Sorin made haste to the Firmament, pushing the Aether drive well past the point of safety, but it hadn’t torn the Chariot apart yet. He’d cut about a third off the time it would normally have taken, but he was always careful to breach back into normal space when something began to hiccup. Leaping between dimensions was a risky business; he didn’t want to end up stuck on the wrong side. The Aether was an unstable realm, and it was likely the Chariot would be destroyed if that happened. Sorin was far too young to be dining in Nyth’s decrepit hall just yet, so he tried to be quick but careful.
He emerged in another dark corner of the galaxy, billions of light years from any populated world. The void was starless here, and Sorin was flying blind, relying on the ship’s sensors to guide him away from invisible debris that drifted into his path. This part of space was home to all manner of objects, things that the galaxy did not want but could not be rid of.
Sorin did not like venturing out into the cold depths like this. It wasn’t the same as when he was cultivating suns; light would never reach this place, not even by the hands of a Deus. All was black outside the cockpit, but it was a blackness that swirled with guilt and unpleasant memories. He had never wanted to come back to this prison.
The sensors picked up an object ahead of him, reporting it as stretching light years in every direction, going beyond the sensors’ range. If Sorin were to follow its length, for however many billions of years that would have taken, it would take him to the other end of the galaxy before curving back to this very spot. The Firmament was a perfect sphere, enclosing the Syr Galaxy in its protective embrace. There was more beyond that, of course; existence was infinite, a void that never ended. Maybe one day, long from now, a mortal civilization might create a telescope powerful enough to see this far into the depths, and wonder why the stars just seemed to stop. Such was the Firmament, not just shrouded in darkness but composed of it, invisible and impenetrable.
Or so Sorin had believed. Lutus’s prophecy had filled him with doubts and worries. It had been a very long time since this fraction of the infinite had been cordoned off by his parents, long before he or his brother had been born. His mind stretched to imagine what might have come to be on the other side of the barrier, whether the Tyrants still reigned or if new, strange beings had sprung into existence, and he failed to conceive of what either might want on this side. It would take a powerful Deus, or something like a Deus, to muster the power to pass through.
Sorin brought the Chariot to a halt and adjusted his sensors for life signs. Despite the inhospitable darkness, this space was inhabited by a single entity, and his condition had been weighing on Sorin’s mind since leaving Centrus. Perhaps he’d witnessed the intrusion; maybe this intruder had killed him, if it was able. Sorin didn’t dare consider what would happen if he’d been freed. After an hour’s search, the Chariot picked up that single life sign, exactly where it should be. Relieved, he increased speed and flew alongside the edge of the Firmament towards it. He turned on the outward lights, seeking the prison he’d constructed so long ago.
It rushed into view so quickly that he shot straight past it and had to double back to find it again. It was a rough dome of space debris, designed to shield the occupant from stray meteors and comets. It was about a mile across in all directions, with a small opening at its very centre just big enough to fit a standard Deus. Sorin parked the Chariot beside the entrance and headed for the airlock.
He’d dressed for the occasion, donning the golden armour he’d worn when the Deus had still been a true pantheon. It was Ulenne’s work, and of course she’d crafted it to fit him perfectly while allowing a full range of movement. Stiff tongues of golden flame flared from his helmet, fanning out like the rays of a star or an unusual set of horns. Retracting blades were built into the gauntlets, but he preferred the crimson blade sheathed at his waist; another gift from the smith that Sorin had once used to scrawl fiery messages for her into the surface of a comet. Fully prepared for the worst, Sorin disembarked from the safety of the Chariot.
He propelled himself to the dome and ducked through the opening, entering a darkness that seemed heavier, more oppressive than the void outside. His ears popped as he passed from the vacuum and through the invisible oxygen field. Laboured breathing echoed through the chamber like a bitter wind, and while Sorin rarely felt cold, that sound gave him chills.
The breath stopped as he hovered further inside, broken off in a grunt. “Someone there?”
Sorin took a deep breath, then when he was ready, he sparked a flame in his palm. The chamber rapidly filled with light, revealing a familiar yet dreaded figure. The prisoner was suspended in darkness, six arms spread in an arc around him. His hands were bound, the flesh of his arms and legs woven into the stone-like material of the Firmament. His long, oval head hung to one side, the three gemstone-like eyes on the right side of his face squinting against the fire’s glare. His single left eye remained shut, the old burns still visible a millennium after the fact. He was clothed in the tatters of a black cloak that left parts of his beige-brown carapace bare. For a moment the two of them exchanged stares, taking each other in, then the prisoner’s wide mouth split, showing rows of sharp teeth.
“Sorin!” The pitiful creature exclaimed, voice tearing in a hoarse rasp.
Sorin nodded curtly, unable to abandon the basic courtesies. “Zantir. It has been a long time.”
The prisoner twisted about, straining against his restraints to no effect. “Four hundred and forty-three years, seven months, twenty-five days, ten hours, eight minutes, and fifty-two seconds since your last visit—not that I’ve been counting. So, how are things, son? There’s been shit-all going on out here.”
“Do not call me that,” Sorin said.
Zantir lifted his head, then ever so slowly tilted it to the other side. “Call you what? Son? My sunny son? Does that bother you, my dear progeny? You may not have my looks, but that is what you are. How is your brother doing, beloved fruit of my loins?”
Sorin clenched his free hand, fire burning bright in his veins. His mind turned to his sword, and how easily it could be used to extinguish this wretch of a Deus. But he abstained, as he always did.
“It isn’t my place to speak of Lutus’ business,” he said, smouldering internally. “If he wishes for you to know, he’ll come here himself.”
Zantir chuckled; an awful, guttural noise in his current state. “We know that’ll never happen. Fool boy’s still shut up in his moon, isn’t he?”
Sorin started in surprise. How did he know such things? Lutus had only taken up his reclusive habits after Zantir’s imprisonment.
The shackled Deus seemed to read the question from his expression. “You told me last time you were here. My, my, is your memory going so soon? Mine’s as sharp as a carving knife—I recall every word we’ve ever spoken to each other, every thump of a rock against this prison, every caress your mother graced me with.”
Sorin let his temper flare, smothering the shame he felt at his own loose tongue. “You have no right to speak of Mother!”
“I don’t?” Zantir dropped his head against his chest. “So many things we’re not allowed to talk about—why even bother coming? Are you just here to glare at me?”
“I came to ask some questions,” Sorin explained, trying to turn the conversation towards his purpose.
“Of course you did,” Zantir said flatly. “It’s the duty of a father to provide his children with guidance, although it would be easier if I wasn’t strapped to this wall. It’s rather limiting, not being able to move my limbs and all. Maybe you can cut me down, and then we can have a heart-to-heart. Yours might be as black as coal, but I know it’s in there somewhere.”
Sorin took a weary breath, steeling himself against Zantir’s barbs. They had done this dance the last time Sorin had seen his father, and the time before that, and every time Sorin paid a visit. As he had every other time, he silently swore this visit would be the last, aware that the resolution wouldn’t last. Some trivial thing brought him back here every few centuries to draw on Zantir’s experience, and he would no doubt be back again in another few. With the other Deus scattered to the stars and only Lutus for occasional company, Sorin wondered if he unconsciously wanted these meetings with Zantir. Before the imprisonment, there were memories of sitting in his father’s lap and learning how the stars were made.
“You know your sentence,” Sorin said mechanically, keeping an unwavering eye on Zantir. “Your shackles stay, and you will remain here.”
“For all eternity.” Zantir’s voice was like an arctic wind, lashing at Sorin.
“For the rest of your life,” Sorin corrected.
Zantir coughed, or maybe it was a laugh. “Have you ever heard of a Deus dying of old age? How about starvation?”
“Perhaps you will be the first.” Utter nonsense, but he was not here to reassure. Every Deus was a source of perpetual energy that sustained their bodies eternally. That energy was the catalyst for their drive to create as well, as it was said that a Deus who did not let off such power often enough would eventually become overwhelmed and succumb to it. Zantir would have perished long ago, if his prison wasn’t constantly siphoning off his power, reinforcing the Firmament around him. “You should have considered the consequences before you committed your crime.”
Zantir suddenly lifted his head, baring his teeth in a snarl. Sorin started back, forgetting for a moment that the older Deus was bound. He was a child again, briefly, cowering from his father’s anger. Then he felt the weight of his armour, his fingers on the hilt of his sword, and he was back in the present watching a fool wriggle fruitlessly against his shackles.
“What crime? I did nothing!” Zantir shouted.
Sorin almost turned away and floated out. It was only the sense of duty to Lutus that prevented him from leaving, but he wasn’t sure how much more of this he could bear on loyalty alone.
“You broke my mother’s heart,” he said calmly, coolly. He clenched his fist again, holding it behind his back when it started to tremble. “Then, when your whore ripped her heart out, you stood by and let the woman escape. In that way, I suppose, you did nothing.”
“I was a bystander—there was nothing I could do, child!” Zantir bellowed. As his voice swelled, the facade of decrepitude and weakness fell away, and it almost seemed as though he grew in that instant into the leader he had once been. He swelled with rage, his broad chest heaving as he glared down on his son.
Sorin deftly grasped Zantir by the chin and held him still. “You were an adulterer as well,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do you honestly expect anyone to believe that you, of all Deus, couldn’t stop Rasha? She would have been dead long before she’d murdered Mother, if you’d cared. You didn’t lift a finger to help, not Mother, anyway. I sometimes wonder if you helped in planning the murder.”
“Rasha was wild,” Zantir said, forcefully. “You knew her—never gave a thought to her actions, always acting on whims and impulses. Any plan I made with her would have fallen apart the moment her mood changed.”
Sorin couldn’t exactly refute those claims. Rasha had always been an oddity among the Deus, acting in ways many had considered unseemly. She easily became impatient, wanting immediate changes where most were content to wait centuries. Before the murder, Zantir had once told him he thought the ichor of the primal Elder Deus ran strong in her veins, influencing her chaotic and unpredictable personality. He’d watched her skip through an asteroid field, lightly leaping from one piece of debris to another with tiny stars shining in her long hair; he’d understood then that his father’s comment was one of admiration, not condemnation. In retrospect, Sorin was surprised he hadn’t picked up on the mutual affection between the two at the time. The obliviousness of youth was no excuse; a thousand years was the space between breaths for Deus. He and the rest of Okirazon’s pantheon hadn’t learned the truth until a couple of days before the murder, which had only heightened Zantir’s betrayal in the minds of his sons.
“You didn’t seek vengeance,” Sorin said, trying hard to put the indignation he’d felt all these centuries into words. “If you were unable to stop the murder, then you should have at least gone to avenge her. That is the logical action of a loving husband, and your duty as leader of our pantheon. But you did nothing but try and run, so I must consider you an accomplice to Mother’s murder, and a coward as well.”
“You had the chance for vengeance as well,” Zantir hissed. “I’ve been stuck to this wall for a thousand years, but in all that time you’ve failed to muster the courage to kill me. A coward I may be, but I’d say you take after me in that regard. You should have let Lutus do the deed long ago.”
Sorin pressed a hand against Zantir’s chest, pushing him back against the Firmament. “I showed you mercy.”
“This is a poor mercy, boy.” A change came over Zantir, his face sagging with fatigue. “Enough of this—I used to enjoy arguing with you, but even that’s grown dull. You are here for a purpose—speak it.”
Sorin lowered his hand slowly, unsure if the sudden exhaustion was genuine or another facade. Zantir could be almost as flighty as Rasha at times, and had only become more so since his imprisonment. “Lutus has had some difficulty with his latest prophecy. He says there is interference from an alien element, something from beyond the Firmament.”
Zantir inhaled sharply. “Are you sure he isn’t just losing his touch?”
Sorin pushed on through Zantir’s irreverence. “You’re bound to the Firmament in both body and essence. If something were to get through, you would sense it, wouldn’t you?”
Zantir’s good eyes rolled about in his head. “Prrrobably. I do feel the occasional scritch or scratch. Things have been prodding at this barrier since your Mother and I built it.”
“But no breaks?” Sorin asked.
Zantir shook his head. “I am a part of this wall now—I feel it. If something got through, you’d probably hear my screams from the other side of the galaxy.”
Sorin frowned; although the events of Lutus’ prophecies could be changed, he was rarely wrong about something so big. “Are you lying to me?”
Zantir chuckled. “What would be the point? I’ve nothing to gain anymore. The Firmament is intact. Only…”
“Spit it out.” Sorin had grown sick of Zantir’s games.
“We tried to make the Firmament impenetrable, even via the Aether,” Zantir explained. “We were never sure if we were successful on that front. It’s possible this ‘alien element’ might have gotten through using some advanced form of Aether drive. It’s been a very long time—technology on the other side might have evolved in ways we can’t imagine. If this intruder of yours did an Aether dive and never touched the Firmament, I wouldn’t have felt it.”
It was a fair answer, but not what Sorin had been hoping to hear. Zantir had confirmed that an intrusion was not impossible, and it sounded like that was all he could do. Meanwhile, this mortal war loomed ever closer.
Zantir tilted his head. “This is about something more, isn’t it? I can tell when you’re worried, Sorin. Tell me, please.”
Sorin was a little surprised at the tone, which was almost kind, but he saw no reason to withhold the information. “The prophecy concerned a war between the mortals, but bigger than any before. Lutus says it will engulf the entire galaxy, and I fear it may bring ruin upon them all. I want to stop it, but what can I do without breaking the law? I’d hoped that finding and removing this intruder would give me an answer.”
Zantir clucked his tongue. “That’s a dilemma if I’ve ever heard one. Not sure I could help you with that, even if I wanted to. I haven’t had much time to care about mortals since coming here.”
Sorin scowled, wondering why he’d even bothered to speak. Zantir was about as helpful as a traitor could be expected to be. He turned to go, angry that he must return to Lutus empty-handed.
“How is Fulmus doing?” Zantir called after him.
Sorin stopped short, surprised to hear the familiar name after so long. “What?”
“Ful-mus,” Zantir repeated, drawing out both syllables. “Large fellow, fond of weapons, very thick skull. He enjoyed combat of any kind, from grand interplanetary wars to simple pit fights. Have you not talked to him yet? If there’s anyone who would know the causes of a war, it would be him. I don’t know if he can help with your intruder problem, but if you think there might be a link between the issues, I’m surprised you haven’t looked him up.”
Sorin remembered Fulmus quite well, although he hadn’t thought of the older Deus for a long time. Fulmus had created the Firmament with Sorin’s parents, and before that had made a legend of himself in the war with the Tyrants, battling their leader Bruxis and earning the moniker of War God. He’d been a frequent presence at Okirazon, lending both great wisdom and boisterous joy to meetings of the pantheon, and had always seemed pleased to see Sorin and Lutus, insisting they treat him like an uncle. He had departed after Gelia’s funeral, as had so many of the Deus, but Sorin still received messages from him every century or so, informing him of the War God’s location if he was needed. Zantir was right; if anyone was invested in mortal affairs, it was the Deus who had fought for their freedom.
He looked Zantir over one last time, wondering where that tidbit of helpful advice had come from. “Thank you. I will go see him.”
Zantir managed a half-shrug. “If you like. On the off-chance you run into Auraphon on the way, maybe you can ask them if they’d like to get the band back together. I can’t play strings like this, but I should be able to handle a wind instrument if someone will hold it up to my mouth.”
“Goodbye, Father.” Sorin extinguished his flame, and the darkness surged back into the chamber. As Sorin returned to the Chariot, he reflected on how lonely an existence Zantir must lead. He was right to call Sorin a coward for not putting him out of his misery, but the young Deus simply couldn’t do it. Deus were slow to forget grievances, but Sorin hoped that one day he might be able to forgive his father.