The Years of Apocalypse - A Time Loop Progression Fantasy

The Lowfort District of Palendurio turned out to be made up of a great deal of Persaman immigrants. A decade ago, they might have been welcoming and open. As the war with Persama had deepened, Baracueli citizens had trusted the people from that region less and less. Petty crimes and de facto segregation had made the Persmans wary of outsiders in return. No one she talked to actually sympathized with Dawn's Peace or the various rebellions. Most were, in fact, former allies of Baracuel who had resettled there because they'd been allies, but they'd had to hire their own people to act as guards nonetheless. With the southern time traveler set to siege Alkazaria, the wariness of outsiders was likely only going to get worse the longer she waited.

Mirian hadn't paid much attention to the district in previous loops, and had no contacts there. She went around learning about where to find certain shops and who to talk to. Ironically, it was Mirian's transformation magic that impeded her ability to get information. As soon as she removed the bindings that had lightened her skin and hair, they opened up more. For once, being mistaken for a Persaman was going to be a benefit. They were also happy to speak Cuelsin with her, which was a nice change.

First, she found a nearby apartment she could rent for the month. Then she bought a new dueling outfit and rapier for an exorbitant price, making it clear she was looking for someone who could really tutor her in dueling to anyone she talked to. She continued to overspend on clothes and meals until someone suggested Rostal Bedeu.

"But you'll have to convince him," the man said, looking at her doubtfully. "He has no time for wet sand." She vaguely recalled the Persaman expression.

"Sure. Where can I find him?"

"The Sanctuary on Fifthday." The man hesitated. "You are Isheer?"

"No. Luminate."

"Ah. You will have to wait outside the inner Sanctaury, then. The outer circles are open to all. You are welcome to attend and listen."

"Do I really need to wait until Fifthday?"

He shrugged. "He lives alone. He keeps no guests. He visits no pejuen. Maybe you can find him."

Pejuen, she knew, were the regular communal gatherings a neighborhood held, usually once a week after market day. She'd learned about them in Madinahr when one of her friends had been surprised they didn't do them in Baracuel.

She asked around a bit more, but either no one knew where Rostal lived, or no one wanted to tell her. To pass the time, she practiced her dueling forms and bladework in the apartment, then worked on her leyline detectors. Ideally, Troytin would die, but still prevent the Divine Monument from exploding so that she could get new data.

On Fifthday, she headed to the Isheer Sanctuary.

The Sanctuary was in the middle of the district. Long ago, Lowfort had been just that—a small fortress linked by two walls to Charlem Palace and Ducastil so that the valley by the river had its own strongpoint. Several centuries later, the fort had been knocked down. Sometime after the Unification War, the Persaman mercenaries who had fought on the Baracuel side had settled there. They'd torn down the houses on top of the rubble and replaced it with an Isheer Sanctuary and a park that surrounded it.

The gardens around the park were meticulously cared for, though the winter months made for more shades of brown than green. Still, there were children playing ballgames on the lawn, or just running around chasing each other, while elders half-watched, half-gossiped. The children would behave while their parents were in the weekly ceremony, she knew. Her friend in preparatory school had told her that every child's worst fear was being disciplined by the elders during the prayers. Mirian had at first thought that meant they would get a spanking to remember, but no, it was a threat to the family's reputation, and they took that seriously. She supposed she sort of understood that. Family reputation had been important in Arriroba too.

The building was a strange thing. It looked like it should be made out of sandstone and plaster, like so many of the famous structures in east Baracuel and Persama were, but it was made out of limestone and painted brick. It still had the vaulted arches and honeycombed ceilings common to those types of buildings, and the strange mix of architectural styles and materials made it feel alien amidst the other buildings surrounding it.

The structure was open; it had no walls at all, only its complex ceiling supported by rows of evenly spaced pillars. In many ways, it was the opposite of the Luminate Temples that were designed to keep out unwanted light.

In the middle of the Isheer Sanctuary was the inner dome, and just behind it, the single bell tower. The Isheer adherents were kneeling in prayer, eyes cast towards a statue of the Ominian. Behind that statue was a large, malformed block of obsidian. A rector, dressed in fine robes the colors of a sunrise, stood to the side of the statue. That was so he didn't block the worshiper's direct access to the Ominian, she knew.

The rector leading the prayers was being watched by a Luminate Guard off to the side. He was there to make sure the Isheer didn't preach anything directly blasphemous. The Luminate Order was tolerant, but only to a point.

The Isheer worshipers believed that the Prophets of the Luminates had no divine blessing, and therefore the institutions they founded—like the Luminate Order—were illegitimate. They believed that the Ominian was the singular Prophet, and it was They who interpreted visions of an even more remote singular God. While in Baracuel, however, they couldn't exactly just say that.

That was about as much as Mirian knew. When she was young, she hadn't thought much about it. Now, the idea the Prophets were regular people doing their best was… well, it made quite a bit of sense. The Ominian had given her dreams, but she had to interpret them. If all the Prophets were like her, then they all had their flaws and struggles. How did the Ominian pick who would join the time loop? she wondered, as she watched the prayers continue from a bench in the outer circle. I want to believe he had good reasons for who he chose… but then why would he choose a monster like Troytin?

The rector said a few words to those gathered. Mirian strained to listen, but some of the words sounded like nonsense. Is he speaking a mix of Adamic and Cuelsin? That had to be it.

She could get the gist of his speech though: do right by your neighbors, and look around you for clues to taking the right path. "We cannot see the shape of the whole world. It is beyond our —. But we can see the shape of our friends. The shape of our family. The shape of our —. That is enough."

That was literally true in that humans could not perceive the fourth arcane dimension where magic flowed, nor could they perceive the entirety of Elder Gods like the Ominian. It was much like trying to view the Divine Monument all at once.

The rector led those gathered in a final prayer, then the Isheer rose and began to depart, and Mirian embraced her focus as they did. There was no rush to it. Most people began to gather in little circles, laughing and talking, while parents moved to sit by grandparents as the children continued to play. A few adults joined the children in their games, while couples wandered the garden, hand in hand.

A deep longing settled over Mirian as she watched it.

Her attention was snapped to a man departing the inner sanctuary alone. As soon as she saw him, there was no question that he was Rostal Bedeu.

If Liamar's soul was like white-caps in a windy sea, Rostal's was like the thunderous waves of a thousand-year storm. His casual walk was that of a predator. She could also see his muscles beneath his white silk shirt. His dark hair was peppered silver, but his face was more weathered than wrinkled. Damn, she thought.

"Master Rostal Bedeu," she said, striding up to him. "What do I need to offer you to get you to teach me?"

Rostal kept walking, so Mirian started walking beside him. Unlike him, she didn't quite command the presence that caused crowds to part for him. His voice was deep, and his Cuelsin had an accent to it. "How did you hear about me?"

"I was buying a new rapier and your name came up as one of the best."

Rostal considered that. His path took them into the tight cobble streets. With most of the locals still in the park, though, the streets were nearly empty. Since it was Palendurio, it still meant there were people everywhere, but less than usual. "How did you identify me?"

"It was obvious," Mirian said. It was too early in the cycle for her to start drawing attention to herself. Saying she had soul sight was the same as announcing she had a focus. The likelihood a Deeps contact was listening was low, but not zero.

Rostal stopped and turned to face her. "And what has the Ominian said to you?"

Is this a test? Does he suspect I'm a Prophet already? she wondered. Her first instinct was to say he had commanded her to save the world, but that wasn't quite right. There was only one command he had given; the rest was inference. "To grow," she said. "The rest, I still need to figure out."

The large Persaman man frowned as he considered that. "And what does it mean to grow?"

"To change. To become stronger." Viridian's ecology lessons were on her mind. "And to interact with the world around you. The flower that takes minerals from the soil might be taking away a poison for one plant, or needed nutrients for another. It might feed a sigil bee, or it might be the trap that lets a swift kill it. The tree that grows tall shelters many species, but also stops other trees from growing there."

"Hmm," said Rostal. "And what is it you wish to learn?"

Mirian glanced around. "To become stronger and faster. That is what I'll say in this place, publicly. In respect to both our secrets."

This time, Rostal looked at her. "Hmm. I have decided. I will test you. Be warned. I do not abide laziness, nor excuses. Follow." She seemed to have passed the first test of his.

Rostral had what turned out to be a fairly expensive house. It had servant's quarters and extra bedrooms, but those were all empty when they passed them. The house was a two story hollow square, with a courtyard in its center.

"Wait," he commanded, then returned shortly with a rapier. It glimmered in the sunlight. The basket hilt was woven in complex spirals of steel. "Tell me," he asked. "Do you fear death?"

"Not anymore," Mirian said truthfully. "But I do fear an end." She was hoping—and assuming—that the man respected truth. Perhaps wisdom, too, though she wasn't sure how much of that she had.

"Let us test that. We fight to first blood. Hold back nothing."

He came at her like a whirlwind, though she could immediately tell he was holding back. She quickly parried his first thrust, then used distance to evade his follow up. Mirian sought to go on the attack, but his parries were lightning-fast and she quickly found herself on the defensive again.

She circled around, making sure he couldn't pin her back to the wall, but he started moving to the side as he attacked, forcing her back into a corner.

He said to hold nothing back, she thought. Let's test if he meant it.

She had her arcane catalyst at her belt, so she used it to tap into her auric mana, putting a solid block of force in front of Rostral's feet, then using magnetic force to force his blade to go wide.

For a moment, Rostral's eyes went wide. Then he reacted. With her focus, Mirian could see his aura flare, extending out farther from his body, while a plume of it engulfed his blade. Her raw magic—nowhere near as potent as glyph magic—dissipated, quickly enough that Rostral was able to recover and throw himself to the side so that Mirian's opportunistic cut missed him by a hair.

That was fast. This isn't his first time fighting an arcanist, Mirian immediately knew. She sent a few more bursts of force toward him, trying to keep him off-balance, but his soul flared and he came in with such speed that it was Mirian's turn to stumble back. She tripped on the uneven paving stones and sprawled backwards, only just keeping her grip on her blade.

Rostral's blade came down, then and she knew she wouldn't be in time to block it. She sent a wild thrust out toward his leg, hoping her counter-attack could draw blood before his swing did.

He danced out of the way, his stroke continuing uninterrupted. Mirian felt a line of hot white pain as the blade cut through her cheek.

"Hmm," Rostral said, examining her. "You held back."

That was true. She could have used her soul repository to enhance her raw magic, though she'd never exactly tried that before. She also could have used Eclipse instead of a steel blade. "So did you," she said, rising to her feet. For some reason, the words felt strange on her tongue. Maybe the fall had shaken her worse than she realized. She currently had a great deal of adrenaline coursing through her.

"So. You are not a liar, at least," the blademaster said, sheathing his weapon in one quick motion. "Why do you wish to learn from me?"

"I need to kill two greater labyrinthine horrors inside an antimagic room. Suppression field, not entropy field." Of the two rooms in the Vault, she still thought it would be the easier one to pass.

Rostral looked at her. "I will not speak Cuelsin. Say it in Adamic."

Mirian stared at him. Adamic was the language of the Persamans. "I don't speak Adamic," she said.

"You were just speaking Adamic," he said. "And you understand the Adamic I've spoken to you."

Her blood ran cold. "What?" she asked. "That's not possible. I think I'd…" But then her mind fled back to her father, teaching her words because none of the other students in her elementary school could understand her. A memory surfaced of him patiently reciting phrases. They had been in Cuelsin.

"Fuck!" she said eloquently, and turned and smashed her fist into the wall behind her. Sharp pain shot through her fist, making her squeeze her eyes shut. Quickly, she drew from her hidden soul repository to heal the knuckle she'd just broken, then healed the cut on her cheek as an afterthought.

"Sorry. I have… missing memories. From when I was a child. I guess I just discovered another one."

Rostal shrugged. "You do speak Adamic like a child. And your — is strange. Still, I will speak no other language. That is not—" and then he said another word she didn't recognize. Negotiable? she filled in.

"I'll learn it," she said.

"You are an —?" The last word was garbled again.

She spoke Cuelsin because she otherwise couldn't find the words. "I'm an arcanist, if that's what you just asked. And I already know the basics of soul magic."

Rostal didn't correct her. "What is your purpose?" he asked.

"To save lives."

"Ah, the sad tale of many. Learn to kill to serve life. But if you do not fear death, why fear the death of others?"

"People should have a chance to live a full life," she said. That seemed self-evident to her.

He said something, but the words came too quickly, and there were too many she didn't recognize. He stared at her, perhaps expecting a response. "I will give you a chance. First, learn — Adamic. You will do this by helping in the elementary school. When you can understand that last question, I will give you a final test."

Mirian looked at him. She couldn't exactly force him to teach her, and he seemed like a strong-willed person. He wouldn't be blackmailed or intimidated into anything. Perhaps the coming apocalypse might stir him into action, but she wasn't sure if he could be trusted with that information yet. Many of the Persamans here had helped Baracuel fight in the wars down south, and were loyal to the state. If the state was still saying she was a fugitive, who would he trust?

It was another delay, another thing she needed to understand, but she could at least admit it would be useful. If the southern time traveler didn't speak Cuelsin, mastery of the most widespread Persaman language would be helpful. And if they didn't want to speak to her, she might need it to steal away their allies to isolate them. And maybe it'll help me remember, she reasoned.

Ultimately, she needed to make progress in the Labyrinth, and that meant she needed a way to deal with the antimagic suppression fields. If Rostal's teachings could do what she hoped, it would give her an edge that would follow her in the loops. And that was worth a few language lessons.

THIS CHAPTER UPLOAD FIRST AT NOVELBIN.COM