by Law, Lincoln
“No!” he yelled. There was a hint of anger in his voice. Or was it jealousy? “My brother was the immortal one. He was the one that got Father’s gift of perfect life. I exist, really, as a symbol and nothing more.”
“But if you’re not immortal, how is it you’ve stayed alive?” She paused. “For that matter, why do you need an heir?” She had a momentary lapse in concentration as she realised the answer, only a moment before Castoro said it.
“I need an heir to take my place. I am not immortal. I am a mortal man. It was Castoro XI’s greatest secret. He would exist through time, but only through his heirs that shared his name. It is why I have never left the tower. If people saw that I only looked vaguely like the statues depicted, then they would grow suspicious. It is bad enough that this city is built on a foundation of lies and secrets, let alone their Architect, their supposed God King is actually only a mortal man. I drink from the waters so that I can create the rainclouds that constantly hang over the city, and keep the citizens from knowing of my brother’s city. I was bought up reading the journal of Castoro XI—the one that eventually formed the LampLighter Guild.” He took a leather-bound book from the table, opening it to the very first page. “I often wonder what my city would have looked like had the Well not been tainted. I quickly push the thought aside. It hurts too much.” He threw it aside. “Dreadfully boring, self-righteous stuff, but useful nevertheless. He speaks of himself as if he were Castoro I. I think he wasn’ In fact, it contains the one thing that will save this city. Or rather, the spark that birthed this idea.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I mean. I am going to save this city. I already have the contract made up and bound in a person.”
Ophelia tried her best not to yell and swear and hit the man before her. She felt such a dreadful hate grip her heart, but she managed to contain it.
“What are you going to do?” she hissed.
“I’m going to destroy the fiends the only way we know how.” He paused mystically. “With fire.”
“How?”
“The lamps,” he said. “And the statues. A lot of them run off gas, which is pumped and processed underground and pushed through the lamps. If that gas were, say, displaced by rushing water, it would rise up at an enormous speed causing a number of explosions across a large portion of the city to burn away the fiends.”
Of course!Ophelia thought. The flooded undercity. The drilling accident. The conversion of some of the lamps to gas. It all makes sense!
“But what about the people?” Ophelia asked, thinking of her mother, and Nataniel’s. She thought of Faulkner, too, wherever he may be.
“Sacrifice must be made. It’s all for the greater good. Castoro XI wrote that, and now I am putting it into action.”
“But thousands of people will die.”
“But it is necessary.” He rose up, walking quickly to Ophelia. He took her hand and tugged her to her feet. He pulled her towards him and breathed in deeply the scent of her hair. His eyes rolled back, as if the smell was intoxicating or he was in some kind of ecstasy.
“It is a shame I cannot give you my gift,” he said coldly, stroking Ophelia’s black hair with his hand. “I would love to see what a beautiful child we would make. But I’m sure there is no harm in feeling your body against mine.”
Ophelia stepped away, and in Castoro’s confusion, rose her hand to slap him across the face.
“I am a lady,” she said, “and I demand that you talk to me like I am one, thank you very much. I’ll have none of that…vulgarity from you.”
She fought back another wave of sickness. What had confinement done to this mad man? Had he no morals? No sense? No inhibitions? He may have never walked amongst his people, but surely he knew the difference between right or wrong,
What have I gotten myself into,she thought desperately.
“But do you not think it would be wonderful,” he said. It seemed that this man got his pleasures in another fashion. She pushed the disguating thoughts aside, trying to focus on the here and now. She had to save herself from whatever it was Castoro intended. She had to keep him off her.
Save your energy,she thought. You may need it.
“Come now,” he said, pushing his body against hers, forcing her against the wall. He moved too quickly for her to stop him from unbuttoning the top button on her coat. “Just let me see you.”
There was no other way to save herself. There was only one way to escape.
You can do it,she thought. Pretend you’re weak.
She feigned helplessness as she reached for her gas stick, which she had dropped. In order to keep him side-tracked—not that he wasn’t already quite occupied—she let out a few resistant pleas and cries, hoping that they were convincing. She could smell his hot breath against her face as he pushed himself closer to her, but refused to look directly as him, even as he tried to kiss her. Again, bile rose within her. Thick and strong, stinging her throat and tongue. Castoro didn’t seem to recognise her resistance, though. He just moved onwards. Nataniel was still on the lounge chair, too sick to notice them, and too helpless to be able to do anything.
At least if it comes to that,she thought, he won’t have to remember it. It was a sad thought, but it kept her from speculating on what Castoro was about the do to her, however blatantly obvious that already was. She had always considered herself strong, but now, more than ever, she felt helpless and weak. She clung desperately to hope, though. If she let the sickness waiting in the wings overcome her, she would be lost. She had to resist this man and his actions. What he was doing was evil, and she had to stop him.
It was like this single though gave her strength she hadn’t had before.
She finally found a good grip on the gas stick with her left hand, while her right hand was busy trying to push Castoro off her. She struggled and whimpered, suddenly becoming desperate. If she didn’t act now, she would lose. He would have her. She flicked the sparking mechanism again and again, waiting for it to catch. She could hear Castoro’s breath become more frantic, assuring her that he could not hear her gas-stick’s clicking over his own racing heartbeat and desperation.
Finally, she felt the gas rush through the tube and out the end, igniting at the tip of the stick. She moved quickly, raising the gas stick up. The flames consumed Castoro’s face, and he let out a loud cry of shock. There was a wave of heat against her, but it was clean heat. Not dirty and old and hot like the breath of Castoro. The Architect covered his face with his hands, tumbling backwards. He struck the table, and fell over, crashing against the floor with a massive thump. Ophelia took a moment to watch the man writhe about on the floor, wondering whether she should subject him to the fire again. His face was red, the stubble-length hair around his chin singed away.
But she looked to Nataniel, noting his deteriorating state.
No,she thought. I have to get him to his mother.
She took him by the hand, rushing to the small fountain. “Drink!” she said. He slumped to his knees, spooning the shimmering liquid in with cupped hands. He slurped it down in heaps, but stopped after three gulps, as Ophelia grabbed his arms and tugged him away once more.
They lifted up the hatch, and descended into the dark stairway, taking each step two at a time. Ophelia was bewildered as to why she didn’t trip over, especially given Nataniel’s inclination to stumble in this weak state, but they managed.
“Ophelia!” Castoro roared.
“If we hurry,” Ophelia said, “we can get you home, and I can stop Castoro’s plan to destroy the city.”
Against the wall beside them, they both caught sight of Castoro’s shadow, flashing intermittently as he passed the high-burning candles.
“He’s catching up!” Ophelia said, picking up her pace. She kept one hand running across the wall beside her to keep stabilised. “If we’re lucky, the Vindicator’s will still be busy with the prisoners. We might be able to get out.”
Ophelia was thankful she had rem
embered the path she had taken while following Castoro, which meant she knew she wasn’t about to run into a dead end. She passed tapestries and suits of armour and paintings along the walls. She noticed none of these, though, for she was focussed on running away from their pursuer.
“How are you feeling?” she puffed, as they began down another flight of stairs.
“I feel a bit better with the water,” he croaked, “but I can feel it burning inside me. It’s fading away quickly.”
Damn! “Well it will just have to do for now. Keep going.”
She glanced behind her, letting out a slight yelp as Castoro came careening around the corner, his feet seeming to bounce on air as he dashed. No! He isfloating on air. He’s flying, like the Vindicators!
“You can’t run forever!” he yelled. “I will catch up.”
No! Suddenly, she remembered the bags about her waist filled with gas.
That’s it!
She took on, twisting the notch for the gas release.
She the ignited the end of the gas stick, and threw the bag. For a moment, it hung in the air, and then she aimed the gas stick, and turned the flow of gas to its highest. Flame spurted from the end of the rod like it was being burst from a dragon’s maw. It quickly consumed the bag, igniting the gas it was leaking and quickly spreading to the gas within. It exploded brilliantly, the heat and force of the blow pushing Ophelia and Nataniel forward. Glass frames fell and windows shattered, candles were blown out, tapestries caught alight. For a millisecond, a section of hallway was chaos. She was momentarily deafened as the sheer impact blasted against her back. For a second, it was just her breath and her heartbeat, blasting against the silence.
And then her senses returned, rocketing her back into reality. She turned around, noting the way the gas had burnt for such a short moment, and was pleased to see Castoro had been knocked onto his backside, the front of his jacket caught alight. His hands patted his own chest madly, attempting to extinguish the flames.
She rounded the last corner with Nataniel, descending the stairs in the entry hall at breakneck speed. “Quick!” she yelled, “before the Vindicators come. They’re bound to have heard that explosion.”
They took the last few metres at a mad sprint, crossing the marble flooring to reach the front doors. They were heavy, but Ophelia managed to pull one of them open, revealing the dark, storm-swept night outside. The grass of the courtyard was drowned beneath an inch of water, as was the path that would lead them to their escape. She swore loudly.
“We’ll just have to do our best,” she said, pulling Nataniel along behind her. As she ran between the lamps, she could hear the gas flowing through the tubing. It was like her ears were suddenly attuned to it, aware that unless something was done, people would surely die.
“No you don’t!” roared Castoro from the doorway. Ophelia screamed as she turned around and watched Castoro leap into the air.
She tried to pick up her pace, but there was only so fast she could go through the water without slipping. Within moments, Castoro had both of them gripped in his arms, and was lifting them away from the ground, over the tower’s wall and into the sky.
“Looks like I’ll have to deal with you both now.”
Ophelia struggled, but Castoro was too strong for her. Even with the burdensome weight of her and Nataniel combined, he had no trouble holding them close.
“What do you plan to do with us?” Ophelia said.
“What I planned to do all along,” he said. “You shall be my wife, and the boy shall perish.”
“I’ll never let you do it!” Ophelia roared, struggling more now. She didn’t care if she fell to her death now. Any fate was better than living in that tower of lies.
“You will,” Castoro said, arrogance rich in his voice. “Because you, my dear, shall be the contract.”
She fell still.
The Battle at the Well
The contracts exist for security. It was a rather convenient side-effect of the Tyndibar Blessings, but also part of what ruined by city. Obligaturgy. It is very much what created the city, but what shall also destroy it.
Faulkner stood beside the Tyndibar Well, amazed by the way the water seemed to glitter. The moon above was full and silvery, its light playing across the water’s suface. Though the water looked cold under the white light of the moon, the reflection of it on his face felt warm. He was alone, for now. Elenor had returned home to gather a few things: his rifle, a map of the two cities, and most importantly, a device that would help them breath underwater. With the hearthfly, they could both avoid any fiends bothering them. But neither had any idea how deep the water was, or how long the tunnel was. They could be swimming for minutes before either of them reached Castore, and neither could hold their breath forthat long.
As he stood at the edge of the marble well, he was quite tempted to dip his head into the waters, just to taste the sweetness of the legendary liquid. He avoided it though. Who knows what could happen if I did that?
His thoughts wandered about the place. He thought of Nataniel, hoping he would meet Elenor at least once before turning into a monster. And of Ophelia, hoping that she was well, and not in danger. For all he knew, she could be dead after helping him infiltrate the Architect’s tower. He thought about his wife last, wishing he had been able to give her a proper burial, or better yet, have her beside him in bed, safe and warm.
He paused, his thoughts coming to an abrupt stop as a noise broke through the silence. It was only a soft noise to begin with, carried on the wind, to echo against the stone wall behind the Well, and the walls of the houses around him. But then the screams grew louder and louder, seeming to come from everywhere at once. He attempted to pin-point the direction of the source, moving about the courtyard, focusing in on the sound.
Moments before he managed to get a very definite direction—it seemed to be coming from somewhere over the wall—it stopped, abruptly, like the person screaming had been knocked out cold, or worse.
“I hope nothing bad has happened,” he mused aloud, as a large, black figure shot over the wall, carrying two smaller, more familiar figures in his grasp.
*
I’m doomed,Ophelia thought, as they passed over the wall. One moment it was raining heavily, the storm clouds rumbling above, quaking the very air with their force, and the next it was peaceful, the sky clear, and the moon above shining brilliantly in a clear sky.
The magic of Castoro,she thought. How…strange.
Now, they were hanging over a courtyard where the second half of the Tyndibar Well sat. It was strange to be here, for there were no lights lining the streets, no candles in the windows. There were shadows, and yet no fiends. So weird, she thought.
There was a figure in the darkness, though. A tall figure in blue, the golden buttons on the double-breasted coat glittering in the light of the full moon.
“Faulkner!” she called, struggling against Castoro once more.
“Ophelia?” came the reply, though much of it was lost to the wind that picked up, and Castoro’s swearing as she fought against his grasp.
She considered for a moment informing Faulkner of her wife’s betrayal, of how she knew all along that she would eventually be taken away by the Vindicators and locked in the tower. That she had bound the truth into a person, knowing that should she fail, that life would be forfeit. She decided, though, that it could wait for a more appropriate time.
The three landed on the ground softly, but Castoro did not let them go.
“What’s happening?” Faulkner asked, bewildered.
“These traitors are going to pay for their crimes,” Castoro said, “and I, Castoro, the Fourteenth Architect, shall be the one to punish them.”
“What!” Faulkner cried.
“What crimes?” Ophelia asked.
“What crimes,” Castoro laughed mockingly. “The failure to fill your post when called.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Last night, before you decided
to go and infiltrate my tower, you were asked to ignite the lamps in Luscombe Street. You failed to do so, and the entire street was attacked by fiends. No one survived.”
“What?” Ophelia said, incredulous. She remembered now that she had forgotten to tend to the street in question, but she hadn’t heard anything about an attack!
“I was informed of it shortly before you arrived. It’s going to be published in the Morning Pundit: LampLighter Named and Shamed.”
“No!” she gasped. “You can’t do that. My mother! She’ll be affected too. They’ll go after her, punish her for my actions.”
Castoro smiled cruelly. “Not if you do as I tell you,” he said. “If you agree to bare my child, I can stop this paper reaching the doorsteps of every Castorian in the city. One word, and it can all disappear. The blame won’t even need to rest on another’s shoulders, for once the draining begins, the gas shall explode through the few gas-run lamps in the city and destroy all traces of your failure. Just say I do, and this will all end. You will be safe; protected. Just two simple, meaningless words, and you can be sure of your protection.”
“And my mother?” she asked. “I can’t just have her burnt in the fire.”
Castoro smiled warmly. “I can have her brought to safety. All it takes is your vow, bound in a Tyndibar contract so I can be sure you shall not go back on your word.”
She paused. “Can you let me go for a moment. I need to think.” She didn’t consider escape even for a moment. He would only go after them and catch up.
“Of course,” he said, letting his arms drop to his sides. Both Nataniel and Ophelia rushed away from the man, approaching Faulkner.
“Thank goodness you’re both well,” he said. “Especially you, Nataniel.”
“Not as well as you would hope, though,” Ophelia said. “His Curse is taking him.”
“I know,” Faulkner said sadly. “I’ve met Elenor,” he said to Nataniel. “She’ll be here shortly. She wants to see you before you turn into a monster.”
“But we have to be able to save him,” Ophelia said. “There has to be a way we can save him!”