Tunnel straight, tunnel long
Touch a dream and all goes wrong.
This has to be it, Arzath thought excitedly. This has to be the one! The tunnel stretched before him, long and dark and dank. Centuries old, it had been buried in the earth for so long that the bedrock itself had stirred in its eternal sleep, cracking the stone blocks and pushing many of them out of place entirely. Here and there, the walls had completely collapsed, partially blocking the passage with mounds of moss-carpeted rubble. Water trickled from hidden recesses and slime hung from the ceiling in lurid green cobwebs.
Nothing with less than six legs had walked down here for a very, very long time.
It was the tunnel beneath the river – the one that connected the bluffs and hence, Arzath's castle to Requar's.
Arzath checked his bearings on a small golden compass. He had brought a map with him as well, but this tunnel was not marked on it. He had discovered it by pure luck: searching one of the dusty, little-used passageways near the dungeons, he noticed a broken flagstone in the middle of the floor, caving slightly downwards like a shallow bowl. He almost dismissed it as movement of the keep's foundations, except that none of the other stones were damaged and the odd formation of the crack seemed to suggest a hollow space beneath. Further investigation (a violent jab with the butt of his torch) confirmed his suspicions.
When he saw what lay below, he was thankful he hadn't stepped on it and broken his neck as well: a set of very steep, almost ladder-like stone steps plunging down a narrow slanted shaft of indeterminate depth. Deep enough to be filled to the brim with blackness, thick and suffocating.
It had taken him quite a while to descend the stairs, taking extra care due to his fragile condition. He needed both hands to brace himself on the walls, so he threw his torch down to the bottom, where it sent up a dim glow to light his way. Hope and exhilaration lent him strength.
He knew at once that the passage he had uncovered was not part of his own construction. The rock here was too old and rough-hewn, not the smooth obsidian that he favoured. The tunnel at the bottom of the stairs was wrapped in cobwebs thick as veils, but his torch made short work of them. As he wound steadily downward, the tunnel grew damper and cooler and the cobwebs changed into green and sickly yellow moss, until it finally levelled out to his current location.
The passage he faced now, despite its decay, was straight and flat, leading directly eastwards. There could be no doubt as to its purpose.
Exceedingly pleased with himself, Arzath stuffed the compass and map back in his pocket and set out, leaning on his torch, picking his way carefully over the slime-slick stones. Somewhere ahead, he could hear the regular thudding footsteps of the Grik minion he had ordered along to use as trap bait. So far, no bloodcurdling shrieks had come echoing back. Nor had he experienced any uncanny sounds or blinding visions. All were promising signs.
Nevertheless, he fastidiously scanned the tunnel walls, floor and ceiling: squinting through moss, gently rolling stones aside with his boot, alert for any hidden runes or odd markings that might indicate spells. He did encounter a few of these, as it happened. Each time, he froze for long minutes, studying them suspiciously, before finally recognising them (with great relief) as his own. All were inactive, of course, having died along with his castle-shield and the rest of his magic.
Ironically, a part of him was grateful for this small detail. Without magic, such spells – even his own – would not have been easy or pleasant to negotiate.
Anticipation, brighter than his torch, set his gaze on fire in the dripping darkness. So close, he thought. Even without magically-enhanced senses, he could feel his brother's castle, somewhere above him, somewhere close… so close that he could nearly touch it; that malignant white presence that stole his sleep, that he had fought so hard to smash from the cliff-top. Now, finally, he was about to invade it for the first time, break it open, free to roam its corridors, uncover its secrets… and destroy it.
Destroying Requar's castle would almost be as satisfying as destroying the man himself. Perhaps even more so, Arzath mused. The expression on his face would be priceless…
He stopped abruptly. The Grik was sprawled on the floor in front of him, as though it had tripped over backwards: either that or it was attempting to take a quick nap. The creature did not appear to be injured. It blinked up at him dumbly.
Arzath glared back, about to try some torch-based persuasion when the Grik rolled over and got to its feet. It stood staring away from him, into the darkness of the corridor. Then it began jogging ponderously forward.
Arzath watched it in annoyance, eyes narrowed; he was in no mood for nonsense, and then something in his brain clicked in recognition…
"No!" he cried.
Too late.
The Grik encountered an invisible barrier and was flung back to the ground with a tremendous shudder, cracking the flagstones where it impacted. In the middle of the corridor, the air shimmered like water.
Arzath stood transfixed with horror.
Unfazed by the obstruction, the Grik laboured to its feet again and, with mindless stupidity, repeated its action. Again, it was thrown back, ripples spreading through the air, lapping the against the walls of the corridor.
Every single blow was making a dent in Requar's consciousness. The Grik was practically banging on his skull…
"IDIOT!" Arzath shrieked, snapping out of his horror-struck paralysis. "STOP!" Without bothering to see if it obeyed, he scrambled backwards, slipping and sliding on the stones and fled back down the crumbling corridor as fast as he could. There was a chance, he thought panting, a small chance that if he were far enough away from the source of the disturbance, his brother would only register the presence of the Grik…
But that was the least of his worries, at this point. His worst fear had just been confirmed: Requar had not been complacent, as he had hoped, or forgotten about the secret tunnel. He had extended his shield to block it.
Requar was too resourceful, too astute.
There was no way in!
"No!" he cried, falling to his hands and knees on the floor. "Nooooo!"
Requar inhaled a sharp breath, grabbing his head as though something had struck it.
Flint sat up in alarm, Justifier in hand, glancing around. "What?! What's happened?"
He got no response. The sorcerer's head was lowered, hands pressed against his temples. His eyes were open, though empty of life, and he had gone very still.
Flint slowly relaxed, chucking his crossbow back on the grass. "Oh," he mumbled. "That again."
He watched curiously for awhile, snapped his fingers in front of Requar's eyes to make sure, then finally shrugged. With great care, he eased the sorcerer's satchel out of his lap. Rummaging around in it, he found some dried apricots. As he pulled them out, his fingers brushed against something hard and smooth. Looking more closely, he saw that it glinted dully in the depths of the satchel.
With a quick glance at Requar to be certain he was still entranced, he pulled it out.
It was a round pocket case or large locket on a gold chain, hinged on one side. The edges were decorated with gold and the lid was inlaid beautifully with three precious materials: mother of pearl, onyx and silver. They were cut into curled slivers that fit together into a spiral.
Flint ran his thumb over the case, mesmerised by its beauty, then carefully opened it. Inside were two portraits, the parchment yellowed and the ink brown with age. He recognised the first one instantly from Requar's description and had to suppress a gasp: she was the loveliest woman he had ever seen. She had Requar's eyes and long white hair, but she looked happier and more carefree than her son ever had, and she was smiling. Flint could only imagine what she might have been like in real life. Then he remembered what had become of her, and he shivered inwardly and swallowed.
The second portrait depicted a brooding young man. His features also bore a resemblance to Requar's, except sharper, eyebrows slanted in a look of disdain, and hair black as the chip of onyx on the lid. He was attractive, too, in a dark, dangerous sort of way.
His brother? Flint mused. Requar had never given him a description of Arzath, he seemed reluctant to talk about him, but the man in the portrait certainly looked like he was capable of sorcery, and much more besides. He wondered suddenly how he had died…
Requar stirred, and Flint gave a start. Automatically, he went to pocket the case – Bladeshifter instincts kicking in – but something stopped him. Perhaps because it was such an intensely personal object. Or that a part of him didn't want to steal from Requar. Or the fact that he was no longer a Bladeshifter and didn't need to stoop to their level to get what he wanted. Or perhaps he was simply afraid of getting caught.
Whatever the reason, Flint slipped it back in the satchel, though not without regret. "So, what... what was that about?" he inquired, trying not to think about how much the portrait case would fetch at the markets.
Requar looked up and frowned, his eyes still a little distant.
Flint stuffed an apricot into his mouth. “Something wrong?”
Requar's look of anxiety deepened. "It was just a Grik, making a concerted effort to break through my castle-shield. But… something seemed wrong. For a moment, I thought… I was sure I could see…" he trailed off, seemingly lost for words. Then he shook his head dismissively, his expression clearing. "No… no, it doesn't matter."
But a tiny flicker of doubt remained deep in his eyes.
* * *
Hawk's curse was drowned out by the bone-jarring thunder of the ball's approach. Disregarding the cracking glass, all three of them sprinted for the dais.
The ball bore down on them, unstoppable.
Five yards from the dais, the glass gave way beneath Hawk's steel-plated boot and he stumbled, falling to one knee, cursing again.
Sirannor abandoned Cimmeran and lunged back at Hawk, grabbing his arm and yanking him to his feet. "I'm right!" Hawk yelled, half in protest, half in panic. "Go, go!"
Sirannor ignored him, practically dragging the younger man after him. The mirrored ground splintered beneath both their feet, making their footing difficult and deadly. Stumbling and staggering on the razor shards, trying not to fall, knowing that one more hesitation would be fatal, they charged towards the dais.
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It occurred to Hawk, fleetingly through his terror, that the worn old stone platform didn't offer much protection from anything, but it was too late to wonder whether they had made the right decision. All he could do was follow Sirannor and trust his instincts blindly.
But the glass was crunching behind them like bones, the ball was coming too fast…
We're going to be flattened!
And then they threw themselves onto the dais, a bare second before the speeding mass of stone crashed into the platform behind them.
Then, suddenly, there was silence.
After a few seconds, they lifted their heads tentatively. The ball had come to rest in the great crumpled dent it had smashed into the dais. It loomed over them, smooth and pitted and dark grey like ancient granite. It was at least twenty feet in diameter.
"Hellfire," Hawk gasped when he could breathe again. He felt as though every bone in his body was still reverberating with the impact.
Beside him, Captain Sirannor climbed slowly to his feet and looked up at the ball.
"Is that… an illusion?" Hawk asked weakly, after a few moments.
Sirannor did not reply, just studied the ball as though it were a fascinating exhibit in a museum. Without taking his eyes off it, the Captain held out his hand and snapped his fingers, indicating that he wished to borrow Hawk's sword again.
The soldier got to his feet and handed it over obediently, so shaken he nearly dropped it. Sirannor stepped up to the curved wall of stone and tapped it firmly with the blade.
It made a ringing sound: apparently quite solid.
"Hmm," Sirannor murmured.
"Hmm?" Hawk repeated nervously. "What does 'hmm' mean?" He glanced around the plaza, aware that cracks were still spreading across the remainder of the mirrored ground. The snapping sound as they crawled across its surface set his teeth on edge. He felt horribly unsettled; unable to quell the feeling that something else was about to happen. Another giant ball? Another Dragon? Something worse?
" 'Hmm' is not a good answer when you might be about to die."
"Few answers are," Sirannor commented. "But we are not about to die. At least," he added, "not if we keep our heads together." He handed Hawk back his sword, glancing darkly at Cimmeran as he said this. The servant was curled up in the middle of the dais, whispering to himself. The words were indistinguishable. Hawk was sure he would have had his arms wrapped over his head if they hadn't been bound behind his back.
"So, uh," Hawk said quickly, to keep the older man's mind off the servant. "So, this ball… is it real, or isn't it? And what about all that–" he gestured at the cracking mirror.
As though his gesture had been a catalyst, the mirror shattered.
It happened so suddenly that both Hawk and Sirannor ducked instinctively then stared in shock at what was occurring.
It was as though the whole huge courtyard had been picked up and dropped; plates of glass, thousands of them, some big as roofs, some small as fingernails, flung skywards in a spectacular, sparkling, razor-edged reverse rain.
Then every single piece crashed back down to the ground.
Hawk waited until the glass had finally settled and the last chinking echoes had died away. Then he took his hands from his head and said to Sirannor, angrily: "Why is this city trying to kill us?!"
Sirannor, still unfazed, picked up a piece of glass from the dais, examined it and tapped it experimentally on the floor. "I don't believe it is trying to kill us," he replied. "It is trying to scare us. At least," he added, "for the moment."
"Well, it's working!" Hawk snapped, frustrated by the oddness and his own fear and Sirannor's ineffable patience. He took a deep breath to calm himself, then continued, more levelly: "But why?"
"It is feeding on our fear. The more fear it can generate, the more powerful it grows and hence, the more real and dangerous its illusions become."
They fell silent, mulling the idea over. "Are you saying," Hawk surmised, "that these... visions, manifestations, will only hurt us if we're afraid of them?"
Sirannor remained silent for a moment before replying: "That is… my theory, yes."
Hawk gave him an apprehensive look. "You don't sound very certain."
Sirannor's smile was thin. "One can never be both certain and right," he replied.
Hawk sat on the dais and stared gloomily at the giant ball, thinking to himself: How do you stop yourself being afraid of being afraid?
"Odd," Sirannor murmured.
Hawk looked up. "What is?" he asked, glancing around. "Um, apart from the obvious…"
The Captain pointed at the sky.
Hawk peered upwards, somewhat anxiously, in case something was about to drop on his head. All he saw, however, was a vast wash of glittering stars and the moon, low on the horizon almost exactly opposite them, just left of the old magic school. "Er," he said uncertainly. "What am I looking for?"
"The stars," Sirannor replied. "And the moon. They have changed position."
"Isn't that what they're supposed to do?"
"Exactly." At Hawk's uncomprehending frown, Sirannor explained: "When we first came into the Old Quarter, while we were gallivanting around chasing each other, the sky was static. Now, it appears to have returned to normal."
"What does that mean?"
"That the sun will come up in an hour or so."
Hawk brightened. "Do you think this nightmare will fade with the dawn?" He vaguely recalled something about monsters dying in daylight, trying to ignore the sneaking suspicion that he'd read this in a storybook as a young child.
"A nice thought," Sirannor replied, but didn't elaborate.
They were sitting on the dais with their backs against the monstrous ball; the Captain gazing up at the sky, Hawk scratching his initials into the floor with a shard of glass: S-M DH. A few feet away, Cimmeran had not moved from his curled position, his back and bound hands facing them. His mutterings had turned into quiet sobs for awhile, and then he had fallen silent, probably sensing Sirannor's deadly stare on his back. He had made no attempt to escape since his capture. Apparently, he had resigned himself to his fate.
Hawk felt a curious, morbid pity for the servant. Anyone who thought they could set themselves free by murdering someone couldn't be quite right in the head.
He stared at the man, musing for awhile, then got up, tossed his piece of glass back onto the shattered field, moved over to Cimmeran and sat down beside him. He was silent for a few moments more, then asked, quietly: "Why'd you kill the Angel?"
Cimmeran remained motionless, staring at nothing. "I've already told you," he whispered.
Hawk gave him a hard look. "You must have known that Sirannor would come after you. How far did you think you were going to get? Did you honestly think that murder would solve anything? Are you really that stupid?"
The servant's eyes shimmered. "He would have come after me anyway," he replied. "Someone is always after me. Always chasing me, always trying to hurt me. It makes no difference."
"It makes a difference when you kill somebody!" Hawk said angrily.
Cimmeran's lip quivered. "I d-didn't want to kill him…"
"Then what made you do it? What did Aari'Zan ever do to you?"
"N-nothing! He never did anything to me! But, I…I was angry with the Angel, I hated him and I don't know why! I don't know why!" He began to sob again.
Hawk glared at him in disgust. "Your master really messed with your head, didn't he?"
"He… " Cimmeran choked on his sobs, "he tortured me. He stole my memories and… something else…"
"What else?" Hawk asked.
"I don't remember! I only remember the pain and the f-fear and the hate!"
Hawk quit his interrogation, chilled by the servant's words. Cimmeran continued to cry, his tears dripping onto the stone dais.
"I can't stop Captain Sirannor from taking you back to your master," he said eventually, "and frankly I wouldn't try even if I could." He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, pinning the servant with his sharp brown eyes, and lowered his voice. "But if you want to stay alive, if you want any chance, ever again, of convincing anyone that you're more than a piece of filth to be kicked into the gutter and trodden on, you'll not cause trouble. The Captain has fought a lot of battles and been cut by many blades, but none of them ever deeper than your knife. I've never seen him more angry or grief-stricken than what you've done to him this night. If he's forced to kill you, that's a little more blood on his hands. A little more blood that he doesn't need."
He held his stare until satisfied that Cimmeran had got the message, then stood and returned to the stone ball, shaking his head at nothing in particular. He clasped his hands on top of his head and cricked his neck back to look at the stars.
"You are a good man, Devandar Hawk," Sirannor said quietly. "I could not have wished for a better husband for my daughter."
Hawk nearly fell over. His hand shot out to steady himself on the ball. He gaped at Sirannor in astonishment. "Wh-what? You, how, what?" he spluttered.
"Carmine told me," Sirannor replied without glancing at him.
"She… what?" Hawk let himself sink into a crouch, not trusting his legs. "But… but, I thought…I thought you never read her letters? I would've... I would've told y-you," his speech dissolved into a stammer, becoming awkward as he always did when talking about personal matters. "But, she, um, she wanted to t-tell you herself…"
Sirannor nodded. "I understand."
Hawk continued to stare at his former lieutenant as though not quite believing that he had taken the news so well. "You don't mind that she's marrying a soldier?" he pressed, slightly warily. "One that trained under your command?"
"You are a better man than I," was Sirannor's simple reply.
Hawk didn't know what to say. He slumped back against the ball. "You really read her letters?" he asked after a long pause.
"Every one."
Another pause.
"But you never reply? Car thinks you're deliberately ignoring her."
"I am. Yet, she continues to send them. And I continue to read."
The young soldier stared down at his gauntlets. The silence between the two had suddenly become tense, stretched out like a slingshot poised to flick back on Hawk. The unasked question hung in its midst. He took a slow, deep breath and threw caution to the night sky. "I know it's… eh, none of my business, but… why? Did you two have some kind of falling out?"
To his surprise, there was a glint in Sirannor's eyes, like the beginning of tears. He turned aside from Hawk, very subtly, just enough so that his eyes were shadowed by the fall of his hair. "No." His voice was barely a whisper. "Not exactly. I have not spoken to my daughter since she was a young child."
Hawk noticed the muscles of Sirannor's right bicep shift beneath his coat, his lean, weathered hand clenching and unclenching. Hawk sensed he was wandering into dark, uncharted territory, possibly about to stumble onto something very unpleasant with what he was about to say, but he forged ahead anyway.
"I think I know why," he said quietly. "You have regrets. You've done things you're not proud of and you don't want your daughter following your example lest she become haunted by the same self-condemnation.
“You know that she's a fighter, that she's aspired to join the army all her life. She's been trying for years to get accepted into the training academy here in Sunsee, but her applications always mysteriously get lost or rejected. You had a lot of influence in military circles once upon a time; many people still respect you a great deal, even after your dismissal and imprisonment, including me. People who wouldn't hesitate to grant you a favour. Wouldn't be hard to give them Carmine's description and sway their judgement, would it?
“Instead of being proud that your daughter has inherited your incredible determination and spirit and skill, you deny her her right to fulfil her dream of becoming a soldier. In fact, you don't want her to have anything to do with the Middle Isle at all: that's why I was so surprised that you gave me your blessing.
"Is it the obvious dangers you're worried about: war, Dragons? Military secrets? Or is it something else, something from your own past that you're keeping from her, afraid she'll find out?"
Hawk took a courageous breath. "I think," he said finally, "that you avoid Carmine because you're ashamed to be her role-model – maybe even her father."
He finished his speech, heart thumping loudly in his chest, preparing himself for an icewind response, or perhaps a hot-blooded one. Gods, I've gone too far, he thought. I've really gone too far this time…
Sirannor's eyes were like slate: expression inscrutable. He said nothing in response, however, just stared at Hawk. He stared for so long that Hawk looked away, embarrassed. "Sorry, Captain," he apologised. "Out of line."
"You are more shrewd than I give you credit for," Sirannor said finally. He let out a long sigh, and for a second it seemed that he flinched, though Hawk suspected it was not the wound in his shoulder that gave him pain.
In that second, the Captain seemed impossibly old, as though too many worries had battered his soul and he was beginning to falter under the onslaught. Then his features settled back into their usual enigmatic contemplation. "You were right," he continued softly. "I fear for Carmine. My footsteps should never be followed by anyone, let alone my own daughter, for they lead to a dark and lonely place."
He paused for a moment, closing his eyes against his thoughts. "It is true that I have used my influence to prevent Carmine from going to the Middle Isle. There are too many dangers there; it is a place that eats lives."
Hawk regarded him quizzically. "Well, I work there and I'm not screwed up," he pointed out frankly. "Er… I think."
Sirannor smiled wryly and put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "You, Sergeant-Major Hawk; you are an exception. That is why I gave you my blessing."
Hawk shook his head in confusion. "I don't understand. You're trying to protect Carmine, yet at the same time you want nothing to do with her? Captain, that doesn't make sense."
"It is… complicated."
"Then explain it to me."
Sirannor looked at him carefully. "If I explain it to you… then you must tell Carmine. All of it. I will not have the man my daughter loves keeping secrets from her."
"Why don't you tell her yourself?"
"I cannot."
"If I can, then you can."
"No," Sirannor insisted, his smile gone now, eyes darkening like a gathering storm, "I cannot. If you wish to know about my past, you must be prepared to accept my terms for it."
Hawk fell silent and looked away, staring at the surreal shattered glass-scape glittering in the moonlight, and the silhouetted ruins beyond. Windows like black eyes stared back, many of them, surrounding the courtyard like silent watchers, listening to their conversation. Whatever it was that messed with their minds was still out there: Hawk was certain it hadn't given up. Perhaps it was waiting to see what they would do next. The moon had almost disappeared behind what had once been the SOMS belltower.
Hawk knew that if he did not accept the offer to hear Sirannor's story now, he would not get another chance. The desire to learn more about the man that he admired so much burned within him, but a wall of caution kept it back. He sensed instinctively that the truth Sirannor intended to impart had never been told to anyone else, and that was a heavy responsibility for Hawk to bear. He took a deep breath, making his decision. If it's worth hiding, he thought, it's worth telling.
He turned back to the Captain and nodded. "I will tell Carmine everything you reveal to me, whatever it may be." He swallowed. "You have my word."
Sirannor regarded him a moment. Then he sat back slowly and closed his eyes. "So be it," he whispered.