KNOWLEDGE

All of the wards in the City of Secrets were screaming. From the inland rampart to the seaward piers, from the high pinnacle of the Cinis Mai to the street-level ward-stones they rang out intruder, attacker, invasion!

The elderpriest rushed through the corridors of the ziggurat, breathless and bleary-eyed with sleep. Down the polished passages and up the crisscrossing stairs, out into the Throne Chamber he ran. The vast space echoed with the alarms as he crossed to the east door and threw it open, looked out: 

From the top of the three-sided ziggurat he could see all the inland portion of the city, all the way to the walls and the mountain waste beyond. The smoke of Valmai could just be seen in the far, far distance, a small smudge against the morning sky.

There was no army encamped there. The walls stood strong. The city was dark and silent. Still the wards rang in his ears. 

From the east door to the southwest he ran. Still nothing. The streets were quiet below, still shrouded in sleep. Soon, the sky would be alight, and the City of Secrets would grind itself into wakefulness, but not yet. Still the wards clamored on.

Finally, to the northwest he ran and threw open the last door. That was when he realized that it was not morning. Below, the waters of the Halkatarax rivered their way through the city, into the bay and its great harbor, and then out to the open sea.

But there was no more sea, and no more harbor. Where the harbor-mouth had once been, there was now a mass of land blocking passage to the ocean. A pitted, craggy island.

Behind the island, a dark bar of shadow lay along the horizon, and a fog of darkness rose up to cover the sky above. It was not morning. It was perhaps midday, but the city lay in deep gloom, a gloom that was not darkness alone. There was something in the darkness, something that breathed silence and sleep. He could feel it, and so could the wards in the stones of the city. They did not sleep, of course. They were awake, awake and shrieking to warn him.

Another ping ran through the veins of the ziggurat and shivered through his feet, shocking him to action. He stumbled back inside with fear rising in his throat. Disastrous. Where were the guards? Where were the harbor-wardens? Was he the only creature stirring in the city now? Where had the dark island come from, and what did it portend?

He fled to the center of the chamber and stood before the throne. It sat solid as ever, a great, squat mass of protobsidian, gilded with gold. It was said that the Mantax himself had carved it from the slopes of cursed Valmai long ago, enduring the gouts of magma that had poured forth upon him, to bring it away. The throne was the lynchpin of the ziggurat and its ward-veins, and only the Lord Mantax himself was allowed to sit upon it. But the Mantax was not here—he was somewhere north, taking counsel with the other Lords of Order. In his absence, only the elderpriest was allowed to touch the throne, to utilize its secrets.

The sky was growing darker outside—not brighter—and a horrible sense of foreboding fell upon the elderpriest. Another shiver went through the ward-veins.

He touched the throne.

Disorientation, and then clarity. His perception traced through channels of stone and metal, through networks laid through the ziggurat and the earth beneath it, into the streets and the buildings, through the apertures which sensed light and sound all throughout the city. It was the City of Secrets, but no secret could be kept from he who sat the throne.

The streets were empty, he found as he shifted through the various avenues of sight. He looked into the buildings and found bodies there. Terror spasmed in him for a moment before he sensed the beating of their cores. They were asleep. Room after room, building after building, the same thing. All deep in slumber. It must be the fog . . .

Another ping came down one of the wards to the northwest, and he raced along it to see. It was on the main thoroughfare coming up from the harbor, on the south bank of the Halcatarax. But he could see nothing.

Wait . . . there was a noise. He focused, couldn’t quite make it out. He ground his fingers into the surface of the throne, tried to increase the connection, but it was no use. He wavered for a moment . . . only the Lord Mantax could sit the throne. 

But Mantax was not here. He was the only one here. Surely he would be forgiven.

The elderpriest clambered up onto the great seat, felt the interweaving grooves in the arms and back of the chair. He focused again and thrilled with the deeper connection. Back along the ward-veins he flew, and looked out onto the thoroughfare once more. The sound rang out again. Metal on stone. Close by. There was a shape moving in the fog, moving away. He raced ahead, along the local ward-vein, and looked out again. The shape resolved, and it was—

It was slit-eyes and a bent back, topped with spines. It was a staff humming with a sleep-inducing power, amplified through the gloom. And there was another: more slit-eyes, and a staff projecting a field of silence.

It was Rahkshi . . . and there were more, so many more. An army of Rahkshi creeping through the dark, all along the thoroughfare, and out into the city. They were emerging from the waters of the harbor, down from the shores of the island at the harbor’s mouth. 

That island . . . it was . . . He knew the shape of that island. There were deep pits in its surface, and from the pits came even more creatures: beasts that flitted through the air and others that crawled along the ground. Rahi creatures. Creatures of the Makuta.

Invasion. His jaw clenched at the realization, and he floundered for a moment in the ward-space, seeking for the right impulses to activate. The Mantax had spoken of the possibility that the Makuta might move against the Lords of Order, but there had been no open conflict. 

His hands skittered desperately across the grooves of the throne. 

Where was the Lord Mantax, and where were his armies? Surely he would be here soon. He knew all secrets; surely this was no exception. He would be here soon, yes, to ambush the invading force and destroy them, like so many times before. 

Where, where . . . what was the right configuration? He struggled to remember.

But . . . but if that was the plan, why had the Lord Mantax not apprised him? He was the elderpriest of the ziggurat. Was he no longer trusted? He had kept so many secrets, and so faithfully . . .

Finally, the elderpriest found what he sought. Signals traveled out into the city, and things began to happen. Lightstones blazed bright along the streets, and earsplitting alarms began to clamor in the air. Many doors slammed shut, and others opened. There was a stir in some quarters, as the city’s inhabitants were finally shocked into wakefulness. Awake and defend yourselves!

He could see more clearly now. He raced back to the main thoroughfare, looked out onto the street. A horrible noise of shrieking assaulted him as his perceptions emerged through the aperture, and he had to dial it back for a moment. The Rahkshi were screaming and fleeing from the lights. One of the creatures smashed its staff into the base of an obelisk and the spire toppled over, shattering its lightstone across the ground. The glowing shards repulsed the creatures even more.

He laughed at his success, watching them in disarray. He would awaken the guards and the harbor-wardens. He would lead the counterattack from here, and repulse the enemy. The Makuta thought to capture the city through sleep and silence, with their dull servants? Foolishness! Perhaps he would even capture the dark island itself, and add its secrets to his own—

The base of the ziggurat pinged him loudly, and his exulting stopped. Somewhere on the crisscrossing stairs outside. Had they penetrated that far into the city? He had seen no Rahkshi on the way. A chill went down his spine as he abandoned the further wards and moved to the ziggurat itself. There were guards on the ground now, shaking off sleep and brandishing weapons, and the pathetic Matoran were running here and there in terror. 

Shouts moved through the air as he set the wards to signal out the positions of the intruders in the streets. Then he was racing up the outside of the ziggurat, seeking the invaders along the stairs, commanding the outer doors to bolt and seal, and seal again, and—

He was seized bodily, and all his perceptions dissolved into a spinning, sickening rush as he was dragged from the throne and went sailing through the air . . . then resolved into red pain as he smashed into the far wall of the throne chamber.

More pain as he slid down and struck the polished floor. Agony rolled through his body, and he knew that his gilded armor was broken and bent. The personal wards in his armor plates told him that his internals were damaged. It was bad.

He was face down on the floor, but he realized that he was still seeing something. His perception was limned with red, and it throbbed horribly, but he was still connected to the ward-veins somehow. He was seeing the interior of the Throne Chamber. There he was, a broken pile on the floor, and there was the throne at the center, and between . . .

Between him and the throne there was a thing standing. It was made of many plates and metal shapes, joined by pistons and connecting gears. It did not move like a living thing, but more like the automatons he had seen the Fe-Matoran produce. It stalked toward his inert form, each limb moving as if by a separate, disjoint instruction. His disembodied senses felt the thing’s feet blunt against the polished floor. Pain surged again, and he struggled to focus. He looked toward the throne. If he was still connected to the ward-veins, maybe he could—

The thing stopped suddenly and turned with surprising speed. All at once he was staring down into two bright green eyes behind a foreign mask. It was not looking at his body, but at him—at the point where his perceptions emitted through the wards. It could see him. 

The eyes glowed painfully bright, and an unknown power obliterated the aperture, flinging him back into his own skull. He retched at the reversal of his disembodiment, coughing and struggling on the floor. His sight had returned, though still blurry. He heaved himself up on one arm. The thing had already turned back to him. It stood over him now, and he waited for it to strike . . .

It did not strike. Instead, the thing reached down and touched him with one of its iron fingers . . . and the pain vanished. The rents in his armor closed, and his internal wards signaled a lessening of damage. He was . . . healed.

“Who . . . are you?” he asked breathlessly, pressing himself back against the wall, afraid, but thankful that he could breathe comfortably again.

A voice issued from behind the strange mask. It was not a living voice, but generated by mechanical means, he was sure.

“Do you not know?” the voice said.

“I do not.” It was the truth. Rahkshi and Rahi he knew, but not this mechanical thing.

“Are you not the elderpriest of the city of the Mantax, who shares in the knowledge of He Who Knows All Secrets?”

“I am.”

“And yet you do not know this secret.”

“I . . . I—”

The thing laughed a mechanical laugh, and the green eyes pulsed.

“What is your intention here,” the elderpriest demanded, trying to put on a brave face, “and what is the meaning of this invasion? This affront to the Lords of Order will not stand.”

“More secrets that you do not possess.”

The elderpriest scoffed. “I assure you, when the Mantax is returned, declarations will be sent to the Makuta, and swift war will come upon them, worse even than in the days of the Wars of Order. You may transmit this to your masters—”

The room blurred and shifted around them, and suddenly they were back in the center of the chamber, next to the throne. He realized that he was standing up now. How . . . ? He had no time to think.

The thing touched the protobsidian of the throne with an iron finger, scratched a spark out of it.

“Do not touch it!” he cried. “Only those ordained to possess the knowledge of Mantax may—”

“Ah, knowledge,” the voice interrupted. The green eyes flicked toward him. “If knowledge is required, then I am certainly ordained, for I am Knowledge.”

“What does that mean? You still haven’t told me who you are.”

“I have. Just now.” The eyes turned back to the throne. “So this is the means by which you surveil the city,” the thing mused. “A useful tool for lesser creatures, I suppose. The Lord Mantax is dead.”

“It is forbidden for you to—” The words registered in his mind, and he stammered. “Wh-What? You . . . you lie!”

“He is dead, as are the other Barraki.”

“Outrageous! What proof do you offer of this claim?”

“No proof is necessary, except the proof of this city being taken in a few hours. The trifling forces of the Barraki are dismantling even now, across the universe. The Lords of Order are no more.”

“I know this to be false.”

The thing turned to him now, fixed him with a look that would have been inquisitive, had it been a living face.

“And how do you know this?”

The elderpriest hesitated, taken aback by the thing’s sudden interest. “It is a . . . a secret. Something known only to the subjects of the Lord Mantax, and to no others.”

“If secrets are simply your own false beliefs, then you are a fool. Fools do not live long in my presence. Prove yourself.”

“I am the elderpriest. I do not need to—”

The thing stepped forward, and he remembered spinning and sickening, and red pain . . .

“Prove yourself.”

“Very well,” the elderpriest cleared his throat. “I shall grant you this secret: The Obsidian Throne was made by the Lord Mantax, who put his own wards of integrity upon it, that it should remain whole as long as he was living.” He pointed to the black seat. “The throne remains whole, its wards intact, and so the Mantax lives.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“Fascinating,” the voice said. “And this is known amongst the people?”

“It is. All who serve the Mantax know it and are assured by it, as I am.”

“I see.” The thing turned its gaze back to the throne. “It is a good bit of mythmaking, I’ll give him credit. The Barraki are masters of such propaganda.”

“What do you mean?” The elderpriest stepped forward, indignant. “It is no myth. It is proof that the Mantax lives, and that he shall return to expel those who occupy his city.”

“It makes a good narrative for a resistance to hold to,” the voice mused, ignoring him. “Something that will have to be reckoned with, sooner or later.”

“This occupation will be short-lived—”

“It’s as good a place to start as any, I suppose.”

The thing snapped its iron fingers, and the throne shattered into rubble.

Shock. Confusion. The elderpriest looked wide-eyed at the pile of rubble as it collapsed to the floor. The ward was . . . the ward of integrity had been there . . . It had been strong. He had felt it, even to the point of shattering.

The thing turned to the elderpriest, dusting flecks of obsidian from its armor.

“Now,” it said, “do you renounce your duty to Mantax, one of the  Lords of Order, who is now dead, and do you pledge now the loyalty of your duty to the Makuta?”

“I . . . I do not renounce!”

“You have great knowledge, elderpriest, and much sway over those beneath the ziggurat. It is in the interests of the Makuta to preserve you, if possible. So I ask again, do you renounce?”

“I c-cannot renounce, for the Mantax is not dead. You may take this knowledge to the Makuta and let them consider it.”

The thing shook its strange mask.

“Ah, these are the words of a fool, for the Makuta are Knowledge.” Its eyes burned into green points “. . . and as I said, I am Knowledge as well.”

“I do not understand,” the elderpriest lied, shrinking backward.

“You do understand. The age of the Lords of Order is at an end, and now is the time of the Lords of Knowledge. Once more, I ask: Will you pledge to serve us in this new age?”

The green eyes bored into him. The throne was dust and black shards, its secrets annihilated, except for the ones he now carried.

“I will serve you,” he said, his voice trembling. 

“Then declare that the Mantax is dead.”

The throne was gone, but the wards remained. Mantax had laid down those within the ziggurat as well, he knew. They would have perished with him, surely. He could not be dead, and if he was not dead, then . . . someday there would be a reckoning . . .

“I will serve you, but I cannot declare this. The Mantax must live. I do not understand this contradiction. It is a secret that is . . . that is kept from me. Please understand.”

“I see,” the voice said. “Your faith is admirable, elderpriest, and worthy, I suppose, of your position as the keeper of the City of Secrets.”

The thing turned away for a moment, and the creak of pistons sounded almost like a sigh. Then its limbs rotated it back, and the green eyes looked upon him again.

“I have asked a great thing of you,” it said, “and you have revealed secrets to me. For your honesty, I will share one great secret in return, before I must again tend to my task in this place. Will you accept this, as the beginning of your service to us?”

“I . . . I will.”

“Very well. Then look.”

The strange mask slid upward and back, and metal plates retracted with a shriek. Pistons whined as the carapace of the Makuta opened horribly, and a dark thing issued forth.

And the elderpriest saw what was inside.

It had already told him.

It was knowledge.

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