by Ember Lane
Not one of the six even bothered glancing down the shaft. They all filed off into the marquees. Lincoln could hear Belzarra’s tired laugh, but didn’t bother asking. If she had made it slide, he’d live with it.
He collapsed on the ground, the smell of wheat all around, and slept.
12
Unity
The spilling red light was curious, even confusing, and still wasn’t acting like a normal light. Lincoln walked the shaft’s circumference more than once, trying to sum up the courage just to touch it. It was like plasma—though Cronis had quite rightly likened it to a flame, Lincoln thought that was not enough of a description—he imagined it to be a living thing, like a cell, and he knew he feared it—feared what it meant. Allaise kept a few steps back, unwilling to even venture closer. The light repelled her, as it did most everyone else.
It also posed a peculiar problem. How was Griselda supposed to function when she could hardly bear bright light? Summoning his courage, he reached out, his finger hovering closer to its skin. Poking it through, the light resisted, like he was poking it into a balloon, but then it popped and his hand slid in. He’d expected it to be warm, though he had no reason to, and was surprised by its coolness. Lincoln sensed the light emanated from a living thing.
Allaise reached out, her courage clearly bolstered by the light’s acceptance of Lincoln. As her hand touched the light, a spark shot out, throwing her back onto the mud. Lincoln jerked his own hand out, rushing to her side. Allaise’s held out her blistered and weeping hand.
“So, that confirms it,” she said through gritted teeth. “It’s just you eight allowed in. You’re on your own.”
Lincoln spent the rest of the day preparing. Robert brought him two more health rings each bolstering his vitality by 8 points, and those brought him up to 360 health; nothing too substantial but not too shabby either. He chose to stick with his new ax, his knives, sword, and staff. It was pretty much all he had apart from his fists, having never bothered with the bow. He did fill his sack with what he knew he might need; a good-sized coil of rope, a long stick, some grappling hooks, a set of picklocks, a small sack of fine, sand-like gravel, and a piece of broken mirror.
Jin looked little different from any other time he’d seen the dark elf, though he did have a sword strapped to his side. Crags had gotten suited up in some light, mesh armor, and had a helmet on that closely resembled an upturned fruit bowl. The four of them milled around outside waiting for the others to appear. The carnival atmosphere of the previous day had vanished, and the few remaining spectators seemed solely intent on draining the rest of the ale.
Staring down the road that led to the battlements, Lincoln saw Flip and Swift ambling toward them. He grunted. “It seems the apachalant has finally decided to rejoin us.”
“Their work is constant,” Jin said, his gaze steered toward the approaching men. “Do you not understand them? Their mantle is the hardest to maintain of all the races within the mists. Theirs is to keep the channels open. If you wanted to meet with Sutech Charm himself they could probably arrange it.”
“Diplomats?” Lincoln ventured.
“Hardly. A diplomat wouldn’t slit your throat if you double-crossed him, he’d get another to do that dirty work. No, the apachalants seem like they serve, but don’t be surprised when you stroll into the throne room at Brokenford and find one sitting in its high chair. Be clear, they serve no master.”
Swift and Flip closed, the young apachalant failing to make eye contact for a while. He shuffled around, a little like Shrimp when he wanted to fight.
“Nice of you to turn up,” Lincoln muttered. “We could have done with you last night.”
“Sollen told me Griselda had it all under control.” A smirk swept over his lips. “Six was enough, seven would have been a crowd. Besides, what use is a castle without an army, and that is what I have secured for you.”
Lincoln’s aggression toward Swift evaporated instantly. “What?”
“I was at a meet with my father and Scareb. We have decided to throw our lot in with you. There are provisos, but essentially it is done. The first cohorts of an apachalant army will arrive in a few days. You’ll still need more, but between what I’ve secured with the Kobane and my father, with Jin’s elves, we have the start of some ranged troop, cavalry, and a decent amount of scouts. We just need to find some swords and pikes.”
Wondering whether a kiss would be appropriate, Lincoln felt his hope leap, but then remembered the provisos. “What do you need me to do?”
“Free Starellion first and then announce yourself in Brokenford,” he said, simply.
“But we need to get the wall up, the defenses complete.”
Flip grinned. “No one is ever ready for war—you must know that. You want your wall up quick—ask Griselda. Her people have the best stonemasons and cutters in the land. You want your trebs and ballies finished, ask Forgarth—doesn’t he owe you his life? Stop trying to do everything yourself.”
“Brokenford, eh?” Lincoln said, seeing himself at the head of a column of shining knights. “Let’s get this castle cleared.”
Allaise punched his arm. “A bit eager…what happened to this legacy?”
For a moment, Lincoln checked himself, but then his mind cleared. “It’s built. Bethe proved that to me this morning. Now we must defend it. It’s time to step up, not hide away.”
Not knowing whether he was expecting applause for his proclamation or gasps, he was more than a little deflated when all he received was a cursorily, “Good man,” from Swift, and a “Best get divining,” from Flip, as they all slunk away.
“I guess they just want to see some action,” Allaise said.
But inside, Lincoln was fired up. He thought of Joan’s Creek and all it could become—the refuge he’d set out to build. If he was to break out, to challenge kings like he assumed Swift was goading him to, then he had to be a hundred percent sure Joan’s Creek was safe.
“Allaise, can you go to Bethe. Tell her that we need to protect the fissure—Ardreth needs to take up this challenge. The exit to here must be fortified in case Sanctuary falls—the way perplexing, perhaps made to look just like a cave. If he can’t figure out a way to defend the fissure, we’ll have to block it up while things are in the balance.”
Allaise nodded, her bottom lip clamped between her teeth. She reached up and kissed him on his cheek. “Don’t forget your respawn point.” She turned and left.
Lincoln watched her go, his mind and heart trailing after her. He wondered if he loved her, or just felt an immense affinity for her. His stomach was a swirl of confused emotions, with images of Joan, of Glenwyth, and of Allaise all circling through his mind. But then another face came to him. It was her face, Poleyna’s, and he found himself being drawn past the glowing shaft, over the confused stream, and up the roadway piled with the heaps of excavated dirt. All alone, he felt compelled to go to the cave, and without intending to, he began walking toward it.
He scaled the foothill, skipped over its streams, and followed the scant trail that led up to her cave. Once inside, the glowsphere above the table burst into life, lighting up the nine pools within its stone. He lingered there this time, running his finger over one of them. A slight tingle teased its tip, and he looked deeply into the muddy, glass-like surface, but could see nothing.
“What do you want from me?” The question hung on the thin, cool air as he turned and faced the rocky wall. Without hesitating, he walked through it and into the chamber beyond.
Sitting on the stone shelf, Lincoln looked around, suddenly feeling foolish. What had he expected? Some grand reception? He pulled his feet up and lay on the stone bed.
A moment, I’ll just take a moment. Everything is changing…
As soon as his eyes closed, he saw her, a sweep of star-filled sky filling his mind’s eye; Poleyna’s pale face barely shimmered through. She looked down on him, but said nothing at first. Her mouth slowly formed a frown as though she was disappointed with him,
but then let slip a smile that kissed his heart and filled it with fortitude.
“Are you confused, Lincoln Hart? Did you not think that you would have to defend what is precious to you?”
“I didn’t think…”
“Waking Starellion will announce you to this world and the others. It will tell them that Mandrake is not lost, not feeble. Starellion is the pulse of Mandrake, as Slaughtower is of Ruse. Trust in the apachalant.”
“What of Alexa Drey?” Lincoln was surprised that she was his first thought.
The starry sky vanished, and he saw Alexa struggling through a thick snowdrift. She was helping a man forge on. The man looked dead on his feet, but Alexa was clearly determined, goading him, forcing him to continue.
“Where is she?”
“Near the city of the wizards. She has met up with another of our kind, a soldier called Sedge Prentice. The Warrior is destined to be housed in one of her party. You Lincoln—you are Unity.”
“And Alexa?”
“She is chosen—she is chance. She will help The Thief, and together they must free The Prince of a Cheated House, only he knows where I am being held.”
“But what about your power? You gave it up?”
“My power is only fueled by my people. I understand that. It was not mine to give up, and now it grows.”
“I am Unity?”
“Yes.”
“What does it mean?”
“It is on your shoulders to unite Mandrake, as it is on Alexa’s to help The Thief.”
“But who can I trust?”
Poleyna smiled down on him. “Yourself,” she whispered, and faded.
Lincoln blinked and opened his eyes. His head pounded, but he swung his legs off the stone bed and sat, rubbing his eyes. Tiredness washed over him in waves. Unity? He thought. What the hell? Standing, he felt unsteady, his legs nearly giving way. Reaching out, he grabbed at one of the alcoves, holding himself upright while he recovered.
“What the hell?” he finally spilled the words as he saw a bracelet sitting on the alcove’s shelf. It was no more than a silver band with two dragon’s heads biting at a ring, a heavy chain for their tails. No sooner had he seen it, the band vanished, but he felt it clamp around his upper arm. He felt its power, its fortitude surge through him.
“Unity,” he muttered, holding the alcove to stop himself falling.
His heart pounded, his head thumped, but resolve coursed through him, and so he forced himself to stand taller, gasped in great breaths, and walked out of the chamber, through the other and back into the night.
Scrambling down the hillock, he walked along the road, the red bloom from the shaft guiding him in the pitch black. Halfway along, a thought struck him. Its possibilities hurtled through his mind, and he fell to his knees as his thoughts scrambled to confusion again.
“No!” he cried. “No it can’t be.” But he still kept coming to the same dread conclusion. “She said my people,” he cried. “My power is only as strong as my people!”
He fell to the ground. It couldn’t be true, yet her words spoke volumes. His shoulders shook, a mix of rage and helplessness coursing through him. He saw her face swirling around, heard her words over and over.
What the hell is this game about?
He sensed someone close, and looked to see Flip’s boots right by his face.
“Did she muddle your mind?”
With tears still streaming down his face, Lincoln looked up at the prince.
“Yes.”
Flip grinned. “But you really understand, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must know we need to wake this castle.”
Lincoln was in turmoil. Fear: he felt true fear for the first time in his life. It was the fear of the helpless—the type of fear that paralyzed.
“Yes,” his words spilled, barely a whisper. “She said is. Her people live?”
Flip yanked him up, pulling him close and putting his arm around his shoulder.
“You best hope so—you’re one of them.”
Lincoln took Flip’s revelation in his stride, which would have been fine if his stride hadn’t resembled a drunken man’s. He was putting two and two together in his mind and coming up with a scattering of answers ranging from the plain ridiculous to the relatively acceptable.
For his own sanity, he had to discount that it had anything to do with…life outside the game, but the parallels were beginning to stack up that way. As he began to calm and focus, he came to the only conclusion he could. He couldn’t sway what was going on outside of the game, no matter how bad it was. All he could do was play and pray it made some difference.
It was clear that Poleyna was in charge, albeit also out of the game to some degree. It was also clear what path she wanted him to take, and that was certainly not one of peace and seclusion.
“Will you come to Brokenford with me?” he suddenly asked Flip.
“Alas, no. My sole task with you is to help you wake this place and take you to another. After that, you won’t need my meddling.”
“Won’t?”
Flip’s laughter rang out. “You’re still doubting, aren’t you? Won’t—you won’t need me, Lincoln Hart, your way will be clear, your purpose plain—provided we prevail, that is.”
“So, what will you do?”
Flip grunted, pulling Lincoln closer. “You’re a good man, Lincoln Hart, a good, good man. Others have to be persuaded. The Assassin of Petreyer is within the Forest of Ledges—my time is short to make that intervention, yet make it I must.”
They came to the bridge that crossed the river. The stone plug was half in, half out of its buffeting water, the ramp part collapsed into its angry swirl. Lincoln paused; he wanted to ask Flip so much, ask him who he was, who he truly was, but found that he couldn’t. Flip just seemed to discourage questions without saying a word.
“Shall we?” Flip said, offering his hand out. “I believe you were about to divine before you took off on your jaunt.”
Lincoln looked over at the shaft. His companions were all waiting: Jin, Swift, Griselda, Swift, Crags, and Belzarra. “Seven,” he muttered. No coincidence there!
“About time,” Cronis grumbled, ale in hand, a slight stagger to his step.
13
Into Starellion
They’d made up a simple pulley system that dangled a rope close to the shaft’s side, positioned directly over the sole chamber that Lincoln had detected with his divination skill. As far as he could tell, it was a small length of corridor that led to a tube —he imagined that was a staircase of some sort, but couldn’t see it too clearly.
The red glow served to hinder them from peering too deeply into the shaft. They could see over its unearthed parapet, but not very deeply in, and the lashed bundle of trunks prevented them peering through the chiseled holes. Lincoln had decided to leave what was basically now a crossbeam in place. If worse came to worst, he could rig up a simple wheel, make a basket to hold all eight of them, and lower them down—though that was a path he didn’t want to chance. As far as he knew, he was the only one in the group who could bounce back from death.
As far as I know…
Lincoln tied the rope around him, grateful for what rope law he had, and readied himself to dangle helplessly over the shaft, which vanished into the cloud of ominous red light.
Madness!
He had his faith, of course, and that faith was now firmly placed with Poleyna, however, as his faith had only been recently established; he double-checked the knot and then triple-checked it. Standing on the parapet, he asked for the slack to be taken up and then swung out, feeling instantly helpless.
The light’s meniscus bowed in, almost appearing to reject Lincoln’s body. It then began to fold around him until he was shrouded in its brilliance. It felt alive, eager, excited. Chatter, Lincoln thought he could hear it chatter, babble, telling him how long it had been waiting for this time.
Who are you? Lincoln asked, but inside his mind,
understanding words weren’t needed.
Warrior, it replied.
What do you want from me?
Nothing…Unity calls you, but her call can’t be heard until mine is silenced.
Lincoln realized he had his eyes clamped shut. Opening them, he waited while they became used to Warrior’s glow, and he began to see the intricacies of the shaft itself. The presence within the shaft withdrew from him. Lincoln sensed it wanted to give him time to adjust. He marveled at what he saw.
It wasn’t carved rock, but sculpted, a vast work of art, not mere masonry, but the stuff of gods. Lincoln reached out, his nerves alive, and his mouth gaping in wonder. Touching its moldings and scotias, sweeping his fingertips over intricate panels, all became clear, ribbands, laurels and foliages etched cleanly into the stone, telling a story he couldn’t comprehend. Lincoln mourned the loss of even the smallest parts—the sections they themselves had destroyed to in order to slide the vast crossbeam in place—but he couldn’t tear his eyes from its remaining beauty.
The rope dropped him farther, strong arms above not understanding his need to hold and take in everything. The ornamental carving sagged around an apex, ranks of archivolts telling Lincoln that he had found the corridor. He reluctantly called for them to lower him another foot or two, then two more, and he came level with a carved, wooden door, partly recessed within the arch. He saw Darwainic’s effigy staring out, but just his head, altered, evil, like a gargoyle, protruding from the door. Lincoln recoiled from it at first, but then tested the door, only to find it firmly shut. He tried to gain purchase on the small ledge, but the hang of the rope kept swinging him away.
