The Angel and the Architect

Chapter One: Friends in High Places

One disastrous, accursed night had reduced Nulakar Velak’s life’s work to pulp. His mouth agape in horror, his eyes bloodshot and weeping, the master archivist waded through the halls of his once-hallowed library. His emerald robe, now soaking in the shin-high water, clung to his ankles and tripped him. The towering bookshelves to either side oozed sodden paper, the only remains of centuries-old scrolls and tomes.

How many thankless hours had he toiled away in here, rewriting manuscripts until his hand went numb, just so other scholars could borrow the copies? How often had he returned books to their proper shelves because his fellow archivists never bothered to learn the new system?

None of it mattered now anyway. All his deft calligraphy and meticulous organizing had been for nothing. The entire library was ruined, all twelve floors of it. All because of those brats who’d flooded it.

Nulakar gritted his teeth as his sorrow boiled into rage. He envisioned tightening his hands around each boy’s neck, Pyoshara in his left grip and Araja in his right. King Jakkan had exonerated them both for the incident, but were it up to Nulakar, he’d have gladly been the boys’ judge and executioner. Countless myths, hymns, and sagas detailing the deeds of ancient heroes had been reduced to irrecoverable pulp in the water below. Nulakar could never forgive them.

As the old archivist trudged through the library, he felt heavier and heavier with each step. But just before he sank to his knees in despair, the sound of a chiming ritual bell reached his ears. It was faint, and the high-pitched ringing was almost drowned out by the sounds of dripping and running water. Nulakar ignored it, believing it to be just his imagination, but quickly the sound grew louder.

The ringing bell was coming from the floors above, but how was that possible? Aside from Nulakar, there wasn’t a soul in there. The entire tower had been evacuated and sealed off until the king’s labor crews could bail the water and repair the structure. But with the uprisings, all of Sonanarth was on high alert, and saving the library was the least of Jakkan’s priorities. As the library’s keeper, Nulakar had allowed himself in, sneaking through a window to assess the damage.

As Nulakar climbed to the upper floors, an ensemble of instruments joined the bell in a celestial symphony that filled him with awe. Wood flutes chirped like songbirds, accompanied by harps and sitars. He ascended the staircases, tracing the otherworldly song to his office on the twelfth floor. He grasped the handle of the giant mahogany door and pulled it open.

To his astonishment, a disembodied orchestra floated about his office. Tiny cymbals crashed together, moved by invisible hands. A great veena played a haunting melody, its strings plucking themselves. Awestruck, Nulakar fell flat on his behind and watched the airborne instruments circle about.

A boy’s voice filled the room. “Make yourself comfortable and grab a chair, why don’t you?”

Nulakar shielded his eyes as a blinding light shone forth from his desk along the opposite wall. When the light dissipated, he beheld a young boy, no older than nine monsoons, sitting with one leg crossed over the other atop his desk. The boy tossed and caught a mango before devouring it in a couple of bites. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out another.

“Who—who are you?” asked Nulakar, gasping.

The boy laughed. “Oh, come on. You spend all your days reading these dusty old tomes. You must’ve come across me at least once,” he said. Nulakar’s eyes widened with understanding. “There you go, you got it.”

“Povu,” Nulakar whispered.

The boy winked and bowed. “Yours truly.”

Nulakar’s face flushed red with embarrassment, realizing he was sitting like an oaf in the face of divinity. He immediately lay prostrate, his hands outstretched with palms to the ground.

“Do I look like I care about formalities?” Povu said. “Spare me.”

Nulakar looked up. “W-why are you here?”

Povu gestured for Nulakar to sit in the nearby chair, then adjusted the peacock feather in his hat and hopped off the desk. “I’m not really here, here,” Povu said, pointing at the floor. As Nulakar sat, Povu tapped on the archivist’s head. “But I am in here.”

“You’re … in my mind?” Nulakar asked, confused.

Povu smiled, then scratched his head. “Exactly, but don’t get it mixed up. I’m not just a figment of your imagination. I’m really in there, talking to you telepathically. Understand?”

“I think so,” Nulakar said, furrowing his brow.

“Would it help if I showed you where I really am?” Povu asked. Nulakar’s face lit with anticipation, and he sat forward with his hands clasped together. Povu laughed. “I thought so.”

Another all-encompassing light enveloped the room, and when it receded, they were no longer in Nulakar’s office. Instead, they sat beneath a giant mango tree, with rolling hills of golden grass stretched out as far as the eye could see. The late afternoon sun bathed the entire landscape in an orange glow. Under the tree, other perfected beings—Jeshtar, just like Povu—played their instruments and sang softly.

“The shores of paradise …” Nulakar whispered, the breath knocked out of him. “I’m not worthy of seeing this.”

“Volama, to be precise, one of the planets under Aurya’s dominion. And don’t sell yourself short,” Povu said with a laugh. “After what I have planned for you, you will be. Consider this your advance payment.”

Nulakar thought to ask what Povu had planned, but he kept silent, too enraptured by the blissful vision to speak. Male and female Jeshtar danced in the endless meadow. The women’s dresses twirled about them as they spun, and their ankle bracelets chimed as they hopped about.

“Okay, I think that’s enough. You still have work to do,” Povu said. Just as quickly as it had appeared, the scene of paradise faded, and Nulakar and Povu returned to Nulakar’s office. The floating celestial instruments disappeared, but Nulakar heard them still.

He found himself yearning to see the heavenly planet another time, even if just for a fleeting moment. “Work diligently, and I’ll show you again,” Povu said as if reading the librarian’s mind.

“What do you ask of me, great Jeshtar?” Nulakar asked.

“Across all of Sonan, anytime knowledge is destroyed, I hear about it.” Povu straightened his bright-red shorts and the snake bangle around his bicep. “Most of the time, I just ignore the report. What do I care if someone burns an old book to start a fire, or some heartbroken teenager rips a few pages from their diary? But imagine my surprise a few days ago when I open my office door and nearly drown in a torrent of letters, one for each book in your great library.”

The Jeshtar’s mirthful grin faded, replaced by a hateful scowl. “Those two scoundrels,” he fumed. “If I ever get my hands on them, I’ll … I’ll …”

Nulakar nodded, thankful he had a friend in the heavens who understood his pain.

Povu breathed deep, calming himself. “Until then, however, there’s the more pressing matter of replacing all that was lost.”

“I’ll send word to the libraries of Imehu and Borunaka. I’ll have them copy their texts and send them here.”

Povu wagged his finger. “Don’t bother,” he said. “Before the incident, Sonan’s archives far surpassed the other two great libraries combined. And soon enough, it will again.” Povu beamed a wide smile. “You shall rewrite it, Nulakar.”

Nulakar scoffed, certain he’d misheard. “Rewrite it? All of it?”

“All of it, my dear calligrapher.”

Nulakar started panting and sweating, realizing the immense burden thrust upon him. He was no sage. He was a keeper of sacred texts, not a writer of them. Povu must have made a mistake. As much as Nulakar would’ve loved to serve, he wasn’t cut out for such an undertaking.

“I do not make mistakes,” Povu said, pacing around Nulakar’s chair. Though the Jeshtar’s voice was soft and youthful, he spoke with an undeniable authority. “You cherish this library as a husband does his beloved, and each book is like a child to you. Nobody else will recreate each text in such perfect, painstaking detail as you. I trust no one but you.”

“But … how?” Nulakar asked, rubbing his forehead.

Povu retrieved three mangoes from his pocket and began juggling. “The Jeshtar,” he said. “The spirit choirs sing of all the wisdom handed down by Inavani, of history, law, magic, and science. Their songs never end. Like an ever-flowing river, their music fills the world of Asodhra, the heavenly planets, and the cosmos itself. You must simply attune yourself to their voices and record the visions they give you.”

Nulakar felt dizzy, contemplating the scale of Povu’s assignment. No, assignment was an understatement. It was a vocation. Recreating the library would take two decades at least. And that was assuming he could commune with the choirs, as Povu was ordering.

“I doubt I’ll be able to,” Nulakar said, eyes downcast. “I haven’t spoken to spirits in many years.”

Povu raised an eyebrow. “And yet, you converse with me without difficulty. You have more affinity for the spirits than you give yourself credit for. Come on, try it. I’ll help you.”

Nulakar straightened his back in the chair, folded his hands in his lap, and closed his eyes. At first, he heard nothing but Povu’s juggling. But like a metronome, the rhythmic thud of the plump fruits falling into Povu’s grasp deepened his meditation. After an hour of nothing, Nulakar eventually heard faint voices.

Suddenly, it seemed inappropriate to meditate on a chair. Nulakar returned it to his desk, then hastened to the sprawling green-and-gold rug replete with geometrical motifs in the center of his office. There, he pulled up a short writing tablet, a quill and inkwell, and a stack of fresh parchment. He lit a stick of incense and allowed its smoke to soothe him. Finally, he sat cross-legged in front of the tablet, in the traditional seating posture adopted by all the greatest sages. Povu winked and nodded approvingly before Nulakar shut his eyes again.

This time, Nulakar had the opposite problem he’d had an hour ago. Instead of being unable to hear anything, now a cacophony of voices buffeted him. There were hosts of spirit choirs, each one singing its own melody at the same time as all the others, confusing and overwhelming Nulakar.

As the discordant noise assaulted him, he beheld countless visions all at once. A thousand years passed in the blink of an eye. Great serpents breached the surface of the primordial sea and became land, and tiny empires of emerald and crimson rose and fell. The heroes of old bared their teeth at him in anger, demanding he rewrite the sagas of their exploits and restore them to their former glory.

“There are too many,” Nulakar whispered, his eyes moving rapidly beneath his eyelids. “Where do I begin?”

Povu chuckled. “Why don’t you begin at the beginning? That seems sensible.”

“Inavani …”

“Exactly. Start with her Cosmic Descent. Everything before her arrival is just background noise.”

Nulakar concentrated, searching for the choir singing about the particular moment in history that Povu wished him to record. He silenced his doubts and pressed on. While Sonan’s priests, knights, and even the king were away waging war against a revived enemy, it fell to him to preserve the world’s wisdom. If the library’s contents were irrevocably lost, all the people of Sonan would be no more enlightened than barbarians. Sifting through choir after choir and story after story, Nulakar heard some lyrics that caught his attention.

And Inavani stepped out from the black curtain once more Set her foot upon a world that knew not its creator To right the wrongs of humanity Before the brothers, she appeared And seeing her, the fog of ignorance left their minds Replaced by the light of wisdom But as light grows so too does shadow

Nulakar’s heart quickened with elation. This was what he sought; he was certain. His mind danced with visions of the incomprehensible beauty of The Undivided Goddess, of her Cosmic Descent and the subsequent events that set the world’s order in motion. Nulakar took his swan quill in hand, dipped it into the ink, and recorded all that he saw and heard.

Chapter Two: The Cosmic Descent

After sleeping for billions of years, Inavani stirred from her Long Slumber. Her sleep was not like that of humans, for even in the depths of hibernation, she remained vigilant, knowing she would awaken should the need arise.

Finally alert, Inavani, The Undivided Goddess, cast off her black-purple silken sheets, peeled back the sheer drapes of her postered bed, and looked outside. Her Veiled Bedchamber floated through the cosmos, passed planets, dying stars, and the dust of stars not yet born. There appeared to be an order and rhythm to all of it. Planets orbited the suns nearest to them in predictable cycles, as suns filled the otherwise dark expanse with light, pouring out their energy for eons upon eons.

Inavani’s face lit with wonder, inspired by all of creation. She had not designed the universe down to every last detail. Such meticulousness was beneath her. Instead, she’d merely defined the natural laws of the primordial cosmos, of light, darkness, heat, cold, matter, time, and soul. Like a watchmaker who creates and winds his watch, then allows it to run on its own, Inavani did not wake to intervene as her original creation unfolded and expanded.

Now that she beheld the result of her eonic experiment, Inavani was delightfully surprised. The beauty of the universe had surpassed her expectations.

Still, something was amiss. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have awakened.

Inavani examined the cosmos, poring through the galaxies in search of a disturbance. She sensed an anomaly on a curious planet teeming with blue oceans, green jungles, scorching deserts, and frigid mountains. Whereas all the other planets were silent, this one was noisy.

The noise, Inavani discovered, was life. Innumerable creatures swam in the seas, or soared through the skies, or roamed the land. Despite differences in appearance, she was astonished to learn each creature was related to all the others.

Inavani furrowed her brow, taking notice of an odd-looking species upon the planet. Its members huddled in caves, lit fires, or wore the skins of other animals for warmth. They seemed so weak, so alien, so ill-suited to their surroundings, and yet they thrived in every environment. There were millions of them, stretching across the entirety of a great continent. When they stood erect, they resembled Inavani herself.

Inavani froze, stunned. She touched her face, her smooth, dark skin flecked with diamonds that resembled stars. Though the creatures were covered in sweat and dirt, and their skin didn’t sparkle like hers, they looked strikingly similar to her. What were they? Were they the pinnacle of her creation? Had her experiment ultimately just recreated herself?

Fascinated by the strange beings—humans, she called them—Inavani observed them closer. Unlike all the other beasts, humanity was ensouled with the spark of divinity. Their souls granted them a mastery over nature no other animal possessed, for with it, they’d created tools and language. But above all, their souls granted them the hidden knowledge that they had a creator, and they did everything in their power to make contact with said creator.

Inavani’s heart filled with sorrow as she beheld humans’ sincere yet pitiable attempts to establish communion with their maker. They made deities and idols out of anything they thought worthy of worship. Some tribes made gods out of the beasts that sought to devour them—of jaguars, wolves, snakes, and crocodiles—hoping that by appeasing such primal deities, their villages might be spared. Other tribes worshiped fruit-bearing trees, the ocean, or the precious rocks and metals of the deep caves, praying for abundant food and wealth. Still others worshiped members of their own communities, from newborn infants to long-deceased ancestors.

Worse yet, the humans, in their ignorance, created enmity between one another for the most foolish of reasons. Brutal wars erupted between tribes that served different gods, or even more pathetic, between tribes that couldn’t agree on how to worship the same god. The wars were fueled further by superficial differences among the tribes, such as variations of skin color or language spoken.

Inavani watched, horrified, as humans bludgeoned one another’s skulls with heavy stones or impaled each other on wooden stakes. This was the reason for her awakening. A beast eating another beast out of hunger was no great matter, but humans’ defilement of their own souls through senseless war was truly disgusting. It was Inavani they ultimately sought, though they didn’t know it yet. In their wayward rituals and misguided conflicts, they aimed to please her, their maker. Inavani cursed herself for sleeping so long. It was her fault for allowing ensouled beings to emerge, yet not being present to teach them of order and harmony.

In that moment, Inavani resolved to descend to the planet and live among humanity. She would put their false superstitions to rest and teach them how they were to treat one another, and the destiny of their souls.

Inavani stood before her vanity mirror and donned a long silk gown. The dark fabric was as black as the cosmos. She headed to the door, excited of the adventure to come, of living among her creation and lifting humanity to new heights. But hesitating to turn the doorknob, she looked over her shoulder at her Veiled Bedchamber. She knew she could never return. The journey would change her forever, and she’d no longer be able to find it. Before exiting, she shed a tear and bowed in gratitude to her tranquil sanctuary.