The trip to the meeting hall is thirty minutes at a stiff walk from the Lustrates. It is even longer if you wish to do so in poor weather, what with how snow makes each narrow platform into a threat. As mundane as the task of shoveling the ice from the steps might sound, it is critical to keep Bevelle's walkways clear. A fall from any of them could kill.
It's the descent through thin air that captures my curiosity the most. Just a misstep and you could go sliding off the marble, strike the railing wrong. Tumble. Be thrown free by the world into a realm of wind and frost, the monochrome ground rapidly approaching. Flying into the air by accident, would you have enough time to even be afraid of your impending fate?
What must it be like to be confronted by all that white?
In those last frantic seconds, you might think it was purity itself that was killing you.
It could take hours before they would find your body, the crisp brilliance of your blood frozen into the snow around your skull. Worse luck would mean a blizzard pouring its fury upon your corpse.
Eventually even scarlet can be drowned; your name would be missed on the roll call during meals, your flesh a lump underneath the drifts before it dissolved into so many frigid pyreflies.
Then the guards could deal with your fiend.
Hence, acolytes from the Lustrum on down are given the task of salting the stones, scattering dirt and gravel to soften ice before we can chip it away. We are drilled on the importance of safety. In reality, I believe our careful attendance to weather conditions is intended to cut down on the temptation of certain priests to push one another down the stairs.
All we are doing is minimizing conditions for assassination attempts. Nature is too eager to conspire; we never know whose side it will be on.
It is not on mine this time. I slip while rounding a half-flight of stairs and go heavily to one knee; the flash of pain is like a hammer to my nerves. Slush clumps in my hand as I scramble to balance myself.
Damned robes. They could at least provide better padding.
Thirty minutes at a brisk walk becomes fifty from the snow. My palms are gritty from the sand. I've wiped them as carefully as I can on my pants while ducking around the corridors, but the sooner I can have a moment to run them under hot water, the better.
Gella is not in the second floor gardens when I limp by. I can see someone else practicing down there as I take the archway parallel; by the build, it looks like Somasil, another of the Lustrum. One of Gella's friends. Tanned, blockish chin, comes from a village off the Highroad nearer to Mushroom Rock. He favors her, she breaks his ribs in training. It's all quite understated in its romance.
But Somasil can't go near Gella so long as she's in thrall to her current priest.
He shadowboxes in the garden square instead. Gella and he alternate their hours. They both are keenly aware that there are gossipers at all times of the day, so neither of them leave any marks behind for the other save in the scuffing of their boots in the packed dirt, messages dug into the snow in the form of bootprints.
Once, Gella forgot her sweatcloth on the benches. Somasil noticed the rag when he arrived, but did not touch it. I know because I was watching him, just as I know there were two other guards waiting by the windows to observe what the Lustrum would do.
This early in the morning, there is only me. We can both thank the snow for driving the priests away.
Somasil lifts his head, panting, and sees my figure hovering like a hungry vulture. At first we are both perfectly still. We are two stags glimpsing one another in the forest and wondering who will charge first; then I raise my hand to him, an open palm of friendship. He smiles, a figure far below me, and does the same.
There are numerous infant plots weaving amidst the Lustrum that will be incorporated with the rest of Bevelle's intrigues come maturation. Somasil will be one of them. The man will be winnowed out and sent away on permanent assignment to an inland town before he can ever achieve the rank of priest. He is predestined to fail so long as the hierarchy believes doing so will dishearten Gella, make her more pliable to their suggestions of bitterness.
I must think of a way to unseat those plans and make them my own before that happens.
All in due time. I hurry along my errand. Or as best I can, wincing with every few steps, hobbling along until the ache becomes negligible.
No one has arrived to the hall before me. Even the hearth is cold, the fireplace empty. I choose darkness in which to conduct my work. Twin blocks have been placed in the center of the room between the meeting tables; in the dim half-light trickling between the heavy curtains, I examine the writing on their canvas wrappings.
Two crates. Larsolia. These are them.
It does not take much effort to yank the ropes wide enough so that I can part the outer wrappings and dislodge the top. Inside, colors glimmer. Splinters rake my hand when I shove fingers inside the gap; I will deal with any cuts later.
Each sphere is bundled in a mesh that is secured by a tag, much like fishermen wrap glass balls to use as floaters for their nets. For all that using spheres themselves would only attract ocean fiends, the practice has been adapted between fields of study to facilitate ease of transit. Mesh wiring is simpler in trade than boxes or grids; lucky for me as well, since it will be harder to notice one missing from a pile than out of an organized tray.
Luca, green. No. I hunt for color first, location names coming as secondary glances while I search. Red. Red. Where is it?
Blue from Cornel, no, orange from the Moonflow, no. Wait. Liquid clicks erupt in a rattle as I thrust my hand in deeper after a hint of ruby. My fingers snag in the netting and I dredge the discovery up, squint at the color in the dim light. Yes. This sphere is red.
The label says the point of discovery is Mushroom Rock.
I tug this one free.
The netting goes in the fireplace. I kneel by the hearth, swift to wad the smaller branches together for kindling. The consul will expect to find a suitable blaze warming the hall and banishing the winter chill; if I am lax to this business, they will label me incompetent and demand to know my name.
Strings coil back upon themselves when the flames catch and devour evidence of my theft. Only when I am satisfied that the mesh weave is completely obliterated do I stand. Quick work covers the crates back up again and rearrange the ropes to suit. All the while, unwilling to relinquish the sphere, I clutch the thing; it hums with a hue familiar and I cup it to my chest.
There. Everything is as it was before my arrival. I take the time to undo the ribbons of my outer jacket just enough to navigate the stolen orb inside a pocket close to my stomach. It will be safe like that. My own body heat will suffuse the surface until it is a mimicry of real life instead of solidified pyreflies.
When there is the chance for privacy back in my own chambers, there I will finally regard the contents. Not before.
Dopha's role on call was to provide the consul with organization of their comforts. Their thick jackets and elaborate neckwraps were to be hung properly on the hooks near to the hearth so that the clothes would dry from any slush; similarly, his was the duty of ensuring that the fire never burn high enough to become a distraction, nor low enough to give the elders a chill. He was to be a glorified serving boy. Those were easily overlooked in the fuss of business.
I am exacting enough in my details that, by the time all the consul have arrived, everything is in place. I accept the heavy robes of each priest with a respectful bow before and after the task, a murmur of greeting polite ready on my lips each time. They are trekking dirtied snow in on their boots. I take this to mean that the weather is only becoming worse.
Once everyone is seated, I take up position near the fire. The elders are bathed in a bloody light from this perspective; I am graced by the hearthstones outjutting, and can lean into their protective shadows without fear.
"If we have all arrived, I believe we might begin?"
This announcement stems from a man dressed with his collar laced all the way up to his chin. His name is Derindere or something equally gelatinous in pronunciation. I do not believe he is physically capable of turning his head while dressed like that; as if to prove my unspoken thoughts correct, Derindere rotates his entire body in order to regard the elder sitting to his left. Communication unseen goes between the two in the form of glances obscured by fire-glare. Then Derindere pivots himself back to view the entire congregation, trundles out from the tables to twitch his hands over the crates. He unbinds the shipment without a hint of suspicion that I have already tampered with it.
"First batch," the priest announces, a cursory glance to the tags of the top handful he has selected. "Four spheres from the village of Tanail, south of Larsolia. Collected two months, five days ago."
He sounds bored already.
I am not privileged enough to handle the spheres directly once the consul is in session. This does not bother me one bit. I would rather be out of the eye of the priests assembled here; there is no need for me to repeat myself in their vision again and again until they decide to turn their whim upon me.
Sorting begins. Each sphere must be played from start to finish for all the consul to bear witness. They will mark down the importance of the images presented. The tally at the end will determine what category each record will be filed under. Some spheres bear clues to political intrigues. Those will be assigned the highest value, their conspiracies reforged to Yevon's ends. A few are used to detail physical locations; unless there are clear caches of resource items, Bevelle customarily turns those specifications into architecture drafts, mapwork.
Information is power. The world has always been this way, and in this manner will it continue.
Others have been used for purely personal ends. A pair of faces laugh out their betrothal vows while sour-faced priests stare at them, scribble down the worth of two lives on their clipboards. Their value is low to Yevon. That sphere will be written over after being wiped and recycled.
I cross my arms as the judging continues, lean against the wall, and assume the role of so much silent decoration.
When I first came to Bevelle, the hunt for spheres had been one that I had originally held no interest in. Crates of the orbs came in every week and I considered them only hindrances. I knew that any records that would provide clues to the machina at the Den of Woe would be so highly classified that I would have no chance to study them on my own until I had ensured my personal power. My greater attention at the time had been fixed on rooting out Seymour's hidden reports, digging up stacks of the half-Guado's affairs.
Seymour had made enemies of the Temple archivists. He had requested all of the records centering around Yunalesca and Zaon. So thorough had the half-Guado been that any mention of the two in footnote, addendum or reference had counted as valid, and by the time he had finished, Seymour had emptied out sixteen shelves and four stacks worth of materials.
The archivists wanted it all back. I wanted my own reports.
"One sphere, Larsolia to Kilika route. Collected three weeks, two days ago."
As fascinating as the pair of Summoner and Guardian might have been, I really could have done without wading through several rooms of old children's stories.
They had slipped my mind in all that fuss over Seymour's pet obsession, the Crimson Squad and its Crimson Spheres--skipped out of my thoughts because I'd packaged any interest of the records away with memories of supply tents and buckled leather. Not thinking about the Spheres meant I could avoid the Squad. I'd had more immediate matters to address, such as the fabrication of innocence.
"Two spheres, Cerivi routed by Kilika. Collected one month, two weeks, four days ago."
Crimson reminded me of her. Of Paine; I wanted to pretend for a short time that I could live never thinking about the records and the woman who wielded their inscription machina. But I couldn't banish either entirely. Spheres that are delivered to Bevelle might provide valuable clues to my original quest, even if I wish to avoid them lest I think of fingers running into my scalp. A shoulder against mine. Low laughter in the dark. Paine and history will always be intertwined for me, just as I suspect I will never be able to see Mi'ihen Highroad without thinking of the setting sun.
Memories, like dreams, can't be so easily discarded.
"One sphere, Moonflow route. Collected two months, three weeks ago."
Then a single chance brought one record of the Squad to my hands, and I had realized the danger of my flimsy Guado-born excuse falling away. Now I am forced to remember her whether I like it or not.
Remember them. I have to remember spheres.
"Three spheres, Luca route. Collected one month, one week, five days ago."
All during the meeting, I am careful not to touch the orb that weighs heavy as a stillborn infant in my robes. I school my face to blankness. I ignore the color of the hearthfire, the way it licks at its cage of stones and begs for its freedom. It could consume all the furniture here if it only was allowed. The elders, too, along with the crates and marking tags. The carpet running down the middle track of the floor. The winter cloaks.
Even me. Only the spheres would be left, records warmed and gleaming in the Bevelle ashes.
Chairs scraping back are my cue to snap out of my trance. The consul are getting to their feet, some holding out their arms expectantly for their wraps while grumbling to each other. They are more concerned over Larsolia's elders than the stories of minor lives, consider these spheres worthless.
This is as it should be for them; Yevon has more than enough ploys to juggle. They can afford to let a few slip.
Delivery of each set of coats to their owner goes smoothly. There is little difficulty in remembering who owns what. As the priests exit, some individually but most in small hunting packs of twos and threes, I keep my face aimed at my feet. The false humility serves me well; no one stops to inquire about the switch of Dopha's presence with my own.
The last cloak on the pegs is heavy with gilt. Its threads are picked out to spell Yevon's prayers down every inch of the fabric, meant to glimmer when the wearer walked. Each step shines with runes gleaming smug in any ambient light. When I accepted this jacket originally, it had been handed to me by Derindere; I was not considered prestigious enough to interact with its owner directly, but had required a middleman to pass on the glory to my keeping.
But Derindere is gone now, left with two of his closest supporters while they all muttered to each other about the recent reduction of tribute from coastal towns. In fact, there is only one person remaining in the hall while the fire keeps us both company, burning itself down in a last waning claim of total invincibility.
It must be Trema. I did not see him departing at the head of any group yet, and it is unlikely that a man so important would have walked alone. With this in mind, I force my gaze to remain lowered, even as I hear the scuff of shoes approaching. They edge into my field of vision. Stop. Intricate embroidery laps at the boot-toes of this man; brown and white fight for dominance together on a field of green. By his robes alone, I assume that he is Trema. It is a good thing that I can recognize the founder that way, since his feet are all I can see of him right now.
The silence grows uncomfortable within seconds.
When the priest speaks, I feel the relief of a criminal recalled from the death blocks. "You are... mm, the acolyte? Please have these crates delivered to my chambers." His voice is as quavering as an ancient, a man who should be past his prime, but I know better than to judge him on that alone. He is Trema. Founder of New Yevon; this man is my greatest threat.
For now.
I bow. Such an order is easy enough to fulfill, though I am already planning to have the shipment sent up by other hands than my own. There is no desire in me to encounter Trema again even by ill chance.
"Yes, my lord." My eyes remain averted by excuse of respect, but in actuality out of hope to obscure my face.
"Including the one in your possession."
I know better than to react openly. He could not have seen it. There was no one else in the hall when I entered, that much I was certain of. I have not touched the sphere during my role as Lustrum attendee. My pockets are deep enough and the robes so complex that there cannot have been a bulge.
The urge to glance down and check is resisted. I am no amateur.
"My lord?" is my reply, neutral with just the right amount of confusion to make it believable. Becoming angry would be an exaggeration; I am a Lustrum, and this is only a polite mistake on the part of my better. We will smile apologetically at one another and part ways once it has been corrected. "I'm... afraid I don't know what you mean."
Trema's finger plunges towards me, impales my coat with its accusation. He points directly at my inner pocket. There are layers of cloth which interlace above the sphere; all their bulk fully obscures my theft, as I ensured when I hid it there.
It is impossible for Trema to have known about my crime. It is impossible, and yet he does anyway.
Given no choice, I remove the sphere I recovered from the crates and display it, cradled in my hands.
Trema leans in towards me, nearing the evidence I present. Swamps dead in winter give off the same indecipherable aura that he does. Yevon has a more active fester; Trema reminds me of arrested rot. All my attempts to avoid sight of his face fail. He penetrates my personal space regardless, and in the periphrial of my vision, Trema looks as if he is smiling.
His voice does not match the same. It is coldly accusatory. "For what reason do you have this greed, boy?"
"It's mine, lord Trema." My mind is beginning to panic. A detached portion of my soul notices this, weighs the balance, and lets my voice be flavored with worried confusion. This is good. I do not know if I could have stopped it otherwise. "It belongs to me. It's not a part of the shipment…"
"Play it for me."
Time stops. In the nothingness that replaces it, Trema reaches out and seizes my hand. The skin of the priest is chill enough that it feels as if it is searing my flesh.
"My lord, I'm afraid the matter is personal--"
"Play it."
I resist. My fingers refuse to loosen themselves from the sphere and so Trema turns my wrist like the gearings on an Al Bhed machina. He presses upon my knuckles just so. The activation on the sphere is triggered when he manipulates me as deftly as a toy; red light pours out from my palm and paints history on the air.
It starts with Gippal's voice.
"Hey... I've got a question…"