Why did the door open to my touch? I did not know. Perhaps the mechanism could sense the power in my blood; perhaps it would respond to the touch of any living person. All I knew was that the beasts outside were powerless to activate it, and that was enough for the moment. I suspected, however, that the door was only the first challenge that faced those attempting to enter the castle. In this, I was soon proven correct.
The first floor of the tower was empty, as far as I could tell in the dim light. Several large stone pillars supported the upper levels; around the periphery wound a stone staircase. Having a moment’s respite, I allowed my awareness to drift back to the material world. Almost no time had passed there. Eben had only just turned back to regard me. He had a puzzled expression on his face; I sensed he knew he had been tricked but could not tell I’d gone to the shadow world. I don’t think he had any idea I possessed that ability.
I forced my mind quickly back to the shadow world, where I remained alone in the tower. Climbing the steps to the second level, I found it much like the first. I climbed to the third level, where dim light from the angled slits in the walls illuminated the figure of a man standing in the center of the room. He faced outward from the castle; from his vantage point, I supposed he could observe the entire plain outside the moat. Behind him—that is to say, in the direction of the castle—was an ordinary-sized wooden door. A key protruded from its keyhole.
So still was the man that were it not for his lifelike appearance, I would have supposed him a statue. When he did not respond to my greetings, I reconsidered the possibility. It was either an incredible likeness or it was a man under some enchantment that rendered him paralyzed in that position.
I spoke to the man again, but he showed no sign of having heard me. He held no weapon and was dressed in ordinary clothes. His demeanor was not in the least threatening; in truth, were he not frozen before me in that eerie tower, I would not have given him a second look. I saw no expression on his face but perhaps a slight appearance of melancholy. I approached within a few inches and looked directly into his eyes, which continued to stare out over the plain.
I considered reaching out to touch the man’s arm, but thought better of it. I backed away, lest he come to life while I wasn’t looking, and made my way to the door. It was locked, and the key would not turn. I’m not sure what I expected to find on the other side in any case; it was a strange place for a door. Peering through the nearest slit on the left side of the door, I saw nothing on the other side. In the distance was the castle. Below was the moat, which I saw now was really a chasm. There was no water in it, but only a gray fog that was so thick I could not see the bottom. There was no bridge.
Chapter Twenty-one
No bridge! I looked from the slit on the right side to be sure. How could it be? I’d never been able to see past the guard tower, but in my imagination there had always been a bridge connecting it to the castle. How could there be no way across the chasm?
As I pondered this, something stirred in my memory. This place reminded me of something. A song that I had heard. Yes! One of crazy old Bolond’s songs that used to come to me through a crack in the wall of my cell in Nincs Varazslat. How did it go?
All around the ancient keep
forever long and forever deep
runs a chasm only spanned
by the fingers of a dead man’s hand
Blind and deaf the watchman waits
never opening the gates
but to the one he once betrayed
until the debt at last is paid
Ten thousand years the traitor stands
yielding not to fierce commands
responding only in his shame
to those who know to speak my name
Ho-hum! Ho-hum!
The days pass one by one
Ho-hum! Ho-hum!
His work is never done
That was it, as far as I could remember. While still in Nincs Varazslat, I’d noted a possible connection between the “ancient keep” and the castle I’d seen in the shadow world, but Bolond would respond to my questions only by singing the whole thing again. I’d eventually dismissed the similarity as coincidence and forgotten all about it. I must have heard that song a thousand times; as with all of Bolond’s songs, the words had long since lost any meaning to me.
I tried the key again, but it remained stuck. No, not just stuck: it would not rattle or come free; it was frozen by some enchantment, just as the man in the center of the room.
Was the frozen man the “blind and deaf” watchman of the song? The similarity was too great to dismiss. But how did crazy old Bolond know of this place? Was he a sorcerer after all? Had he inadvertently—or intentionally, for that matter—communicated to me some of his arcane knowledge? I reminded myself that I’d never learned what became of Bolond. I did not know if he’d been released or if he’d escaped. For that matter, I could not be completely certain he was ever in Nincs Varazslat in the first place. The guards had claimed to know nothing of any other prisoners, and I hadn’t thought to ask the warden about him upon my release. Had Bolond been pretending through some sorcery to be imprisoned in the dungeon? If so, why?
One question after another came to me, and I forced myself to set them aside. I didn’t have time to worry about such things. Eben must be wise to my ruse by now. Soon he would try to take the brand from me again. With my awareness focused on the shadow world, I would be unable to put up any resistance. When he killed me, would I be obliterated in the shadow world as well, or would I simply be trapped here like Beata? Another question I could not answer.
I focused again on the words of the song. The chasm around the keep was spanned, it claimed, only by “the fingers of a dead man’s hand.” I had thought this poetic nonsense when I’d first heard it (and stopped thinking about it at all soon after that), but what if the words were a clue about how to get across the moat?
It seemed to me that the song was about a single man; that is, the “dead man,” the “watchman” and the “traitor” were all the same person. If that supposition was correct, then the song was about a traitor who had been killed and who now acted as the eternal watchman of the keep. I regarded the frozen figure again, considering the melancholy of his face. Yes, I thought. This is the face of a man who suffers greatly, but also justly for a crime he has committed. He betrayed someone very powerful, and that person sentenced him to this eternal post. I shuddered as I realized the man was fully cognizant of his surroundings—not truly “blind and deaf” but simply unable to respond. This poor soul alone had the power to open the door. But how could a frozen man turn a key?
Ten thousand years the traitor stands
Yielding not to fierce commands
Responding only in his shame
To those who know to speak my name
Commanding the man would avail nothing unless one spoke a certain name. But what name? The name of the watchman? No, the song referred to the watchman in the third person. Only one first person pronoun appeared in the song: my. It was the name of the original singer of the song that I needed, the name of the man who’d sentenced the watchman to this eternal torment. The words of the refrain went through my head:
Ho-hum! Ho-hum!
The days pass one by one
Ho-hum! Ho-hum!
His work is never done
That is what I thought I heard through the crack in my cell, anyway. It occurred to me that I may have misheard the lyrics, or the madman might have sung different words on occasion to amuse himself. The refrain might just as well have gone:
Bolond! Bolond!
The days pass one by one
Bolond! Bolond!
His work is never done
A shiver went down my spine. Was Bolond, the harmless old fool who’d kept me company in the dungeon, this man’s tormenter? Whatever the man’s crime, this punishment seemed severe. If I had such power, would I use it on a man like Eben? I thought I might.
“Bolond,” I said to th
e man. I couldn’t be certain, but I thought I saw him stir.
“Bolond commands you to open the door,” I said.
The man turned to face me, blinked, gave a nod, and walked to the door. He put his fingers on the key and gave it a half-turn. There was a click. He put his hand on the knob, turned it, and pulled the door open. He stepped aside, his hand still on the knob.
I stood there for a moment, overlooking the chasm and wondering what good an open door was in the absence of a bridge. As I opened my mouth to ask the watchman, I saw the fog roiling toward me. After a moment, it seemed to form itself into a concrete structure: a long, narrow bridge had congealed from the mist. I turned to the watchman and saw him standing there next to door, looking sadly ahead. I could see he had no answers; probably he lacked the ability to speak. He was waiting for me to pass onto the bridge so that he could close the door and return to his post to wait the next visitor who would speak the name of his tormenter, a hundred or a thousand years hence. Perhaps it would be Bolond himself.
Placing a foot on the platform of fog, I found it to be solid. I stepped gingerly onto it and heard the door close behind me. Not knowing how long the bridge would remain, nor how much time I had until Eben took the brand from me, I hurried across. The portcullis on the other side raised as I approached, and I went into the castle.
I found myself in a large vaulted hall into which little light penetrated. It seemed to be deserted. I proceeded to a door at the far end and threw it open to reveal a rectangular courtyard open to the dismal gray sky above. Several doors and open passageways led from it, but I saw no activity. The keep was gigantic; I despaired of finding Beata before Eben took back the brand. Thinking I had nothing to lose, I called out her name. After a few seconds, a faint voice responded. Was it Beata? I could not tell. I ran down the passageway from which the sound seemed to emanate.
Coming to an intersection, I called her name again. This time the reply was a bit clearer. It sounded like Beata’s voice. I thought she said my name, but I could not be certain. I descended a stone staircase that led to an underground tunnel. I could see nothing; I proceeded with my hand on the left-hand wall, guided only by the faint voice of my beloved. The wall abruptly ended, and I emerged into a vaulted chamber lit by the unnatural red glow of a strange crystal lamp that hung from the ceiling. Directly below the lamp stood Beata, her lovely features unmistakable even in that ghastly light. Dimly aware that this was not truly Beata but only her shadow self, I ran toward her.
“Konrad, is that you?”
I was relieved to find that she knew me; I had thought the centuries of captivity would have dulled her memory or driven her mad. If she noticed the brand on my face, she did not show it. Perhaps the brand did not affect my shadow self, although I suspected it did. More likely, she assumed my ghastly appearance was due to the crimson lamp hanging overhead.
“Beata!” I cried. “It is I, Konrad! I have come to get you out of this place, but we haven’t much time.”
“You have the key to the prison, then?” she asked, her arms still wrapped around me. She felt solid, but there was no warmth in her body. I supposed I felt the same to her.
“There is no key,” I said, extracting myself from her embrace, “because there is no door.” I looked away as if searching for the opening through which I had come, but in truth I was hoping to prevent Beata from looking too closely at my face. “I walked right into this chamber. We should be able to leave the same way. If the bridge of mist is still there, we can….” It occurred to me that I hadn’t a clue what we would do once we were out of the keep. Perhaps it would be better to remain in the keep and bargain with whoever was holding her here. If a sorcerer’s blood truly was currency here, then I might be able to buy Beata’s freedom. But I was anxious to get Beata out of this chamber and away from that sinister lamp.
“It is no good,” Beata said. “I have tried to leave many times. Something always goes wrong, and I end up back here.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “The way out is right over there, not twenty paces from here. Hold my hand and I will lead you to it.”
She shook her head. “I cannot remember what happens when I try to leave, but I have done it so many times that I feel that I know it’s impossible, the same way you know it’s impossible to breathe underwater, even though you’ve never tried it.”
“It may be,” I said, “that this inkling you have is the consequence of some enchantment. Perhaps you have never tried to escape at all, but have been instilled with the certainty that it’s impossible. In such a way, someone might be imprisoned for a thousand years in a prison without walls.”
“A thousand years!” Beata said. “But surely it hasn’t been that long.” She looked at my face, searching for answers. Unable to continue looking away, I met her gaze. Still she did not seem to notice the disfigurement. What she did see was arguably worse: I was unable to hide the truth about her imprisonment.
“A thousand years….” she murmured, seeming as if she might faint. “This place does things to your memory, I think. There are no days or nights. Sometimes I think I have been here a few minutes, but sometimes it seems like centuries.”
“In reality it has been only a little over six years,” I said. “But time passes differently in this place.” I could not help but feel somewhat grateful Beata was not fully aware of how much time she had spent in the shadow world.
“What is this place?” she asked. “How did I get here? I remember singing, and then a man with a terrible mark on his face, like a dark labyrinth, and then… nothing. Just this empty chamber and that awful red lamp.”
“I will explain later,” I said. “For now, we need to get you out of here.”
She shook her head again. “It’s no use. I try to leave, but….” She trailed off, realizing she’d already told me this.
“I know the way,” I said, trying to sound confident. I took her hand. “No matter what happens, do not let go.”
She nodded dubiously. “Perhaps it will be different this time,” she said. “If you know the way.”
I squeezed her hand tight and started in the direction of the passage. I had half-expected a portcullis to have slid shut while I was inside the chamber, trapping us both, but the dark passage remained open. I plunged into the darkness, my left hand on the stone wall and my right hand clutching—nothing.
Beata was gone! I turned and ran back into the chamber. She stood there, just as she had a minute earlier.
“Konrad, is that you?”
“It is I, Beata. What happened? A moment ago, I was holding your hand, and then you were gone.”
She shook her head as I approached. “I do not know, Konrad. You say you were here, but I do not remember it. I think I have tried to leave this place before, but something always goes wrong. How long have we been here? How did we get here?”
My heart sank. Beata had been right. She had probably tried to leave this place thousands of times, and each time ended up back under the ghastly red lamp, having only the faintest memory of her previous attempts.
“I will explain everything once we are out of this place,” I said. “This time, you go first. Perhaps if I keep you in view the whole time, you will not vanish as you did before.”
Beata reluctantly agreed to this, clearly having only the foggiest notion of what I was talking about. But it was no good: when we reached the point where the garish light faded to black, I found that Beata was no longer in front of me.
“Konrad, is that you?” she called again, as I walked back toward her. “What is happening? What is this place?”
“She cannot leave,” said a deep, rumbling voice from somewhere in the gloom.
Chapter Twenty-two
A massive horned figure slowly emerged into the red light. I recognized the creature: it was the demon Eben had summoned in the garden. It opened its goat-like mouth to speak again: “Humans who do not have the power in their blood cannot survive in this place. She is sustained only by the l
ight of the lamp, which burns an oil infused with Eben’s blood. No prison is necessary; if she strays beyond the reach of the light, her being fades until it is regenerated by the lamp.”
The demon stopped a few feet in front of us. Beata looked from me to the demon and back, her face contorted more with confusion than fear. I supposed that she must have seen the demon so many times that her instinctual fear had ebbed, even if she couldn’t remember why. So she stood regarding the horrible creature, baffled as to why she was not more afraid.
“Why?” I demanded. “Why would you do this?”
The demon seemed to shrug. “It is not I who does it, but the warlock. It is true I let him keep her in this chamber, but I have little choice, bound as I am by the ancient accords. In any case, what would you have me do? You have seen for yourself that she cannot leave this place.”
“Why does Eben keep her here?”
“He needs a vessel. But the girl’s body is inextricably linked to her shadow self. If her shadow self perishes, her body dies, and Eben is without a vessel. So he keeps her here, where she cannot interfere with his work.”
“Is there a way to cast out the warlock so that she can return to her physical body?”
“If there were, why would I tell you?”
“Because you fear my power. I saw it in the garden. You could have killed me, but you did not.”
“I feared the brand. If I knew then what I know now, I would have killed you. You have the power, but you do not know how to wield it.”
“But I do have the power in my blood,” I said. “That’s what Eben pays you with, isn’t it?” A droplet was falling to the ground before me even at that moment, almost invisible in the red light.
I could see the demon wanted to snatch it out of the air, but something was preventing him. Was it the “ancient accords” he was bound by? The beasts on the plain didn’t seem to have such scruples, but I suspected different rules applied inside the keep.
The Brand of the Warlock Page 19
