Chapter 11
Myranda slept a dreamless few hours and awoke in the same pale blue-tinged darkness she had lived in for the past two weeks. The rest had done little to restore her strength, or else she likely would have begun the entire process over again.
Instead, she sat weakly. Her temples had a dull, constant ache. As her head hung low, she realized something. The crystal that hung down from her neck had changed. Even from the little of it that she could see, it was clear that the surface had begun to fracture. She shook her head, hoping to clear the cobwebs a bit, and looked around her. There were other things that had changed. Here and there, she could see scorches on the walls. She faintly remembered turning her mind to flame spells in attempts to spill off some of the anger. The force she had put into them would have been enough to reduce the bars to little more than bubbling pools, but the crystal had done its job--for the most part.
Myranda's clouded mind slowly began to clear. As it did, the possibilities presented by this new knowledge began to develop. A pair of the masked guards approached the door of the cell. She sat still as one replaced the damaged crystal and the other administered the daily swill.
Myranda knew that these were merely nearmen, and couldn't possibly read her mind as Epidime had been attempting, but she had learned to err on the side of caution and thought only the most innocuous thoughts in their presence. When they had gone, she began to plot. Some of her spells had gotten through. When she poured out all that she had, some tiny effect could be brought about. It would be painful, but she may just have hope of escaping on her own. She would have to focus, despite the pain of the collar, on spells with a concentration she seldom managed without her staff. It wouldn't be easy, but it was hope. Hope would sustain her.
Comforted by the fact that her day long outburst had brought no reaction from the nearmen, she set about her task.
#
Far away, her struggles were viewed by pained eyes. Deacon had felt that if he could only see what Myranda was doing, it would put his mind in order again and he could get back to his work. First, he was plagued by the fact that images were few and far between. Now he had the opposite problem. Night after night he saw her, restrained and tortured. He poured through books for some solution, some way to know precisely what was happening. The images would persist for hours sometimes, but they would waver and twist, leaving Myranda herself as the only solidly recognizable thing--and they were always silent. Sometimes there were others, but recently she was alone.
He would focus on the images and try to get more information from them, but he simply lacked the strength. Worse, the other wizards had grown weary of his pleas for help in the matter interrupting their own studies and would no longer even speak with him. Finally, only two would listen to him, Solomon and Calypso. Of the two, Deacon found Calypso to be the most helpful, and took to confiding in her almost daily.
Disturbed by his latest visions, he took his usual place by the lake and waited for her to appear. A mermaid, long, flowing hair and emerald tail shimmering in the sun, surfaced from the lake. The very moment that she did, Deacon began. Calypso had become accustomed to his habit of skipping pleasantries and diving directly into his points.
"From what I was able to see last night, I can say for certain that the crystal around her neck has been changed. Are you certain you have never heard of this practice? A crystal used as some kind of torture?" he asked. "Perhaps I should look through the library for it again."
"If it wasn't there the third time, it won't be there the fourth," she said. "You know what you need to do."
"I need to know what is going on," he said.
"It won't help," she warned.
"What do you mean? Of course it will! I can't get her out of my mind because I am not certain of her place in the prophecy. When I know what has been happening to her, I will be able to study the prophecy in search of elements of these events. I will find them. Then I will know that all will be well and my mind will be at ease," he said, as convincingly as possible.
"You know, you really are very creative. If you won't think rationally, at least follow your own rules. Logic says you should follow the clues to the truth, not choose the truth that suits you and cater the evidence to fit," she said. "You are purposely overlooking the real root of your problem because you know it is a sickness for which there is no cure."
"Oh? And what is that?" he asked.
"I won't call it by name. You would only deny it and scurry away to your rationalizations. All I'll say is that I know, and deep down you do, too, that you will only find some kind of relief if you find a way to go face to face and--" Calypso began, only to be interrupted.
"Speak to Hollow!" Deacon blurted.
"What!?" Calypso asked, left blinking from the sudden and unjustifiable leap of reason.
"Hollow! I need to find her place solidly in the prophecy to put my mind at ease, and the only man who can do that with absolute certainty is Hollow!" he said, leaping up.
"Deacon, listen to yourself! Hollow only speaks when he has something to say, which is only once in a great while," she said.
"Then I will coax it out of him," he said, running off.
"The man isn't a man at all, he is an empty shell. You would have better luck coaxing an answer from your own echo. You are being foolish, unreasonable, and overly optimistic. Those are all symptoms, you know!" she called after him before shaking her head and whispering to herself, "That boy is going to lose his mind."
#
Elsewhere, Myranda had spent the majority of two days focusing her mind fully on the task of unlocking the collar from her neck. After having no success, she decided that the restraint likely was specially designed to prevent removal in this fashion. In all likelihood, all of the restraints were similarly designed, but she couldn't afford to assume that. As painful as any attempts to escape were, the pain was preferable to the hopelessness of imprisonment--or, worse, dwelling on what she had learned of the massacre.
She turned her attempts to the wrist restraints attached to the chair. Almost immediately, she could feel progress. At the end of an hour of intense trial, she heard a click that made her heart jump. The lock hesitantly released and she felt the metal shackle swing lazily open. Her left hand was free! The pair of guards, nearmen, patrolled silently, as they always did. It had become clear over the days she had spent under their guard that they could do little more than they were told. They were, however, acutely sensitive to sudden changes, and always offered a look in her direction when the grunts of effort and pain came to an end.
Myranda kept her hand in the shackles as it had been before. As the wrist shackles were behind her chair and she was facing the bars, the fact that one had opened would not be noticed. After a few moments, the guards turned back to their silent patrol. With a free hand, it would be possible to hold the crystal away from her chest by the chain and spare herself some of the pain, but she quickly dismissed the thought as far too risky. Instead, she attacked the second shackle just the same as she had the first. She was tired, but the freedom dangling tantalizingly before her was enough to keep her going. Eventually a second click signaled the release of her other hand. As she spent a few moments resting, she realized that there was a problem. She was facing the bars, and thus her ankle shackles were plainly visible. If she was to make good her escape, she would have to free both legs without the guards noticing.
The young woman's mind ached from overuse. Weeks of resisting Epidime had forced her to push herself to the limit frequently enough that she had discovered precisely how far she could go before breaking. If she attempted anything as taxing as the shackles had been, she would not have the strength to stand when she was through. Indeed, it had been so long since she had stood without the aid of a cruel hand clutching each shoulder, it was possible that she already lacked the strength.
Myranda shook her head. If ever there was a time for desperate acts, it was now. When the plodding footsteps of the guards seemed to be at
their quietest, she grasped the chain at either side of the accursed crystal and lifted it away from her chest. The effect was astounding. The fog in her mind cleared noticeably, and she felt a fair amount of her strength return. Two swift spells slipped past the weakened effect of the restraint and popped her final two shackles open. Distantly, the footsteps began to quickly grow louder. They had heard!
Myranda stood on shaky legs. She could not get a good look at the stone around her neck, but she knew that they had changed it before, so there must be a way to release it. She searched with her fingers, but everywhere she touched it burned slightly, robbing her of feeling. The footsteps were nearly upon her now. There was no more time to waste; she would have to be ready. Crouching behind the chair, she smashed the crystal with all of the strength she had against the seat's hard back. It fractured. She smashed again. A piece fell away. With a final attempt, the crystal shattered, creating an eye-searing flash and cutting her hand badly. Then there was only darkness.
Instantly, she felt a strength she had not felt in weeks. A month ago, she would have counted herself as near death when she felt like this, but at this moment, it may as well have been the peak of health.
Without the crystal's glow, there was total darkness. That likely meant little to the nearmen, as they had been patrolling without light, but to Myranda it meant that she could not see them and they could see her. She crouched behind the chair and thought feverishly as she heard the steps come to a stop just beyond the bars. What would they do? They would have to secure her and apply a new crystal. That meant they would have to open the door. If that happened, she might be able to push past them and out of the cell, but then where would she go?
The pair of guards began an exchange in a language that was utterly foreign to Myranda. Finally, one set of footsteps retreated into the distance.
Myranda waited a moment, but there was only silence. One of the guards had likely gone for help or replacement restraints, and the remaining one was clearly not going to open the door. With more opposition on the way, the time to act was now. She lashed out with a sleep spell. She didn't have the strength for anything more powerful. The guard stumbled briefly, but did not fall. The spell simply wasn't strong enough. There were only two things she could think of that might do any good now.
She charged out from behind the chair into the darkness, quickly colliding with the bars. She reached through and grasped the unseen guard. At the same time, she chanted the words of the sleep spell aloud, quietly but intensely. The physical contact and incantation combined were just barely enough. The guard collapsed to the ground.
The girl quickly turned her mind to the lock on the cell. Almost immediately, she found that the larger lock was hopelessly more complex than the shackles had been. With nothing else to do, she fought furiously with it for a moment before collapsing against the bars, sobbing.
"I'm just not strong enough," she sobbed.
After a moment a voice came out of the darkness.
"You stupid girl," taunted the voice. It was the blind priest in a nearby cell. "You stupid, stupid girl. Open the door!"
"I can't. I don't have the strength! I cannot undo the lock!" she replied.
"You learn to run and forget how to walk! The keys! I heard them jingle as the guard fell!" he fairly commanded.
"Of course!" she replied, reaching through the bars and feeling about until her hands came to rest on the keys.
There were only three keys on the ring. The second opened the cell door.
"Where are you?" Myranda called into the darkness.
"Here. Why? Planning to put a knife in my back? It would be the most honest thing you've done in your wretched life," the priest hissed.
"I am going to let you out. It is pitch-black and--" she whispered.
"The door stays closed, witch," he whispered angrily.
"I am trying to free you," she whispered urgently, finding her way to the door. When she tried to fit the key into the hole, a quick hand swiped it away.
"I am a priest. It is my place to forgive. But I will not owe you. Now go, or I will keep the key and you will never escape this place with your life. Free the others if you choose, but as far as I am concerned these bars are here to protect me from you," he warned.
"If that is what you wish," she said.
Another time she would have demanded that he come with her, but time was short. Other captives in other cells began to realize that Myranda had escaped and were calling for freedom. She remembered from her trip through with Trigorah that a torch was on either side of the stairway of each floor. Stumbling through the dark as best she could, she found her way to one and lit it. The mystic effort was enough to rob her of her balance. It was the last spell that she would cast without passing out.
In the flickering light, she saw dozens of sets of arms reaching pleadingly out to her. Taking the torch in the palm of her badly bleeding right hand, she made her way to each door, quickly unlocking them. The prisoners ran, only freedom on their minds. Only a few had been freed when three nearmen appeared in the stairway, blocking their way. Myranda worked furiously at unlocking more doors. She had stopped thinking of her own escape long ago. She simply had to release these people. It was her fault that they were here.
Suddenly, one of the nearmen was upon her. The other two, scarcely visible at the edge of the torch's light, waved swords to keep back the men and women already free. The fiend before Myranda chose its gauntleted hands, likely on orders from Epidime not to kill her. She waved the torch at the guard, causing it to step back. The silent, faceless brute raised a hand to strike her. Myranda stumbled away from the bars, barely dodging the blow. The attacker turned to face her and raised both fists for a hammer blow. A pair of powerful hands leapt from the darkness between the bars, seizing the guard by the face mask. A swift pull bashed the armored nearman's head into the bars, then again, and again. Finally, the hands released him and the guard crumbled to the ground.
The light of the torch revealed Myranda's rescuer. It had been months since she had seen him, but even without his decrepit armor she recognized the mountain of a man.
"Tus!" she cried, unlocking the cell as another of the guards rushed over.
Tus, a significant member of a rebellious group called the Undermine who had helped Myranda in the past, whipped the door open with all of his might. It smashed the charging nearman and dropped him to the ground. He snatched up the sword that the first nearman had refused to use and ran to the remaining guard. With a trio of clumsy, overly powerful strikes, the nearman fell. There was a dull surge of light and the nearman seemed to collapse into a wisp of dust, leaving only a pile of caved-in armor. A swift plunge of his sword into the chest of the other two nearmen brought about the same effect. Whatever these things were, they were not natural.
"This way. Caya is here. We will find her. You will free her," he said, more a statement of fact than a request or an order.
"I have to free everyone," Myranda said, opening another door. Tus grabbed the old man who ran from inside by the shirt.
"You will take the keys from the dead guard and unlock all of these cells or I will cut your arms off," remarked Tus.
The terrified old man nodded vigorously and turned quickly to the task. Tus turned to a woman who had witnessed the threat, fetched the keys from another downed guard and tossed them to her.
"You will follow us. You will open all of the cells we pass," he added.
Clearly fearing that what had happened to the guards would happen to her, the woman agreed. Myranda, though far from pleased with the method, accepted the result and agreed to follow Tus. Each floor brought another pair of guards. With a crowd of escaped prisoners to distract them, Tus seldom had much difficultly in dispatching them, leaving behind piles of ruined armor and motes of dust. Each defeated guard provided another set of keys and another terrified escapee was pressed into duty. Torches were lit, floors were emptied. Total chaos reigned. It was not until they reached the second to la
st floor, freeing all in their path, that the cell containing Caya was found.
The strong young woman within the cell had been the leader of the Undermine, and even after what must have been ages of imprisonment, the keen edge of defiance had not left her eyes.
"Myranda! I knew when I saw you that things would soon change! You are a godsend!" Caya declared, snatching a sword from Tus's latest conquest and looking dejectedly for a foe that would not come.
"You aren't angry? You are here because of me," Myranda said, confused that no apology had been demanded of her.
"I would have eventually found my own way to a place like this. But thanks to you, dozens of others did!" she said excitedly.
"I don't understand," Myranda said.
"No one believes what the army is capable of. What this war has turned us into! These people will be angry, hurt, disillusioned, and they will have nowhere to turn. That is the recipe for an Undermine soldier. Our ranks will be doubled! And I have you to thank," Caya said.
"But weren't you tortured?" Myranda asked.
"Not for more than a few minutes, if you call that interview in the chair torture. In fact, once you were brought in, that fellow with the halberd ordered these beastly guards to feed us better. He said he wanted us healthy and full of life," she said.
Myranda shuddered. Epidime had wanted them to be healthy when he killed them. He wanted their deaths to cause all the more pain to Myranda when he finally won.
"Let us go. If Tus left anyone for me to kill, I will see to it that you are not touched until we have made good our escape," Caya declared.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 57
