by Greg James
Sarah did not know how long she pursued the old man through the night-storm. There was nothing living in this place, nothing familiar, no people. The only sounds other than those of the storm were lost, distant, and fleeting.
Then it came looming out of the dark: an immense edifice soaring up, up and up, out of sight. A defiant finger carved from the blackest doom, its state was dreadful, cracked and crumbling by ages spent weathering the extremes of high heat and deep cold that plagued this place. It seemed hollow, empty, and abandoned to Sarah’s eyes. A chrysalis of old stone. The man was waiting for her by one of the holes that led into the structure. The pearls of his eyes were bright and white, shining the way for her from within his sallow face.
"Here. Inside is something more. I offer you this chance, are you sure you want to take it?"
Sarah was stilled by his words.
“You may still walk from here,” he said. “Go back to the world you came from. Return to life as you knew it.”
"No. I have to do this."
"Very well. Through this doorway is the way. You will know it. You will find it and then it will find you, and you will know something more."
Sarah stood there for a time, her eyes staring into his. She felt as though she should say something, thank him, show camaraderie, acknowledge him somehow, but she did not know how to. He merely nodded, as if he understood her confusion, and turned away into the fell storm that was still blowing around them. Sarah watched him go. Soon enough, he was consumed by the tempest, but as she turned to step into the doorway, she could not help but feel a pang of something: a moment of perception that hurt as it was translated into emotion. She was sure she had seen his body crumple in on itself and fall to the ground, seen something thin and sinuous, with a boneless shadow for a skull, escape to dance with its white-eyed fellows.
Never mind, she thought, I am here now. I’d better get on with it.
The doorway before her lacked a door, but the darkness within felt tangible and smelled both dry and very old. This was not a safe place. Sarah was afraid. Afraid but determined. She had accepted the man and his offering of something more. She did not want to go back; that would lead only to failure and despair. The eyes of the man, pearls of snow, hard as ice, reminded her of that. There was strength in the bargain she had made, and there was no room for reneging on the deal now.
The threshold into the building was marked by a clear line. On one side was dark, dirty snow; on the other, an absolute density of darkness. Once she set foot in it, it would consume her as readily as the storm had consumed the man. Her feet suddenly felt the cold more bitterly than ever, and she paused, uncertain. She turned herself around and about, to see if she was being watched.
She was—by the storm. Whatever was there within it was watching her with white eyes that fell from far up in the deep dark. Watching her and waiting for her to do as she had said she would. Go inside, into the darkness, and search for something more.
Sarah turned away from the storm and went inside.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was dark inside, so dark for a long time, and she stood there, waiting, until she could see. She had done as she had agreed: she had gone inside. She had crossed the threshold, not knowing what to expect. Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the gloom, and she saw that she was in a chamber stripped bare of furnishings, with stairs at the far end. Sarah moved towards the stairs, wondering what could be waiting for her in this grim interior.
She was alone and very far from home, and she felt lonely as she climbed the stairs, up and up, unsure what she was going up and up towards.
Something more was all that she could hope for.
She could feel the emptiness of the structure as she ascended, how it clung to the shadows and stains on its walls because there was nothing more tangible left for it t to cling to. There was nothing of substance to embrace here. It was no wonder the darkness here bore down on her with such weight. In some ways, she felt she was descending as much as she was ascending. Pressure seemed to build in the air; not the kind that comes with great heights or dizzying extremes, but the kind born of inescapable depths and the abyss.
Sarah remembered the old man’s face: the fissures, furrows, depressions and cracks, all worn into ageing matter. All deep. All dark. All forbidding.
Her fingers wound hard around the corroded banister, making the material creak and then sigh. Each step she took was hard and firm, cracking loud on the stone steps. It was a sound made to say that she was here, to separate her from the dead weight that was descending towards her even as she was ascending towards it.
~ ~ ~
Sarah grew tired.
Lights and voices played across the walls of the structure, writhing, flickering and reverberating. She passed doors as she climbed the stairs—all shut, keeping darkness in, keeping darkness out. A thin thread of blood began to run from her nose. The pressure was building. Dim colours were marbling her vision, and the air was becoming thick, making her mouth and throat sting. She was in need of a rest from the climb, from the steep, ascending descent, and here was a door that did not look secure.
Sanctuary. For a time.
She was growing so tired. Her legs and lower back were laced with aches and agonies. When she looked down, she saw the angular spiral of half the building's height descending below her into oblivion. She had come so far, and she was feeling it. She went to the door.
I could open it, go in and find some space to sleep, or just lie down for a while.
She took the handle in her hands, but did not yet turn it.
All of the doors were closed here. Places abandoned were never so consistent. It had to mean something. She thought of a brain, of synapses and then the place she was in. The doors were all closed. The synapses cut off. All thoughts and feelings were trapped inside, made prisoner. Open the door, and you open all the doors. You release what is inside, trapped and screaming. Her hands trembled on the handle. They still did not turn it. Keeping darkness out, keeping darkness in.
What would happen if I let whatever was out in and in out?
Blood streamed from her nostrils now. It spattered wetly on the ground. Darkness upon darkness, be the sign and set the darkness free. Somewhere, far below, she thought that she heard a door crash open. Then, there was silence. She removed her hand from the handle. She continued to climb, sure she was no longer alone on the stairs.
The crash of the door opening below resounded through the hollows of her skull ceaselessly. She could feel a fresh tension in her muscles, which was temporarily invigorating, but she knew that it would lead to her body tiring even more, even sooner.
She tried sprinting up the stairs, floor after floor, the dull walls blurring in her peripheral vision. But she was sure something was matching itself with the harsh echoes of her footsteps, hiding in the silence between. Its swift, creeping progress was concealed by the clamour of her ascent. She was caught between that which was pursuing her and that which was waiting for her.
Sarah felt the weight of exhaustion settle about her shoulders, weighing her down. Blood flowed freely from her nose, and her ears sang and burst, as if she were at an impossibly high altitude. She could feel her brain aching and pounding in time with her heart, and she reached up to wipe away the sweat that was stinging her eyes.
She had to stop now, open one of the doors, go inside, shelter, and rest. Whatever was inside, she was not sure how much she cared at that point. Something more had become the least of her concerns. She was alone and not alone. She was far from home, and she could taste lifeblood on her tongue and at the back of my throat. What was coming for her in this place would come, but she would no longer rush to meet it.
~ ~ ~
Inside the door, it was dark. She stood there for a long time, waiting to be see, just as she had done downstairs. Reverberations, echoes, colours, and voices—this dead place was alive with such things. It spoke to her in the language of ghosts. Nothing lived here, but there was more to this
than a haunting, more than something dead stirring itself into wakefulness.
This is for me: this place, this building, the man in the storm.
Everything was turning around her and whatever confrontation she was coming to, or which was coming to meet her. There was no presence here because this was a place of absence, and it was drawing her deeper into its heart.
Sarah could no more trace the thread of her life truly than the next person, but she knew there was something here for her, something more, which was why she didn't run screaming down the stairs, or even throw myself down them in despair.
I am no traitor to myself, she thought, my enemy is no dark prisoner within.
She sat down in the darkness.
She waited.
~ ~ ~
Sarah slept and had dreams, although she should neither have slept nor dreamt in this place beyond death. She dreamed of wind biting viciously at her cheeks and nose as she trudged and crunched through heavy snow. The structures surrounding her were beautiful, frozen and bright as rainbows, blazing fierce and cold against a night sky.
In this kingdom of cold, she saw monuments from the world she was born in, all fashioned from coloured ice—sapphire, emerald, amethyst, and carmine. It was beautiful, but it was frightening too. The Buddhas she passed wore smiles that were too long, too wide, and too thin. The frozen marbles of their eyes were clumps of death nestling in skulls. They were surrounded by the cold, the dark, the whiteness of the snow, and the emptiness left behind by people. Tracks caterpillared all around her. It all created a surge of feeling that made Sarah want to run and scream. But she did not run and scream. She kept on walking. She was here for something, something she could not name, but she would know it when she saw it.
She came to a hallway of black ice. The sound of her boots sent gunshots back and forth as she stepped inside. The ice of the hall was as smooth as glass and as polished as the finest mirrors. It reflected her face back to her. The echoes of her eyes matched the echoes in her ears as she walked on. Cold ghosts—their outlines crustily pale, overlapping, blurring white, lit from within by the coloured ice—were buried inside the structure.
Sarah saw herself as an indigo princess, a jaundiced beggar-girl, an azure child-concubine, and a roseate soldier. So many lives, reflections and aspects, all with her face. Some smiling, others sombre, some at peace, a few at ease. In the winter pearls of their eyes, Sarah saw a glimmer of something.
Something more.
Something more was here.
And then, all of the people in the ice-mirrors smiled as they recognised her and she them. Sarah stroked fingertips over their faces. They had all fought for their lives and the lives of those around them. Some had their lives taken from them, other survived, but they all fought on and on. No matter what.
Nothing else matters.
~ ~ ~
It was quiet when Sarah was done sleeping and dreaming. The chamber she was in had become clearer but no brighter. Loose, soiled shapes fluttered and scampered away from the sounds she made.
She could hear footsteps.
She waited, listened, and prayed. The footsteps came to an end. They were nothing to be afraid of. It was just the sound of debris settling in this place, that was all. Something had been disturbed. Nothing to worry about.
Sarah wiped the sleep from her eyes and got to her feet.
The footsteps began again. Light, soft echoes that paced back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, impatient, not waiting, gathering temper, stalking closer.
It was stalking her.
More stairs were ahead of her. She began the task of climbing them. She was tired, but she kept moving. This high up, time and decay had eaten away the banisters to little more than threads and fraying tapers. The footsteps kept on going, kept on coming, kept on going. Pacing, pacing, pacing, relentlessly pacing upstairs and downstairs. Their numerous echoes assaulted Sarah, making her feel dizzy and sick.
The alien weight of the structure was trying to conquer her.
Blood ran from her nose in a heavy stream. She had come so far to see something more, to feel it, to experience it, to understand it, but there was so much punishment in it for her. The footsteps were moving quickly, so quickly, so very quickly. Back-forth, back-forth, back-forth, upstairs, downstairs, up, down, up. The desperate rhythm came at her from all directions. Anger seeking release. Passion that wanted some crescendo. Something more. Were they coming to meet her, those ferocious feet? Did they belong to another girl who had come here, who slept in one of the chambers and saw who she had been, was, and would be? Would this other girl still be here, walking and waiting endlessly, when Sarah was long gone? Would she be waiting for Sarah at the top of the stairs? Was the other girl herself? Were these the damned sounds of Sarah’s future here, alone, lost in the dark?
Fearful thoughts pushed through Sarah without number and without end, but still she continued to climb, clamber, and pull herself up the stairs. She kept going, on and on. She had to. For herself. For Seythe. For Highmount. For Jedda.
For Kiley!
It was then that the footsteps stopped.
They had become one with Sarah’s own, and she had stopped.
She was there—standing at the top of the stairs.
She looked back down and saw how far she had climbed. Vertigo pulled at her, and the hollow pit before her became a hungry mouth in her vision. With a wrench, she struggled free of the fall that had been building inside her.
Someone was there with her.
Someone smiling.
Sarah felt a great shivering growing inside her chest, so great that she hoped she could bear it. She could feel she was letting go of something, saying goodbye. Some part of her had to be left behind as payment to this place for what it was about to give her. Something must be lost in order for her to see and feel something more.
The young woman who had haunted Sarah’s dreams came toward her—the ghost of A’aron. She had a face of fire, which Sarah had not seen in her dreams of ice and past-future lives. She could see A’aron’s hands were aflame and reaching for her. Then, they were going inside her, touching her heart.
How profoundly it hurt.
Become the sign and set the darkness free!
Sarah could see the fiery pearls of A’aron’s eyes; how they danced with shivers and shadows. Sarah could see the heart of winter and taste the sun’s fire. It was all gathering inside her now. The emptiness was overflowing with soul-knowledge and deep understanding of the Flame. The bones of reality were bared to her. The enduring fire that rages through every life was there, illuminating everything. Sarah saw how we are fleeting but constant also. Though we die, we endure. Though we face defeat, we dream of victory.
Always, we are there, seeking and praying for something more.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jedda could see the armies of the Fallen One gathering now, mirroring the icy storm clouds that raged across the skies. They were taking their time. Their purpose was to intimidate the people of Highmount; to see the hordes massing north and south of the gates served to remind them there was no escape from their fate. E’blis meant to crush them, as surely as one might crush an ant between thumb and forefinger. A decisive victory. A terrible end. Those who continued to resist the Fallen One would lose their resolve afterwards. They would surrender and be slain.
There was still no sign of Sarah or the Kay’lo. Jedda had decided that she must look to the resources she had. Without the help of others at hand, they would have to help themselves; although she still hoped the Kay’lo would come to their aid.
Jedda headed to the Healing Room for the ritual she had prepared with the help of the Herb-Sisters. The time had come to try to break the Mind-Reavers’ spell, to bring Mistress Ruth, Ianna and Venna back.
~ ~ ~
The chamber was well appointed with a double bed, table, and chairs. The breathing bodies of Mistress Ruth, Venna and Ianna lay on the bed. Jedda stood in the shadows, watching over
them as the Herb-Sisters prepared for the great work before them. Undoing the magic of Mind-Reavers was no small task to be undertaken, but Jedda needed Venna, Ianna and Mistress Ruth. She needed all of the help and hope she could get. The light in the chamber was dim. The only illumination came from a handful of oil lamps, turned down as low as could be. From an ornate casket, the Herb-Sisters raised the means of working their magic. It was a body with eyes that were startlingly feline and shone like emeralds. The torso had walnut skin drawn tight over its fragile bones and uneven teeth nestled within the receding pucker that would have been full, fleshy lips in life. Nuggets of browned gristle glistened in sockets beneath a torn brow that showed patches of darkly crystalline skull beneath. A curious odour hung in the room: a mixture of balsamic resin and incense.
“My Princess, we mean to not only speak with them but bring their souls back to us."
Jedda asked what was the purpose of the body laid out at the foot of the bed.
"That is Ahmen-Ra, the first of our Order. She will speak with their souls and draw them back to us from the Fallen One."
“Is she still alive?”
“No, but her essence remains in her preserved form. She has slept in the vaults beneath Highmount for many years. A secret to those outside the Order, but not to us. Now, come, it is time we began.”