A three-sided room, pointed at the end—a round desk rooted at the center. On the walls, both sides were lined with gray, 2-meter sculptures of men, diverse—with the edges of the walls spewing lines of brilliant red-orange light, bathing the space in a constant tide of swirling colors.
Beauty.
Overall, unlike the greater totality of the castle, these were built with that crispy, rough texture of metal. Each surface was scattered with microdots of rock and stone. This was truly valor. Attention inevitably yielded to the statues. Some of them, she noted, were Highnesses—past Rulers of Valor.
One, she observed, was a tall man, sharp-eyed, narrow-jawed, oddly similar to Argon. That, she knew the reason for. That was Gladwell Valor. Died during the infamous redNight, allegedly slain by the Odium clan assassins. The Odium clan, of course, responded to the words as remarks against their basic nature. "No bloody Odium will sneak around," they would say, yet when layered with the age-long blood feud spanning from the days of Shirera of Valor and the twin sons of Odium, any cognitive mind would draw similar conclusions.
Odium had killed Valor. A death exonerated by the theocracy and their all-acclaimed might. My true father…She knew to feel for the name; however, the letters, as always, yielded as mere bootless words. Whoever he was, his existence was as fleeting as a breath on glass.
Her gaze shifted to the man seated before her, on the round desk: Argon. He stood, curving the radius table, stepping out into the open. Majestic. Draped over his shoulders was a black mantle—smooth. Flowing and cut with that excellent Valorian precision. It clasped at the right shoulder with a silver pin, a sleek circular brooch, inscribed with what she imagined was Old Tongue; some prayer for the health of the Highness. Typical.
Many believed Old Tongue to be some mystic spell for the Almighty. Such devoted ignorance. Ivory visualized how the darkCrowns saw this in aspirants: "Velin'ara toshen Elu'varan," they would say, then, like creatures threaded to motions, darkCrowns would bow, scream, and wail. "We praise the Almighty."
Almost disgusting, the control religion had on the minds of humans. If men were the beasts of the world, religion, the mind plague, was its ultimate predator. An extreme thought, no doubt, but she sensed the origin of the aggression.
Kabel.
How long would he remain in her psyche—like a bug of sorts? She sighed away the thought, noting Argon's apprehension of the expression.
Countless ideas would spin through his mind, seeking a logical reason for her outburst. Conclusion: He would think it a thing to mock him.
"I see your transgression does not bother you?" His voice filled the chamber, echoing down from both sides. A marvelous piece of architecture, this room. This, she imagined, was achieved with special padding and casting. A shame that the dreamShaper was excluded from the books. Years back, an attempt to learn had been made by her. The loremasters proved the knowledge nonexistent.
Strange how most knowledge from the last age was excluded from her. What a waste. Ivory then sensed Argon's glare, said, "I do not see what exactly my transgression is." He frowned. "You do not see?" The tone hid bubbling rage.
"You left for Stone Bastion without regard for order; this beckons something."
"They would think disobeying me something doable without risks."
"Yes," he said. "This means I will have to punish you."
"Publicly, of course." He was silenced for a moment. "You do not make my position easy, Ivory."
"I was taught to believe the Highness is the ultimate toiler."
He laughed now. "Indeed, that I am," he said. "However, you do not need to revel in that fact; someday you too will stand in this room, attempting knowledge conferring."
Incidentally, she found Kabel whispering within, "That could be our child." What an oddity to have, almost like a worm wriggling itself a home within her personal faculties. How long would he remain in her mind? She gave no response.
He smiled. "This is the king's room," he said. "Strange, I know, Highnesses are not kings, yet the name persists like some reminder of what we could be. Imagine that, eight absolute rulers in a single world."
"It will inevitably bring anarchy," Ivory said, finding Argon hard-pressed on her. His gaze beckoned further explanations. She did. "Many Scholae, Aspirants, loremasters, or whatnot have posed this question, often, of course, to determine the specific role the theocracy plays in the structure of society."
"I cannot see Aspirants pondering such things."
"Not all of them," she said. "Few of their chapters, but yes, they do. In the end, the recursive explanation is the need for a balancing act. Or a tie-breaker power. Fundamentally, each of the Great Clans could act upon their territories as kings, or supreme lords, and perhaps a few generations of 'kind' lords might be born; however, inevitably, a bad seed would emerge. Like Mel the Foolish, or the Tyrant Lord of Odium, these things would always happen. Without the presence of a tie-breaker power, humans would cower under the boot of the higher might. This will eventually breed the messiah figure—a rebel that acts against the law. An empire would fall, and another would rise. Over and over."
"A circle," Argon added.
"Yes," she continued. "But with the presence of a superpower, one preferably concerned with different objectives. Religion, for example, men can rest in that comfort."
"What if then, the superpower becomes the threat?"
Ivory smiled. "Then, like the end result of all extended wars, all powers will unite as one, destroying it."
"Eight clans against the Theocracy…" Argon chuckled. "Now that's a thought."
"An improbable one."
He observed now, nodded. "Indeed." His fingers touched the round table, and he said, "I would hope by tomorrow, a new change grows within you. Something to curb the weakening recklessness. But for today, I ask and answer questions."
Why did he ask me about the theocracy? She sensed a link within the words, not directly, but there it was, rearing its head. Look at me. Come find me. Ivory trailed the patterns.
"Pay attention, Ivory!" came the clamorous words, sending an imagined ripple through the chamber. Ivory, in her trance, saw the large statues trembling in fear, in dread of the storm that was Argon. Still, she gave him what he wanted: her attention.
"Ask." That seemed to infuriate him.
"Nail has told me of certain things…"
I see.
"You dance, Ivory," he said. "You dance during your training sessions. A dance like a battle art. Quick, fluid, hard to discern. You almost cornered her more than once."
"Almost."
"And Nail is beyond a Redeemed Caster," Argon said, observing. His eyes did that, almost churning with trapped winds and thunder. Often, her mind played games in overlaying his countenance with the swirling, sure winds of Eastos. More of a greyJusticiar than a true bladesworn, he was.
"I do not have an answer for it." She had theories.
"The Church must never learn of it," Argon said, his tone strangely appealing.
Ivory gave him acceptance, false acceptance. "One might think the dance the reason for the law."
He smiled. "A contemptuous man, likely." He crossed both arms behind his back. "Whatever that strange dance is, we cannot have the existence of such a leak within the Clan. Its origin must be first understood before explored."
She knew the likelihood. The strange caster, if that could be inferred, was the source. The power—the knowledge, the force. No other alien power had induced their presence to her, only him. This was their doing, surely. I AM had done this. She had attempted an extraction of information from DeadEyes and loremasters in the understanding of the strange power growing in Nightfell.
There was none.
I AM played an interesting game with their secrets, sharing but not. Drifting thoughts into paths with no discernible reason. Almost chaotic—a symptom of Discord. However, a record had presented itself from extensive research. The Formless. Or Unseen gods in some rare accounts. Beings of sheer power—unlike casters, they did not pass through the ritual of pushing or pulling; there was only the action, almost as though the very existence of those gods was synonymous with the very symbol.
Elmiran. An avatar.
That spilled out as one alternative. The other was the scarcer account of sentient symbols. When bathed in constant force for extensive periods, Symbols, according to the texts, could grow a singular mind. This, she wondered, explained the existence of I AM. Was he not a caster, but one of the formless? However, as all unprovable texts, the knowledge could be accepted as mere theories.
"Ah, Ivory," Argon said, "You are woolgathering."
"I hear what you say." A rumble tided through the chamber. How tightly Argon held his rage now.
Then silence. "Take a seat," he said, "I still have more to ask."
Ivory obeyed without question, taking the opposite high back, facing Argon, generating a certain air of mutual exclusivity. He enjoyed this—seldom he showed it, but the burden of the Seal seat had an ironic way of sealing its owner. They are essentially prisons like those in the black jails. Good to speak in absolute secrecy. No spyeyes, invisible eiya, hidden watchers. Nothing. Oddly, the King's room was both the most protected and not within the Valor castle.
Argon asked, "What did you aim to achieve in leaving the castle?"