Despite the malice that haunted it’s darkened alleyways, she knew that whatever could be found out about Blackall’s fate would be found down here beneath the streets. She cared for little else - not for today, nor an obscure future. Whatever penance she had to pay down in the dark, it seemed nothing but the physical manifestation of an internal sentence. For the rest of her life seemed just that - a sentence to silence, sorrow and death. Blackall’s men were not him, but at least they’d known him. And she would rather live amongst his men in the darkness than in some clean, bright room that’d known nothing of him. Some remnant of his spirit likely lived down there among his thieves, some memory displayed as an intangible sense of his presence. Flawed and incomplete, yes; but better than a fading memory or a bright void.
On the fringes, hiding deep in dark places, she would learn. She would find those who could teach her. She belonged among the misfits, hidden in the shadows like a shameful secret or a mistake of fate. Certainly such types could be found there, like the poor Mr. Daveye; those with knowledge that would aid her. Certainly such types were her own kin. And one way or another, eventually, their knowledge would lead her back to him again, in this life or the next. It was the only hope he had.
As if in a dream, she descended the cobbled chasm that swiveled deep into the earth. Light disappeared as she traveled down, her boot heels slipping over wet cobblestone. Her heart raced faster as she descended, doubts and self-derision cutting sharply lines through her thoughts. But she abandoned all concern for the sake of her heart’s ties. She would hold fast to them, as to the last ties to life; she would brave whatever came, knowing it was the only way to prove herself worthy of life.
The dark streets smelled of death and decay, and the mere memory of the blackness below crept over her skin in sickening waves. The streets were deserted and eerily silent. Even the sound of her boot heels hitting ground seemed muddied - absorbed by darkness or the thick air, she couldn’t tell. As she went, she sensed her presence hadn’t gone unnoticed. She felt eyes on her, watching from somewhere in the dark. But she pressed on, traipsing carefully, hoping to come upon a young lad or someone of a less threatening kind.
But a sudden presence jarred her senses, and she turned to find a group of men had crept up behind her, emerging from the darkness like ghosts. Their eyes reflected what little light shown below the streets, glaring in the gloom like nocturnal beasts. Nothing of civilized men showed there, nothing like pity. Their scowls were cut out in greasy, bitter lines; written with the kind of hatred accumulated in long, hard years of misery and oppression - the kind that kindles true hatred in the heart and accompanies blood lust and madness, not wisdom. They’d no compassion for her innocence, they hated her for it.
Compulsion baited her to run, so she did, tumbling desperately down dark streets, slipping round corners that nearly impacted her with their closeness. She couldn’t see. The creatures followed close behind, their steps pounding together in a unified assault. Surely they knew where this dark road headed, though she did not. Their advantage was clear. But she was hardly thinking now.
The great, glaring chasm came upon her suddenly - an enormous round pit that cut deep into the Earth, displaying the levels of the Barathrum like layers of a great blackened cake. She strained to a halt before the railed edge, feeling the cool air rise up from the massive void in an echoing sigh. The span of a breath was all the men needed to overtake her, and she was instantly boxed in by their dark, wiry forms in every direction.
“Please,” she gasped, hoping to reason with them.
One of them stepped forward.
“The liddle princess,” a deep voice rattled. “The one as we’ve all been dying for to meet. Dozens of us already, in fact. You ‘ave any idea how many, ye spoiled bitch?”
He stepped up and slapped her in the jaw, so hard she nearly fell to the ground, choking and spitting as her mouth filled with sweet-tasting blood. The man grasped her by the hair, pulling her head back from the scalp and twisting her wrist behind her with the other hand. Despite a desire to be brave, she squealed at the pain, realizing viscerally how far these men’s world strayed from civility.
“I-” she choked desperately. “I’ve come about your master.”
The men cackled viciously from the darkness as her attacker pulled tight on his grip.
“Master?” he mocked. “There’s no masters here anymore.”
His fist descended over her and with a nauseous, fleshy thud, and all faded to black.
~
Consciousness stalked her as she bounced loosely on a roughly-outfitted shoulder, her head so pained that she ached for the solace of oblivion to swallow her once more. But she was just lucid enough to smell the cool, stagnant air that rose off of the great chasm; and to realize she was being carried down, down, down on the ancient trail along it’s outer edge. She couldn’t tell how many levels she’d descended already, but the top was far above, bright daylight compared to the blackened silence she and the men were intruding upon. The trail creaked and moaned beneath their heavy, booted steps as awareness failed her once more.
~
She woke in a strange room, sprawled across a dingy mattress in the near dark. With blurred vision, she registered a fire burning low. The pain in her head still throbbed, but it paled in comparison to the empty ache in her chest. The man had said that there were no longer any masters here. Her mind choked over the words, her stomach twisting at the recollection of their utterance. They cut deep, reminding her that Blackall was dead, disappeared from this world, and that it was all her fault. Her face crumpled as she lay slack upon the sheets. The pain of his loss was too much. She felt she’d never be strong again, not even enough to rise from the dusty surface of the bed cover.
She was descended into a deep and lawless abyss, within and without. She felt dull and horribly indifferent. It was only by it’s spontaneous fulfillment that her life continued, chest rising and falling with each breath, as if by some miracle beyond will. Everything apart from that she abandoned. She could not try. She could only watch life unfold as a spectator, watch it flow past in a constant, restless river, colors and shades intertwining as she faded further back from the chaos. She focussed her thoughts on the man in the field, putting her whole heart into his memory to escape the heartbreak all around her; escaping into his eyes and the way his lips moved when he spoke. She pictured his every limb and feature - the unique shade of his skin, the particular quality with which it seemed to glow. The turn of his jaw when he spoke - impish and mocking - until the memories began to fade like pages overturned and read too many times, and her heart broke all over again at their dimming. All was loss.
An unseen door creaked open and in stepped a man, the one she recognized as Kenward, one of Blackall’s lieutenants. He tripped cautiously into the light, studying her soberly. Though he was a strong man, tall and proud; he looked over her with anxious care, his eyes scanning her circumspectly. In her indifference, she neither rose nor acknowledged his arrival with words. She merely flicked her eyes in his direction, then returned them to their previous, staring posture.
“I see,” Kenward said, swallowing. “You are come back.”
She watched the fire numbly.
“He said you might do.”
The flame’s heat warmed her cheeks, making them feel fevered.
“You know, it is by pure luck that I was able to save you,” he continued in a low, cautious voice. “Those men, they meant to kill you, and do you great harm beforehand. The master is gone now. We officers who remain hold precarious sway over a city gone mad. The men rage in the darkness, taking vengeance as they may, grappling against their fear and powerlessness. They hate you, you see, for the lives risked and lost for your sake. Though it is not your fault, they see it as such. You are a target for their fears, which they would hang round your neck. They never knew why the master risked such a great deal for your return, though I find that I...” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps... begin to understa
nd. But I should never presume-” he paused. “They are crazed with fear of the dark entity that haunts you. The men, that is.”
A shiver ran through her at the words, but the peril only increased her sense of apathy.
“I know little of it,” he continued. “Or of the realms beyond this place. The master never schooled me in his ways. But I shall aid you as I can, as he directed me to, and as would have pleased him. Rest assured, you are safe while I watch.”
Kenward dropped onto a small ottoman near the edge of the fire’s dim light, running a hand anxiously through his greasy, flaxen locks.
“Where am I,” Annabelle croaked.
“Deep beneath the earth,” he answered. “In a remote corner of the Dark City. In the master’s own dwelling. There are many rooms here, this being one of the finer, but scarce used.”
She shifted her eyes about, unable to make out any aspect of the room in the dark - neither wall, furniture nor linen.
“He bade me bring you here,” Kenward continued, his voice strangely hoarse. “Before he moved on. If anything happened... He said you may come, and may know things; and that I was to bring you here.”
“What do you mean?” she asked weakly, her voice hoarse from lack of use. “Perhaps you have not heard. He ...died... behind a train in the country.”
She choked on the word. But Kenward looked up, face askance.
“No,” he said. “No, miss. He was there, on the train. But he came back to the city after the scuffle in the county. He didn’t die out there, no; though he was near expiring before he moved on.”
“WHAT?” she shot up on the bed, her voice weak and gasping. Her body ached greatly, but dismissed it in her fervor. “Moved on? What do you mean? Where is he? Where did he go?”
Kenward paused, a look of caution marking his features as he absorbed her unguarded inquiries. He seemed unsure how much to tell her.
“Beyond,” he said in a near whisper, his eyes shining with fear. “Where none can follow. A realm beyond death, unfathomable to such as we. A terrible place populated by immortals and princely demons, the home of your Valak. A place I never would’ve believed existed before recent weeks. But after the things I’ve seen of late... Well. Master said little of it, but to my mind, it was likened to a dream, vast and oddly changing, cast in eternal shadow. A place that can only be navigated by those such as he, those of great power. I heard tell that a man near death may find succor there, succor from his own demise, and stretch his years on without end. Some may even find healing there, if they do not forget their own name and become a wanderer lost to the darkness.”
“Only, do not fear,” he said, responding to the look of terror on her face. “The master charged me with your protection, which you have. I am no tyrant. I will not hold you here. But consider, thieves await you in the shadows all about, and a principality haunts your steps. What protection remains from the master shall keep you if you stay within these walls. He enchanted them long ago, and the power remains, though he has moved on.”
Moved on. Moved on. Her heart tripped over the words, tried to comprehend them, to swallow them down. But they caught in her throat like a jagged pill. He’d really gone. He’d left. He’d never come after her at the great house. He’d just turned and gone.
He must hate her. He must be indifferent after all he’d endured because of her. But what would she do with knowing this? How could she take it in, and let it reside in her bones? Truly, she hadn’t the right to expect his loyalty after all that’d happened. She’d run from him, defied him, angered him. She’d caused all of this. Hadn’t she? It was her own fault that he’d lost so many men. But it was crushing to think that he’d abandoned her, and in a moment of deepest need; knowing the peril she was in. Perhaps she deserved it. Yes. Perhaps he felt nothing for her. Surely, it must be that. She was just a hapless girl compared to him. He must’ve realized this and lost interest.
“Why,” she asked, her voice cracking and low. “Why did he leave?”
For though she already knew the answer, her morbid curiosity and self-derision wished to hear the words spoken; to feel their certainty pour over her from another’s lips. Kenward studied her as the fire flickered softly across his face.
“I believe, miss,” he said meekly. “That he meant to save you by some means, by traveling into the accursed realms and seeking out the Valak at it’s ancient resting place. He was too weak from injury to face the creature in this world, so he passed into the next that he might have a chance at defeating it.”
It was as if a hammer had crashed down upon her chest, shocking her senses. Her lip quivered as she sat dumbfounded, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. How could it be? How could it be that Blackall had done such a thing for her? She struggled with the implications, savoring them for as long as she could, breathing them in and out cautiously, careful that her own guts shouldn’t crush their essence. For her heart could hardly sustain the sense of such a possibility. It filled her with a warmth that expanded sight above and all around her head. It filled her lungs. But the feeling turned hot and acidic, crazed and manic, when she realized where he was and what he meant to face. And she now had little else to do but reflect upon it.
CHAPTER 38
Given to the Grave
Dark days passed. She wandered Blackall’s home only while Kenward was away, not for fear he’d forbid her, but because it seemed rude somehow. It took time to find the courage to enter Blackall’s private chambers, the place where he’d slept, eaten and spent his most intimate hours. She wasn’t sure she had the heart to face it. But as the days passed and she recovered from the injuries inflicted by the men, her trembling fear of any reminder of Blackall eased into an unflinching pull toward the place. For while she feared the way it would cut, she found herself constantly reaching out with her feelings; hoping to grasp any sense of his progress, longing for and recoiling from the brightness of his mind.
She entered the rooms cautiously, finding a fire burning in the hearth, illuminating a large four-posted bed. The flame burned with a slightly blue tint. Perhaps it was enchanted to stay alight. The rooms were grand but decrepit as the rest of the Barathrum, linens hanging ragged while walls and ceilings peeled. The air was silent and still as the grave. And upon entering, the sense of him was overwhelming. She choked on it with every breath, her eyes blared from telling surfaces as her heart pounded with the feeling of him. Even the smallest detail spoke - candles, quills and other small sundries discarded, wax melted down onto tables and shelves, rolling bed sheets messed and compacted to flatness. She found the courage to touch these things lightly, wandering the room with fingers rolling over wall, table and chilled, sacred sheets.
Though she feared to admit it to herself, the moment she entered the rooms, she began to understand what it was she must do. Her heart sounded like a thundering prophet, permeating the space around her; while her mind’s voice rebelled in a doubting whisper, seeking safety and justifying fear. She knew there was nothing left for her here anymore. Even Kenward knew that. Nothing above, nothing below. Outside thieves sought her, and would willingly sacrifice her as a peace offering to the devil that hunted her, or settle for revenging themselves through her destruction. Above ground, she would be hunted. Her uncle was no help, he and Ackworth were monsters who wished her imprisoned and buried in despair. Even living as a fugitive by the light of the candle would prove troublesome and risky, the slightest mishap likely ending in death. Living below ground, here in the master’s sanctuary, she would find safety. But her days would pale with her hope, and she would one day wake to find herself a faded star, lost and numb to the light. Beyond this wasteland of circumstance, she could see only one option.
Beyond.
She knew it was the way, her heart seemed to beat with the certainty of it alone. It poured through her senses like warm liquid, filled with assurance and harmonious accord. Yes, this was the way. And she knew instinctually that anything less than following this path could send her spinning apar
t from Blackall into timeless darkness, displaced for an eternity. Sacrifice and desire had brought them together, years upon years of accumulative striving. Would she now undo all that’d been done by acting a coward? By folding before the face of her own death? She’d found the courage to follow her heart before. She must do it again. It was the only way. But she was afraid to the point of paralysis.
As if in a trance, she wrote a note for Kenward and placed it on the ledge above the fire. Then, she set desperately about Blackall’s quarters to find some vehicle to send her on her journey - some note, some spell, some key, something - skimming ransacked surfaces with shaking hands. It was then that she found the back room. It was dark and filled with arcane objects, with an altar at the back wall covered with strange and deathly items. An ancient book lay upon it, from what she could tell, a spell book. A small note lay upon an open page with the scribbled words:
Go ye into the burning valley of the West,
among the mountains of gold and silver and tin
The Valley of angels who led man astray
She put it down, feeling chilled, and flipped through the spell book’s thick, creaking pages; finding various titles inscribed meticulously in Latin. Effusio Virtutis. The Absorption of Power. Uocantibus Familiar. Call of the Familiar. Evocatis Mantra. The Summoning Mantra. But the volume kept falling open to a particular page, one that seemed to have been read quite often of late. The title read:
Beyond the Blue Light Page 41