Jon sensed that Hektor was inviting him to ask about his family. He had many questions, but chose the most innocent one. “Hektor, do I resemble her?”
“Not in looks,” Hektor said. “But in temperament, yes. When you were only hours old, she noticed it.”
“I thought she died during my birth.”
“Soon after,” Hektor said.
At least, Jon thought, Hektor told the truth. “The sun has set,” he commented. “We ought to go back.” As soon as they joined the others, he said good-night.
That night, as Jon expected, the presence he had felt so many times in his life returned as a pale shadow in the darkness. Jon followed the shadow down the hall and through an empty sleeping room to a passage that cut behind the shrine. Though centipedes brushed his bare feet and thick spiderwebs covered his face and hair, he didn’t dare conjure light.
Cautiously, he felt his way down a set of dark stairs and through a narrow inner passage littered with rocks that had fallen from above. As he went on, he felt shattered bones and rusted remnants of armor beneath his feet. Jonathan had heard accounts of the ancient custom, and now he walked across the result. These were once warriors, most likely the greatest heroes of the people who had built this fortress centuries before the Guardians claimed it as their own. They had been entombed here to give their strength to the walls.
Were these dead condemned to haunt the fortress in ghostly form, reliving the last hours of their lives? Was it their moaning the Guardians heard at night or only the sound of wind blowing through the cracks? Though Jon quaked with fear, the shadow moved insistently forward. In a few more yards the passage ended with no apparent means of escape.
He was deep enough now.
Conjure a light.
Had he heard the words, or was it his own idea?
No matter. A few words, a simple gesture, and a small golden ball glowed brightly in the darkness. Jonathan searched for the exit and saw a hollow beneath his feet, partially blocked by a rusty shield. He knelt and, working as quietly as possible, cleared the debris from the hole dug in the base of the fortress wall. When he’d finished, he examined the earth beneath it.
The soil seemed soft, yielding, as if someone had dug a tunnel there long ago. Perhaps the warriors hadn’t gone to their deaths so willingly. If so, they had become confused about direction, for they had been tunneling into the fortress rather than out. He thought of their despair when they realized their mistake. Nonetheless, he rejoiced as he began shoveling loose dirt from the hole. If his reckoning was correct, the tunnel should lead into the back of the shrine.
The farther he dug, the more dank and putrid the soil smelled, as if the earth he dug was the remnant of corpses. His globe of light was useless in the close confines of the tunnel, so he worked in darkness and steeled himself against screaming if his hands touched bone or rotting flesh. He felt nothing but soft earth until his fist closed around a piece of mortar.
Gripping it, he slid out of his hole to examine the find. When he did, he saw streaks of pale morning light behind the cracks in the wall. He also heard the Guardians at the front of the shrine, standing together, softly chanting their morning prayer. Weary, he thought he should return now, undetected, during the chant. He dropped the mortar and headed back through the wall.
The chanting stopped. Jon was too late. Soon the Guardians would file into the great hall, and someone would go to Jon’s room to wake him. Since he wouldn’t be there, his only chance was to be found somewhere else. He retreated down the passage to a crumbling section of the outer wall and climbed one of the cracks until he found a crevice he could force his body through.
With hands scraped and bleeding, feet cut by the bones and stones and armor, cloak hanging in rags over him, he descended the outer wall to an ice-covered cliff, scarcely wide enough to support him. The wind hammered his body against the stone wall as he worked his way toward the road and entrance.
His hands were growing numb, and his feet had already lost most of their feeling when the ledge ended near the corner of the wall. It had been designed that way to keep enemies from scaling it. In the years since the fortress had been built, the rocks beneath it had weathered, providing toeholds farther down. Jon began the dangerous descent, cursing his impetuous stupidity, mumbling pleas to the shadow and the Guardians’ gods to save him.
A wider ledge cut into the rocks, giving him temporary shelter from the biting wind. As he sat for a moment, catching his breath and rubbing his frostbitten feet, he heard Hektor calling his name. Death waited for him if he attempted to scale these rocks alone and he returned the call, his cry holding no more substance than a whisper in the brutal wind.
He longed to remain where he was, to sleep, to become part of the ghostly band of dead in the fortress. He might have, but for his anger. Pushing himself as far over the cliff as he could, Jon gripped the rocks and screamed Hektor’s name.
The wind stole his voice. He didn’t hear a reply, didn’t feel his hands losing their grip, didn’t notice his body sagging, until Leo pulled him upright. A rope circled his waist. Dangling over an impossible drop, he felt himself raised into Hektor’s waiting arms. A moment later, Hektor pulled Leo to safety.
Jon felt nothing but the warmth of Hektor’s body, pressed against his until he woke. He was swaddled in coverlets and lying beside a fire in the great hall. Leo and Dominic were speaking of him in quiet tones. “I’ve examined him carefully,” Leo said. “He’s only scraped. No signs of bites, just scrapes and bruises. He’ll heal.”
“And thaw,” Jon said, more softly than he intended.
They moved to his side, their joy so sincere that his next words set heavy on his conscience. “I heard a screaming in the night like a woman in pain. I went outside to help. I must have fallen. The wind made it impossible to climb.”
“You were foolish,” Dominic said, his tone like that used to lecture a far younger Jon. Then he noticed the silver eyes watching him belonged to an adult, not a child. “Well, you’re alive, and that’s most important,” he concluded and left Jon alone with his old teacher.
“I’ve been remiss in your education, I see,” Leo said in a tone that tried to sound light.
“Not remiss. I fell so quickly I never had a chance to save myself. No spell could have helped me avoid the rock my head hit or the cold that drained me.”
“Be more careful. We’d hate to lose you.”
Jon’s eyes were bright with tears. A rush of thanks and love, Leo thought, not realizing they were remorse for his deceit.
Jon’s recovery took far longer than the Guardians expected. Two nights later, after spending the entire day in bed, he returned to the tunnel.
This time he came prepared for the work he would do. He changed into a set of old clothing and slipped into an excavation that seemed to have grown larger in the nights he had been away. He no longer noticed the smell of decay, only that the soft earth felt moist and warm and safe. He worked ceaselessly, immune to fatigue and oblivious to the passing of time.
When he finally extended his tunnel beneath the shrine, he didn’t dare use a hammer on the floor stones. Instead, he scraped and pried away the mortar until he pulled out a single small stone. Pleased with his victory, he sent a globe of light into the shrine. All he could see was a large stone slab rising vertically in front of the hole. Probably the altar. The hole was in a shadowed place, less likely to be noticed should the Guardians go inside. Nonetheless, he fit the stone back in place and piled a hill of dirt beneath it to hold it there. Heartened, he slipped from his hole, changed his clothes, and returned to his room to spend another day in bed.
Two nights passed, two productive nights in which he widened the hole enough that he could poke his head through it, though no more.
He wanted to see the cloth exactly as his mother had seen it so many years ago. He lit the candle he had brought and placed it on the floor outside the hole, then maneuvered his head through and saw …
And saw …!
>
His mother’s words couldn’t prepare him for this sight. The horror and beauty of it were as inseparably linked as the souls were linked to the weave of the cloth. The rush of emotion he felt made him want to run, to hide. He even began to pull his head back when he remembered his purpose in coming and softly called his father’s name.
“Vhar.”
For a moment, it seemed the cloth stirred. Perhaps it was only the flicker of the candle, or perhaps the cloth’s growing power. He called again. “Vhar?”
The response was stronger, the cloth moving as if it were touched by a breeze.
“Father, I’ve come to help you,” Jon whispered.
The breeze grew. It blew out Jon’s candle and swirled the dust on the shrine floor. Jon shut his eyes to protect them and whispered, “No matter what the power of the cloth, I’ll save you. The moon is full tomorrow. When you wake, I’ll come for you.”
Though it was no later than midnight, his work was finished. He returned to bed and slept.
As he had occasionally done, Jon joined the Guardians for their morning prayer in front of the shrine. Now that he knew what lay inside, he understood the monks’ short, sincere call for strength. Though only Mattas was truly old, they all looked pale, as if some draining sickness had touched them all. The guard changed after the prayer; Mattas replaced Hektor for the daytime watch at the fortress gate. Jon watched the stooped old man walk across the courtyard and settle onto a stone bench bathed in morning sun. He suddenly felt no guilt for what he would do.
His father was no wizard, no evil creature worth condemning to an eternal prison. Vhar had been a tradesman, greedy perhaps, but not guilty enough to warrant his sentence. Jonathan saw no harm in what he planned to do. One insignificant soul among all the others on the cloth would hardly be missed.
Jon rested through most of the day. He picked at his evening meal, telling the others that the chills of his accident had returned, that his legs ached. He retired early, pretending to drink the potion Leo gave him, but spitting it out as soon as he reached his room. Some time later, when Hektor came upstairs to check on him, Jon was in bed, apparently drugged but far too awake for him to bolt the door. Later, when Hektor passed Jon’s room again, he saw what he thought was Jon sleeping, wrapped tightly in the blankets. He locked the door and went on his way.
By then, Jon had already descended the hidden stairs. As the monks gathered at the front of the shrine, saying the first of many evening prayers, Jon entered the tunnel, sliding the length of it until his head was only a foot or so from the hole he’d made in the floor.
The tunnel seemed to breathe—a draft moving in and out as if some huge creature inhaled and exhaled in the shrine above. The air shifted over him, damp and cool, palpably alive. Inhale—scents of cold fresh winter air. Exhale—scents of mustiness, darkness, decay.
When the chanting started, it seemed distant, muffled by the earth and the chapel above him. Certainly, it wasn’t as loud as the breathing, which had grown louder even than the beat of his heart. He heard a rustling in the shrine above, steps on the floor.
Then the sounds began. Shrieks. Raucous, horrible laughter. A light flickered beyond the hole he’d made in the floor. His terror grew as the sounds swelled; the screams echoed, deafening, and the footfalls pounded angrily on the stones above. Jon’s mind flashed briefly on the threat of the floor caving in, or his being drawn into the rasping orgy. The undead spirits would suck the blood from his veins, and the cloth would absorb what was left, as it had his mother.
As he stared at the hole he’d made, his plan seemed ill conceived. Even if he could find his father, the man would never fit through this. If Vhar somehow did get through, where would they go?
But another voice in Jon’s head told him he had worked too hard to abandon hope. He twisted around onto his back and slowly inched toward the hole. The pounding continued above him, bits of stone and earth falling on his face and into his eyes. He shut them, letting the tears flow and moved forward again.
The noise stopped.
The chanting stopped.
The breathing stopped.
The things in the chapel waited for release.
Jon’s face was bathed in sudden light, brilliant and white like winter sun on fresh snow. He opened his eyes and saw that his face was exactly below the hole, where the light came from. Though he saw nothing more than the brightness above him, he sensed eyes watching him, weighing the resolve in his soul.
Time seemed to pass too slowly. His legs and arms felt numb. The rest of his body seemed frozen. A face appeared above his hole—a dark, masculine silhouette. Then it moved back, and Jon could discern the features. The face was triangular, with high cheekbones and wide-spaced silver eyes framed with thin, white hair. When Jon was older, these would be his features. It must be his father, and yet … Leith described him differently. She called him the …
The truth was swept away by words the man in the shrine above spoke. “Silver man.”
From somewhere deep in the silence above him, Jon felt an insistent wordless warning. For an instant his terror returned, but he fought it back. “Father,” he whispered and smiled.
“Take my hand.” The voice, so like his own voice, spoke the words clearly now. He obeyed, and they touched, the man’s hand trembling with emotion, yes, but cold and lifeless even so.
“The night will end soon. For us there will be others. Do not let me go.”
In response, Jon squeezed his father’s fingers. Though something clawed at them, trying to break their hold, Jon held fast until the light disappeared. Air hissed through the tunnel, around Jon, and into the shrine. Jon, feeling his father pull away from him, gripped the hand harder, wedging his knees on either side of the hole to keep from being sucked into the maelstrom above. His skin tingled from the final, terrible roar as the creatures whirled and screamed and beat their last defiance against the doors and walls of their prison.
And then they were still.
The hand Jon held became dry and light as if the substance of life had drained, leaving only a flat, empty shell. “Father?” he whispered and felt an answering tremor. Without being told, Jon drew what was left of his father carefully through the hole, fearful of tearing him on the sharp-edged stones. When he’d finished, he propped the floor slab back in place and slid backward through the tunnel, carrying the lifeless husk of his father draped over one arm.
Near the foot of the stairs, he found a shallow opening, and laid the body in it. Only its shape looked human, only its eyes moved, and they were filled with gratitude. Jon couldn’t take his father to his room, so he left the body there, protected by his spell. Before he left, he whispering a promise to return after dark.
He waited in an empty sleeping room until Leo unlocked his door, then stole down the hall. He pulled the pile of clothes from beneath the blanket and slept. He was aware of the others looking in on him, of Leo’s hand brushing his forehead, but no one tried to wake him until the midday meal. When he joined them, he dressed warmly, his walk stiff. “As soon as I’m able, I’ll go back to Linde,” he said. “I doubt I’ll be able to return here for quite some time.”
“Before you leave, there’s something we need to discuss,” Dominic said.
Jon would have asked to speak with him immediately, but he felt far too weary. “Tomorrow,” he said and returned to his bed.
He slept far longer than he expected. Food sat on the table beside him, along with the potion that would drug him back to sleep. His door was unlocked—in fact open—and, in the distance, the chanting rose up again.
Did they expect him to go to the shrine, to see the ceremony? Would they answer his questions afterward? Most likely they would, but, before he went to them, he had to see to his father. He dressed quickly and followed the passage to where his father waited.
The body looked thicker now, the coloring of the face, while pale, seemed natural. “Vhar,” Jon whispered, not daring to touch the form. “Father?”
; The eyes opened and fixed on his. The thin lips curved upward in a bitter smile. His father sat up and gripped Jon’s hand. The touch was strong, alive. “There is sorcery in these walls. I tried to go to your room, but couldn’t. I tried to go into the tunnel to … give comfort to the others. I cannot. Perhaps … when I am stronger.”
“We will leave here. We will go tomorrow.”
“I feel a change inside me, caused by those years on the cloth. I cannot move during the light of day.”
“I can carry you.”
“My body would burn like tinder if sunlight should touch it. We must go tonight.”
Jon considered this. He wanted to hear what Dominic would tell him, but if the ritual were as his mother described, there would be no better time to go. “If you can’t pass through these walls, how can we leave?” Jon asked.
“Take my hand and draw me through, as you did from the shrine.”
“Then come.”
Jon left a note in his room. It was rambling and disjointed, and spoke of his passion for Sondra, his need for her if he were to recover. He wrote eloquently of torn desires. He thought they would understand.
Afterward, black cloaks covering their faces and hands, he and his father stood in the great hall, watching the monks chanting at the door of the silent shrine. His father whispered a single word. The cloth woke. The screams of the doomed masked the soft footsteps stealing through the fortress gates and into the moonlit night.
They went, father and son, hand in hand, their silver hair and pale faces whitened by the cold moonlight.
PART III
Silverlord
His days had once been controlled by the waxing and waning of the moon. Now time quickened to a faster pace of sleep and waking—night when he walked and spoke and learned from his son; day when he slept in the cavern prepared for him, only the dried shell of his body visible to Jonathan lying beside him.
His memory returned in disconnected pieces. He saw his reflection in the cave’s pool of milky water and recalled children playing beside a fountain in a village square, a dog howling in warning as he passed them.
Tapestry of Dark Souls Page 18