Chapter 313. All Judges are Fallible (Patreon)

I don’t really understand what Sindragos is getting at. How would the black faction know if they failed to understand me? Moreover, why would I ever trust what the black faction shows me? Already I have heard of their plot against Achemiss, to whom they publicly provide protection. I understand their desire to strip Achemiss of whatever item allows him to plunder mortal worlds beyond Eternity. However–in my eyes, such a reversal of loyalties reflects poorly on the black faction.

The faction’s motives may be more complicated than we think, Maria comments. We will need to observe and make our own judgment.

Perhaps, perhaps not. My mind suddenly flits to Karanos, to Ari, to everything that has brought me here. Some moments are like that, filled by a confluence of disparate thoughts, almost like a dream or déjà vu. We’re not here to judge.

We are, Maria insists. Sindragos seeks to understand us–and what we choose to show is the test itself, the axiom of judgment. You can take a man’s measure without knowing his past, without knowing his identity. Without knowing anything, really. It’s more honest, in a way.

How so?

People exist in ecosystems of expectation, Maria says. They join niches, factions, and dig in, finding security, but in doing so trap themselves. I’m used to the deception of politicians. They bully each other into doing things that none of them truly wants.

I follow Sindragos’s gaze to the right. Behind the fist, the massive halo of water drips onto black rock and spring-green fields like molasses, the water’s sluggishness an optical illusion. Ahead of us, the ring in the sky expands, but comes to fill a series of aqueducts that stretch over one another, stretching into the distance.

Sindragos jumps off the edge of the thumb, then flies forward. I can’t tell if he’s using an artifact, ascendant energy, or his practice to fly, but he moves through the air as if through water, his legs pressing together and his body undulating like a dolphin’s.

As we fly, the ground becomes craggier, the grass giving way to jagged black rock.

We approach a large basin sunken into the earth, forming a canyon. Thin, extremely deep cuts snake through the surrounding rock. Small tributaries flow through the cracks.

The age of the plane strikes me. The rock has been cut deeply by the passage of the slow-moving water, deeper than any canyon I ever saw–or heard of–on my home world. My mind automatically begins to work through the calculations to make an estimate.

I dismiss the errant thoughts and refocus my attention on my escort, Ascendant Sindragos. His trajectory dips, his body heading toward the water in a swan dive. As he hits the surface, the water erupts and promptly freezes, the dynamism of the moment preserved.

I hover onto his ice. He resurfaces and flicks his fingers. The water sloughs off his body, leaving him dry.

The black rock’s effect is strong here. We’re not fully surrounded by the rock–the canyon is uncovered–so the effect is perhaps a quarter the strength of that produced by Starbreak. It’s enough to hinder–but not disable–affinities.

Just as I was wondering why Sindragos bothered with the theatrics of freezing the water, the ice shifts, forming a three-dimensional image. The ice ripples, then forms into a perfectly flat sheet, like a mirror.

“Most ascendants do not worry themselves over that which they cannot change,” Sindragos begins. “They live within Eternity and know of other worlds beyond, worlds like their own, but that is all. They will never leave–cannot leave. But some ascendants are different, called to assume a greater responsibility in the working of things. To keep Eternity eternal.”

He says this final sentence with the tone of a doomsayer. Does he think I am ignorant of the truth? The black and white faction compete to best serve the will of Eternity.

“Eternity needs ascendants,” I state. “I have no personal interest in joining the Hall of Ascension, but I am not ignorant of its purpose.” Obviously–I was just at the Hall’s competition.

“What do you know of Eternity’s hunger?”

I’ve had years to ponder this question, so my understanding has evolved from when I first heard The Samsara Crucible poem on the white faction obelisk.

“Worlds are born,” I say slowly, scrutinizing Sindragos’s reaction. “People pass into and out of existence, sheaths for coiled souls. Worlds also fall to ruin. In the end, only memory remains, captured in the amber. The recording itself resides in us, the ascendants, made to be as eternal as Eternity itself.”

Sindragos blinks. “Poetic. But more fundamentally, why does Eternity need ascendants?”

I stare at him impassively. “Because the dreams of ascendants sustain the growth of this infinite realm.”

He nods. “Why does Eternity need more ascendants when ascendants are immortal?”

Because even memories are fleeting. Like Floria, ascendants may seek an epilogue. “Some seek an end, and their memories die with them.”

“No.”

“No?”

“People who claim to understand how Eternity works are misguided,” he states, speaking with conviction. “Everyone has their own theories. There is no proof, and the truly ancient among us choose not to share what they know. Either that, or the only conclusions to draw are that even they are in the dark. However, one thing I am certain of is that the memories of ascendants do not die.”

I think once more of Floria. She wishes for death… but more than that, rebirth.

“I have heard that ascendants who die in Eternity spawn new worlds,” I say.

“They supposedly become new worlds,” Sindragos corrects me. “It is the transformation of the one into the many. A miracle of Eternity.” There is a bitterness to his words.

“Have you ever seen an ascendant’s end?” I wonder.

The ice, still during the conversation thus far, morphs. It condenses down into a large orb, ice melting and reforming over its surface. “Within each person is a seed,” Sindragos says, “their soul.”

The ice grows smaller and smaller until it implodes, water popping, mist spreading out like a thick fog. “Mortals are only temporary sheaths for souls and are limited in power. But souls are inherently drivers of chaos. Now, consider a soul allowed to ripen in Eternity for eons, a seed of chaos cultivated in a land of impossibility and paradox.”

He gives me a knowing look, then falls silent. He wants me to offer my own conclusion.

In my brief tutelage under the white faction necromancer Krath Mandur, we discussed the chaotic nature of souls. He led me to the conclusion that because of their non-deterministic, chaotic nature, souls give meaning to everything. We were speaking of mortal souls, however–souls to be used for necromancy. But what of ascendant souls, preserved as they are by Eternity?

Perhaps the seed does not stay a seed. Perhaps the seed blooms. But into what? I imagine the soul as a singularity, tightly coiled in on itself, until it bursts like in Sindragos’s demonstration, imploding. But instead of forming a mist… it forms a world. But that can’t be the answer–I just said that ascendants who die in Eternity spawn worlds. Sindragos is looking for another conclusion.

I choose to remain silent. Better to say nothing than speak unintelligently.

Realizing that I have no intention of speaking, Sindragos reforms the water into a wall of ice that arcs around us. “Existence is a mirror. On one side, you have reality.” The pristine ice shatters, its surface fragmenting like a kaleidoscope. “If the reflection distorts, reality remains unaffected.” He gives me an intent look. “In Eternity, this distinction breaks down. The reflection becomes more than a reflection.”

“The impossible becomes possible.”

“A dream becomes real.” Sindragos chuckles. “But as I said, these are theories. I don’t claim to know the truth of Eternity’s purpose, but I do try to fulfill it. We all do in the black faction.”

“I have heard that the black faction believes worlds should live short and bright, producing as many ascendants as possible in a short period of time before falling into ruin.”

“Blunt.”

“Is that accurate?”

“It’s a simplification. The black faction has certain theories about what makes ascendants best suited for life in Eternity, and by extension, most inclined to serve Eternity’s will.”

“Then break it down for me,” I say, my smile showing teeth. “Help me to understand.”

“Some people thrive in chaos, others in stability. Eternity is chaos. We find that chaotic worlds often produce the most powerful ascendants. But more importantly… ascendants from chaotic worlds are often more mentally resilient.”

“Or broken,” I say.

“And that is why ascendants judge those who seek to enter Eternity.”

I frown. “Not all ascendants are sane.”

He shrugs. “But all judges are fallible. For an example, let’s think of people who commenced their ascensions in dilated simulation chambers, the kind that run on souls. Some are driven insane by the process, but not all. Important to consider is that many such individuals are conditioned to hide their insanity well, simulations requiring them to fill various roles and carry out complicated instructions.”

I inwardly wince at the chosen example but keep my expression impassive. “Your point?”

He folds his arms across his chest. The fragmented ice wall around us splits apart and falls into the water like shattered glass. “We’re a group of people doing our best to carry out the will of Eternity.”

I pick a piece of glassy ice from the surface of the water, holding it up between two fingers. Scrutinizing it, I ask, “I heard that the black faction orchestrated the assassination of a white faction ascendant in the Hall of Ascension. For what reason?”

“I cannot officially confirm our involvement, but the ascendant in question–Ascendant Ari–had gone mad. She believed it was her purpose to cull worlds that produced elevated numbers of insane or depraved ascendants… or worlds that might.”

That’s not the way the white faction sees it. “Sounds like the crux of the ideological disagreement is balancing the risk of ascending undesirables with letting in more ascendants.” I frown. “What is to stop the Hall of Ascension–or other ascendants–from keeping new ascendants under probation, and banishing them using return beacons if they are unsuited for immortality?”

“Return beacons don’t grow on trees, for one. And to your point, that has been done, and is done today, in an unofficial capacity. Many take new ascendants under their metaphorical wings, introducing them to Eternity.”

“Under contracts of service.” That’s what happened to Messeras.

Sindragos nods. “The terms typically last for at least a few decades, which should be long enough to observe whether an ascendant needs more extensive assistance adapting to Eternity.”

“Your candor is appreciated.”

“As is yours,” Sindragos says. “You are a remarkably–” he hesitates, then says, “reasonable individual.”

“Ancients do not have the best reputations, do we?” My gaze pans over the tall rock of the basin. “On another note, I don’t need a Beginning affinity to realize you’ve brought me to this location for a reason.”

“This place is the stad. It’s a natural basin shorn from the plane’s flowing waters.”

“And you call me ancient,” I mutter. “The time needed to wear this rock down is inconceivable.”

“Truly. Have you tried breaking the black rock?”

“No.”

“It’s nearly indestructible, even using ascendant energy.”

“Earth elementalists can’t shape it?”

“They can move pieces of rock, but not reshape it, at least not without immense difficulty.” He points to a divot in the canyon, one I wouldn’t have noticed without him specifically pointing it out. “An attack with enough energy to level a mountain caused this mark.”

Y’jeni. “Then how did the black faction create Starbreak?”

Sindragos shakes his head. “Who said we created it?”

I eye the canyon with new appreciation. “So, the stad is a place for dueling?”

“Most of the plane is made of the same black rock, so you could fight anywhere. That being said, the stad is where we officially seek understanding through combat.”

Nerves churn in my gut. I need to convince this experienced ascendant that I’m as powerful as I should be. I knew this would happen, and prepared for it–but I’d hoped this moment would never come.

Hey, Maria mentally interjects, you’re more capable than you realize. You certainly held your own against the ascendants at the competition.

I had Red and Holiday backing me up.

And you have me, if you need me–but you won’t. Sindragos is a Moon practitioner. You can handle him.

There’s nothing living here, I protest. Little tufts of grass and algae. I’ll be reliant on my souls gems and the materials in my void storage.

You have two other affinities.

They’re weak; the interference of the rock, weak as it is, interferes. I might only be able to use Death.

Ian, are you actually worried, or just whining?

I mentally roll my eyes as I direct a stream of materials from my void storage. Soul gems dance around me, scintillating in the light of the white false star overhead.

“Shall we exchange understanding?” I ask.

“Let’s.”