Mark Newton - The Book of Transformations

‘No, you did well,’ Ulryk enthused, approaching, and Fulcrom only then noticed that his eyes were an intense shade of green. ‘That’s an accurate description of our history as told in every Jorsalir church throughout the Empire. And this is where the schism begins, right at the very start of things. What I discovered through my translation work was a different version of this history. Over the last few years I have checked and rechecked my sources, but a certain batch of ancient tomes seem to contradict this history, with vivid accounts of a very different beginning — some even with sketches, diagrams and art.’

‘I can see why that could cause an upset,’ Fulcrom agreed.

Ulryk came to sit again at the desk and gave Fulcrom a look of despair.

Fulcrom would often be confronted with the insane, those seeking attention, those on the fringe of society, those in need of a care he couldn’t give them — it was all part of working in the Inquisition. But there was something about the raw honesty of Ulryk that suggested this was totally genuine.

‘Could the documents have been forgeries?’ Fulcrom asked.

‘Unlikely. In fact, I have evidence that some of the official histories were forged. Subtleties in the vellum, the inks used, the languages, matched ductus and the likes…’

‘What were these new histories?’ Fulcrom asked. ‘What was it about the gods specifically that has caused a so-called schism?’

Ulryk’s temper — if it could be called that — flared. ‘I will first address the matter that this schism is very real, investigator. Thousands of lives have been lost already, and the communities built around the church were decimated once I leaked this information. I am a fugitive of the church. A year ago men and women were butchered simply for protecting me and allowing my passage to the Empire — where the church has greater connections, I might add. I have seen children hung from trees and the blame placed upon me — all because of the information I possess.’

‘I don’t think this is the whole story,’ Fulcrom said. ‘The church would have no reason to burn villages in your name, for what could be considered the simple blasphemy of a madman.’

A silence, then Ulryk muttered, ‘It was not all, admittedly. For several years up until that point, I had translated sacred Jorsalir texts into local languages, and had given them away for the people to practise their spiritual paths without the power of the church interfering. I felt that it was unfair to monopolize the words of Bohr and Astrid. Then, nearly two years into testing the fake histories which I had discovered, I began to cease helping the communities around the abbey. How could I believe in the lies I was spreading? One member of my former community came to the doors of our main church and revealed my actions. I was betrayed at a most critical time. I went on the road, and I hid for several months, refining my theories and processes, whilst schooling others in these new theories. There were many friends in the towns and villages who sheltered me, up until the church’s military wing went into action. I was the subject of a witch-hunt and almost everyone who has known me is dead.’

‘And you faked your papers to get into the city, didn’t you?’ Fulcrom suddenly realized. ‘You used your skills with script to trick the city guards — and myself. There’s no way you would have been let in otherwise. The church would have seen to it.’

Ulryk closed his eyes.

For some reason, that act of forgery seemed to confirm Ulryk’s desperation — here was a man of intelligence, and Fulcrom could trust in the fact that at least Ulryk believed himself.

‘These histories…’ Fulcrom asked. ‘How do they differ?’

Ulryk’s gaze was intense. ‘According to the new histories I discovered, the Dawnir were created by the hands of one man — as a matter of fact, he created many creatures. His name was Frater Mercury, and he was skilled with technologies that could create, from nothing, elaborate and detailed mythological beings, as well as many creations of his own muse. He was a powerful man — too powerful, in fact, for his time. As far as I can gather, a collection of religions united under the Jorsalir banner raising a rebellion against the use of such technology, which was perceived as highly dangerous. This eventually spilled over into combat — the land was ripped apart in a great war — and Frater Mercury was forced to leave this plane of existence. Using his aptitude with technology, he stepped into another dimension, taking his creatures with him. And, what was left of history was rewritten by the Jorsalir collective church — featuring your charming recollections of Bohr and Astrid. These stories and widespread violence suppressed Frater Mercury’s technology, though of course the cultists have salvaged much. The secrets of that society still exist — the church has kept vaults of ancient texts hidden, many of which are manuals left by Frater Mercury — few people can decipher them today, perhaps only myself. I believe a key text lies somewhere in this city. It is here, investigator, though so old it might be in no fit condition to decipher — though try, I must. And I can offer proof of these texts being somewhat… magical, I suppose. Come with me — I need to show you something. Will you indulge me further, investigator?’

Ulryk stood, preparing to leave the office.

I have been doing so for the past hour… Fulcrom reached for his over-cloak. ‘I think I need some air to blow some sense into me.’

*

Under a violet sky streaked with grey clouds, Fulcrom marched across the streets of Villjamur with Ulryk. Together they were doing their best to avoid the many horse-drawn carriages, carts and clusters of civilians who were sifting through the city. A dark-haired woman in glorious gold and royal blue clothing was handing out copies of People’s Observer to passers-by keen to read the latest sanitized news from Balmacara. Two garudas sailed overhead on patrol, bound on a gentle landing arc towards a nearby wall, the downdraught ruffling Fulcrom’s white hair, which he immediately smoothed back down.

Fulcrom noticed how Ulryk was constantly gazing about himself with the wonder of a child, and twice Fulcrom had to guide him out of the path of others. One man drew a sword on the priest when they collided, but Fulcrom flashed the Inquisition medallion, and the assailant backed away.

They went past excited children, who were grouped around one of the city’s noticeboards, and instead of some official declaration, a parchment had been nailed there by the MythMaker.

Ulryk asked Fulcrom what the drawings concerned.

‘It’s a story,’ sighed a red-haired kid in scruffy breeches who’d overhead him. His tone seemed incredulous that the priest did not already know who or what the MythMaker was.

Fulcrom scanned the parchment, the edges of which rippled in the breeze. On the paper were a few rectangular frames and, within them, characters had been drawn in various poses. There were two figures in this series, each wearing cloaks, and in the first box they were standing on the top of a tower. Lines of text had been scrawled underneath to indicate their speech. Fulcrom had to admit the artwork, though crude, was impressive.

‘Whose story is it?’

‘The MythMaker,’ three of the kids said at once insistently.

‘And what is the story about?’ Ulryk asked the redhead, who was on tiptoes, glancing between the eager heads.

‘Saving the city,’ the kid snapped despairingly. ‘Legends, and that kind of shit. You know, like creatures from the past and all that. The hero is saving Villjamur from the evil monsters out in the country.’

Ulryk beamed at Fulcrom, his eyes creasing in delight. ‘Such joy in these innocent young minds.’