Episode 23: From Hearing of Blood

In the Warbringer's temple, Sabera stood across the aisle from Invidia at the front of the congregation as the ritual supplication began. Nobles and military, many accompanied by personal slaves, filled the chamber. Zordar's generals filled a third of her row, and the prince himself faced the crowd near the back of the platform at the front.

All prayers and ceremonies were broadcast throughout the worldship so lower-class citizens and those who could not attend services might observe and participate.

The interim high priest—tasked with leading all religious ceremonies during Gairen's "illness"— stood in the center of the platform and swayed with the heart-thumping rhythm of a drummer accompanied by two chanting men with low, full voices. All three musicians stood on ledges: one singer on each side of the room, and the drummer high above the entrance at the back of the chamber.

Every note seemed to testify to the Warbringer's power, to all he'd done for Gatlantis in the past, and to all he would do.

Many orthodox attendees wore the Warbringer's colors—rich vermilion, and void black—and almost everyone had donned their reflection crystals. The red stones gleamed from countless brows. Even the princess wore hers today—though she was no member of the orthodoxy. Neither was Sabera, but she wore the crystal because it reminded her of the Warbringer's promise to deliver Origin into Gatlantis' keeping—the promise that her son's blood was not shed pointlessly.

A boy, no older than ten or eleven, walked the aisle carrying a chalice, its brim wide enough to span the boy's shoulders. Water from the Fount of Mastery back on the homeworld filled the cup.

The boy was almost to the front when he stumbled.

Gasps filled the chamber as several drops of water splashed over the brim and hit the floor with an audible splat.

Invidia smirked at the misstep, as if this were a game.

The music stopped, and the priest stared down at the boy as the child's eyes bulged with fear. No one uttered a word as they awaited the boy's judgment.

When Sabera thought she might suffocate beneath the crowd's anxiety, the high priest raised both hands high and bowed his head.

The boy's fate would be decided within the next ten seconds. If both hands remained raised, the boy would live and continue in his temple duties. One hand meant he would be sent to work in the reactor core with others who had offended the Warbringer. If neither hand remained… sacrifice was demanded.

Sabera counted each second. When she reached eight, one of the priest's hands fell.

Reactor work was not inherently dangerous, so long as those assigned wore proper shielding. The boy could live a decent life of servitude in restitution for his carelessness.

The priest's other hand dropped.

In an instant, four men surrounded the boy. Each took a flailing limb and dragged him out of the chamber as he cried for forgiveness in the tongue of the founders.

Invidia watched the whole scene with predatory eyes. Sabera was sure the princess would have left to watch the appeasement kill if her father hadn't forbidden it years ago. Such holy rites were not meant for the satisfaction of base urges, but Sabera would concede that pulling a blade across Invidia's throat would be quite satisfying, and her fingers itched for a knife.

When another, equally frightened boy replaced the first, he carried the chalice to the priest. The moment the cup left his trembling hands, he sagged to the floor. It was done under the guise of worship, but the child's terror covered every inch of him, and Sabera doubted he could have walked the length of the temple again. His fear was appropriate. Handling the ceremonial cup was a sacred responsibility. There was no room for error.

The priest held the chalice aloft and raised his face toward a round viewport cut into the ceiling. Through it shone stars and other celestial bodies. "Warbringer, give us your might that we may wield the sword with strength and power and bring your order to this chaos-filled universe. This cup is your promise. Fill it with your vigor so that it might, in turn, fill us."

It was a traditional prayer—far from Gairen's choices of… more modern content which often roused disturbances among the strictest attendees.

As promised, today's ceremony had been entirely compliant. Religion was important to a significant segment of Gatlantis' population. To control a nation's faith was to control those who believed it. That was something Invidia had always failed to understand.

The priest held the cup toward the stars as he sang a haunting chorus, accompanied by the drummer and the two singers.

Every time Sabera heard this song, it reached into her soul and peeled back every austere layer until it exposed an enduring lust for victorious battle and the need to obey the Warbringer's will.

Her hands shook with the emotional high. Not even stardust matched this sensation.

But, like a good constituent, she bridled the urge to spill blood. Several less disciplined attendees took blades to their own flesh, lacing arms, legs, necks, or any other exposed skin, with shallow slashes.

Though singers and drummer fell silent, the chamber resonated with the last disturbing note as the priest lowered the cup and approached a basin set on a waist-high altar in the middle of the platform. He tipped the cup. Most of the contents spilled into the bowl.

Instead of water, blood poured out.

"The Warbringer's promise is given," said the priest before he lifted the cup to his lips and drank its remaining contents. When he set the empty cup beside the filled basin, his eyes were fixed wide, and he chanted a prayer in the founders' tongue.

Sabera understood little of the prayer's content, but it always gave her assurance the Warbringer would aid their conquests. Gairen wrote his own closing prayers, and she had missed hearing the traditional dismissal.

When the prayer ended, the priest bowed, first to Zordar, then to all gathered. "Heilel's strength fill you."

Every attendee echoed the blessing, though some, like Invidia, merely muttered it.

The supplication over, the congregants left in an orderly file. All except Sabera and the interim priest.

Before the temple attendants came to cleanse the chamber, the priest approached her.

"Was it to your… satisfaction?" he whispered.

Sabera still savored the haze of the ritual. "Quite. Your reward is already delivered."

He tapped the tiny device fixed just behind his ear and grinned. "Do you wish me to perform any other rites, Prime Minister? I am always happy to serve at the Warbringer's behest."

She had paid him a handsome sum, and the undisguised greed in his face disgusted her, but at least she had a permanent leash to keep him on. "I believe I have several further opportunities for… service."

He reminded her of a salivating dog. "Yes. Yes. I will gladly do the Warbringer's bidding."

"I will keep you apprised of his wishes."

The priest bowed to her. "May he call upon me soon."

Sabera waited for the priest to depart before she approached the cup and basin. As she ascended the stair, a wave of power, emanating from the blood-filled basin, sizzled through her. Usually, the aroma met her first—the scent of life and death combined into one intoxicating fragrance.

She dipped first her fingertips, then her whole right hand into the basin. Red covered it, and a second wave of electric power surged into her. The blood always did this. To touch it felt as if it flowed through her own veins, into her pumping heart.

She pulled her hand from the basin and inhaled the scent—that irresistible smell of naked ambition.

"Sampling the wares again?" Invidia scaled the stairs behind Sabera without a sound and circled her until they were face-to-face.

Blood dripped from Sabera's hand, dotting the platform with a spray of tiny red flecks. The spirit of battle, roused by the ritual, still burned in Sabera's chest. "Get out of here, you little snake," she hissed. "The Warbringer does not suffer unbelievers to desecrate hallowed ground."

Invidia's sharp laugh could have cut stone. "So, this is what my father's little mistress does after the sacred rites. She plays in puddles."

Sabera's right hand stiffened as its bloody coating crusted. "This is my way of showing dedication to the Warbringer, princess. It gives me strength for battle. What do your superstitions give you?"

Invidia snorted. "Is it superstition to act wisely? Unlike you, I have the good sense to avoid hurtling toward sure destruction. I was surprised to see a new priest guiding the ritual today."

"Gairen is ill."

"Ill?" Invidia scoffed. "Don't insult me with obvious lies. You're afraid of letting him out of his cage because he might confirm to the general populace what I've been saying. The Diviner will be Gatlantis' doom."

"The Diviner is a myth."

"Yet your own priest insists otherwise."

"His mind is unstable."

"Not as unstable as you—offering your own son to the fire as an honorable sacrifice and then begging for the Warbringer's blessing like a sniveling infant not an hour afterward. Which is it, Sabera? Are you the victor? Or the victim? Because you're never quite clear which you want to be."

"Do not speak of my son," Sabera growled.

"I will say whatever I wish. My blood is highborn." Condescension filled Invidia's sneer.

"You think so highly of blood? Then have some more." Sabera flipped the basin, hurling its contents at Invidia. Leftover blood splashed the princess' clothes, coating the front of her red and black dress in a sticky film.

Invidia didn't deserve to touch the hallowed blood, but Sabera hoped the Warbringer would understand her actions.

"You vile—" the princess bellowed at Sabera. "My father will hear of this!"

"And he'll also hear of your despicable desecration of the Warbringer's chamber."

Invidia's hand streaked to the knife hidden beneath her skirts.

Sabera snatched her shoulder-mounted dagger with a blood-encrusted hand.

"My pardon, Prime Minister, Princess." An attendant stood not ten steps from the platform, his head bowed. He couldn't have missed the mess, or their drawn blades, but to his credit, he pretended ignorance. "Respectfully, my fellows and I request your leave to cleanse the chamber in accordance with the Warbringer's requirements."

Three more acolytes entered from a side door. The instant they saw Sabera and a blood covered Invidia, they too averted their eyes.

Invidia pasted on her best smile, but poison lingered in her eyes. "We wouldn't want to hinder important religious business, would we, Prime Minister?"

Sabera longed to run her dagger through the impertinent girl. "No, of course not, young princess. Let us leave these good servants to their duties."

Unwilling to turn their backs to each other, Sabera and Invidia backed off opposite ends of the platform, taking each downward step carefully so as not to present opportunity for the other to attack.

The four acolytes waited patiently and avoided looking at either of them.

The next several minutes consisted of both women slowing their pace so that the other would exit first.

Instead of stooping to continue Invidia's game, Sabera took the acolytes' door and wove through a little-seen section of the temple's interior until she found a sanitizer beam and cleaned the blood from her hand. Three passes through the beam cleaned off every chip, but hints of the delicious aroma lingered.

Before she left the temple, Sabera inhaled the scent once more and imagined the blood had been Invidia's.


When the first trickle of blood seeped from the incision, Starsha wanted to pass out. She'd followed the retired medic's instructions as precisely as she knew how, but some of what he said was too jargon-heavy to decipher. At least this initial incision, though gut-knotting, was simple, and Safala couldn't feel it, but those reassurances did nothing to stem nausea, dizziness, or flagging courage.

Safala's caregiver helped widen the incision and inserted clamps to keep it open. "Brain activity's completely gone. Life signs are falling."

There was already little enough time to perform this rescue, and now she had even less. "What now?" she called to the medic.

Outside the clean field, the old man moved to a better vantage point before replying over little Delina's persistent screams. "Keep your view clear of pooling blood."

The caregiver acted before Starsha could ask her help, but even afterward she didn't know what she was looking at. Diagrams and holographic learning modules—which she hadn't accessed in at least a decade—always had accompanying educational aides. None of them had prepared her for the red-shaded shapes in front of her now, and she wasn't familiar enough with the available equipment to turn on augmented reality assistance.

"Find the uterine wall," said the medic. "It should be readily visible. Make the same cut as before."

Yahweh, help me—help this little one.

Movement inside Safala's body sent Starsha back two steps with a startled yelp. The next instant, the tiny outline of an open hand pushed toward her. In a moment of awe, she touched one finger to the indistinct hand, and all the debilitating fears that filled her head muffled. The imprint disappeared only to resurface a few inches away. We're coming, little one. Stay brave and keep those fingers out of the way.

She set the scalpel blade as short as it would go to keep from harming the baby. With a wordless prayer, she made the next incision.

Safala's caregiver kept the area unobstructed and offered periodic encouragement.

Status monitors blared the imminent failure of Safala's vital systems.

"Retrieve the child quickly," urged the medic.

Outside the clean field, Elisa prepared a warming blanket for the soon-to-be-newborn while Irii tried unsuccessfully to soothe Delina.

Separating mother and child took only a few moments, and the second cold air hit the baby's exposed skin, she protested with a hearty wail that harmonized with Delina's crying too well.

It had been almost eleven years since Starsha handled a baby, and never one this small. To her relief, the caregiver took the little girl and made her presentable as the medical droids returned to attend Safala's body.

Starsha wanted to turn her back to the deceased woman—to focus instead on the life she'd saved, not the one she'd been forced to let go—but every life deserved a memorial, an acknowledgement, and Safala had accomplished in death something heroic. She gave someone else the chance to live.

As the droids closed incisions and covered the body, Starsha bowed her head over this one who'd taken refuge on Iscandar a mere half day ago. "Yahweh Adonai bless you and keep you. Yahweh Adonai make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you. Yahweh Adonai lift up His countenance upon you and give you peace." She touched Safala's still-warm forehead and whispered through tears, "Your daughter will know what you did for her. Should I ever be faced with the choice to give my own life in trade for another's, I pray Yahweh grants me the same courage He granted you."

She faced Safala's caregiver and the new baby.

As the woman held her friend's child, she wept. "Your mother was the bravest of us all, little one." She spread a loving hand over the girl's pink chest and stomach.

Grief surge into Starsha's raw throat as she remembered sitting at her father's bedside as he died, then watching her mother's passing, and her little sister's. Each second threatened to make her join the other woman's sobs, and when the caregiver laid the baby in her arms, Starsha lost composure.

Elisa stepped through the field and loosely wrapped the infant before returning her to Starsha. The brief moment gave her enough time to dry her eyes and face and stop sobbing.

She'd expected baby and mother to share the same blue skin tone, but the baby girl's coloring was only slightly different from Starsha's.

With a long, backward glance at Safala's body, the caregiver stepped outside the clean field.

Starsha followed her and tried to return the newborn.

"Please, Queen Starsha, it would have made Safala proud to know that you saved her child. It is only right that she becomes your charge."

"No. No, I can't… Safala was your friend, dear to you as a sister. I couldn't separate you from a child who might as well be blood kin." Not to mention she had little to no experience raising a child.

The caregiver's sad smile said she would not change her mind. "My request isn't solely for reasons of sentiment, majesty. I will gladly do all I can to help you, but I cannot keep this beautiful girl. Looking after Safala took much of my time, and now, with my vigil ended, I must leave for Moriah IX, where my three children wait for me. Were I to take this little one, she would know only the life of a refugee, and that is no fate to force on a babe when she can have someone so caring as you watch over her in a place where she will thrive."

"I understand," Starsha said. "Moriah IX is a long journey."

"And one I must embark upon soon."

"Please, take any unused ship you wish. Iscandar has far more than we need."

"I will do that, majesty." The woman's eyes shone with more unshed tears, but she kept them back this time.

"If I may ask… this child—she is only half Gamilon?"

The caregiver nodded. "Her father was Galeran. He died several months ago from a long illness."

Starsha whisked the little girl's white-blonde hair off her forehead. "Had Safala chosen a name before… she fell ill?"

The woman nodded. "She'd hoped for a boy, but I persuaded her to choose a girl's name too, just in case." Her eyes shifted to the floor, and she only dared infrequent glances upward. "If you'll pardon our presumptuousness, majesty… Safala always loved your sister's name."

"Astra?"

The woman shook her head, and silent tears broke through Starsha's measured expression as the caregiver said a name she hadn't heard in years. "Sasha."

"Sa… sha…" Starsha ran one finger across the baby's cheek. "My sister would have loved to meet you."

Little Sasha captured the finger.

Starsha let the newborn keep her prize. "Let's get you home."


The thick odor of blood from the Warbringer's supplication reached Gairen, though he remained locked in his quarters.

Sabera would regret her transgression in replacing him, especially with one so distasteful as Mordun, but he was thankful someone was seeing to the needs of the faithful, even if that person was vice incarnate.

Terius hadn't slipped him any news yet concerning the Gamilon.

When the congregants in the ritual chamber had dispersed, Gairen stole through the hidden wall passage and into Dyre's suite.

The room still harbored the stark aroma of luminia blooms, though it was stronger today than usual. Terius must have recently refreshed the pale pink blossoms he always kept near the bedroom door.

Gairen crossed the room without mishap, following the flowers' fragrance. Terius hadn't changed the room's layout, even after all these years.

Familiar footsteps approached. Gairen stepped away from the door to avoid startling Terius more than necessary. Even so, the general's stuttered gait communicated his surprise.

Dyre closed the door before speaking. "Desslok is on his way back to Gatlantis. He will arrive in nine days. If you had waited another hour, I would have delivered the news."

"Better I come to you. It's the least I can do. Besides, the sentries posted at my door would not have allowed you to pass."

"You underestimate my resourcefulness, just like you always did," said Dyre.

"Must we argue every time we meet? There was a time we agreed on everything."

"Not everything, Gairen. Not this appointment. I see the need for the prime minister's political maneuvering, but I wish every day she would forego wielding the faith as a weapon."

"Ah, so that is why you have taken up with the princess." Gairen took a single luminia flower from the bunch beside the door.

"Invidia's politics are questionable—borderline nonsense at times—but she does not stoop to manipulating my religion to further her agenda."

Gairen nodded. "Gatlantis is home to every shade of gray, and we all must choose the shadows we frequent. Take care yours do not devour you." He kept the luminia bloom in hand as he headed for the entrance to the hidden passage.

Dyre did not stop him.

Once, their paths had fused. Neither thought anything could change that. Until the high priestly appointment fell to Gairen. No matter how it had come or who had decided it, the calling was the will of the Warbringer, and it was not Gairen's place to reject that. Back then, he'd thought one so orthodox as Terius would have understood.

But letting the immutable past taunt him did no good. It was better to leave it behind.

Gairen was two hundred steps from his quarters when his chest constricted, and a piercing ache spread through his heart and lungs.

Flashes of rage seared him, drove him to his knees to weather the vision as images more vivid than sight crashed over him. They came in uncounted waves, each one a new swarm of unfamiliar people, places, and events. To even attempt to remember them all would have broken his sanity, so Gairen weathered each round, waiting for the heart of the vision to surface.

So many dead—Gatlanteans, Gamilons, pale and dark-skinned foreigners. Ships of varying design swooped low enough for him to touch their hulls, and groups of fighters dogged each vessel in a never-ending circle of attack and retreat.

Through it all, one face linked every scene. It was a man. He appeared to be near thirty, but with the thick mustache, it was difficult to tell. He was blue-skinned and wore the green and black uniform of a Gamilon officer, but on his chest was an emblem that said he was more than a member of the military. The man's eyes cut into Gairen as if they stood face-to-face.

Comfortable darkness surrounded him and the stranger. When the other man produced an unlit lantern, Gairen laughed—until a spark ignited the dead wick and grew to unbearable brightness within the span of half a moment.

Gairen screamed, dropped the luminia, and covered his burning eyes.

Masterson Talan, came the whisper.

Masterson Talan must die.

The chorus repeated until it became a droning chant.

Masterson Talan. He must die.

Masterson Talan. He must die, or Gatlantis falls.

Kill Masterson Talan.

The vision faded, but not quickly enough for Gairen. He'd never been so relieved to have his blindness restored.

Dread lingered in the air, turning the narrow tunnel stifling as Gairen leaned forward and braced both hands on the cold floor to catch his breath before attempting to rise.

One palm crushed the luminia, sending a rush of perfume into Gairen's face.

His chest still throbbed from the intensity of the vision, but the unpleasant sensation would pass in time. He was far more concerned with the face branded on his memory—this Masterson Talan.

Gairen pulled in a deep breath to ease his distressed lungs.

Perhaps Dyre knew the identity of this second Gamilon or where to find him. Had he not just come from the general's suite, Gairen would have consulted with Dyre immediately, but he couldn't face Terius again today.

There were no Gamilons aboard Gatlantis—unless he counted a few slaves—which meant this Masterson Talan was with Desslok's returning fleet. Dyre had said they were nine days away. Waiting one or two to gather information would do no harm. Besides, this vision had drained him far more than any previous one, and if he didn't make it back to his quarters soon, he'd pass out in here.

The last thing he needed was Sabera's sentries discovering he was missing.

He resolved to investigate the next night, when he'd had time to recover.

When he got to his feet, he left the crumpled flower behind.


Episode 23 Notes:

Editing pass, 8/25/22

The title for this episode comes from Isaiah 33:14-16:

The sinners in Zion are afraid; fearfulness hath surprised the hypocrites. Who among us shall dwell with the devouring fire? who among us shall dwell with everlasting burnings?

He that walketh righteously, and speaketh uprightly; he that despiseth the gain of oppressions, that shaketh his hands from holding of bribes, that stoppeth his ears from hearing of blood, and shutteth his eyes from seeing evil;

He shall dwell on high: his place of defence shall be the munitions of rocks: bread shall be given him; his waters shall be sure.