A Fortress of Pebbles

Aissaba said she knew their grandfather was in the hospital – that he was Cody Johnson’s father, that he had built the house and its hidden stairwell. That he suffered from dementia. As all of this came out of her mouth, she realized that she “just knew” a lot of it – as if the blinks had given her sporadic access to Cassandra’s background knowledge.

“I meant to tell you before I left,” said Aissaba, “but something weird is happening between me and Cassandra. And Tassadu and Orion.” As she described the phenomenon, she kept expecting her mother to surge forward, knocking the coffee table over, spilling the mug, grabbing her and demanding to know what word she had just used.

Didn’t happen, though. “Incredible,” her mother said. “And this began before the Fortress was spatially docked – which indicates that the psychic link may be unaffected by distance. Only one of the Masters could have done something like this.”

“I haven’t told the Master of Mind yet,” said Aissaba, again unsure whether to expect reproach or praise.

Her mother finished the coffee and got to her feet with the kind of groan that old people make. Aissaba noticed a streak of gray in her hair and wondered if she would, like many in the Fortress, reverse it with life magic when she got the chance.

Her mother began pacing the living room, which was decorated with artifacts from Earth – a cuneiform tablet and various items from the Bronze Age, each on its own pedestal, each lit by pebbles hanging from the ceiling. Had the apartment been sitting like this, untouched, just waiting for her mother’s return?

“Who knows what,” said her mother, “and who ought to know what – is precisely the problem I’ve been working to untangle.” She stopped to gaze into the eyes of a stone mask from ancient Bablylon. “So far, we’ve uncovered nine members of the Cult of Rot. Every Hall of Mastery has been infiltrated. The only way so much groundwork could have been laid is if someone very high up is involved.”

“Like a Master?” said Aissaba. Or tried to. Nothing came out.

Her mother glanced at her, seeming to hear. “So if your gut is telling you to keep secrets, listen to it. But I need you to tell me everything.”

Aissaba was relieved to be able to finally unload – everything from their recovery of the book (albeit in video form), to her blink-assisted conversations with Cassandra, to Orion's aggressive melt-down at school and the recent recovery of his map pebble.

All the while, her mother’s gaze remained locked on the mask. When they lifted, Aissaba was struck by how deep her eyes seemed to go. It was the same sensation Aissaba sometimes got when speaking to the Masters, a difficulty in fathoming an age so far beyond her own. Like standing at the edge of a cliff, unable to see the bottom, knowing that if she fell, she might grow old before hitting the ground. Although her mother was just beginning to gray, she suddenly seemed more ancient than the Masters.

“If anything should happen to me,” said her mother, “I’m sure you’re smart enough to know that returning to the Fortress would be idiotic.”

Aissaba blinked. This was certainly not a conversation she wanted to be having. “Why would something happen to you?” said Aissaba.

“I think you’re also smart enough to know the answer to that question,” she said. But then she added, very quietly, “Every day since Styxx made his move, I find myself learning more about how deep the Rot goes.”

"But let me guess, you can't tell me about it." Aissaba found herself repeating what the Master of Mind had said: “Because the more you know of the Rot, the more it knows of you?”

Her mother inhaled sharply but then simply chuckled and ran a hand through her gray streak. “That’s the old saying. Where did you hear that?”

“The Master of Mind said it when I asked about the Rot,” said Aissaba.

“The more I learn, the less I know,” she said. “I can tell you that the Cult of Rot has, historically, risen and re-risen throughout Fortress history – dating back to before Earth and humanity even existed. If the archival pebbles are accurate, the Cult always seems bent on destroying the Master of Virtue and the worlds under his protection.”

“Why wouldn’t the archives be accurate?” said Aissaba.

Her mother shrugged. “They might be accurate. Who knows? But the ancient archives weren’t exactly written in English. Some were authored by dragons, you know? Some by trees that could think. Others by hive minds and strange entities from worlds that only the Master of Virtue remembers. It’s a linguistic problem – the same one, I might add, that exists when interpreting the Master of Virtue himself.”

“And yet,” said Aissaba, “he has prophecies about the Johnsons. From Montana.”

“More than one!” said her mother, spreading her hands in bewilderment. “And they don’t even seem to agree with one another. One says that if the twins are not recruited, then they will – I’m paraphrasing here – ‘become the great darkness.’ Another says that if the twins are recruited, then they will – slightly different wording here – ‘prevent the great darkness.’ ”

“So by recruiting them,” said Aissaba, “we prevent something that would only have happened if we didn’t recruit them.”

Her mother tried to drink from her coffee cup before realizing it was empty. Aissaba moved to get her another cup before remembering she wasn’t physically in the room. From somewhere far away, she heard Tassadu say, “Aissaba? Are you okay? You’re looking a bit pale.”

“Is it possible,” said Aissaba, “that the Master of Virtue is…”

She wasn’t sure how she was planning to finish the sentence, but from the way her mother was eyeing her – almost suspiciously – she decided not to.

“That,” said her mother, “sounds like the kind of question the Cult of Rot asks.”

“Mom, you know I’m not a cultist, right?” Aissaba could hardly believe these words had to come out of her mouth. “I mean, you’ve known me since I was twelve.”

“The thing with Rot,” said her mother, eyes traveling slowly back to the mask, “is that, one day, it’s just there.”

Now, instead of seeming ancient, she just seemed tired – eyes as empty and soulless as the mask from the Bronze Age. Perhaps she was lost in thought. Or perhaps she was just sleep deprived.

The thing with Rot is that, one day, it’s just there. Like insanity. Or disease. Or whatever hell the “great darkness” was supposed to be.