Psychopomp
V

She did not die immediately. Ewain’s thoughts return to him as his own, his senses in tow. Lying there, terrified, suffering just as the pharmas wore off and left her to feel as life painfully departs her body. Now tormented endlessly.

Tangerine illumination welcomes him back into the chamber, with the Consul at his side though a few steps distant. Ewain squeezes and releases his hands, reminds himself that he is within his own body, formulating his own thoughts, interpreting his own feelings.

“It seems we were lucky to get 48,” Art chimes in as if reading his mind.

Indeed. Straight to the epicenter, no peripheral site examinations, lying to the victim. One, maybe two more evals the Consul could have done. Given her more human connection, something to offset the torment or make her think she is not alone. Ewain’s frustration mounts as he thinks of each criticism.

“It was not a complete loss, however.” Art is quick to say. No doubt Ewain’s emotion line is spiking again. “We can deduce the site was in late gestation at that point, and the victim still clings to their physical vessel. I don’t know if you were able to get count, but I tallied seven late-stage sacs, perhaps two nascent ones with more surely at this point. We can work from this, Psychopompos, for site preparation. No need to harry the Consul. Let us focus on the victim’s psych profile.”

Upon the words, Ewain ponders. His observations matched his partner’s. “Did you attempt Eval-60?” He had to know.

The Consul steps toward him and begins removing the wires and chip, “I returned to the site, entered to gauge whether I could tolerate it. Five shots, and I couldn’t.”

Rubbing his face, Ewain sits up as soon as he is emancipated from everything. Everything the Consul felt, Ewain felt. There was fear. Doubt in abilities so rigid and long without real use. He calms himself with a breath. “Your pharma saturation is probably beyond what you are used to now,” he offers. “You could not safely or properly administer any further shots without overloading your system. Next time,” perhaps there would not be, not in the remainder of the old man’s life, “Consul, do not offer the victim false hope or assurance.”

Hesitating for a moment, the Consul walks to the nearby hearth, “It was not false when I offered it.” Ephemeral blood-red streaks crack in the hearth as he throws in the wooden chip.

Words are just promissory notes for fulfilment. They mean nothing without action. These words echo to Ewain in a voice he once knew. He does not speak them now. “The victim, she kept speaking of a deal. ‘No more deal.’ Your preliminary report mentioned recent pharma abuse. Is there a relation?”

“I’ve some hypotheses.”

“Excuse me, Consul,” a young frayman, a member of one of the Order’s clerical suborders, interrupts. His tightly cropped hair is the first thing they see as the man immediately bows, “Psychopompos,” he bows again. “Please forgive the intrusion, gentlemen, however the Warden and a Krypteian have come by. They are requesting an audience with the Psychopompos.”

The Consul takes a deep breath before he answers, “Thank you, Pierre. Please guide them to the Founder Room and inform them we will be with them momentarily.”

“Yes, Consul,” and with another bow the young frayman leaves.

The Consul turns back to Ewain, “I think it may be best if you deduce your own theories for this case, absent any bias or influence from my own. The victim lived in a housing complex with hundreds of other tenants. I’ve interviewed them all, any known associates, professional and personal, anyone she may have had transaction with the past month, and her family. I’ve filtered for primary POIs (Persons of Interest) and generated reports for each which are at your disposal whenever you want. Whomever you wish to interview, I will take you to them. Once we speak with the Warden and this Krypteian, we can begin immediately.”

Ewain rises from the seat and takes lead behind the Consul, “You have pictures, procurements of Norma’s personal effects? Her room? I did not have time to check on our way here.”

“Yes. We will examine them before the interviews. There are some effects you will want to see personally.” They emerge back into the vaulted halls with pictures and sculptures all around.

Ewain nods in silence and studies each work of art they pass. Every Mission is laden with works such as these, and after each case Ewain liked to take a few minutes to observe them. The history they tell always differs in some small detail or perspective. No matter how many times he travelled to a Ward, he learned something new, yet here is a rarity, a Ward he had never been to. This case already, however, leaves him with little confidence that he will have time to study any of its works.

He recognizes a portrait of the Order’s founder, Helias Payens, his warm summer eyes and jet-black hair always easy to distinguish. Every Mission mounted some portrait of the First Psychopomp in its quarters. Some the conjuration of someone’s imagination and others the recall of memory. Here, he stands dressed sharply in the humble attire they still wear nearly a thousand years later, bestowing upon a kneeling crowd of what would be the first generation of Psychopomps the knowledge of deathly torment.

Further down, tucked into a well-lit display, stand statues depicting what all Vesperterrans knew as the Twilight of the Demichorians, or at least this sculptor’s rendition of it. Three Demichorians, Epimnos, Levias, and Lykos, descendants of union between Ichorian and Man, last of their lineages, locked in the feverish combat with sword and spear that killed all but one three hundred and fifty years ago.

“Consul,” Ewain begins, “can you elaborate further how this ward has achieved no murder?”

They round a corner into an atrium awash in hanging gardens, bright-colored vegetables and fruits ornamenting so many while luscious weaves of juniper and ivy cover pillars and hang from the ceiling.

“I told you earlier I have attended more death here than I ever did as a Psychopomp. The very first thing my predecessor showed me when I arrived here was an execution. Public square near the center of the Ward, crowd so large they overcrowded the nearby buildings,” Ewain notices the Consul’s hand tap along the pocket where he stowed his pipe, “and eleven people upon the stage. Most young, barely older than you if at all. The Warden at the time, Klaus Schaderfell, stood next to them, and I remember his every word. ‘Do no harm. Even the very thought can bud into malicious action and by then it is too late. The people upon this stage are those that would in their own selfish actions sow in this ward a sin most reviled by the Ichorians. The genesis which thrust them from this world, and so to safeguard our community we must be proactive, not reactive.’”

The Consul pauses, still pining for his pipe. “If I recall, a couple of those on stage were accused of adultery, ‘a crime which could spur the offended spouse to rage and malice.’ Some got too inebriated and started a row. ‘Loss of rational judgment and willingness to use violence against a fellow citizen.’ His executioner beheaded them all. Blade started to blunt near the end, so those last few required some extra swings to finish, but it was done and the whole Ward saw.”

“By what basis are people tried and sentenced?”

“Schaderfells have a singular policy: obey. Any who deviate at all from protocol, truancy to work, aggression of the slightest in any social settings, speech of dissent, they are apprehended and, in most cases, executed. He has his own Ward Security that monitors for such things, but his biggest source of information are the people. Neighbors and strangers will prosecute anyone hoping that pointing out others’ guilt will show their own obedient piety.”

“I see,” Ewain says, “So then you attend and sanction each execution.”

“I do, but Klaus’ son, the current Warden, has attempted to ease the parameters for execution here.” The Consul brings them outside a vine-wrapped archway with two braziers that rage fiery green. A towering statue identical in appearance to those at the Ward’s gates takes its place at the center of the next chamber. Pools of water sit in rings around it with fountains carved of shining stone that dispense crystalline water. Torches along the walls alight the room with dour green flames. Near the statue’s feet are three men, two dressed sharp in their three-piece silk suits while one stands to the side, a meticulously preened vest worn in place of a jacket.

The younger of the fully dressed men approaches, his chestnut hair neatly slicked back and mustache trimmed tight with pointed ends. Upon the rest of his face, however, linger lines and bags that speak to days without rest.

“This is Voigt of the Schaderfell patricians,” the Consul introduces, “Warden of the Haas Ward. Warden, this is the Psychopomp.”

Flawless white teeth peek through a tired but courteous smile as they shake hands. Ewain notes the restraint that tempers the Warden’s otherwise firm grip. “The first time in thirty years a Psychopomp has had cause to be here,” his voice is precise yet weighted, “I hope you can understand if we do not consider it a pleasure to meet you.”

“I do not consider it a pleasure to be here.”

Voigt nods with understanding before stepping aside and gesturing toward the oldest man of his party, “This is Klaus Schaderfell, my predecessor and father.” Not a hint of pleasantness is to be found in the tight-lipped and hardened eyes of the old man and his combed white hair.

“No name?” he gruffly asks.

“Not necessary,” Ewain returns Klaus’ disapproving gaze. “We will not know each other long enough.”

“We must address you somehow.”

“Psychopompos is sufficient.”

“Too general. What is your rank? Surely your Order has some hierarchical system to differentiate between the novices and masters? We do not want to mistake your position.”

“Journeyman,” the Psychopomp replies with a subdued grin.

“’Journeyman?’” Klaus repeats hollowly, “then the lower ranks of your Order, I presume.”

“Rest assured, I imagine my visit will not be the last here for the Psychopomps. You may yet meet many higher-ranking members more to your liking.”

Voigt smoothly cuts back in just enough to regain attention, “I certainly hope not…Psychopompos,” he looks to the Consul who acknowledges it as the proper address, then motions to the last gentleman, “This is my associate, Anaxander Agis.”

Ewain shakes the man’s hand, firm, cold, and confident it is, “Why are you here, Krypteian?” Even if the frayman had not specified it earlier, Ewain could immediately tell what the man was. Oiled black hair grown down to his shoulders, bushy oiled beard that plumes from the bronzed skin of his face, horizontal scar to the right of his olive-green eyes, and the pearlescent sidearm held under his left arm by a black leather harness. A perfect representation of the city’s Ecclesiarchial secret police.

“The Warden is an acquaintance who requested my presence,” he replies with a disarming smile. “Simple as that.”

“Your presence,” Voigt begins, “signifies both an achievement for my family and a failure for me, Psychopompos. Please help me understand how this could happen, so that I can ensure this poisonous sin afflicting the other wards does not take root here.”

“Are we sure this is not suicide?” Klaus interjects dismissively, “Some craven girl’s foolish and selfish decision?”

“Would that ease your conscience?” Ewain asks sharply.

“Absolutely,” the older Schaderfell answers without shame, “It would make more sense as to how this could happen here.”

“Murders rarely make rational sense, and this is unquestionably a murder.”

“How can you Psychopomps be so sure?” Voigt asks now with genuine curiosity, “you only ever permit yourselves upon the crime scene, and in this case, you leave it be for days. What proof is there?”

“As your people in quarantine can attest, the site is afflicted and significantly affects the physiology of anyone upon or in proximity to it. With suicide, death is the goal of the person in question. They have concluded it to be their end and seek it. There is no cognitive or energetic incongruity. Their corpse and spirit may linger for days, weeks, with no environmental affliction. In murder, the victim is suddenly beset by intense emotion, they are violated in barbaric ways. They are not ready for death; it is against their will. We live in the Holy Land, the Holy City itself, Warden. The fabric of everything around us is so sensitive to living energy, and nothing stains that fabric like the sin of murder. Within days, land is reviling.”

Voigt lingers in silence on Ewain’s words, “The sin most reviled by the Ichorians. Inherent in its treachery, the impetus for the downfall of this world and its abandonment by the Gods. I refuse to let this plague befall this Ward, Psychopompos. Not under my responsibility. I will execute every sinner of this Ward to restore it and get our innocents back to work.”

“That will not be necessary or prudent,” Ewain quickly answers. “Deducing the killer is important to our objective, so they cannot do this again.”

“And how quickly can you do this? Four days it has already been, the epsilon disruption from this site is causing power outages throughout the district, our supply quota report to the Keep is near due, and people begin to doubt the competency of my leadership.”

“It will be done within the day.”

Klaus scoffs, “A day to complete yet it takes you four to simply arrive? Let us go to the site and be done with it now.”

“No.” says Ewain.

“’No?’” Klaus is bewildered and he laughs in disbelief, “No? Murder is your Order’s business, but I understand its implications go far beyond the one life taken. They exacerbate with time and given enough of it one murder condemns millions. Thousands we have had to evacuate from the area. Half of a block without any power. Soon our productivity slips, the Keep reduces the epsilon that gives us power, more districts go into blackout, and people agitate. Seeds of chaos.

“Under our control, this never happened, people obey, they have their lives and livelihood. Now something seemingly beyond it occurs and what is the solution? Wait and let it worsen.” Closer the old man comes to Ewain, his gangly finger pointing with every word, his eyes not entranced by the celestial ones they gaze into. “And you tell us no? Tell the dead no? From what I have heard, they suffer the most and even more so with time. There are millions out there,” he snarls with some form of emotion, “been waiting for centuries. Do your people ignore their screams? Behind these comfortable walls?”

“Zero,” Art petitions. “Zero right now, Psychopompos.”

Spikes whip like burgeoning flames within him, coals simmering. He must be stifling it well, for the pompous old man no doubt would capitalize if he detected even a minuscule reaction. “What makes joyous times so forlorn?” Ewain asks.

“What?”

“If you have any idea what joy is, you will understand. Any empathic person will. What is the most forlorn aspect of joyous moments?”

“That they are fleeting. Swiftly so,” answers Anaxander, sitting nearby upon the wall of a fountain. A subtle smile never far hidden from his bearded face.

Momentary surprise pauses the next part of Ewain’s question, “And our moments of suffering?”

“Glacial. In no hurry to depart.” Anaxander again responds.

“Imagine suffering beyond our bodily comprehension, initiated in an instant when you feel terror as you have never felt it before. It arrives in a wave you cannot stop and desecrates the vessel through which you experienced all of life. All that remains is your spirit, stripped bare of all senses and joyous memories, now entirely incompatible with this world, and you cannot leave. You are a shadow unable to enjoy or feel a thing but despair and rage.” Ewain looks now to Klaus, stepping toward him, arms crossed, “I know their screams, more than you ever will.”

“What must you do before you cleanse the site?” Voigt grabs his father upon the shoulder and tenderly pulls him back.

“I must speak with the people that knew the victim.”

“To discover who the killer is?”

“To discover who she is.”

“And what difference will that make?”

“A profound difference.”

“Interviews,” Anaxander rises from his perch, “I would very much like to observe.”

“Yes,” Voigt concurs with strong approval, “A guarantor of truth should be invaluable and expedite your efforts. I am very much interested in what you seek to discover.”

Disapproval stirs in Ewain, and the Krypteian no doubt detects it, “The details we will exhume will be deeply personal…information I will not have known by more than what is absolutely necessary.”

“By the Ecclesiarch’s decree, none but the Psychopomps may enter murder sites, yet nothing can stop the Krypteian from simply following in your footsteps in all its precursors,” Voigt states, “going where you go, speaking with whomever you speak to. You do not have the exclusive right to mine information from these people, Psychopompos.”

“As it pertains to the victim, to this case, even the Krypteian must be bound by oath to keep information confidential. If the Krypteian wishes to be of assistance, he must swear an oath to keep pertinent information to himself.”

“That is preposterous,” Klaus exclaims.

“We have a right to be informed of any information that will help us deter any future murders,” his son pleads with more even tone.

“Only the Ichorians can divine themselves the right to know a person’s most intimate details,” Ewain does not budge, “Your positions do not elevate you above mortal men.”

“And yet you, a mortal yourself, possess this right?”

“By necessity only.”

Anaxander steps between them, “I shall do as you ask, Psychopompos. I only seek the truth, nothing more.” He gives Klaus and Voigt a look of reassurance, “Let us administer this oath and keep the dead waiting no longer.”

“Swear to confidentiality. Whatever information we discover of the girl, lest it directly affect public health, must be kept secret out of respect for her.”

Without word, Anaxander pulls from his coat pocket a small, thick book wrapped in well-worn brown leather and an indigo ribbon scented like nectar. Clutching it in his left hand, he holds it out and puts his right hand, its fingers outstretched and tight together, over his heart.

Ewain then places his right hand on top of the book and with his left grasps the pulse point of the Krypteian’s left wrist just enough to feel its unflinching, steady beat.

With eyes focused deep into the awing corneas of each, forbidden to once deviate from this ocular bond, the Krypteian begins. “I, Anaxander Agis, from the Eurotas, of the Vesperterra across the sea. Born in the year of the Aquila, one-thousand two-hundred twenty-nine years after the Exodus. In the sight of Undryn the Father and Detia the Judge, I vow to uphold the confidentiality of Miss Norma Mortenson, whatever intimate information I learn will never be given breath by my lips so long as I live.”

“Ichorians be with you.”

“Has the Psychopomp been administered the VPT?” Klaus impatiently asks just as Ewain finishes his words. He once again narrows the distance between them, looks upon Ewain with outward distaste.

“An absurd question,” the Consul replies, “we are-’”

“Sworn to never kill,” Klaus interrupts, “Yes, we all know the tenets of the Psychopomps. Yet like us, they are mere mortals, siblings all to the great traitor, no blessing of the Ichor in our veins, only sin. Every mortal the Ichorians left in this world is so. All the Orders, by the Ecclesiarchy’s blessing, grant Absolution to members who fulfill their oaths. One does not need Absolution without sin, one must have an oath to be able to break it.”

“You wish to delay the resolution of this case even more?” asks the Consul, a vein of disbelief in his otherwise calm voice.

“Already it has rotted for near five days, and by the Journeyman’s admission another day it will take to finally be done with it. What is another fifteen minutes? Hmm? We have the equipment. We will even do it within your Mission for your convenience.” Venom seethes from his glare, “Every single person, patrician and plebeian alike, are required to take the test to enter this Ward, and all residents once a month for so long as they live. Psychopomps may be privy to many exceptions, but this will not be one of them. If he wishes to step outside this Mission, he must submit to the test.”

Ewain raises his hand toward the Consul before the old man can say a word, “I will speak for myself, Consul.” Firm in place he remains, “If I refuse, then this case will fester longer and your Ward suffer the more.”

“Only if you refuse. The people will know this victim suffers more, that they must suffer more, because a Psychopomp thought himself above a test they must all take.”

“They will also know the system they live under is cracking. One among them committed murder.”

“That is not what the press will read.”

“Do it, Psychopompos,” Art urges, “we will pass and be done with it. The case is our priority.”

“So be it.” The Psychopomp relents.