Stained by the sacrificial flow frame?

Thunder leaned away with a frown, casting me a narrow-eyed gaze. The silver ring in Thais’ eyes glowed brighter as she scrutinized me once more.

“Are you familiar with the Order of the Black Sun?” I said. “The track I’m in — the Governance track — had a dangerous encounter with them in KP-04. The sacrificial flow frame was one of their weapons of choice against us. Is that what you are referring to?”

“More than encountering an enemy,” Kostelius said, “you must have used the frame yourself.”

How the hell did he know? “Isn’t that a heavy accusation?”

“Indeed, it is, which is why this is a statement made in the sanctuary of a guest and not in the cold company of a foreign court. The ways of outsiders are not our ways. However, just as you have come to hear our stories and understand our ways, so too must we hear your story and understand you before we know where we can stand.”

“Understanding, is it…”

I didn’t really enjoy being put on the spot, but considering what Roxana had mentioned about this frame before, I got why they’d have second thoughts about someone who’d used it themselves. For my own goals, I wanted their cooperation, but I didn’t want to seem too eager to please, since that would suggest either my ulterior motives or their having leverage over me. How should I go about this?

After a moment of thought, I said, “I heard that to be initiated in the sacrificial flow frame, you need to commit murder through a ritual and have another initiate guide you in its use.”

“You say that as if that’s not what happened to you,” Thais said.

I shrugged. “Things were weird in KP-04. Let me show you.”

I’d taken to wearing Tarascus’ brooch every day since I got it, just in case I needed it. So when I activated [Incarnation], my butterfly wings unfolded through the fabric of my coat instead of ripping right through it.

Plenty of people had already seen me with these in KP-04 and during the make-up exam, so it wasn’t really secret anymore. It should be okay to reveal them.

“For various reasons, I had access to the [Eye of the Kaleidoscope]’s powers. First, it let me see the things that other people see. And second, to quote the Tripartite’s description, ‘that which is seen must surely become true.’ I saw how the Order members were using that weather frame. Just like how I can now see how you see me.”

Kostelius’ vision was unlike any other perspective I’d seen before. The world was like a painting, made of colorful brushstrokes that shifted and moved with the flow. Like a moving Van Gogh painting. The exact edges between objects and the fine details on them were sometimes blurry and obscure, but the overall bulk was clear. When I exhaled, out flowed a current of “strokes,” puffing out and dispersing into the surrounding tapestry of impressionist blurs. Every slow shift in the room, every air current, could be seen in the curls of those strokes, how long or thick or fast or slow. Compared to the sacrificial flow frame, the level of detail for a “flow” was much greater.

I lifted up one hand, and through Kostelius’ eyes, watched the disturbance around it.

“I see a red stain on my hands,” I said. “When the air moves over and around them, it’s as if I’m shedding bits of red into the surrounding area. The red doesn’t scatter far before it’s swallowed up. There doesn’t seem to be any obstruction to the air currents as things are, but maybe that would change if I tried to interfere more actively.”

At my words, Thunder squinted at me more carefully. The paintbrush-like effect emerged in his vision to a small degree, but nowhere near as expansive and detailed as Kostelius’. He could barely make out a red smudge on my hands. I guess it was a difference in skill or experience. Maybe he was better at “listening” to the world than seeing it?

It wasn’t important right now. I put my hand back down.

“In KP-04, I saw how the Order was weaving their magic… and with a bit of trial and error, I figured out how they were doing it. Then I interfered.”

Kostelius crossed his arms thoughtfully as I put my wings away.

“People died by your hand.”

“Yes, I killed people. I won’t apologize for it. Our lives were on the line.”

Thais folded her arms on the table with a sigh. “That matches everything I’ve heard. Explains some things, too.”

“And,” said Kostelius thoughtfully, “without initiation or guidance, you are able to perceive the harmonic flow through me. What of song? Can you hear what we hear?”

I shook my head. “The KP frame deals with sight. Your harmonic flow frame is primarily sound-based, isn’t it? Why are you ‘seeing’ it instead?”

“Grandpa’s hearing is going, so he’s changing up the way he interacts with the world,” Thunder said. “Uncle Damion from the Ocean Forest Clan is blind and deaf, so he feels the Voice of the World through vibrations and stuff instead, and he uses the drum. It’s cool.”

“Regardless, it is remarkable that an outsider could perceive part of the Voice without first being guided,” Kostelius said. “What a strange power! To think it could allow one to use the sacrificial flow frame without first committing the sacrifice…”

No, I might have actually done something that counted as the sacrifice… Not that I intended to say anything about that.

“Since I’ve explained, it’s your turn,” I said. “What is the sacrifice? How and why do people keep learning this frame? How does it relate to the ritual you want to perform?”

Kostelius nodded slowly.

“Thais, dim the lights,” he instructed, voice solemn. “Thunder, fetch my water table and harp.”

Thais went and adjusted some settings on a control panel on the wall. Dark shades engraved with starry patterns lowered themselves over the outside of the windows, blocking out the light. As the overhead lights dimmed down, Thunder pulled from the cabinet a thick bronze plate half as wide as he was tall. He heaved it to the table and plugged a power cable into a port beneath the carpet. Parallel strips of blue light drew themselves upon the surface of the plate.

Last, Thunder retrieved a small harp carved out of pale wood from its stand on the wall and presented it solemnly to Kostelius, who took it into his arms and plucked three melancholy notes. The sounds hung in the air as he took one of the water containers and poured the contents over the shallow surface of the plate, and despite the drifting of the ship, not a single drop spilled.

“My young guest,” he addressed me, plucking the strings of his harp once again. “This is a powerful story, not easily told. Though you may not believe in our ways, while you are here, I ask that you show this story the respect it deserves. If you do not wish to participate in our call and response, then remain silent until the tale is done.”

“Understood.”

“Thais, Thunder. Do you still remember how the song goes?”

“I don’t know it in Iyirian,” said Thunder.

“I remember a telling from years ago, Thunder. Just repeat after me.”

“Good,” said Kostelius. “I am heartened that dealing so heavily with the written word has not eroded your memory. Then let us begin the telling once again.”

His thick, gnarled fingers strummed gently over the harpstrings with all the dexterity of a hummingbird. Mist arose from the water table, diffusing the water plate’s gentle light over the room. Kostelius’ voice sank to a low, gravelly rumble as he half-spoke, half-sang.

“Why do we tell the story?”

“We tell the story to remember,” Thais replied, with Thunder repeating soon after.

The mist condensed behind Kostelius into rope-like trails, interweaving with each other as he spoke.

“Why must we remember?”

“So we can learn the wisdom of the past.”

Like threads on a loom, the misty trails turned back on themselves, running parallel to the paths they’d traced just moments before.

“I ask again, why must we remember?”

“So we don’t make the same mistakes.”

With each thrum of the harp, the misty trails’ pattern shifted. A knot, a net, a tapestry.

“The past, the present, and the future are all one upon the circle of history. But the circle of history must ever move forward.”

The ends of each strand scattered like sand, unraveling the woven knot; yet more mist condensed at the head of each strand, racing forward to continue weaving what had moments ago been erased.

“First Singer, hear us and bless our song. Protect us from that which may be called forth by the telling of the story. May we learn the evils of the past that survive in the present; may we never pass an evil to the future that we cannot withstand.”

My skin prickled as a familiar, soundless voice came into the room with a murmur, a sigh. The Tripartite was here.

The mist thickened and enveloped us in a dome, as if to seal us away from the outside world. A strange whisper now accompanied every note of Kostelius’ harp; a rich, dark, and reverberating undertone attached itself to Kostelius’ words like a second shadow. There was an electric power thrummed in his voice. If I hadn’t believed in the power of his story before, I would have had to believe now.

“In the brightest of days, in the darkest of days, after the Creator forged the world from Their body and sank into a deep dream, the people of the world had not yet learned to listen to themselves in the voice of the First Singer left to guide us. Because they could not hear themselves, they could not hear the Voice of the World. Because they could not hear the Voice of the World, great evils were done over the waters and the land.”

Above the water plate, mist rose again. Over each strip of light on the plate, the shape of the vapor was lit, forming the shape of mountains behind the undulating surface of a sea.

“It was thus that the spirit of the sunlit seas, born of the Creator’s tears of laughter, had her heart poisoned by the evils of the world. She heard the Voice of the World diminishing, saw the wickedness done by the people, and remembered the days of the Creator’s singing, when the world was in balance and it was good. And so the Bright One said, since the world has become wicked, let me flood the blight out of it and erase all that is not good, that we might return to better days.”

The waves above the water plate undulated violently and surged up, as if they wanted to conceal Kostelius’ face entirely. Still, his sonorous voice rang out unhindered.

“The rains came down, and waters rose to cover the land. Many were those who drowned in the Great Flood. There was much sorrow and wailing, until the first of our great heroes forged a mighty spear from the spine of a sea serpent and the claw of a Dragon.”

Figures arose out of the mist, a hero with a spear, a lady with long hair.

“With this spear, he pierced through the Bright One’s heart and cast her down into the dark depths of the sea. He impaled her upon the bedrock and nailed down each limb with serpents’ fangs and buried her beneath the waters and the sands.”

The spear pierced through the lady’s figure and sent her falling down, down, until her figure disappeared entirely into the water on the water table.

“But he knew, too, that the Bright One was borne directly from the Creator, and thus had an eternal nature; she could never be truly slain. And so, he sang a song that wove her a great dream — a dream of the old days — that she might find a peaceful repose.

“And our People learned to hear the Voice of the World, and we were appointed to care for the waters from which all life is born. But the wickedness of the world ever flows into the seas and sinks into the depths, disturbing the Bright One’s dreams.

“Thus, I ask, how do we let the Bright One rest again?”

“By releasing the darkness from her dreams.”

“And how do we release the darkness from her dreams?”

“By letting the storms flow out from her seal.”

Clouds and whirlwinds arose out of the water table, scattering throughout misty dome before dispersing.

“The days of great heroes and spirits have passed; the responsibility of the world lies in our humble hands. Though the Bright One slumbers, she has not relinquished the wish within her heart; and thus, we let the Bright One sleep, lest she wake and the Great Flood begins again.”

Kostelius closed his eyes and rested his harp on his knees. It was silent but for the sound of our breathing and that eerie whisper in the air. I thought that the story might end here.

Then Kostelius played a few quavering notes on the harp, and the mist swirled around us, weaving once more into that great knot.

“I ask you, how do we know that Bright One still longs to cleanse the world?”

“Because this story has been told before.”

“In the era of myths and legends, this story has been told before.

“In those days, our people still welcomed outsiders into our homes and shared our ways freely with the world, in hopes that they, too, might learn to hear the Voice of the World. It was during this time that the man named Melchior came to be among our people. This exiled prince fled from what we now know as Saivanid lands and sought refuge with us, and we welcomed him with open arms.

“We now know that Melchior was a power-hungry man, but so too was he a patient man. For many years did he wear the skin of a friend. He lived with us, hunted with us, shared our food and celebrated our songs. He courted one of our women, built her a magnificent ship according to our traditions, and threw a magnificent wedding the likes of which have not oft been sung of since. And learning our rituals and our secret ways, he came to know where the Bright One was sealed, and by what means we drain the wickedness from her dreams.

“So Melchior went alone to the Bright One’s seal, and through the magics of his personal song, entered her dreams. There, he swore an oath with her. She would lend him her power, and in turn, he had to offer up sacrifices to the wind and the waters until her seal eroded and she was completely freed.

“And thus Melchior turned on us and betrayed our ways. He left his wife and children in the dead of night and returned to his homeland, where he conquered and became king.

“But the bloodshed of that war was not yet enough to satisfy the Bright One’s demands. And so, Melchior set his eyes on other lands.”

The mist swirled and formed a rough map in the air. I mapped it according to what I knew of Kosmonymia’s current geography: the Saivanid Empire to the east, the ocean in the middle, Iyiria to the west, and Tizemitia to the south. One section of the water table’s lights turned a deep crimson, dyeing part of the Saivanad Empire’s territory red.

“First, Melchior marched on his neighbors. Every city he conquered was killed to the last man, woman, and child until the streets overran with blood.”

The red light expanded, spread west through the ocean and to the other two continents.

“When all his neighbors had fled, Melchior came for us, whom he knew so well, and it was only with great difficulty and ingenuity that we escaped him; and having lost sight of us, he set for the rich shores of Tizemitia and the honeyed lands of Iyiria. Those were dark and bloody days, and many were the people who fell beneath his hand.

“And when the seal was weakened, the Bright One’s hatred finally manifested in the world. She sent forth her avatar, who called down the rains and made the oceans rise. Those who were not slain by Melchior and his armies were claimed by her hand. So great were the deaths that the waters ran red with blood from the rivers to the seas.

“Then it was that an Emissary of the First Singer, the Ruler of Hatred, was roused from Their slumber.”

The mist reformed into a wicked-looking dragon with spines running from its two long horns down to the spearhead of its tail. It spread its clawed wings and let out a breath of fire. Plumes of mist sprayed up from the water table like gouts of red flame.

“With one sweep of Their tail, Melchior was slain. With each beat of Their wings, a regiment of his army died. The Ruler of Hatred flew forth to do battle against the Bright One, and the Bright One, fearing Their mighty song, fled.

“For nine and one days, the Ruler of Hatred hunted for her through the waves; and when he found her, their battle raged for three days and three nights. For though the Ruler of Hatred could take the rage and hatred in her heart, she was ever fed on that which flowed in from the world outside.

“Finally, when her avatar was vanquished, the Ruler of Hatred called our chieftains forth. Five claws did They give us, and the spear upon Their tail besides; and with Their power, the Bright One was sealed once more and sent deeper into her dreams.

“However, the [Red Flood] left behind great scars. The deaths of that time can never be undone, and the sacrificial flow frame that Melchior created persists to this day. Those who seek power, who do not bear their responsibility to the world, and who do not respect our ways continue to follow in Melchior’s footsteps; every death brought about by that wicked power feeds back into the Bright One’s dreams.

“Thus, I ask, why have we closed our ways to the world?”

“Because there must never be another Melchior in the world.”

“I ask, what is our responsibility to the world?”

“To ensure the [Red Flood] may never reoccur.”

“And I ask, why do we tell the story again?”

“Because the story might turn out differently this time.”

“Thus, you who have heard the tale must learn to tell the story. May we hear the blessings and wisdom of those who came before; may our voices bring blessings and wisdom to those who come after. And so, we pray.

“When the First Singer tells our stories, may they be tales we are proud to leave behind.”

Kostelius’s harp sang its soft harmony and faded away into silence. An otherworldly sigh rang out. It dispersed the misty barrier that had sealed us away from the outside world and extinguished all light in the room.

When the water table’s lights slowly flickered back on, the presence in the room was gone.

Thais got up and raised the shades of the windows. Light filtered back into the room as if to wake us from a dream.

I mulled over what I had learned.

The sacrificial flow frame had been created by Melchior, which meant that he’d likely reached the realm of Legend. He’d been instantly killed by the Dragon of Hatred. The Dragon of Hatred was still unable to completely eliminate the Bright One. And if the Bright One’s seal was not maintained, then something really bad might happen.

Actually, wasn’t the Tripartite kind of crazy for giving me the option not to help the Anthemoessians at all…?

Speaking of the Tripartite, they had to have been the presence I felt in the room during the story. But even though it’d put me on edge, they’d only… listened, this time. Not a single wicked or cutting remark. If I was interpreting things correctly, the barrier of mist had actually been meant to protect the storyteller and audience while the story was being told — perhaps from anything else that might be called forth by mentioning them. I wouldn’t have guessed that they’d ever care enough about anyone to do something like that.

I looked up at Kostelius, and judging from the way he met my gaze that it was okay to talk now, asked, “The ‘First Singer,’ is that your name for the Tripartite?”

“Indeed. Just as the Lemirians name Them the Three Great Fallen, and the Saivanids know Them as the Threefold Reflections, so we too have our own way of knowing — one that is, perhaps, less contentious than that of our neighbors’.”

“Contentious?”

“Indeed. The Lemirians treat Them as corrupted forces of evil who must be redeemed by the peoples’ virtuous deeds; the Saivanids believe They are a challenge to the three virtues of thought, word, and deed. The Iyirians say They are a fickle and unfathomable force of nature whose whims can only be suffered. But the First Singer is a reflection of one’s relationship to the world and to one’s own self. To approach Them as an adversary is to ensure that They are nothing but.”

I guess that was similar to how I lived my life in this world, too… Hey. Kostelius wasn’t saying that the Tripartite’s attitude towards me was my own fault then, was he? Shouldn’t I be able to expect better from divine beings than from me?

“How do you approach the First Singer, then?” I asked. “What does it look like to… mend a relationship with them?”

“Just don’t avoid Them or what They have to say,” Thunder said.

“I think it’s a bit more complicated than that, Thunder,” Thais sighed. She rested her elbows on the table. “Acacius, at the end of the day, it comes down to a difference in our cultures. We believe that the First Singer was left behind by the Creator to guide us through the world. Therefore, Their actions reward us for the way we conduct our lives or warn us of where our paths might lead. What Iyirians often interpret as cruelty or mockery is, to us, an opportunity to reflect on ourselves.”

“You’re saying it’s just a difference in interpretation, not reality?”

“Something like that. Let’s say I tell you that your clothes aren’t suitable for an event you’re attending. You could take that as an attempt to embarrass you publicly, an insult, an attempt to help, or just a conversation starter, but that’s not actually the important part, right? You should be assessing if their statement is an accurate reflection of reality, and if it is, what you should do about it.”

“No, but if we’re talking about relationships, it’s still important to interpret what the other person’s intentions were by saying that. Even if they’re objectively correct, it still matters whether they said it to help or harm.”

“If you can’t know, though, then you just have to choose what you believe. If one way of thinking will make you happier than the other, then why not take it?”

“Hold that thought, Thais!” Kostelius boomed. “The world we live in is shaped by belief. A stranger does not become a friend without you first treating him as such. To believe a stranger dangerous and untrustworthy will turn everyone into your enemy. Our differing relationships with the First Singer do not arise solely from interpretation, for interpretation gives rise to action, and action turns into reality.”

He turned to me.

“Young Acacius, if you are troubled by the First Singer’s voice, then allow me to ask. Have you parts of the past that you turn away from? Have you truths that pain you to face? When the First Singer confronts you with uncomfortable realities, do you treat Them as an enemy for doing so, or flee from Their words?”

I closed my mouth and didn’t say anything. Kostelius nodded.

“And so, I tell you, that only those who find the strength to listen will be rewarded.”

“Is it such a sin to lack strength?” I said morosely.

Kostelius’ whiskered beard shook as he laughed.

“It is no sin. It is only that those who would live life fully must be able to look it in the eye.”

Chapter 69 Chapter 71