It is so quiet here that my footsteps echo through the vestibule. I glance cautiously at each panel that I pass, as part of me expects something to emerge from them. They are strikingly similar to the gateway barriers of Eschatian waystations.
And then I realize that I am the First.
No, the Second. Cassima was probably here at some point, too. Maybe even Mia. So at the very least, I am Third.
Third, being a person of conscious sentience walking these halls—as they are in the physical realm (more or less), able to both mull over and marvel at the significance of their surroundings. I feel honored and terrified.
The walls become two series of pillars as the hallway opens into a circular plateau; a veranda overlooking a sprawling city of metal and stone. Buttresses, domes, strange towers on which shiny orbs balance atop, a rose sky without clouds. Seeing all of this causes a logical computing issue with me. Again, I am thrown. The architecture is foreign, certainly not anything from my memory. Puzzling still, even though the city looks well-maintained, it is completely vacant.
Whatever determination I have managed to scrounge deflates the moment I acknowledge the breadth of the city that I must traverse, with no real indication of where I must go. It might take years, eons—one could go mad while on this trek. Perhaps that’s the point.
In a desperate thought of my futility, I think of calling Ikhtar. My lips press tightly together, stopping myself. He—or It, or whatever the Cosmos that thing is—isn’t here to help me. The opposite, if anything. Instead, I resolve to continue through the pillar-lined halls alone. I’ll at least go mad on my own terms.
Further along, I wander into a gallery. The walls are covered in pictographic art of varying mediums. Many of the ones I glance over depict apocalyptic scenarios—plagues, disasters, giant monsters devouring cities (?). Others present tranquil scenes of forest paths and…
My thoughts trail off and I freeze in front of one particular painting, its design so lifelike that I hold my breath to see if anything stirs. A cloaked man sits with his back to me, at what looks very much like a wayfarer hearth. He is hunched over, hugging his torso. I can see the faintest traces of dark hair slipping from his hood. There is nothing else especially formidable about the painting, but it nonetheless causes a shiver down my spine. I continue to stare, trying to understand the reason for my sudden unease. As far as I can tell, there is none.
I move on.
This place (temple, palace, fortress?) is like a labyrinth. Hallways connect to rooms, which connect to other rooms, which then connect to even more hallways. The daunting city-scape beyond the labyrinth is only a façade. Whatever I am supposed to find is concealed within these walls alone. And such a conclusion isn’t nearly as relieving as one would think.
For one, I am fairly certain that I’ve made about three circles. Each different route I take inevitably places me back at the gallery. I case the art, the walls, the décor, anything I can think of that might offer a clue. It is evident this room is particularly important, but I still can’t find anything obvious.
Frustration leaks from my pores like sweat upon the fourth return to the gallery. An ache is forming at my temples from clenching my jaw. I am beginning to lose my ability to think rationally; belligerence sacks all critical thinking. Impatience reigns.
I take the closest painting off the wall and hurl it across the room. The thunderous sound of it hitting the floor startles me, snapping me awake. I stare at the piece of art lying face-down on the floor in a mixture of confusion and surprise from having done such a thing.
A sensation of being watched tickles the back of my neck. I survey the room.
Nothing.
Wait, not nothing.
I take a few steps toward the painting of the wayfarer hearth, tilting my head in awe. The hooded figure is gone. The hearth is cold, and the celestial sky is black. Barren, empty, far more sinister in feeling.
This frightens me and I retreat, keeping my eyes on the painting until fully vacating the gallery. The staccato of my heart leaves me lightheaded momentarily and I stop to catch my breath, leaning against the vestibule wall with my eyes closed, praying to the Cosmos that any second I’ll wake up.
What’s beyond the trials?
You’re so close to knowing.
So close.
My determination is a fiery one. It demands sacrifice, and would have me kill myself before passing up a discovery so great. We, Vel’Haru, are not nearly as smart as we think. Being ‘smart’ also includes self-preservation alongside intelligence, and we are greatly lacking in the former.
The ambience of the room has shifted, but I don’t realize it at first.
The shift is immaterial, just a feeling; one that tugs at the cautious part of me. There is nothing in the hallway that has physically changed, but I’m unsurprised when the door at the end of the corridor suddenly leads me to an entirely new place. Apparently I was supposed to desecrate the gallery. Or, perhaps I’ve made someone mad.
I don’t know. Thinking is becoming painful.
I am now in a room akin to the gallery, except it is decorated with various types of armor. The armor sets are displayed as they would be worn, arranged in rows at the center of the room like an army awaiting their battle cry. The scene is confusing. Some armor seems advanced, made by mid- and high-civ technology; others seem made by those having just learned to shape metal. I linger in the entrance, wary, already routing for the next door. There will be no investigation conducted here. Any longer than necessary is too long.
But then I see something flickering on the wall at the other end of the room. Antediluvian script, but a portion of it is illuminated like a glyph, a red and violet aura wafting around it. The exit into the next corridor is on the opposite side of the room.
My eyes shift between the glyph and the door for an inexcusable amount of time.
Cosmos, damn my nature.
I gingerly inch toward the glyph, scaling the room with my back to the wall as if the floor will give out at any moment. I like neither the feeling of this room nor the arrangement of the armor and am quite certain things won’t end well for me. This notion does nothing to stop my curiosity from leading me right off the cliff, however.
The heat from the glyph is palpable, singeing knowledge and danger into the wall. I smell the char and lick my lips. I don’t want to touch it, yet there is also nothing more that I want. My hand trembles inches from the warm glow, an internal conflict once again whittling away my resolve. Free will is a cosmic lie.
I press my hand to the wall with an anticipatory wince.
To my surprise, the sensation is incoherent. The knowledge I seek to gain isn’t cerebral, but comes as a taste of metal and blood, an influx of passion and sorrow—;
And clarity. The strain is gone.
I retract my hand with a sharp inhale, only now feeling the scald of my fingers. The glyph is gone. A scorch mark is all that’s left. I gained something, I know I did, but the specifics elude me. I look down at my hand, at the vibratory residue embedded into the creases of my palm. Then, I realize every piece of armor has moved.
Their heads are turned in my direction, watching me.
I watch them in turn.
Silence, nothing.
Seconds pass. A minute.
I find the courage to move for the door. Their heads follow me in a crescendo of creaking metal. I quickly back into the corridor, my eyes remaining on them until I can no longer see into the room.
I spin with the intention to sprint the rest of the way down the corridor, but freeze when I see what awaits me at the other end.
Another suit of armor, perhaps twice the size of me in both height and width, stands sentry on the threshold of the area beyond. There is no suspension yet it remains upright, as if someone is wearing it. It is one of the cruder designs from the gallery—crimson-tinged metal, a large black plume sprouting from the full-plated helmet. Iridescent flecks circumnavigate the joints in the plates. Across its back r
ests a sword, the sheer size of it defying physics.
Something about it seems familiar. There was a vis-capture from Qaira and Zira detailing a similar phenomenon during their time in Eschatis, but I have no way of retrieving it.
I don’t know what to do, so I do nothing; only stand here like an idiot.
The silence is palpable as I weigh my options. Go around it, or—?
The armor suddenly jolts to life.
I flinch, retreating a step.
It begins to march toward me, reaching for the hilt of its sword. Each step hits the floor like a grenade.
CLANG, CLANG, CLANG—
I look behind me, knowing the only place to run is back into an entire army of these things.
CLANG, CLANG, CLANG—
The monstrosity is merely twenty feet away now. I clench my fists, yearning for my scythes.
CLANG, CLANG, CLANG—
And then I become listless, relieving myself to instinct. My eyes follow the sword.
I am powerless, but that doesn’t exclude the centuries of my experience and training. There is something else, too. The visceral fear is gone. I feel nothing as the sword descends upon me, which is very much a Vel’Haru feeling. The glyph has gifted me a little piece of myself; certainly not the most useful piece, but I’d take anything.
The blade arcs toward me, cutting through the air with a whistle. It strikes the place I’d been only a second ago, and the impact of the sword hitting the ground reverberates through the corridor. I’d lunged forward and to the left, smacking my shoulder against the wall as I dart through a tiny opening between the armor’s torso. Luckily the living armor isn’t quick, the ridiculous size of its sword at least obeying that rule of physics.
I sprint through the remainder of the corridor without looking back. Only when I reach the threshold of the room beyond does curiosity neg me to dare a glance over my shoulder. The sight causes a full stop.
The armor is no longer living, reduced to a pile of pieces on the floor in the middle of the hall. I hadn’t heard the clatter of its collapse. Then again, I hadn’t heard anything but my pulse. I’m no longer faced with the prospect of a deadly chase, and with a sigh of relief I press on. As the danger of this ‘trial’ steadily escalates, a nagging question equally intensifies:
What happens to my outside self, if I were to die in here?
And this, perhaps, is the first question to which I never want an answer.
*
The subsequent blast of cold air comes as a shock to my system. I stare alarmingly at the open, vacuous space I’ve ventured into. The sheer span is reminiscent of a multi-craft hangar. A chorus of wind sings certain death from somewhere far above.
In front of me is a bridge that hovers over an abyss—a narrow passage no wider than four feet, bereft of a rail or any other structural guard to prevent a fall. On the other side of the bridge is a platform similar to the one on which I currently stand. Even at such a distance, the glow of another glyph on the wall beckons me forward. My gaze strays toward the black chasm beneath and I have a fleeting thought of diving from the platform, falling for eternity. Such a reckless thought is unlike me. Unlike a scholar. I remain where I am, until these dangerous thoughts pass.
“Would you let me fall?” I ask aloud, turning toward the tenebrous right-side corner, where the platform meets the wall.
An outline emerges then, and Ikhtar takes form. He doesn’t seem surprised that I know of his presence. In fact, he seems pleased. “And why would you fall?” His voice is deeper, richer than before. He gestures to the bridge with a strong, well-muscled arm. “It’s a straight line to the other side.”
Ikhtar takes another step forward, and I retreat one in turn. The allure of him has already quickened my pulse. Any closer, and I don’t know what will happen. At my withdrawal he pauses, cocking his head with a lofty smile.
Bastard. He knows.
“Why?” I demand.
“Why what?” asks Ikhtar, his amusement unfaltering.
I say nothing, stalwart.
He relents. “I’m not doing this, remember? You’re entirely in control of what I am.”
“If I were in control, why would you look like…” I wave a hand at him. “This?”
Instead of offering any insight, he looks back toward the bridge. His side profile is even more tempting. I take another step backward, for good measure. The added distance clears my mind a little. “That glyph isn’t going to touch itself,” he remarks.
“What are they; the glyphs?”
Ikhtar sighs. “Are you certain the person who sent you here wasn’t trying to get rid of you? You’re very annoying, with all of your questions. For the last time, Aela, I can’t tell you anything. This is your journey, not mine.”
“Then why the Cosmos are you here?!” I scream, surprising both of us.
The shock on his face is brief. Then, he laughs. “Well done, well done. Go on then, you won’t fall.”
Is this horned, false god protecting me, or leading me to ruin? What would have happened if he’d sealed our embrace at the cottage?
For some reason, I believe his statement. There is an obvious investment in me; one important enough for him to keep an ever-vigilant eye as I fumble my way through… whatever this place is. I move for the bridge, but pause right before it, looking back at him. One more try.
“Are you sentient?” I dare.
His stare is keen enough to draw blood. “I’m no more, or less, sentient than you.”
I’ll take that as a yes. “What do you hope for me to achieve?”
“Whatever you hope to achieve for yourself.”
“But this is your game, you said so.”
“My game, your trial.” I open my mouth to respond, but he interjects. “See you on the other side.”
Poof. Gone.
I mutter something uncouth under my breath.
My options are to stand here forever, or cross the bridge—if anyone could consider those to be options at all. With a small intake of air, I begin my trek across the chasm. My eyes remain fixated on the glyph, my gait slow and steady. I anticipate anything: giant, swinging axes, jutting spikes from a misstep, another of those living armor creatures appearing from the door beyond.
When my boots are firmly planted on the adjacent platform, I am beyond humiliated by my rapid-fire pulse and trembling limbs. Absolutely nothing has happened, yet that was easily the scariest moment of my life. I can only imagine Ikhtar’s amusement as I fall to my knees with a sigh of relief, hanging my head in shame. Here is where I realize that an erred state of mind can be as taxing as any physical feat, sometimes even more.
I stare at the swirling glyph, my surroundings falling away as the orange, hypnotic haze consumes me. Whispers from the void guide me forward, and I reach toward the wall, heat brushing against the tips of my fingers. I don’t feel the glyph this time. There is nothing—;
Nothing but white.
And now I stand in front of a dirty mirror, above a sink in a lavatory. The glass is smudged with both age and black mold at the corners, and I am leaning on an equally-disgusting sink, about to vomit. Someone calls my name from a shadowy bedroom beyond the lavatory. I keep my attention on the reflection staring back at me.
My hair is crudely cut to my chin, stringy and tangled. There are dark circles under my eyes, and my cheeks are sallow. I am wearing a white, form-fitting shirt made of thin, see-through fabric, stained with sweat and … something else. I am wearing black undergarments that (barely) conceal my privates. There are bruises all over my arms. I have no idea what the Cosmos I’m doing here, or why I look like this. For some reason my ignorance doesn’t bother me.
My hands curl around the porcelain sink, gripping it so tightly that my knuckles turn white. There are black, hair-like shapes coming from the wall behind me, waving like cilia in a non-existent wind. I find this funny, and laugh under my breath. When my tongue moves over my teeth, a few of them wiggle.
I bare my teeth to th
e mirror, wiggling the bottom-front two with my tongue. I lean closer, slowly plucking both of them out. The process is painless, and as they fall into the sink I see their roots have rotted black.
You’re weakening, says a voice behind me.
I am bent over the sink, still looking at my teeth. The voice startles me, but before I can react my head is wrenched back as someone grips my hair, and I am forced upright.
Ikhtar smiles at me in the mirror, tilting my head to the side. His breath against my neck sends shivers down my spine.
His eyes.
His face.
I am melting.
Ikhtar’s lips brush against the space between my shoulder and neck, and my knees nearly buckle. The hairs along the wall have grown longer and more aggressive, now nearly reaching us. I entertain the idea of giving up, giving in, and wonder what will happen once I do.
Fight, whispers Ikhtar, yet his actions encourage anything but.
That subtle tinge of confusion is enough to give me a millisecond of clarity, and I punch the mirror. Glass shards explode into the sink and around our feet. I grab the first one I come across and stab it behind me, toward Ikhtar’s neck. Blood from my lacerated knuckles splatters the rim of the sink. But I don’t feel any pain. There is nothing—;
Nothing but white.
I am shocked back to reality—or, another reality. Or surreality. Whatever.
The horror of the lavatory is gone, but so is the bridge and glyph.
I am standing in front of an… elevator. A crudely designed one, with rusted grate for doors and a chain-pulley on an axle. The evident instability of it makes me reluctant to step inside. The hallway that I’ve materialized in is so narrow that my shoulders touch the walls. The only way forward is the elevator; behind me, darkness. A sudden throb in my hand forces me to wince, and I inspect the source of the pain. The knuckles of my right hand are marred and bleeding, a deep gash in the crease of my palm accentuates the sting. With it, comes the tingles of Ikhtar’s lips against my neck.
Covenants: Quantum Dream (Hymn of the Multiverse Book 11) Page 9