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Omvar 6 (Chapter 24)

  “What we know with certainty is this: power is always symmetrical. Control over any concept means control in both directions: giving and taking. Yet our ignorance in these matters far eclipses our understanding. How strong? What kind of power? Recent studies by ak’Malik et al. posit that the natural distribution of Elevated powers may give some clues to blind-spots or preferred types of abilities. But as I have argued extensively in my recent work, what we witness is likely no natural distribution at all, but rather one carefully curated. So where then are the worthless powers?”

  – Orhan Malenk, On Faith and Power, Year 311 of the Age of the Tetrarchy

  Suppressing a yawn, Omvar shuffled into the meeting room. Far too early for discussions of administrative minutiae for his taste. But the Ministry of Faith waited for no one. Or Tarene did not, anyway. Especially not for someone nursing a sleepless night and nagging doubts. Quite a few of those in the last weeks, actually. Still, he could feel the energy course through him from simply having a purpose that mattered to him, no matter how dire the circumstances.

  He took his usual seat near the back, hoping to avoid notice. Seated, Omvar could swear he heard subtle snoring. Was the clerk next to him asleep? Jealous, Omvar shook his head. Slowly, the remaining mid-level bureaucrats filtered in and filled the room with their murmured conversations. He could have slept at least a few minutes more.

  Minister Tarene sat at the head of the long table in the front, scowling alternately at a stack of papers and the latecomers. Her aide, a mousy young man named Terix, kept refilling her coffee with shaking hands.

  Omvar hated Terix. Being a relative nobody, the man was safe to hate—unlike Tarene—and so he had just decided to reroute all his animosity toward the woman to her aide. Sometimes, when he was particularly frustrated by a policy change Tarene ordered, Omvar imagined how he would take Terix, bash his face against the wall, and…

  The door swung open and conversation died down abruptly as Leftos glided into the room. Resplendent in a mint green suit—his favorite, apparently—he took his place at Tarene’s right. What was he doing here? A Delegate joining an internal meeting of the Ministry? Omvar studied him, that ever-present smirk probably masking some kind of dark secret. Right now, everyone was a suspect. Especially if they were powerful and, quite likely, psychotic.

  “Let’s begin, shall we?” Tarene said briskly, rearranging her papers. No preamble, straight into the meat—that was his Minister. The woman did have her qualities. “First order of business—we’ve received instructions from the Tetrarch to strengthen the military corps loyal to the Tetrarchy.”

  Okay, maybe not only qualities, Omvar groaned inwardly.

  Murmurs rippled around the table as a collective unease settled on the room. Struck by a thought, he felt himself tense. Could this be more than a coincidence? Someone manipulated devotional allocation and, at the same time, there was talk of war. Something was definitely going on here and he did not like it one bit.

  “Effective immediately,” Tarene continued, unfazed by the room’s reaction, “recruitment quotas are doubled, and devotees will be redirected from focusing on civilian postings to primarily military talent.” Her eyes swept the room. “I trust I can rely on your full cooperation on this.”

  Omvar almost chuckled. Translate that to: I want you to work nonstop for weeks to rearrange the entire faith topology of my city. But it was no request. Tarene did not request, she ordered. So, heads nodded hastily, with voices murmuring their assent. Omvar’s eyes darted around the room, reading between the lines of hurried nods and forced smiles. He could feel the undercurrent of unease. But no one wanted to question orders from the top. Not with Tarene in charge.

  “Excellent. Now, onto other matters...” Tarene trailed off, beginning a long list of assignments and reassignments. The head of the Aqueduct Oversight Committee being replaced after the disaster in the Lower Mervian District. The Directorate of Urban Wildlife complaining about released pets in the Zelphar Quarters. As she droned on about transfers and promotions, Omvar’s thoughts drifted.

  Idly, he let his mind puzzle over the bits and pieces of evidence that hinted at some larger, more ominous picture. This sudden escalation, this militarization of the faithful, it just did not feel right. Why now? And against whom? The Tetrarchy did not have enemies, at least not that Omvar could think of any. But it did not matter. Protest would only draw suspicion. He would have to be cautious here, gather more evidence and find the right moment to act. That was the way to go.

  “Omvar!” A sharp voice jolted him back. “Pay attention, man. I asked your thoughts on rerouting believers in northern Feltis to a new Delegate. That’s one of your parishes, isn’t it?” Tarene’s stare bore into him like a hawk eyeing its prey. A thought occurred to Omvar, while his brain scrambled to formulate a passable response. Was she part of it too? Come to think of it, Tarene was certainly powerful and while “psychotic” may seem a bit extreme…

  Omvar groped for something to say. “Ah, well... whatever you think is best, Minister. I think it’s an excellent idea.” He immediately bit his tongue. Great catch, Omvar.

  Tarene scowled, but continued with her list. Omvar sighed in relief. He could not afford another misstep, not when he was on thin ice already with his… extracurricular activities. This time, he tried to at least appear vigilant during Tarene’s monologue, while his thoughts meandered again.

  After the endless meeting had finally adjourned, Omvar hurried for the exit. He needed fresh air. A break from the stifling tension of the room, to clear his head and make sense of what he had witnessed, what he had found. He needed an outside perspective on this. Someone he could trust.

  “Omvar! A moment, please.” That voice. Light and melodic, yet hiding a steely undertone. It made him cringe inwardly.

  Omvar turned and forced a smile onto his face. “Leftos. Of course. What can I do for you?”

  The Delegate studied him, head tilted in an expertly acted gesture of concern. He probably practiced those in front of the mirror. “You seem... distracted lately. I hope you’re not overextending yourself. I know Algis has been tough on you.”

  “No, I’m fine, really,” Omvar shook his head, attempting to appear unperturbed. I should practice in front of a mirror too, he thought, if I’ll go on like this. “Just a bit tired.”

  “Hmm. Well, be sure to take better care of yourself.” Leftos smirked. “I’d hate for anything to happen to one of our most valued administrators.”

  Omvar suppressed a shudder at the thinly veiled warning. A good day to you too, person-who-could-incinerate-me-on-the-spot. “I appreciate your concern, Leftos,” he said instead. Then he lowered his head a fraction. “Was there something else?”

  “No, that’s all for now. Have a splendid day!” Leftos breezed down the hall.

  Omvar watched him go, pulse racing. That man was toying with him, he was sure of it. Just letting him know that he knew. That Omvar was being watched. That had to be it. This web of deception ran deeper than he had realized, if even a Delegate was involved.

  After briefly stopping by his office to check on his work and make sure no immediate issues needed his attention, Omvar set out to meet Orhan at their café for their weekly get-together. He really needed an outside perspective on these developments.

  The cozy café, the Pilgrim’s Pause, was nestled in a quiet corner of the Ministry gardens, brimming with the chatter of diplomats and scribes seeking solace under the rosewood’s expansive canopy. Orhan had already claimed their usual table on the veranda, steaming drinks at the ready.

  “You’re late, my friend,” Orhan chided as Omvar sank into the chair with a groan. “Minister Tarene keeping you busy again?”

  “My apologies.” He rubbed his temples wearily. “It’s been a morning.”

  Orhan’s brow furrowed in concern. “What’s going on?”

  Omvar hesitated. He trusted Orhan, but voicing his fears—his suspicions—felt dangerous, even to his old teacher and best friend. Especially when he had only disjointed hunches to go on. Still, he had to confide in someone.

  Leaning forward, he spoke in a hushed tone. “Something’s weird, Orhan. I don’t quite understand it myself yet. There is this military build-up, mobilizing the Elevated, the Delegates... it feels like we’re preparing for war.” Omvar’s eyes darted to the café’s entrance every time it opened, his heart skipping a beat at each new face.

  “Yes,” Orhan sighed and sipped his tea thoughtfully. “I’ve heard some rumors this morning. A troubling thought, no? But let’s not assume the worst just yet. Perhaps it’s all just blown out of proportion. Our tetrarch is no fool.”

  “You didn’t see Leftos today,” Omvar insisted, unable to keep the edge from his voice. “You know how that man loves to flaunt his influence, like it’s all a game to him. He just joined our staff meeting, probably to gloat while Tarene announced this new policy. He never joins these meetings.”

  “Perhaps,” Orhan conceded gently. “Or perhaps he had other reasons to be there.” Another sip from his spiced tea. “But Omvar. The man is a Delegate. If we had more time today, I’d recite to you all those cases in history in which ordinary men and women like us thought it’d be a good idea to oppose a Delegate. Not many pleasant stories among those, I’m afraid. Besides, he has Feldar’s ear. The man loves Leftos. As a historian, I agree with you that power corrupts. Inevitably so. But, as your friend, I say we must be cautious here.”

  “I know,” Omvar raked a hand through his hair in frustration. “I just feel so… powerless. Like I’m watching all this unfold and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

  “As do I, my friend,” Orhan smiled sadly. “Our world often defies understanding. And justice, I must admit.” His pitiful gaze lingered on Omvar for a second longer, before he suddenly brightened and reached into his bag to pull out a notebook. “But come—tell me of your Elevated! I’m doing some research on the distribution of their abilities...”

  Orhan reached across the table and pushed a tattered notebook toward Omvar. Even its outside was filled with diagrams and hastily written notes, some looking as if they had been scribbled hastily onto the margins. Omvar flipped the book open at the marked spot, revealing a meticulously hand-drawn map of the Tetrarchy, where tiny pins and lines marked the distribution of Elevated across the region. A legend in the margins even explained their different colors, grouping them into broad categories: elemental, material, abstract concept, and more. Omvar could not believe his eyes. His friend was starting to build a whole taxonomy for Elevated.

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  Omvar studied the map, impressed by the detail of Orhan’s research. His fingers traced the pins marking Elevated locations across the entire western Belt, frowning thoughtfully as Orhan drank his tea and watched Omvar expectantly.

  A thought occurred to him then, which he already had many times during his work, always pushed to the back of his mind by more important concerns. “Say,” Omvar began slowly, “have you ever noticed that the abilities of the Elevated all seem remarkably... practical?”

  Orhan’s eyes lit up. “Yes, exactly! It’s quite fascinating, isn’t it? No frivolous talents like—I don’t know—changing flower colors or conjuring pastry.” He chuckled at the thought. “Though that would be rather amusing to witness, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” Omvar nodded, following the thought. “Think about it—every ability is useful in some way. Healing wounds, manipulating elements, enhancing perception. It’s as if they were tailored to specific roles.”

  “An excellent observation,” Orhan agreed. “Maybe you should reconsider a career as a scholar, my dear Omvar. But you’re right. The distribution does seem strategic. Just enough diversity of talents to be useful, but not so much as to be unpredictable.”

  “Useful for whom though?” Omvar wondered aloud, decidedly ignoring Orhan’s old jab about his choice of career.

  Orhan stroked his beard. “The Tetrarchy, presumably. The abilities we observe generally align with the Tetrarchy’s pillars of governance—military strength, economic stability, and administrative efficiency.”

  Omvar’s thoughts drifted back to his meeting that morning. “Yes, if people like Leftos could only conjure up pretty flowers, maybe we wouldn’t be quite so ready to prepare for war. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that a Delegate, of all people, wound up with a combat-ready power.”

  “A troubling thought,” Orhan admitted. “Though I do hope we’re mistaken.” He sighed heavily before continuing. “In some ways, it’s reassuring that the abilities are practical rather than fanciful. They can be used for good, after all. But it does raise deeper questions about the nature of the Elevated, about how we govern this world, doesn’t it?”

  Intrigued, Omvar nodded. The inconsistencies just kept on piling up. Something was rotten here. He remembered a time, not so long ago, when his life had been simple. Just calculations and decisions. No deadly expeditions into jungle ruins or conspiracies leading into the highest echelons of the Tetrarchy. What was once reasonably steadfast in his life now seemed riddled with cracks.

  Orhan, noticing his glum expression, gave him a sympathetic smile. “Don’t lose heart, my friend. The truth often reveals itself to those willing to seek it.” He closed his notebook and tucked it away. “For now, just keep observing. Understanding will come in time. I find it usually does, for the things that matter.”

  “But Orhan, doesn’t it seem strange to you?” Omvar pressed, palm clenched around his teacup, knuckles whitening. “Doubling recruitment quotas overnight? And the Delegates—I swear Leftos looked ready to start conquering cities by himself. There’s got to be something we can do. Lives could be at stake here.”

  “I admit, the whole situation is quite peculiar.” Orhan’s expression grew serious once more. “But remember, perceptions can be deceptive. We still lack context for these directives. We don’t know what made Feldar sign the order, or even against whom the Suns of Kel will be fighting.”

  “Although...” He leaned back, his finger absently tracing the engraved filigree on his teacup, “if something nefarious truly is brewing in Kel, something in the shifting of believers maybe could offer a clue, couldn’t it? Who loses believers, who gains them? One could imagine that a farseeing general would want to weaken his opponent prior to an invasion. Maybe a pattern reveals itself to the observant eye.”

  Omvar’s eyes widened at the realization and he had to fight the urge to slap himself. Ravena. With all that had happened today, he had almost forgotten about the anomalies he had spotted earlier. “Yes, you’re right! Weakening locations for invasion, strengthening allies. This could tell us who’s really behind all this.”

  His thoughts raced, possibilities churning. Was this whole thing with Ravena connected to the war? Could he tell Orhan? Maybe best not to burden the old man with too much at once. “I’ll need to monitor the allocation records for anomalies.” Omvar drained his cup of cinnamon tea in one big gulp. “If I can prove tampering, it would confirm my suspicions. And then we’ll find out who’s responsible for this.”

  “A sound plan, if somewhat risky,” Orhan agreed cautiously. “Tread with care, my friend. You swim in treacherous waters.”

  The breeze picked up, rustling the leaves around them. Omvar nodded, leaning forward with his hands placed on his thighs. The gloom of the morning’s meeting had already dispersed, replaced by fresh purpose.

  “Always Orhan, you know me. Wish me luck. I have to get back to my office before I’m missed there.” He rose, clasping Orhan’s shoulder. “Thank you for the wise counsel, as always.”

  “Of course. Keep me informed, my friend,” Orhan replied, not seeming entirely at peace with his role in this sudden outburst of energy. “And stay vigilant.”

  With a renewed spring in his step, Omvar returned to the Ministry vaults, mind churning with a long list of unanswered questions, as he hurried past offices and meeting rooms. He could solve this. He would solve this. Omvar was sure that these military preparations were somehow linked to the anomalies in the believer records. If he could just find out why. Why weaken one of their own Delegates?

  On his path from the Pilgrim’s Pause, Omvar passed through the external relations division of the Ministry, which was always a place where rumors abounded. Had he taken this route intentionally? Was he a spy now, in his own Ministry? No matter, he was here already. As he wove through the marble corridors, snippets of hushed conversations reached his ears. Well, he thought, it’s not like I can close my ears, can I now.

  “...Delegate from Maht, arriving tomorrow.”

  “...military drills increased near Akhantar.”

  “...rumors of war on the continent.”

  Like wisps of smoke, intangible yet laden with ominous portents. That was useful. So he should focus his efforts on the continent. Surely invading them now, when they were fighting amongst themselves, would be no coincidence. Did Feldar want to make use of the turmoil created by the war there?

  Nearing his office, Omvar paused as raised voices came from a nearby meeting chamber. He had complained endlessly to Terix about that cursed door. It just did not close properly. What was the point of an office if you could still hear everyone else? But Terix—that weasel—had just smiled politely and made a note. Omvar noticed that his hands had balled into fists at the memory, nails biting deep into his palms. He tried to shake off the strain. But something in the overheard conversation had raised his interest. Hoping for more information, he pressed himself flat against the wall, straining to make out the muffled voices.

  “The plans simply must proceed on schedule,” an agitated voice insisted. “We cannot delay the operation, the timing is too critical.”

  Outside, Omvar resembled the marble statues standing in the Ministry foyer. Inside, he was dancing. This was pure gold! He strained his ears, willing himself to hear more.

  A weary sigh from inside the chamber. “Patience. Caution is needed here. A misstep now could undo everything,” came the reply, in a stern yet familiar voice. Omvar’s eyes widened. Leftos.

  “You know the window is closing,” the first voice insisted. “Once the fleet is ready, our path is set. We’ve got to act before that.”

  “Agreed. But this requires discretion above all else. Many threads must align for success. I’d rather act not at all than at the wrong time.” Leftos’ words were measured, yet underscored with steel. As usual, the man did not tolerate disobedience.

  A noise of assent. “Alright, you’re the boss. Just wanted to say my piece. We don’t like our clients to complain afterward. I’ll see to it that all pieces are in position. After that it’s up to you. We’ll make sure the plan proceeds on schedule.”

  “See to it that they do,” Leftos finished, sounding annoyed and tired. “Too much depends on this.”

  Then the conversation ended abruptly and footsteps approached the door. Holding his breath, Omvar ducked out of sight just as the door swung open and two men exited, engrossed in their hushed conversation. Though he could not see their faces, Omvar recognized the mint green suit from this morning.

  Omvar’s pulse quickened, his breaths becoming shallow as he pressed himself even further into the dark corner. Leftos, his attention evidently focused on other matters, strode off down the corridor, cape swaying gently behind him.

  So Leftos was involved in something big, some kind of plan that was about to be set in motion. Omvar knew it. But what was it? This cryptic conversation he had just overhead had not revealed many details, yet he was certain it pointed to nothing good. And he needed proof of that, if he wanted anything to happen.

  Creeping away unseen, a maelstrom of speculations churned within him. Was it Leftos who was orchestrating this military buildup? But then who were his co-conspirators? Were the Delegates plotting against the Tetrarchy itself? Slave-gods throwing off their yoke, as some of the crazier beggars near the Lower Mervian district went on about.

  Conspiracies everywhere… a pang of doubt snuck up on Omvar as he re-examined his interpretations of events. Could it be that he was being paranoid here, seeing deception and danger where there was none? Or did the corruption truly go as deep as he feared?

  He quickened his pace through the nearly empty halls, feeling suddenly exposed. Every face he passed by now seemed to hide an agenda. He had no way of knowing how many others were entangled in this web of secrets. Whom could he truly trust? Sometimes, even Orhan—his oldest friend—did not seem above the darkness that had begun to encroach on his world.

  The full weight of Omvar’s isolation settled upon him. He was utterly alone now, in uncovering this truth. No one to turn to, no one to confide in. Suddenly, his breathing became flat again and he felt sweat break out all over his face. The colonnaded walkway around him seemed like a prison.

  He needed some time to clear his head. Now. Omvar slipped away and made his way through Ebonshade Borough to a nearby chapel, one of the countless shrines scattered across the city. Incense permeated the air as he lit a candle beneath the picture of Lavelle he had brought with him.

  Kneeling on the cushioned bench, Omvar tried to quiet his racing mind.

  He, of all people, should know that everything surrounding him—the shrine, the candles, the prayer booths—was just a pretense, yet something about the serene face of the woman in the picture soothed him. Can’t hurt to try, I suppose, he thought.

  “Guide me to the truth,” Omvar whispered, gaze fixed on the flickering candle flame before him. The shadows at the edges of his vision seemed to fade a bit, as a sense of calm settled over him. He stayed a while longer, the hushed sanctuary granting him a rare moment of peace amidst the recent chaos in his life. Omvar let his gaze roam, spotting many of his fellow citizens, who seemed to be in similar communion with their own Elevated. He smiled weakly, surprised at his own ease in a temple. Then he rose, grabbed a prayer chip, and made for the exit.

  Distracted, Omvar let the wooden disc dance around his knuckles. He finally snatched the chip into his palm and tucked it away. Absentmindedly, he wondered whether ‘paying’ for prayers might cheapen the experience for a true believer somehow. Odd. He had never considered the matter. Maybe he should discuss this with Orhan.

  Just then, movement in the corner of his vision caught his attention. A figure, robed in black, had slipped into the shrine behind him. Omvar turned to get a better look, but the newcomer had already disappeared behind a pillar, face hidden beneath a hood. Something about the way they moved—those hasty, skittish steps—piqued his interest.

  Omvar paused mid-step, gaze lingering on where the figure had disappeared. He was no fool. He recognized the telltale signs of someone trying too hard to blend in. To appear like they belonged. Long ago he had learned to trust his instincts, and something about this stranger triggered all the alarm bells in Omvar’s mind. He had heard enough about spies and informants in his career to know subterfuge when he saw it.

  But then he shook his head, trying to dispel the growing suspicion. He needed to stay sharp, could not let his paranoia get the better of him. After all, the temple was a sanctuary to all citizens, the devout and the lost alike. It was not uncommon for people to seek solace late into the evening, hiding their faces from prying eyes.

  Or maybe, a dark voice whispered at the back of his mind, that’s what they want you to think.

  Omvar gritted his teeth, cursing himself. He was starting to see shadows where there were none. Yet, as he glanced one last time at the corner where the figure vanished, a shiver of unease crept down his spine, despite his best efforts. Shaking his head, he forced himself to leave the temple.

  Still troubled, but mercifully less so than when he arrived at the temple, Omvar headed toward his home, the streets in the borough darkening and quiet. As he paced down the street, a diffuse glow to the east caught his eye—the glowing dome of the Tetrarch’s palace. The magnificent building was always bright, yet tonight it seemed tinged with crimson, like flames in the dark, as it caught the rays of the dying sun.

  Omvar turned around a corner and walked toward the flames in the east.

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