Twist of the Heart

by James Val'Rose

  This I considered while leading us out of what I defined to be a library, although it couldn’t really be called a library with all but three books, none of which were a grand work of literature.

  “You came in this way?” I asked, as I led her the way I myself had come.

  She nodded and said, “I did.”

  Which was good, because it meant that there was only one entrance – well, one that had presented itself.

  Starting from the steps we had both descended from the courtyard, we progressed down the torch-lit corridor, opening and checking every door we could, but all we found in every room was darkness there and nothing more.

  Its plainness was almost confusing. The library was at the centre and was accessible from four different ways by all four different stretches of connecting corridors, all of which created a square perimeter around it. While the library was on the inside, with only the little access shafts leading to it, there were no other alcoves or tunnels on the inner walls of the corridors.

  On the outside walls, however, were dotted numerous doors, and it was these we then opened and checked.

  Once we had completed our way around, stopping back at the stairs, we assessed and counted a total of 121 doors, 2 of which were locked.

  Of those 2 doors, the first was almost identical to every other – wooden with a black forged handle and black metal trim –, while the second was completely metal and virtually, what we considered, impenetrable.

  Consequently, we veered towards the locked wooden door, hoping to uncover its secrets. But we had to find it first.

  “I’m telling you, it was further along,” she said.

  “If you insist,” I responded, giving in to the woman – one of the best lessons I had ever learned.

  “I insist.”

  And I followed her, carefully trying each door on the way, because, childish though it might be, I wanted to be right. More importantly, I wanted her to be wrong.

  She was right.

  Almost perfectly too…

  A Door That’s Not a Door

  I admit that I was not on top form, at least not emotionally. I had an inkling that Vison knew about it too, but I simply couldn’t help it. It was that last task that had gone so awry at the end, which was at the forefront of my mind. It had been haunting me ever since, and every time I tried to not think about it, it only became more prevalent.

  That said, even preoccupied, I was still virtually on point, and it was the second door I tried that was locked. And when I thought about it, I had a feeling the first door I tried wasn’t going to be the locked one. However, as I put my hand to the locked door and tried to open it, only to fail, I sent a little fake smile to Vison, proof that I was right.

  “Very good,” Vison said, matter of fact, because at the end of the day, while there may have been some slight competition going on, our main objective was getting out of this place.

  Vison brushed up next to me and we individually looked and assessed how we would open it.

  Simultaneously we looked at each other and said, “Break it down,” because we weren’t given a huge number of options and there was no locksmith in sight.

  “I propose we both kick as hard as we can on this side,” Vison suggested, tapping over the keyhole. “It’s where it’ll be weakest.”

  “On three?” I suggested.

  “On three.”

  We both took a step back as I begin to count, and on ‘three’ we both drove a foot into the door.

  It didn’t open, but we both felt it – what exactly, I couldn’t explain exactly. We both felt ‘something’ happen in response to our kick at the door, as though ‘something’ had been weakened.

  “May I suggest…?” Vison tentatively worded.

  I quickly nodded, eager for him to speak. And he quickly, but gently, put his nearest arm around the back of my neck and onto my shoulder. It wasn’t a hug because he was still next to me, both of us facing the door, but I understood what he was getting at, and I too put my nearest arm to him under his, round his back and hooked my hand upon his far shoulder.

  “We’ll be able to—”

  “I know,” I said cutting him off. “If I thought you wanted to hug me, you wouldn’t still be standing.”

  On the second prolonged look of his double take at me, he raised an eyebrow, and also the side of his lips.

  ***

  “Shall we?” I said, smirking.

  She began to count again and on ‘three’ we both kicked, driving not only out feet but our whole bodies forward.

  With a mighty crack, the door opened, taking an edge of stone out the other side, into which the locking bar had been placed.

  Delighted that we had succeeded, we smiled at each other and then awkwardly uncoupled our arms, before noticing the man that was chained to the far wall in the intricately faceted room.

  We were already silent when we saw him but, in that moment, silence took a greater precedence.

  She stepped forward first, breaking into the atmosphere of the room, an atmosphere that felt very different from the rest of this place. The light was different, for one, not to mention that the walls were sculpturally decorated. It was like the sphere of the room had its own ecology.

  I followed shortly behind her until she stopped to look at the chained man, at which point I nestled myself next to her to also overlook he who was so bound and still.

  I could only assume this to be Slayne, but he didn’t look as I expected him to. He was younger – or at least looked younger – than both of us. And the way he was manacled, with his arms above his head, and the way his head was burrowed into his shoulder, it all spoke of a person who was not a magus, and certainly not a warrior who had lost his kind in battle.

  As well as the metal lashing him to the wall, blue strands, originating from the wall, were spun and weaved around the links. As I looked closer, these blue tendrils were sunk into his exposed torso.

  ***

  “Slayne,” I chanced, as Vison perched next to me.

  There was a subtle stir from him and I couldn’t help but hold my breath to see what would happen next, to see life move in him.

  Even though he was sat, wearing nothing but dark heavy trousers, I could see he was a big man and much taller than me. And despite the youth on his face, his body looked as defined as a man’s, perfect in every way, muscle proportion, definition, all except for four thick scars – claw marks I thought – all which spoke of an horrendous event.

  “Slayne,” I said again, louder, hoping to fully wake him.

  This time, I saw his eyes flick open. He unstuck his chin from his shoulder and his weary gaze found mine. There was no trace of emotion on his face.

  “What do you want?” Slayne blankly asked.

  “To get you out,” Vison said.

  Slayne drably shifted to look at Vison.

  “What makes you think I want to get out?”

  Vison looked at me, and I at Vison.

  “Do you?” I asked.

  With lacklustre, he simply entrenched his chin back into his shoulder. It seemed all hope was lost from him, as though he had nothing else to live for.

  “Do you blame yourself?” Vison asked, and I couldn’t be sure if it was a pointed question or with a sympathetic edge.

  In the moment since I looked at Vison and back at Slayne, Slayne was already glowering at Vison.

  “Rotting away in here is no—”

  “You don’t know anything,” Slayne fired.

  “You lost your kind.”

  I could see Slayne wanted to respond; his mouth opened as he fought to find words, but he was hurting. Even the scars on his chest looked redder and fresher, as though they themselves were younger and newer.

  “What I choose…” Slayne began, but there was no continuance. And then, as if on a completely different note, said, “You want to get out of here?”

  To which Vison responded, “Absolutely.”

  “…Give me your weapon then.”


  “Why do you want—?”

  “GIVE ME YOUR WEAPON!” Slayne thundered, but there was no echo. There was not enough energy in whatever place this was to support an echo.

  I already had my suspicions raised when Slayne asked for Vison’s weapon the first time, because I noticed no weapon on him, but I wanted to get out and so I walked the several paces towards him, drawing my sword and putting it in his hand.

  “Shadan, is that really wise?”

  I turned to look at him and shrugged. However, I saw a strange look on Vison’s face – a look of confusion and, as I returned to see Slayne, I saw the blue strands begin to die and the manacles fall from his wrists.

  In the next instant, quicker than I could counter, Slayne sprang from the floor to his feet, which was followed quickly by putting his weapon-free arm around my neck and pulling me in. In rapid succession, he threw my sword like a javelin towards Vison and then drew my concealed dagger, which he held at my throat.

  The blade teased at my skin, as I held myself very still and watched in wonder as my sword, which had only just been thrown, was held in complete stasis micrometres from Vison’s head.

  ***

  “Move and I’ll cut her throat and let that sword finish what I’m stopping it from doing,” Slayne said. “…You think you know me…? You possibly think you know me? NO ONE KNOWS ME!”

  I saw down the length of the blade, from the glinting tip over the shimmering edge to the pommelled hilt. My instinct was to move, but I believed Slayne’s conviction – probably more than I had ever believed anyone’s conviction before. Hearing his words, seeing his face, the sword, remembering what I had read about his magi abilities, I felt very much afraid.

  “You dare to come here and disturb me from what I have chosen?”

  With all but my breath frozen, I ventured, “You don’t deserve this.”

  “What gives you the right to say what I deserve?”

  I couldn’t answer.

  “You think you have some right, or some sense of purpose to dictate who deserves what? You?!” he spat. Slayne vocally dismissed the notion that anyone had that kind of right. “Especially you.”

  I felt compelled to silence, even though he was throwing me questions.

  “You might fool her,” Slayne said, the dagger even tighter to her neck, “you could probably fool most, but I know the weapon you conceal…”

  I was confused at how he could know, and even though I was silent, my face spoke like a town crier.

  “Confused?” Slayne asked. “I know the difference between one who’s armed and one who’s not, and I know when someone has killed. And you’ve killed. Did you feel that same sense of power to dictate their fates as you do mine? Do you feel the same equality, now that your mortality is so obvious?”

  I remained motionless, as well as voiceless.

  “Take out your weapon.”

  I did, unclipping and drawing my dagger from the sheath tucked upside down at my back.

  “Drop it.”

  I did, letting it clang against the floor.

  Slayne looked angrily at me, but I remained in constant eye contact with him. I considered that these might be my last moments alive so, despite my short-fallings, I wanted to live them well.

  “I would move now, if I were you.” Slayne softly, plaintively, resignedly added, dropping the dagger from Shadan’s neck.

  The moment it registered, I tilted away from the blade and but a fraction of time later the sword continued as if it hadn’t been stopped at all, charging into the broken wooden door behind, which was ajar in the doorway. It thudded in and I inwardly remarked on the skill it took to throw a weapon like that.

  Slayne handed Shadan’s dagger back to her, as if without care of any revenge she might wish to take, but as she took it, his dullness sucked away any feeling.

  ***

  When I discovered that Vison was not only armed, but also a killer, it rang alarm bells in my head. That was definitely not stated in the description – I’d have remembered – and the carrying of a weapon, or weapons, was most assuredly noteworthy. My trust of Vison went from cagey to virtually non-existent.

  However, as the blade dropped from my neck and Slayne released me, as well as releasing my sword from hovering mid-air in front of Vison’s head, I was struck with curiosity, and me being me, I was not afraid to ask, “Why the change of heart?”

  It wasn’t testing fate; if he wanted to kill me he’d have done it already.

  I turned to him, to see what he was thinking, to try and read the language of his body. But his mind was unreadable and his body spoke only of resignation.

  Slayne, the so surprisingly and incredibly young-looking Slayne, enticed my gaze and then he softly began to answer:

  “Because,” he exhaled, “while this is what I deserve, how I choose to spend my eternity, it is not how you have chosen to spend your mortality.”

  The scars on his chest seemed faded, almost gone, when I compared them to how they were before, red and angry, nearly blistering.

  “Your scars…” I said, trying to glean something from the broken youth.

  “I keep them to remind me,” Slayne snapped, breathed, and then considered. “What year is it?”

  My first and immediate desire was to question his question, but instead, I simply answered, “1039.”

  Slayne listened and gently repeated the year, but afterwards, while his eyes were searching for some missing information, he loudly followed it up by asking, “Are the tyrants deposed yet? King Vian, Queen Casadriel and King Morrowyn?”

  “Terrowin was appointed as the new high king nearly two years ago.”

  “High king?” Slayne asked, for it was a new title.

  “Yes,” Vison said, and Slayne flicked his gaze to him. “To keep the balance of power, so that no one king or queen has total reign, the position of a high king or queen was created.”

  Slayne nodded. It seemed just.

  “How long have you been here?” I enquired.

  “My kin were all slaughtered in 1037. I returned home to Alatacia, to the chaos it had become, and I left shortly after.”

  I wanted to tell him he’d been here long enough, but Slayne had already made and defended his position on the matter.

  “I’m going to need your sword,” Slayne continued, as he brushed past her and Vison until reaching the sword impaled in the wood panel of the door.

  He levered it up and down, wiggling it free, pushed his foot against the door and then pulled it out. “Be on your guard and follow me.”

  As Vison picked up the dagger from the floor it rekindled my curiosity as well as my caution, and when he said, “After you,” I thought, Absolutely no way – I trust you about as far as I can throw you, but I said, “No, no, I insist, after you…”

  I saw him hesitate, so I quickly added, “And don’t give me any of that ladies first nonsense; this isn’t the time for chivalry.”

  Why, oh why, I don’t know, but the smirk that was stamped on his face seemed to pacify me. However, he did exit first, though it made no real difference, because we followed along after Slayne, next to each other.

  ***

  She didn’t trust me. I knew my dagger would have stirred that sort of feeling. But I didn’t need her trust, although I’d be damned if I could explain why I cared so much. I put it down to the fact that I was feeling a little off-guard being enmeshed in the weirdness of here, wherever ‘here’ was.

  Maybe a little too expectantly, Slayne led us to the big steel door that Shadan and I had already distinguished from our earlier excursion. He stood there looking deep at that door, while Shadan and I waited peacefully behind, yet there was still tension in the air.

  When I looked at Shadan, I saw her thinking. I could tell there was a lot behind her eyes, because she had the look of someone who was indeed looking but not seeing, as though her eyes were only pretending to see because the mind behind was elsewhere.

  I reminded myself that this was no
t the first time I had noticed this distraction, this disconnection, and since there was little else for me to do, other than wait, I chose to connect. “Have you heard they’re planning on throwing another celebration in honour of High King Terrowin?”

  The moment I started speaking, she was broken from her reverie and was looking avidly at me, as though she had never been elsewhere.

  “I’ve heard the word on the street,” she said. “I hear they’re turning it into an annual thing, a public holiday. I’ve even heard some people call it Feast Day.”

  I hadn’t expected such a fulsome response and it plunged me into my own silent disconnection as I fought to find more to say, but little else sprang to mind or mouth. And I noticed she too had retreated to hush.

  So I asked, “What are you thinking about? What brought you out here to the wilderness?” I think it was frustration that piled the questions on top of each other, frustration that I could find nothing to think of, so I spouted more than I needed in some vain attempt to eradicate the tension that still lingered so thick, so heavy.

  Again, she snapped her focus at me, but her answer was not so quick to escape her lips. “…” as she opened her lips, her soft skin unsticking and softly clutching at my breathless anticipation.

  Alas, she remained wordless, so I slit the throat of silence and said, “I know you’re here to kill me.”

  ***

  Was I surprised?

  Oddly, not as much as I thought I would be. Since his dagger had found its way into the light, my suspicions of him had not overlooked the possibility that he knew. It would certainly explain why he was armed. However, the question became ‘how?’

  “That’s a firm conclusion,” I said, skirting around anything that might confirm and deny his statement.

  “I also know that you haven’t,” he said, “yet…”

  And I asked, “So, why am I waiting?” again deferring the focus back to him, still without any truth.

  “Because you want to wait until we’re out of here.”

  I nodded, looking to adopt his answer as the truth. “But why does someone want you dead?”

  He pounced upon my answer, saying, “So you accept you’re here to kill me.”