousands of years ago by God himself. There were of course, detractors--those of Xilio's clan--who maintained the work was but the culmination of one fallen civilization after another building upon what was before. Standing here, in the middle of it all, Rashan had no doubt which theory was the truer. There was no way that any human mind, not even the workings of the galaxy's most sophisticated astrocomputer, was capable of conceiving, let alone engineering, anything approaching this.
Inexplicably, a sudden chill ran through him. For reasons equally mysterious, something akin to anger followed close behind. A combination of confusion and fear broke into a spontaneous moment of madness, and Rashan felt like screaming out loud.
Then, visions:
Dizzying peaks.
Dank dungeons.
Not knowing why, he whipped his head around, half expecting to see Xilio again standing before him.
What he actually saw was much more unnerving.
As if looking through the crowd, Rashan could clearly see a figure moving through the crowd. All the way at the other side of the temple, by the main arch. Quickly it moved, not in the manner of the Raj priesthood, whose blue robes it wore. Rashan watched it closely as it slipped effortlessly through, as if the pilgrims were not even there. Undetected it made its way the entire length of the temple, heading for the passageways on the far side, beyond the altar.
Rashan wondered what the thing could be in such a hurry over. No one seemed to notice the quick pace unbecoming one of such a station, famed as they were for discipline, reflection and contemplation. He could tell that it was no priest under those robes, but why didn't anyone else at least pay attention?
The creature slowed only as it approached the entranceway and reached up to grab a torch to light its way to the dark catacombs below.
Rashan struggled to make sense of what he saw.
It's clearly not lost, it's moving too fast. Why risk drawing attention to itself?
Suddenly, he knew.
It's late!
As if on cue, the thing's arm froze at the torch, without picking it up. Its head turned and it looked straight at him.
Rashan Khouragabou felt his insides turn out as the eyes under the blue hood met his own. There was neither time for nor need of thought; only feet put swiftly to flight.
No one else in the temple seemed aware anything was wrong, but his own senses were filled with nothing else.
Here! In the temple itself! In this holiest of places, how could something so unholy...
People were starting to notice something, but it wasn't desecration they were feeling. It was the disturbance caused by an unruly urchin slamming into shins, shoving them aside, knocking them into one another. Grumbling began to ripple through the crowd.
It crossed Rashan's mind that today would be a day never forgotten; a day appended to temple lore that had up to now consisted only of ancient stories and their brave heroes. This was a new day, and he was somehow at the center of it--but not in a way that he would have wanted. This was a place of meditation, of prayer, of peace, of worship; yet the grandchildren of the children here today would read of the one time in history the sacred had ever been tainted--and they would all know how to spell his name.
Rashan dragged himself from the future back to the now. He quickly turned his head to check his pursuer.
The red eyes, still fixed on him, were now much closer as the thing seemed to float effortlessly through the crowd. Through the wake he himself was creating. He was giving the creature a clear path.
Why don't they stop him? Won't they save a child?
He got his answer before he'd even finished the question.
To them, it's a Raj priest. None will dare interfere.
Checking behind himself proved costly. Rashan felt the impact, then toppled backward and fell hard to the stone floor, knocking the breath out of himself. He looked up to see a burly mountain of a man wearing a scowl; no doubt the immovable object he'd just tried to topple.
No time.
Breathless or not, he was filled with the realization that he did not have the luxury of breathing at the moment. With the same concentration he'd tried to use many times to jar himself awake from nightmares, he tried to form a silent scream from deep in his throat.
This time, it worked.
Scrambling to his feet, he half ran, half crawled, limping all the way as he stumbled for footing. He looked for a hole of his own, any open space that would allow him room to run, but he found none. Only a solid wall of people. Feeling the thing gaining on him, he didn't pause to look around this time. Inexplicably, he felt as if the thing had already caught up with him; was indeed somehow inside him...
What's it gonna do if it catches me?
“What do you mean, IF?”
If it's already late, why is it bothering to chase me?
“You know full well.”
Huh?
Rashan shuddered, stricken by the familiarity of his own words coming back to him. The moments were flying by too fast, and there were not nearly enough of them to outrun what was clearly gaining on him. Heart pounding, palms sweating, limbs trembing, he began to weary.
What's the use?
“What indeed.”
His pace slowed as he felt energy leaving his body. A thousand sights and sounds welled up in his mind as he gradually resigned himself to the inevitable:
Cities in ruin.
Children in chains.
Screams of pain.
And off, far off at the lonely edge of a grown-over potter's field, a grave marker. A solitary, grafitti-covered headstone encrusted with the droppings and mold from centuries of neglect. Though he couldn't make out a name, he knew nonetheless...
“NO!” he cried out, as startled heads turned. Driven by some unseen force deep inside, he was instantly aware of an array of senses he didn't even know he had. Senses that didn't make sense to begin with, and even less so in that he knew exactly how to use them.
Which he immediately did.
* * *