There was a sudden and complete lack of sensation. For the second 
time that day, he wondered if he were dead, about to face Abirt's 
justice. Then, suddenly, he found himself falling. He landed on a 
sandy dune with a force that knocked the wind from him. In the 
distance, a building half-buried by the sand stood, and nothing but 
dunes for miles. He stared, and then laughed, until tears streaked 
down his face. It was the Ceitu where he'd found the papers, and 
the whole quest had begun. 


The Seeker 


Cender was blessed of Old Aggie. His seven daughters and twenty- 
one granddaughters were proof of that. But now, standing before the 
statue of the goddess, he couldn’t help but tremble inwardly. He 
was, after all, going to his death. 


Cender pushed a long lock of thin, gray hair back on his head, 
washing his genitals in the pool of water at the statue’s base, and 
turned, kissing his fingers and pressing them to the statue’s lips, 
begging forgiveness for sins against his family and protection for the 
road ahead, knowing that only one of those prayers would be 
answered. The stone had fallen to him, after all. 


Cender bowed his head in a final supplication and stepped out of the 
water, turning and walking into the white sands that surrounded the 
short, squat building. He wrapped a length of cloth about his head 
and took out the round, smooth pebble that had decided his fate. He 
cast it into the air, letting it fall to the earth, then kneeling to look at it 
carefully, squinting at the arrow carved into it. He picked it up again, 
shouldering the supply of water that would not last him more than a 
week, and walked into the desert, following it. 


When he came upon the ruins of the first homes—those oldest ones 
which were now abandoned—he rested. He should have known 
better, especially since the ghosts of the dead are always close in 
the desert, but he didn’t care. He was tired, his feet were blistered, 
and night had been upon him for hours. And he felt lonely. Cender 
had slept beside his wife for thirty-eight years, and now, he felt 
naked and cold without her warmth. He closed his eyes, trying not to 
listen to the voices in his head, when he heard a different one 
entirely. 


“You are old, Cender of Dnoma. Why do you walk this desert?” 


His eyes opened quickly, turning and looking, seeing a butterfly 


resting on the edge of the wall. He immediately leaned up, then 
lowered himself, his forehead touching the ground. “Lord... You 
honor me.” 


The voice did not continue to speak. Cender cursed inwardly when 
he realized that he had not answered the question. 


“| am the new seeker, my lord. The lot fell to me, and being of a 
great many daughters, | was sent in spite of my age.” 


The voice was again silent, but when Cender raised his head, he 
saw that the butterfly had taken flight, wafting through the air like a 
leaf. He grabbed his pouch of water, his bag, and hurried, following 
it, deeper into the desert, deeper into the cold night. 


The butterfly seemed to flick away into nothing when he crested the 
hill, but Cender didn’t notice. He was, instead, silent. Very, very 
silent. 


Before him stretched a ruin unlike any he had seen before, and 
Cender had been a traveler in his youth, tasted the dead waters to 
the north, seen the walls to the south. But this... 


It stretched for ages. Maybe miles. Maybe further. It was made of 
metal, somehow, and stone, and parts of it hurt to look at, and—with 
a prayer of thanks and supplication on his lips—Cender dropped to 
the ground and closed his eyes. He had found it. Hundreds of 
seekers lost to the desert, and he had found it. 


Starel’s Tomb. The Home Ceitu. The City of the Gods. 


“By your will, oh great ones, | have been guided here. Truly, | am 
blessed of Aggie. | am blessed of Drakgin. | am blessed of Starel. 
Thank you!” 


And had Cender taken his blessing, taken it and run back home, he 
would have lived out the rest of his days as a saint and priest. 


But he did not. 


Cender stepped over the sharp stones, wincing slightly as he did so. 
His feet were aged by the desert and tougher than leather, but these 
stones were painfully sharp. He finally reached the wall, his hands 
grabbing and scrabbling for purchase, slowly pulling himself up and 
on top of the outlying structure. Inside was cooler already, by the will 
of the gods, and as Cender dropped into the cracked courtyard, he 
felt a sense of ease was over him. 


The gods had allowed him entry. Surely, he was blessed of them, to 
the point of being the next prophet perhaps. This was, after all, no 
vision. This was real. 


He walked toward the large, opened doors and stepped into them, 
smiling, not even noticing the deep cuts in the floor or the lingering 
smell of sulfur. 


He walked into the building, feeling his spirit lift as he gazed up at 
the seemingly endless ceilings, the deep corridors off either side of 
it, the endlessly twisting room. He walked down it, choosing a door 
at random and marking the entrance with his stone, then entering it. 
He explored, finding the works of the gods littered and skewed about 
the room, laying broken and destroyed. He sighed, turning to leave 
as he realized the true treasures would be far deeper in the city. As 
he turned to leave it, he bent to pick up his rock, and found it 
missing. His eyes narrowed at the floor, looking for it, realizing that 
he’d foolishly discarded his mark of office and purpose... And then 
he heard it. 


It was a roar, but unlike any he had ever heard. A sound worse than 
those the demons made when they were butchered. And it was quite 
close, he feared. So, he did what every coward who knows he is 
going to die does. He ran. 


Cender’s legs were old and tired, but the desert makes strong folk, 
and he could run. The doors were gone, gone to wherever the 
ancients send such things as displease them, and Cender instead 
ran for a different path, hoping that somehow he would be given exit, 
that the gods would forgive him, even though he knew that they 
would not. He hurried and ran, deeper and deeper, hearing the walls 
turning and crashing behind him, breaking into nothing as he heard 
the thing's voice calling to him. 


immune response. Immediate containment and isolation of all 
possible victims is recommended, as well as immediate investigation 
of outbreaks of measles in populations where measles vaccine 
uptake is normally historically high. 


« SCP-592 | SCP-593 | SCP-594 » 


“Cender...” it murmured, in a voice that somehow echoed and 
surrounded him. 


Starel’s Tomb was huge, infinitely long, and full of twists and turns. 
He was given short moments of joy when he thought he'd escaped, 
followed by deep moments of fear and sorrow as he realized he did 
not. Who knows how long Cender fled the beast? Only that it was 
not long enough in his mind. 


He ran and ran and finally... fell, turning and looking at the beast, its 
great maw opening and splitting into four parts, its terrible teeth 
easily pushing into his skin and through it. He screamed loudly as 
Sikayt And Cender screamed and screamed, but the gods wouldn’t 
hear him. And there he died, learning too late that the blessing of 
one god is the curse of another. 


The old man’s yellow, toothy grin looked also as terrifying as the 
story had sounded, and the children quickly fled while the old man 
laughed loudly, slapping his knees and coughing as his laughing fit 
caught up to him. He turned to leave, until a small voice caught him. 


“But what was it Cender found?” it asked. 


The storyteller turned, looking at the small, deeply tanned boy, no 
older than twelve. “What did he find?” the man asked. “Why... he 

found just what he thought he found. The Home Ceitu. The City of 
the Gods. Starel’s Tomb.” 


The little boy shifted on his feet some, licking his cracked lips. “So... 
was he blessed?” he asked. 


The old man’s smile stretched across his face again. “Of course 
not,” he said, laughing. “He was cursed. There are some secrets no 
one should have to discover.” 


“But,” the little boy continued, “He found the Home Ceitu. Isn’t that a 
blessing?” 


The old man’s eyes narrowed at the boy as he realized that the child 
would not be swayed. “What is your name, boy?” he asked. 


The boy narrowed his eyes just for a moment. “Never tell your name 
to one who hides his,” he said. 


The ancient man laughed loudly. “Wise boy... Follower of York, are 
we?” he asked, then smiled and nodded at his own question. “I am 
called Benadam,” he said. 


The boy nodded. “My friends call me Rone.” 


“Well met, Rone. Come. Let me tell you a tale of York... Have you 
ever heard the story of the ape god Abirt and the waters of life?” he 
asked, turning about and walking, the boy following him quickly and 
hanging onto every word. 


SCP-One Million 


"Tell me of the thing,” the shaman said. 
"It lives in the—" | started. 


"No!" The stick came down hard on my knuckles. "Begin with how to 
stop it, how to keep it held. Always. What it is can wait until after." 


| rubbed my hand, and began again. "The people must always be 
ready. They must keep their eyes to the South, to watch for the 
Everman. They must keep their eyes to the East, to watch for the 
City People, who pick among the ruins for toys they cannot 
understand. They must keep their eyes to the seas, for things that 
come across the waters are a deadly threat. They must keep their 
eyes inward, for the greatest threat comes from men who know. 


"No man may enter the antechamber but that he comes to light the 
fires once more, or else that he is a shaman, going for a vision 
quest. He will enter with one other, and neither may leave except 
with the other. When they leave, they close the doors shut tight 
behind them. 


"At all times will there be five guardians at the door, chosen from the 
people and trained in war. They will keep their spears sharp. When 
one sleeps, another comes to replace him. Their dogs will sleep at 
their feet, ready to challenge any who comes from outside or within." 
| looked up at the shaman. "Now?" 


He nodded. "You know how to keep it held. Now you may say what 
it is." 


"The Espy, called a Wonder by the ignorant, holds the number of a 
thousand thousands. It is of the kind called kahtar, the all- 
consuming." | took a deep breath. "There are two parts of the espy. 
Of the first, which we shall call the Aleph, is a dream of butterflies. 
They are held off by the burning of certain herbs, and it is therefore 


that we keep the fires lit, remain watchful should they go out. The 
dream of butterflies gives a man visions, strange scenes of times far 
past. | myself have seen these visions once. | saw men and women 
dressed strangely, in long, white coats. They spoke in a language | 
did not recognize." 


"And of the other, the Beyt?" the shaman asked. 


"That is the most dangerous part, though in seeming it is nothing but 
an old man. In other lands, he is called a god, or a devil. We know 
he is just a man who has lived very long, and that is what gives him 
power." | closed my eyes. "He was one of the first to leave the Home 
Ceitu. We do not know how he came to live so long. Perhaps 
through the efforts of the Everman. Perhaps from another Espy 
hidden deep in chambers we have not seen. It does not matter. He 
lives. That is enough. And he knows the secrets from the time 
before. His knowledge is a poison that must be kept from the world, 
and that is why we keep him held, as our ancestors did before us." 


"Good enough so far," the shaman admitted. "You've echoed the 
words of others, admirably. But a shaman cannot simply speak like 
a parrot. You have been inside. You have seen the Beyt. Add to our 
knowledge. Tell me what he told you." 


"He... He asked me to help him escape. He promised me great 
weapons, riches beyond my dreams. | refused, for we know him for 
a liar. He told me he was imprisoned unjustly. He cursed me, and 
then cursed Geyre above and Kalef below for holding him there. I... 
| fled. |am not a brave man. | make no excuse for this. My 
companion found me, and we left the chamber." | turned my face in 
shame. 


"You did nothing wrong," the shaman said, placing a hand on my 
shoulder. "Many who have gone in have not returned. The dream of 
butterflies and the old one are strong, and we know they wish to get 
past us. We serve. We contain. We protect." 


"Protect," | echoed. "Until the gods return." 


The Book 


“The Book teaches. The Book guides.” Alia repeated the mantra to 
herself, her voice trembling. 


The Keeper of the Book had performed her Last Reading several 
days ago, and now her body was being prepared for passage into 
Abirt's realm. 


Consequently, the task of Keeper of the Book had fallen to Alia. She 
had spent years preparing for this moment; she had been purified in 
the waters of the Urd, she had studied the writings of her forebears 
and she had traveled to the Home Ceitu in a dream-trance. 


From this day until her last, only Alia would be able to perceive the 
numerous manifestations of the Book and interpret their teachings. 
To be the Keeper of the Book was to be the leader of her people. 
She was to do this until the day of her Last Reading, when she 
would give herself to Abirt. 


“The Book teaches. The Book guides.” 


The Book had given her people much. It had taught them of seacraft 
borne by the wind, with which they traveled to the Northern Isles. It 
had taught them of tools used to prepare the harsh land for crops, 
so that food could be grown in abundance. It had taught them of the 
melting of metals, from which weapons for hunting could be crafted. 


“Alia,” It was the voice of Joren, Alia's tutor and caretaker. She had 
not heard him enter. “It's time for your first Reading.” 


“l...I'm not ready, Joren.” 


“Do not worry child, you have performed the rites. The Book will look 
favourably upon you. Come now.” 


Joren pushed aside the coloured fabric draped over the doorway 


and motioned to Alia. She hesitated briefly, then rose and exited the 
room through the gap in the cloth. 


Alia stood alone outside the heavy wooden door leading into the 
Chamber of Readings, her hand resting on the doorknob. She 
inhaled deeply, opened the door and entered into the Chamber. 


The circular room was dimly lit by two braziers on either side of the 
doorway. A cylindrical stone pedestal occupied the centre of the 
room, the Book lying open on top. Alia walked up to the pedestal 
and examined the Book. It was unexpectedly bland. This was an 
object revered by hundreds, it had served as a guide for her people 
for generations — the last thing she had expected it to be was dull. 
And yet, it was dull, little more than aged paper bound in black. Alia 
picked up the Book and slowly thumbed through its yellowed pages: 
they were all blank. She set the Book back down on its pedestal, 
taking care to close it. 


Alia placed her hand on the cover of the Book and said the required 
words, as she had been instructed. “Grant me your knowledge, so 
that | may teach them. Grant me your wisdom, so that | may lead 
them. Grant me your guidance, so that | may show them the way.” 


Alia withdrew her hand, but the Book was unchanged. She knew 
that the Book would soon alter itself, she merely had to wait for it to 
do so. Doubts began to rise up in her mind. Would her people 
accept her as the new Keeper of the Book so readily? What if she 
failed to interpret the Book's guidance correctly?