by D Mickleson
“Aaaaaaahhhhh!”
Pain! Life! Life! Pain! The two went together, inseparable, one and the same. You can’t have one without the other. Why was he thinking this now? Oh thank the Fates for the blackness! Washing away all pain, washing away all life—
But no! He had to stay awake, had to stay alive.
He was running, trying to run, stumbling over something soft. The Seer! Running again. He’d picked something up. What was this? Its sickly green light lit the room even as the last fires died. He needed his things. Something here was important. His sword, scabbard, hunting knife, flint, pipe, a few silver coins, Arloon’s tattered bit of sheepskin. No time for anything else. He must fly or perish.
Through the ruined doorway he ran, out into a long, torchlit corridor. Many doors of iron bars lined the way, behind which lay tiny, bare-walled cells, some containing prisoners in various stages of decrepitude. Pitiful voices followed after him as he hurdled past. Criminals or victims of Her Grace’s cruelty? I’m so sorry. I don’t have a key.
He ran on, reaching a winding stairway which led up many steps to a wide landing. Here was another corridor, exactly the same as the one he’d left behind. Shouts and the tramp of armored boots rang along the stone masonry.
“Not that way,” he told himself. The spiraling stairs ran on. Here and there, as he leapt up two at a time, he noticed fresh-looking cracks and gouges in the stonework, as though something large and heavy had come this way. Even as the hideous image of the manticore returned unbidden to his mind, he came upon an oozing smear of crimson trailing up the bending way. On the landing above, beside the tattered black habit of a scribe, he came upon a large mass of flesh, still quivering in a pool of blood like a grotesque pudding.
“Sorry Palpo,” he whispered, glancing down a third corridor, identical to the two below.
He stopped, gaping. At the far end, where a stone wall should have been, a great hole was rent, floor to ceiling, so that a rosy patch of sky, flush with sunset, glimmered into the dreary corridor. A curious crowd had gathered. Two mailclad men Triston took to be prison guards, another black-robed scribe, a young acolyte in flowing white silk, and an old maid in a dirty apron, milled about the gaping fissure.
“What could have caused this? Did you hear the explosion?” the acolyte asked a guard tremulously.
“Don’t know, miss. The Bell of Calamity sounded not long ago, so I came running. But I’ll be buggered if I know what happened here.”
“Fear not,” said the scribe reprovingly, “Her Grace will explain all in due course, once the Guardians have located her and ascertained the rational for the summons.”
“What the blazes are you looking at?” shouted the second guard. With a jolt, Triston realized the man was yelling at him. His mind had begun to clear somewhat, though the searing pain remained. Nevertheless, in his dazed and weary state he’d made the mistake of lingering too long. Dimly the thought crossed his mind that he must look quite a sight, even from a distance, after the events in the pit.
The man took a few steps in his direction. “Oy! I’m talking to you.”
“Oh, uh, nothing,” he shouted back, waving the man off dismissively. “Move along, all of you. Her Grace is on her way.”
Everyone stared, not sure what to make of this stranger. “I’ll just be going now,” Triston ended lamely, then turned and ran up the ever-winding stairs, cursing as the sound of pursuing feet echoed up below him.
The stairway finally ended on the fourth level, the landing of which was marble and finely decorated. Many waist-high, glazed pots arranged beautifully with fresh flowers lined the gleaming walls. To one side, a striking tapestry hung from on high, a moonlit dance of fauns and centaurs depicted in gold thread against a backdrop of forest green silk. In a spacious alcove on one side, in skillfully-fashioned bronze, stood a serene-faced woman, her hands folded reverently in prayer.
Triston stepped onto the landing and swore out loud. An iron-barred gate stretched from wall to wall, looking as incongruous in this elegant setting as a silken curtain in a dungeon privy.
“Watch yourself, boy! This is the High Fane!”
Triston jumped and spun around. In another alcove opposite the first, a man hovered over a bulky wooden desk, wearing a charcoal tunic which extended over his head like a tight-fitting hood.
Triston studied the man uncertainly, ready for a sudden attack.
“Well, spit it out! What’s your message? Do you think I have all day?”
By the look of things, alone on this landing, the man had all the time in the world. “The door’s locked.”
“Of course it’s locked! The whole prison block’s on lockdown. Didn’t you hear the bell?” A frown darkened his brow. “Why are you wounded?” he asked, suddenly suspicious. “Who are you?”
Triston looked into the man’s sour face, his mind racing for an answer that might satisfy him. The sound of hurrying feet broke in from two directions: the stair below and the hall beyond the iron gate.
There was only one thing to do.
“I’m the reason the bell rang,” he answered, drawing his sword.
Thirty seconds later, he was standing behind the desk himself, looking down at a large ring bristling with dozens of keys. Around the corner, behind the bars, a squad of seven Guardians raced up to the locked gate. At the same moment, the two mailclad guards from below reached the summit of the landing, followed by the scribe, red-faced and puffing furiously.
“What the hell are you—” began the first guard, a mustachioed man who’d shouted at him earlier.
“Open this door at once, porter!” bellowed the lead Guardian from behind the gate, glaring at Triston. He spoke with authority to match his wine-colored cape and purple-feathered helm. “The way should have been cleared the moment you heard us coming. This is your job, man.”
“Yes sir, right away,” Triston said with a bow.
Grabbing the key ring and cursing the telltale tremble in his hands, he stepped up to the iron lock, desperately trying to gauge which key would most likely fit the hole. The entire situation was hopeless. Any minute now they would realize—but to his amazement the first key fit snugly in the lock. With a silent prayer he twisted the handle and—nothing.
Triston glanced nervously at the plumed Guardian, whose face was twisted into a snarl. “What’s the matter, boy?” he demanded, his voice laden with fury. “I want this door opened now!”
“Sergeant. Sir, if I may,” interjected the mustachioed guard behind Triston. “This boy was wandering around down by the—”
“Excuse me, fool,” Triston interrupted, summoning bravado he didn’t feel. “I’m attending the sergeant right now so you can just wait your turn.”
“Shut up both of you!” roared the sergeant, his face darkening to match his cape. “Now, porter,” he said in falsely polite tones, “or porter-in-training, whatever you are. If you don’t open this door, now, I’LL HAVE YOUR HEAD ON A PIKE TO MAKE SPORT FOR THE CROWS!”
Triston chose another likely key, similar to the first. It fit and the lock turned with a click. Relief washed over him as the gate slid open and the Guardians rushed past. Death was averted for the moment.
“Now,” said the sergeant briskly, “follow us down to the deathpit. We believe Her Grace was last seen there so we’ll need that door opened.”
“Oh, that door is open, sir,” Triston assured him.
“What do you mean, ‘It is open?’ That door’s always locked. What are you talking about?”
Triston reached wildly for an answer. “The other porter told me he was unlocking all the doors on that level, sir. Said he knew you’d want to check it out down there.”
“But sir! Cranny, that’s the porter, he’s supposed to be on duty here. This kid isn’t even a porter.” The mustachioed guard was pointing accusingly at Triston from behind the sergeant’s men, who had edged the two guards and the scribe into the wall above the stairwell.
The sergeant’s purple face somehow dark
ened, and Triston saw a vein begin to throb alarmingly on the man’s temple. “What do you mean, Not a porter?” he hissed through clenched teeth.
“I say, what’d you do with Cranny then, eh boy?” asked the other, heretofore silent guard.
The sergeant’s eyes narrowed as he studied Triston for the first time. “That’s a nasty-looking injury, porter. Where’d you get that I wonder?”
Triston looked from one accusing party to another, feeling like a fox cornered by a hunting pack. “Got this in the kitchens where I used to work. Scalded myself. That’s why they moved me here. And I told you, Cranny’s down in the prison block, ready to let you in. He’s probably chatting with the Seer right now for all we know.”
“Chatting with the Seer!” spluttered the sergeant, outraged.
“There’s Cranny, behind the statue of Begunda the Righteous!” screamed the scribe in a squeaky voice, pointing. “He’s killed him!”
Triston backed away toward the open gate behind him. “He’s not dead. I just, I just bashed him a little.” The sergeant stared, eyes popping, from the slumped form of the porter lying half-hidden in the shadowy alcove, to Triston, who had edged out the door. “In the forehead. With my hilt,” he ended, slamming the gate to.
The sergeant ran back to the bars, grasping them with mailed fists. The six Guardians on the stairs filed up behind, struggling to draw their swords in the confined space.
“Give me those keys, boy,” he demanded with a growl of forced calm that threatened to explode, like the subterranean rumble of an awakening volcano.
Triston backed away slowly, unable to tear his gaze from the sergeant’s raging eyes. Slowly he lifted the key ring and, with trembling fingers, stuffed them in his pocket.
Eyes still locked on Triston, the sergeant’s voice became bestial to the point of incomprehensibility. “CHECK THE FALLEN PORTER FOR ANOTHER RING!”
“Sir! I’ve got them. Here, try these!” yelled one of the Guardians, rushing up to the door with a jingle clinking keys.
Triston watched mesmerized as the sergeant began trying random keys in the lock. Then—“Right,” he said, and with a swift pivot, sprinted down the empty passage.
At the far end, the corridor went on through an open doorway into darkness, while a perpendicular hall ran both to the left and right as far as he could see. He hesitated.
There was no time to lose, and a false choice now would lead to certain death. He longed for a window so that he could at least gauge how high he was, but while the passages were adorned with an endless succession of rich-hued tapestries, statues in alcoves, carven pillars, and torches, torches everywhere, no light of sun or moon graced his way.
Stepping forward, he peered into the dark opening ahead, and found himself inside a cavernous chamber lined with great, arching pillars supporting a domed roof far above. Before him, candles blazed on a rough-hewn altar draped in white silk and stained with blood. Bare, wooden benches marched in lines up the sloping floor into the unguessed blackness beyond. Triston shuddered and returned to the forked passageway.
He stared once more in both directions, first left, then right. He must choose, or all hope was vain. At that moment, to his delight, he noticed down the rightward passage a slight flutter in a curtained alcove at the far side. An open window after all?
Sprinting off the mark like a gazelle, he reached the distant spot in seconds. His hand grasped the curtain, crimson linen soft in his still quivering fingers, when an angry male voice stopped him short.
“Do you mind? A little privacy if you please!”
A female voice, soft as the curtain, giggled with pleasure, and the man joined in. “Now, my dear,” he said, “where were we?”
Triston yanked back the drapery.
“Triston!” cried a pretty redhead, blushing through her freckles.
“How dare you!” roared a fat, middle-aged scribe through a bristling beard.
“Alessia? I thought that was you. Wait, you’re with . . . him? Never mind. I need a little favor. Er, where’s the front door to this place?”
“But how did you escape Her Grace? I thought you’d be—oh my! The Bell of Calamity! Was that . . . are you . . . what have you done with the Seer?”
“Never mind that! I need you to get me out of here now! Come on, Alessia! There’s no time.”
She looked doubtful but stood up.
“Now wait a moment!” bellowed the scribe. “You’re not going anywhere with this whelp. I’m not such a dotard that I don’t see what’s going—”
“Oh be quiet, Biffric. Triston’s a good man.” She turned to Triston. “There’s only one way out I’m afraid. The Golemgate. And it’s bound to be sealed since the bell rang.”
“Just get me there, OK?”
“She’s not getting you anywhere boy! She’s not—”
“Would you shut it? OK Triston, I’ll lead you to the gate, but that’s as far as I can go. Ladies-in-waiting aren’t allowed to leave the temple without Her Grace.” Triston nodded his thanks, surprised but gratified to see that, in the absence of her mistress, Alessia was both cool-headed and confident.
“I’ll come right back!” she said over Biffric’s spluttering protests. Obviously this scribe was much more concerned with the temporary loss of Alessia than the sudden appearance of a blood-stained stranger when the Fane was on high alert. He slouched back into the shadows with an aggrieved scowl.
Triston gave the man a reassuring wink, which only caused his scowl to deepen. “I’ll be waiting right here, my little tartling!” he growled after them as they hurried on down the passage.
Alessia seemed to have absorbed Triston’s sense of urgency. Silently she led him at a run along labyrinthine halls, through spacious chambers and down twisting stairways. Whether by her skill in choosing or good fortune, they passed no one. Suddenly in the middle of one long descent she put a hand out and stopped him flat.
“At least tell me this,” she said, rosy-cheeked and breathing heavily. “Am I right in guessing that the bell is your fault and the entire Order of the Guardians is looking for you?”
“Uh, yeah, that sounds about right.”
She blanched a little at this confirmation, but the set of her jaw was firm and her voice was even. Where was the weeping child from the carriage?
“Her Grace, the Seer—is she . . . dead?”
“I think she might be.”
She nodded, saying nothing, but giving Triston a strange look. Was that wonder in her eyes? “OK,” she said after taking a few, steadying breaths. “Now we walk.”
“Walk? I told you Alessia, there’s no time. The Guardians could come at—”
“Just do as I say.”
They paced down the remaining stairs and onto the landing, Triston resisting the urge to break into flight with each excruciatingly slow step. The stairwell opened onto a wide hall of white marble, lined with a plush red carpet and overlooked by a row of silver statues peering down on them from high alabaster pedestals. All were female, some old and stern, others young and lovely, but every woman bearing in her expression and stance an indefinable sense of power.
Triston felt goose bumps form on his arms, but this may have been due less to the imposing figures above them than the two Guardians standing at attention before an open door on the other side of the hall.
Alessia walked on, Triston striding nervously at her side. The Guardians watched their steady approach without moving. “Alessia, you do see—”
“Yes. Just stay calm and they’ll probably let us through.”
They walked on. Triston noticed one of the Guardians shift his weight, turning his head slightly to watch them approach with too much interest for his comfort.
“Say something,” Alessia whispered, forcing a pleasant smile on her face. “Just talk to me, like we were friends.”
Triston nodded politely, all the stupid one-liners he’d wanted to use on Kara cluttering his mind as he tried to think of something to say. “So,” he said awkwardly a
few seconds later, “you’re with, you’re with what’s his name, Biffrum or some such? I wouldn’t have guessed you—I mean, how’s that going for you?”
“You’re trembling. Turn your arm so the wound doesn’t show. There you go.” The Guardians were only a few feet away now. The door stood open before them, if only no one got in their way. “It’s because he’s sweet,” she said, as though she didn’t care who heard. The Guardians eyed her as they passed but made no move. “And he loves me,” she finished with an apologetic shrug.
They were through. Triston gave her a sideways hug with his one good arm. “You’re brilliant,” he whispered.
She shrugged his arm off with a blushing smile. “This is the Fane’s antechamber and that is the Golemgate. It’s sealed shut as I feared.”
“Ah. Wow. So it is.” They stepped out into an otherworldy scene, a soaring chamber crafted by some lost art long ago by the mighty sorcerers of ages past, and the effect stole away Triston’s breath.
An open space stretched before them, octagonal in form and founded on great flagstones checkered pearl and emerald. Eight vast pillars leapt up from the chamber’s sides, pearly white, shimmering in hues of rose and cream. Some three hundred feet above them, the pillars, tapering like trees, lifted branching capitals set with leaves of silver and gold. They grew together like a forest canopy, open at the center to a star-pierced sky of purple and deepest blue.
From this vaulted aperture there drifted down softly, as the dew of evening, a shaft of violet light which fell at the chamber’s center on a stone creature, or so Triston took it. Hideous in the heavenly light, the figure appeared of man-shape, but far taller, though it stooped under a bulging hunch. But it also resembled a beast, with wicked claws and a long, doglike snout baring canine teeth.
“A golem,” whispered Alessia. “They say its spirit powers the gate.”
