The Years of Apocalypse - A Time Loop Progression Fantasy

The antimagic surge had broken two of the glyphs inside the levitation wand, so they took the narrow stairs that spiraled around the inside of the basilica dome, with Mirian helping guide the frail pontiff. He was still more dejected than scared as they descended.

When they arrived in the upper chamber, several Arcane Praetorians and Luminate Guards waited for them, wands raised and pistols drawn.

“Step away from His Holiness,” one of them demanded.

Pontiff Oculo looked at Mirian, then back at the guards. “I have proclaimed her a Prophet,” he said at last.

A stunned silence settled over the room. Then, Mirian took a step forward.

“Kneel before the Sixth Prophet,” Oculo said.

One by one, they knelt.

Mirian churned with a thousand feelings. She still felt lingering contempt for Oculo and all the crimes he must be behind, but at the same time it felt surreal to watch all these people kneel for her. It was like she was watching someone else, or like a moment in a dream where things became too improbable to be real.

But here she was, and they knelt for her. We’ll settle the doctrinal differences about which number Prophet I am later, she thought sardonically.

Soon enough, Mirian was down in the main chamber. Four Luminate Guards had fetched a massive grimoire, which they carried on a litter and set down on the table with great ceremony. The cover of the book was made with the scaled leather of a drake, and all along the outside were glowing glyphs of preservation and reinforcement.

As soon as Oculo opened it though, she gasped. Hundreds of pages had been torn out of the book. It was sacrilegious in more ways than one.

“What happened?”

“The Church split,” Pontiff Oculo said, tracing his fingers gently along the binding. “Then there was war, and many things that were known to be true became inconvenient. The Grimoire of Light was supposed to compile all the knowledge of the Prophets, but little remains of that.”

“And the Ninth Binding is there?”

“No. It has never been committed to paper. The archbishops know different halves of it, in case a pontiff passes before it can be passed down, but only I know the whole thing. But it has the runes you need to know and practice. It will take some time to—”

“I know those eight,” she said, pointing to the open page. “I just need those five.”

He stared at her, then said, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Over the next few days, Mirian learned as much as she could. While the Luminate Guard stood watch, they brought her runes to study, and repositories that had been protected in vaults within the palace to use for practice. Mirian memorized both the rune formations and how the vaults could be opened. When Oculo tired, different archbishops would take his place.

“How is the process for a new Prophet supposed to go?” she asked Oculo on the evening of the 3rd of Duala.

“There’s a long history you should be told of your predecessors, but much of it was lost, and if the hour is as late as you say, there will be little time to teach you it this cycle. Suffice to say, the previous Prophets had far more time. Decades, not days. There was time for slow consideration, since anointing a Prophet is not something one should do lightly. How many times…?”

“This is the hundredth,” Mirian said.

A chill settled over the room. The Luminate Guards who were present shifted, and Oculo shivered. “Something has gone wrong, then.”

Mirian decided not to mention the Cult of Zomalator or the other Prophets, but that something had gone wrong was obvious. “I need to know more about the conspiracy,” she said. “I can’t stop this cataclysm if I’m busy dealing with Baracuel being invaded.”

Oculo ground his teeth, looking miserable. Finally, he said, “I know less than you think I might. My family did indeed ally with the Corrmiers and the Sacristars, but I was only told my part, and what would result. I thought it would be for the greater good.”

And the greater good of your families, with the other noble families' assets ready to pilfer, she thought. “Who is pulling the strings?”

“No one,” Oculo said. “Or at least, not one person. There’s hundreds of puppeteers, and thousands of strings. I never met with the others directly. Other people did that for me. The Order liaisons with Director Arturus Castill, so I’m sure much has been passed along that way. As pontiff, I am no longer allowed to attend the gatherings of the nobility; I gave up that name when I ascended. But from time to time, I would see my former family members, and each of us would make their wishes known. You will never find people meeting in a dark room, only ten thousand little conversations as the interests of people slowly align.”

Of course, it could never be simple, Mirian thought. But that’s twice I’ve heard Arturus’s name. Sulvorath is sending him letters, which means that not all these ‘puppeteers’ are equal.

“It is less a conspiracy and more an inevitability. It is the nature of an empire to grow. Akana Praediar has surpassed Baracuel, its former master. There was always going to be conflict. With preparation and coordination, the conflict could be made short and merciful, as Shiamagoth demanded. If the Luminate Order is allowed to re-merge with the Church of the Ominian, the centralized nature of the Luminates would prevail over the decentralized Church. Baracuel would become a part of the Akana’s republic and shed its outdated monarchy, and the Luminates would stand as a pillar that supports the whole.”

“And the sacrifice of Torrviol, an army, and thousands of people was the price you were willing to pay. My friends. My teachers. Me.”

Oculo clenched his jaw. “Better that than an extended conflict. Look at the endless wars in Persama and Zhighua. Look at what happened during the split, and then the Unification War! War is like uncaging Carkavakom. Far better to keep our hands on the wheel of Xylatarvia’s ship and steer humanity through the stormy waters of history.”

“But why would the Akanans stop? Their Prime Minister is assassinated. They’ve all been told the magical eruptions are our doing.”

“The assassin would have been traced back to a small group of radicals. With their weapon of terror captured, the threat would be nullified, and the group would be caught and executed. General Corrmier, with the help of Parliament, would broker a quick peace. The Akanans would be satiated. Baracuel would heal.”

Mirian couldn’t help but feel that the plan Pontiff Oculo was talking about was too neat and easy, even without the apocalypse interrupting it. After all, the Akanans were ordered to capture the Divine Monument, but Marshal Cearsia always destroyed it. Would the conquering commanders of the Akanan army really stop?

“What about the war to the south, with Persama?”

“An unexpected setback. But Persama hasn’t been united in centuries. Any time a leader rises there, they inevitably taste the assassin’s blade, and then it’s back to all the warlords and small sovereigns warring with each other. Eventually, we could bring them back to the one true Order of the Ominian, and the world would know peace.”

“And what of Zhighua?”

“They will bow to civilization eventually.”

Anger flashed through Mirian, but she suppressed it. People like Jei don’t need ‘civilizing,’ she thought, but she also knew she was talking to someone who was set in his prejudiced ways of thinking. And as Nicolas would point out, how nice that he, Pontiff Oculo, would end up at the top, where history might record him as the great uniter.

Perhaps his plan would have worked, but she doubted it.

“Did any of the Prophets make allusions to… other Prophets they had visions of? Ones that shared their journey?”

Oculo’s brow furrowed. “No. Of course not. Why?”

“Ah. Nevermind. Probably misremembered something. How many timelines did they see?”

“That is harder to say. Our scholars still debate that. The Fourth Prophet seemed to have seen at least a dozen other futures. Or rather, I suppose… lived through them.” Quieter, he said, “No wonder he had such wisdom.”

A chill ran through Mirian. A dozen cycles, each at least a decade. Is it a time limit, rather than a cycle limit? Then with that thought, she shivered again. Gods above, if it took him that long to simply bend the course of Baracuel and Persama’s history, how long will it take me?

They talked a bit more of the history, then refocused on the study of the runes. The ninth binding was far more complex than any of the other eight, but it was still less complex than several arcane spells she knew.

The next morning, Mirian asked, “What about the Holy Pages? I saw them in the vaults, but they were blank.”

“It was… defaced. A former pontiff tried to bind it—to what point or purpose, I know not—but it cannot be soulbound. Instead, they erased the contents. The archbishops tried to recover them, but it was no use. It supposedly kept the words of the Ominian, as interpreted by the Fourth Prophet, so it should… it was supposed to have transcended prophecy, and recorded things directly from the Fourth’s visions. But perhaps it was damaged. I know not how you can align it with your soul.” He paused. “It makes sense, now, that the Prophets literally experience the other timelines they spoke of. That it was not merely visions.”

Mirian nodded. “But the Fourth’s sword is ready.”

“You know this?”

“I tested the first four bindings on it. It doesn’t respond to them like anything else I’ve tested.”

“Yes, with the ninth binding, it will join your soul. This, the Relic Destroyer—his name has been purged from our history for his crime of defacing the Holy Pages—did test. When he was executed, the sword rematerialized as his soul disintegrated. The Fourth Prophet wielded his sword in many different… visions. So it must have traveled with him, once he made and bound it.”

Oculo flipped through the book, landing on an earlier page. “He based his creations on the writings of the other Prophets, some of which are now lost to us. What we know is that sometimes, deep in the vaults of the Labyrinth, something called ‘relicarium’ is created. The Fourth said it can be used once, then never again. I see now what he meant. For a time, the Luminates sent people down into the Labyrinth to look for this holy substance. None has ever been recovered by one who is not a Prophet.”

So there is a way, Mirian thought, heart pounding. I don’t just have to rely on what they made. I can make something. And I can use anything. Mythril is not inherently bindable, so the Fourth must have used relicarium he found on his sword.

Her thoughts went back to the Holy Pages. They must have been bound at some point, or he wouldn’t have been able to carry them through different loops. But with relicarium, I should be able to make it bindable again. Or are the Holy Pages special in some other way?

The clock on the wall chimed, and she rose from her seat. The cycle’s coming to a close soon. I can speculate later. “Will the Sword of the Fourth Prophet be enough to prove my mastery of the ninth binding? Or should I know something else?”

He thought for some time, and just when Mirian thought she would have to leave before the cycle ran out of time, he said, “Part of me is still not ready to believe. If you come to me with my secrets, I’ll just think you another political schemer, come to ruin my… the good works I intended. The runes and the blade will do far better. Any priest should recognize it. Wield it well. I’ve sent word ahead to the Sanctum.” As Mirian turned to leave he said, “Ominian bless you. And… forgive us for the paths we sought to follow.”

That was, she was fairly certain, as close to an apology as she was going to get.

***

The path to the holy vaults was already clear, and no one barred her way. Past the worst of the collapse, she still had to move some rubble around. Like before, she brought water and food for Everad. She’d also brought a full soul repository.

This time, she had a runic key for the holy vaults, an ancient-looking black tablet that she held in the center of the door. There was no bypassing the runes by the sarcophagus, though; she had to deconstruct them, one by one.

A feeling of triumph swelled in Mirian as she snuffed out the last rune around the Fourth Prophet’s mummy and reached for the sword.

Then, she felt the pulse of an antimagic wave traveling through the stone. Her spellbook flared and sent out tendrils of chromatic smoke. And her soul repository had just been emptied by it.

Shit, she thought. There’s an antimagic pulse that goes through Palendurio just as the cycle’s about to end. I forgot.

Siphoning her own soul to cast all nine bindings would certainly kill her. There was no way for her to get souls from new myrvites. Only a few minutes remained. Damn! she thought. Do I really have to wait another month? There were no souls she could use anywhere near—

Then she froze, and looked at Everad. There was a soul she could use. Right next to her.

Everad stood, back to the vaults, ever vigilant, still chewing on some of the dried fruit and bread she’d brought him. How can I do that to him? And yet, was it any different than his fate normally was? He’d die here, alone and afraid, every cycle she didn’t come.

But to use his soul…

But souls disintegrated upon death anyways, unless they were bound.

A tremor shot through the ground, stirring up dust and sending bits of rock crumbling from the ceiling.

His death will serve some purpose, at least, she rationalized, and realized she’d decided. Too much was at stake for her to waste an entire cycle on sentiment.

My enemies aren’t afraid to slaughter people by the thousands, and they don’t even have a good reason.

“Sorry, Everad,” she whispered, and siphoned herself so she could cast the four bindings on him, linking it to the repository. He felt the tendrils on him, though he no doubt had no idea what she had done, but he turned to look at her. She paged through her spellbook, looking for a spell that hadn’t been damaged beyond use. Force blades still had enough intact glyphs to use.

She closed her eyes as she cast it. There was a wet cutting sound, then a dull thud. The soul repository filled.

Another tremor shook the room. She turned before she opened her eyes, then seized the Sword of the Fourth Prophet and began to cast.

The first four bindings connected the repository to the sword. Then she worked to layer the fifth through eighth bindings, which connected the sword to her own soul, wrapping around them both.

The ninth binding wrapped around it all. She visualized it as a tendril of white light, one that split out from her soul like a sea serpent bursting from the ocean. It snaked around the sword with coils of brilliant light, and some aura around the sword glowed. Relicarium, Oculo had called it. Once bound, it would be hers until her soul was destroyed.

Her mind strained as she wrestled with the ninth binding. It was like it really was a sea serpent, writhing through stormy waters as it sought to escape. She kept her focus absolute, and shaped it as it needed to be, until the currents of the light around the sword were indistinguishable from the currents that made up her own soul. Her aura flared as her soul’s glow intensified. There was shaking all around her, though she could hardly tell if it was the earth moving or her own body trembling with exertion.

The light around the sword intensified, and then the blade seemed to dissolve, shrinking until it vanished, and the room grew dark. But in her own soul, she could see new threads; a foreign thing, both a part of her and not, shining like a shell’s abalone.

She let out a gasp, her whole body shaking from the effort, sweat dripping down her like she’d just run through the Mage’s Grove for an hour. She leaned hard onto the sarcophagus. At first, her gaze was unfocused, but then she found herself staring at the corpse of the Fourth Prophet. Thank you, she told him. Briefly, she felt a flash of envy that he got to rest. Not my turn yet.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. The world ended again.