What do we do when we finally find a Chosen One? One touched by the gods? We need to find out what to do with that Chosen One. It’s easy to disbelieve, or not understand. First we must understand the message the Chosen One has for us…
The glowbrick immediately caught the high magister’s attention. Like most artifacts of the Twelve, they were rare and highly coveted by the ruling class. Even the king had only three in his throne room. Yet, someone had placed this one on the ceiling of a jail cell to aid the few scattered candles.
The second thing to catch his attention was the cell’s occupant.
“The sentinels found her wandering the clear zone after darkfall,” Inspector Merrill said. “We think she’s from Lord Jandrel’s estate, likely a servant. She’s got the Twelve’s own luck, surviving the Bloodwood.”
The high magister sat on the edge of the only chair in the room and gently took her chin in his hand. Her tear-lined face revealed a woman of middle age. She gave no indication she was aware of him. He took out his glasses and studied the rest of her huddled form. The fabric of her shift could once have been any color. Heavy bruising and lacerations covered much of her body. All gave mute testimony to how long she’d survived outside the safety of the city walls.
Without looking up, he asked, “Why did you have me summoned? This woman is obviously traumatized. She should be healing under the tender ministrations of the Maidens of Airmid.”
The inspector cleared his throat and approached. “I beg forgiveness. We were going to take her to the Temple…” He gently pushed aside a few locks of her matted hair, revealing a mark on her right shoulder; not the red trace of being struck, but a golden left-hand print.
“The Twelve preserve us.”
The inspector nodded, making the sign of the triquetra.
Once he gathered himself, the high magister said, “Go to the Magisterium and fetch me Iwoso’s The Treatise of the Sphere. One of the apprentices will know where to find it. It was written more than three centuries ago, so handle it with extreme care!” As the inspector was about to rush off, another thought occurred to him. “Oh and see to it this building is cleared – constables, prisoners, everyone. If she’s truly touched by one of the Twelve, the prophecy she’s been Marked to tell can only be heard by a member of the Magisteria.”
While the high magister waited, he was forced to tap the glowbrick to reenergize it. Flickering was a sure sign of neglected maintenance. While it would hold to any surface until moved, its ancient light would permanently extinguish without a mage’s intervention. He didn’t want to do what would come next without it.
The building cleared in due time. Only minutes after, Inspector Merrill handed him the treatise and left without another word. Carefully opening it, he took a deep breath before beginning.
“I am High Magister Falain Gito,” he intoned. “I am going to read a series of words to you. If any hold meaning, please let it be known.”
In truth, she would have no choice if Marked. The correct word or phrase would induce a prophecy. Whether these were forgotten names, divine places or otherwise, each connected intrinsically to one of the Twelve. Even Magister Iwoso, the most learned of the Pantheon Prophecy, had never determined why any more than how the Gods chose whom They would touch.
“I will now begin. Tuathde…”
He watched carefully.
Nothing. Dagda had not Marked her.
“Caer Ibormieth…”
Again nothing. Oengus had not Marked her.
“Formora…”
The Morrigan had not Marked her.
“Nuada Silver-Arm…”
Such was her effortless speed, he nearly tipped backwards in his chair as she stood.
“The Godwright Marked her.”
Creidhne hadn’t Marked anyone for generations.
With brightly burning eyes, she gazed up as though peering beyond the cobwebbed ceiling, beyond the layers of stone and wood above their heads. He could only speculate as to what vision she witnessed. Nothing in Iwoso’s treatise, however, prepared him for Creidhne’s voice coming from her lips. The Voice of a God.
“CONDUIT ESTABLISHED: Anti-matter corruption unravels the intraverse-bridge network. Accretion conductors draw the Cosmic Engine to its doom. The boundary of the spatio-temporal continuum begins to tear. The event horizon approaches. Hawking radiation imminent. The singularity awakens. The Key of Inertia must be assembled.”
He feverishly scribbled the words into his notepad, saying, “These words mean nothing to me, Great Lord. I beseech you to help this lowly mortal understand!”
Her/Creidhne’s gaze met his, and he knew a God observed him.
“We erred,” she/He said, “and Our arrogance will condemn countless worlds to oblivion.”
“But…”
“CONDUIT CLOSING.”
Lifeless and godless, the form collapsed. He watched helplessly as her body turned to ash, utterly used up.
The glowbrick began to flicker again in the resulting silence.
We erred.
Numbly, he held the notepad in his hand, unsure what to do.
Could the underpinnings of the Magisteria survive those two words?
True, there would be a vindicated few. Without any evidence, there were those who claimed the Twelve were flesh and blood beings, and the world their engineered construct. They argued the swiftness of darkfall and brightdawn must suggest an artificial night. Some went as far as asserting magic was simply misunderstood science, and even the glowbrick above his head a manufactured tool of an unknown discipline. Magister Tasdron once contended the celestial beasts of the apocalypse were but impossibly faraway land masses in the sky – that the Sleeping Leviathan visible only at midday was actually a continent bestrewn with rivers and mountain ranges millions of miles long. Surrounding all these preposterous lands were deep oceans so vast, the mind could scarcely conceive it.
Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence. These quickly silenced voices lacked a single shred of it.
There was, though, ample evidence for the Twelve’s capriciousness, and They could see from any eye; hear from any ear.
We erred.
The Twelve could not err.
High Magister Falain Gito looked to the flickering glowbrick. He ripped the page from his notepad and held it over a candle’s flame. The Godwright’s Prophecy burned as the glowbrick went out.
The End
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