Torchlight

by Theresa Dahlheim

  “It seems to, but it also splits and goes north.”

  “There’s another suite right next to this one that also overlooks the Wet Walk,” Adlai said. “I bet this tunnel goes there, and then that north branch goes toward Mother and Father’s suite and the nursery.”

  “And the two other rooms,” Darcius said. “One was Sorceress Khisrathi’s.”

  Graegor hadn’t actually put it together in his mind that Sorceress Khisrathi had lived here. It was obvious in retrospect—she’d been a princess, the granddaughter of a king. Where else would a Torchanes sorceress stay when she was in Chrenste but in the castle, in the royal apartments with her family?

  “I want to find that one,” he said. It seemed important, and he thought maybe it was because he was still trying to make these moments of strangeness less potent. Maybe if he sat where she had sat when she had started this spell ...

  Darcius and Adlai were looking up at him, their excitement at this adventure not the least diminished, their only frustration the obvious one—that they couldn’t go into the tunnels themselves. “It’s probably a little way down,” Adlai said. “There’s this room, then the other one, and then a corridor before you get to her room. We passed it on the way to ours.”

  “Why don’t you meet me there?”

  “We’re already gone!” Darcius shouted, and they disappeared.

  Graegor picked up the candle and the quarterstaff and straightened. He extended the candle down the east-going passage first, but there wasn’t anything to see; if there was another trapdoor down there—maybe leading to the suite Adlai had said was right next to this one—it was beyond his light. He turned and stepped into the north-going passage, and again, the candlelight showed little.

  After a few tentative steps, he felt confident enough to move faster, which is how he nearly fell into a pit. At the last second he caught himself against the walls, and his staff clattered and his candle nearly snuffed out as his feet scrambled back from the end of the floor. His heart pounding, he stared at the gaping hole for a long time before seeing the ladder bolted to the wall.

  The ladder was iron, and a little rusty. He crouched at the edge of the shaft and lowered the candle, but he couldn’t see the bottom rungs. It seemed to descend more than one level. He decided that he’d go down the ladder after he found Khisrathi’s room. Maybe. It depended on how good Darcius and Adlai’s sense of direction was, and if they could keep track of him as he burrowed deeper into the castle.

  Why are you worried? Sorcerers don’t get lost.

  But there could still be something in here ... though he didn’t know what ...

  He stood up and leaped quickly across the opening to head off that line of thought. Within a few more steps he reached another trapdoor. This one was on the left-hand wall and seemed bigger than the others. The Godcircle was marked larger, and although none of it had been rubbed out, it did not look as dark. He decided that this must lead to the king and queen’s chamber—it was large, it was close to the ladder down to the other levels, and the princes had speculated that their parents’ suite would be one of those accessed from this passage.

  Because he wasn’t about to invade the king and queen’s privacy, Graegor kept going down the tunnel. Another crawl space like the first one confronted him, but it wasn’t as long from one end to the other, and it continued straight ahead instead of turning. He got through it without much difficulty and stood up on the other side.

  He lifted the candle and extended it forward, but there were no passages branching from this one for at least several paces. He tapped his staff on the floor in front of his feet to warn himself about any more shafts ahead.

  It was utterly silent, dusty and dead. With his cautious steps, he tried to extend his senses, to feel some measure of the earth magic and the Torchanes power that had forged this place. It wasn’t so faint now, and it seemed ... layered, like coats of varnish over wood, slightly different shades of purple blending together ...

  He stopped suddenly at a darkness at the floor, but quickly realized that it wasn’t another shaft. The shape was irregular, like a stain, and it extended partway up the wall to his right. When he crouched to look at it, he saw the square outline of another trapdoor, again marked with a Godcircle. The stain on the floor and wall was the same color as the mark on the trapdoor.

  A Carhlaan had died right here—smeared into the stone by the bloodspell ...

  For a bad moment he thought he was going to be sick. He shut his eyes, the quarterstaff clenched in his right hand and the candle trembling in his left. She was protecting her family—my family—when she did it. She didn’t want to kill anyone.

  But how did he know that? How did he know that the story he’d heard since childhood was true—that Sorceress Khisrathi had intended to cast the spell before the Carhlaans even reached the castle? What if, knowing what her spell would do to them, she had waited until they were inside the tunnels? Other Torchanes in other stories were ruthless and cruel. Why not her? Why not Breon? Why not all of them?

  He took a deep breath; he had to stop scaring himself. This was supposed to be fun, sneaking through secret tunnels in an ancient keep. Darcius and Adlai were waiting for him on the other side of Khisrathi’s trapdoor—this trapdoor, he felt certain. His worries about the motives of his long-dead ancestors could wait.

  Lord Contare would know more. He would talk to Lord Contare about it.

  That idea steadied him. He opened his eyes and looked past the stained floor and wall to the trapdoor itself. He could not see a lever, so he stepped over the stain to get to the other side of the trapdoor and inspect the wall there. Above this trapdoor, as above the one in Adlai’s room, was the outline of what had been another trapdoor leading to what had once been the fifth level. He still couldn’t find a lever for the lower trapdoor, though. He set down his quarterstaff and ran his hand over the stones, feeling for any break or irregularity that the candle was too weak to reveal.

  There—just the width of his hand, a slight protrusion. When he brought the candle right up to it, he could see faint lines that were the same shape and size—and relative location—of the other two levers he had pushed. He didn’t know if this one had been broken off or was deliberately recessed.

  Graegor dug his fingers into the break between the top of the lever and the wall and tried to push it down, but his hand kept slipping. After several attempts, he sat back on his heels and considered the problem. Could he use his quarterstaff for leverage? He suspected that it wouldn’t be able to get any more purchase on the wall than his fingers had, but he attempted to angle the staff against the lever anyway, just to make sure. In the close confines of the passageway it was nearly impossible to get the top of the staff where he wanted it, so he set it down and looked at the wall again. Maybe a chain or a belt? Something strong that he could loop over the top? Unfortunately, the belt he was wearing was quite necessary to hold his trousers up.

  Maybe this was easier than he was making it. Maybe the magic embedded in these stones would answer him if he called to it.

  Graegor thought about that. The spell had let him pass because of his Torchanes blood, so perhaps the spell would recognize his magic as well. He could use it to open Khisrathi’s door.

  Lord Contare had warned him to be careful. He had said that the magic could react to Graegor in an unpredictable way.

  Unpredictable. Tearing a fissure in the ground, pulling down a cloister wall ...

  But this was different. He wasn’t running for his life, he wasn’t trapped in a corner, he wasn’t confused and frightened. He knew what the fierce racing of his blood meant now, and if it started again, he could stop, step back, breathe. He had already used his power today when he had stretched his vision; if he did the same thing, taking it slowly and carefully, and paying very close attention ...

  It didn’t seem hard. Just push out on the bottom half of the square and make it swing out on its middle pivot point. Push with his mind instead of his hands. />
  Placing the candle on the floor beside the quarterstaff, he settled himself cross-legged in front of the trapdoor. He laid his hands on the stone to either side of the Godcircle painted there in Torchanes blood. Just to make sure he wasn’t missing the obvious, he did push with his hands, but the square of stone was solidly shut.

  He took several deep breaths, relaxing more with each one, until his eyes fluttered closed. Holy Lord Abban, bless me with Your wisdom and Your strength. Help me to open this door.

  Open this door.

  He could see the white mist again, lifting around him, purple at its edges, purple in his core. Was it working? ... He tried narrowing his thought, focusing it down his arms and through his hands. His palms tingled, like when he had first passed through the barrier. It was working. It was working.

  Open this door. Open this door. Open this door.

  The mist flooded into his mind, spinning and darkening into a funnel. The tingling in his hands became a burning, a fire that spread up his arms and into his chest. His heartbeat doubled—his throat suddenly felt dry as sand—

  No—wait—stop—

  Light pierced his skull, white—then purple—a horrible sound exploded in his ears—he covered them with his hands while hideous pain wrapped around his head—

  He thought he heard his name as a desperate shout. He thought he smelled old dust kicked up by hurling winds. He thought he was reaching, his mind stretching, flying back the way he had come and at the same time racing forward, igniting every trapdoor into a blaze as hot as lightning. The stones shrieked—it hurt—

  Down—he was dropping down the shaft, the rungs of the ladder a blur of glowing iron past his sight. Another trapdoor, another Godcircle—and a blaze of violet fire so powerful the wall crumpled. The screams now came from people, because the stone trapdoors didn’t have time to scream before they burst apart. More—down—climbing up again while dropping down again—more trapdoors, more flames, white as they bloomed and purple as they died.

  “Graegor!”

  He could not answer. He could not think. The magic carried him as it spun Khisrathi’s web anew, growing hotter and stronger as it flashed through tunnel after tunnel, brighter and brighter like the rising sun, blinding him, searing him—he was coming apart—he was coming apart—

  Light tore the castle’s bones, bore into the hill, melted an iron door into slag. So fast—so fast—a split—splitting in two—north—south—racing to the end, screaming to the sky, up and up and up—until earth and water erupted into fire and storm.

  Purple thunder and white lightning transfixed him from the soles of his feet to the ends of his fingers to the top of his head. His breath stopped. His heart stopped. A thousand needles were piercing his skin. The blood was boiling in his veins. Spinning but not moving, torn open but bound tight, he clung to the shout of his own name, over and over and over, until the wind ripped it away.

  Then darkness, and nothing.

  Stars stretched to infinity, and he was made of their light. Seeing, and feeling, the furnace heat of them, and the absolute cold between them, he breathed the magic of the universe.

  You shall see the face of God and live.

  Live. He was alive.

  The earth was his body, and the waters of the sea swirled through him, pushing him, waking him. Everything was moving, water over water, water over rock, rock over rock, hurricane mirroring earthquake. The curve of the half moon threw thin violet beams through the racing clouds to fall across the four square towers of the ancient stronghold.

  He was the beating heart, the living blood, of the castle that had waited centuries for him, that now knew him as its builder and welcomed him home.

  Home. You are home.

  From the crown of the city’s high hill a hundred thousand lights cascaded to the sea, a twinkling net of earthbound stars reaching up to forever. Each light was a lamp aloft, a warm fire banked ... but more than that ... each light was each person who had built each fire, the people were the lights, the flickering strength against the rain and wind. They were the power to hold back the vast, patient darkness ...

  Vistas of stars and lives lay before him, every light its own color, unimagined variations that shaded red into yellow into blue into purple into white, so many tones of white—symphonies of white. No two alike, in sky or city, above or below. He was made of their light, of their warmth; he drew all into himself, could feel heat rising from the earth to radiate through him; he was their hearthfire. He was home.

  Light, warmth, home. Magic.

  He felt he hadn’t even truly believed in magic before now. So many paths lay before him that they weren’t paths at all, but an ocean of possibilities and miracles.

  He was limitless.

  The whisper of the stars drew him, and the God of the universe touched his eyes.

  He awoke into the warring sensations of suffused happiness and aching exhaustion. Cold rock against his cheek and forehead told him he was lying on his stomach in the tunnel. A few blinks told him that the faint light was real. For a long time he thought the stars had reached inside the castle; but gradually he realized it was Khisrathi’s spell, that it was thicker and stronger now, no longer at the edge of sight but bright enough to see by.

  Moving was hard. He stretched his hands, and one brushed the wall while the other cramped since it was pinned under his chest. He pushed against the stone and managed to get his legs untangled and his knees under him. His quarterstaff lay alongside him, and as his hand closed over it, the memory of the warmth of the lights sent a rush of strength through his body.

  Lifting his head, he saw the trapdoor, and it was open. Like the others, it was turned on a horizontal bar, but rather than darkness, he could see a sheet of white that was the spell.

  He could hear something. Murmurs ... from the room beyond? He had no idea how long he had been here, how long his ... his spirit ... had been somewhere else.

  Then he remembered the purple fire racing through the castle, stones bursting apart, lightning and pain. What had happened? Had it been real?

  Had he hurt anyone? Had any of those lights gone out?

  He stretched his hand. The barrier didn’t tingle as he extended his arm through it now—it was like warm water penetrating his strengthless muscles, almost pleasant. He thought he heard something else, another voice, but he wasn’t sure.

  If he tried to slide out headfirst he would fall. Moving very slowly, he angled the quarterstaff through the lower opening. Almost its full length through, it hit something and stopped. Gripping it in both hands for leverage, he shuffled his knees around until he could get his boots through and lower himself down.

  He nearly fell anyway. His staff clattered, and his knees collapsed, and his feet tangled in a piled-up tapestry. He pressed himself against the wall, breathing hard.

  Lamplight and dust were his first impressions of the room, as his face lay on the stone wall. He sensed people behind him. He still held the quarterstaff, and he leaned on it heavily as he turned around. None of the wide-eyed faces seemed familiar at first, but then someone else ran into the room—Adlai, with soot on his chin. Then one of the faces in front of Graegor resolved into Darcius, who had a welt over his eye, and who finally broke the frozen silence: “Are you all right?”

  Graegor nodded once, then blacked out.

  He was lying down, in softness and warmth. It was hard to open his eyes. But there was light ... faint, from his left.

  A lamp shone warm and golden on a table next to the bed. The bed was large, with a deep purple canopy, drawn open on all sides to let in the night air from the window on the other end of the room. He saw movement near the lamp, but before his surprise could become action, a person stood up from a chair. It was a lady—actually, it was the queen.

  She smiled gently at him as he tried to sit up, and he felt relief that whoever had put him to bed had removed only his boots and overtunic. She picked up a glass half-full of water, and he accepted it gratefully when he re
alized his throat was so dry he couldn’t speak. She took back the glass as he let his head drop to the pillow again, surprised at the effort it had taken to hold it up. “Thank you, your Majesty.”

  The back of her hand was cool as she touched it briefly to his forehead, and her slim fingers found the pulse in his wrist. “You seem all right.”

  Apparently there had been some doubt about that. “What happened, ma’am?”

  Her face was very serious. “We were hoping you could tell us.”

  “I—I was trying to open a door ...” He turned his head toward the other corner of the room, and saw the open trapdoor near the ceiling, and the white glow of the bloodspell. “That door ... is this Khisrathi’s room?”

  “It was hers. Now I think it’s yours.”

  Graegor thought so too. The sense of home he’d felt before was still with him. “At least I got it open.”

  “They’re all open.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “All the trapdoors opened, and now they won’t close.”

  Why ... ? “Ma’am, where’s Lord Contare?”

  “He’s with the king, inspecting the damage in some of the rooms.” She said it in that way mothers have when choosing words carefully, withholding information from the children without actually lying.

  Damage. If it was his own mother telling him this, he would know how bad it was just from how she spoke that one word. “I’m sorry, ma’am ...”

  “We’re just glad you’re safe and whole. Lord Contare wanted someone to stay with you to make sure you didn’t become feverish.”

  “He was here?”

  “Yes.” She pulled the chair out from the wall and sat. “You should sleep more. You still look pale. I’m sorry my sons were so set on you going into the tunnels.”

  “No, ma’am, it’s—I was set on it too. I’m sorry if anything got broken ...”