Page 12 of Silent Lucidity

Wrenching his gaze away from the pool, he crossed the remainder of the courtyard and passed into the nave—a massive, high-ceilinged chamber serving as the Order’s primary training space. Dozens of acolytes, clad in form-fitting black combat suits, utilized the space now, practicing hand-to-hand combat or the use of various melee weapons. Many of those acolytes faced one another in one-on-one sparring matches under the watch of robed and hooded instructors. Huge, faceless sculptures loomed along the walls, their heads tilted down toward the acolytes below.

The figures were a reminder—the Master was always watching.

Despite the activity, no one spoke. Their movements were largely silent, save for the quick, crackling hisses of energy blades clashing and the dullthwapsof fists, elbows, knees, and feet connecting with bodies. Elsewhere in the temple, acolytes trained with blasters and firearms of various models, but those chambers were removed from the rest and heavily soundproofed. Even here in the nave, noise was dampened; no sound echoed off the metal and stone of its walls, floor, and ceiling.

Tenthil moved to the side of the chamber and followed the wall toward the opposite end. A few acolytes glanced at him as he passed; he was still dressed for Twisted Nethers—tall boots, black pants, and a red and violet padded jacket over a white shirt. His clothing befitted an Ergoth gang member, not an acolyte of the Void. Most of those who looked were punished for their distraction by savage blows from their sparring partners and instructors.

When Tenthil reached the far side of the room, he rounded the dais from which the Master would sometimes survey the acolytes’ training and stepped through the door behind it. A spiraling staircase led him up to the next floor, where it opened on a long, wide corridor intersected by several perpendicular halls. The walls were dark and devoid of adornment save for the statues standing within recesses on either side every seven paces. Though all the sculptures were similarly attired, each had some variation that distinguished it from the others, a unique trait that set it apart.

Sometimes, the statues exhibited subtle changes to their poses—a head might one day be downturned a few more degrees than before, previously curled fingers inexplicably straightened, and the slant of shoulders altered just enough to change a figure’s balance.

Tenthil wasn’t sure if the changes were real or imagined; he’d been in the temple since childhood, and he’d known nothing of this world when he arrived. This place had been terrifying to him in his youth, and his unease had never quite faded.

He walked through the hallway at a brisk pace, offering no acknowledgement to the silent acolytes he passed. His mind needed to be clear when he stood before the Master; it would be his only defense, the only way to protect himself from dire retribution.

The only way to protect the terran.

The Master’s chamber was at the end of the hallway. A single acolyte stood outside the entry door, one of only three beings in the Order who’d not undergone the vow of silence—Corelthi. She was a volturian with sharp facial features, blue-gray skin, and glowing orange markings on her face and neck. Her eyes—sclerae and all—were the same color as her markings.

She held her gaze on Tenthil as he approached, her slightly lifted chin and lowered brows conveying her sentiments as clearly as though she’d spoken them aloud—which she had several times before.

You do not belong here, and, soon enough, you will be put down like the animal you are.

Corelthi served as the Master’s right hand, a deadly assassin in her own right made all the more dangerous through her devotion to the Void and to her leader.

Tenthil stopped in front of her. Despite her formidability and her position, he was not afraid of her—his fear was reserved for the being who awaited behind the door.

“Would that you had not come back,” Corelthi said. “It has been my wish to hunt you down and plunge a blade into your insolent heart for years.”

Suddenly more aware of the blaster and flechette pistol tucked into his belt, Tenthil pressed his teeth together, careful to prevent the muscles of his jaw from bunching. The Order had gone to great lengths in their attempts to take his voice, and he’d fought hard to keep it.

But silence seemed the only appropriate response in this situation.

Corelthi narrowed her eyes and shook her head. “Disciplined only when it suits you. You are not worthy of his favor.”

Stepping aside, she tugged the door open.

Tenthil turned his head forward and stepped through the doorway into the dark chamber beyond, affording Corelthi no more of his attention.

The Master’s chamber was a circular room with a high, pointed ceiling constantly swirling with images like those in the courtyard—occasional glimpses of nebulas and tiny stars amidst the deepest black. The walls were shrouded behind thick shadow, which was impenetrable even to Tenthil’s eyes; he was certain hidden doors lurked within the darkness, perhaps even one leading to the Master’s personal quarters, but he could never know for certain.

The only light in the room projected from the center of the ceiling in a cone, as though rising from the darkness of the Void itself. It fell directly upon a simple wooden chair situated in the middle of the room and illuminated the gray floor stones for several meters around the lone piece of furniture.

“Sit.”

The voice came from everywhere at once, curving around the room as though it were in command of the laws of acoustics rather than at their mercy. Tenthil knew it well; the Master’s voice was the only one he’d heard for years after being brought to the Infinite City as a youngling. Deep and smooth, it was undercut by a barely perceptible, raspy whisper that gave it an otherworldly quality.

Tenthil strode to the chair, turned, and sat. His stomach twisted into knots, but he did not allow the sensation to distract him; he forced his thoughts aside.

The ensuing silence was broken only by the sound of Tenthil’s heartbeat in his own ears, a slow thumping that seemed to permeate the room. Tenthil had endured this often enough to know the game, to know the Master’s propensity for sewing uncertainty and fear.

He heard a whisper of cloth behind him. A moment later, something brushed against his right shoulder. He glanced down to see the Master’s long, gloved fingers curling over his shoulder. For years, Tenthil had never heard a sound when the Master moved. Either the Master was growing careless, or Tenthil’s senses were sharper than ever.

“Show me,” the Master said.

Tenthil held his memories at bay, focusing only on the present—on the chill in the air, on the ever-moving darkness overhead, on the chronic ache in his throat, on the strong, spindly fingers settled on his shoulder.

Those fingers squeezed. “You test my patience, Tenthil. Your will is strong, but I will have what I want. Give it to me and save yourself the discomfort.”

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