The Athenaeum and the Monastery
The man known to most as Simon Black stood in the half-light of the library amid numerous boxes, carefully packed and sealed against the journey they would soon make. It was largely unnecessary - they would endure no rain, no jostling trucks and no airport baggage handlers. If something went wrong on this trip, no amount of packing would protect them.
He looked at the others present for this occasion - his colleagues who had participated in gathering these materials together from so many disparate sources. Sanguine was doing the heavy lifting, his tribal-print clothing giving him an air of almost shamanistic strength that was more than a little at odds with the scholarly environment around him. Cricket, silent as ever, checked each box and made a mark on the checklist in her hand, making certain that all was accounted for.
Simon understood what had made her pursue this project with such persistence. Even so, it was the first time, to his knowledge, that such a large concentration of knowledge was leaving an Athenaeum - at least, when not en route to another Mysterium collection. The idea was contrary to every lesson of his training as a Censor, but he did not question Cricket's judgment. She was the Curator here, not he. The decision was hers.
Though Simon had not been there, he had spoken at length with someone who was. The Censor remembered hearing the story of what the battle had been like, that day a little more than five years ago, when the Heavens had burned and the mountains had bled. He thought of the Library burning, burning like a torch fueled by countless ages of collected wisdom, destroying itself even as the heirs to its legacy fought to reclaim that knowledge from those who would pervert it.
He shook off the thought. It was a distraction, and his will would not permit distraction.
Simon looked up - purely a convention - and turned his senses on the Ward shielding the site from unauthorized entry. He had led the team that had crafted it, putting a piece of himself into every part of it. Even now, to his supernal senses he caught the remnant of his own Nimbus in the potent wards, resembling nothing so much as interlaced wings of black and white covering the Athenaeum, protecting it from harm or intrusion.
Cricket finally tapped the completed checklist, indicating that all was in readiness; the materials were present and accounted for. Sanguine leaned against one crate, his arms folded across his chest in an attitude of patient unconcern. Whatever expression he wore was lost in the shadows of his hoodie.
Simon nodded once, decisively, and prepared his mind to form the necessary imago. Wand in hand, he smoothed his thoughts to stillness and let the Ward mesh with his own Supernal will.
It was time. Half a world away, another man mirrored Simon's movements both in body and in will. Together they wrought a shared spell, creating out of pure will a place that was not a place.
* * * * *
The air was thin and cold on this Spring day, there in the mountain peaks high above the clouds. Pale green shoots reached up toward the sun, brilliant in the thin alpine air, and prayer flags fluttered in the frigid mountain breeze.
Those who had gathered here for this solemn yet joyous occasion did not seem to feel it. Their bodies were inured to the cold, to the altitude, to the cutting chill of the wind; one might even say that this place was their true home, regardless of where they had been born or in what city they were raised. This was their souls' home, and no part of it was troublesome to them.
It was still cold.
An older man in a black cassock stood apart from the others, facing them where they were arrayed in a half-circle. One, a giant of a man in worn military fatigues, tried not to smirk as a younger man in heavily abraded canvas pants and a leather biker jacket scuffed his feet, clearly not used to standing at attention for very long. Next to him, a slender woman in a pristine, white hakama and bamboo sandals raised a thin eyebrow at the movement and quirked her lips in a narrow smile before returning her attention to the older man in front of her.
There was no reaction from the bald Chinese man in black silk with a dragon embroidered in bright colors on its back; immovable as a stone, he simply waited, the embodiment of patience. Equally patient but more in the manner of a yielding willow than an immovable stone, a middle-aged woman in blue stood easily, knowing what was to come and quietly glad of it. It had been a long time in coming.
The older man in the cassock, whom the world knew as Black Arrow, regarded them all wordlessly, there on the windswept courtyard. Payday, Maxx, Kinhasu, Raging Dragon, Vitrum. They were his students, his family, his heirs. What they did today would right a wrong that had endured for five years, and renew the future of their legacy for generations yet to come.
At that moment the pure, penetrating sound of the temple bell rang across the courtyard, echoing from the cliffs above and filling the monastery grounds with its spiritual echoes. Black Arrow bowed to those before him, and after they returned the gesture, he drew his storied blade and matched his will to that of Simon Black, half a world away.
In the midst of nowhere they made a place; out of darkness, a beacon. Reaching out with their shared wills, they merged that place which each held within himself, creating a new place never before seen, a place not of earth, outside time and space; it existed only in their will, but for today, that was enough.
A gesture, and the Adepts slowly began to file into a place that had not existed until just a few moments before.
* * * * *
They stood facing one another: the Censor and the Adept.
Behind them, around them, their respective colleagues and comrades. In this place that was not a place, neither Athenaeum nor Monastery, nine mages gathered. Simon was the first to speak.
"Well met, General."
"Well met indeed, Simon. We are honored by your presence." Black Arrow bowed formally.
"We have come to fulfill a portion of the Mysterium's mandate," Simon continued, his deep voice solemn but sure. "Wherever knowledge is gathered together in one place, it is our duty to see that it is kept well, guarded and given proper stewardship. Now, in this place, we bring forward the gift of knowledge in token of that which was lost, and as a trust for those who follow in your footsteps. Do you, Master Arrow, swear on behalf of the Perfected Adepts to serve as the steward of the Library of Tien Shan, ensuring to the best of your ability that its contents are guarded and kept safe from all who would misuse them now and for generations to come?"
Black Arrow paused, calmly considering the gravity of the charge being asked of him.
"I so swear."
"Then let it be done," pronounced the tenured Mystagogue, his gaze resting briefly on each one of the Adepts before him, "And may both our Orders remember this day forever."
At his sign, Sanguine and Cricket brought out the first two boxes. Immediately they were joined by a line of Adepts who accepted the boxes, one after another in a seemingly endless procession. One by one the boxes were accepted with a nod or a polite bow; one by one they disappeared out of that non-space to join their fellows in the Monastery. Elated though weary, neither Sanguine nor Cricket wished to surrender this task to another; this was knowledge that they themselves had chosen, gathered and brought together solely for this purpose and this day. This task was their place by right, and neither would cede it merely because it required a bit of physical exertion at its end.
For their part, the Adepts showed little sign of tiring, and in some cases their air of restrained exuberance made the task a bit more straining for those not endowed with the gifts of the Adepts. Maxx wore a silly grin that would not be wiped away, and Payday tried to tell Simon a joke once while waiting in line for the next box - once. Kinhasu's quiet grace and Raging Dragon's calm certitude were a balm, however, and soon the last box disappeared through the Portal and the space that was not a space held only the nine Awakened.
Stepping forward, Cricket bowed her head a little awkwardly, unaccustomed to Asian tradition. Fingering the stone set in sterling silver that had now delicately adorned her neck for several months, she held out a slender hand and from the depths of an inner pocket Simon produced a scroll-case, placing it in her palm.
Graciously, she handed the decorative case to the elder Adept, her fingers then moving in the graceful tongue of sign-language. "It contains what historical knowledge Iskander, Sophie and I were able to learn from the Library fragment; from me and my students, to you and yours."
Black Arrow put a fist to his heart, his gaze taking in all three Mystagogues - a salute traditionally used only among Adamantines as a sign of deepest respect.
"We are honored more than words can express to receive this trust from such luminaries of the Mysterium," he said quietly, the words carrying throughout the space. "But where words cannot suffice, actions will."
Lowering his hand from his heart, he went on, "Know that your names will forever be inscribed not only onto the pillars of the Library of Tien Shan, but also on the hearts and minds of every Adept who comes here to study the Way. Furthermore, you, of all the members of the Mysterium, will always be welcome at Tien Shan, as honored guests. From this day forth, wherever my voice is heard with respect, you will be given the aid of any Adept present, without question, in token of our thanks for the service you have rendered our Legacy today."
He bowed deeply to the three Mystagogues. The Adepts behind him echoed his gesture.
As they rose from their bows, one by one the Adepts departed, each making another small bow just before stepping through the Portal.
A look satisfaction passed between the three Mystagogues. Smiling, Cricket and Sanguine stepped back through the portal followed finally by Simon, who turned his gaze toward Black Arrow and nodded.
A moment later, Athenaeum and Monastery were no longer joined by Space, but the Library of Tien Shan stood as a silent testimony that history had been made.