Seeklight

“But for your soul. So ride on if you would escape the storm that approaches.” It motioned with its hand toward the dark clouds filling half the sky.

“I want to see the bishop,” said Daenek. “That’s why I’ve come.”

“We have no bishop now.” The priest’s voice did not change.

“We have not elected another. We have not decided that we shall.”

“What—what happened to the old one?” Daenek had felt his heart speed up at the priest’s words.

“He grew old,” said the priest. “As all things do. He sits with the other bishops a little distance from here.”

“The other bishops?” In the increasing gloom, it was hard for Daenek to see anything of the other’s face except for the glowing scan-cells.

“They were all created at the same time. When this land was first divided into parishes. They have seen several generations of men rise and fall back into the dust. Now they wait to follow them. We have brought them here merely as a convenience to ourselves. We do not wish to lose the valuable parts.”

“There was one,” said Daenek slowly. “Who was at the court in the Capitol when—when the last thane was alive. And then he came to the parish of the stone-cutters. Could I find that one?”

The cowled head slowly moved from side to side. “There was no such one. But speak to any—of those that are still able to speak—and you’ll find the one you desire. They were created with a group mind, like the fingers of a hand, so that all know what any one of them ever saw or heard.”

Daenek hugged himself against the chilling thrust of wind.

“Where are they? Could you take me to them?”

“Better that you come to the chapel and pray, then pursue your life elsewhere.” The priest’s face was completely hidden by shadow.

“Take me to them.”

A boulder-strewn hillside was lit by the arc of the first moon appearing over the horizon. The priest silently indicated the vague shapes with a motion of its hand, then turned and headed back to the monastery. Daenek, the cold wind penetrating his shirt and jacket, stepped down to the waiting figures.

They were all facing the same way, across the unlit valley to where the sun would rise in the morning. The nearest one sat on the ground with its back against a rock. Its robe hung in dangling tatters from its frame. A few meters away, another bishop knelt, immobile. As far as Daenek could make out, others lay or sat without moving, like rock formations themselves.

Daenek touched the shoulder of the nearest one. The frayed cloth of its robe split with the slightest pressure. The old bishop made no response, and Daenek crouched down in front of it to look into its face. Blank, impassive—the dull scan-cells seemed to brighten and focus on him, though. Daenek’s voice moved stiffly from his throat: “I—”

The bishop’s circular voice-grid crackled, and then a stream of whining, buzzing static sounded, like a knife ripping the cold air itself. The scan-cells grew brighter and one metal hand lifted towards Daenek’s head in a blessing or threat.

He scrambled to his feet and backed away from the machine.

It did not follow him but fell silent, the raised hand falling and striking the rock it sat on.

The cold seemed to be spreading from Daenek’s gut now. He looked around the hillside. The yellow points of light that were the bishops’ eyes were like some dying galaxy surrounding him.

“Who are you?” said a voice behind him.

He spun around and looked down at the upturned face of the kneeling bishop.

“You know. You’ve seen me before,” said Daenek, bending down.

“Ah,” breathed the faded voice. Some of the other bishops repeated the sound, a windlike echo. “Yes. The thane.”

“No. I’m only his son.”

The machine did not appear to have heard him. “Who,” it intoned slowly, “would have forseen this end? It pains me, where I should feel no pain.”

“… pain,” whispered the other voices in the dark.

“I need some answers,” pleaded Daenek. He searched the old bishop’s unmoving face. “You were there. You know what happened.”

“Happened?” Its head tilted slightly with a small noise.

“To my father. To the thane. Who killed him? And why?”

“Time killed him.”

“It kills everything,” muttered another bishop far away to the right.

“… everything,” sighed the decaying chorus.

“No,” said Daenek, his voice becoming tinged with desperation. He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. “I mean… what am I supposed to do?”

“Do nothing! Rot!” cried the bishop. Its hands flew up, the thin metal fingers fanning out into claws.

Daenek leaped back at the sudden violent shout. He tripped and fell heavily onto his side. Dizzy, he stood up and ran a few meters, directionless on the dark hillside, until another hand flew up and transfixed him with its pointing finger.

“Rot,” said a bishop lying outstretched on the ground before him. “Like the rest of mankind. For this we were created? For this we piloted the seed-ships through the stars? For this we fathered your fathers?” The scan-cells blazed, apertures into a white fire.