Elyth transitioned into the most challenging stance: a deep squat, with her body bent forward and her arms extended as far behind her as she could manage. Titan Bears the World. The muscles in her legs trembled with the strain as she stretched the stiffness from her back and shoulders; she cupped her hands, imagining the sphere of a planet resting upon them, noticed the warmth of the blood flowing through her palms. As she inhaled deeply, her abdomen pressed down into the tops of her thighs. Her feet, flat and firm on the floor, drew from the stability of the world beneath, felt the anchoring weight of its substance. Each of these sensations she noted in passing, observing without judgment. Or at least attempting to.
The truth was it left a scar each time she took a world. Or rather a deep wound that would never fully heal. The melancholy would linger, grief would reemerge and subside in its own time. But Elyth knew she must not seek to return to it, must not rehearse the loss, or comfort herself with the familiar pain. She had been warned where that path led. And she had seen it for herself, when other Advocates, beloved sisters, had chosen to walk it, and had lost themselves within it.
She moved to her next-to-last position, Orual Releases the Dove, a standing pose with her hands in front of her, palms cupped together and angled toward the ceiling. Relaxation flooded her body, gentle relief from Titan Bears the World.
And with the release of tension, Elyth imagined herself releasing also the guilt she felt for the death of Revik. It was heavier upon her than she wanted to admit, and she realized now in this quiet moment how she’d been avoiding reflecting upon it.
She reminded herself that she was not solely responsible for Revik’s ultimate fate. She was merely the final point of a process that began long before, one in a chain whose links were of numbers untold; the tip of a finger at the end of the Ascendance’s godlike reach. Before she had been deployed, there had been many attempts to set the world on a better course, ample opportunity for a better outcome. In the end, her actions were a mercy, a difficult act for a greater good; it was the burden she and her sisters willingly bore for the greatest good.
Elyth told herself all these things while physically embodying the act of letting go. It wasn’t that simple. But the mindful practice of it would in time help make the release a reality.
She completed the sequence with the final pose, head bowed, hands clasped in front of her. Servant Awaits with Gratitude. This she held for a full two minutes, and when she reached the end of the count, felt a mild reluctance to return to the world beyond herself. As invigorated as she was, the idea of interacting with others seemed now like an intrusion upon a sacred silence. But she knew she couldn’t allow herself to nurse the desire to withdraw.
“I think I’ll record the history this morning,” she said.
She had not felt strong enough to do so before. But this morning, the memory was fresh enough to be captured and distant enough to withstand without tipping over the edge.
“There’s no rush,” Nyeda answered. “And you must allow yourself to rest, Elyth.”
“I’ll rest easier when the memories are on the page.”
Nyeda regarded her carefully for a few moments; Elyth could see the woman weighing the options. Nyeda was her keeper for the duration of the recovery; “sitting watch” they called it. A sacred service within the House. It was her duty to watch and guard all aspects of Elyth’s well-being during her recovery, to be counselor and trusted advocate. And to protect her from herself, should the need arise.
Finally, Nyeda nodded, and the two retired to the adjoining parlor. The training area was separated from the rest of Elyth’s private apartment by a large sliding screen. The room on the other side was a more intimate space, furnished with a divan and a pair of comfortable chairs arranged around a plush circular rug. Against one wall sat a large bookcase, and along the adjacent wall by a large window were Elyth’s small desk and accompanying chair.
Nyeda sat in the chair closest to the main entry; Elyth took some time to wash up and change into her more general-purpose tunic and pants. She returned to the parlor refreshed and mentally prepared for the task at hand.
From the bookcase, she retrieved a notebook bound in leather. On the top shelf rested a set of small crystalline vials, each about the size of her thumb, capped in black and labeled. And even though she knew their names without looking at what was written on each and she knew exactly the place of the one she sought, she allowed her finger to trace across the tops of the last four.
Danata. Hetalya. Geren. Revik.
Inside those vials rested soil from those planets, soil she had collected just before carrying out her assignment on each world. Images sprang to mind as her touch passed over the vials in turn; impressions of dusty sunsets over river-shot mountains, thirsting nights, shattered skies. Elyth took down the vial with Revik’s sample and carried it with the notebook to the desk by her window. She placed both before her and sat in the simple chair. For a time she just looked out the window, at the early-morning mist that clung to the grounds outside. Her sparring session had started before dawn; the residential quadrangle remained quiet and still, a deep lake undisturbed.
When her mind was clear and settled, Elyth unwound the strap that held the notebook closed and flipped through the pages until she found one blank. With a pen she set down the date; Day 17, Month 8, Year of Ascendance 8021.
And on the page beneath, she began to recount her time on Revik, detailed with vivid clarity. Not in the formal style of an after-action report. That she had already delivered as part of her debriefing protocol. Where that report had been equally detailed, its focus had been facts, data; an accurate timeline of the intelligence she had gathered on Revik, a record of her actions there, and of their effects. This handwritten account was for no one but Elyth, and its sole purpose was to capture the moments on the world that had made their greatest impression, regardless of their operational value. These were the fragile moments of beauty and awe: the three-mooned night sky; the thumbnail-sized wildflowers with their bright yellow center crowned in four-petaled lavender; the fragrance of dawn. Sketches of emotion and sensation, all the things that had made the planet itself, as experienced by Elyth. This was Revik’s obituary, written by one who had come to know it most intimately, composed by the hand by which it had been slain.
By the time she laid down her pen, it was midmorning and the activity outside her window had taken on its usual intensity. The Vaunt’s grounds were busy with servants of the House carrying out the many-faceted duties that supported the micro city’s function and, by extension, its far-reaching influence. Witnessing all the motion and energy stirred once more Elyth’s frustration at her seclusion. She attempted to dismiss it with a sigh, mostly failed, and returned her gaze to her page. Soon enough she would be released; for now, it was her duty to see herself well.
Though she was done writing, her entry was not yet complete. She unscrewed the cap from the vial with Revik’s soil and sprinkled a small portion onto the bottom corner of the page. She then moistened her fingertips with saliva and with small circles massaged the dirt until it had worked its way into the paper. A bit of Revik’s life mingled with hers to seal the memory. Over the top of it, Elyth traced a symbol with the nail of her pointer finger, one that left less of a visible mark than an impression in the dampened page. A glyph of her design, to represent a work completed.
Afterward, she closed the notebook, wrapped the strap around it, and was just standing from her desk when a light tap sounded at the door. It was still too early for any summons, by standard accounts. There was nothing scheduled for her until midday, and the Order had strict rules about initiating interaction with an Advocate during her recovery. Nyeda rose to answer it, but Elyth stayed her with a gesture and strode across the room.
She opened the door and found a young woman standing there, one Elyth did not recognize.
“Advocate Elyth,” the young woman said, and Elyth could hear the tremble of nerves in her voice. The girl was perhaps thirteen, and her plain, olive-toned attire established only that she was an Aspirant; an Adovcate-in-training, accepted to the House but the path for her life not yet selected. Aspirants often served as messengers for multiple orders within the House.
“Yes?” Elyth said.
“I am Vrin,” the messenger said, bowing with the words. “The Paragon has requested you.”
It took a moment for Elyth to process.
“The Paragon herself?” she asked.
“Yes, Advocate,” said the girl, her eyes still on the floor.
Elyth glanced at Nyeda, saw her own mix of confusion and concern reflected back to her.
“At your most immediate,” the girl added.
“Of course,” Elyth said. “I’ll need a moment to change—”
“There’s no need,” Vrin answered. “The Paragon will see you as you are. Alone.”
If the disruption of protocol had seemed unusual, this new revelation was unheard of. Elyth had served the House for nearly twenty-five years and had never known anyone to appear before the Paragon of the First House of the Ascendance without the proper attire. And the idea of standing before the ancient matriarch on her own, alone … a heavy, ice-drenched knot formed in Elyth’s stomach, a dread that she had done something gravely wrong. Undoubtedly the questions about her recall from Revik would be answered. What other consequences awaited her, she couldn’t predict.
“I shall escort you now, if you are ready,” said the girl, with a note of authority at odds with her still-tremulous voice. She spoke in the High Language, the formal, precise mode of speech common for official communication, but seldom used in the halls of residence. It added to the young woman’s bearing and gravity.
Elyth nodded, slid her feet into a pair of simple slippers by the door, and followed the girl out. Nyeda started to join them, but the young girl held up a hand.
“Your charge Elyth is now under the watch of the Paragon herself,” the girl said, addressing Nyeda. And as she did, Elyth couldn’t help but notice the sudden firmness of her tone. Ah. No mere messenger, then. The girl was in training for the Order of the Mind, in direct service to the Paragon. An honor, and one that marked her as already highly favored. “She will be returned safely to you, Advocate of the Voice.”
Again, Nyeda and Elyth exchanged a look; the circumstances were so far from the known and expected, neither of them were quite sure how to respond, other than with obedience. Elyth gave Nyeda a reassuring nod and a smile that she hoped looked more convincing than it felt. Nyeda bowed her head and touched her heart in return.
The girl walked a few paces ahead of Elyth, though never directly in front of her. More like an honor guard than a guide. It was a twenty-minute walk along the curving paths from Elyth’s quarters to the Paragon’s complex, and they traveled the distance without further conversation. Elyth used that time to settle herself; she could find in her mind or heart no reason to fear the Paragon’s attention. Undoubtedly the summons was connected to her recall. Strange that after all her longing for information, she should be anxious at the moment of revelation. But everything about the situation was strange.
The complex where the Paragon took audience and held council was separated from the rest of the Vaunt by a low wall, roughly waist-high to Elyth. It was more decorative than protective; the main entrance was circular and had neither doors nor guards. Even so, passing that barrier, Elyth felt the change as distinctly as if she had entered a sacred temple or the court of an emperor. There was a gravity to the place, an authority that emanated from its center and bore down on all who crossed its threshold. It was a place that demanded careful attention and wise action.
Elyth had been through that entryway many times before, but it felt now nearly as imposing as on her first day, when she had taken her oath in the Paragon’s court, and that elder’s ancient wisdom and cunning had nearly overwhelmed her. The main path curved gently through the complex’s arboretum, but the beauty of the cultivated trees didn’t relieve any of the tension she felt. And the closer they got to the court, the more self-concious she grew of her attire. It was hard enough to stand before the head of the House in crisp and spotless uniform; she felt now like she was attending a ceremony in her pajamas.
The stairs leading up to the court appeared around the bend, and Elyth inhaled deeply, prepared her mind to stand alone in the midst of that great hall. Now, however, Vrin led her past the court, continued on even past the council chamber, and took her farther back into the complex than Elyth had ever been. They came to a section yet again walled off from the rest, a small island unto itself, ringed by an eight-foot-tall wooden fence that prevented any view of what lay within. As Vrin unlatched the simple gate, Elyth realized she was being ushered into the Paragon’s private residence.
She passed through the gate with wonder and trepidation, and once she’d crossed over, she stopped in spite of herself. Before her sat a simple structure amid the most well-cultivated garden Elyth had ever seen.
Others had spoken of the Paragon’s garden, but witnessing it now with her own eyes, Elyth understood that she had never grasped its magnitude, no matter how well described. She allowed herself to take in the sweep of the place, felt the impact of its completeness taken all at once. Even the fragrance was delicately complex yet unified; fresh, clean, healthy.
The garden created a deep and abiding sense of rightness. The sense that here, within these walls, all things were as they should be. The effect was not lessened when Elyth focused on the individual details; the regal purple of an iris, the fairy-teardropped leaves of a delicate miniature frostoak. Even the blades of vibrant, low-cut grass gave an impression of an orderly regiment in uniform, standing at attention and waiting for inspection.
An Advocate of the Hand was crouched by one of the arrangements, deftly pruning a shapely juniper, her face hidden by a wide-brimmed hat. She didn’t look up from her work or acknowledge Elyth’s arrival, as was often the way of those of her Order. Elyth nearly complimented the Advocate on her masterwork but thought better of disturbing the hushed peace that hovered over the garden.
Instead she turned her attention to the building at the center. The structure was a single story, with a wide covered porch; its lines were pleasing and elegant, and reminded Elyth of a swallow’s flight. And though it clearly had been constructed, it too seemed perfectly at home within the garden, almost as though it had grown from the ground alongside its natural companions. This, then, was the Paragon’s home.
Even from the gate, Elyth could feel that ancient presence.
Vrin crossed the grounds to the porch, and Elyth followed wordlessly. There was nothing overtly menacing about the Paragon, but to stand before her was as if to stand before the jaws of some sleeping leviathan. In her midst, the raw power and potential for utter destruction bore down with the full weight of awe and dread.
When they reached the porch, instead of ascending the steps, Vrin simply turned toward the gardener with an expectant air. Elyth followed suit, assuming some custom or etiquette prevented them from entering the residence until the gardener had finished her work, or had departed. The gardening Advocate made another cut, then rocked back to evaluate her work. After a few seconds, seemingly content with the adjustment she’d made, she spoke.
“Thank you, Vrin,” she said, her voice sharp with age, the edges of her syllables crackling with vivid energy. Elyth reflexively shivered at the sound. No mere gardener. The Paragon herself. “Go and prepare tea.”
“Yes, Illumined Mother,” Vrin answered, using the honorific. She turned and bowed to Elyth, then added a surreptitious nod of encouragement before slipping into the house.
“Elyth,” the Paragon said without turning, “come here.”
Elyth did as she was bade, crossing to the Paragon and standing just behind her, to one side. The Paragon bent forward to work for a few moments more. Elyth forced herself to relax, even as her mind wrestled with the incongruity of the scene before her. She had never seen the Paragon without her regalia, let alone working in the dirt with her own hands. From where she now stood, Elyth had the chance to admire the vital deftness of the Paragon’s fingers, the delicate decisiveness with which she worked at shaping the juniper; the ancient woman held utterly still while evaluating, but when she chose to act, she did so with the bold efficiency of a sword stroke.
The Paragon trimmed a curving shoot from the juniper and caught the clipping in her cupped palm, and then sat back and evaluated her work once more. Apparently satisfied, she stood and finally looked at Elyth. She was several inches shorter than Elyth and so had to tilt her head back, farther than usual due to the brim of her hat. It was the first time Elyth had ever looked down upon the Paragon. The power of the older woman was in no way diminished; without thought Elyth bent her knee before the great matriarch and bowed her head.
“Look at me,” the Paragon said.
Elyth obeyed. For a span the Paragon’s eyes studied Elyth’s. It was terrible to withstand that gaze, which seemed to peel back all masks and pretense and to lay bare the innermost thoughts; Elyth felt utterly exposed, as though the Paragon might perceive secrets Elyth herself did not know she kept. But there was a twinkle in those eyes as well, a light amusement that somehow seemed to welcome and embrace her, even in all that fear. The Paragon capped off that silent interrogation with a tight smile.
“Elyth,” she said. “Bright daughter.”
“Illumined Mother,” Elyth said, bowing her head once more.
“Come come,” the Paragon said, “No need to stand on ceremony. Or to kneel upon it either, as it were.”
Elyth stood but kept her head bowed, feeling like a marionette on strings too loose; she knew neither protocol nor etiquette for such a situation, and judged that a posture of waiting obedience was the safest of all possible actions.
“How goes your time?” the Paragon asked.
“Very well, Your Radiance,” Elyth answered.
“Rest is good? Mind is clear?”
“All is as it should be.”
“And the longing?”
“Present, but diminishing.”
“Very good,” the Paragon said. She held out the gardening tool, a small pair of clippers, offering them to Elyth. “Take these, and do with them that which seems best to you.”
It was a test, undoubtedly, though not one for which Elyth had ever been explicitly prepared. She took the clippers and turned her attention to the variety of plants before her.
“I fear I will only damage your great work,” she said. “I have no skill in such cultivation.”
“One cannot damage a living thing by pruning its edges, dear,” said the Paragon. “It must bear the cut and flourish, or else the source of its life was badly misplaced. And such would not be the fault of the pruner.”
Elyth took her time looking over each of the flowers, shrubs, vines, and trees that populated the area in front of her; nothing struck her as being out of place. She saw no cut she could make that would improve the form of anything, neither individually nor taken together as a whole. The seconds stretched to minutes, and Elyth felt a growing compulsion to make a cut anywhere, just to take action. But she knew there was a hidden purpose behind the moment and that both patience and careful observation were expected of Advocates of the Voice. The Paragon would not mistake patience for hesitance, nor would she confuse action for purpose. Elyth felt it was the limits of her perception that were being tested.
Unable to find any obvious form in need of correction, she began to think inaction was precisely the right choice. But before she committed to that thought, she changed her approach. If she couldn’t find anything out of place now … and with the change in mind-set and a few moments more of careful attention, an opportunity revealed itself. The grain of a young branch on one of the miniature frostoaks ran with a twist toward its end. And now that she’d seen it, Elyth didn’t waste time evaluating whether or not her judgment was correct. She stepped forward, took the slender branch between the fingers of one hand, and made a quick diagonal cut where the grain ran true, cutting free a six-inch segment that represented about a third of the total branch. Elyth returned to her place by the Paragon’s side and awaited judgment, holding out both the tool and the cutting before her, a priestess bringing her sacrifice before a goddess.
The Paragon looked over the branch in Elyth’s hand, then to the tree from which it had come, then to Elyth herself.
“Why this fellow?” she asked.
“It appeared to my mind that left to grow, its twist would introduce an unpleasant shape in conflict with the rest.”
“But you have upset the symmetry,” the Paragon responded, her tone flat and her expression neutral. “And now the gap has widened between its neighbor.”
Neither of these factors had escaped Elyth’s notice, but she accepted the mild rebuke without excuse.
“My apologies, Illumined Mother,” she said. “I felt the single cut was sufficient, and the disturbance temporary.”
The Paragon held her gaze for a few moments longer before her eyes crinkled at the corners in some wisp of amusement or pleasure.
“You have more skill than you credit to yourself,” she said, taking the shears from Elyth’s hand. “I know of few who would have noticed such a detail, and too many who would have felt compelled to prune the whole tree.”
Elyth bowed her head in acknowledgment, a mild response to receive the compliment without letting it stir her pride. It was difficult; praise from the Paragon was rare and greatly valued.
“And the cutting?” Elyth asked.
“Keep it,” the Paragon said. “A memento of our coming conversation. Come. Sit with me.”
Elyth followed the Paragon to the residence, but instead of entering as she expected, the Paragon climbed the stairs and then turned and sat on the porch. She removed her hat and laid it beside her. Elyth, once again uncertain of how to proceed, stood on the lowest step. The Paragon patted the porch next to her. Elyth had no idea what to make of the invitation or the sudden familiarity, but she obeyed, sitting carefully beside the woman without touching her. The proximity and the casual posture made her feel as though she were violating some sacred ritual.
“Oh, do relax,” the Paragon said in the Low Language, a manner of speech Elyth had never heard issuing from that exalted woman. “I leave all the tiresome courtly expectations beyond these walls. Even your so-called Great Mother needs a place where she can just be an old woman with a garden.”
Elyth made an involuntary noise at the statement, something between a note of surprise and a chuckle.
“Does this upset you?” the Paragon asked. “To see your Mother in such a light?”
Elyth shook her head. “No, Illumined Mother.”
“Go on,” the Paragon said. “Speak your thoughts. Without your usual calculation.”
“It’s just that … of course I knew of your magnificent garden, but I did not realize you yourself were the gardener.”
“Yes, well, we mustn’t spend all our time in the heavens, dear,” the Paragon answered, “lest we forget our place here among the dust.”
As she was speaking Vrin came out of the house with a tray, upon which were two bowl-like stone mugs, wide and without handle, with a pot crafted of the same stone set between.