by Phil Tucker
Meffrid pushed his plate away. "Magister. I've been wondering."
"Hmph," said Audsley, spraying crumbs.
"These Sin Casters. They built Starkadr. The portals. Everything. How did anybody ever defeat them if they were so powerful?"
Audsley gulped his mouthful down and set his plate before Aedelbert who began to lick up the smears of jam. "Well," he began, wiping his fingers surreptitiously on the hem of his tunic. "To understand the answer to that question you must grasp a simple but crucial fact: though it depends on which historian you choose to believe, almost all agree that the Sin Casters were apolitical. They stood aside and did nothing when ancient Agerastos turned against the other city states and began the War for the Republic. Nor did they intervene thirty years later when the Chaos Years began and anarchy and blood was the rule of the day. When the Ascendant rose to power with his kragh, still they stood by."
Temyl burped quietly behind his hand. "Why's that then? Why didn't they waggle their fingers and fix everything?"
Audsley leaned back, lacing his fingers over his stomach. He looked perfectly content. Tiron realized that he was smiling. What more could Audsley ask for then to be asked to lecture about history with a full stomach in the heart of Starkadr?
"Why not, indeed?" asked the magister. "It is said that there was a time when they were active participants. The Age of Wonders. When they did indeed meddle with the affairs of the world, ruled and strove against each other. It ended in the Cataclysm. Thereafter, they swore to never interfere with politics again. A code of strict neutrality."
"Yes, but - still." Meffrid stared earnestly at Audsley. "Even if they stayed out of the wars, it doesn't explain how they were defeated."
Audsley nodded approvingly. "Yes, quite so. They were untouchable right up until the third Ascendant performed his miracle of closing the Black Gate. As soon as he did, in one stroke he rendered them helpless, unable to resist the Order of Purity and the Ascendant's kragh."
"Oh..." said Temyl. He looked to Bogusch, who had been listening quietly. "See? There you go. Ascension. The Ascendant did it."
Meffrid nodded slowly, chewing it over. "Right. It's all so strange. To think that such evil people could create such beauty..." He looked around them, at the strange architecture, then subsided, picking up his plate once more.
Everyone stared morosely at their plates. Tiron thought of the glass panels that had shimmered as the morning sun had lit them with the colors of the rainbow. He'd never seen their like. Sarah would have loved it, he thought, and smiled fondly. She'd always wanted to reach the foot of a rainbow, would take off running and laughing across fields, leaving him behind to grin and shake his head. That room above them would have suited her perfectly.
When they finished eating the floor around them was littered with the remains of their meal, and a sense of contentment suffused Tiron. It was such a basic, primal thing, to fill one's stomach. Place a man in an alien floating evil castle, and then hand him a bottle of wine, and all was well once more.
Bogusch and Temyl rose to stagger into the room with the cushions, and there they collapsed, a bottle in each hand, to laugh and jest in slurred voices. Audsley was blinking owlishly, breaking up strips of dried meat for Aedelbert and pushing his glasses up as they kept slipping down his nose. Meffrid's head was already nodding.
"We should have a guard," Tiron said, though he didn't expect anybody to pay attention. Truth be told, he wanted nothing more than to sleep. To drift into a deep and dreamless slumber so as to regain his strength. "Meffrid?"
The young man rubbed his face and nodded. "Guard. All right." He took a deep breath and practically climbed the wall to stand. "I'll be at the entrance. Come check on me in a few hours. Ser." And with that he walked off.
Tiron and Audsley sat in silence, the Magister stroking his firecat's head distractedly and staring at the carvings on the wall. Then Tiron shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable. He hadn't realized he wanted to speak with Audsley alone until this moment had presented itself.
"Magister."
"Hmm?" Audsley turned dreamily toward him then blinked. "Yes?"
Tiron felt a wave of helplessness pass over him. Give him a sword and a foe and he'd prove himself as brave as the next man, but conversation such as this? "I have a question."
"Oh?"
Tiron scowled and looked away. "A foolish question. I don't know why I'm even asking it."
"Ah," said Audsley. "Yes. Would it be about our Lady Iskra, perhaps?"
"What?" Tiron felt his face flush. "Why would you think that?"
Audsley continued stroking his firecat. "Oh, a hunch. A wild leap of intuition, one might say. I was also present when you saved her life and held her close."
Tiron glared down at his hands. Hard, strong hands. Flecked with scars and heavily callused. "I'm a fool."
"You are many things, my good ser, but I would not list fool as one of them." Audsley's voice was mild. "Your question?"
Tiron forced himself to swallow. When had his throat become so dry? "Lady Iskra. What do you think are the chances... No." Another wave of helplessness passed through him. "I'm a penniless knight. My lands were confiscated. My honor destroyed. She is a Sigean, a lady -" Tiron clamped his mouth shut. The futility of his hopes galled him. "Never mind. I shouldn't have broached the subject."
The silence was precarious. One wrong word from Audsley and he'd leave. But he strained, waiting, hoping for some form of reassurance. He was about to snap at the magister and demand that he speak when Audsley set Aedelbert aside and leaned forward. "My dear Ser Tiron. Lady Iskra is a strikingly independent woman. If any woman of her status were to break with custom, it would be her. I cannot speak for her affections, but I know she holds you in high regard."
Tiron felt a surge of emotion. "So - do you think -?"
Audsley shrugged. "Yet for all her independence, she strives to accomplish fiendishly difficult goals. She has few weapons at her disposal. One of those weapons is marriage. To forge an alliance with another powerful lord. I don't know if she plans to do so. But the day may come when she has no choice. Such is the world in which she lives."
Tiron leaned back against the wall. His frustration melted away into resigned exhaustion. "Of course. You speak sense."
Audsley shrugged again. "I wish I could assure you otherwise. Were this a minstrel's tale, I am sure love would conquer all. But alas. The question, then, might not be whether she will have you, but rather for how long the world would permit you both to enjoy each other's company."
Tiron grunted and stared down at his hands again. Of course Audsley was right. Marriage for one of Iskra's station was a priceless tool. Even if she were to return his... affections, the day would come when she would have to set him aside and take the hand of some Ennoian warlord so as to cement an alliance. And what then? Would he step aside, glad for his moment in the sun? An old knight with no future, dependent on her largess to support him in the final years of his life? What point was there in a dalliance that was fated to end, in a romance that could never be more than a brief tryst? It would only bring pain and humiliation.
"Thank you, Magister. You have helped clarify the matter greatly."
Audsley looked distinctly unhappy. "I'm sorry. I wish -"
"There is nothing to apologize for. Such is the state of the world." Tiron smiled bitterly. "And to think, I had imagined myself a cynic, a realist, bereft of illusions."
Audsley went to respond, but Tiron raised his hand, cutting him off. "Enough. Save your platitudes about love or whatever else you were going to say. We need to rest. Sleep well, Magister."
So saying Tiron leaned back and closed his eyes. He sat still, waiting, and after a few minutes he heard the magister slowly slide down. He cracked open an eye and saw the man lying on his side, breathing deeply, his firecat curled up in his arms.
There was silence but for their soft breathing. Tiron felt the vast expanse of Starkadr stretching out in all directions around h
im. For the first time, its stark coldness and brutal architecture matched his mood.
His eyes closed again. He thought of Iskra, of how she had felt in his arms, then carefully, deliberately, locked that memory away.
Nothing awoke him other than his own internal clock. He opened his eyes refreshed but with a crick in his neck. The food had given him strength, and with some wonder he observed that the wine had failed to pain his head. His side ached, but upon inspection did not seem infected.
Audsley was lying on his back, an arm draped over his eyes. Aedelbert was padding around the remains of their dinner, sniffing at different pots and cups.
"Magister," grunted Tiron, rising to his feet. He stretched carefully, felt the stitches pull at his side, and then relaxed. He kicked Audsley's foot as he passed him. "Get up."
He located a room with a toilet hole, and then moved into the living area, where Bogusch and Temyl were snoring. He roused them with kicks to their boots as well, and then felt a pang of remorse. Poor Meffrid had held the guard post all this time while the others had snored away the hours.
"Meffrid? Come get some sleep," Tiron called out, though he doubted the young man was still awake. He'd find him slouched over in the hallway, he was sure. He'd give him a tough time for the sake of principle, then send him to rest.
He strode through the small complex and out into the empty tunnel. Meffrid had apparently chosen to watch from the hub. He walked out into the central room where the iron platform lay, but there was no sign of the guard there either.
"Meffrid?" His call was sharp now. It was one thing to fall asleep on post, another to desert it altogether in search of a bed.
Scowling, he considered the other two tunnels. "Meffrid!"
No response. He'd be damned if he'd search through warrens of bedrooms for the sleeping guard. Instead, he returned to his own men. Temyl and Bogusch were wincing and drinking from their water skins. Judging by the empty bottles of wine by their sides, they'd clearly managed to stay awake long enough to do themselves some damage.
"Meffrid's gone into one of the side tunnels to sleep." Tiron tried to keep his annoyance from his voice. "Go search them and bring him back." A thought caught him as the two men turned to go. "But if the tunnels lead into anything other than living quarters like these, come back first to get us."
Temyl nodded dumbly, clapped Bogusch on the back, and the pair of them limped off.
Tiron sighed and went back into the kitchen. Audsley was up, his face freshly washed and his hair combed somehow, and was finishing off a plate of cheese and jam.
"Good morning, ser knight," he said brightly. "And how do we fare today?"
"You're damned cheerful," said Tiron, then moved to the pantry to search the shelves. He pulled down a container of what turned out to be salted fish.
"And why wouldn't I be? We've found water, provisions, comfortable quarters, a means of transportation, and so many mysteries to explore over the coming month that I can't even begin to decide where to begin. This almost feels akin to a holiday."
Tiron grunted and decided some salted fish was just what he wanted. He grabbed one of his water skins, sniffed at its neck, then took a swig. "So, what do you intend for today? Research?"
"Indeed." Audsley smeared a little honey over his cheese. "We must learn the secrets of the Portals in that chamber below. With so many of them, I'm sure a few must lead to Agerastos. If I can divine how to open them, then we'll not only be able to provide Lady Iskra with the means to contact our potential allies, but also a means for us to return to Mythgræfen Hold before the month has passed."
Tiron raised an eyebrow. "You think you can do that? Open a Lunar Gate before its appointed time?"
Audsley shrugged. "Perhaps. After all, I doubt the rulers of Starkadr would have contended themselves with having to wait a month each time to use their own Portals. The means to doing so may be located in the library next door, and if not here, perhaps elsewhere in the complex."
"That's good. That's very good." Tiron bit down on the fish and found it delicious.
Audsley smiled, set his plate aside, and rose. "In fact, I'll go take a quick peek at the tomes right now. Just browse their titles, if you will. See if I can read the text. The Ascendant willing, they're not written in ancient Sigean."
Tiron realized that was a joke of some kind, and gave Audsley a fish-filled grin with no humor in it. Audsley made a little face and disappeared down the side tunnel.
Food was essential to healing. Even though he wasn't that hungry, he methodically ate several fillets of the fish and had begun working on a thick slice of cheese when Temyl and Bogusch hurried back in.
"Ser! We've looked everywhere. There's no sign of Meffrid."
"What do you mean? You didn't find him?" Tiron stared from one man to the other. The two men shrugged helplessly. "There's nowhere else that he could be. Audsley!"
The magister ran in, alarmed by the sharp bark in Tiron's tone. "Yes? What's wrong?"
"That platform of yours. Could it have ensorcelled Meffrid?"
"Could it have... No? I don't think so? He'd have had to grip the sword for it to even try to connect with him. Where is he?"
"Gone," said Tiron. "All right. Let's do this again. I want every inch of this level searched. Audsley, you're with me. Bogusch, Temyl, no nonsense. Let's go."
Fifteen minutes later they all stood in the hub by the metal platform. There was no sign of the young guard. Audsley was wringing his hands. Temyl and Bogusch looked distinctly unhappy.
Tiron stared at the floor, trying to think. "Temyl, grab the sword hilt. Bogusch, get ready to knock him over the head if he does anything strange."
"Ser?" Temyl's face went pale.
"Now!"
His battlefield roar sent the guard scurrying onto the metal platform, Bogusch at his heels. Audsley and Tiron followed.
"Is this wise?" Audsley kept his voice to a whisper, as if loath to enrage Tiron.
"We need to eliminate possibilities. Now, Temyl."
The guard knelt and reached out. He bit his lower lip, jaw working, and flexed his fingers several times before turning his face away and gingerly touching the hilt.
Nothing happened. Temyl looked at the sword out of the corner of his eye and closed his hand around it. Again, nothing happened, and he visibly wilted in relief.
"Now, Audsley. Your turn."
The magister nodded and replaced Temyl in front of the blade and took hold of the hilt without hesitation. He stiffened, clenched his jaw, then released the sword. "The same as before. The presence is there."
Tiron rubbed at his jaw. "Damn it. Bogusch, you try."
In short order they'd determined that only Audsley could sense the presence in the sword.
Tiron fought the urge to pace. "Talk to me, Audsley."
"I, ah, I don't know. Perhaps only I am connected to the blade? Perhaps it only responds to Noussians, or those who have undergone rigorous academic training?"
"And Meffrid?"
"Well, the presence is still within the blade, so it clearly didn't take control and transfer into him. Given the unlikelihood of it's being able to communicate with him, and my serious doubt as to Meffrid's desire to seize the blade, I, ah, I mean -"
"Enough." Tiron cut him off with a sweep of his hand. "So, we can rule out the platform for now."
"Maybe he jumped, ser." Bogusch's voice was quiet. "Couldn't take the pressure of what we're going through. Got drunk, got desperate... and leaped out into the shaft."
Tiron felt an immediate sense of negation. "I very much doubt that." Yet what other explanation was there? "However. Audsley, take us down. We're going to make sure."
They all climbed onto the platform. Audsley took hold of the hilt, and the platform rose smoothly into the air, then sailed toward the moaning airshaft and out into the blackness. Down they went, swiftly but smoothly, past a dozen great tunnel entrances, each perhaps fifty yards below the other. The gloom grew ever deeper, until finally Tiron
could barely make out his hand before his face.
They came to a stop, but not on stone, as before; instead, they seemed to lower with a crunch, sinking into something brittle and uneven.
"What did we land on?" Temyl's voice was tight with fear.
Tiron didn't bother answering. He rose from his crouch and strode to the edge of the platform. He had to lean down to see through the dense murk, and immediately reared back when he made out what lay beneath them.
Corpses.
Hundreds of them, covering the floor. They were the same sort of dried bodies Tiron and the others had seen already, withered by the passage of centuries, broken and muddled together so that it was impossible to make out whole forms.
"They must have fallen here during the fight," whispered Audsley in horror. "How many? How many died down here?"
"Search for Meffrid," said Tiron, reining in his own horror. "Now. He'll be easy to spot amongst this lot."
It was ghastly work. They waded through the bodies. They were piled about a yard deep, Tiron discovered, as bones snapped and ancient robes tore beneath his boots. Stumbling and lurching, the four of them quartered the base of the shaft. Tiron felt a brief burst of elation on finding his family blade, but he sheathed it and kept searching.
At his command, Audsley lifted the platform so that they could search beneath it. Then, after spending a good hour fruitlessly combing the mass grave, they climbed in silence to the quarters they had slept in and stepped off the platform into the hub.
Nobody spoke. Their eyes were glassy with shock at what they'd seen. Audsley looked to be on the verge of tears, while Temyl was shaking and refused to meet his eyes. Tiron kept his focus sharp and fierce. He didn't need anybody to spell it out to him, didn't need to tell the others what was painfully obvious.
Meffrid hadn't jumped. He hadn't used the platform to escape. He'd simply vanished into thin air.