CHAPTER 33
~Date Unknown~
It was the nature of the wastes for most commerce to shut down at nightfall, as trade by firelight was, if not difficult, then certainly hazardous. Traders made themselves welcome targets for thieves when they could not easily see, so they favored transactions in the bright of day. Middle Market, with its abundance of artificial light, was decidedly different. The locals took full advantage of the opportunity to take their dealings into the early hours, and many even preferred it. The market stalls of the outer ward remained open for citizens, redemption crews, and the rare traveling merchant stopping to purchase needed supplies or acquire rarities for resale elsewhere. On that particular evening, Storyteller and Pathfinder were the only outsiders present, the usual crowds braced by raids which shook them even within the secret city. Storyteller felt highly conspicuous, but Pathfinder showed little apprehension.
"Do you speak their language at all?" said Storyteller.
"Not really," said Pathfinder. "Well, I know when they're cursing at me, but that's about it."
"How does one make deals without a common tongue?" said Storyteller.
"It's all gestures. You put down what you're trading, you point at what you want. Tomorrow, we'll go to a food stall and..." Pathfinder suddenly stopped, clapping one hand to her forehead. "Shit! I dropped everything when they took us here. I have nothing to trade." She looked at Storyteller's satchel. "You have anything?"
Storyteller dug through the satchel. "Merely my writing utensil and a few scraps of paper that were once a story. I doubt they are worth much, and I'm not willing to part with them anyway."
Pathfinder crossed her arms. "Hell. Maybe I can beg some supplies off of Orchid."
Storyteller's eyes fell on the obelisk. "Where did they ever find a stone that large?"
"Hard to say. They could have traveled five hundred miles to find that thing and done it without complaining. Anything for the glory of their Empress." Pathfinder nudged Storyteller and flashed him a grin. "You want to see more?"
"More of what?" said Storyteller.
"More of what they made for her," said Pathfinder.
Storyteller rubbed his chin. "You are speaking of art this time? Nothing grotesque?"
"You could call it art."
"They have such things here?"
"And lots of it."
"Such an opportunity..." Storyteller fell silent and shoot his head. "Perhaps we should go to the living quarters and investigate in the morning. Archivist is no doubt waiting."
"You're in luck, because what you want to see is on the way. Orchid thought it was important enough that she wanted her subjects passing it every morning. Quite a lady, huh?"
"On the way?" said Storyteller. "Very well. You've certainly done an able job of leading thus far, I'll continue to follow."
"Glad to hear that. Come on."
Pathfinder led the way through the back streets, past the dense hedges of trading stalls and into what had once been a manufacturing district. Unlike the rest of Middle Market, there had been no attempt to reclaim any of the warehouses or factories for any practical purpose. Instead, the denizens had left those still-standing walls to serve as canvases, each one bearing an intricate mural that covered every inch of clean space. A salvaged bench sat before each mural, the better to study it in comfort, and carefully spaced hooded bulbs cast right of light onto the walls such that they would always be visible. It was more museum than street, an open air exhibition of the splendor that Middle Market had to offer.
"Each of these murals depicts a moment in Orchid's life," said Pathfinder. "You can see how obsessed they are. These things probably took hundreds of hours each, and there are dozens of them. No burden too great for a god, though."
Storyteller himself was overtaken with awe - over the art, not the divinity - as he approached the first mural. It was a simple image featuring three people in a carefully stylized scene. A man and a woman, unkempt young people not yet out of their twenties, stood before a podium, hands together as though in prayer. Hovering above the podium was Orchid, not the human woman Storyteller had met but rather a deity, wreathed in sacred flame, a golden book floating before her. There was an odd character to it, a sense of a place out of time, a mist-enveloped reflection of a memory.
"Remarkable," said Storyteller. "Where did they ever find paint that had survived the disaster?"
"They didn't, they made it. It's a mixture of a dye and some kind of resin. Hell of a thing, isn't it?" Pathfinder stepped to Storyteller's side. "This one depicts Orchid, before the disaster, counseling her students. She was a teacher once, or at least that's what they say."
"I remember when they would have called this sort of thing propaganda," said Storyteller. "There was a time when I would have mocked this. Now, I'm just taken aback by its beauty."
"Well, there are plenty more. Come on, I'll show you." Pathfinder took Storyteller by the arm and led him down the path. "I was going to ask you if any of this was familiar, but maybe that's a silly question."
"I don't know. There's something about this place that haunts me." Storyteller's eyes drifted down the silent streets, probing the shadows. "It's not something I can put to words. Just a feeling that there is a deeper significance to what I'm witnessing."
Pathfinder drew Storyteller closer to her. "Well, maybe we can figure it out together. Let's look at the rest."
The next mural was even more sublimely grandiose than the first. It again featured a deified Orchid, this time endowed with animal characteristics - a pair of magnificent violet wings emerging from her shoulders, a smaller set encircling her brow as though it were a crown. Before her was a great crowd of people, almost uncountable in number, stretching into the far horizon. Behind her was a dragon with a long slender body covered over in pallid scales, stroking a wispy gray beard with its massive claws, its coils wrapped loosely around Orchid as though to protect her. There was another figure, decidedly different than the rest of the crowd, huddled in the shadow cast by the dragon - a young man bearing a walking stick, his face drawn and weary.
"This one, I think, is the next in sequence. It depicts Orchid's travels. They say that before the disaster, she journeyed to an ancient place and blessed it with her wisdom. You know, this stuff sounds just preposterous when I say it out loud." Pathfinder pointed to the mural. "I'm not sure why she has wings in this one. And I'm not sure what to make of the guy standing next to her, either. He doesn't fit at all."
Storyteller stepped towards the mural. "She loved him."
"Excuse me?"
"Haven't you traced her eyes? Notice where she looks. She does not look out onto the crowd but to this man. Even in her moment of glory, she is lost, bound by the only thing for which she truly cares."
Pathfinder peered at the mural. "Wow, you're right. How did I never see that?"
"Perhaps you weren't meant to. Even a god deserves some secrets."
"I wonder who he is?"
"A tragic figure. Clearly he perished in the disaster. This is her memorial to him."
"You're a real romantic, aren't you?" said Pathfinder. "The girls must have loved you."
Storyteller chuckled nervously. "Not at all. They would never notice one such as me."
"Maybe they did and you didn't notice," said Pathfinder. "Men don't always notice these things, you know."
Storyteller face grew warm. "Pathfinder?"
"Come on, we've got more. This next one...it's not so pleasant, but it's important."
The third mural was awash in red, orange and sooty black - a sea of flame beneath a sky choked with smoke. In the midst of the blaze was a monument of scrap metal jutting forth from a field stained maroon, the deep cast of blood flowing into soil. There were people as well, or the remains of people, bodies twisted and distorted as the wreckage, their lingering screams almost audible through the painting. Orchid was in the center as always, but this time looking far more fragile, more human - and yet also beyond humanity, shielded from the flames by a halo of light.
"This is the day of the disaster, the day Orchid survived the end of the world." Pathfinder sighed and tipped her head away. "I never liked this one. Yeah, I know they had to depict this, but it's still grim how much detail they put into it."
"It reminds me of my brother," said Storyteller. "I remember hearing him speak of how amazing it would be to witness the disaster, how it was the most incredible thing any person could see. I wonder if he spent his last moments like this, and ended up like these poor souls."
"You mentioned him before," said Pathfinder. "Tell me about him. What kind of man was he?"
"His name was Will. I owe him my life." Storyteller took a deep breath. "He knew all along that our days were numbered, down to the very minute the fires would come. Right before the end, he brought me to a bomb shelter, just in case the worst happened." He chuckled morosely. "He was just a fool to most people, someone to mock or ignore. But I suppose he had the last laugh."
"Sounds like he was really important to you," said Pathfinder, putting an arm around Storyteller's shoulders. "Why don't you talk about him more often?"
"I suppose I don't want to remember that he's gone and never coming back," said Storyteller. "Our father died in an accident when I was very young, so Will was more than a brother to me. No one else truly understood him, or even made an earnest attempt. He was a man of dreams and ambitions too great to realize in our flawed world. I was not deaf to what they said, everyone in our town thought him a failure and nothing but. But he's the one who encouraged me to express myself. Without Will, there would be no Storyteller."
"You should talk about these things more often. Helps keep the memories alive."
"What of your family?" said Storyteller. "You mentioned your mother once, but little else."
"Well, my grandfather was a very powerful man. I'd rather not speak of him, though." Pathfinder pulled away. "He wasn't a bad man, but he's still someone I'd rather forget. His name caused me nothing but pain."
"A powerful man?" Storyteller's hand fell into his satchel, wrapping around his notebook. "...Then I was correct in my assumptions! I know exactly who you are-"
Pathfinder pressed a finger to Storyteller's lips. "No. Don't say it. That name is nothing but a curse. You might want to remember, Samuel, but to me it would be a blessing to forget."
"Of course," said Storyteller. "I shall not press the issue. However, you should not feel shame. The guilt of your family is not your own."
"Oh, if it was that easy," said Pathfinder. "...There's one more mural. After that, we'll go see Archivist."
The fourth mural was an oddity in many respects, most notably that it did not feature the expected object of worship. Orchid did not appear here at all, not in any recognizable form. Rather, the image was one of an endless meadow, a field of rolling hills covered in flowers that sprouted from every inch of the earth, their petals rising skyward on unseen wind currents. The field was empty, void of sentient life, save a single figure - indistinct and blurry in shape, the abstract shadow of man - lurking far off in the distance.
"Oh, mercy." Storyteller ran to the mural, his mouth agape.
"It is striking, huh?" said Pathfinder. "This was based on something Orchid mentioned. Minutes before the disaster and the crash, she had a vision of this place. When it passed and she woke up, she was on the ground, alive and unharmed - if you believe that kind of thing, anyway. I figured you might respond to this one."
"No...that's not it," said Storyteller. "I've seen this place."
"Before the disaster, you mean?"
"No, since the disaster...in the Shivan Desert, after my flight from Pinnacle." Storyteller fell back from the mural, hands before his eyes to blot out the torments of color and memory. "After several days, fatigue overtook me, and I collapsed. My earthly senses went dark, and then this appeared before me. It was a world...it was the world before, but more beautiful, more pure. And then this place faded from my vision, and I awoke in the presence of Lifebringer and his people, and I was safe again."
"That's incredible," said Pathfinder. "What, do you think the two of you are linked somehow? I mean, I don't really believe that stuff, but...it is possible, right?"
"All things are linked. All life, all events...there is a string that ties one to another." Storyteller drew his hands close to the mural, craving the touch but fearful of what might come next. "This field is our hell's heaven, or maybe the space beyond it. It is the beauty we do not willingly allow ourselves to consider until we have fallen into the jaws of death. It can't exist, because we won't allow it to exist, and yet the soul craves it."
Pathfinder crossed to Storyteller. "You've thought about this, I can tell. So this is what people reject?"
"Forgive me, I'm rambling. It is an unfortunate habit, developed over years. The people I knew in the old world, they seemed to crave ugliness and horror, and yet from time to time I would hear a tale of someone who had seen a place much like this. Could it be real? Is it even possible?" Storyteller pressed his fingers to his temples. "I'm so confused. There are things here that feel more real than anything I can remember from before the disaster, and other things that seem like fictions even when they are standing before me. I'm sorry, I shouldn't burden you with this."
"It's not a burden." Pathfinder took Storyteller's hands in her own. "You might not believe this, but you've done as much to help me as I have to help you. Maybe more."
"I don't understand," said Storyteller. "What might I have done to help you?"
"Samuel...For a smart man you're very slow, you know that?"
Pathfinder drew closer to Storyteller, entwining her fingers in his hair and locking his gaze with hers. Storyteller was enraptured, lost in those eyes that spoke to some memory he had long since sealed away, some other life that never was. He was frozen, watching her move closer, spotting each detail in her face - the flecks of brown in her eyes, the high cheekbones that even the desolation couldn't claim. Then their lips met, a moment of warmth and joy framed by the ring of dim light and the glory of that eternal field.
Storyteller, reeling from shock, stepped back and tripped. "Rebecca...Pathfinder, I don't think you-"
"Please call me Rebecca," said Pathfinder. "I like that."
Storyteller hadn't time to think of a response before the two of them were joined. A group of guards rushed through the streets, Lieren at the front, pausing before Storyteller and then fanning out to surround him. For a moment, he could feel their boots on his head once again, but they caused him no harm this time, merely staring down in frigid silence.
"You are summoned," said Lieren. "Huangdi wishes to speak with you. Come with me."
"She wants me?" said Storyteller. "Why?"
"No more questions," said Lieren. "You must come now."
Pathfinder helped Storyteller to his feet. "Look, you don't have a choice in this. If Orchid wants to speak to you, you've gotta go. I'll keep an eye on Archivist. Meet me back at the living quarters when you're done, okay?"
"I...we..." Storyteller stumbled over his words, his normal gifts paralyzed and his tongue doing nothing more than filling his mouth. "...Okay."
A pair of guards moved to flank Storyteller while Lieren approached him. "You will follow me. You will not wander. You will not touch anything. Clear?"
Storyteller glanced at the guards who were surrounding him. "Very clear."