Potenkiah, the deathgiver

Chapter 4

The minister and his nephew descended from the luxurious VeL, a vehicle that could seat four, and floated a couple of feet off the paved road. Before them loomed an old house, barely visible through the stifling twilight fog of Menantroad, the city of the three rivers.

“So this is the place,” whispered Nicah. It was not a very big house, like the mansion where he lived in as a child, before his parents were killed in that tragic accident and he had to live in boarding school. It was rather simple, nondescript; it had an oval shape and was mounted over four arches in anticipation of the growing Dosyovih river.

His uncle wiped his sweat with a handkerchief. Menantroad, located in the planet’s equatorial zone, could reach a hundred degrees in shadow and humidity only made it worse.

The place where the Order of the Junpaih carried out its secret meetings was in a residential area on the outskirts of the city, specifically on the banks of the Dosyovih, thus reducing to a minimum the possibility that there were witnesses to suspect that it was, in fact, used to refine the details of a conspiracy.

No, it wasn’t a conspiracy, but an emergency plan to save Eloah.

The Junpaih were the only holders of the truth about the planet’s destiny. Only they knew what had been written in the prophecy, for they had read it as part of their training; the legends, myths, rumours and superstitions about the end of the world that people believed in could, in the best of cases, be used as a premise for a fiction novel.

They made sure no one was watching, spread their wings, and flew to the house’s roof entrance: a round, transparent cap, six feet in diameter, located on top of the transparent dome that covered the interior garden. When they alighted on it, the platform sank under their weight, which left an opening large enough for them to enter. They glided on their fully extended wings until they reached the gardens in the lower level, and the dome was sealed again.

“This way,” indicated the minister, pointing to the meeting room. From that moment on, he used his code name, Añil Treshreem, and donned his ceremonial black robe; young Nicah would get his own shortly, once the initiation was over and he was no longer an acolyte.

The room, a large gallery with a wooden floor, had an oval table at one end, and a brown carpet and candles at the other, near a fireplace. The sparse decor in neutral tones was only functional.

Karl Jendal, Ektor Cuarzo and Kim Davalo stood at the center. Añil Treshreem and the acolyte, the newcomers, completed the circle.

“Welcome, Añil Treshreem, sir. Welcome acolyte,” greeted Jendal.

“Gentlemen,” replied the first, looking at each of them. His nephew remained silent, as he had been warned. “Let us begin by summoning Zurac, god of the storm, let us pray for him to destroy the heresy of false religion, and overthrow the followers of the supposed goddess Eloíh.”

Nicah stepped away and watched. The other four lit a candle and incense, and bent their wings to concentrate the heat at the center of the circle. Then, with a slight ruffle of feathers and a slow, rhythmic and coordinated movement, they injected fresh air from outside. Soon, the smoke roiled in on itself and a small ascending column, like a miniature storm. They added chants to the ceremony, and sacrificed a domestic bird that Dávalo had provided, as dictated by ancient tradition.

It was the only part of the ritual that had the boy unconvinced. He did not believe in deities or demons, much less in that those imaginary gods would be pleased by the death of such an ordinary animal as was a pigeon. If at least it were a wek or an Eloahn victim whose heart was removed on an altar, like the offerings from the old empire… However, he would pretend to worship them if it made his uncle happy. At his ten beltas, he was a young man committed to his mission, and an outstanding college student, and he owed it to him. After his parents’ deaths, the new countess had not just left him at boarding school and stripped him of his title; she had stolen half of his inheritance, which would have left him to the streets had it not been for his uncle, who had secretly pulled a few strings and managed to make the most prestigious institution in the planet to grant him a scholarship. He also owed him his entry to the Order, that financed his paramilitary training and could immortalize him as Eloah’s saviour. Well, assuming the older members did not do it first.