that if the labyrinth was only meant to be used under dire circumstance,
few of the high priests followed that rule.
Sister Bastille sat in her bedchamber, a room intended only
for sleeping and prayer, and thus no larger than a spacious closet. A side
table flanked her small wooden bed, and a storage trunk framed in gray steel sat
at the foot. Her desk contained a tin candlestick, a washbasin and cloth, a few
parchment scrolls, and some writing implements. Her prized possession was a box
of ink pens, the old manufactured kind that didn’t need to be dipped and
refilled after every few strokes. One small, high window, placed so close to
the ceiling that she had to stand above the bed on her tiptoes to look out, admitted
a shaft of pale pre-morning light.
Her goose down pillow and woolen blanket were still damp with
the sweat of restless sleep as Bastille studied the words written on the
brittle parchment. She’d woken several hours earlier than necessary, as was her
habit. Idleness would not do. Much better to spend her time studying the
scriptures before the day’s chores began. If there was deliverance to be found
in this world, surely it could be found in a life of reverence to the Most High
Infernal Mouth, through whom all was devoured except that which was favored.
The athenaeum’s shelves were crowded with an ever-expanding
collection of scriptures, revelations the Brothers and Sisters of the Esteemed
classes penned to fulfill their annual requirements. Beside the fresh and new
were older, dusty tomes that stretched back in time to the Order’s founding—scrolls
of vellum and skin and parchment, clasped within cases of aluminum and bone and
carved wood. The gilded excess of the ancient basilica’s architecture was the only
remaining sign of whatever church had resided there before
the Order; all of the former occupant’s books, vestments, and ritual devices
had been purged long ago.
To anyone outside the Order, these writings might have been
perceived as nothing more than the ramblings of fanatics. To Sister Bastille,
they overflowed with the wisdom and insight gained through a deeper
understanding of being. She had resolved to dispatch two scrolls each week, but
she was behind on her reading. Her eyes scanned the text of this particular
scroll with increasing fervor as she delved into its rich epiphanies.
This, dear brothers, is the crippling pitfall of disbelief—that
it confines one’s purpose within the prison of tangibility; that it limits
one’s existence to the miniscule sphere in which the senses reside. There is a
second sight that reaches beyond that of mortal mankind, which is closed to the
mind of all who fail to believe. It is only by embracing death and its
perpetuity that we may grasp the divine and reveal our true potential. We know
that the Mouth devours that for which it hungers: the impure, the unholy, the
weak, the lifebound, the unbelieving. What we do not always remember is that to
remain undevoured is to embody death in its interminable immaculacy.
These scriptures had given Bastille plenty to meditate on
this morning. This scroll was written by one Sister Nicolette, Greatly
Esteemed, and was entitled Treatise of Relinquishments XVII . It was one
of the most significant and profound texts Bastille had studied in a long year.
Every few stanzas, she was finding herself overwhelmed by the gravity of the
material. But she was having another one of her headaches, and that was making
it hard to concentrate. I need some fresh air , she thought. Not that
I’m likely to find it out of doors . Setting the scroll aside, she rubbed
her eyes to subdue the ache behind them and promised herself she’d continue
reading when the chores were done.
She stood and leaned over the washbasin, her reflection dark
against the pale blue of morning. Her washbasin was the only place she ever saw
her reflection anymore, but she counted it a blessing that she had so little
time and so few opportunities to
few of the high priests followed that rule.
Sister Bastille sat in her bedchamber, a room intended only
for sleeping and prayer, and thus no larger than a spacious closet. A side
table flanked her small wooden bed, and a storage trunk framed in gray steel sat
at the foot. Her desk contained a tin candlestick, a washbasin and cloth, a few
parchment scrolls, and some writing implements. Her prized possession was a box
of ink pens, the old manufactured kind that didn’t need to be dipped and
refilled after every few strokes. One small, high window, placed so close to
the ceiling that she had to stand above the bed on her tiptoes to look out, admitted
a shaft of pale pre-morning light.
Her goose down pillow and woolen blanket were still damp with
the sweat of restless sleep as Bastille studied the words written on the
brittle parchment. She’d woken several hours earlier than necessary, as was her
habit. Idleness would not do. Much better to spend her time studying the
scriptures before the day’s chores began. If there was deliverance to be found
in this world, surely it could be found in a life of reverence to the Most High
Infernal Mouth, through whom all was devoured except that which was favored.
The athenaeum’s shelves were crowded with an ever-expanding
collection of scriptures, revelations the Brothers and Sisters of the Esteemed
classes penned to fulfill their annual requirements. Beside the fresh and new
were older, dusty tomes that stretched back in time to the Order’s founding—scrolls
of vellum and skin and parchment, clasped within cases of aluminum and bone and
carved wood. The gilded excess of the ancient basilica’s architecture was the only
remaining sign of whatever church had resided there before
the Order; all of the former occupant’s books, vestments, and ritual devices
had been purged long ago.
To anyone outside the Order, these writings might have been
perceived as nothing more than the ramblings of fanatics. To Sister Bastille,
they overflowed with the wisdom and insight gained through a deeper
understanding of being. She had resolved to dispatch two scrolls each week, but
she was behind on her reading. Her eyes scanned the text of this particular
scroll with increasing fervor as she delved into its rich epiphanies.
This, dear brothers, is the crippling pitfall of disbelief—that
it confines one’s purpose within the prison of tangibility; that it limits
one’s existence to the miniscule sphere in which the senses reside. There is a
second sight that reaches beyond that of mortal mankind, which is closed to the
mind of all who fail to believe. It is only by embracing death and its
perpetuity that we may grasp the divine and reveal our true potential. We know
that the Mouth devours that for which it hungers: the impure, the unholy, the
weak, the lifebound, the unbelieving. What we do not always remember is that to
remain undevoured is to embody death in its interminable immaculacy.
These scriptures had given Bastille plenty to meditate on
this morning. This scroll was written by one Sister Nicolette, Greatly
Esteemed, and was entitled Treatise of Relinquishments XVII . It was one
of the most significant and profound texts Bastille had studied in a long year.
Every few stanzas, she was finding herself overwhelmed by the gravity of the
material. But she was having another one of her headaches, and that was making
it hard to concentrate. I need some fresh air , she thought. Not that
I’m likely to find it out of doors . Setting the scroll aside, she rubbed
her eyes to subdue the ache behind them and promised herself she’d continue
reading when the chores were done.
She stood and leaned over the washbasin, her reflection dark
against the pale blue of morning. Her washbasin was the only place she ever saw
her reflection anymore, but she counted it a blessing that she had so little
time and so few opportunities to
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