“Pass up the light,” Royce ordered softly.
As the lantern moved from Myron to Royce, its light shone on more faces. To Hadrian, it seemed as if they screamed at the intruders, but the corridor remained still and silent. Some of the figures had eyes wide with fear, while others’ eyes were shut tight, perhaps to avoid seeing something too frightening to look at.
“Someone certainly had a morbid taste in decorating,” Royce said, taking the lantern.
“I’m just thankful they’re only carvings. Imagine if we could hear them,” Alric said.
“What makes you think they’re carvings?” Hadrian asked, reaching out to gingerly touch the nose of a woman with glaring eyes. He half expected warm skin and was grateful when his fingers met cold stone. “Maybe they let go of their gemstones too soon.”
Royce held the lantern up high. “The passage keeps going.”
“More faces?” Alric asked.
“More faces,” the thief confirmed.
“At least we’re out of the rain,” Hadrian said, trying to sound cheerful. “We could still be back …” When he turned around, he was shocked. The corridor extended behind them seemingly without end. “Where’s the wall we just came through?” He took a step and reached out. “It’s not an illusion. The hallway keeps going.” Turning back, Hadrian saw Royce pressing on the sides of the corridor. Unlike with the wall outside, his hand did not penetrate the surface.
“Well, this is going to make matters difficult,” the thief muttered.
“There must be another way out, right?” Alric asked, his voice a bit shaky.
The thief looked back, then forward, and sighed. “We might as well travel in the direction we entered. Here, Alric, take your ring back, although I’m not sure what good it will do you in here.”
Royce led them down the corridor. He checked and tested anything that appeared suspicious. The passage went on for what seemed like eternity. Despite the hallway’s appearing perfectly straight and level, Hadrian began to wonder if the dwarves had built in an imperceptible curve that made it loop back onto itself to form a circle. He also worried about the amount of oil left in Myron’s lantern. It would not be long before they were cast back into utter darkness.
The lack of variation in their surroundings made it impossible to judge exactly how long they had been walking. After a while, something luminescent appeared in the distance. A tiny light bobbed and weaved. As the light drew closer, the echo of sharp, deliberate footsteps accompanied it. At last, Hadrian could discern the figure carrying a lamp. He was tall and trim and wore a long-hooded hauberk. Over this was a scarlet and gold tabard that shimmered in the lamplight. The tabard was marked with a regal coat of arms depicting a celestial crown and a jeweled scepter above a shield divided into quarters and supported on either side by combatant lions. At his side he wore a polished sword with decorative detailing, and on his head, a pointed silver helm exquisitely etched with gold ivy trim. Below the helm were a pair of dark eyes and an even darker look.
“Why are you here?” His tone was reproachful and threatening.
There was a pause before Royce replied. “We are here to see the prisoner.”
“That is not allowed,” he responded firmly.
“Then Esrahaddon is still alive?” asked Alric.
“Do not speak that name!” thundered the sentry. He cast a tense look over his shoulder into the darkness. “Not here, not ever here. You should not have come.”
“That may be but we are here and we need to see Esra—the prisoner,” Royce replied.
“That will not be possible.”
“Make it possible,” Alric ordered. His voice was loud and commanding. He stepped out from behind the others. “I’m King Alric of Melengar, lord of this land wherein you stand. You will not tell me what is and what is not possible within the boundaries of my own kingdom.”
The sentry took a step back and eyed Alric critically. “You lack a crown, King.”
Alric drew his sword. Despite its size, he handled it smoothly and extended the point at the sentry. “What I lack in a crown, I more than make up for in a sword.”
“A sword will not avail you. None who dwell here fear death any longer.” Hadrian could not tell whether it was the weight of the sentry’s words or the weight of the sword but Alric lowered his blade. “Do you have proof of your rank?”
Alric extended a clenched hand. “This is the seal of Melengar, symbol of the House of Essendon and emblem of this realm.”
The sentry stared at the ring and nodded. “If you are the reigning sovereign of the realm, you do have the right to enter. But know this: there is magic at work here. You will do well to follow me closely.” He turned and led them back the way he had come.
“Do you recognize the emblem on the guard?” Hadrian whispered to Myron as they followed him.
“Yes, that’s the coat of arms of the Novronian Empire, worn by the Percepliquis Imperial City Guard. It’s very old.”
Their guide led them out of the corridor filled with faces, and Hadrian was grateful to be free of it. The hallway opened into a massive cavern with a vaulted ceiling carved from natural stone and supported by pillars of the same. Torches lining the walls revealed a magnificent expanse. It appeared large enough to hold all of Medford. They traversed it by crossing narrow bridges that spanned chasms and traveling through open arches that rose like great trees whose branches supported the mountain above.
There was no visible sign of wood, fabric, or leather. Everything—chairs, benches, desks, tables, shelves, and doors—was made of stone. Huge fountains hewn from rock gurgled with water from unseen springs. The walls and floors lacked the adornment of tapestries and carpets. Instead, carved into virtually every inch of the stone were intricate markings—strange symbols of elaborate twisted designs. Some of them were chiseled with a rough hand, while others were smoothly sculpted. At times, from the corner of his eye, Hadrian thought he saw the carved markings change as he passed them. Looking closely, he discovered it was not an illusion. The shifts were subtle, like the movement of cobwebs in the wake of their passing.
They moved deeper, and their escort did not pause or waver. He walked at a brisk pace, which at times caused Myron, who had the shortest legs, to trot in order to keep up. Their footfalls bounced off the hard walls throughout the stone chamber. The only other sounds Hadrian heard were voices, distant whispers of hidden conversations, but they were too faint for him to make out the words. Whether the sounds were from inhabitants around an unseen corner, or the result of some trick of the stone, was impossible to tell.
Farther in, sentinels began to appear, standing guard along their path. Most were dressed identically to their guide, but others, found deeper in the prison, wore black armor with a simple white emblem of a broken crown. Sinister-looking helms hid their faces as they stood at perfect attention. None of them moved or said a word.
Hadrian asked Myron about the emblem these men wore.
“The crest is used by the ancient order of the Seret Knights,” the monk explained quietly. “They were first formed eight hundred years ago by Lord Darius Seret, who had been charged by Patriarch Linnev with the task of finding the lost Heir of Novron. The broken crown is symbolic of the shattered empire, which they seek to restore.”
Finally they reached what Hadrian assumed was their final destination. They entered an oval chamber with an incredibly tall door dominating the far wall. Carved of stone, it stood wreathed in a glittering array of fine spiderweb-like designs, which appeared organic in nature. Like the veins of a leaf or the delicate, curling tendrils of sprawling roots, the doorframe spread out until its artistry was lost in the shadows. On either side of the door stood dramatic obelisks covered with runes cut deep in beveled stone. Between these and the door, blue flames burned in braziers mounted on high pedestals.
A man sat on a raised chair behind a six-foot-tall stone desk that was exquisitely sculpted with intricate patterns of swirling lines. On two sides of the wor
ktable, barrel-thick candles twice the height of a man burned. So many melted wax tears streaked down their sides that Hadrian thought they might once have been as tall as the great door.
“Visitors,” their guide announced to the clerk, who, until then, had been busy writing in a massive book with a black feathered quill. The man looked up from his work. His gray beard hung all the way to the floor. Deeply lined with wrinkles, his face looked like the bark of an ancient tree.
“What are your names?” the clerk asked.
“I’m Alric Brendon Essendon, son of Amrath Essendon, King of Melengar, Lord of the Realm, and I demand an audience with the prisoner.”
“The others?” The clerk motioned toward the rest.
“They are my servants, the royal protectors and my chaplain.”
The clerk rose from his seat and leaned forward to examine each party member in more detail. He looked into the eyes of each for a moment before he resumed his seat. He dipped his feather quill and turned to a new page. After a few moments of writing, he asked, “Why do you wish to see the prisoner?” With his quill poised, he waited for a reply.
“My business is not your concern,” Alric answered in a kingly voice.
“That may be; however, this prisoner is my concern, and if you have dealings with him, it is my business. I must know your purpose, or I will not grant you entry, king or not.”
Alric stared at the clerk for some time before relenting. “I wish to ask him questions concerning the death of my father.”
The clerk considered this a moment, then scratched his quill on the page of the great book. When he finished, he looked up. “Very well. You may enter the cell but you must obey our rules. They are for your own safety. The man to whom you wish to speak is no ordinary man. He is a thing, an ancient evil, a demon that we have successfully trapped here. Above all else, we are dedicated to keeping him confined. As you might imagine, he very much desires to escape. He is cunning and perpetually tests us. Constantly he is looking for a weakness, a break in a line, or a crack in the stone.
“First, proceed directly down the path to his confinement; do not tarry. Second, stay in the gallery; do not attempt to descend to his cage. Third—and this is the most important—do nothing he asks. No matter how insignificant it may sound. Do not be fooled by him. He is intelligent and cunning. Ask him your questions; then leave. Do not deviate from these rules. Do you understand?” Alric nodded. “Then may Novron have mercy on you.”
Just then, the great doors split along the central seam and slowly started to open. The loud grinding of stone on stone echoed until at last the doors stood wide. Beyond them lay a long stone bridge that spanned an abyss. The bridge was three feet wide and as smooth as glass, and it appeared no thicker than a sheet of parchment. At the far end of the span rose a column of black rock. An island-like tower, its only visible connection to the world was the delicate bridge.
“You may leave your lantern. You will have no need for it,” the clerk stated. Royce nodded but kept the lantern nevertheless.
As they stepped through the doorway, Hadrian heard a sound like singing, a faint mournful song as if a thousand voices joined in a somber dirge. The sad, oppressive music brought to mind the worst memories of his life and filled him with a misery so great it sapped his resolve. His feet felt weighted, his soul chilled. Moving forward became an effort.
Once the party crossed the threshold, the great doors began to close, shutting with a thundering boom. The chamber was well lit, although the source of the light was not apparent. It was impossible to judge the height or the depth of the chasm. Both stretched into seeming emptiness.
“Are other prisons like this?” Myron asked, his voice quavering as they began to inch their way across the bridge.
“I would venture to guess this is unique,” Alric replied.
“Trust me, I know prisons,” Royce told them. “This is unique.”
The party fell into silence during the crossing. Hadrian was in the rear, concentrating on the placement of his feet. Partway across he paused and glanced up briefly to check on the others. Myron was holding his arms out at his sides like a tightrope walker. Alric, half crouching, reached out with his hands as if he might resort to crawling at any minute. Royce, however, strode casually forward with his head tilted up, and he frequently turned from side to side to study their surroundings.
Despite its appearance, the bridge was solid. They successfully crossed it to a small arched opening into the black tower. Once off the bridge, Royce turned to face Alric. “You were fairly free about revealing your identity back there, Your Majesty,” he said, reproaching the monarch. “I don’t recall discussing a plan where you walk in and blurt out, ‘Hey, I’m the new king, come kill me.’ ”
“You don’t actually think there are assassins in here, do you? I know I thought this was a trap, but look at this place! Arista never could have arranged this. Or do you honestly think others will be able to slip in the same cliff door we entered through?”
“What I think is that there is no reason to take unnecessary chances.”
“Unnecessary chances? Are you serious? You don’t consider crossing a slick, narrow bridge over a gorge, which is who knows how deep, a risk? Assassins are the least of our worries.”
“Are you always this much trouble to those guarding you?”
Alric’s only response was a look of disdain.
The archway led to a narrow tunneled corridor, which eventually opened into a large round room. Arranged like an amphitheater, the gallery contained descending stairs and stone benches set in rings, each lower than the one before it, which focused all attention on the recessed center of the room. At the bottom of the steps was a balcony, and twenty feet below it lay a circular stage. Once they descended the stairs, Hadrian could see the stage was bare except for a single chair and the man who sat upon it.
An intense beam of white light illuminated the seated figure from high above. He did not appear terribly old, with only the start of gray entering his otherwise dark shoulder-length hair. Dark, brooding eyes gazed out from beneath a prominent forehead. No facial hair marred his high cheekbones, which surprised Hadrian, because the few wizards and magicians he knew about all wore long beards as a mark of their profession. He wore a magnificent robe, the color of which Hadrian could not quite determine. The garment shimmered somewhere between dark blue and smoky gray, but where it was folded or creased, it looked to be emerald green or at times even turquoise. The man sat with the robe gathered around him, his hands, lost in its folds, placed on his lap. He sat still as a statue, giving no indication he was aware of their presence.
“What now?” Alric whispered.
“You talk to him,” Royce replied.
The prince looked around thoughtfully. “That man down there can’t really be a thousand years old, can he?”
“I don’t know. In here, anything seems possible,” Hadrian said.
Myron looked around the room and up toward the unseen ceiling, a pained expression on his face. “That singing—it reminds me of the abbey, of the fire, as if I can hear them again—screaming.” Hadrian gently put a hand on Myron’s shoulder.
“Ignore it,” Royce told the monk, and then turned to glare at Alric. “You have to talk to him. We can’t leave until you do. Now go ahead and ask him what you came here to find out.”
“What do I say? I mean, if he is, you know, really a wizard of the Old Empire, if he actually served the last emperor, how do I approach him?”
“Try asking what he’s been up to,” Hadrian suggested. That was met by a smirk from Alric. “No, seriously, look down there. It’s just him and a chair. He has no books, no cards, nothing. I nearly went crazy with boredom cooped up in The Rose and Thorn last winter during a heavy snowfall. How do you suppose he’s spent a thousand years just sitting in that chair?”
“And how do you not go insane, listening to that sound all that time?” Myron added.
“Okay, I’ve got something.” Alric tur
ned to address the wizard. “Excuse me, sir.” The man in the chair slowly raised his head and blinked in response to the bright light from above. He looked weary, his eyes tired. “Sorry to disturb you. I’m Alric Ess—”
“I know well who art thee,” Esrahaddon interrupted. His tone was relaxed and calm, his voice gentle and soothing. “Where be thy sinlister?”
“My what?”
“Thy sinlister, Arista?”
“Oh, my sister.”
“Sis-ter,” the wizard repeated carefully, and sighed, shaking his head.
“She’s not here.”
“Why doth not she come?”
Alric looked first to Royce and then to Hadrian.
“She asked us to come in her place,” Royce responded.
Looking at the thief, the wizard asked, “And who art thee?”
“Me? I’m nobody,” Royce replied.
Esrahaddon narrowed his eyes at the thief and raised one eyebrow. “Perhaps, perhaps not.”
“My sister instructed me to come here and speak with you,” Alric said, drawing the wizard’s attention back to him. “Do you know why?”
“’Tis I who bade her send thee.”
“Neat trick since you’re locked in here,” Hadrian observed.
“Neat?” Esrahaddon questioned. “Dost thou intend ’twas a clean thing? For I see no filth upon the matter.” The four men responded with looks of confusion. “ ’Tis not a point upon which to dwell. Arista hath in habit graced me with her presence fair for a year and more, though difficult be it to determine the passage of the sun within this darkened hole. A student of the Art she fancies herself, but schools for wizards thy world abides not. A desert of want drove her to seek my counsel. She bade me teach those skills now long forgotten. Within these walls am I locked, as time skips across fingertips untethered, with naught but the sound of mine own voice to pose comfort. So did I acquiesce for pity’s sake. Tidings of the new world thy princess did provide. In return, I imparted gifts upon her—gifts of knowledge.”
Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations Page 14
