Once a year, during what is called the night of the prophets, twelve people's minds are turned to wax and stamped with the details of the next twelve months.
They are chosen at random--from the oldest, the richest, the most powerful of those who live in the city's seraphim quarter, high up the mountain, down to the gutter rats, the filth at the city's bottom, the dirty children who clutch rags around emaciated limbs and wonder where they will find their next meal. They rise from their places, eyes ablaze as the present burns away and the future builds before them, and enter the Temple suspended over the volcano's cold core.
At the appointed time Tarix Kelith snapped awake, rose from his bed, and grew a look of painful wonder, of exhilaration. The kind of face one sees when learning fractured, broken truths--truths you must piece together with the help of eleven others, to try and guide the city in policies, design, and war.
Tarix Kelith entered the empty street. Red lanterns hanging from every building in the dead night painted his face bloody. The starless black sky presented no guiding spirits or ancient stories. People in the city took notice of Tarix's passage--they had been waiting, wondering if one of the prophets would come down their street. Shouts and cries rose around him, but he walked on uncaring, face blank. Neighbors--Tannor the butcher, Liae the bookseller, Paalack the tavern bouncer--fell in behind him, hoisting red lanterns on long poles, swinging them from one side to the other and calling out the approach of a prophet.
The street widened. Tarix walked down the center, untiring. Old volcanic stones didn't bother his feet, smoothed down under centuries of people and prophets. He climbed the citied mountain, taking narrow stairs and wide avenues alike until he reached one of the immense, toothy gates leading to the bridges passing through the volcano's rock to the Temple. Long-dead, the volcano offered neither light nor heat; only swinging red lanterns lit his way.
He reached the gate and continued on; those following him stopped, unwilling to break the city's edict about entering the Temple. Tarix faded into darkness. Ash filled his lungs and air swirling down into the volcano's shaft gusted around him. Even the sky's darkness didn't compare to the emptiness he walked toward. The Temple yawned open ahead of him. Bridges above and below his might have carried their own prophets, away from dirty alleyways or opulent mansions.
He stepped closer and red fire blazed around a stone mouth, another gate he walked toward unerring. Designs of the prophets surrounded it--outstretched hands, open mouths, glowing eyes. He entered the Temple, the immense pillar of volcanic rock rising from the frozen magma far below, reaching far above the rest of the city.
He stood in a huge antechamber. Shadows flickered on black stone walls as red flames from waist-high braziers jumped to life. No one greeted him.
So far, so good.
He went to the door across from him, pushing it open. A woman in a deep red robe, covering everything except her frown, waited. She bowed when he entered.
"Greetings, prophet. Follow me."
She led him up a wide, circular set of stairs. Sharp edges dug into his feet. Bowls of flame came into and passed from view without any more words.
The robed woman led him to an immense circular room. It ran around the entire perimeter of the Temple. Tarix stepped up to an outcropping and peered down to the bottom of the volcano. Red lines like tiny rivers of lava flowed through channels in the stone, though no heat blistered him. Around the room other figures appeared and took their places as he had, on their own stone outcroppings. A bent old woman, a tiny boy, an immense fat man. They all had the same blank, vacant look Tarix did.
But they had it for real.
Thirteen people stood around the opening down into the volcano. The red-robed men and women didn't bother counting. They led the prophet they had met into their space and left. Tarix stood among the real prophets and smiled to himself. A con for the ages.
He'd studied. He'd read. He'd exhausted every avenue of knowledge he had on the prophets. He'd interviewed former red-robed caretakers, he'd spoken with men and women ancient and sagging and old enough to have seen almost a hundred processions of prophets. He was inside the Temple now; he had the future at his fingertips. The prophets would answer any question he gave them, but the information was fractured, splintered--he would have to put it together himself. If he could, he would profit beyond his wildest dreams. Beyond anyone's.
He waited, gazing at the distant forms of the other prophets. The closest one stood on his right side, and he took a step away from the edge of the outcropping.
A distant boom, far under his feet, so low it turned his guts to water. A rush of boiling air singed his skin and he stepped away, biting his lip to keep from crying out. Blood spilled into his mouth and he spat.
The eyes of the prophets shimmered with a powerful white light, and they all gazed in his direction. His heart sank, and light the color of blood grew below him. He crept to the edge. Just a moment, and then he would flee.
Power thrust him backward, sliding him across the floor to press him against the locked door. The real prophets ignored the power. A pillar rose up in the center as painful red light lit it from below--no, not a pillar, Tarix realized--a thing, a creation. Endless faces peered out from the body, wailing, and a spindly arm a hundred feet long seized him around the middle, pulling him closer. His skin bubbled, and he screamed.
They are chosen at random--from the oldest, the richest, the most powerful of those who live in the city's seraphim quarter, high up the mountain, down to the gutter rats, the filth at the city's bottom, the dirty children who clutch rags around emaciated limbs and wonder where they will find their next meal. They rise from their places, eyes ablaze as the present burns away and the future builds before them, and enter the Temple suspended over the volcano's cold core.
At the appointed time Tarix Kelith snapped awake, rose from his bed, and grew a look of painful wonder, of exhilaration. The kind of face one sees when learning fractured, broken truths--truths you must piece together with the help of eleven others, to try and guide the city in policies, design, and war.
Tarix Kelith entered the empty street. Red lanterns hanging from every building in the dead night painted his face bloody. The starless black sky presented no guiding spirits or ancient stories. People in the city took notice of Tarix's passage--they had been waiting, wondering if one of the prophets would come down their street. Shouts and cries rose around him, but he walked on uncaring, face blank. Neighbors--Tannor the butcher, Liae the bookseller, Paalack the tavern bouncer--fell in behind him, hoisting red lanterns on long poles, swinging them from one side to the other and calling out the approach of a prophet.
The street widened. Tarix walked down the center, untiring. Old volcanic stones didn't bother his feet, smoothed down under centuries of people and prophets. He climbed the citied mountain, taking narrow stairs and wide avenues alike until he reached one of the immense, toothy gates leading to the bridges passing through the volcano's rock to the Temple. Long-dead, the volcano offered neither light nor heat; only swinging red lanterns lit his way.
He reached the gate and continued on; those following him stopped, unwilling to break the city's edict about entering the Temple. Tarix faded into darkness. Ash filled his lungs and air swirling down into the volcano's shaft gusted around him. Even the sky's darkness didn't compare to the emptiness he walked toward. The Temple yawned open ahead of him. Bridges above and below his might have carried their own prophets, away from dirty alleyways or opulent mansions.
He stepped closer and red fire blazed around a stone mouth, another gate he walked toward unerring. Designs of the prophets surrounded it--outstretched hands, open mouths, glowing eyes. He entered the Temple, the immense pillar of volcanic rock rising from the frozen magma far below, reaching far above the rest of the city.
He stood in a huge antechamber. Shadows flickered on black stone walls as red flames from waist-high braziers jumped to life. No one greeted him.
So far, so good.
He went to the door across from him, pushing it open. A woman in a deep red robe, covering everything except her frown, waited. She bowed when he entered.
"Greetings, prophet. Follow me."
She led him up a wide, circular set of stairs. Sharp edges dug into his feet. Bowls of flame came into and passed from view without any more words.
The robed woman led him to an immense circular room. It ran around the entire perimeter of the Temple. Tarix stepped up to an outcropping and peered down to the bottom of the volcano. Red lines like tiny rivers of lava flowed through channels in the stone, though no heat blistered him. Around the room other figures appeared and took their places as he had, on their own stone outcroppings. A bent old woman, a tiny boy, an immense fat man. They all had the same blank, vacant look Tarix did.
But they had it for real.
Thirteen people stood around the opening down into the volcano. The red-robed men and women didn't bother counting. They led the prophet they had met into their space and left. Tarix stood among the real prophets and smiled to himself. A con for the ages.
He'd studied. He'd read. He'd exhausted every avenue of knowledge he had on the prophets. He'd interviewed former red-robed caretakers, he'd spoken with men and women ancient and sagging and old enough to have seen almost a hundred processions of prophets. He was inside the Temple now; he had the future at his fingertips. The prophets would answer any question he gave them, but the information was fractured, splintered--he would have to put it together himself. If he could, he would profit beyond his wildest dreams. Beyond anyone's.
He waited, gazing at the distant forms of the other prophets. The closest one stood on his right side, and he took a step away from the edge of the outcropping.
A distant boom, far under his feet, so low it turned his guts to water. A rush of boiling air singed his skin and he stepped away, biting his lip to keep from crying out. Blood spilled into his mouth and he spat.
The eyes of the prophets shimmered with a powerful white light, and they all gazed in his direction. His heart sank, and light the color of blood grew below him. He crept to the edge. Just a moment, and then he would flee.
Power thrust him backward, sliding him across the floor to press him against the locked door. The real prophets ignored the power. A pillar rose up in the center as painful red light lit it from below--no, not a pillar, Tarix realized--a thing, a creation. Endless faces peered out from the body, wailing, and a spindly arm a hundred feet long seized him around the middle, pulling him closer. His skin bubbled, and he screamed.