Chapter 12
12
A long hoverboard ride. A crack of thunder. Simon flying over Rafe, who is lying in a field of red flowers. An unknown beautiful girl pouring wine for Kor.
The dream is a little different every time, but those parts are always the same. I’ve had difficulty sleeping every night since the flying incident. My injuries healed quickly due to my Sire abilities, but the weird dreams are a pain in my butt.
I’m so tired that I’d fall asleep in this chair if the information we were learning wasn’t so fascinating.
“The fact that da Vinci had a boyfriend is not secret Maker knowledge,” Michael says. “It’s well documented in provincial history if you know where to look.”
We’re in a Foundations of Maker Culture seminar, discussing famous Makers from before the Exodus (including Luca Pacioli, the father of accounting as we know it, and supposedly Leonardo da Vinci’s live-in partner—though they separated when Pacioli joined the Makers in Avant and da Vinci stayed in Italy).
Michael—Master Loew—leads the Foundations seminar, as he’s the resident expert on the relationships between Maker society and the provincial world. The seminar meets in an alcove of the library. It’s a small group made up entirely of recruits, including Georgie and both of her parents.
There’s also a Sophist named Gloria who must be close to thirty years old and was recruited, like, ten years ago. She clearly knows everything we learn already, and I’m pretty sure she only comes to these classes to moon over Michael. Which… fair. I have, unfortunately, discovered that Michael being all teachery does not make it easier to ignore his dimples. But he’s clearly not discouraging her. Honestly, his enthusiasm whenever the two of them debate is probably encouraging her. Whatever.
The fact that da Vinci didn’t want to join the Makers leads to a discussion about some of the many others that the Makers have been unsuccessful in recruiting over the years. One of whom was Rembrandt, who resisted multiple attempts at recruitment despite the personal and financial difficulties that he had in the provincial world.
I think of the painting hanging in Bloche’s office. The knowledge that Rembrandt specifically wanted to keep himself and his art in the provincial world makes the thought that the Makers may have stolen that painting even more despicable.
Since I’m grouchy from lack of sleep, I’m not careful to school my expression, so when the seminar is over, Michael approaches me. “Something’s bothering you,” he says.
Yeah, something’s bothering me. But I’m not about to expose my critical views about Maker lifestyle. Except my mind and my mouth seem to be at odds with each other because the question spills out before I can stop it.
“The painting in Headmaster Bloche’s office, is it Rembrandt’s The Sea of Galilee ?”
Michael grins. “You have a good eye. Yes. It’s a magnificent piece, isn’t it?”
I feel a flush of confusion and anger. “That painting was stolen over thirty years ago.”
He must hear the accusation in my tone. “The Makers had nothing to do with the theft. Bloche rescued the painting from the thieves.”
“Then why didn’t he return it?” I honestly hope he has a good explanation. I want to respect him. I want to respect the Makers.
“Return it to the people whose carelessness allowed thieves to slash it from its frame? Here it was faithfully restored and is in a place where it can be better protected and properly appreciated.”
“Properly appreciated?” I rub at my scars, feeling my frustration build. “How many people, on this tiny hidden island, get to appreciate it when it hangs in one man’s office? You think provincial people can’t properly appreciate art? Do you know how much the loss of that painting was mourned? Is still mourned? The museum still has the empty frame on display.” I bite my lip, realizing too late that I’m showing my hand. But when our eyes meet, it feels impossible to try to pretend, so I don’t stop. “You’re the one who told me about how much history has been stolen from the provincial world by the Inquisition. And you think more should be taken?”
Michael’s expressive brows are drawn tight. “Tell me about the empty frame,” he says.
“At the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston,” I explain. “Where the Rembrandt was stolen along with a bunch of other works. The empty frames are left on the walls, waiting for the works to be returned to them.” Grandfather had brought me to the museum a few years ago. I’d found the empty frames to be truly haunting. And the feeling of loss they evoked in me lingers in my memory in a way so many other exhibitions I’ve seen over the years don’t. “There’s a ten-million-dollar reward for their recovery.”
Michael listens earnestly, nibbling at his thumbnail.
“Thank you for sharing that,” he says. “I hadn’t considered the implications of the loss to provincial society.”
No kidding. Not considering provincial society seems to be a running theme here. But Michael’s seminar has made it even more clear that what the Makers think about provincial society is wrong. The people of the twenty-first century are nothing like the intolerant religious zealots who exiled and hunted them hundreds of years ago. Well, at least most of them aren’t. But there’s certainly no longer a reason for the Makers not to share their knowledge.
After Michael says goodbye and heads out, my eyes are drawn to the section of the library with everything I need: the Guild Testaments.
The Guild Testament scrolls, where each guild compiles their greatest discoveries, are kept on their own floor suspended in the center of the library, accessible only by two winding staircases: one leading up from the floor below and one leading down from the floor above. Both staircases are patrolled by members of the Avant Guard. On the floating landing, there is a temperature-controlled glace room—the Ark—where the scrolls are kept, staffed by only a few trusted stewards.
The most secure area on the island? It’s gotta be where the good stuff is. And I need the good stuff. None of my efforts so far have turned up anything useful about whether it’s possible to share Sire abilities, and my hope that there’s an easy cure for Grandfather is waning.
My time in the infirmary after my accident had given me the chance to chat with Kaylie about Maker medicine. She was very enthusiastic about my interest in Bioscience, and she gave me some suggestions of ways to get the guild’s attention at Quorum. But my conversation with her pretty much confirmed that if a cure for Grandfather’s cancer does exist, it’s unlikely to be something that an individual Sire could achieve on their own. If I want to find the details of how my abilities could be used in conjunction with Maker surgical and pharmaceutical practices that might be able to be re-created by the Families’ doctors, then I need to see the Bioscience Guild Testament.
I won’t have access to the Ark until I’m in a guild, but I’ve started preparing for then by befriending one of the Ark stewards, a pregnant Sophist master named Xander. Georgie and Hypatia had thought my choice to sit at her lunch table the other day had been completely coincidental. They were wrong.
But even if I can’t get into the Ark yet, Kor also wants me to prioritize getting more information about the Makers’ other territories, and that’s something I can do right now, right here in the library.
The Genesis library is enchanting. Despite its size, it manages to be cozy with endless nooks and sitting areas. And the books! Gorgeous hand-bound books as far as the eye can see.
I ask one of the stewards, a plush white woman with her hair swept up in a beaded hairnet, where I can find information about the Makers’ other communities.
“Hmm, I have an idea. You wait right here.” She pats my arm and bustles off.
There’s beautiful copper detailing throughout the library that I had thought was decoration, but when a few minutes later a glace tube comes whizzing into a cubby next to me, I realize that it’s a system of pneumatic pipes. I remove two scrolls and a slip of paper from the tube and send it back through the chute. A cursory glance shows that both scrolls are maps, and the paper is the shelf location of a book.
Once I find the book, I sit down in one of the private study nooks—out of sight of the guards patrolling the Ark—to examine everything more closely. One map is of the world, but it’s very different from any map I’ve ever seen. There are numerous additional landmasses, and the familiar continents are on a completely different scale. Africa is notably much larger and Antarctica much smaller than I would have expected. The second map illustrates the entire Atlas route, and the book is an illustrated geographic reference text, clearly intended for young apprentices, titled Exodus & Exile: The Geography of Maker Past and Present . All of these will be extremely helpful.
There are five areas on the world map that are labeled as “Delegations to the Maker Council.”
In Foundations, Michael explained that the Council is the group of delegates from each of the Maker communities who meet to make decisions regarding important issues that affect Maker society as a whole. I know that Arcadia democratically elects the Genesis headmaster, who acts as their delegate.
Avant is indicated to be in the Alps, and Exodus & Exile provides some additional information like the fact that it’s ruled by a monarchy. A fact that seems to conflict with their supposed utopian ideals, but okay.
Arcadia is in the Atlantic Ocean, southwest of Bermuda. (I note that it is suspiciously right around the area known as the Bermuda triangle.)
Midway between Avant and Arcadia is a cluster of small islands labeled the Misty Isles. I’ve heard a bit more about the Misty Isles, the domain of the Matriarchy of the Isles, from Mbali. Her mother is the leader of the Keftiu Matriarchy. The reference book explains that at the time of the Exodus, the Matriarchy provided refuge for fleeing Makers, many of whom chose to integrate into their society. Once the Atlas was built, and long-distance travel became easier, representatives of each guild were sent to establish themselves under the auspices of the Matriarchy, and more Makers began to take up residence there. It’s not unusual for Islanders like Mbali to choose to study in the Maker schools.
There are two other denoted locations on the map: a tiny island in the Mediterranean Sea labeled “Eden,” and an area near the Middle East labeled “Naiot.”
I flip through the reference book for more details. Eden supposedly marks the location of the actual Garden of Eden from the Bible. Though from the little information I can find, no one lives there, and it is more of an environmental preserve and perhaps also a retreat for those who need certain kinds of rehabilitation. Naiot is also currently unpopulated, but the book says that’s only been the case for close to two decades, ever since the tragic event known as the Fall of Naiot.
Master Bose, my Testaments teacher—the one with the dog—read to us about the Fall of Naiot from the Book of Chorus in my Testaments class just the other day.
Naiot had once been a hidden village of prophets who had an alliance with the Makers. After world governments repeatedly used their prophecies for destructive ends, they stopped sharing them, which led to their expulsion. They hid themselves where they could train new prophets to control their prophecy and use it responsibly. But all of that ended with the Fall of Naiot.
I hadn’t fully understood the testament that described the Fall. I should probably read the prophecy again.
I close the reference book and maps and bring them with me to the section of the library where the Testaments of the Prophets are shelved.
Having grown up with Catholicism and Judaism, I’m pretty familiar with hearing about old prophecies. But according to Exodus & Exiles , this Chorus chick is still alive. That makes the Makers’ recorded prophecies a hell of a lot more recent than David and Samuel.
While the Guild Testaments are classified, the regular Testament section is easily accessible. Each of the Testaments of the Prophets has the name of a different Prophet embossed in gold on its spine. It’s the very last, extremely slim volume labeled Chorus that I pull down. I settle into a nearby love seat and begin to read.
Chorus
Book 1: Testament 1
Seventy souls lived in the village beyond the river. On a day when the rapids of the river were fierce, a girl—only recently granted her Sight—was sent to collect wildflowers.
When the sky began to dim, the girl returned and found the village silent. No other souls roamed the streets, and each door that she opened led to another vacant home. She was not concerned, for strangeness was not strange to the village.
But when she reached the temple and found it abandoned, fear took her hand in a slow dance. There was no one seated in meditation under the palm trees, no one playing the harps to aid in concentration, no one lounging in the purifying baths.
No one guarding the stones and scrolls of prophecy.
The fear became a knife, sharp and urgent, but the girl kept it at bay in clenched fists as she walked into the vestibule.
At the altar, the gemstones had been set and the scrolls unrolled. Everything was arranged for the prophets to puzzle out the meaning within the prophecy. But there were no prophets, only echoes.
The girl disrobed and immersed in the purifying baths to prepare her body before ascending to the altar. There was no one to play the harp or the bowl, but she conjured the memory of the music.
A prophecy is a finicky thing, often misinterpreted, but the meaning of this one was as clear as if it were written on her skin.
Strangers were coming. Men who would steal blood to steal the future.
The girl knew how the prophets would react to such a message, and she knew what she must do. With heart and mind numb, the girl gathered the gemstones and the scrolls and the wildflowers she had picked. She walked to a cave outside the village where she knew everyone else must be.
The cave was fragrant with the scent of foxglove flowers and as silent and lifeless as the village. Hers was the only heart that beat, and hers were the only lungs that drew breath, but they were all there—her family, and almost everyone she had ever known—lying still as if in peaceful slumber, their blood forever safe from those who would misuse it.
She fell to her knees and dug her hands into the ground, pulling out fistfuls of earth. Stones and rubble ripped through her skin and twisted her fingers, but she kept digging.
Outside the cave, a prince—only a man for a few years, but already powerful—dropped out of a shadow in the sky. He could not be in the presence of bodies whose spirits were departed, but he had not cut his hair or imbibed drink, so he lent the girl his strength. He braced his hands on the entrance of the cave and sang. He stood there all through the night while she used his strength to dig until the sun came and hid the stars. But the sun could not chase away the darkness on that day.
On each lump of newly turned earth, the girl placed a stone. Sixty-seven stones. Sixty-seven graves. She scattered the wildflowers outside the cave, and their seeds took root and grew to cover the entrance.
The girl returned to the village and soaked in a purifying bath until it ran black with dirt.
Her grief caused the temple walls to shake as she Saw that there was hope. A child of her blood that she would teach to hone the Sight, who would also cultivate Life and Sing strength, and who would reunite all those who had been lost.
Then the prince picked up the girl and held her against his heart, where he swore he would keep her for the rest of their days, and the shadow in the sky flew them both to paradise.
Later that day, the waters of the river ran still, and strangers crossed its banks. They found the village empty. The streets were silent, and the temple was barren. All the roads and houses were deserted.
They pondered over the enigma of the black pool in the temple, and they bathed in it, thinking it might grant them blessing. They scouted the area between the river and the spine of the mountains but did not find the cave.
And so they left.
The strangers and their offspring often return on days when the river runs still. They try to decipher the mystery of the village, and they continue to bathe in the black water, hoping for a miracle.
But all the miracles of the village are gone.
A shiver runs through me as I finish reading. I flip through the rest of the pages, but they’re all blank, waiting for new prophecies not yet recorded. When we’d discussed this Testament in class, the young apprentices had a lot to say.
“It didn’t actually happen like that. You’re not meant to understand it literally.”
“How could you say that? Everything written in the Testaments is true!”
“No way it really happened. Have you seen Chorus? She’s so scrawny. She couldn’t dig even a single grave on her own.”
“But Prince Alex amplified her strength.”
“They are the most romantic couple ever.”
It has not escaped my notice that Prince Alexander and Chorus are a common topic of gossip and the closest thing to celebrities that the Makers have. But at the time I thought they were mythical or historical. Not currently living actual people. Understanding this lends new meaning to the rest of the apprentices’ discussion.
“I heard that he proposes once a year, and she always says no.”
“Why do you think she won’t marry him?”
“I heard he once proposed with a bouquet of handpicked flowers, one from every country in the world.”
“Chorus would never align herself with the Blood Crown.”
“But Prince Alex is nothing like the king.”
“They need to marry so they can conceive the Child of Three to bring us out of exile.”
“The Child of Three isn’t real, and no one wants to go back anyway.”
“Everything written in the Testaments is real!”
I wonder the same things as the apprentices. This particular story doesn’t sound like it could have really happened—princes falling from the sky and singing strength—but then again, there’s so much I would never have thought possible before coming here.
The Child of Three is another common topic in my Testaments class. Apparently, at the time of the Exodus, when the Makers were first exiled, one of the Prophets of Naiot prophesied that the Child of Three (TBD on why they’re called that) would one day come and reunite them with the rest of the world.
The consensus seems to be that the prophecy Chorus recorded having in the Testament of the Fall of Naiot confirms she will be the mother of this three-pronged messiah. The jury seems split both about whether anyone actually believes this will happen and whether they even want it to. But I’ve taken the existence of the prophecy as a sign that the Makers are at least open to the idea of one day collaborating with the provincial world. Though I sure hope we don’t have to wait for this Chorus lady to finally agree to marry the prince and then wait for an infant to grow up before we can make any headway.
The thing I’m most curious about the Fall of Naiot is who the hell the strangers are. The Makers are sure they are the Inquisitors, but I know it must be someone else, and what could they possibly have had planned that was bad enough that the prophets thought dying was better?
I resolve to learn as much as I can about Chorus and the prophets. And I’ll need to ask Kor if the Families have any record of Naiot or any events that coincide with the tragedy described.
I take the reference book, maps, the Testament of Chorus , and a few other random books to make sure that my selection doesn’t look too suspicious, and I find a steward to help me check everything out. Then I head back to my room to photograph everything for the Families.