In his private chamber near the top of The Temple, Myril paced like a caged animal. He had not eaten since locking himself away, and though he'd allowed a servant to bring in water, he'd barely touched it. He couldn't stop running the events of the past days through his mind, worrying at them from every conceivable angle. It was his responsibility to oversee the spiritual safety of those who looked up to him, but that weight had never felt so important, or so impossible to reconcile as it did in those moments.
He'd seen the fiery death bearing down on them. First he'd seen it through the telescope, and then much closer as it plunged through the veils and slammed into the city street. He'd felt the release of pressure, the sudden, imminent touch of The Protectors, ready to chastise them for their lack of faith. That touch, and the attending punishment, had been denied.
He wanted to believe that Cumby was right, that they had to stand up for themselves, and it was the only way to survive, but the spiritual welfare of the city was in his hands – possibly that of the entire world. He couldn't just shake that off.
He ran down the transgressions of the past two decades in his mind, the times when the rules had been bent, or changed, so that some reckless new technology could be employed “for the greater good.” That period also marked the greatest growth in damage to the roads, the worst erosion of the atmosphere, and the growing disregard of all that he'd been taught to hold sacred. It couldn't be just coincidence. The more they deviated from the path that had been set for them, the worse things got, and he feared if things got much worse than they already were, none of them would survive it.
In fact, they should not have survived this. If the breaking of the veil was a punishment, then their blatant disregard of what should have been inevitable was a blasphemy. If it was a blasphemy it was his responsibility to rectify it.
He strode to the door and slipped out into the hall. A quick glance in either direction showed that he was alone. He turned toward the airlock, and the long stair leading to The Chamber of Stars. He met no one along the way, and when he reached the chamber, despite recent events, he found no one on watch.
It didn't surprise him. He'd refused all visitors since closing The Temple, and he'd provided no direction. He wasn't ready yet to make a statement – didn't even know what he would say when he did. He hoped that the chamber, a place he'd spent countless hours in the past, would provide him the silence and peace he required to find those answers.
He closed and sealed the door. He didn't believe he was in any danger, but he knew that with the chamber sealed properly, other priests would believe the watch was set, and would not interfere. More than just a place to study the heavens, The Chamber of Stars – and the duty they spent there – was meant as a place and a time of meditation. Almost all of The Temple's activities involved the group. They met for prayers. They carried out rituals that had been passed down to them from earlier generations. The Chamber of Stars was their opportunity to commune with the powers that protected them. It was a chance to think about how they had been chosen and protected by the veils.
There were books on the shelves lining the walls. Some were the journals of past priests. Some were transcribed scriptures – holy documents that, while seldom in total agreement, followed a common thread of compliance. They agreed on the point that was central to their faith. They had been chosen, and they had been protected. Anything interfering with that protection was heresy. Anything heretical should be punished, squashed, hidden away or destroyed. It had always been their way, and until the space debris had crashed through the veil, shattering their security, their way had had the backing of The High Council.
Myril walked to the great brass telescope. It was aimed, as always, straight out through the skylight and beyond both veils. There were thousands of stars out there – he'd tried many times to count them, and failed. He'd always wondered what they represented, if there were other worlds, other chambers with men of faith, watching him as he watched them, but too far removed to be aware.
If there was no purpose to it all, he felt a part of him would die. If they had not been protected because there was something special about them – something that needed to be preserved, then why? By whom? The veils weren't like the technology they'd discovered on their own. There were no airlocks to be opened. The great pumps that supplied their air had worked flawlessly for centuries and there was no indication in any of the journals or records that there had ever been a time they'd understood how it worked. It just did. It was the same with the incinerators, and the exhaust tubes.
No sane being would go to the trouble to create something so perfect just because they could. And now it was crumbling. The more they changed things, the more they tried to make it better, the farther they got from the original plan, the closer to oblivion they fell. It would not be long before they shot craft beyond the Second Veil, hoping to find answers to questions they should never even have asked, and doomed the entire planet.
Myril stared into the stars, and as he did, a peace descended, removing his doubt and filling him with the warmth of true purpose. He knew what he had to do. He also knew he could trust no one to help him. If he shared his plan with even a single other man or woman, it would fail. He was the High Priest, and it was his duty to set things right. They would not thank him – but it didn't matter. The priesthood was a thankless life – a gift of one's self to the world. He would make a final gift, and he would make it count.
He closed his eyes and bowed low before the ancient telescope.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Then he turned, opened the airlock, and disappeared into The Temple, moving with a speed and purpose he hadn't known for many years, and willing all others to overlook his passing.