THE EXITIUM JOURNALS
ENTRY THREE: IN THE SHADOW OF GIANTS
JUNE 25TH, 2157
(26TH OF THE THIRD UMBRAL WIND, YEAR 1157 OF THE TWENTY-SIXTH AGE)
Indomitable, Gaia
It is six in the morning, on the twenty-sixth of the third umbral winds. Loyal warriors, scholars and children of humanity, awaken, and prepare for your morning rites. Today's reading is from The Book of Penance, chapter ninety, verse one.
"The self-styled Flagellants - the bringers of sword and fire to those ignorant of the DOOM SLAYER's glory, the executioners of the weak and helpless - had been gathered in the centre of Indomitable, herded before the Steps of Faith leading to the Cathedral Prime. They were silent, for at the summit of the Steps stood the DOOM SLAYER, and the Group of Nine: the most radical and most powerful of the Flagellants, who themselves now occupied the seats of power within the Exitium.
All stood in rapture and awe, for the DOOM SLAYER deigned to pause his endless campaign of slaughter most holy to speak to them; as He stepped forward, all fell to their knees to await his command.
"THESE ARE YOUR LEADERS."
All trembled, for in this statement none could deny the seething, barely-controlled fury in His voice. When He spoke, so terrible was His wrath and His hatred that many in the audience could not help but lose control of their bodily functions.
"I ASKED FOR LITTLE. RESPECT ONE ANOTHER. SHIELD THE HELPLESS. STRENGTHEN THE WEAK. TEACH THE IGNORANT."
With furious speed, He grabbed the Ninth of the Group of Nine and held the squealing man aloft. Then, with naught but His hands, He tore him in half from legs to head, and threw his body down the steps.
"MY COMMAND WAS SIMPLE. KILL ONLY THE DEMON AND THE HERETIC."
Now he took two more of the Group of Nine and with hands alone, rent them, tossing their twitching parts down the steps once more. One of the Nine meant to fled, but she could not, for her mind and soul were paralyzed by the weight of sin.
"YOU HAVE NOT FAILED ME. YOU HAVE FAILED YOURSELVES."
Two more did he tear in half. Now the Group of Nine was only four, and yet His fury did not abate.
"THESE," He said, gesturing at the four remaining, "ARE WORSE THAN THE DEMON. THESE ARE BENEATH THE HERETIC."
Two more bodies torn asunder. The Group of Nine was reduced to two; the blood and gore he tossed to the steps below was now a small pile.
"I DO NOT KILL THESE SCUM. THEIR SOULS WERE FORFEIT WHEN THEY TURNED THEIR HAND ON THE INNOCENT."
He took the Second of the Group of Nine. May we never forget the name of Harriet Medev, cursed be her name, for the greed and murder and sin she wrought in His name. From her, He took her arms and her legs, and kicked her body down the Steps of Faith.
"I JUDGE ALL OF YOU. I FIND YOU WANTING IN ALL WAYS."
Then, He took the First of the Group of Nine. May we never forget the name of Donato Lao, a million curses upon his soul, for he was the Architect of Sin and the Hubris of Man made manifest. The Doom Slayer removed Donato's jaw, so that no soul could be corrupted again. The Doom Slayer removed Donato's eyes, so that none would be afraid of his gaze. The
DOOM SLAYER removed his stomach, so no food would fatten him while the poor starved. The DOOM SLAYER removed his genitals, so that none would suffer from his foul desires. The DOOM SLAYERremoved his legs, so that no ground would be soiled by his steps.
"HAVE YOU NO DEFENSE FOR YOUR CRIMES? SPEAK, DONATO, OR CAN YOU NOT FIND THE WORDS?"
Donato could not respond, and thus the DOOM SLAYER tore him in half too.
"REMEMBER YOUR PURPOSE. DO NOT ALLOW ME TO FIND YOU WANTING AGAIN."
Loyal humans, do not forget the lessons taught by the suffering of the Group of Nine. Ours is the War Eternal and the Crusade Most Holy, and it is there that our hate and fury and rage must be directed. Know that just as it is your duty to kill the demon and purge the heretic, you must feed the hungry and clothe the naked. The Left Hand helps the weak. The Right Hand slays the demon. So it is, and so it shall be.
Now, loyal humans, join me in the first recital of the day: yours is the shield that guards us from sin...
There's nothing quite like waking up with a blistering hangover as the rousing call to prayer goes out, followed by a soft-spoken woman talking about the Doom Slayer ripping some historical figure's nuts off with his bare hands.
It's hard to describe just how weird the Exitium is.
In any case, I check my omnitool and find that I've left myself a note from the previous night's festivities - apparently, someone told me that the Exitium's most common painkiller is fully capable of removing the ill effects of a night filled with drinking. It is my luck that an entire bottle of the stuff - Stimpills, they're called, is sitting in my bathroom cabinet. I down a few of them, wash them down with a bit of water, and to my surprise and relief less than five minutes later I'm feeling refreshed and energized (though still more than a little disturbed by the morning sermon.) Doing my best to ignore the lurid details of today's wake-up call, I instead head down to the hotel's restaurant to secure some sort of snack before my meeting with my adjutant-officer. It's more or less empty in the restaurant save for the staff behind the counter and a few regular citizens who've chosen to take their breakfast here.
The young man who helps me grins when he sees me. "Had a night out, eh?"
I ask him how he knows.
"Something about the way folk walk after a stimpill in the morning. You'll learn to recognize the signs soon enough," he says, with a goofy look on his face.
Twenty minutes later, I'm upstairs in one of the hotel's offices sitting across from my adjutant-officer with a coffee and a popular snack, the merg-injerapan, a wrap containing a mashed, spicy sausage wrapped in a thick, slightly sour flatbread. My adjutant introduces herself as Sofia Chambers; she's a young woman with fiery red hair and a permanently cheerful expression - but her eyes are piercing. Focused.
We make small talk for a few moments before coming to the question of why I'm here and what I'm looking to do. Upon hearing that I'd like to capture daily life in the Exitium from every conceivable point of view, she whips out a dataslate from her desk and begins scribbling furiously with a stylus.
"Okay, wow, that's perfect," she says, looking at me while she writes. "I absolutely love the idea and honestly I know a lot of people who'd be more than happy to let you shadow them, maybe even live with them for a while. Real question's not if you can do this, but where you'd like to start."
I ask what my options are.
"Well, I'd need to ask around, obviously, but, well, I'm pretty sure you've got the whole Exitium to choose from. Think about it - who wouldn't want to have the honour of being the first thing you write about?" She grins. "Pick anything and we'll go from there, Kerri."
We eventually reduce the countless avenues open to me down to a handful of choices.
"Personally," Sofia says, "I would go with the Church of the Lector. If you're looking to get a sense of the Exitium, why not start where every child does? You can learn as the children do, see what we're taught and how we're instructed - and besides, out of all the Churches and private-sector businesses you'd have the least amount of tape to deal with. After all, the Church of the Lector more or less already operates with an open-door policy; the only real work we'll have to do is figuring out precisely how you want to go about your work."
I'm inclined to agree. I've only had a few days to take in information about the Exitium, and almost all of the documents I've been reading originate from the Church of the Lector. Where better to start than the place where the Exitium stores and disseminates their knowledge?
Sofia nods vigorously as I explain my thinking and shoos me out of her office. "You just go do whatever you'd like to do - I'll take care of things from here," she says warmly. "I'll have what you need by this evening!"
The rest of the day passes by quickly; a crash course lesson on Exitium culture. Magic medical procedures designed to protect me from demonic possession or unholy corruption. The quarians in our group are whisked away to a hospital to see if they can't be "healed" so that they'll be free from the confines of their quarantine suits; some of my colleagues leave the hotel to start filming things at street level. Right before I'm finally free for dinner, though, Sofia calls me back into her office and hands me a dataslate.
"All done," she says, grinning madly. "All of these people have expressed overwhelming interest in having you shadow them; you'd be free to sort out living arrangements with their help and more or less do as you like."
The list, though long, places all of what Sofia deems "people working in jobs of artistic and cultural importance" at the top. My eyes are immediately drawn to a last name that I recognize.
Lord Amin Shepard / Church of the Lector, Professor. / Open to shadowing, recording. Capable of providing accommodation.
"Amin Shepard," I ask, "wouldn't happen to be related to Abbess Hannah Shepard of the Church of the Slayer?"
"Oh, right, you've met Abbess Hannah in person," Sofia says thoughtfully. "Yes, Amin's her husband - when I called he was very excited at the prospect of meeting you. Abbess Shepard herself is on leave, so you'd be staying with - or at least interacting with - the Shepard family as a whole on a daily basis for as long as you'd like."
I think for a minute, then accept - I figure this is a chance I'd be stupid to ignore.
"Well, really, the only question's when you want to start," Sofia replies. "You should probably still do the rest of the week's cultural lessons, but those won't take up all of your time. If you'd like, I can contact the Shepard family - Slayer, you could even be there tonight if you'd like."
"Really? I don't want to intrude on family matters, especially if Abbess Shepard's just returned from a tour of duty."
"No, no - what better way to show the human side of the Exitium? I know you expressed concern that people might only see the Exitium as a civilization of zealots and violence - not that any of us are opposed to worship or demon-slaying," Sofia adds, an impish smile plastered on her face. "But if there's anything more universal than a family united I'm not sure what is."
"I still feel like I'd be imposing."
"Amin explicitly said you wouldn't be."
"You're sure?"
"Of course," Sofia says, frowning. "Why would he not be alright with that?"
The Exitium's citizens, I have to remind myself, find discomfort in different places than the people of the Citadel. Privacy, while still important to the Exitium's peoples, doesn't quite occupy the same level of importance that it does in Citadel space. That's not to say that anyone wants to use the bathroom in public or anything like that, but people in the streets and in their homes are remarkably open to the idea of being recorded, shadowed, interviewed. They pray in the middle of the sidewalk; they dance in the streets when they feel like it. So it is that, an hour later, I'm in an auto-taxi (since the Exitium's citizens will actually pay extra to ride with a driver) on the way to the Shepard residence. The vehicle weaves up and down through Indomitable's various stacks; I pass all manner of buildings and even see what looks like another impromptu dance party outside an office building. The drive ends with an ascent to the very top stack of the city, where the sunset frames the sprawling megacity in a dim haze; the vehicle touches down at a landing pad shared by several buildings.
The Shepards' house is, I learn, typical of the style currently in vogue. They're a Noble family - a title which, in the Exitium, is more than a title of status; it's a burden and a responsibility that I'll learn much about in the future. In the moment, though, what strikes me is how small and normal-looking the house is compared to the mansions of Thessia's oldest lineages, or the grand estates of the salarian dynasts. It's a compact metal-wood house, three stories tall, on a decidedly average looking plot of land; taller than it is wide, with a tiny garden flanking the door and several flower baskets hanging from each front-facing window. And, of course, there are guns on the building. Bylaws and zoning regulations state that every building which can see the sky must have a weapons emplacement on the top ready to be deployed in case of emergency. The Shepard residence does not have their emplacement hidden; a massive triple-barreled cannon pokes into the sky, and a gun turret sits at every corner of the roof.
As I cross over from sidewalk to the pathway which snakes through the garden, I feel a warm, tingling sensation - stronger than the omnipresent feeling of warmth present in Indomitable - wash over me, and somehow I feel like my mind is being focused, any vestige of tiredness pushed out of my body. The flowers in the garden seem to sway as I pass, and I make my way up the short steps to the wooden front door. There's no doorbell, just a circular metal knocker sticking out of the door; I strike the door twice with it.
The door opens a few seconds later and I'm greeted with a very, very odd sight.
There's a girl - a young girl - standing before me, reaching up to my chest; her black hair is tied into a short ponytail and she's wearing what I think is a school uniform - a vest, a collared shirt and dress pants. Her face is covered in glowing blood-red runes, and pupils shift shape and colour every few seconds.
Also, she's holding a very small chainsword, which makes a noise that sounds like a blunt, broken blender trying to crush a mountain of rocks as it whirrs.
"Hi," the girl says, turning her chainsword off.
"Hi." I'm not sure how to respond; the girl's eyes are almost hypnotic as they pulse, her pupils rotating and shifting from sigil to rune to sigil.
"You look pretty funny," she says, blinking. "You're not here to sell anything, are you?"
"No?"
"Hmmmm." The girl tucks the chainblade into a sheath on her back and steps aside. "Oh! You're here for dinner, aren't you?"
"Uh. Yes?"
"Sorry. Mom told me we had someone coming over but, uh." She looks around conspiratorially and leans forward, a hand over her mouth as she whispers. "I totally wasn't listening."
I step through the doorway into a landing; the girl motions for me to take off my shoes when I hear stomping from a set of nearby stairs and a very, very cross voice that I recognize.
"Anastasia! Oh, so help me Slayer, did you ambush Miss T'vessa with your damn chainknife?"
The girl - Anastasia - twitches, stares at me, and shakes her head furiously. "Slayer's blessings upon you, milady, please, please, do not say anything about the chainsword." She blinks several times, mutters something under her breath, and I watch in astonishment as the blade and sheath strapped to her back just vanishes.
"No, mom, I just made sure she was who we invited," Anastasia replies, a cheeky grin plastered on her face. "Ah, Miss T'vessa, you can remove your shoes here," Anastasia says in a formal tone a world removed from the flippant, casual voice she used a second ago.
Hannah Shepard descends from the stairwell just as I finish removing my shoes and place them on a small rack in front of the door; out of armour, the Abbess still cuts an imposing figure. In her armour, she's probably just under eight feet tall; now, she still towers over me, easily reaching seven and a half feet in height. Her shaved head and rugged features are even more imposing; clad in a simple tank top and shorts, her lean, pure-muscle build and the runic tattoos which cover her bare arms and legs make her quite the sight to behold. She smiles, bows slightly and clasps my arms.
"Kerri T'vessa, it is a pleasure to have you here," Hannah says, warmth and happiness audible past her characteristically raspy voice. "I apologize if my daughter, ah, attempted to ambush you with her weapon."
"No, no, it's quite alright," I reply. "She just wanted to answer the door, I think. I rememebring being the same growing up."
Hannah frowns, looks at her daughter, and groans. "Young lady, I may not be a witch, but you're being stupid if you think that party trick of yours is going to fool me."
"What?" Anasatasia replies, her face the very picture of innocence (save for the pulsing runes and shifting pupils - I cannot stress how creepy it is to watch.)
"Anastasia Shanti Shepard, Slayer help me if you do not unveil your chainknife this instant I'm confiscating it for a month."
Anastasia grumbles something under her breath.
"Pardon me, young lady?" Hannah replies. "Care to repeat that out loud?"
"No," Anastasia says gruffly; her face stops pulsing for a moment, her eyes remain still for a second, and the weapon strapped to her back comes into view.
"Thank you," Hannah says in an exasperated voice. "I swear, one day you're going to try and ambush someone with that damn knife of yours and they're going to panic and kick your teeth in or something."
"I'm too fast for that," Anastasia shoots back.
"Like piss you are," Hannah replies, grinning.
"Lady Ryder says I'm real fast," Anastasia says with a grin. "Fastest in the class!"
"Your class, miss, is full of wizards and witches. You think you could beat any of the Young Sentinels in a footrace?"
"Of course!"
"Without blowing their legs up or setting them on fire?"
Anastasia is about to reply, stops, sighs. "Uugh. Come on, mom, you're making me look bad."
Hannah snorts. "Nothing you didn't do to yourself. Go on, get upstairs and get changed for dinner - your father's going to be home and he's going to have a fit if he finds out you ambushed someone at the front door again."
"Fine," Anastasia replies, heading into the stairwell. "You two are probably gonna start making out or something. I don't wanna be here for that."
Hannah watches the young girl go, and shakes her head with a smile. "She's a handful."
"Most kids are, I think. Babysitting was hard enough for me - I can't imagine being a mother." I shrug. "And really, she was having fun with me - there's no trouble."
Hannah sighs. "I know, I know. I'm sure she'll grow out of her permanent sarcasm and infinite reserves of snark - Slayer protect me, it can't come soon enough." She smiles at me, gestures at my coat. "I'll take your jacket, if you like - come in, take a seat." She gestures towards a living room beyond the stairwell; I make my way over to a set of comfortable armchairs and couches arranged around a small table with a holoprojector mounted in the middle. There's a small kitchen past the living room, and in the corner by the open door leading to the kitchen a cabinet full of various liquors and fancy glasses. Hannah all but glides into the room, smiles as she walks over to the cabinet and grins at me.
"Fancy a drink?" she asks.
"Well I'm in no position to turn my host down if one's being offered," I reply.
Hannah barks a laugh, grins. "How very ladylike of you! What sorts of drinking do you enjoy? Flavours, preferences?"
A few minutes later, Hannah selects a bottle of tej-isuki, a sort of honey-infused, fermented grain alcohol. She pours us both a bit, and she takes a seat in the armchair across from mine.
"Well," she says, after draining her glass in a single draw, "I must say I was surprised to get a call from Adjutant Traynor saying that you, of all people, wanted to shadow my husband."
"I figured it was an opportunity I didn't want to pass on."
"True, true enough - personally, I'd have recommended you start with someone in the military, but that's just the grousing of an old soldier." Hannah smiles, refills her glass (this time to the top) and sips at it. "Really, the only question is whether you'd like to stay with us or not."
"If I wouldn't be imposing on the family, I think it'd be a good chance to see how people live in the Exitium."
Hannah nods slowly, expression thoughtful. "Yes, yes. I see. Well, we've got a spare room - two, actually - and our family dynamic is simple enough. There'd be little for your to intrude on and we'd welcome a guest in the house."
"What do you mean by simple?"
"Well, I have some time off - I just finished a four month tour of duty. I'll be involved with training some of the soldiers who came from the Citadel with you, but it's not full-time work; Amin doesn't work on the weekends and is usually home in the afternoon," Hannah says, shrugging. "At worst, he might stay a bit late if he's got extra work."
"And Anastasia?"
Hannah shakes her head with a warm smile. "Rambunctious and has too much energy - but she has lessons five days a week, and usually spends the weekend out in the city gallivanting about with her friends," she says, rolling her eyes. "Having a guest - especially one that's a journalist - might get the rascal to learn a bit of formality."
I tell Abbess Shepard that I'm honoured by the offer; she grins.
"The honour is mine, Miss T'Vessa. If you're accepting, let me say that I can't wait to see what you think of the how the Exitium's peoples live their daily life."
Later that evening, Amin Shepard - an ex-warmage and university professor with a degree in "Applied Hermetic Logistics" - joins the family for dinner - after he and Hannah share a long embrace and a kiss that makes Anastasia complain - and we chat over a meal of roasted pork, a fermented seafood-vegetable mix called kimchi and plenty of rice. We figure our living arrangements which will kick in at the end of the week - I'm going to be living in one a guestroom that the family's been storing odds and ends in - and begin working on a shadowing schedule. The only person I'll have to speak to directly to see if I'm allowed to shadow is Anastasia's sorcery teacher; apparently there are parts of sorcery training for young wizards and witches which are something of a closed, if not private affair that's only open to outsiders upon request.
Anastasia is told to get ready for bed, and once she's out of earshot I pause, wonder if I should ask what I want to, when Amin nods at me with a knowing look.
"You can ask," he says, his expression one of something I think resembles consternation.
"Are you sure?"
"I saw your face when we mentioned the empty room - not the guestroom," he replies.
"I don't want to presume the right."
"You have every right," Hannah says slowly. "Inquistive thought is not a sin, Kerri."
Amin sighs, and Hannah takes a deep breath.
"And don't be sorry," Amin says, shaking his head. "It's important. People should know about our what we - the Exitium - go through on a daily basis."
"You have a good sense for things," Hannah says, smiling sadly. "I imagine you figured out the truth of the matter. Anastasia's twin, Rahmi. He was slain during a vacation, when he and Anastasia were only six." Hannah's eyes water a bit, but her expression is one of incredible, fierce pride. "He died saving Anastasia - tackled her out of the way of an imp, and in his dying breath managed to stab the cursed creature in the neck with a rune-knife he'd taken off someone else's dead body. Six years old and he had the fire and the anger of the Slayer in him," she says, shaking her head.
"Slayer's blessings upon him - what an incredible boy. Even for an adult, that would have been an honourable way to die," Amin says in a distant voice, holding his wife tightly. "Anastasia - Slayer protect her - she says he died without much pain. And Anastasia, without even knowing how, absorbed both the imp and Rahmi's souls." He pauses. "You should record this," he continues. "We were lucky to have one of our children survive, Kerri. For many - too many - in the Exitium, there is no such luck. Children taken from parents; parents taken from children."
"Sister Nought," I say.
Hannah nods. "I like to think Sister Nought exceptional in character - but in circumstance, she's hardly alone. I did not know my parents for more than a handful of years - and while Amin knew his, he lost more than his fair share of relatives to the unholy filth of Hell." Hannah shrugs. "The Church of the Lector says that suffering of the individual must be mourned - but the suffering of the many is a necessary evil. In all the years of the Exalted Exitium - and even before, if the records are be believed - we have all sacrificed so much."
Amin nods, expression sombre. "This is our life, Miss T'Vessa. We die in countless numbers every day so that the children may one day, far, far into the future, awake one morning and find themselves free of the War Eternal."
I ask them what they'd do if, by magic, the War on Hell were to end tomorrow.
Both adults - their expressions both tired and full of conviction - look at me, then each other, shaking their heads.
"I...I don't know," Hannah admits.
"The War Eternal, over," Amin said slowly, eyes closed. "You must understand, Kerri, that talk of such things is...hard for us."
"Emotionally?"
"Perhaps," Amin says with a wave of his hand. "It's...how can I put it. The War Eternal not being all-consuming and ever-enduring is just how our world is. Oh, we know it will end one day in victory, but - in our lifetime, let alone tomorrow? Conceptually, intellectually, I know it is possible. Here," he says, touching his chest, "I do not feel it to be possible."
There's a long silence.
"I think," Hannah says solemnly, "I should like to be a poet. I never had the talent for the pen - not in poetry or writing in general, for that matter, but if I had all the time in the galaxy? I could, if not be exceptional at wordsmithing, at least devote more than a token amount of time to it."
"And I would still teach," Amin continues, "but the logistics would be of pleasure and design for its own sake. Not for war." He looks off into the distance, eyes trailing up to the ceiling and his daughter above. "I would like to create, for creation's sake. Not for the War Eternal, if such a thing can be said to exist."
"But in the mean time," Hannah says, taking hold of her husband's hand, "we will simply make do with our current stations." She smiles, this time without any trace of sorrow or hesitation. "If there is one thing that the Exitium's good at, it's being patient, Kerri."
Amin smirks. "Not that you'd ever know it from watching my wife or my daughter."
I stay for another hour or so; we chat about lesser topics, enjoy drink and each others company. Before long, I'm hailing another auto-taxi to return to the hotel, a small, old piece of parchment in my pocket. A gift from Hannah, relinquished only after her husband and I ply her with both drink and reassurance.
It's a poem she wrote a few years ago, not long after Anastasia was accepted into the Church of the Seraph - right around when the higher-ups in the Church of the Seraph informed her that Anastasia had the power to become a witch of incredible power and prowess.
"If you're going to let everyone read my drivel," Hannah says, clearly both happy for the praise and frustrated by our conviction to have her pass this token along, "the least you can do is explain to them that I'm not all that fond of the work, at least mechanically."
I don't think the quality of it matters, in the end.
It's a little thing written by a mother who, despite all her love of war and demon-slaying and reverence for the Doom Slayer religion, just wants what's best for her surviving child.
Untitled, by Hannah Shepard
My child is to be a witch;
in the annals they are to call her sorceress-exalt, She
who wades knee-deep in the dead with hands raised
like shadowed fists in the sky.
Sometimes I dream that we will grow old,
dare I hope
(together)
But dreams are for the tired and
the call comes not for a tired mother
but for the Abbess who does not dream of peace.
THE EXITIUM JOURNALS
ENTRY FOUR: MATRIARCH
JUNE 30TH, 2157
(32ND OF THE THIRD UMBRAL WIND, YEAR 1157 OF THE TWENTY-SIXTH AGE)
Indomitable, Gaia
Rather than immediately barge into an elementary or high school, I figure it'd be best to start with something a little less intrusive. I spend the next few days shadowing Professor Amin Shepard around his place of work, the University Central of Indomitable - the premier educational institute of the entire Exitium.
It's actually a lot more boring than I expect it to be. Yes, the magic Amin uses and designs is astounding; with little more than two assistants. magic blueprints and a small satchel full of common supplies (metal ingots, chalk, plant leaves and liquids) he's able to summon buildings, shelters and all manner of objects out of thin air - but to be honest most of his day is spent lecturing undergraduate students, marking papers and meeting with his teaching assistants. His colleagues are far too busy to express much interest in my presence - especially when they learn that my grasp of biotics is actually rather limited. The finer points of Amin's magitechnology and arcane rituals are lost on me; he is, first and foremost, an expert, and while his own work is interesting it's far from my level of comprehension.
I'd be capable of learning it, he explains. All I have to do is take the eight to ten years of relentless studying, like the other undergraduates who sit through endless days of horrifyingly complex lectures on magic arrays, aetherflow, mana-willpower conversion tables and arithmancy.
I politely decline. The sciences were never my strong suit, and somehow I don't imagine I'll have the knack for this, either.
It also worries me that, less than a week into my possibly ten-year stay into the Exitium, magic - literal magic - is becoming boring to me. Maybe it's because the results of magic are incredible, but now that I've gotten a behind-the-scenes look at the work going into it the, ahem, magic, if you'll excuse the phrase, is gone. It's clear that sorcery in the Exitium isn't a wave of the hand and some magic words - there's long hours of dedicated practice and science that goes into the casting of even the simplest spell.
So it is that I find myself ready to follow Anastasia Shepard, witch-in-training, around for a day - not just her in particular, but at the life of children in the Exitium.
The day starts like any other; I wake up with the rest of the Shepard family at six in the morning when the call to prayer goes out. Amin and Hannah are devout followers of the Doom Slayer religion, though Amin also follows a religion called "zensufism," itself a combination of two pre-First Age religions that can trace a lineage all the way back to the lost human homeworld. Anastasia joins her parents at the shrine on the ground floor, though like any adolescent made to sit still for more than a few minutes she's noticeably twitchy during the morning's readings, which last about six minutes today. After that, it's a furious scramble as Anastasia looks for a clean uniform to wear - she has "forgotten" to do her laundry, which is apparently a common occurrence - and manages to devour a small pile of sliced, heavily-spiced lamb for breakfast. (The fruits her mother insists that she eats is tucked into her satchel; Anastasia insists that she eats the fruits every day during lunch. (Given my own behaviour as a child and the entirely unconvincing look on Anastasia's face, neither I nor her parents are terribly inclined to believe that she doesn't just trade the fruits away for something else.)
A school transport arrives, and in short order Anastasia - book-bag slung over her shoulder - sprints out the door and is promptly whisked away. I hail an auto-taxi, and set the destination not for Anastasia's school, but rather the sub-division school board. I arrive about fifteen minutes later at a massive ten-storey complex nestled between Idomitable's second and third stacks, plain and unadorned in its stark metal glory save for the Slayer's Sigil emblazoned above the door. The Church of the Lector has several hundred such complexes spread throughout the city; each school board, I'm told, is responsible for anywhere between six to twenty schools ranging from preschool-daycare all the way to the fourteenth grade. I spend most of the working / schooling day in meetings with administrators who go over rules and regulations regarding what footage I'm allowed to record (basically none, which I'm more than okay with) and what I'm allowed to write about (anything that doesn't violate the privacy of a child with the caveat that guardians of said children hold final say over anything I intend to publish.) The meetings finish about an hour before the school day's over; one of the administrators passes along a preschool-to-fourteen syllabus which, while not exhaustive, covers all of the desired learning outcomes of the Exitium.
Even just flipping through the physical book is an experience, to say the least. I'll probably end up dedicating part of, if not an entire entry at some point to dissecting the almost bizarrely wide amount of topics the Exitium's children are expected to have, at minimum, a passing familiarity with. Suffice to say that it's a curriculum where "introduction to classic literature" and "elements of poetry" sit next to "rudimentary rune magic," "basic anti-demonic survival warfare tactics" and "house-care skills."
Soon it's four in the afternoon, which means primary schooling time is over and secondary training begins; for those who are eleven years of age, one year away from graduating to being a "young adult" in the eyes of the Exitium, the day is far from over. Children who desire a life outside the military head to job-shadowing positions, mandatory extracurricular activities, government-sponsored field trips and more; for Anastasia and others who already hear the call of the War Eternal, there's only one thing to do: combat training. Anastasia and several of her classmates are headed to the Cathedral of the Winged, the largest complex owned by the Church of the Seraph within city limits; I make my way there by taxi after grabbing a late lunch at a cafe. (Coffee, as it turns out, is much like any other stimulant drink - available in a myriad of forms, from somewhat palatable instant powder to wallet-shatteringly expensive. I settle for something in the middle.)
The building is a world, an entire reality apart from the comparatively small and featureless school board building. It's massive, occupying almost a quarter of the city's fifth stack; the architecture is classic Exitium - spires, stained glass, and liquid metal insets that flow all around the building exterior in a mesmerizing pattern. I step out of the taxi and step onto the Cathedral grounds proper; orderlies go about, working in the gardens without tools. Robed mages prune hedges and revitalize flowers with nothing but their bare hands. The magic here is so thick that, walking through the gardens, it almost feels like I'm wading through knee-deep water, or fighting my way through an invisible storm of warm, all-encompassing heat. The air here smells different - almost like a blown-out wax candle - and I can't tell if I'm refreshed or perturbed by the atmosphere.
None of the orderlies pays me any mind - until a gaunt woman in robes of pure white with pale skin and short, black hair in a bob cut glides out of the church, her bare feet hovering several inches off the ground. She floats to me, bows, clasps my arms in a gentle, firm grasp.
"Miss T'Vessa," the woman says in a voice that is so smooth and silky that I almost lose track of my thoughts for a moment.
"Uh. Exalted Matriarch Ryder?"
She smiles. "Yes. Please. Come. I have so much to show you."
The interior of the cathedral is breathtaking; the interior is made of wood and various black ores polished to a sheen. There are emergency lights in the ceiling, but they're turned off; illumination comes from floating white cubes which are strewn around the ceiling. Along the walls and ceiling, runic inscriptions are weaved together with carved wall murals and integrated into banners and tapestries; as we walk down the main corridor there's an unbroken picture depicted in liquid metal "paint" that depicts both human and Redeemed wizards and witches throughout the Exitium's history from all the way back to the Second Age (around 45,000 Before Council Era). Clergy and warmages-in-training, old and young alike, scurry through the corridors.
"This is the Church of the Seraph's largest cathedral within the city of Indomitable," Ellen Ryder says as she floats down the long, winding corridor of the main hall; she waves, bows at many of the adults we pass. "Where the Lectors teach and educate, we concern ourselves with the practices of magic and ritual."
"Right," I say. "I was here to see your sorcery training class, but as I understand it you also function as a museum and a repository for all things magical."
"Yes," Ellen says, turning to face me as she floats backwards into the depths of the cathedral; we begin to pass by classrooms filled with young adults. Flashes of bright lights sometimes flare, visible briefly beyond the classroom doors. "We train the young in the ways of sorcery; we teach hermetic rituals to anyone with the time."
"And thaumaturgy?"
Ellen's face becomes tight - not upset, but firm. "Theurgy is a powerful thing, Miss T'Vessa. The power to wield sorcery and perform hermetics is a great burden already - and the power to make miracles? It is an order of magnitude more dangerous once you pass beyond the absolute basics of healing wards."
"It's not taught on-site?"
"The basics are. How to heal physical and spiritual injuries - we work with the Church of the Saviour to teach magical aids, yes. But applied theurgics, as some will call it, no. Not here. That is done in safer, more remote grounds, under closer supervision." Ellen lifts up the right sleeve of her robe as we come to a stop before an incredible set of double doors; the doors themselves are wooden, but are intricately decorated with a complex carved magic array. I glance over and flinch as I take in the sight.
Exalted High Matriarch Ellen Ryder, who floats above the ground and speaks with supernatural smoothness, has...something on her right arm. Her pale skin, from her upper arm to the middle of her forearm, is barely visible beneath a black, pulsating mass of seething tendrils which flow in and out of her skin.
I can't respond.
She shrugs. "The result of an accident made in my youth," she says with a weak smile. "Back when I was Sorceress-Major Ryder. I thought myself a prodigy, thought that I stood above my peers in ability and power. My teachers said to me that some magics are beyond all but the most powerful; I disregarded them, and this corruption has been the price."
"Does it hurt? Are you in danger?"
"It doesn't hurt, not any more," Matriarch Ryder replies. "Nearly five years, however, of incredible, unceasing pain - I vowed to get it under control. Now it simply itches sometimes - and it acts as both a limiter on my power and a reminder of the dangers of hubris. And, if I wanted it, I could purge my soul of this...stain, at any time. But it serves as a lesson to me and to my students, and so I keep it," she says, rolling her sleeve back over her arm.
She pushes the double doors open, then descends to the ground. Beyond is another hall, this one silent save for the quiet praying of a few priests and preistesses; spread amongst the prayer cushions and seats, the room is full of several glass cases, each one housing some sort of figure. Ellen beckons for me to follow her, and I realize that the walls themselves house hundreds of these figures. I stop, take a closer look, and, as is common, am bewildered once more.
They're action figures and plush toys.
There's absolutely no denying the fact that, housed behind thick protective shielding and prayed to like the totems of a great god, these are still toys.
"Totems," Ellen says with hushed reverence. "Sometimes, maybe once an Age, or once every few Ages, when the Doom Slayer, blessed be His name, graces us with His presence, he leaves behind one of his prized totems." She glides over to one of the cases, strokes the glass with a finger. "This one was always my favourite," she says.
It looks like a child's stuffed toy; the animal is a small, white, furry creature with long ears and a small bob tail.
"It resembles a child's plush," I say carefully.
"Mmm. He has gifted us with many of these animals," Ellen says, shaking her head. "It is said in the Book of the Sorrows that the Doom Slayer Himself once had such an animals as his companion. Rabbit, he calls these animals." Her expression is both whimsical and sad. "In all our years, though, we have no record of them. Perhaps they were native to our lost homeworld - who can say? Now, this is the only reminder of what He must once have known and cherished."
"So, the Doom Slayer - he carried, or carries around this collection of...figurines and toys with him?" I walk over to a case containing several stylized figurines of a humanoid soldier in some sort of armour; the figures are old, scratched and their paint is losing its luster, but I can tell that they were once all coloured in different schemes. A small plaque indicates that these totems bear faded markings; based on them, these are named "FKO-P" totems, for the only legible lettering on them.
"We believe so," Ellen responds. "The Exitium's possessed spatial compression magic - I'm sure you're familiar with it by now - for a long, long time, but we have never reached the level of power the Doom Slayer's blessed armour has. We have seen Him store hundreds of weapons and many month's worth of provision in his armour. In his hand one moment, gone the next. He has granted us so many of his totems," she says, gesturing to the various items in the room. "We are blessed, Miss T'Vessa. Very blessed indeed."
"Do you have a hard number?"
"Eighty seven. We have lost a few to demonic incursion, but it's been around that number now for an entire Age - two thousand years." Ellen sighs. "They say that in the Third Age, He bestowed a grand room of thousands of his prized totems upon humanity. Whether that's true or not, I'm in no position to say, but I sometimes think of the majesty such a collection would no doubt possess."
Have I mentioned how Goddess-damned weird the Exitium is?
I'm talking to a woman who, from what I've read, can literally melt the minds and souls of thousands of demons with a swish of her hand, and she's approaching rapture over a collection of plush toys and action figurines - which are apparently the prized possessions of a divinely-charged war-demigod.
We stay in the room for a little longer; Ellen does a loop of the entire room, stopping several times to pray in front of specific totems - I feel like I'm somehow belittling these people if I call them toys - before she circles back around to me.
"Well, Miss T'Vessa, we're not here just to pray and look at old relics," she says with a wan smile. "If it takes your fancy, would you like to observe some sorcery?"
Matriarch Ryder leads me through several corridors and down six flights of stairs; thinking about it afterwards, I don't recall seeing the Cathedral of the Winged stretching beneath the stack it sits on but figure that it's either an efficient use of space - or spatial-compression magic. Maybe both. In the moment, I forget to ask.
The first five basements are a mix of storage, kitchens, living quarters and classrooms, but basement six has only one function: training. Beyond the stairwell is a long corridor with transparent windows overlooking about a dozen gymnasiums. Each one is filled with three two four dozen people - from young children to those in their late teens - either waiting for lessons to start or hard at work practicing magic. The first gym we pass on the left is composed of children who Matriarch Ryder tells me are all between the ages of six and nine; they are, like their instructors, clad in white robes and sitting in various meditative positions.
"Becoming a full-time mage is a long, arduous process - but children do not see that. No, they see a church full of witches, warlocks, wizards and sorceresses - and they sacrifice time elsewhere to learn magic," Ellen said with a smile.
"How many of these children will go on to study in the Church of the Seraph?"
"Most stick around, at least until they near graduation from school - though they might take less lessons, split their time between other ventures. We encourage it; it's best for a child to have options, room to grow and learn. But full time?" Ellen cocks her head, thinks. "I'd say that, if you had a theoretical class of one hundred high school graduates, only ten or so would go on to be full-time Seraphs."
"Is that a result of strict requirements? Is life in this church difficult?"
"Mmm. Yes. You saw the, ah, rigors of university-level magic studies with Professor Shepard - so I know you're not under any illusions about the complexity that magic can pose," Ellen affirms, nodding. "We have very exacting requirements to full-time applicants, but any soldier or citizen can study magic, even combat magic. But to devote one's life to the Seraphic orders, to focus on honing the mind into a weapon is...difficult, to say the least."
I ask when she made the decision to join; she smirks.
"I was one of those children who knew I was going to be a witch," she replies with a confident tone. "When my classmates were dueling with swords, cooking meals, studying the sciences or penning song, I cared only about power. Mastery over magic." She taps her corrupted arm. "A little too driven for my own good, but I think it's worked out all the same."
We walk down the hall to the second-last gymnasium; Anastasia and several other children around her age, some in school uniform and others in white mage-robes are chatting, eating snacks and relaxing. We take a small stairway down from the overlook and the children all get to their feet; Anastasia grins, waves, and I wave back. Ellen stops walking and begins floating once more, and when she speaks she's no longer the Matriarch who has given me a tour of the Cathedral she calls home. Her voice, now, is that of the Exalted Matriarch - the one whose magic carves terrible, bloody swaths through the hordes of Hell.
"Good afternoon, children," she says, silk-smooth voice now an iron wall.
"Good afternoon, Exalted Matriarch," the children respond.
"I see we're all here - wonderful. I trust you've all done your homework?"
The children nod solemnly.
"Excellent. We'll begin with some warm-ups, as usual."
One of the boys raises his hand and speaks when Ellen nods at him. "Miss Ryder, who's the blue lady?"
"A visitor from the Citadel," Ellen said with a smile and a nod at me. "She's a journalist - so best behaviour, please." The children all look at one another, muttering; Ellen gives them a moment before snapping her fingers so loudly that it echoes off the walls of the gymnasium. "Please take up a comforatble position, and we'll start with purge-fire. Three fireballs, controlled, small size, aimed at the targets on the wall." Ellen waves her left hand slightly, and a series of imp-shaped targets materializes on the far wall; the children line up in a row and the gym's air seems to take on a slightly smoky smell.
Anastasia - and the other children - light up as their faces began to flicker with flashing runes; some of their eyes began to shift colours as their pupils take on odd sigil-shaped forms. The children all raise a hand, and there's a stunning crack-thoom noise as bright-blue fireballs suddenly shoot out from their hands, slamming into the targets.
None of them miss.
Ellen snaps her fingers again. "Halt! No misses - well done, all of you." She floats forward, scanning the children. "Castillo," she says, standing in front of the dark-skinned boy on the far left.
"Ma'am."
"Not bad, but you need to work on your mana-tap speed. Your fire itself is fine, but your draw time's a tad slow. Try and see if you can't open your channels a bit faster - and remember, don't yank, pull."
"Got it," the boy says, flexing his hands; small motes of fire dance around his fingers as he adopts a thoughtful expression.
"Shepard," Ellen continues, stopping in front of Anastasia. "Stop trying to get fancy with your mana recycling."
Anastasia looks confused, and Ellen rolls her eyes.
"You can work on shutting your mana channels down and absorbing excess energy once you learn how to consistently seal your channels properly. You're not letting your residuals burn out before you shut your channel - keep that up and one day you're going to blowback and burn your arm off. If you're lucky."
"Sorry, ma'am," Anastasia says sheepishly.
"Don't be sorry - just take things one step at a time. Nobody wants to have to carry your smoking corpse upstairs to the healers."
Ellen continues down the line, dispensing information and guidance in a way that reminds me of a schoolteacher that is both stern and caring. Once she's finished, she floats back to her original spot closer to me and snaps her fingers; the scorched imp targets on the wall flicker, and suddenly look pristine. "Three fireballs, and remember - slow is smooth. Smooth is fast. Again!"
The next hour passes in a whirlwind of fireballs and lightning; these, apparently, are the two basic combat spells that every would-be combat mage starts with. As I'm lead to understand it, each represents a different style of sorcery, laying a specific lesson and groundwork for more complicated spellcasting. Sorcery, if I'm not mistaken, involves tapping into the magic channels that every living creature possesses, forcing the "aether" that sits between normal space and Hell into the body through force of will and soul-stamina. Fireballs force the children to manipulate "aetherflow" into a mass of energy before launching it away from them with an almost explosive sort of force. Lightning, on the other hand, is a way to teach the children to keep a sustained "breach" between the aether and real space open as they direct a steady stream of sorcerous power out of their fingers.
It's incredible to watch and powerful to the senses; every time the children open their magic channels and draw on their power the air silently crackles with a heavy, skin-tingling shock.
After the hour is up, the children - who are all panting, exhausted and drained of stamina both physical and magical - slump over into the corner of the gym by the bleachers and eagerly begin tearing into snacks. (Anastasia makes eye contact with me, pulls the fruit from this morning out of her bag and eats it.) Ellen smiles as she floats over to me, and pats me on the shoulder.
"Was that fun to watch, Miss T'Vessa?"
"It was."
"I did wonder," Ellen says, "if it resembles the way your asari peoples train in biotics."
I frown, explain that I never really nurtured the talent or paid much attention to it beyond the absolute basics; Ellen nods after a moment and is about to say something when one of the kids, Jacob, jumps to his feet.
"Exalted Matriarch, can we see the chain lightning today?" he asks, grinning. The kids all begin to shout in agreement, and Ellen grins.
"Only because you've all been good today," the Matriarch replies. "You're not in any danger, Kerri, but you might want to stand back a little."
I step back.
Ellen breathes and the entire room seems to shudder.
I've watched powerful asari commandos let loose with their biotics; I've watched their bodies flare with the blue-black swirl of their power. This is different. Biotics are cool. Calm. When you watch a skilled biotic operator pull out all the stops, it's like watching a floodgate being opened.
This is more like setting fire to a pool full of gas.
Ellen's body begins to pulse and flicker with an angry, black-red aura that audibly hisses, spits and crackles. She raises a hand, twitches a finger - and the entire gym lights up and fills with a terrifying screech as a dozen white-red lances of light blast into the wall's imp targets. Satisfied, Ellen's aura dissipates, and the children cheer.
I let out the breath I was holding.
