He would pass one last time through the central temple. One final glance at the citadel from the bell tower—perhaps there he would utter a prayer or seek the blessing of one of the clerics; he believed he would need every shred of luck to leave La Polis, would need the scent of incense, the shadowed atrium, and the immense walls sheathed in coppery metal—mental images to remind him of what he was leaving behind: the cage of dense walls crowned by the rotor, the punitive eye of the Church, and the restrictions that barred understanding, barred him from comprehending Aldous’s decisions.
In truth, anyone might think that life in the citadel was not so terrible: to live through the twilight, to shelter from the heat, to survive hunger, to worship Pólux, to be a good believer and respect the Dogma. The fortunate few displayed a natural affinity for some art or talent useful to the Church and eventually joined its ranks; they entered the priesthood, seeking a life among the clergy. A bed awaited them at night, and food, bland and frugal, but sufficient. When one has witnessed the advance of catastrophe, even such small comforts seem tempting, enough to surrender oneself to the Dogma.
It had been an exodus of the few who remained alive, a diaspora from yet another great city; they were mostly thin, faces etched with hopelessness, reflections of the horrors they had endured. The citadel offered what no other place could. A bubble within La Polis, a sanctuary of peace at the center of the ruined remnants of a once-great city; a fortress made of buildings taller than any other in the known territories, offering refuge from cold and heat, from the harshness of what had once been a fertile, life-filled valley, now a cruel valley of nothingness—stretching endlessly, overwhelming in its emptiness.
A modest life in the pit of misfortune. It seemed simple to aspire to it and attain it; certainly, his affinity for Structural Knowledge would be welcomed in any temple: lighting candles, purifying water, patching cracks in old walls—honorable, plain work, as ancient as the oldest of churches. One need not master the Knowledge of Being to perform such deeds, and for that reason, the priests confined their talents to these tasks. He could have done it—renounced knowledge, renounced the key, renounced the world beyond the desert and the high probability of a gruesome death. He could have… if he had not raised his hand against Pólux that afternoon, for in that gesture, he had made clear his stance before the Dogma.
Under normal circumstances, the high cleric accompanying the elder would have struck him down with some refined spell, perhaps even manifested a condensed form over him to ensure his death. But it did not happen. He remained alive, still free, still a heretic—perhaps more than ever.
When he grasped the gravity of his actions, an even deeper terror seized his body and mind. He thought of kneeling, of begging forgiveness, of pleading for mercy; he did not wish to die before leaving the citadel. A twisted laughter shattered the reverie, and he found himself curled on a plush armchair facing Pólux, the study’s hearth flanking him. Pólux’s laughter breathed life back into him.
“Few have dared raise their hands against me, yet what has transpired is unprecedented,” the voice said, dripping with mockery—malicious, hollow, cruel. Where once stood a man in a brown habit, eyes heavy with weariness, now a black stain sullied the floor. A pungent, biting odor filled the room.
“He survived the spell, though now he is dead,” Áuror remarked.
“I will spare your life this time, because you amused me; in the dream plane, your gesture was nothing but an illusion, a trick upon your mind, born of the fear you feel. This accident was merely my oversight. I did not restrain you completely, and that was my error.”
He did not know what had happened, nor how, nor why. Yet now a corpse adorned the farthest corner of the room. The escort covered it with a cloak, closed its eyes, and he had watched as they dissolved into dark, oily shreds.
“Leave the citadel before I change my mind! Go and die like the animal you are, like the beasts of your kind! Flee before I decide to kill you in the most dreadful way!” No lips moved, no sound issued. Pólux’s presence infiltrated his mind; the message was clear: he must run, flee from death.
Two loaves of bread, water, a piece of cheese, a handful of seeds, a page torn from a grimoire, and a map of the continent drawn upon it…
The wizard packed everything into a leather bag. The travel cloak was thick, soft to the touch, but Aldous had reinforced it with some special spell to make it lighter and more durable. Now he was grateful for it, and with that, he resolved to depart.