Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (2 page)

“Where once we strode across the galaxy like the Divines, we now huddle on our five sacred worlds, and we remember.
 
Even as the lesser races insult us, and disrespect our Great Sacrifice to save the galaxy, we remember.”

Elan resisted the urge to raise his eyebrows.
 
That last part was new.
 
This was the fifth Ritual of Enrobing this year, and this was the first time he'd heard the Pentarchs speak of any insult or disrespect from the lesser races.
 
How were they disrespecting the Palani?
 

He peeked up and saw Pentarch Ontelis staring down at him.
 
So, thought Elan, he waits for my reaction.
 
The remarks weren’t a surprise.
 
Deliberate.
 
Planned.
 
To change the tone of popular discussion.
 
Politics
.

The phalanx of priests stopped in front of him, still bearing the gilded frame with the ancient ceremonial robe.
 
From this distance, he could see the faded blue fabric, its once-intricate embroidery now frayed in places. Elan discreetly squared his shoulders, and resolved to be patient.
 
Only two more hours to go.

*
   
*
   
*

Two and a half hours later, Elan had a chance to relax.
 
The attending priests, having removed the last of the ceremonial robes and garments, bowed as they withdrew from the antechamber.  With reverence and humility, they carried away the ancient — and, to Elan, a bit musty — relics.

He rubbed absently at the itchy skin on his forehead, where the runes had been washed off.
 
There was a separate ritual for that, of course.
 
An ancient ritual, a deep and profound meaning, for every activity in his day.

One last ritual lay between him and a quiet evening.
 
A ritual in the form of a circular hole in the floor, two metres across, covered with a thin sheet of ice.
 
Stepping to the edge of the bath, he reached out with his right foot and poked at the ice with his toes.
 
The sheet of ice broke into pieces, revealing the crystal clear water underneath.
 
Elan removed the veil from his face, letting the delicate cloth fall to the floor.
 
He shrugged off his thin white robe and stepped down into the frigid bath, smiling as the water rushed up his naked chalk-white skin.
 
Elan sat on the submerged stone bench, the water coming up to his chin.

Bits of ice bobbed around Elan as he leaned back against the wall of the bath.
 
He exhaled in a long sigh, allowing his eyes to flutter shut.
 
The water lapped against him, caressing him.
 
It was exquisite.
 
Calming.
 
He sighed; obviously, this calm couldn’t last.
 
Someone would remind him of his sacred duties.

“Serene Holiness,” came the voice of Pentarch Ontelis from behind him.
 
“The Pool of Ul-Nassa is not your personal relaxation pool.
 
The
Erwa
tells us…”
 
Elan mouthed the words as the Pentarch continued.
 
“...it is the site where, far from the ancient shore, Ul-Nassa chose to be martyred rather than forsake the Divines.
 
As her sacrifice purified the waters, so does the water purify those who bathe in it.
 
Are you mocking me, young man?”

Elan clamped his mouth shut, hesitating long enough to give himself away.
 
He turned to face the Pentarch, who stood by the door. The man was thin and stiff, and as still as a marble statue.

“Master Pentarch,” said Elan, the soft tones of his voice forming their own harmony.
 
"The verses of the sacred Erwa are songs to my ears, and I remember them well.
 
Was it not you who taught me so?”

“It was.
 
And you know what you should be doing.”

Elan nodded.
 
“I do.
 
The Ritual of Cleansing must be undertaken," he recited, "in its full form, after the Rituals of Enrobing.
 
And, of course, I will do so.
 
I sought only to relax a moment, to clear my mind.”
 
He smiled sweetly and, he hoped, sincerely.
 
It was a game, the same game they'd played for years.
 
Master and student, mentor and novice, old and young.
 
An endless game, as much a contest of endurance as of memory and intellect.

The Pentarch approached the edge of the pool, his steps slow and careful.
 
He seemed oldest when he walked, his gait made uneven by a knee that pained him.
 
“Of course, Serene Holiness.”
 
Ontelis paused, brushing an invisible speck from his elaborate blue robes.
 
Elan chose not to roll his eyes; the Pentarch’s habitual gesture told him what came next.

“Serene Holiness,” began the Pentarch as if on cue, “you have, of late, begun to develop a somewhat rebellious nature.
 
It is unseemly of you.
 
Might I say, even irreverent.”

Elan said nothing; he knew the Pentarch wasn’t done yet.

“It was not unexpected,” said the older man.
 
“It is perfectly normal for a young Palani man to go through such a period of contrariness, of exploring his limits.”
 
The Pentarch was watching him, his eyebrows raised and his nose upturned.
 
“But more is expected of you.
 
You are not to be like the rest of our people.
 
You are to be more than that.
 
You are to be better; to be something others can aspire to.
 
Perfect, like the Prophets of old, whose blood you carry.”

“Perfect?” scoffed Elan.
 
Again with the unachievable expectations.
 
“Like Jaherimsa the Pure, with his eleven lower-caste concubines, or—”

“Stop that,” barked the Pentarch.
 
“You know which tales are suitable to be repeated, and which are not.
 
You of all people should see the value in the Prophets as moral, rather than literal, ideals.
 
If not for your own sake, Serene Holiness, you must behave appropriately for the sake of the Palani people.
 
Now more than ever, and certainly in the dark days ahead.”

Elan thought a moment.
 
“Master Pentarch, I have a question about that.”

"Do you indeed?"

“Today,” continued Elan, “during the ritual, Pentarch Threnia added a new part to her homily.
 
She spoke of the insults and disrespect of the lesser races.”

Ontelis nodded once.
 
“So, you were paying attention.
 
It is true: the younger races in the galaxy are as brash and insolent as yourself.
 
They, like you, need to mature, to learn lessons.”

“That sounds ominous, Master Pentarch.”

The older man held his gaze.
 
“Perhaps it does.
 
One of the lesser races in particular, the Humans, they insult us daily, regularly offending us with greater and greater outrages.
 
They build colonies in the Burnt Worlds, in the graveyard of our people.
 
It cannot continue.”

“I hope we can avoid conflict.”

The Pentarch gave a thin, insincere smile.
 
Elan remained quiet, awaiting the inevitable condescension.

“Serene Holiness, your optimistic and peaceful nature serve you well.
 
But, if you will permit my gentle chiding, it is naïve.
 
Aggression and violence is the nature of Humans.
 
We can postpone conflict, but not indefinitely.”

“I do not understand, Master Pentarch.
 
Why?”

“Because it is inevitable, Serene Holiness.
 
In the centuries since our Great Sacrifice, when we gave a trillion lives to save the galaxy, our people have paused for breath.
 
In that time, lesser, more aggressive races have quickly risen to prominence, seeding themselves on worlds regardless of our expectations.
 
In time, they may begin to think of themselves as our equals."
 
The Pentarch spread his hands, grinning as if sharing a private joke.
 
"It is laughable, I know, but not of our doing.
 
Our great sacrifice created a vacuum in the galaxy, into which all manner of opportunists have flowed.”

“Should we not meet with them?
 
Seek to understand them?
 
I am told that one of our holy order, a Tassali, has taken a human mate and now lives among them.
 
Is this true?”

The Pentarch smiled again.
 
The corner of his mouth twitched upward, pulling the smile into a sneer.
 
So it
was
true, thought Elan:
 
a Tassali — a senior priestess — was living among the humans.
 
The Pentarch was about to lie to him, something that was becoming a more frequent occurrence.

“Serene Holiness, I have heard the same stories, but it is clearly impossible.
 
A story to cause uncertainty and dissent.
 
The humans' blood runs hot; their worlds are like furnaces to us.
 
A Palani could not survive on their homeworld, let alone consort with one of them.
 
The thought of a Tassali with a savage is ridiculous.
 
It is fantasy, Serene Holiness, pay it no heed.”

Elan concealed his disappointment behind a bland smile.
 
With each passing day, it seemed, the truth was being hidden behind more and more lies.
 
Half-truths and outright deceit, to keep the Palani people unaware of — or uninterested in — the decline all around them.
 
And now a war?
 
With a race that few Palani had even met?
 

He nodded, hoping he appeared resigned.
 
“I will think on what you have said, Master Pentarch.
 
Thank you.
 
If you will forgive me, I should begin the Ritual of Cleansing before I retire.”

The older man smiled again, this time with sincerity.
 
“Good."
 
As Ontelis turned to leave, he pointed down at the clothes on the floor.
 
"And if I may, Serene Holiness, keep your veil close at hand.
 
No Palani has ever seen your face, and it must remain that way.”

*
   
*
   
*

Elan repacked his satchel for the third time.
 
There were no rituals, no duties at all for the next six days.
 
The five members of the Pentarch didn’t need him for anything, and so would probably ignore him.  He was left in this room as though he was in storage, like one of the ancient relics.
 
But days and weeks spent totally alone, lazily poking at his terminal, had not gone to waste.
 
He'd made his choice, and a careful mental list of the things he would need.
 
Even so, he knew all his ideas were based on assumptions.
 
The truth was, he didn’t know how people outside the Temple got food every day, or how they travelled from place to place.
 
It was important that he not stand out, that he not look like someone who'd never been outside the Temple in his life.
 
He was determined to blend in by doing what everyone else did, whatever that was.
 
Besides, he had a way with people.
 
A genetically-engineered way with people, but still…

After a final inspection he closed the satchel, satisfied that he'd thought of everything.
 
For whatever he'd forgotten, he would have money.
 
There was a considerable research budget for the Temple to support and develop him, and some of it was now on a credit chip he held in his hand.
 
The financial discrepancy he had created might not be found for a long time, given the Temple's indifference toward money and tithing.

Elan had left a note on his desk: an actual, physical note on plant-fibre paper, on the assumption that his datapads were all being monitored.
 
He felt the Pentarch needed to know his reasons for leaving, and his promise to return.
 

He smiled as he took one last look around his room.
 
Everything was clean, almost antiseptic:
 
white walls hung with portraits of the Divines, shelves filled sparingly with carefully-chosen statues and art.
 
The few pieces of furniture were all handcrafted by legendary artisans in ages past, placed here like a museum exhibit for him to live in.
 
It was the only place he'd lived; the ornate bed was the only one he'd ever slept in, since being brought here at the age of three.
 
He remembered being surrounded, at first, by scientists and nurses.
 
Later, when the Pentarch deemed him the preferred candidate, he'd been presented to the Palani people in a massive ceremony.
 
At first, it had been so confusing and exciting to be the centre of attention.
 
Over time the excitement faded, and the scientists and nurses were replaced by nannies and tutors.
 
Now, years later, the only people he saw were senior Tassali and the Pentarch themselves.  Just them, and the mute servants who waited on his every need.
 
But, he thought, a child can't stay in their crib forever.
 
It was exhilarating, standing in the doorway, satchel in his hand.
 
Like a ship setting out to find new lands, he would first have to lose sight of the familiar shore.