The Dead Dove Locker -- "I don't know what I expected."

[Mamorien]

POTV.

“What was it that sent so many of them home, then?” Grant asks. “What happened here?”

“We asked,” Wenzai says. “Only thing they kept saying was due to my personal beliefs et cetera. You hear anything more specific, Corska?”

Ondai tilts her head to one side. “Well, understand I don’t speak Eqtorish. But I did hear a name come up a lot, I think. Mortak. Something like that.”

Ruaq raises her hand. “It wasn’t Multraq, was it? Ecclesiast Multraq?”

“Multraq?” Ondai rubs her jaw. “That’s familiar.”

Not a cult.

“Apqar’s hairy asshole,” Ipqen says. “I figured qer celebrity would kinda just fizzle out after annexation.”

“Okay, so.” Ruaq sucks air in through her carnivorous teeth. “Ecclesiast Multraq is a keeper on Eqtor who leads a pretty significant Uvaniqist sect.”

“Uvaniqist.” Grant tries to remember if he’s heard that before. “Is it a cult?”

Ruaq laughs musically. “No, Majesty. Not a cult. We’re Uvaniqist. It’s one of the biggest sects in the Children of Eqt.”

Grant’s face reddens. “Oh.”

“Multraqi Uvaniqism is a little culty, babe,” Ipqen says. “Be fair.”

Ruaq’s fringe ripples. “Sorta but not really. It’s like—they don’t believe anything the rest of us don’t, not exactly. It’s just they believe it harder.”

“Great,” Wenzai says. “Zealots.”

“That’s probably the better word,” Ipqen says. By her side, Ruaq grimaces. “The Uvaniqists believe that keepers are the direct voice of the Gods.”

“I thought you all believed that,” Grant says.

“Not all of us,” Ruaq says. “The line outside of Uvaniq’s teachings is an ecclesiast is… interpreting, right? Uvaniq attested that when qe put on the ceremonial robe qe was straight-up establishing a connection. Lotta xhurr mysticism, lotta real big personalities. But the services are really energetic and the songs are tight and there’s a lot of stuff about, uh—multiplying. As part of the faith. So historically we sorta bred ourselves into the majority. Most Uvanaqists are born into it.”

“And some Uvaniqists convert because we got real big crushes on keepers,” Ipqen adds.

“If I was a hardcore Uvaniqist,” Ruaq says, “I’d be out here wearing the robes all the time and insisting you all use my temple signifiers and acting like Ipqen was my, uh—”

“Servant,” Ipqen says.

Ruaq bats her lashes. “Yes?”

“I was finishing your fuckin’ sentence.”

Ruaq titters at her mistress’s sour face. “The point is, Majesty, that submitting oneself to a venture like yours, an alien-led one, would be unthinkable to the Multraqi.”

“They think that the word of the Gods resides on the tongues of the keepers,” Ipqen says. “Any venture not run by them is necessarily Godless.”

“Multraq is a hardcore Uvaniqist, then,” Grant says.

“Hardest of cores. Qe never drops qer temple signifier, qe refuses to acknowledge the new trio ways… basically qe’s a keeper supremacist.”

Ruaq laughs uncomfortably. “Babe.”

“I mean, qe is.” Ipqen raises an eyebrow. “I’m Uvaniqist, too. I get to say that.”

“This qe word,” Grant says. “You called that a temple signifier?”

Ruaq nods. “When a keeper ecclesiast is speaking for the Gods, they put on this golden robe and swap from she and her to qer. I’ve done it a couple of times on, like, ceremonial stuff. Like when I first got my nquiuk I was a qe for the afternoon. Most of the time, we just go with female signifiers. It’s easier that way. But Multraq goes to fuckin’ sleep in the robe. So it’s qe and qer all the time.”

“So why is a person like, uh, like qer getting such influence over our people?” Sykora asks.

There’s not many Multraqi, but their words carry the weight of a kind of… guilt. Another councilor is speaking, a man with broad, geometrically scarified forearms. It’s sort of a thing where you know you can’t live that way, but you know you’re supposed to, and you admire that someone is. I don’t know if that makes sense.

The Taiikari look blankly. Sykora squints. “Not exactly.”

“It does to me,” Grant says. “Guilt is a heavy hitter in the religion my family had.”

“Interesting.” Wenzai perches her chin on her wrapped-around tail. “Sometimes I think Maekyonites are closer to Eqtorans than to Taiikari.”

“Has this Ecclesiast Multraq not been on your radar, Qilik?” Sykora asks. “I would consider clamping down, if I were you.”

We didn’t—er. Qilik looks to the other councilors. We had always presumed that it would be simpler and more harmonious to simply keep qer broadcasts… controlled. Not to crush, per se, but to quarantine.

“So how’s qer proselytizing spreading?” Sykora asks.

Independent radio signals, perhaps, Qilik says. Or even handed-off materials. It certainly bears investigation, Majesty.

“My thoughts exactly.” Sykora squares her shoulders. “This is your first Imperial exigency. Multraq’s message, as I understand it, goes expressly counter to Taiikari doctrine. Would anyone here disagree with that?”

Tense silence across the Eqtoran council.

“You have a great deal of trust and goodwill thanks to your diplomacy during the annexation, Governess,” Sykora says. “But if the Empress were made fully aware of this sect and its operation with relative impunity, she would authorize a severe response, and expect to see it executed. So we will have to act decisively.”

“Here’s the thing.” Wenzai raises a hand. “At a guess, Governess, you were already dealing with this stuff during the era of the republic. Keeper supremacy was surely against yourdoctrine, too. Right? And you counterprogrammed Multraq then.”

Yes, Countess.

“And you’ve been given more power to keep it tight post-republic. Not less.”

We have. There is perhaps a certain reluctance to use it—

“Sure. Sure.” Wenzai waves a hand. “But Multraq’s resurgence is unorthodox, right? Proven methods breaking down. Now, part of that might an increasing fundamentalism in the face of the new Imperial order, but… I dunno. Isn’t it odd that this is the project where it first rears its head? Why aren’t the Multraqi breaking through about the Omnidivine, or the military integrations?”

“You suspect she—uh, qe—is receiving a boost, don’t you?” Grant says. “You think this is another piece being played against us.”

“Can’t say for sure,” Wenzai says. “But it’s the pattern. Subtle and deniable, and leaving someone else to shoulder the blame.”

“A certain Marquess,” Grant says.

“A certain Marquess,” Sykora agrees.

A certain Marquess? Qilik furrows her heavy brow.

“Just our private suspicions, Governess,” Sykora says. “Not quite ready for public divulgence. We’ve planted false intelligence in some quarters, feigning poor relations with the Eqtoran council. This is a wedge seeking a crack. Let us agree, Qilik, that it will find none.”

You have my oath that it won’t, Qilik says. If this certain Marquess believes us to be a feckless flock of god-botherers to be wielded as a bludgeon, they are in for a rude reaccounting.

https://www.scribblehub.com/read/1419041...r/2124848/
https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/120617...not-a-cult

[Mamorien]

The Greenfield Family.

The moment has arrived, and Raven is finally ready to make her move on Zander. Will it have the result she hopes for? And how will the family deal with this development?

In other news, I am working on an updated edition of the story for ZBookStore, with a new and greatly improved cover image that's way better than the generic thing I threw together at first release, as well as a fresh round of editing, and on top of it all an exclusive tie-in bonus story that will only be available with the paid version. Those who have already purchased the book should be able to get the update for free when it's available, which it should be soon.

https://storiesonline.net/n/52852/the-gr...-family/14

Princess of the Void.

Sykora loves the pool. She never was much of a swimmer before she was carting around a whole stable of babies in her belly. But now the weight is blessedly off her feet in the crystal water of the lanes. Governess Doxima never swims herself, but the Governess’ Mansion has a full pool regardless for her Eqtoran guests and colleagues. An Eqtoran lap is rather daunting; Sykora has decided her time is better spent floating.

She drifts through the water, on her back, hands on her rounded stomach, and watches Qarnaq II’s eternal thunderstorm ripple its rain across the jewel-lit swimming pool’s dome. Aurora is fussy this morning. You are going to be my spear fighter, Sykora thinks, as another little kick stirs.

“Very graceful, Majesty.” Grantyde resurfaces from the water. “Like a fully crewed submarine.”

Little harridans.

Sykora flicks her chief engineer the horns and kicks off from the wall. “Boil yourself, husband.”

The pool door opens and an anticomped attendant bows his way in. “Your guests have arrived, Majesty.”

“Lovely.” Sykora moves to the ladder. She lets out an undignified little huff as gravity reasserts itself on her. And then Grantyde’s hands are beneath her, helping her out.

Well, it’s the least he can do after cramming these little harridans in me. She’s beginning to enter the waddling stage. She feels like a dairy munok sometimes these days, wobbling when she moves. She isn’t fond of the way her belly button has become an outie. Her consolation is the way Grant kisses it, and his little touches—there’s one now, a pinch on her butt—making it clear that as plump as she’s gotten, he still wants her. She beams and pauses at the lip of the pool to feel his big warm arms encircle her.

His chest against her back rumbles with his voice. “How are they?”

As if their father had cued them, she feels another fluttering tickle. She tugs his hand to her belly. “Feel for yourself.”

His stubble prickles the back of her ear. “Eager this morning, huh?”

“They’re working on their backstroke, I think.”

He chuckles and picks her up into the air. The first time he did that, she could feel his muscles fluttering, just a little, at the effort. Nowadays he’s solid as a rock, even with the extra poundage she’s taken on.

It is exactly what she’d hoped, when she gave him Qarnaq: a new sureness has animated her husband. Every move, every decision, every conversation. She’s always loved him—of course she has. But she fell in love with his potential as much as anything else, and now she’s bearing witness to the blooming.

https://www.scribblehub.com/read/1419041...r/2134805/
https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/120617...-harridans

[Mamorien]

The BBC would like to apologise for the title of this week's Princess of the Void, which is dropped in a discussion of Taiikari and Eqtoran profanity I'm not going to quote.

https://www.scribblehub.com/read/1419041...r/2141716/
https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/120617...shitbreath

[Mamorien]

The Greenfield Family.

Rick and Krista are headed for their planned meetup with Carlos and Srishti, ready for some much anticipated playtime with their new friends.

https://storiesonline.net/n/52852/the-gr...-family/15

Princess of the Void.

“Let’s use this room right here.” Grantyde cracks a door and ushers the two of them into a cramped side room mostly occupied by jugs of distilled water.

Prince Grantyde sidles himself uncomfortably into a corner and looks between the two. “All right,” he says. “Let’s be brief and honest with each other, because I’m hungry as hell and I’m sure you are too. Is Narika still in your ear?”

Corska’s slowly wagging tail stills.

“I understand if you’ve still been taking meetings,” His Majesty says. “But I’m asking you respectfully—not Prince to subject, but as a fellow stakeholder in this refinery—to stop. That's what's eating the Eqtorans, the ones who aren't here. More meddling. I need you to stay straight on with me.”

Corska recovers her composure by the time he’s done. “I don’t know—”

“Sure.” Grantyde grimaces. “Sure. You don’t know what I’m talking about. But there’s something you should know. If you throw in and work with Narika, you’re working with her catspaws in the coterie, too. Which means you’re in bed with Marquess Shoskia of Ximin.”

Corska’s mouth hardens into a line. “I take it that’s a bad thing,” she says.

The Prince snorts as if she’d just told a joke. “Corska. C’mon. You know her. Couldn’t even hide your reaction that time, and you’re usually great at it.”

Corska’s ears tilt backward. She is off her balance. Aokan wants to touch her, comfort her. But they are keeping it quiet in front of the royals, the delicate, beautiful little thing between them.

“Look, guys,” His Majesty says. “I’m willing to fight, but not on two fronts, and not against people I’d honestly rather get a drink with. I understand we’re not exactly there. But you ought to know who you’re helping when you pick up the communicator for her. Wenzai is guessing that Shoskia announces her competing refinery in the next few days, try to undercut our announcement about the finished construction here.”

“Majesty—” Corska is rarely so far from the right words. “I—I find these accusations disturbing.”

“Accusations against who? You?” Grantyde raises an eyebrow. “You’re not my enemy, Corska, and I’m not yours. Once you see that, we can kick Shoskia’s ass, but not before. I’m gonna go get some steak now. Thank you both for all the work you’re putting in.”

He squeezes out from his cage of water jugs and past them. He shuts the door behind him.

Heeeere, soldier boy.

“We’ll go get a couple plates,” Corska whispers. “Then you’ll come with me. You’re off-shift for the day. I’ll find a replacement.”

Aokan’s heart speeds up. “Okay.”

They load up with barbecue and thickly brewed black tea and then Aokan follows the angel of the union through the crinkled plastic of an arco-tube and into the worker housing. She’s on the third balcony, second hatch to the left. And so, to his delight and constant awe, is he.

Corska kicks her shitkicker boots off and clears a space on her cluttered table for her food and her tea. Her eyes flash. “Heeeere, soldier boy,” she sing-songs, and her lovely, possessive need closes around his neck and gives him a firm tug to the couch.

He sits down next to her, and she lounges across his lap. “I reckon we know the crab who’s living at the center of that shell company on the other side of Qarnaq II,” she says. “No wonder they’re scabbing. You know who Marquess Shoskia is?”

“I know she’s a misandrist bitch,” Aokan says. “Anything else?”

Corska laughs. “Nah. That’s the main point.” She swivels around so she’s straddling him. Her tail tilts his head down. “Are you ready to serve your union again, soldier boy?”

“Always, Corska.” His hands knit shut across the small of her back. The wagging of her tail. “For you, always.”

She cups his chin and widens her eyes. He looks into them.

“Hit me, baby,” he says.

Flash.

The shadows in the room have ticked a few centimeters over. His teacup is drained; his steak is halfway finished, and its aftertaste is spiced and rich in his throat. He’s gone from sitting to laying on the couch sidesaddle; his hands have snuck their way into the back pockets of Corska’s cargo joggers. She’s kissing his chest.

“Did we talk?” he asks.

“We did.”

“I’m guessing you liked what I had to say.”

She laughs her husky laugh and nods against his chest. “I wish you could hear yourself. I think you might be the most brilliant crook I’ve ever met, Aokan of Lilek. A fucking artist.”

“Corska.” He taps his forehead. “That’s incriminating, babe.”

“Agh. Forgive me.” Another flash. “Forget that too,” she says. “And kiss me again.”

He does.

https://www.scribblehub.com/read/1419041...r/2151801/
https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/120617...oldier-boy

[Mamorien]

Princess of the Void.

“I hear you’re in your aerostat phase,” Grant says. “That’s… quick.”

“It may seem that way to you and to Countess Wenzai, this being your first venture.” Shoskia’s grin curls with condescension. “Once you’ve set up a few of these firms, you learn some knacks and cut some cruft.”

Grant glances over his shoulder. Sykora is sitting up in bed in a scarlet mumu, her feet encased in a quietly humming electromassage box. She rolls her eyes and makes a masturbatory waggling motion with her ring and middle fingers. Balanced on her baby bump is a plate stacked with pancakes. He made them for her once, and she’s developed an addiction.

“Speaking of which,” Shoskia says, oblivious to the lounging Princess past the edge of the screen eating pancakes barehanded. “I wanted to get in touch because I’d heard you were having problems with your Eqtoran workforce?”

“You’ve heard, then,” Grant says. “I guess word travels quickly in the exo clique.”

“I don’t use the Eqtorans in the same way you do, but I have a handful. It’s a rather regular topic of conversation among them. I believe we can help one another, Majesty.”

“How so?”

“Our refineries may be in competition, but we ultimately serve the same mistress, naturally. There’s no reason it can’t be a friendly competition, hmm? I’m fortunate enough to have the ear of someone who has the ear of someone who has the—well. They don’t exactly have ears, do they? Just those funny little nubs.”

Grant laughs politely and hopes his desperate urge to hang up in this woman’s face doesn’t show. Under the camera, he’s tapping furiously on his communicator.

honey i am this fucking close to snapping and cussing this marquess out. talk me down

With my teeth.

“I might be able to render some aid with your Multraq problem,” Shoskia says.

“My Multraq problem,” Grant says. “You know qer name, then?”

“She’s done some sabre-rattling around my affairs as well,” Shoskia says. “But we’ve been communicating. I could take up your cause with her.”

“I see.” Grant sets his jaw. On the bed, Sykora hurriedly licks syrup off her fingers and picks her communicator up. “And you’d do this for free?”

“About that.” Shoskia rubs the edge of one long nail. “I have been of the opinion for some time now that for the safety of your people and the soundness of your shareholders, it might be best to bring additional help on. It appears Wenzai isn’t rising to the challenge. Bless her, but she is just a Countess, after all. They are limited in power and in capacity.”

“Whose help, then?”

“Well.” She rests a hand on her chest. “While I am in some ways a competitor, I am also a loyal subject of yourself and her Majesty. For a stake in your future success, I would be happy to consult.”

The turning oval of Sykora’s typing reply resolves into a message:

talk you down? no way mister :devil:
fuck this harlot and how she’s talking to you. torch her and hang up.

He transforms his smirk at the message to as gracious an expression as he can manage. “Would you give me just a moment?”

She inclines her head. “Take your time.”

He sends:

are you sure?

Sykora starts tak-takking away again.

you have nothing more to gain from gentility, dove

she’s already strung along

she’s already doing what she can to sabotage you

she already thinks of you as an idiot and an enemy

so fuck her!!!

piss her off. it’ll trip her up and make her think you’re impulsive.

just make her mad, not scared. The caller mute button is the box with the x, she’ll HATE that

“If you wished to wind down your association with the Korak Refinery entirely, I would be more than eager to buy you out, you know,” Shoskia says. “You have done such a splendid job setting it up. I really think it has promise.”

“I said just a moment, please.”

She titters. “Of course, Majesty.”

Sykora sends:

oh and press the orange square on the console before you do it because i need this recording tagged and saved hahahaha :devil:

“Marquess.” Grant looks back up at her. “I think you’re operating under a misunderstanding.”

She raises one thinline brow. “What would that be?”

He sets the communicator aside. “There is no struggle you can inflict on me that will make me come begging. Not for help, and not for a truce.”

“A truce? Inflict on you?” She laughs. “Majesty, I fear you’ve been watching too many—”

He presses the box with the X, and a red mute glyph appears in the corner of her screen view. Her mouth snaps shut.

“Listen up.” He hits the orange square and straightens his shoulders. “Record this and play it back if you need reminding. I don’t want to do anything the way you or people like you have done it. I visited your manor, and it made me sick. It disgusted me. You disgust me. And I will do everything in my power to oppose your vision for the Empire. I will outrank you and outspend you and whatever else I can do. I will never accept your help. If you threw me a life preserver in a storm, I’d pop it with my teeth. I will run my refinery my way, and nothing you or any other Taiikari or Eqtoran does will stop me, and I’ll ride it into the molten core of Qarnaq before I let you chisel your way in.”

Marquess Shoskia’s eye twitches. Probably wishing she could compel over video. He takes her off mute.

“Have I made myself clear?” he demands.

The Marquess’s voice is quiet and lethal. “Exceptionally, Majesty.”

“Good,” Grant says. “Don’t call me again.” He punches the disconnect.

Sykora breaks into a giggling fit as soon as the screen goes blank. “Gods of the Firmament, her face. I want that as my communicator background.”

https://www.scribblehub.com/read/1419041...r/2158532/
https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/120617...h-my-teeth

[Mamorien]

The Greenfield Family.

Paula is still having trouble accepting what happened between Zander and Raven. Some feelings need to be discussed openly, to get to the bottom of why what happened is bothering her so much. As usual, Raven has some ideas for how to make that happen, and how to open a few more doors among the Greenfield siblings. A lot of things are about to change between them in the course of one afternoon.

https://storiesonline.net/n/52852/the-gr...-family/16

Princess of the Void.

There’s a corral of sorts, warting out from the uncredentialed crowd, where a pod of camerapeople and reporters in smartly fur-trimmed dress tunics crane for a view past the marines’ armored shoulders. Grant takes a deep breath and adjusts his path.

A violet-fringed keeper babbles into a scriptomorph and holds it urgently up. Majesty. Why have you come to Harok?

Grant covers his anxiety with a smile (he’s getting better at that). “Brother Tymar-nai-Indrik and I are here at the invitation of Counselor Minimaq-mek-Harok and Governess Pazeem, to witness today’s service. We’re so grateful to Ecclesiasts Multraq, Qaivor, and Liuaq of the Harok Temple for allowing us entry. That’s the statement. Thank you all.”

The marines close ranks as he steps away from the press corps, who pepper questions against his retreating back.

The golden maze.

“Now remember,” Tymar says, as he catches up with the contingent of Taiikari holy men and Eqtoran Pike crew. “Choice is God. Choice is sacred. We aren’t arguing the virtue of the choice but that there is a choice to be made. The sacred freedom the Eqtorans talk about. They call it the golden maze. Not a plain, not the wide firmament. Not your or my idea of total freedom. The paths are laid down by the Library Sacrosanct, and they take the paths.”

Grant’s slick navy boots crunch a dessiccated flower petal in one of the tiny furrows which overlap and fork off in geometric right angles through the path to the temple. “So we have to argue ours isn’t a dead end?”

Tymar shakes his head. “A dead end is still a path. Getting to a wall and turning back, that’s sacred right. The wrong choice remains a choice. Do you see? Multraq says that your path is false, is clambering out of the maze entirely or knocking one of its walls down. That’s what’s abominable.”

Grant tries to further insulate himself from the eyes of the crowd by leaning into the conversation. “I don’t know if I’m following.”

Ruaq glances over her shoulder; she and Ipqen are walking ahead, having a conversation that Grant can’t hear over the commotion of their watching crowd.

“There’s a translation thing here,” Tymar says. “Choice doesn’t mean quite exactly the same thing. Eqtoran understanding of their own psychology—it’s different from the average Maekyonite’s. From what I understand of your homeland, a common vision of freedom is the choice to go anywhere, do anything.”

“So how does the Eqtoran idea differ?”

“How to explain. Mmm.” Tymar points at the bright sun shower that pelts the dome. “The rain up there, on the glass. You see the drops going down; they drift, but they cut, too, into the paths that other drops took. You know what I’m talking about?”

“Yyyyes? Maybe.”

“The ant atop the throok,” Cerik says.

Tymar nods. “Thank you, love. A much more apt metaphor.”

Grant’s about to ask what that means but Tymar’s already explaining:

“It’s a South Kymrian parable. From the Serpent’s Breath sector. They’re not Eqtorans, but they think about consciousness similarly. So there’s an ant atop a throok. A, uh—a kind of bug that builds colonies. Do you have something like that on Maekyon?”

“Ants? Yeah. My translator one-to-oned it, even.”

“Oh, good. Imagine an ant that finds itself, by some quirk of time’s passage, upon the back of a slavering, instinctive beast. And central to the ant’s psychological well-being is the thought: this beast is mine to command. Where I wish it, the beast goes. Now this is of course fatuous. The beast is a beast. It goes where it will. It is predictable; it does beast things. It eats, it fornicates, that sort of thing. The ant is the conscious mind. The throok is the unconscious, bearing us where it will.” Tymar spreads his hands. “So, the South Kymrians ask us: what does the ant spend its day doing, exactly?”

“Nothing?”

“Ahh.” Tymar lowers all his fingers but one. “Not nothing. The ant justifies. The ant spends a great deal of time deciding the meaning behind each instinctual choice. The ant tells itself a story about why it chose to do what the beast was always going to do. In this way, it constructs, painstakingly, a facade of control over itself and its fate.”

“That’s dire.”

“Well, yes. It’s a sorry state, being an ant on a throok. But here’s the thing. What one ant can only pretend to do, what about many ants? Watching their beasts race about, humping and peeing on everything, telling one another the same pretend stories? They can’t control the beast, no. Not really. What they can do, the ants, is work together to construct. It’s like what they say about religious people, eh, Grantyde?” He winks. “However much bunk we believe, the architecture sure is impressive. And so the ants reorder the world, putting up walls—”

“Ant-sized walls?”

“How big are your ants’ structures?” Tymar chuckles. “I’m guessing smaller than the South Kymrian ones.”

“Uh, yeah. Not big enough for the metaphor.”

“Okay, well, go with me the rest of the way with a certain amount of suspension for the shakiness. The powerless ants, in their numbers, might from their imagination and collaboration create a maze. A vast and gleaming array of paths that pen the beasts upon which they ride. Steer it, maybe not. But a beast won’t climb a wall or dig a new tunnel when there’s an easily trotted passage before it. That’s the Golden Maze. A great, vast, generational project of the Eqtorans, built and tended for thousands of years by their ecclesiasts and their books of song.”

Quill’s (sic) Qilik's words echo in Grant’s head. It will go away quickly, and the ones to come after will not miss it.

“This is the scurrying, atomic strength of civilization. Whether it’s religion, philosophy, ethics—song, especially, to the Eqtorans. The most visible way you’ve seen it shaped is by music, but it suffuses them, as bone-deep as your wife’s loyalty, or your self-determination. Look for mazes on Eqtoran stuff, next time you’re close to it. Look at the street we’re walking on, or the doors we’ll pass through, soon. Look at this robe you’re wearing, even. The scrollwork on the sleeves.” Tymar taps his finger against the interwoven knotwork decorating Grant’s forearms. “See the entrance and the exit?”

“Oh, wow.” Grant stares at the design—now that he realizes what they are, they’re hypnotic.

“You’ll see it everywhere now that you know to look,” Tymar says. “Little breaks in the lines or t-junctions. Sykora’s utopia—every Taiikari utopia, really—is one where the choice between two branching paths is made for her by a loving guide. Yours is a world without walls, where nothing prevents you from going wherever you wish. Both are intolerable to the Eqtoran ethos. Freedom is a maze.”

Grant’s eyes track the paths along his arms. He doubles back, finds a path.

“They really are gorgeous, aren’t they?”

He looks up from his sleeves. “The mazes?

“The Eqtorans. All they’ve made, all they’ve accomplished. All they’re sharing with us now.” The crowd and its cityscape shine in amber across Tymar’s anticomps. “How amazingly lucky are we, to walk these paths with them?”

https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/120617...olden-maze
EDIT: https://www.scribblehub.com/read/1419041...r/2169350/

[Mamorien]

Princess of the Void.

https://www.scribblehub.com/read/1419041...r/2175565/
https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/120617...535-buckle