The Numinous Cathedral held frequent services for visitors to the city and for locals alike, welcoming in so many worshippers that they crammed the pews full from end to end, and still more crowded in to stand around the sides and rear. Root’s first interpretation of this system was one of good faith. “Good faith” did not seem to be the Children of Endkiu’s main ambition, however, and the four of them learned as much before they even made it inside.
“Collection, collection!” called a woman standing at the top of the stairs outside the towering front doors. She shook a large bowl made from wood and gold that clinked with the sound of change—change for the meager diets of the worlds’ less fortunate, perhaps, or change for the carpet in the villa’s holy rec room, more likely.
Everyone who filed through the door dropped money into the bowl. Most—especially those with larger coins to spare—stopped to make sure the woman caught their names as well.
“Do we have to shell out, too?” asked Root. “Is it paid entry?”
Azriah craned his neck to watch the people at the door. “Doesn’t seem to be—it’s all different amounts. Ah, someone just went in without paying. He got a dirty look, but that’s all.”
They’d gone out and found themselves some nicer clothes—ones that weren’t saturated with sand and sweat and which might pass for fancy churchwear. Again, Root longed for her comfortable, familiar clothes, but Azriah and Beel and the innkeeper they’d solicited as a tiebreaker had all been steadfast that those weren’t “proper.” Now, two days after their tour of the palace and surrounding grounds, they filed into the cathedral to see what all the fuss was about.
“Official t-shirts,” called a man from a table just inside the entryway. “We’ve got t-shirts, backpacks, hats, wairms, pins…” He inclined his head to the four of them as they hustled by with their gaze low. Root made the mistake of looking up at the table with soured incredulity. “Ah, miss, a hat for you?” He held up a magenta hat with the words “I took a pilgrimage to Urk and all I got was eternal salvation and this hat” printed on the front in gold embroidery. Root waved him off like a mosquito.
Posters lined the entry hall. One had a huge picture of a frightening spirit gripping the bars of a tall, heavy fence. “Official church fencing!” it read, then at the bottom: “Just 4 payments of 199.95!” In fine print along the bottom, so small Root nearly missed it, it added: “Guaranteed to keep you alive in an incursion or your money back! Offer not valid after the inception of the Holy War.”
Another poster advertised a large shipment of shelf-stable food and water rations. A third was for the church’s own locksmith division, and a fourth offered bunker installations and blast doors.
“Was all this here when we toured?” asked Root.
Vit looked around at the ads. “I don’t think so.”
They cleared the entry hall with all its money grabs and found seats in a pew near the back.
Through the cathedral’s main room, long rows of seating filled angled sections split by aisles. The floor sloped gently as it progressed towards the front altar, turning the cathedral into a massive auditorium. The stained-glass windows looked down at them, a name below each figure: Saint Gilbert, Saint Actual, Grand Priest Emile. Above the altar and organ were two more windows, larger than all the others, bearing images of two men wearing loincloths and furs. One was labeled “Samesh,” the other, “Endkiu.” Between them, enormous and cast in solid gold, hung the church’s symbol.
The gaudiness continued along the sidelines; columns of magenta-tiled stone and gold reached to a lofty ceiling, an expansive mural where a hundred figures sat around on clouds in the sky. Looking like protestors, a few held signs—details which appeared to have been added in at some later point—with messages of “Don’t forget to tithe!” or “Join us—buy your salvation today!” If they were protesting, it was a protest against those who hadn’t yet dumped their savings into the church’s coffers.
“Do you think that chandelier might fall on us?” asked Beel looking up.
“With any luck,” said Root. “Those crystals look like they’re worth a fortune, and I bet we could convince the doctors to let us keep whatever they extract from our bodies. ‘Finders keepers,’ or whatever.”
“That’s not funny,” said Beel.
“Wasn’t even a joke, really.”
Music began as the last churchgoers packed the cathedral. A procession began down a few of the aisles.
“Hey, hey, get down,” said Vit in a half-whisper.
“It’s not going to fall, I was just—”
“No, look.”
They all turned to watch the nearest procession. A familiar face walked among them.
“Damn, I didn’t think we’d see him this soon,” said Root, sliding down in her seat.
An unmistakable head of damp-or-greasy dark hair bobbed in the middle of the line as it moved slowly towards them. Syrus walked with the other clergy members, dressed in a robe and carrying a book. He hardly glanced around at the masses through his tiny glasses, instead looking mostly bored. He didn’t seem to see them as he passed.
“Should we go?” asked Root.
Azriah watched Syrus for a moment. At the frontmost pews, he took a seat. “We’re way back here, and he’s got his back to us. We’ll try to slip out before he does at the end.”
“Ahem. Hello, everyone, and welcome,” spoke a voice. One of the robed men from the processions had gone up to the altar—short, wrinkled, and more dust than man. He leaned towards a widening half tube mounted atop the altar as he spoke, which glowed faintly as it reverberated and amplified his voice to boom through the room. “For those visiting us from places near and far today, thank you for making the journey to see us. I am Pastor Lamley. Don’t forget to make a donation while you’re here, as it will boost you in the order of reception for the gift of eternal life when Endkiu returns.”
Azriah scoffed. The woman seated beside him shot him a horrified look.
They all had to stand and sing next. It went on for far too long, but it wouldn’t have been nearly as intolerable if the man behind them had had even the slightest ear for pitch.
Pastor Lamley went into a story next, punctuated by emphasis on the importance of preparedness. Root could only pay him half her attention, as her focus kept snapping away with each note in a series of distant pink, tink, shinks which seemed to be growing louder.
The woman next to them passed a bowl to Azriah, but not before dropping two mantles inside.
Azriah passed it down. Vit dropped in two radulas, but the others kept it moving. The man on the other side of them rolled his eyes at Vit’s meager contribution.
The sounds faded as the bowl retreated into the distance once more.
Root turned her ears back to the sermon. “… And of course, when our very own Grand Priest David defeated and overthrew the Unsightly King. In that moment, David’s preparedness was the thread by which our very people hung. Only because he was ready to face the tyrant and set our people free did we enter into this bright new age and see the flourishing of Urk and our people throughout the worlds.”
Root leaned over Beel to be closer to Vit. “I thought the old king was overthrown ages ago.”
“That’s what it sounded like on the tour.”
“And the Grand Priest is human.”
Azriah leaned in. “Do you think… they’ve already figured it out?”
Vit looked around nervously.
“Our David,” continued Pastor Lamley. “A figure who needs no introduction…”
A sudden sensation washed over Root—a shiver down her spine, a paranoia gnawing its way out of her stomach. Was something about to happen? She threw a glance over her shoulder at the door. Something was wrong.
By the looks of it, Vit and Azriah felt it too. As for Beel, it was impossible to tell; he looked much the same as always.
Throughout the room, everyone began to fidget. Cautious glances went this way and that as people slunk down in their seats as if trying to make themselves small. Root’s fingers itched to summon her weapon. Azriah reached for Orne Tyn, but he’d left the sword back at their inn.
“And now,” said Pastor Lamley, “the Grand Priest—David Mammona!”
A man in a heavily embellished white robe strode out confidently from somewhere beyond the altar. As soon as he entered, Root relaxed.
An audible sigh swept through the room, as if the audience was trying to stir up a windstorm but not be caught in the act. The gnawing in Root’s gut was gone; the shiver in her spine faded. What had happened?
The Grand Priest’s robe made him look like a bird gliding down to snatch up whatever scraps he had his eyes locked onto. Overextended shoulder pads sprouted like wings from either side, their edges lined with gold that matched the trim around the sleeves. A magenta stole adorned with the eight-pronged symbol swayed as he walked, and the same symbol dangled from a chain around his neck, glimmering in the light.
And atop his head, he wore a crown.
The gold band encircled the priest’s wrinkled forehead, its front studded with magenta gemstones and tiny diamonds, the largest of which, magenta and round like a marble, rested directly in the center like a third eye standing ever watchful. Nine prongs rose up and forward, each one thicker at the top. Around the prongs hung a second band like a halo hovering over the priest’s brow.
Root tapped Vit and nodded almost imperceptibly towards the priest—David—as he entered. “Does it match the sketch?”
“Hm,” whispered Vit. “I don’t know. The sketch didn’t have that whole bit by his left ear. Maybe…” They held a hand at arm’s length and closed one eye, positioning their pinky to cover part of the crown. “Ah. Yep, that’s it.”
“Hello, my beloved children,” said David as he arrived at the altar, spreading his arms wide. He swept his gaze across the room, his eyes piercing blue. He was old—his greying hair showing only hints of the brown it had once been—but not old enough to have fought the Unsightly King.
The cheers that ripped through the room held none of the hesitation that had eaten through the crowd in the moment before David emerged. Applause continued for several minutes. Root spotted several people with tears on their cheeks. The people nearest the front, seated in the pews immediately behind the clergy and other important folks, stood and leaned as far forward as they could manage, reaching out their hands like crazed fans at a concert. Those without seats who crowded the sidelines surged forward but were repelled by a guard detail that held a perimeter up near the front. The guards looked to have doubled or tripled in number since David’s entrance.
“Thirty-eight,” whispered Beel unprompted. Root sensed the tone of a deterring argument in his voice.
David began his sermon. Confidence and ease adulterated his words like arsenic, and Root had to admit—he had a pleasant speaking voice, smooth but firm like a river rock.
He began with a story about some guy named Nutoahshish-shimtim—which he pronounced perfectly each time, though Root had at first suspected he added another syllable every time it left his mouth. Apparently, Nutoahshish-shimtim had built a huge boat and crammed it full of animals to spare them all from an incoming flood.
Except, growing up on a farm, Root knew David left out a few details. For one thing, it was no secret that animals loved to eat each other.
“And so, as you all know, for his deeds and his cunning preparedness, the Lord Almighty Eu granted Nutoahshish-shimtim two great boons,” said David. “This is how Nutoahshish-shimtim became the first and so far only human to achieve immortal life. This, the One Eu chose for Nutoahshish-shimtim. The second was requested of the Almighty, and that was for Nutoahshish-shimtim to be relieved of his sense of smell. As he said, he had ‘had quite enough.’”
Ah—there was that other bit he’d left out.
“Preparedness kept Nutoahshish-shimtim afloat in the maelstrom of Eu-as-Samur, and that preparedness and his love for the animals of the worlds earned him the great gift of unending life. Preparedness will lead to salvation, and unpreparedness, only death…” David tutted. “Think of the old children’s tale—Frederick and Aubrielle. They weren’t prepared, now were they? Their parents: off working from sunup to sundown every day, always leaving the children alone in a wretched, crumbling hovel. Well, along came the Beastly Man—a terrible spirit hungry for blood—and when he asked to come in, they denied him. When he tried to beat down their front door, they reinforced it with their kitchen table. When he attempted to get in through the windows, they boarded them up with the doors from the cabinets. But then, when the children thought they were safe and secure inside that old place, what did the Beastly Man do next? That’s right—he tunneled under the house and dug up through the rotten floorboards. The children were eaten. Were they prepared? No, no they weren’t.
“Now, perhaps if they had been, the tale would end differently, hm? Perhaps if they hadn’t sat back and assumed their safety was now guaranteed. Or perhaps the parents should have stocked weapons in the hovel. Indeed, if the parents had been home instead of out all day—or if they hadn’t neglected to fix the flimsy door, the cracked windows, the rotten floor—if they’d prepared for such a scenario, the tale would end happily, would it not? This is the value of preparedness.”
Azriah rolled his eyes. “Sounds like the moral is ‘don’t be poor,’” he whispered to Root. “‘If only the parents hadn’t had to work all day.’ ‘If only they’d had the money to fix up the house.’”
As David went through the stories, Root found herself riding along on his words. When David got to the frightening parts, it rippled through Root’s chest, and when he mentioned Eu, the fear subsided. Was he just that good of a storyteller?
She watched the crown atop his head. No, it wasn’t his storytelling—he was using the halo on the audience, like Hamlick with the flute. It was definitely a mote periapt, with power like all the others.
David continued. “I’m sure the other parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and all the others here today who are caretakers for the children in their lives are with me when I say I cannot even fathom leaving one of our children—a child of the church—alone in a place like that. You all know about my nephew or niece—the child of my late sister, whom she made the mournful decision to terminate long before she passed. Oh, one day we will be reunited at Endkiu’s side in eternal life. But if I had that child here with me today, I could never imagine leaving them to fend for themself against the Beastly Men of the worlds.”
Root shared a look with Vit, then Azriah. Incredulously, she mouthed the word, “What?”
“Now more than ever, preparedness is paramount. We all must be ready for the danger that grows in the worlds. Any day, the very doorstep of Urk will become the grounds for the final test of our people, a war to stave off the outsiders. We will fight at Endkiu’s side and win for all of humankind the endless life that has always been afforded to our spirit counterparts. It will be ours, but we must be prepared, we must. We will protect you—Eu will protect you. Through the power of Eu-as-Lull, no harm will befall us, the Children. But still, preparedness is key. And there’s no better way to remain prepared than with our official Children of Endkiu battle axes, which will be available after the service in both adult and child sizes. There is even an additional package that includes dual functionality for use as a security bar on doors, windows…”
Root was suddenly aware of the distant pink, tink, shink sound approaching again. Everyone along the bowl’s path contributed again despite having already done so on multiple other occasions—and by the sound of it, even more this time as they hung on the words of David’s financial interests with the same fervor as his warnings of their impending doom.
David finished his ad break. Another man had come up beside him at the altar to show off one of the axes.
He was only a few years older than them, somewhere in his mid- to late-twenties. He looked like an athlete, fit and muscular and dressed in the white uniform of the church’s guards. With a sharp jaw, black curly hair, and manicured eyebrows, he might’ve been the poster boy for the church’s new fashion line or brand of doomsday-repellent cologne—except for the heavy dark patches under his eyes, turning his light brown skin sunken and tired. He looked like he’d made a habit of neglecting sleep in favor of several more hours at the gym.
“For those who have not had the pleasure of joining us here before, I should make the introduction of the terrific Elijah Amin,” said David, gesturing to the younger man. “Our head of security and a light to all those in our congregation—and for all Children of Endkiu throughout the worlds. As we fend off death, it is Elijah who, at my side, protects and guides us.”
With the word “death,” David struck fear into the hearts of all those in attendance. Then Elijah raised his arms and a tall plume of flame erupted from them. The rest of the crowd leaned forward with the telltale sign that David had abated their fright. Root didn’t feel the relief; her chest seized with shock and panic.
Elijah’s dazzling display faded and he flashed them a bright white smile as the crowd applauded. They seemed to love Elijah just as much as they loved David.
Root hated him.
Pastor Lamley came out again and directed a number of young members of the clergy in distributing snacks. Root was intrigued to see wine among them.
The four of them received a paltry bite—a wafer that was more air than anything, which had been dipped very rapidly into a goblet of wine. Apparently, this was a result of the “tier” they were on as pilgrims, new to the church (Tohlog had said that making them newly converted members was safer, as it rose fewer eyebrows for anyone who might not recognize them), and with limited or nonexistent sums in total donations. Members of higher tiers received nicer wafers or bread as well as finer wine brought over in fancier goblets.
With that portion of the service concluded, David went on to speak further about things the audience could do to prepare for the worst—which he spoke of with the same impending nearness that one might use to discuss plans for the upcoming week. The lights dimmed, and Elijah directed fire above David’s head to place him in an island of light amidst deep shadows. When Root looked at David, she felt relief and safety, and when she looked away, she felt a slow fear constricting around her, like she was drowning in syrup. She picked anxiously at a scab on her arm. David was life, a refuge in the endless depths of annihilation; everywhere else was only death.
And after that final display, David departed, but not without a long, long standing ovation from the crowd. Root turned to comment to Vit, but paused; their face was deathly pale. Clearly they were all being affected by the power.
Pastor Lamley returned and ran through a list of announcements.
“There are six birthdays this week,” he said. “Yes, and we will get to those. Let’s see… we are running a special on rebar and new window locks. Ah, and the quarterly Evening of Generosity is fast approaching—an exclusive event hosted in the Eternal Palace for only the most virtuous, generous, elite members of the church. Only a few weeks remaining. Tickets are on sale at the booth by the door. Oh, and as always, you have the opportunity to rise to a new tier after the service—see me directly. Remember, you’ll want to reach at least Ardent Tier before the outsiders lay siege to the city to ensure you receive your immortality most swiftly! Now, the birthday song. First up, a very happy birthday to Joan Vendelbrer—seventy-one!”
The organist began playing. Root expected the classic “happy birthday” tune from parties she’d attended as a child. Instead, the organist launched into something much more involved about love and Eu-as-Kiril.
The song faded. Another verse began.
Root tapped her fingers. It felt like they’d been there for half the day already. They got what they needed—they’d seen the halo, it matched the picture in the book, and as far as she could tell, it had the powers of a mote periapt. She didn’t care about Joan’s birthday, or—yep, there was the collection bowl again.
A third verse began in the wake of the second.
“How long is this?” Root whispered to no one in particular.
When the song finally ended, Root started to stand.
“Thank you, that was lovely,” said Pastor Lamley. “Up next is Garld Bunster, who is turning forty-eight!”
The organist began again from the top.
The four of them shared a set of looks that ranged from agitated to panicked. For once, Beel’s was not the most extreme of the bunch.
“They’re playing it for each birthday?” whispered Root, less quietly now as her temper burned away at her manners.
“Guess so,” said Vit.
“How many birthdays did he say there were?”
“Six,” said Beel.
Vit looked back up, confused, at the line of guards, then back at Beel. “I thought you already finished counting.”
They sat through the second birthday song, then half of the third.
“Think we can just get up and slip out?” asked Root.
Azriah looked over his shoulder. “No one else is leaving. And the doors are closed. Might be rude.”
Root groaned.
The third song concluded, and then the fourth. The fifth began. Halfway through, the organ made a sound like the organist had had a heart attack and slumped down onto the keys—that, or fallen asleep from boredom. A heavy, musical wheeze followed, and then confusion from the crowd. Pastor Lamley conferred with the organist.
“Um, I’m so sorry, it appears there’s an issue with our organ,” he announced. “We will have to conclude the birthday songs at our next service. My sincerest apologies to…” He read from his notes. “Wenzel Blinkley.”
“Thank fuck,” said Root, almost too loud now. “It’s a m—”
“No!” cried Beel, definitely too loud, as he smacked both hands over Root’s mouth.
“Eugh! Yeah, I know, I know—sorry.”
Everyone began filing out of the cathedral.
“Come on,” said Azriah. “We should slip out before Syrus sees us.”
Root needed no further encouraging. She was already on her feet, and still wiping the taste of Beel off her tongue.
Vit jumped up onto the deck of the cabin. Now that they were six, they could climb onto the deck all by themself—they didn’t need help from Bradan, or need to use webs, or have to turn into a spider. They panted as they hurried inside.
“Bradan!”
“Hello, Vit.” Bradan sat by the fireplace with his eyes closed, but opened them when Vit rushed in.
“Come here—come quick! Something’s wrong.”
Vit offered Bradan a hand to help him up. His joints cracked like nuts falling from the trees that Vit climbed.
Vit led Bradan back out of the cabin and down onto the nearest island. They scampered through the underbrush, climbing effortlessly to the next island—and then another—along half-submerged roots and downed branches, using vines or tree limbs to help them along. Bradan lagged but moved with equal assuredness over the uneven terrain.
Vit knew a lot of things now. They knew how to fish and how to climb. They knew how to find clean drinking water even out in the middle of the swamp. They knew how to tell which mushrooms were good, and which ones were bad, and which ones had no moral characteristics, and which ones had no morel characteristics. They knew about Enyn and times and directions. They could identify every bug and critter in the swamp by call alone. They loved to learn.
But they didn’t know this.
They stopped at the rabbit. They’d found it only minutes ago.
“Something’s wrong,” they said again as Bradan reached them. They crouched and pointed at the rabbit. “Is it sleeping? It’s stiff. It won’t wake up.”
Bradan put a hand on Vit’s shoulder. “Ah, I see. No, this rabbit isn’t sleeping. This rabbit has died.”
Vit looked up at Bradan, then back down at the rabbit. “No it hasn’t. It’s still here—it’s still whole. And I didn’t even kill it with plans to eat it, honest.”
“Yes, I know,” said Bradan. He sat down amongst the roots around the base of a tree. “You’re right—it is still here. That’s because it isn’t a spirit; when it died, it didn’t melt away and travel back to Yg Balta as a will or leave a body intact if another being intended to eat it.”
“Why?”
“This creature is from Setoterra. Do you remember what I’ve told you about Setoterra?”
Vit nodded. “The weird place.”
“Another world. The human world. Very different. This is a Setoterran rabbit—not a spirit rabbit. When a spirit dies, they reform. When a human or a Setoterran being dies, they don’t reform. They die only once.”
“Why?”
Bradan smiled. “That’s just the way of the worlds. Humans and spirits live very different existences. Humans are always changing—they experience volatile fluctuations in emotions and sense of self. They can reproduce, continuing the species, and at the end of their lives, they die, and their bodies feed something new. But in that life, humans feel and do so much. Spirits experience much less change—yes, their emotions ebb and flow, but they experience a much more static existence, undergoing internal growth over long, long spans of time. Some don’t change much at all. They live again and again, forever, but it would take a spirit a thousand years to feel the ways a human feels over the course of a quarter lifetime.”
(The timeless, simple question “Why?” so beloved by small children was always a difficult one to answer, as it always seemed to crop up in relation to the hardest ideas to translate to words. But Bradan Silver had a remarkable talent for managing anyhow, even if the response was oftentimes lost on the receiving ears.)
Vit blinked. Bradan didn’t like it when they carried the dictionary or other books out into the swamp—too much muck and water, he said—so they’d have to decipher his words later.
“But…” started Vit. They tried to work backwards through Bradan’s explanation to something that stuck out in the middle of it like a rock in the mud. “But, we are… half-spirit and half-human,” they said, looking again at the rabbit. “What happens when we die?”
Bradan folded his hands. “When we die, our human bodies will be accepted back into the cycle of the worlds—like that rabbit. The body decomposes and produces energy for plants and bugs. That’s how humans live again. From your body, the spirit part of you will depart—a will, just like any other—and travel to Yg Balta to reform. We will become the spirit part of ourselves forever, living on in another form. We get to live in both the way a human does and the way a spirit does.”
Vit stared at the rabbit, listening closely as something closed in around their chest, binding them in place.
A spirit dragonfly zipped across the water. Vit knew about spirit types—it was a lesser spirit, just like the spider they could become. Would become, forever.
Forever. That was a big word. Vit struggled to imagine it.
They didn’t want to be stuck as a spider forever. When they took their spider form, they couldn’t talk. They liked to talk. They couldn’t play games with Bradan, they couldn’t swim, they couldn’t taste their favorite foods—not the same way. They’d still be alive, but they’d be stuck living like that… forever?
“It’s quite a special thing, isn’t it?” asked Bradan.
Vit shook their head. “I want to be me forever.”
Bradan chuckled. “You’ll still be you. The spider is you; you are one.”
Vit couldn’t tear their eyes away from the rabbit. Dead. Dead forever. And it didn’t even have to mourn its own death, mourn its past self, because no part of it still walked the worlds, trapped outside of the life it had known.
Dead. Dead forever and trapped, all at once.