“Where do I begin?” he muttered to himself for the ghost’s benefit, giving an excuse for his lack of response. Then he forced himself out of the chair and strode toward the door – bitterly, sickly, regretting every step he took. Each step felt heavy, cruel, as if already contributing to the task ahead.
The corridors of the Underworld went by in a dark blur, Godren’s mind aswarm with overshadowing burdens. He knew them well enough to travel them without putting thought into navigation, and he absently passed them by.
So he didn’t notice the figure lurking past the mouth of an adjoining corridor, watching darkly as he strode by. Ossen burned dark holes into Godren’s passing back with those smoldering eyes as he watched after him, a significant ring of keys hanging from his grasp.
*
Every step, he felt further trapped, more deeply caught in Mastodon’s services. A strange lump rose in his throat when he wouldn’t even let himself try to convince his feet to cease. He felt helpless as he cruelly denied himself the chance to do the right thing. He felt utterly controlled, and he resented that with a passion, but would not allow himself to consider mastering an alternative.
So he strode on with heavy resignation, but then faced the reality of the quandary he had voiced as an excuse to the ghost, back in Mastodon’s study. Where did he begin his chase? After all, it was more of a search. He wasn’t any ace tracker, and he didn’t even know how much time had elapsed since the boy’s escape. He could be anywhere by now. He wouldn’t exactly be keen on sticking around, and he was undoubtedly a quick little squirt. He would be making a beeline for the edge of the Ruins – that much was obvious enough. The problem lay in determining which direction he had gone. And that, Godren realized, was not something he was going to figure out.
What does Mastodon expect me to do? Track him over stone? He ground his teeth in general aversion to the situation, wondering if she would make a habit of asking the impossible and expecting him to conjure up a way to fulfill it. He had rather gotten the short end of this deal, he thought; she decided what would please her, and attaining it was his problem.
The breeze shifted as he stumbled upon a crossing alley, distracting him. A gentle current of air had been propelling him along, coming from behind, until it suddenly spilled into the perpendicular lane before him and turned left down the new path.
Natural breezes didn’t just…do that, did they? Godren paused there, trying to put his finger on the significance hovering before him on the altering breeze. It bothered him, and he paid attention to that.
When he made no move to continue, still stuck on wondering what was happening with the current, an insubstantial formation flowed into existence before him, shaped from the uncanny breeze. It had the vague implications of a human form, but it was blurred, only partially formed, and the only distinct thing about it was the ghostly hand that materialized to point in the direction the breeze was traveling. It hovered there, billowing without further transformation, and Godren realized what it must mean.
The ghost in Mastodon’s study had paid heed to his question, and was now aiding him in his search. Or perhaps it wasn’t the same one anymore, but he was clearly being directed by one or more of them, and who was he to refuse the help?
He followed the breeze without further dithering. After that, he trusted the altering current without waiting for the ghosts to materialize and manually direct him. He picked up his pace, and let himself be blown through the Ruins after his prey. It wasn’t long before he caught up to the fleeing boy, and bore down on him like some flying demon with a dark, strange wind at his unnatural heels.
How terrifying I must look, he thought as the escaped prisoner threw a wild glance over his scrawny shoulder at the sound of the wind – the breeze had strengthened, becoming oddly visible in roiling snatches, like it was stirring up scraps of some substance that was settled in the alleys. It really seemed to propel him now, too, pushing him forward with unnatural speed.
Godren meant to just seize the boy by the shoulder and bring him to a stop when he reached him, but his supernatural momentum blasted into his quarry and knocked him flat instead, and Godren careened in alarm: a failed attempt to stop. He only lurched to the ground and spun across the alley as well, and realized distantly he would have to establish better control with this method of travel in the future.
Bracing himself against the ground, Godren put a stop to his tumbling and fought to regain his breath, sprawled out on the pavement. A flicker of desperate movement at the corner of his eye sent him scrambling up, and he clamped a hand around the aspiring escape artist’s arm.
“Not so fast, you,” he dissuaded the boy, holding him through his struggle to get loose.
“Let me go!” the boy cried, kicking at Godren’s shins.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Godren objected, twisting the boy easily around so he couldn’t continue. “Cool it.”
“You can’t take me back! I’m not going! I don’t want the rack, or the coals, or the lashes!” he bellowed hysterically, beginning to sob.
A wave of disturbance went through Godren at those words, and he instinctively imagined Ossen’s brutal threats. How could he take this boy back? How could he ever go through with it?
“You’re the one who suggested they protect me instead, and look at you!” the boy shouted in Godren’s face. “Forcing me right back so they can punish me!”
Shut up, Godren willed, wishing the boy would stop making this more difficult. Shut up, just shut up, shut up.
“They’ll torture me. They’ll cut out my tongue and then punish me ’cause I can’t tell them what they want to know!”
“Then cooperate,” Godren snapped vehemently, finally provoked by the warring voices tearing him apart inside. “Don’t give them an excuse to hurt you! For the gods’ sake, just tell them what they want to know,” he ordered, but knew he was pleading as much as anything. But with that he towed the boy back down the alley, closing the matter.
The boy sobbed a few more times as he was dragged back toward the nightmare he had so recently dared to hope he’d escaped. But then he grew quiet and walked without being a burden, and Godren wondered at his sudden grasp on composure. Was he being brave? Or was he just in a state of shock?
Godren clenched his jaw and shut his eyes briefly, looking away before he opened them again. He wanted to shout at himself for what he was doing, but somehow put up a wall that kept the conviction of his disapproval on the other side. He could feel it, but couldn’t be moved by it. As much as he argued with himself, he couldn’t be swayed.
At Kane’s entrance to the Underworld, Kane glanced for a moment at the boy, then at Godren, looking for something. Godren glared dully back, making some unvoiced point, and Kane settled back into a comfortable stance. Godren pulled the boy through the arch, and down below the ground. Feeling utterly low, inhuman, he thrust the boy into Bastin’s possession as soon as he encountered him, unable to deliver his charge to the dungeon himself.
On his way out, he passed Ossen in the hallway. He was just beginning to truly feel the weight of what he’d done, hurrying his stride to leave it behind before he broke down and grieved. Ossen smiled maliciously at him, and with a wave of furious insight, Godren realized the boy’s escape had been no mistake. Ossen had seen Godren's reaction to the boy’s initial capture; it would not be unlike him at all to spring a disloyal lock if it meant paining his rival to be sent after the escaped prisoner whom he only had sympathy for. Godren wondered if Ossen saw through him more than Mastodon did. It was suddenly clear that Ossen was spitefully pitted against him, and that he would latch onto any sign of pain Godren let slip, going right to the innocent source and doing his worst. He was going to destroy Godren from the inside out, since he was forbidden to touch him as an ally, and the only way Godren could defy him would be by taking his punishing orders without showing how they affected him. That would be worse than anything. Being responsible for something was one thing. Not accepting responsibility for it was an
other, something he wasn’t sure that he could do and still live with himself. His defiance might prove to unravel everything he stood for just as much as letting it happen by Ossen’s ruthless hand.
9: Blackmail Support
His fate seemed inevitable, one way or another. Wracked in despair both for himself and the boy he had dragged back into cruel hands, Godren shut himself away from the world and grieved as he realized the seeds of his inner downfall had been irrevocably planted.
It wasn’t a hard thing to accomplish in the Underworld – shutting yourself away from the rest of the world. Godren banished himself to the dark, pressing his fingertips to his temples and bowing his head over his lap. His breath came in ragged intakes as he struggled to bear the awful feeling tearing him apart inside. The seeds of his downfall left festering holes in his soul – he could feel them; deep, black, and already spreading decay. They were painfully raw, too, pulsing with a deep agony that went clear through him. Waiting to grow, the seeds ate at him, taunting wounds that would never fully heal. No matter what.
He wasn’t even the kind that could surrender to denial in order to block out the inwardly fatal things he didn’t want to see. He was too honest with himself, too prone to deep thinking and being aware of himself.
He was doomed to live with himself, to live with the raw reality of what he was, however bad it got. How cruel it would be to survive through the shame, the guilt, the regret – the overall inhuman responsibility that would weigh on his shoulders and darken his shadow.
Deliver me from this, he begged the gods, rocking back and forth. Give me an avenue out.
*
“Hey Little-britches,” Kane hailed Seth as he entered past the guard. “Mastodon wants to see you. Five minutes ago. Don’t just stand there, chump. Scat.”
Seth hadn’t paused. Casting a long-suffering, mordant look over his shoulder at the impatient guard, he descended through the vanishing fire and headed toward Mastodon’s dreaded study. He knew what this was about.
He entered without knocking, thinking that an order was even better than an invitation and he had every right to let himself in. Mastodon coolly watched him approach her desk, half-hidden behind the drifting smoke of her incense. Seth tried not to choke on the overpowering scent. Mastodon just breathed in scent and smoke alike like it was her idea of fresh air. Watching the smoke whisk into her nostrils, Seth stood across from her.
“Have yourself a seat, Sethos,” the dark-haired woman bade.
“I’ll stand.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Let’s get this over with, shall we? Would you mind…spitting it out?” That last part was said completely politely.
“So eager to face your reckoning?” Mastodon cocked an eyebrow at him, as usual.
“Anticipation always seemed so much worse to me than braving the consequences up front.”
“I see.”
“Well?”
“Well. I’m going to say this very bluntly since you already seem informed about what you’ve done.”
“I am the one that did it, after all.”
“True enough. Keep your dry humor to yourself.”
“As you wish,” Seth said. Dryly.
“I will not even begin to tolerate scandalous actions like what you practiced today in my dungeon, with my prisoners. I don’t have them imprisoned only to have them tirelessly freed from under my nose. I will not be made a fool of. I will not be defied. I will not be deliberately disobeyed. Stop letting my prisoners go, Sethos. Now I’m not going to ask if you understand me. I will ensure that you understand.” The threat was daunting in her even tone, and Seth swallowed, but he looked her in the eye and refused to flinch from her gaze. On the contrary, when she stood as if to deliver him to the punishment she had chosen for him, he stepped closer, put his palms on her desk, and leaned into her pall of smoke to look her straight in her face.
“I’m not going to ask how you know it was me,” Seth said. “I don’t care if it was the ghosts that witnessed it or not. I witnessed Ossen the first time, and I will not accept all the blame. I know you have spies watching our every move, and that’s how you found me out. So don’t tell me you didn’t see Ossen as well. I’m not sure why you’re turning a blind eye on his misgivings, but if you want to cover for him that’s your business. Just know that I know about it, and if I’m going down for this prank, I’m taking him down with me.”
Mastodon, to his surprise, lowered herself back into her seat. Even more to his surprise – she smiled after a moment. “You young ones do amuse me,” she said. There was resignation in her voice, but – yes, candid amusement. “All the drama between you, the little heroic bursts of loyalty and the clever stabs of spite. Always at each other, back and forth. It’s refreshing having some youthful spirits around here. Ah, well. It wouldn’t be good of me to punish you now that I see you divine it isn’t altogether fair, would it? Consider us all even. But, Sethos,” Mastodon said with long-suffering disapproval, “don’t set any more of my prisoners free, eh? It’s a horrible inconvenience.”
*
Sethos wandered into Ossen’s claimed corner, lounging on the bench across from the sweet-smelling fellow and earning his instant, detesting attention. Seth made a show of looking around, though, not quick to give a reason for his presence.
“This is cozy,” he commented.
“What do you want?” Ossen asked.
“Me? Oh, nothing. I’m perfectly content with what I’ve got.”
“Then get lost.”
“I am lost. This place is just riddled with unnecessary twists and turns, don’t you think? I’ve been going in circles – although, honestly, they feel more like triangles; I don’t get dizzy so much as jarringly disconcerted and turned around. Maybe it’s just–”
“Sulk off!”
“Mastodon requires your presence,” Seth said curtly, suddenly wasting no more time.
Ossen took pause at that, but didn’t give Seth the pleasure of him asking questions. He was not going to let Seth explain things, since Seth was so obviously in a smug mood. He didn’t trust that. Pursing his lips unhappily, he hesitated, and then grudgingly went to respond to Mastodon’s summons.
Seth smiled to himself. It was a bitter smile, though. For although he had managed to arrange for Ossen to take the compromise of punishment, that compromise was simply that Ossen would be troubled to track down the boy the second time. So he hadn’t solved everything, since the boy was obviously destined to spend more time in Mastodon’s dungeon. But at least it wouldn’t be on Godren that he was there. Godren could not live with that. He had been kicking himself, tearing himself apart for it ever since following those cruel orders and fetching the boy back. And Seth had burned with the knowledge that it had been Ossen who set the boy free – with the ulterior motive of seeing Godren struggle with the orders to hunt him back down. Seth would not stand for that. It provoked him enough when Ossen jabbed at him, but when he started attacking Godren so fiercely…Seth had to let the blade fall, consequences or not. He felt mortally responsible for Godren, and he was not going to let Ossen contribute to locking the cage that was ever closing on his endangered friend. Ossen wasn’t worth wasting away for. He could not be given the pleasure of seeing his petty spitefulness eat Godren up.
But Godren had a lot on his plate – poisoned stuff that he was forcing himself to eat on his own. How long until he choked? Seth wondered. He was doing whatever he could to lighten the load on Godren’s shoulders. Ossen could play his scornful games, but Seth was serious. He was going to fight. He was going to topple those games like a destructive child. Unlike Godren, he did not mind deigning to that level to fight back.
10: Royal Affair
Godren felt like he was constantly squinting into the glaring sunlight. It had been too long since he’d been above ground and out of the smothering – and usually night-shadowed – alleys of the Ruins. In truth, it was the last assignment he had really expected from Mastodon, but he was so star
ved of daylight and cleanliness that he banished every ounce of the urge to question it. The assignment itself wasn’t so questionable, really. It was just the setting; so open and bright and…exposed.
The assignment was to blend into the gathering that was to assemble in the town square, where the king would be addressing the people. Mastodon wanted to know if anything would be voiced in opposition to her, and Godren and Seth were there to listen in.
The blessed cleanliness came from the awkward fact that they would have quickly been matched to the memorized faces distributed to the people on their personalized Wanted posters, and so Mastodon had reluctantly dipped into a fraction of her stingy resources to clean them up and make them look presentable. More than presentable, actually, for they were both equipped with noble coats and good boots, primped and preened, and even had the good graces to smell nice.
“Don’t get used to it,” Mastodon had warned. She saw no need to indulge them except on these rare occasions when it benefited her, and she made it very clear she would strip them of their finery and throw them back in with the pigs as soon as their assignment was complete. They would likely never catch wind of her horde of wealth again. She was all about her men earning every bit of their keep, and then they were welcome to keep themselves. Not exactly a hospitable employer, but she had to keep her men humble. It would not hurt them to keep roughing it like they always had. They had her as an ally, after all. That was plenty, the way she saw it. They were getting a fine deal.
“I feel uncomfortable in all this nonsensical pizzazz,” Seth remarked, awkwardly shifting his light blue coat. He managed to straighten it, but didn’t manage to look any less awkward. “I never realized how comfortable our scraps of clothing actually were. Aside from being impractical in the cold, they actually agreed with me quite nicely.”
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