Magus Star Rising
Chapter Twelve

To replace inner peace, one must

forsake self-denial.

SPIRIT WORSHIP DICTUM

The Changing

I feel so light. Am I floating?

Iolyn stood in the center of a darkened room. Or was it a corner near the back wall? She found it interesting that she wasn’t quite sure since the floor seemed to tilt and move, righting itself only when she shook her head to clear it. And she dare not close her eyes for fear of spinning completely out of control.

Incense smoke stretched and coiled like grasping fingers, encircling her in a cloudy grip. Somehow that reassured her. She suspected the mystical mist helped to anchor her so she wouldn’t fall flat on her face.

Is this what it feels like to be drugged? How ironic, how ridiculously ironic.

When the floor had settled, candlelight jumped off stone walls to reveal a starkly furnished chamber, practically empty except for the candles, incense and aromatica burners, and the tigra-skin rug she stood upon. Vanera’s way was simplicity itself but such ritual accouterments were necessary from time to time.

This was such a time.

Interesting. Interesting that I should feel this way. It is not unpleasant.

A single window opened onto the outside world. Despite the smoke and darkness, Iolyn could see one of the twin moons burning brightly through that portal and... There! The Magus Star, the most elusive body in the firmament, shone uncharacteristically vivid off to the right of a single Eye. At last it had shown its bright face.

Surely, then, this was a good omen and a time of great import.

Yes, it must be. Glorious.

Despite that reassurance, Iolyn trembled, her stomach tied in knots. She had been bathed and perfumed, ‘purified’ in the ritual sense, and dressed in a gauzy silken gown and head-veil, anklets and bracelets adorning her otherwise naked body. White sacramental wine, drugged with herbs and other powerful natural stimulants, flowed freely. And now, as she recited some of the pre-Turning invocations, she felt calmer, almost serene.

And perhaps a little drunk. Oh, the blue-smoke was one thing, harmless, socially-acceptable. But this... Her vision swam. Images ran and congealed like whirling paint, some doubling, tripling and then suddenly coalescing into crystal clarity. Her other senses seemed sharpened, not blunted. Her skin tingled, her hearing picked out the smallest of sounds. Any movement produced long, trailing tracers of light. She felt as if she peered into another plane of existence, as if a doorway to another world had opened and she stood poised to enter.

Had she broken through to the realm of the Spirits then? The ancient worship of those primal beings sometimes intersected with the designs of Vanera, both rites of worship sometimes mutually inclusive. One had sprung from the other, after all. Perhaps this was such a time as dark shapes flitted around her, thin and whip-like, moving with purpose.

But no, this was much more secular than that. These four shadows were acolytes of Vanera who worked their mother goddess’ magic. Quietly, eerily, they smoothed Iolyn’s veil and gown, rubbed oil on her forehead, wrists and ankles, and murmured soft encouragement in her ear.

“You are beautiful,” one said in a tremulous voice, a talking shade. “And soon you will be transcendent.”

“You will change,” another whispered from somewhere. “But remain the same.”

“All is one in the eyes of the Spirits,” the third cajoled, her words echoing throughout the room. “And yet, you will be reborn to another Way.”

The fourth leaned in close, her breath sweet from drugs and wine, her face a grinning mask. “Remember your purpose,” she rasped. “Blessed is the one who Turns.”

Iolyn bit her lip. It would be so easy to laugh. What nonsense! This was thrice-removed from the purely spiritual. So convincing were these four yet, in truth, they were not true acolytes but, rather, hirelings of the Ahnkan, reciting dialog as if from a vid. Iolyn wasn’t so drugged that she didn’t know what was happening to her. The acolyte/hirelings too were playing their parts in this ‘theatre’ of hers.

Yes, it was her play, her creation. It had all been mapped out so Vanera’s ritual could be observed, so that the teachings Iolyn followed could at least be acknowledged. She owed that much to the deity who had shown her salvation.

Yet the more the wine and its secret substances worked on her, the more dream-like everything around her became. She breathed deeper and slower, the shaking in her knees subsided. She felt giddy, like she could fly, her head spinning.

It was real. But a reality different from the Ancients’ practiced laws.

She would Turn.

But, then again, she would not.

She laughed then, throwing her head back and letting her emotion pour forth. Yes! This was the moment she had been waiting for. All the planning, all the expense, all the subterfuge, all the research and practice, all the danger. All for this moment.

No more Claudia/Iolyn Honin-Zay. Just me, she thought. Only me to do what I want, where I want with whomever I choose. I will not be put down again! I will be free like the Terrans.

She laughed again at her own observation. Her freedom would encompass more than that. She not only would emulate the Terran Way. She would do what no one had attempted before. She would change completely. She would become a Terran. Through a different type of Turning ritual.

Thanks to the Ahnkan and his illicit nano-tech.

The acolytes took her hands, leading her like a child out of the room into the long corridor beyond. More flickering darkness here, only the occasional torch inset at intervals into wall sconces lit the way. The acolytes chanted as one now, their voices soft and warbling, the song carrying Iolyn along like a wave.

Yes, she did feel as if she existed in a dream. Her feet barely touched the ground. She seemed hollow, invisible. She knew for a certainty if the acolytes released her, she would rise up like an airship. Her body, now insubstantial and fleeting, would pass right through stone and wood as easily as a knife through butter-cream.

She tripped once but four pairs of hands steadied her. She realized she had been holding her breath. At the end of this hallway would be the culmination of her pain. Only a few more steps...

Glorious! Glorious! she exulted again. Even now I cannot believe it!

In a few short moments (or was it much longer than that?), Iolyn and her guides entered another room. An intricately wrought wooden door opened at their approach. Above the portal, a bas-relief face (some demon perhaps?) grinned through fanged lips at Iolyn as the door swung inward. Iolyn thought she heard laughter, as if this sculpted door-guardian was conveying a message to her--“Beyond this threshold, there is no turning back”.

So be it, she thought. I am ready.

This chamber was much more opulent than the first, larger, circular in shape with great, carved beams vaulting upward around the perimeter, all made entirely of wood. Troyat? Smooth, dark and gleaming, troyat wood was prized for its beauty and strength. Even here. The Ahnkan criminal appreciated such artistry and even in her stupefied state, Iolyn appreciated that.

The ceiling above arched and spiraled upward into a conical shape. The night sky shone downward through an iris-like opening at the cone’s peak, sending a shaft of moonslight directly into the center of the room. Iolyn giggled, her head now heavy and lolling upon her shoulders.

No! How could she laugh now? This was no time for weakness! This is what she had been waiting for. Her moment had come. She must act her own part. The time for laughter would be later, when all was done and she had succeeded.

With a sudden, renewed strength, she jerked her arms free from the acolytes’ grips. Steadying herself, she walked toward that wide beam of light where, illuminated in its brilliant lambency, a design, a rune-pic, lay drawn on the floor. Its curving lines and harsh angles looked like some mad, grimacing face. Another demon? No, none of those evil personas served Vanera. This was... what did the Terrans call their Spirits? Angels. This was the face of an angel.

She entered the light. Turning slowly, she stood in the middle of the rune-pic, her legs wobbling only a little. Around her, the acolytes moved in and out of sight. To her right, at a slight angle, a brazier burned, small blue flames lapping upward. Four butchered hennits hung upside down from the ceiling, their blood dripping into ceremonial goblets. A zentil hog, splayed and bloody, was tied to an altar. Behind that, she could make out a mat lying on the floor.

A figure, draped in black, stood beside it.

The chanting grew louder. She closed her eyes, her head spun. She felt on fire, as if she would burst into flame. “Vanera,” she whispered. “Mother Goddess. Help me... help me.”

Her gown and veil were removed. Fingertips whispered over her flesh, touching, stroking, smearing some dark, viscous liquid on her. Iolyn moaned, swaying to arcane, unbidden rhythms.

She swooned then but was caught before she hit the floor. Her body was lifted like a sack of beyan fruit and carried somewhere. Not far. The mat? Yes. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Rounded, dark figures loomed over her, backlit by the brazier’s fire, shafts of light seeming to emanate from the tops of their heads. Her breath came in short gasps, faster and faster. Her heart pounded in her chest. A roaring sounded in her ears.

Those figures parted. Another stood there, the black-draped one. Who...? In its hand was... an injector? How can this be? Vanera’s teachings were of the natural world, her dogma an offshoot of Spirit Worship as the Inborns, in turn, separated from the Cult of Vanera to follow their own more radical Way.

What was a high-tech, sentient-made device doing here as part of the ritual? This was blasphemy! Why...?

For a moment, her mind cleared. Yes. The nano-tech. This too was part of the plan. She remembered then as the injector was placed against her neck. Her body arched upwards as blinding pain coursed through her. The metabolic accelerator...

She opened her mouth to scream.