CHAPTER FIVE

 

 

The streets were a hive of activity that I navigated like a drone on autopilot. I watched the recording on repeat, but was no closer to a plan than I’d been after the first viewing when digital-Valynn had explained how President Mard was siphoning energy from the Soul Vault.

It didn’t make any sense. Why would anyone sacrifice the guarantee of eternal afterlife to remain mortal and bound to this world?

Possibly he'd done something so terribly he couldn't pass the final judgment, but that seemed impossible. It might take a thousand years, but even murderers eventually atoned for their sins.

There was no crime so heinous it couldn’t be forgiven.

Well, except stealing from the Soul Vault that is. I wasn’t clear on all the theological implications of such a crime, but I couldn’t imagine they were good—and I have a really good imagination.

If there was something worse than stealing from souls that'd already passed on to the second life, I’d yet to hear of it. Without a soul they’d be cut off both the physical and spiritual planes. They wouldn’t just die; they’d cease to exist.

How could someone do something so horrible?

The question filled me with a despair that rooted itself in my gut and leached into my blood, an icy sludge that sapped my strength and made me want to lie down and cry.

I was telling myself I would do neither when my foot caught the curb and I pancaked onto the ground. On my stomach, sprawled out on the hard pavement still hot from the morning sun, it took serious effort to maintain the not crying portion of my earlier sentiment.

After regaining a semblance of control over my autonomic response loop, I looked up to see the high arches of the Citadel before me.

Huh, perhaps I hadn’t been wandering quite so aimlessly after all.

I’d seen the building countless times through the window of an air-skimmer during my daily commute, but that view translated the Citadel's full grandeur very poorly. Mountains of stone were stacked flawlessly, forming walls that pierced the low-hanging clouds. Which was to say nothing of the bronze pillars that reflected the sun’s rays, regardless of its celestial position, like a fiery sword aimed defiantly at the heavens.

I rolled onto my butt and brushed dirt from my pants, never allowing my eyes to drift from that foundation of spiritual bliss. My brain started imagining the construction process of such a structure. Avenues of thought opened as my mind slipped into that familiar head-space. My nervous system tittered in simulated response. The cacophony of creative daydreaming descended upo—

“Are you alright?”

I yelped in response to the old man standing beside me. He wasn’t particularly terrifying—despite the way his skin was pulled too taut across his skull—it’s just that ripping a man from a daydream is…jarring.

Then again, I was sitting in the middle of the sidewalk with what amounted to a slack-jawed grin, so in his defense, he was likely just concerned for my mental health.

The old man extended a hand with gnarled knuckles worn thick with age and arthritis. For a moment I doubted the appendage would offer any appreciable assistance. That is until I took the leathery hand practically yanked me onto my feet in a burst of astonishing strength.

“Uh.” I stuttered. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He had a lovely voice. Warm and grandfatherly. "This happens more often than you’d think. I've petitioned the city to remove that pesky curb and hopefully save a fair number of absentminded wanderers from a skinned knee or two. But you know how the city is.”

I couldn’t be certain, but I felt reasonably sure my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, unsure how that added anything new to the conversation. “I’ve never seen the Citadel so close up before.”

“Most haven’t. Incredible, isn’t it? Such a marvel in the center of the city and so few stop to admire it.”

Now that I was facing the world in a more or less upright fashion, I began noticing details I’d previously overlooked. Such as the old man’s crimson robe or the black sash tied around his waist in a huge complicated knot.

These alone were forgivable details to have missed, but the Blood Stone the size of a fist dangling from his neck wasn’t.

“I know you,” I half-asked, half-told the man. “You’re Arch-Bishop Armast.”

“Yes, yes I am,” he said, smiling warmly. “And you are?”

If there were such a thing as divine intervention, then surely this would qualify. Somehow I’d found myself speaking with the highest ranking member of the Soul Reaper church.

“Jarek,” I said, acutely aware of my head shaking back and forth of its own accord. “And I have something you need to see.”