I think blasphemous thoughts as I notice that our bald heads and the saffron of our robes are reflected in the large sapphire Chronicle gem we are chanting Vedas to. We sit around it, the swirl of incense smoke lingering over us, touching the huge, sacred gem. Memory beads, embedded in our temples, glimmer as we access data flows, skipping centuries through time.

  These Chronicle gems are sacred to me, and the monks of my order The Chronicle Prophets, we’re keepers of memory. But today, this morning, I was given a Gem by a foreigner–a coarse Crow samana from the far south. He likely stole it, as crows do, but claimed it was for me. He was bedecked in blue robes and covered his face. Unfamiliar scents swirled around him. As he left, he hissed, “I bet you didn’t see this in your future, Prophet Kai.”

  Finishing the Vedas, we get up, and I motion to speak with Macel, the head of our order.

  “Have you ever encountered a corrupted shard of time?” I ask, holding up a long, black gem–nothing like the perfect sapphire we just interfaced with. It was old, from the time when gems were first grown for cognitive data storage.

  “It’s not corrupted. Try with one of the older machines,” he says dismissively, turning to scold a nearby adept for having dirt on his robe.

  “It’s probably nothing,” I say to no one, and turn to enter the archive.

  In the cavernous basement, we keep the older equipment, and most adepts end up working here at some point, usually because of an infraction. I walk the aisle, my robe swishing the floor, lightly touching the boxes and intricate equipment of our past.I find an older gem reader, but this black gem doesn’t work with it. In the back, an area I've never been, I see a section gated off with a sign saying entry is forbidden. The lock, previously and recently broken, lies on the floor. I step through and see crates and readers. I test the gem, and it fits in an ancient reader, the likes of which I've never seen. As an adept, I would never have entered here, and I'm still shaking.

  I interface with the reader and get a shimmer in my memory beads as they connect. I see the memory – a battlefield long ago. The image feels grainy, missing data, wrong. Yet I can clearly see the historical Captain Terum, gruff, large, and in brilliant white. He is shaking hands with another man, Captain Pushas in red. This is wrong; this couldn’t be. These two never met, and Terum spent his life hunting Pushas. The memory continues with Pushas warmly embracing Terum before leaving.

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  I touch my temple, disconnect. This was impossible. It was rumored these old readers could be used for mind-spikes – ways to overwrite a person, change memories, fabricate memory. This must be a fake.

  In Macel’s quarters, explaining what I saw, I say, “This memory cannot be. I’ve been through all the archives on these two men, and they never met.”

  He breathes in. “You must tell no one of this, Kai. You must keep this quiet, and you must give me the gem,” he says, glancing at the door.

  I’ve never seen this strict Prophet nervous, but he is.

  “I’ll get it to you later, Macel. I’m curious about something,” I say, and turn to leave. I cannot read his face.

  I seek out the Crow Samana. Not finding him, I return to the archive and the restricted section, dodging Lev, the caretaker, on the way.

  Re-entering the memory, and replaying the section, it's clear that these two met and are talking as old friends. And Terum clearly states to Pushas how to approach in an upcoming battle, the Battle of Telrod-Ahm. Pushas had advance information and knew how to attack. Historically, everyone thought he could see the future, that he was a prophet of the coming world. This indicates the founder of our order was a fraud, a fake, and a friend of the enemy.

  Leaving the memory, I look around and see Macel and four of our temple enforcers – those tasked with keeping the peace for us monks.

  “Give me the shard, Kai,” he says.

  The enforcers look at me – a small monk, slight shoulders, skinny legs.

  I try to run but am marched back up the stairs and left tied in Macel’s quarters as he paces.

  “When you were an adept and then an acolyte, I assumed you would be one we could trust,” he says, tired and wary. “This cannot get out, and what you have seen is one of many. It is false. It’s a fabricated memory that we keep away from the official timeline.”

  “I am a Prophet; you cannot keep me tied up,” I say, struggling with the rope. I continue, “This memory is grainy, it’s old, there are memory artifacts; it cannot be a fake.”

  He sighs. Then, looking at me, he says, “I am sorry, Kai.”

  My trial is short, private and eviscerating. I explain what I saw and what I believe it means, but I'm met with blank faces.. My judgment panel all know of this memory. They all know what it means already. Each of them most likely handed over the gem.

  I put on my blue robe and adjust my sleeping roll. It’s lumpy but will work. As a banished Prophet, I can only return to the temple if called by the High Prophet. I am instructed to asceticism.

  Leaving the temple, I walk the road directed for me. Dust swirls around me as my robes brush the packed dirt.

  I see the Crow Samana ahead at a well, waiting.

  “Hail, Crow,” he says, tossing me a water bottle. Then: “We have a long walk and longer lives.”