Almeth Elocine staggers across
the narrow span. Though Kairos knows
neither “was” nor “will be”, the newcomer’s footsteps echo with regret and
herald woes to come.
The bridge traverses every epoch
of history, an alabaster beam suspended over a canyon of whirring cogs.
Oblivious to the abyss yawning below, Almeth walks on—harried by defeat. Kairos
is time as the gods know it, and the traveler’s memory of certain victory
turned to rout seems only moments old.
The ubiquitous machinery turns in
a continual dance of shifting fractal patterns, and Almeth hears again the
guardians’ voices. They hail him as Faerda made flesh; the last god. He suffers
these titles; comes to embrace them and finally to believe.
Ahead, the towers of spinning
gears part to reveal the terminus. It is the last place that Almeth wishes to
be, yet he recognizes the heart of Kairos as the natural end of his pride. All
other paths are shut to him. Now he sees the platform clearly. A tall stocky
figure stands at the head of the bridge, waiting.
“Elocine! It’s not too late to
turn back!”
If Almeth is surprised by the
man’s presence, he gives no sign. Unhindered he answers, “the Guild rules the
spheres now, Cleolin. Where would you have me turn back to?”
Cleolin’s brow is stern, but the
hardness doesn’t reach his eyes. “I would ask you the same, Blackbow. Even a
mortal such as I know that one may reach any place or time from Kairos.”
Almeth sees the syndex’s muscles
tense at his approach—a message clear as bared steel. “Everything’s gone
wrong.” Elocine’s voice hardly exceeds a whisper. “I’m the last. Only I can
mend it.”
The syndex of Midras frowns—the mere sight of
which oft sets foes to flight. Cleolin Redbeard beholds his former captain’s
ashen face; sees the cold sweat that’s turned his hair into a mat of black
lambswool. The priest knows that he is witnessing a marvel without precedent:
Almeth Elocine is afraid. “Turn aside, Almeth!” the syndex warns. “Whatever
your intent, to rewrite fate’s decrees is folly, even for a god!”
Though faltering, Almeth’s pace
doesn’t slow. “The resistance is lost,” he says without inflection. “Should I
leave my people in thrall to an upstart fiend?”
“The remnant of Annon chose
their lot. The guardians may yet survive in Strata untouched by the
Brotherhood.”
The human priest and the godly
Gen stand face to face below the broad stair. Cleolin’s visage is grim; Elocine
smiles wanly without mirth.
“You speak without forethought,”
Almeth laments, “as is your race’s wont. Wheresoever I lead my broken
following, the Void shall overtake us as it has the Middle Stratum.”
“The Guild has conquered the
spheres; not the Void.”
“One is merely the consequence
of the other,” Almeth says, pressing forward. His advance is halted as a smooth
motion of the priest’s hand sends an icy jolt through Elocine’s torso. He
recovers from the shock in time to see Cleolin withdraw his red-tipped blade.
“Forgive me this sacrilege,” the
syndex says as Almeth collapses against him. The priest’s stout arms are all
that keeps Elocine from folding to the floor.
Urgency beyond all concern for
himself drives the Gen back onto his feet. He looks upon the syndex’s startled
face a final time; then exerts his will. Kairos itself propels Cleolin backward
so rapidly that his imposing stature instantly diminishes to a tiny distant
mote. His scream reaches Almeth seconds after he vanishes beyond the terminus.
Clutching his wound, Elocine staggers
to the edge of Kairos. Cleolin was the last tie binding him to life in this
cosmos. Its severance empties him of all feeling, and he sits down to wait.
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