Psychopomp

The breath of life surges like a freezing flood before the warmth of his blood chases it. His body awakens with agonizing conception, as if hypodermic ice needles prick every bit of skin they can. They render no mercy as water beads from his body to return to the bath below.

Drums, driven by the fervor of his rebounding heart, boom resonantly now in the chamber as the priests welcome it with calm, placid chants. One among them, nearest Ewain’s head, steps toward him and, amongst the percussion and chants, speaks.

“Who are you?”

Through chattering teeth, Ewain answers, “Ewain Gregor.” His eyes remain closed, not yet ready for the light.

“Where do you hail from?”

“From the Rhymar of the Vesperterra across the sea.”

“And where are you now?”

“The Mission of the Haas Ward. The Catharsis chamber beneath.”

“Recite your vows.”

“I shall abide no peer to my fervor nor equal to my fury. I shall hold fidelity to my duty. I will take no life. I will make safe land touched by malice and extract from it the sullen dead. I will Deliver all in my care, until my death. To Morr.”

To Morr, all the priests repeat, the drums silencing at their end.

“It is done, Psychopompos?”

Ready now for the light and life, Ewain opens his eyes, “She crossed the void, Pater, left this world for death. All that remains is Deliverance of her body.”

Approval comes upon the priest’s face, “Another khymyno returned to the Ichorians. May they now be in peace.”

“It is said an Ichorian once resided in this very estate before the Exodus,” a well-dressed gentleman proudly explains as he escorts the now dried and dressed Psychopomp. “Not only can you see the proof everywhere you look, from the engravings in the panels, the sumptuous shapeliness given to the columns, the breathtaking paintings, but I am sure that I am not the only one that just feels it in the air.”

The man did not embellish, as Ewain’s eyes and skin attest to his every word. Divine hands and divine eyes were the only ones capable of such fine detail and scale. Walking through the Warden’s estate felt like walking among ancient titans frozen in time and encased in the finest marble and ivory, and any moment they could shed their captivity and dwarf man once again. Anticipation soaks the air with a galvanizing awe that relentlessly nuzzles the back of the neck.

“You should consider yourself privileged just to behold such things,” the man wags his finger before opening elegant, broad doors for them pass through.

Ewain makes no effort to veil his chiding scoff, “Truly the most divine thing mine eyes have ever seen.” He mockingly glances around before settling on the butler’s dark eyes.

“Um…yes,” his voice now deflated, “as I thought. Now, um, please, follow me. The Warden’s office is just this way.” Launching back into his stride, the butler leads them through a hall adorned with immaculate stained glass before emerging into a worldly antechamber. Statues stand sentry all around with shelves of books which richly lavish the walls.

Near one shelf, lounging in a red velvet chair with a brown leather book in hand, is the Krypteian. He shuts the pages and wraps it with a precious indigo ribbon upon their entrance.

“Ah, Mr. Agis,” the butler says, surprised, “I expected you in the office with the Warden.”

“I wish to speak with the Psychopompos before he proceeds any further,” the Krypteian places the book within his pocket and approaches them.

“I was instructed to escort the Psychopompos to the office right away, sir,” the butler insists with a nervous smile.

“Hmm,” the Krypteian nods, “the Warden’s office just through there?” he points to an arched passageway.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I do believe myself capable of leading the Psychopompos from here to there, Nestor. Now see yourself from this room so we may have privacy.”

The butler recovers from his disbelief before bowing his head, “As you wish, Krypteian,” and taking his leave.

“Shall we sit?” Anaxander motions to the red seats.

Ewain follows him and they take seats across from each other, an ornate table between them. Upon it is a humidor, one that the Psychopomp recognizes.

Anaxander pulls an aromatic cigar from it, offers it to his counterpart.

“No, thank you.” He declines.

With a swift light and puff, the Krypteian leans back and speaks, “The mystery gentlemen who arranges murders is proving to be an apparition so far. No facial matches at all in the Nexus. No matches at all with VPT records for residents or visitors. I will interview Peacekeepers that are posted in that district to see if they recognize the man, then have them ask residents once the lockdown ceases, but it will take time. It is possible this man will make more arrangements before I find any success. Perhaps he has sewn many seeds that have yet to bear fruit. We are still awaiting a reply from Miss Trachtenberg’s estate.

“The other one, however,” he savors the flavor of the cigar before continuing, “I found him quite easily. Felix Hogan. He burrowed himself in some hovel in the very same district, pumped so full of pharmas he did not cooperate with me, at first. I had to coax him, but he did make some claims…said that young Miss Mortenson wanted to be killed.”

“What more did you coax from him?”

“That someone approached him, someone cloaked to conceal their identity. They offered him pharmas enough to sustain his addiction if he completed the murder. Mr. Hogan claimed he initially did not want to, but they provided him some pharmas beforehand, assured him they would calm his nerves and dull his memory. Apparently, they had quite the opposite effect, made him ‘super aggressive,’ as he put it, and did nothing to memory.”

Ewain leans forward and speaks low to keep the echoes from repeating him, “Do you believe him?”

Anaxander reflects his counterpart’s posture, “He profusely professed his sorrow and actions in detail. I am inclined to think truth to his words. If I had more information, I could be sure. Were you able to find any?”

“You recall the oath you swore before me and the Ichorians?”

A crooked, amused grin curves across Anaxander’s face, “I do.”

“Good. Know that what I tell you. I do so only because of that oath, Krypteian.” Doubt delays the rest of his words. He wonders if already he is breaking his promise, yet falsehood in this moment would be unwise. That he knew. “The mystery man, the apparition, arranges the murders of those who ask for it. Or at the very least knows those who do.”

“I see. A pity, then, that the killer speaks true.”

“Somewhat. Miss Norma changed her mind…it was just too late.”

“What do you think this man would gain in coordinating the murder of someone?” Anaxander asks. “Purely business?”

With a sigh, Ewain rubs his head in thought, “Possibly. The conditions in this city, how long people are in Dormancy now…it would not surprise me if there were a market for this. As the man told Norma…my Order is obliged to engage a case until it is resolved. For the sake of the victim and the city.” We are stretched thin already, Ewain thinks.

“And it happened here, in an Outer Ward inoculate thus far to murder. Hmm.” Anaxander’s tone alludes to the implications of this, ones he did not have to speak. The time it took for the site to be purified, the obscurity and notoriety of it, could it all be coincidental?

“You will investigate this, I presume?”

The Krypteian acknowledges with pensive puffs of the cigar before breaking his silence, “Of course. We need much more information to understand this. I will have to disseminate what we know to some of my brothers to aid this investigation, but have no worries, Psychopompos, I will not disclose Miss Mortenson’s connection to this. I swore an oath, and I will honor it as you honored yours with the girl.”

“You apprehended her?”

“I did. She surmised the cause of my visit the moment she saw me, gave no resistance. Once our discussion with the Warden is concluded, I can show you to her, if you would like.”

“I would,” Ewain says, “What of the box?”

“Sent directly to the Mission,” the Krypteian replies, truly savoring the cigar, “I did nothing with it. Its fate is your discretion.”

“What is your place here, Krypteian?” Ewain asks, “I have wondered, why oblige the Warden in any manner? Krypteians, like Psychopompos and all other Orders, are beholden to none but the Ichorians and the Ecclesiarch.”

Pulling the cigar from his mouth, Anaxander then rests his elbows upon his knees, “To indulge a curiosity I have always had about your Order. All Orders are bound by oaths, and the Psychopomps are one of the few I have seen who die in faith to them to a man. It is rare, and I admire that. There is purity in dying for belief, instead of sacrificing every ideal for more time. I have been here in the Holy City for nearly nine years now, and it shocks me still how many people I encounter who disparage whatever faux principles they held to delay the inevitable. Grow old with no pillars to their character but that nothing is more valuable than life. How unfulfilling and meaningless an existence, that which is simply for itself.

“I believe the Orders are the last bastions of such conviction, and what is man without conviction? Shells of existence? Colorless and formless? Gaseous clouds in space never to become more, never to form stars, never inflicting gravity or will upon our surroundings. Just floating along.” For the first time, Anaxander shows deep reflection within his jade eyes. “All Krypteians seek the truth spoken of in the scriptures. Unadulterated, raw truth. Without that, then the world becomes a place of a million dissonant hums. Of course, when words exit the lips of man, they are not unadulterated, but hearing many perspectives may be the closest to deducing it. These past twelve hours have added much to my perspective,” he punctuates with a grin then stands, “Shall we proceed to the Warden’s office?”

Through the far hall, through the golden gates, they enter the regal chamber in which Voigt and his father sit centered. Beneath a brightly painted constellation that revolves around a solar chandelier, they lean over a long, white table while busts and ivory replicants of the Ichorians watch from all around.

“Gentlemen, welcome,” Voigt stands and greets, his uplifted voice weighed with exhaustion. His father remains seated, exhaustion less pronounced in his well-preserved face. “Where is Nestor?”

Anaxander shakes his hand, “I dismissed him, told him I could escort the Psychopompos here. We had matters to discuss.”

“I see,” Voigt acknowledges as he shakes Ewain’s hand now. “Take your seats, gentlemen. We have much to discuss and not much time.” All take their places. “Dawn will soon be here and with it a new day for the Haas Ward. I understand we have the killer himself in custody, and I want him put to death soon after sunrise with as many eyes to witness as possible.”

“Have you settled on the manner of his death?” Anaxander asks.

“I have put much thought into it,” the Warden begins with excitement, “he deserves more than the simple guillotine, too quick, too merciful. Father recommended he be hanged, drawn, and quartered, and I am inclined to agree. After the man and woman are executed, we will make ceremony of the monster in our midst.”

Ewain’s brows furrow, “The man and woman?”

“Yes, Mr. Agis apprehended them earlier. The, um…,” Voigt rubs his head, “the Boatman who distributed the false Funerary Box and the woman who violated the Trust. There is no doubt to their guilt so no reason to delay the inevitable.”

Klaus scoffs with a bitter grin. He sees the look feebly veiled in Ewain’s face. “It appears the Journeyman is more disturbed at the rightful execution of some plebes while having no issue with assassinating an esteemed member of our patrician class.”

Ewain collects himself, “Executed would be more accurate.”

“Then you admit to violating your oath?” Excited antagonism charges Klaus’ question.

“No,” Anaxander calmly intervenes, “it was me who fired the killing shot, sir.”

“You should have apprehended him for trial! His death should have been a Ward matter!”

“We were within our rights,” Ewain counters with apathy at the old man’s antics, “the filth admitted to sexual assault, attempted bodily harm, and distribution of false Ashwood. The Ecclesiarchy’s stance on these matters is clear: no tolerance will be shown for those who defile another.”

Voigt lifts his hand to calm his father, “We exercise harshness here. It should be applied equally to all; however, my father’s words have merit. Mr. Engels was a prestigious member of our patrician community, and there will be an outcry at his fate. Perhaps if we can come to a compromise here, we can mitigate much. Mr. Agis told us you believed Mr. Engels was attempting suicide before your shot. This is what we will tell people to quell the backlash against your Orders, so long as the Psychopompos sanctions today’s executions.”

“It will be fitting,” Klaus adds, arms crossed, “All are connected to him in some manner, after all.”

Anaxander looks at Ewain curiously, with an eagerness to see his answer.

“You should do it,” Voigt prods, “it will by symbolic for our Ward. This case starts and ends with you, and it will ease many to see a Psychopomp willing to condemn plebes as he does others.”

All eyes upon him, all expectantly waiting, subconsciously seeking to induce their desired answers, Ewain looks back at the Warden and his father, “I seek the favor of the Ichorians, not mortal men.”

“Then the Ward, the city will know that you two killed Mr. Engels,” Klaus says, while his son grins with amusement.

“So long as it is the truth, sir,” Anaxander nods.

“Indulge my curiosity if you will, Psychopompos,” Voigt interjects, “Are you first generation Vesperterran here?”

“Possibly,” he answers.

“I presume you are, and that you were of nobility. At the very least noble instruction, given how you speak. Not a modicum of the…laziness the plebes have in their speech. So, a first-generation nobleman from the…” the Warden’s eyes scan the Psychopomp’s features now. “Hmm. Gold hair, what I imagine were bright eyes before, hearty physical build, though suppressed, hints of an accent…just like the men of the King’s personal guard. From Varangia, you must be. Where in Varangia?”

Ewain keeps as straight a face as he can, “Somewhere.”

The amused grin remains on Voigt’s face, “Hard to read, as your VPT said. ‘Reaction, yet no reaction,’ was the proctor’s words. Hmm,” he muses. “Perhaps the blood test you refused to submit to would make that easier to fathom.”

“That will never happen,” Ewain says.

“The secrecy you Psychopomps have over what you put into your bodies,” Klaus comments, “makes many truly wonder about your…purity.”

“Just as I wonder about the purity of your tests,” the Psychopomp ripostes, “the patrician Engels, I find it difficult to believe his VPTs were not repeatedly flagged for temptation.”

“Maybe,” Voigt states blankly. “I will have to look into it, but dawn nears and we all must prepare. I hope to see you there, Psychopompos.”