The Years of Apocalypse - A Time Loop Progression Fantasy

Mirian altered her ‘Micael’ disguise in several points, strapped several wands and spells beneath her robe, then walked into the Grand Sanctum. The Luminate Guard ignored her, assuming that the wards in the back would catch her if she was an intruder. She went off to an alcove, ostensibly to pray, but then used her camouflage spell and levitation to sneak in through the balcony. It would never have worked in Torrviol, but here, there was just too much going on for a single person to be worth that much attention.

She spent the next few hours learning names and getting a sense of the ebbs and flows of people as they moved from prayers to studies to different assigned tasks. She used the excuse of being new to Palendurio to ask a lot of questions, subtly getting at the security procedures. It seemed there was little security in terms of using runes. Instead, mentors simply knew their acolytes, and teachers knew their classes.

The other interesting thing she discovered was how the priests seemed to conceptualize the magic they were doing. When she asked about how the repositories were charged, the priest she was talking to said, “It’s not a charge, but a blessing. The ritual merely signals the Gods our intent of piety; it is Their blessing that the repositories contain.”

Mirian didn’t argue. They don’t even realize what they’re doing is necromancy because they’re trained to think of it differently, she realized. She preferred the honest terminology, but started asking her questions differently using their own language.

She wondered if their deceptive language was undermining their ability to keep the runes in the Sanctum charged and in good repair. Surely, they must still have the knowledge that certain runes need certain soul-types or they’re impossible to craft, she thought. But she avoided inquiring directly, since those were secrets beyond what a mere acolyte would know.

At night, she found an excuse to run a late night errand just before the guards changed over. It was easy. She’d overestimated how secure the Grand Sanctum actually was. Better to be too careful, though.

By then, there were small eruptions of rioting in Palendurio, but they were confused. The newspapers had indeed published exact copies of the articles they’d published last time, which told Mirian it was preplanned. It also told her there were people looking to burn down Akanan businesses for any reason at all.

She spent most of the next day scouting out the Grand Sanctum, and sure enough General Corrmier went ahead with his plans. By noon of the 22nd, the army was seizing bridges and main avenues with the excuse of putting down the already sparse rioting.

What would the general do if the presses of his newspapers were smashed and the Pure Blade attack prevented entirely?

Mirian readjusted her disguise back to what it had been a few days prior, then made her way over to Charlem Palace, bypassing the security checkpoints by levitating up to the balcony of the room where Kathera was staying and knocked on the door.

Kathera, who was sitting in a ridiculously ornate chair, started and clutched her heart upon seeing Mirian. After recovering, she opened the door. “Can you not use the door like a normal person?” she admonished her in Eskinar.

“I don’t trust any of those people,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the rest of the palace. She started by casting detect life, then several divination spells. As far as she could tell, there were plenty of defensive wards, but nothing that seemed like an obvious trap.

She left Kathera’s room and headed to the meeting room where one of the palace guards did a double-take upon seeing her. “Go get Grestave,” she said. “We have a meeting.”

Grestave must have been on break, because he was still adjusting his uniform as he burst through the door a few minutes later and had some sauce on his face he’d missed. “You came back,” he said. “Why didn’t you use the front door?”

“Everyone’s a critic,” Mirian complained. “Because I don’t trust you yet. This is only the second time I’ve been in Palendurio for a cycle, and let me tell you, it’s a hell of a mess here. Well? Was I right?”

“You were,” Grestave said. “How did—?”

“No,” Mirian said. “You already got to ask me a bunch of questions. Now it’s my turn. What do the Arcane Praetorians know about the magical eruptions that have been taking place across the two continents?”

“If you would just—”

“Answer it or I leave.”

Grestave grimaced. “Fine. Nothing. Or basically nothing. They’re seen most often in cities and by railroad tracks, but there’s a selection bias there. There’s a correlation with population, but of course there is. The more people are around, the more that are reported. Beyond that, there’s no pattern. Publicly, the Akanans are insisting it’s a terrorist group, but internally, they don’t know any more than we do. It could just be a thing the Labyrinth coughs up from time to time, sort of like how it will spontaneously deposit a bunch of myrvites from one of its eco-nodes somewhere. They’ve been going on for at least fifty years, possibly longer. We had no reason to believe they’d grow worse until recently.”

“Fifty years?” Mirian said, in disbelief. Ominian, why did you wait so long? “Next question. What holds the Department of Public Security accountable to the law?”

Grestave was silent for a time. “Presumably, Parliament,” he said. “They can replace the Director, who can in turn replace the Directors of the various departments. There’s also internal reviews.”

“And who gives Parliament intelligence reports on the state of Baracuel’s departments, including their own?”

“I see your point,” he said.

“No wonder my government preparatory class never made any sense,” Mirian muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. Next question. Why do the Arcane Praetorians leave Palendurio on the 4th?”

Grestave hesitated. “I really can’t tell you that one. It’s an ongoing operation—”

“Am I a risk to go down to Alkazaria and ruin it? I’m fairly certain Dawn’s Peace already did that. And the train lines there are already cut, and more tracks will be destroyed tomorrow.”

“They got a tip about a fugitive. That’s all I can say.”

What sort of fugitive needs that many Praetorians? Is there an archmage on the loose I don’t know about?

“How much do you know about the soul magic the Deeps are using?” Mirian asked.

“You mean… necromancy?”

“Sure.”

“They can’t use necromancy. It’s banned.”

“Well, they do anyways. Next question. How is orichalcum made?”

“They use—? I don’t know. And how did you even learn what—”

“How would I contact the Arcane Praetorians and alert them to the Pure Blade’s conspiracy next time? Who in the Palendurio Guard is loyal to the Palamas family, not the Corrmiers?”

Mirian was disappointed by how little information Grestave could actually give her. As she gained more experience, she’d come to find there was a kind of person who simply couldn’t bear to believe her future knowledge and what it implied. Perhaps they couldn’t handle it. Perhaps they were too skeptical. But the end result was people like Grestave, who only gave her superficial knowledge.

After a while, Grestave interrupted her and said, “Do I get a question?”

“You get one,” she said.

“How did you come to this knowledge you have?”

He understood she knew things that were impossible, but couldn’t wrap his head around the time loop. She shook her head. “You still don’t understand. I’ve told you I’m a Prophet, and you just can’t accept it.”

“I really need you to meet with the Royal Investigators. Together—”

“You have nine days left until the world ends,” Mirian said. “I suggest you use it wisely.” Then she left, and once again, he couldn’t bring himself to stop her.

***

Mirian mostly ignored the rest of the political fallout. It devolved into a conflict between the noble houses again, with General Corrmier’s access to the army giving him the edge. King Palamas and Parliament were more worried about the coup than some strange person claiming to be a Prophet.

The ripples she’d made hadn’t been big enough, which didn’t surprise her. Her conversation had solidified her commitment to stepping back from the conspiracy until she had more power, and a better understanding of Sulvorath’s ability to project power, and his goals.

Over the next few days, she committed to her research, buying up Syndicate-smuggled myrvites as fast as they could bring them to her as she continued to research new runes and analyze the soul energy she had access to. She made a version of the soul repository that helped her quantify the resonance she’d been sensing, though it worked by activating different ‘tiers’ of runes based on the intensity of the soul energy in the repository. It seemed that energy from a higher resonance could always be used to create a lower resonance rune, which she had sort of known from her lessons with Arenthia, but now could use to start creating a rune classification system. Someone must have already done that, but until she could find advanced knowledge of soul magic, she’d just have to figure it out on her own.

On the 1st of Duala, Mirian waited by the Syndicate smuggling operation for the leyline eruption.

Sure enough, the earthquakes shook apart the city, and another antimagic wave came smashing through the city. Mirian was ready for her reliquaries to have their stored energy stripped, and already had her bindings on the myrivtes below.

This time, she’d experimented with various wards and shields to protect her spellbook. None of it even impeded the antimagic shockwave that had traveled through the heart of the city. She made it back to the Bard and Lion and re-scribed her most critical spells, then tore them out to hide. She had prepared a satchel with several canteens of water and dried food, so grabbed that on her way out the door and made her way into the Grand Sanctum.

So soon after the quake, there was still widespread chaos as acolytes and priests ran about, desperately trying to clear rubble and heal the wounded. Of course, as they were no-doubt finding, their repositories with the soul energy they needed for healing the worst wounds had been emptied. And if they believe that is the literal blessing of the Ominian, what must that do to their faith?

Mirian cast a filter air spell, keeping it right on top of her mouth and nostrils so that no transparent bubble of air would be visible in front of her face, then headed deeper in. The air was filled with groans and screams. Her every instinct was to help. But you can’t. Not this time, she told herself.

She picked her way through several passages, casting a low powered light spell in places where the lamps had died or been shattered. Most of the lamps used some sort of strange chemistry that didn’t need oxygen, so plenty were still burning. Twice, she reached dead-ends where tunnels had completely collapsed and she had to double back. Finally, she found a route to the main hall, dismissing her spell to avoid suspicion.

There was a crowd in the main hall, shrouded mostly in darkness. “How did you get through?” one of them asked.

“Down that tunnel, then left at the junction, right, spiral around and then you’ll be by the shrines. The path’s open.” They thanked her as they filed out. They’d have to crawl in the dark in several places, so it would be slow going, but this group at least would make it out. Better you’re not around to question what I’m doing, she thought, watching them leave.

Mirian made her way into one of the rooms where the priests instructed new acolytes on celestial magic. It had already been evacuated, minus the one poor acolyte who had been pulverized by a limestone block. She walked around the puddle of blood, examining the tables and shelves. There were several primers on runes, but when she skimmed them, none of them contained new runes.

She moved on to the library.

“Is someone there?” a voice called out.

Mirian spotted a man trapped underneath a fallen bookcase. “I can get you out,” she said.

“Oh thank the Ominian. I thought—I thought I was going to die,” the priest said.

Mirian pretended to strain against the bookshelf while using the lift object sheet she’d wrapped around her left arm. His left leg was bent at an unnatural angle, and he groaned, eyes watering, as he dragged himself out. Mirian let the shelf slam back down, kicking up another cloud of dust. The priest let out a wet cough.

“I had…” He coughed again, gasping for breath. “Had to heal myself after the quake, using the inherent blessing,” he managed. “Couldn’t get everything.”

Mirian examined his soul. He had indeed used it to heal himself, as its currents were weak and light faded. Based on the black swirls in his chest, his lung had been punctured, and it was obvious his leg was broken. Wordlessly, she used the generic soul repository to heal him, then repeated to him how to find his way out.

“You’re only an acolyte. And the repositories were emptied by… how did you do that?”

“The Ominian willed it,” Mirian said, which wasn’t entirely false.

“Their blessings are great,” the priest said, though his tone was doubtful. “Thank you. Are you…?”

“No. I’m tasked with the rescue effort.”

He gave her one more look back, then scrambled for the exit.

As soon as he left, Mirian cast a light spell so that she didn’t have to strain her eyes in the weak lamplight, then started sorting through the books. There were books about the Prophets and the saints, about the history of the Luminates, but they were the kinds of books she could also find in Bainrose or the Great Library, or that Lecne had already shown her.

Would have been too easy, she thought.

This time, she made her way up to the bishop’s quarters. She closed her eyes to better recall which way Lancel had gone when she followed him, then made her way up, only to find the passage blocked. There were muffled voices behind the cave-in.

No hiding what I can do now, she thought. She looked around at the cracks in the ceiling, then at the huge chunks of rock that had come down. There was a massive intact slab of limestone that had come down at a diagonal angle. She was pretty sure it was supporting the rock above, so aimed her efforts at clearing out the smaller fragments and rubble beneath it. Mirian swapped between lift object and force drill, with the former enhanced to clear out piles of objects and the latter enhanced for greater penetrative power. For several minutes, she continued her work, cracking open the limestone, then spreading the pile out behind her. It would still be a tight squeeze and treacherous for anyone with ankles, but it would do.

As she got closer to the end of the collapse, she heard the shouting get louder.

“—coming through? We’re trapped!”

“I’m drilling through. Back away!” Mirian called out.

It took another minute of drilling, and then the last block cracked away. She shunted the debris back behind her, then made her way through. The lights had gone out on the other side, so Mirian summoned one behind her head. She emerged to find three bishops staring at her. She recognized Lancel and Valentar, but not the third.

“You’re an acolyte!” Valentar said.

“Acolyte Micael,” Lancel said. “We talked… but how do you know arcane magic?”

“I am the Seventh Prophet,” she said, and let those words sink in.

“But—”

“There will never be time to declare it. By the time the Order comes to a decision, it will be too late to matter. The cycle only lasts a little more than a month, and we are nearing the end of it. The deck is stacked against me, but I see a path forward. I need information.”

From the blank stares, she could see they lacked some sort of understanding.

“Surely the bishops are told the nature of the Prophet’s future knowledge? It was never gained through visions, but experience.”

“It cannot be,” Valentar proclaimed.

Oh, it’s going to go like that again, Mirian thought.

“You have demonstrated something remarkable, but not—”

“I’ve seen the Sword of the Fourth Prophet, in the second holy vault,” Mirian said. “And I know that you, Lancel and Valentar, are connected to the death of Acolyte Hamel. What was the stolen gold for, hmm? Was it funneled to the Pure Blade for their attack on the embassy? Used as bribes? Or is the scheme even more complicated?”

“What? I would never—!” Bishop Lancel said, at the same time that Valentar said, “You dare accuse me—you dare!”

“Great. We’re going to play that game. Lancel, I watched Hamel tell you. Then I listened as Lancel told you, Valentar. The same murder weapon is used later to target a journalist and guard secretary. So explain yourselves. Valentar, what did you do with Hamel’s report?”

“I—I told the finance committee, of course! It was a recording error. How dare you…?”

“Except I came back here to learn more about how the Order works, asking around a bit. And the reports Hamel was working on were records based on the compiled delivery reports, meaning the gold was delivered. The name of the destination is supposed to be recorded by the driver, so the acolyte in charge of filling out the ledger would have simply copied the name as it was written,” Mirian said, voice growing in ferocity. “Do you really not understand? You’re not talking to someone you can lie to. I can visit the past. I can watch you commit your sins. Now tell me the truth!”

“I am telling the truth,” Valentar sputtered.

“I knew nothing of this, but Bishop Valentar is a good man,” Lancel said. “I trust my friend’s word.”

Mirian stared at them. She looked to the third bishop.

“If… if one is to be declared a Prophet… they must go through the official channels,” he said, voice trembling.

Mirian turned around and channeled, drawing back a pile of debris to block the passage. “This is your fate if you don’t help me. If I can’t stop the leyline destabilization, you will die here, slowly suffocating until the end comes. Contemplate that. In silence. I have work to do,” she said, then pushed past the bishops.

“What are you doing?” Lancel asked.

“In silence!” Mirian snapped, whirling on him. The bishop’s eyes grew wide and he took a step back. “Redemption is in your hands, and the Ominian is watching, through me. Try to interfere and I’ll make sure you can’t.” She entered Valentar’s quarters first. Once again, the resplendent decorations made her sick. Enough gold and velvet here to feed and cloth twenty families, she thought.

“You cannot—!” Valentar said, moving toward her. Mirian waved her hand, using lift object to send him flying back into the wall. He slumped over, still breathing, but dazed.

“Worthless books,” she said, rooting through his shelves. She opened his desk drawer next, and found several letters next to a pile of gold coins. She used her spell again to lift the pile of gold over to Valentar and let it drop on his head. It tinkled and pinged as it spread across the floor. “Well there’s some of it,” she said.

She skimmed through the letters. A letter from a priest Treyul, a name she vaguely recalled Hamel mentioning before his death. It held nothing incriminating without context, but the strange references in it made her think it was probably coded. She noted several more names. “Captain Rufus. A member of the Palendurio Guard. Did you know the Pure Blade referred anyone complaining about their unauthorized cordons in the canals prior to the attack to him?” Other letters seemed innocuous. But then, she saw a signature that caught her eye. “Audera Magwell. Agent of the Deeps. Nice of her to sign it. What’s her role in all this?”

“This is… this is unconscionable!” Valentar said, wheezing. “You won’t get away with this.”

“The world ends on the 4th,” Mirian said, tossing several more letters onto the ground. “Valentar is associated with the secret police, a conspirator, an assassin, and helped commit and cover for fraud. Will you still defend him?”

Lancel was silent. The third bishop said, “If he is guilty, the magistrates will decide that. It is not for me to make a judgment.”

“I thought I was talking to a bishop, not a weasel,” Mirian said, and went to search the next rooms. The bishops busied themselves whispering, but there was little they could actually do.

In the next two rooms, it was more of the same, though Lancel and the other bishop had less incriminating letters in their drawers. It seemed they weren’t so directly involved in the conspiracy. And yet, they are complicit in covering for one who is, she thought.

Nothing about the secrets of the third circle or secret runes. She should have suspected it wouldn’t be so easy. And no chance they tell me, Mirian thought.

“Well, here’s the problem,” Mirian said, looking over the bishops. “I need to keep sneaking around looking for more information, since you three won’t tell me directly. But that means I can’t let you go, because I can only assume you’d sic the Luminate Guard or the Deeps on me.”

Lancel’s eyes went wide. “What are you saying?”

Mirian deconstructed the barrier of rubble, then started walking through. The third bishop scrambled after her, but she sent him flying back with a burst of force. He collided with Lancel who went stumbling back.

“Sorry,” she said, and started filling the tunnel behind her back up with rubble. She felt sick doing it. She’d killed in self defense plenty of times, and killed the spies in Torrviol preemptively plenty more. But this… it felt rotten. They were all culpable, but they didn’t deserve that fate. But she couldn’t bring herself to just kill them, either. It’s necessary, she assured herself. It was their original fate without me. The Ominian will grant them mercy soon.

She used force drill on the larger slab, causing more rock to tumble down and bury the passage further. Then she went searching for the secret rooms she’d mapped last cycle.