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  Epos (Maltia)

  16 November 2355

  Ethan’s 26th day on Tersain

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  After my outburst in front of the captain’s cabin, I sleep—on and off—through the entire day and night. When I wake, it’s very early morning.

  I put on the clothes I wore when I first arrived from England, leave my cabin, and head towards one of the laboratories.

  As I expected, when I step into the room I find Archeos there. The old man is alone, absorbed in studying a series of sheets and maps. Hearing someone behind him, he turns around.

  “Oh, Ethan!” he greets me. “Let me see you! Are you alr—?”

  “Archeos… I need to talk to you.”

  The philosopher seems surprised by the firmness in my tone. And indeed, it’s not like me. But today, I woke with a strong resolve in my heart. What I began yesterday with my harsh words, I now want to carry forward in another context.

  “Of course,” says the rebel. “But… what’s the matter, Ethan?”

  I move closer.

  “You sent me out there unprepared, without really knowing what I was doing—and I understand that,” I begin. “But I thought you simply didn’t have much to tell me. Now I see it: you’ve been keeping something significant from me about the whole Energheia affair.”

  “What makes you think that?” asks Aimond, clearly careful not to let any emotion show on his face.

  “Other members of the expedition had some sort of directions… a description of the place where Energheia might be,” I say. “And besides, there’s a set of information you know that implies you’re far more aware than you’ve let on.”

  Yes. It’s time to face this.

  “For example, when you say Energheia is a very important artefact, I don’t believe you heard that from your spies without knowing more,” I go on listing. “Or again, you were certain the code to read the map was located where the map itself was found… that’s hard to believe as a mere intuition. The same goes for your certainty that the Prophets’ map is immune to the islands’ drift problem. And moreover, when you first told me about Energheia, I noticed a strange silence when you spoke its name; it was as if it came naturally to you to speak of it with solemnity, even reverence—and there must be a reason for that.”

  “Mmh… I suppose there is,” admits the old man, after my torrent of words. “All right, Ethan. Sit down. Know, however, that we wouldn’t have kept you in the dark for much longer. We needed to assess your behaviour, and to see whether you were truly worthy of our trust.”

  “I felt like an idiot, not knowing what I was meant to find,” I reply. “It’s one thing not to trust me—I understand it, even if it stings a little. But aside from that, what use was I on the mission if I didn’t even know the details of what I was looking for?”

  “You’re right. We’ll remedy that now,” assures Archeos. “I think Martin will understand if I take it upon myself to tell you everything. By now, I have no more reservations about you.”

  Empty words—unless they’re followed by action. Now we’ll see whether I’m the one who can trust him.

  We sit facing each other. The philosopher intertwines his fingers and says:

  “We learned all of this from our infiltrators within the Republic’s ranks. As we told you, the Republicans are searching for the artefacts of the Star Prophets, and among them there are some of particular importance. Among these is a triad of objects… now, here we tread the line between history and legend, but they should in fact be three relics connected to one another, each with its own peculiarity, and together capable of great value. Unfortunately, we’ve not been able to determine the name of the triad or its purpose. We do, however, know the name of one of its elements.”

  “Energheia.”

  “Exactly,” confirms Archeos. “I assume the name is related to the object’s function, though even so, the word ‘energy’ tells me nothing. In any case, that’s what our agents gathered from the enemy ranks.”

  “But you told me almost all of that before, despite the risk that I might be a spy,” I point out. “Why?”

  “These are facts the Republic already possessed,” the man replies. “Besides, even if the enemy realised we knew about them, it wouldn’t matter. What we didn’t tell you is the following. But first, a premise—something that, in truth, isn’t a secret. The name Energheia appears often in ancient tales, where it’s described as an offering from the Prophets to the Gift.”

  “Gift?”

  “A gift from the gods,” says the old man. “It’s a sort of myth, inspiring a certain reverence towards such an object, whose name represents the very essence of what moves the universe. But you needn’t worry about that; we do not base our investigations on fables and religions. There is, however, something far more important to know, which we hope remains known only to us: we carried out some research following the results of our espionage. By cross-referencing the information with stories about the Prophets, two references emerged—one to the triad, and one to Energheia. As for the latter, we know what the place where it was left by the Prophets is supposed to look like: a tall tower of marble and granite on a small island, surrounded by a cloud of fragments of lesser size and the debris of ancient buildings.”

  “And what about the triad?”

  “We have a clue to its function,” explains the philosopher. “A kind of poem, or riddle. Translated without worrying too much about euphony, it says: the first to perceive, and to guide towards the one that follows; the second to handle, and thus gain access to the last; the third to gather, and with the others recreate the man.”

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Recreate the man?” I repeat, frowning.

  “Whatever that means,” Archeos shrugs. “To perceive, to handle, and to gather… but what the object of these actions might be is a mystery.”

  “Mmh…” I murmur, unsure how to process the information. “Leaving that aside… why did you send us to Fairworth? It was obvious it didn’t match the description.”

  “Because we don’t know whether the tower is still intact, nor whether the surrounding cloud of fragments still exists,” the old man replies. “That island is one of those marked on the map, and given the high concentration of fragments nearby, it was considered a good candidate. But apparently, there wasn’t a trace of marble or granite among the ruins.”

  “No…”

  “The key to the map… you wondered how we knew where it was, didn’t you?” says the Maltian. “That came from one of our… contacts. The same goes for the map being immune to the islands’ drift. I can vouch for the source’s reliability—but to protect that contact, I’d rather not go into details, if you don’t mind.”

  I’ll settle for that. It’s not as if I care to know a name I’d forget instantly anyway.

  The philosopher finishes speaking. I’ve grown quiet. Archeos watches me for a few moments. Then—

  “How are you feeling?” he asks.

  I look at him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know you left… and then came back.”

  “As for that… I’ll be fine.”

  I sense no judgement in the Maltian’s gaze. The old man almost seems to find my actions understandable.

  I sigh.

  “This time, I think I really did kill someone,” I say. “Who knows how many of those I wounded didn’t make it.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. You had little choice.”

  In truth, I don’t feel that bad about it. Or rather… I’m deliberately avoiding thinking too much about it to make sure I don’t start feeling that way. Rationally, I know I acted to protect myself and others. But I don’t want to find out what might happen in my head if I start seriously reflecting on it.

  That doesn’t mean, though, that deep down it doesn’t trouble me. And now, I end up speaking about it, though in a contemplative tone.

  “I lost control,” I say. “Strange… my abilities came out again—several times, actually. I think I’m starting to understand how to use them.”

  “Really?”

  “If I think of something as energy… I can influence it,” I explain. “Or rather, it’s the meaning I associate with the idea of energy that lets me focus and do it. Fire and heat respond to those thoughts.”

  “You said… energy?” asks Archeos.

  “Yes.”

  “Mmh… curious. Go on, please.”

  “There’s not much else to say,” I say. “I’m sure I can use mayea, but as for how much control I’ve got over it… well, it’s next to none.”

  “From what you say, though, it sounds as though you’ve cracked the barrier between using it unconsciously and using it deliberately,” observes the philosopher. “That means you should now know where to strike in order to learn to handle your strange mayea.”

  “You find it strange too?”

  “It has no symbols, does it? True, they aren’t to be considered an absolute, but they usually appear. Even in mayeutic engines, if you look closely when they’re running, you’ll see the symbols. The same goes for mayeutic weapons.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “I think you were rather busy fighting.”

  “Yes…”

  The conversation seems to have reached its end. Sensing it, I rise to my feet.

  “I’m going to get some breakfast,” I announce. “I’m still on an empty stomach.”

  “Oh, yes, you’d better,” Archeos nods. “I’ll be waiting for you at the second laboratory, then.”

  “See you later.”

  All things considered, I can call it a success. At least now I have a slightly clearer idea of what I’ve been caught up in.

  – – – – – – – – – –

  Amathia (Maltia)

  Same day

  – – – – – – – – – –

  “Welcome back, sir,” greets a servant as Ivor Jericho steps into his home.

  The newly appointed Fleet Admiral gives a nod and walks straight through the main doorway. Spotting a maid, he asks:

  “Where is my wife?”

  “In her room, sir,” the woman replies.

  Ivor climbs the stairs and reaches the room indicated. There he knocks on the closed door.

  “It’s me,” he says.

  “Oh!”

  As the man opens the door, he sees his wife hurrying towards him. A smile appears on the usually stern face of the admiral.

  “You’ve really surprised me,” the woman says, wrapping her arms around him. “What brings you home so unexpectedly?”

  “They called me back to give me new orders,” Jericho explains, returning the embrace. “I’ll have to leave again soon. But… there’s another surprise. I’ll tell you about it later. Is Liara home?”

  “She’s having her lesson. But I believe she could take a break to hug her father again.”

  “Later,” the man decides. “For now, I’ve got an urgent matter to deal with. But I wanted to see you first.”

  She nods.

  “I won’t be long,” her husband assures her. “Then we’ll have time for ourselves.”

  “Good luck with your work,” the woman smiles.

  In more than good spirits, Ivor heads to his study and orders that a guest waiting outside be shown in. The man, an officer under his command, enters.

  “General Admiral Pandromio… I need to see him,” Ivor states. “Contact him and tell him I wish to meet and discuss our next moves.”

  Less than an hour later, a servant announces the arrival of the General Admiral. Jericho rises to greet his new subordinate. He feels a twinge of discomfort at the thought that, only a few hours earlier, their positions might well have been reversed.

  The General Admiral is a man of imposing build. With a square jaw and short blond hair, he seems past forty, yet his physique is unusually well-trained for an officer of his age. He must be blind in his right eye—dilated and milky.

  At his entrance into the study, Ivor shivers at the man’s formidable presence.

  “You sent for me, Fleet Admiral?” asks Pandromio, emphasising the rank.

  “Yes,” Jericho replies.

  “How may I be of service?”

  “As you may know, I’ll now be in charge of recovering the relics once belonging to the Star Prophets,” says Ivor. “You’ll accompany me in the search, since the map to locate the artefacts is in your head. Can you confirm that?”

  “That’s correct. I have the map—and the key to read it.”

  “But you also possess a certain ability for conducting interrogations… am I right?”

  Admiral Pandromio stares at him in silence for several seconds. Then he smiles—or is it a smirk?

  “Yes,” he states. “Would you like me to explain the details?”

  “I’d be interested to hear them.”

  “I can hear the faint buzzing inside people’s heads,” the man says. “I can make sense of it—perceive what someone feels, whether they’re telling the truth or lying, and sometimes even what they’re thinking.”

  Ivor involuntarily leans back. Pandromio smiles again.

  “You needn’t be afraid: from this distance, I can’t perceive anything that subtle,” he assures him.

  “Good… in any case, I’ll be needing that ability straight away. You’re aware of the man captured at Fairworth? A certain Aniketos Sinatora…”

  “Of course! Would you like me to interrogate him?”

  “Yes—and not just him. There’s also…”

  “Cyrus Sanders, I presume.”

  “You’re sure you can’t use your ability from there?” Ivor asks, frowning.

  “I don’t need it to figure these things out,” Pandromio smirks again. “You require information to move forward, and you mentioned interrogations earlier, so it’s only natural you’d want me to use my abilities on the prisoners. Cyrus Sanders, moreover, has been waiting to be ‘heard’ for quite some time, and he’s a prominent figure in the Resistance—whom we’ll be clashing with to recover the artefacts. It wasn’t hard to guess he’d be one of the men you wanted questioned.”

  “Since you know everything, I suppose there’s no need to explain what sort of information you’re to extract.”

  “Indeed not,” confirms Pandromio. “I’ll inform you of whatever I discover.”

  “Good. Then go, and report back between today and tomorrow.”

  “It shall be done. Good evening, Fleet Admiral.”

  With a bow that seems almost sardonic, Pandromio leaves the room. Ivor Jericho can’t suppress another shiver. That man gives him a dreadful feeling. If it weren’t necessary, he’d keep his distance from him.

  “Dad?”

  A young girl appears at the doorway. Ivor’s eyes brighten when he sees her.

  “Liara,” he says, rising to his feet.

  The girl runs to embrace her father. Though smiling, he can’t help casting a wary glance at the half-open door, as if to make sure Pandromio has truly gone.

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