Celacia eyed him suspiciously.
Tarquin slowly drew out his sword with his right hand. “I can get us there in a second.” He held out his left hand to her.
Celacia looked at it. Then she turned her green eyes to his. “Not afraid?” she asked, motioning with her eyes down at his shroud, which was beginning to fray and decay at the ends.
Tarquin pursed his lips. “It’ll just be a second.”
Celacia smiled. “Okee dokee then.”
She grabbed his hand and felt him cringe in pain. She saw his thumb swipe over a runic symbol on his sword and it wasn’t more than a blink of an eye before she found herself surrounded by blackness. She felt Tarquin rip his left hand from hers, and then, feeling that she had met the requirement of “going with him”, Celacia flared her deathly aura. But it was already too late, Tarquin was already gone from her immediate presence.
A moment later she heard his screams. It sounded close, but muffled. She must have still got him, at least a little. Celacia looked around, her eyes unable to adjust to the overriding blackness that surrounded her. There was an acrid, scorched-metal odor in the air. Star-metal. She looked around. She couldn’t immediately see any type of door. She suddenly came to realize she was in a room made of star-metal.
“You bitch!” she heard Tarquin snarl from somewhere beyond the walls. “You’re going to rot in here for eternity!” She heard him spit, and then he was gone.
Celacia let loose her aura. She felt it flare out from her in all directions. She fully expected to hear brick or stone crack and decay from outside, but there was nothing. She knew her powers could not touch star-metal, but it could pass beyond it. Certainly, if she were in some prison cell of star-metal within the castle, the brick beyond this room would be dust. She flared her aura again and again and a final time with all her strength, but there was nothing.
She ran across the room and banged on the wall. Her hand impacted cold star-metal. She screamed out, her own voice echoing off the walls. “Hello!” but there was nothing but her own voice resounding in her head.
She stood there a moment and closed her eyes, breathing deeply. She opened her eyes again and looked around. It was pitch black but for a small opening on the far wall at eye level that seemed just a shade lighter. She walked over there and found a slit about two feet wide and six-inches high. She stuck her arm out and felt empty air. She peered out of it and saw inky nothingness beyond. She called out, but there was no response, and her voice seemed to echo off into some sort of dark, endless infinity. She traced her hand around and felt a small seam. This was the door, the slit some type of window. But there was no handle and no matter how hard she pushed, it did not budge. She tried getting her fingers in the seam, but it was far too tight for even her fingernail.
Celacia puffed out a long breath and looked around. There was no way to tell where she was or even how big her cell was. It felt large and empty. She decided to stroll its perimeter, scraping one hand along the walls as she went. She guessed the room to be about twenty or thirty feet on all sides. It was an enormous, empty room. There was nothing in it. Only her and endless blackness.
Celacia plopped herself down on the floor, her armor clapping loudly. She rubbed her face into her hands and then looked back out into the empty darkness. She had no idea where she was. She had never heard of a cell made of star-metal, though she figured it had to be somewhere in the Stellarium or in Sanctuary. Since the Goddess fell, nobody had any means to forge or craft star-metal, and those were the only two places that would have this much or have a dungeon made of it. Part of her began to wonder if maybe she was in the Stellarium in some forgotten basement that had been made by the Goddess just for her. Perhaps it had once been made to contain her and the other Avatars should they ever go rogue. She sighed. It didn’t matter. No matter where she was, she was trapped. Not even her power could touch star-metal.
Celacia sighed. She hadn’t expected this. She was expecting some sort of lame attempt at shackling her with runic bindings like she had seen used on Isley and Nuriel back at the Firerims. She had expected some sort of invention by the Jinn to contain her. She had heard of the Black Cells used to hold Dark Star Knights and thought they’d try trapping her in something like that. She supposed that was stupid of her. She should have known a demon would have been more calculating than that…especially a demon with an age-old grudge against her.
“Well played, Bulifer. Well played.” she said aloud. She laid down upon the floor, staring up into darkness. She had just slept for an entire age. She could not sleep for another. She couldn’t bear the thought. She had to get back to him. She had to know if he was real; if what they shared in her dreams had been real. She wanted to know if anything she remembered was real, or if they were just delusions born of her imagination as she slept through a thousand years in cold and darkness. She had awoken to this age; a strange age; a foreign age. An age she did not belong in. All she had to hold on to was the memories of him, and she couldn’t even be certain those were real. She dared not speculate. She would only know if she could get back to him, and all she needed was the Mard Grander.
She closed her eyes, though it made little difference in what she saw. In her mind she focused on the handsome face that haunted her dreams. It was soft and fair and kind. She could feel her hand in his. It was warm and gentle and did not wither to dust in her grasp. She laughed and ran through a meadow, and though death chased her footsteps, flowers and grass regrew. She was laughing and fell upon the soft earth, warm sun beating down on her face. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, taking in the scents of fresh flowers and warm summer grass. He fell beside her and wrapped an arm around her. His hand went to her cheek and she turned and looked at him. She stared into his blue eyes. She could stare into them forever.
A dire voice in her mind warned that she might have to.
Celacia breathed deeply. “The Long Hours. These are just my Long Hours.”
— 22 —
BREAKING CHAINS
Rook shot up from the dirty scattering of hay he had called a bed the last three nights. He gasped for breath as the ice-cold water stung him and drenched him.
“You get up now, stupid brat.” said Garrot from behind the rusty bars. He stood outside Rook’s cell in a passageway made of rough-hewn stones that in many places dripped with some sort of green, slimy fungus. His pudgy face scowled at Rook, illuminated by the flickering light of torches that lined the hall. He glanced warily down either side of the dank, underground passageway and, not seeing Saint Rathaniel anywhere, picked up a second bucket from the dirty stone floor. “Have another.”
Rook braced himself as a freezing cascade of water washed over him. His breath stuck in his throat from the shock and his body made a violent shiver. He scooted himself across the wet stones of the cell, dirty hay clinging to his dingy outfit, and pressed himself into the corner. The fat man still had another four buckets at his feet and the rest of Rook’s cellmates moved as far from him as they could get. They were the other children of Rook’s age, both boys and girls. Over the last few weeks Rook had come to know all their names and to expect Garrot’s petty torments. Although, ever since they arrived in the city of Rothara three days ago, the man had been increasingly hostile toward him. Rook knew that it was because Rathaniel was not around. Out on the road there was little Garrot could do to him that Rathaniel couldn’t see. Just the occasional slap or kick. But here in the city of Rothara, just over the Narbereth border, Saint Rathaniel had all but disappeared.
Garrot looked both ways down the dark hall again. Then he grabbed the burning torch off the wall. He waved it through the bars toward Rook. It would never hit him, but it was close enough that Rook could feel the uncomfortable heat from it. “I oughta burn you good, boy.”
Rook looked up at the fat man, his brow furled in disgust at him. Garrot had slapped him across the back with a belt yesterday and his back was still so sore and tender that it burned as he pressed himself against the
wall. His lip was still swollen and throbbing from yesterday too, and he wasn’t sure, but he thought one of his ribs might be cracked. He could hear Balsam, Copper, Ruby, Fawn and the others all whimpering from the opposite end of the cell. From down the hall Buck, one of the older boys and Fawn’s brother, yelled, “Come on, leave him alone!”
Garrot glanced down the hall. “You shut your face or I come for you next!” He turned his droopy, hateful eyes back to Rook. “You’re lucky today is for sales or I’d burn you good. Burn that look off your face, brat.”
Garrot placed the torch back on the wall and grabbed the other wooden buckets and placed them next to the door to Rook’s cell. He fumbled with a ring of rusty keys for a minute and opened the door, just enough for him to squeeze his bulk in. Then he brought in the buckets of water and locked the door behind him. He looked at Rook. “Get naked, brat.” He turned his eyes to the others. “All of you. Naked, now.”
Rook could see the others all trembling as they fumbled with their clothing. All of them were dirty. Filthy really. Their faces and arms were all streaked with grime, their hair greasy, and though he had become accustomed to the smells, Rook knew they all stank to Aeoria’s heaven. They had all been on the road for nearly a month without stopping at a single city. There had been some ponds and streams to wash in along the way, but west of Caer Gatima all of Jerusa was uninhabited forest and plainland. There were no roads or easy paths and travel had been slow and tedious in the wagon. Rook had overheard Rathaniel telling one of the other boys that Gatima did not allow anybody to live more than two-hundred miles from Gatimaria. The King liked to keep his people as close as possible.
It wasn’t until they made it across the border into Narbereth that they began to make good time. Rook and the others thought it was something of a surprising let-down when they learned that the border between Gatimaria and Narbereth was nothing but an invisible line across the earth. They had all grown up hearing the tales of how it was an impassible mountain wall guarded by bloodthirsty Narberethan soldiers and their man-eating wolves. Quite to the contrary, it was relatively tame fields speckled with pine forest, and there was even a road. At first the road was nothing more than a tract of worn dirt, but the further into Narbereth they got, the more the road became something real and tangible until they were actually upon well-kept flagstone.
And if the border crossing was surprising, even more stunning revelations had awaited them in Narbereth. From the road they had spied a few small villages that gave them a curious glimpse of smoking chimneys and plentiful fields of corn and beans coming up. There had even been a young man herding a giant flock of sheep across the road. Rathaniel had told them that the boy was a shepherd and that it was common for them to travel the land for good pasture. Neither Rook nor any of the others had imagined that one person might be in charge of so much meat and wool, or that so many of one animal might even exist.
And the surprises kept coming. Eventually Garrot and Rathaniel actually stopped in a small hamlet called Eastham to restock food and water. It was a brief stay and none of them were even allowed off the wagon, but even still, that one little glimpse of a Narberethan city was like something from a dream. Rook and the others were so excited that they all packed themselves along the wagon’s railing, peering out in awe at the sights and smells. They had seen people walking about and they were all well-dressed. Some had swords hanging from scabbards at their sides. A few had bows over their backs. The people actually had weapons. They wore shirts and pants of warm homespun and they all had leather shoes or boots. Nobody was dressed in rags. Nobody was thin or starving. The thatched roof houses of timber and plaster were all in good condition, all of them with smoking chimneys and all of them with pens for chickens or pigs and even cows. Many of them even had small gardens of their own. And Aeoria bless it, the smell of food was everywhere. It was almost more than any of them could believe.
The one peculiar thing was the veils all the women wore. Some wore long veils that draped to their chest, others wore short veils that hung no lower than their chin. They wore blue or red or black or any number of color veils. But the one thing all the women shared in common was a veil that covered them from the eyes down.
But all the grandeur of that tiny little hamlet paled in comparison to what they saw when they entered the gates of the city of Rothara. According to Rathaniel, Rothara was the largest city this far east of Narberia, the kingdom’s capital where King Dahnzeg ruled. And apparently, as far as Narberethan cities went, even this was rather small. Beyond the gates of the city’s high, stone walls, a whole new world of sights and sounds and smells opened up to them. Men, women and children packed the streets. People drove their horse-drawn carts along the roads. Everything was busy and bustling. Everything was loud. There were children laughing and running. People were conversing in the streets. There were houses made of stone and brick and they lined the roads in tight clusters. The pleasing scent of woodsmoke filled the air and mingled with the savory aromas of cooking food. The major streets had tall lampposts to light them with gaslight at night and at the city’s center was a magnificent fountain that actually worked. In the center of the fountain was a pair of solid gold statues of beautiful women in flowing gowns. Their forms were slender and lithe; their faces soft and beautiful and neither had a veil. There were taverns and stores and they had even passed a market where vendors lined the streets with carts of fruits and vegetables, fish and meats. There were breads and pastries and candies and anything they could imagine. It was unbelievable. It was like something out of a dream. Rook’s young mind struggled with the notion that there could be so much food in abundance that it was just heaped in carts waiting for people to buy it.
But the grandeur of Rothara quickly faded. Past the nice roads and tall buildings, beyond the food markets and friendly taverns and inns, down streets that began to look more familiar to Rook, they were taken to a foreboding place. Here, the taverns were not so friendly. Here, the people on the streets lurked in the shadows of alleys and watched them pass with wary eyes. Here, the smell of food was replaced by the stench of sewage and garbage. Here, the streets of brick became muddy dirt and haggard women with veils upon their faces and boys in tattered rags ran up to the wagon, begging, but were swiftly sent away by Rathaniel’s and Garrot’s boots.
Then they had come upon a high wall of weathered timbers. It was a place that reeked of sweat, old liquor, sewage and blood. Beyond the wall they could all hear the roar of a rough-and-tumble crowd. They could hear the chime of steel upon steel. And they could hear the horrible screams of death being drowned out by cheers and jeers. There was a rusty portcullis guarded by some brutes in leather armor. After Garrot tossed them a small sack of coins they were let in.
Bound in chains, Rook and the others found themselves led across a dusty yard where men, women and children sat locked in shackles, lorded over by cruel looking masters. There was a man tied to a post and Rook had to turn away. His back was torn and bloody, and he wailed in pain with every lash of the whip he received. There were a number of women across the yard, all of them conspicuously absent of veils. Many of them pleaded on their hands and knees to their captors who stood over them with cold indifference. There was some sort of crudely constructed booth they were lined up before, and from it there were terrible screams.
And then they had been taken here, to these dank cells. Here, in this underground dungeon, they had been kept for days with little to eat or drink. But now something was going to happen to them all, and Garrot made it clear that he expected nothing but complete silence and obedience from them. His dark, droopy eyes stared hatefully down at Rook. “Come on brat, undress.”
Rook threw off his dingy shirt. He paused when it came to his pants. He still had the Golothic hidden in his pocket, and wrapped up in the waist was hidden the dagger. He breathed deep and slowly, then took down his pants, careful not to allow the dagger to show or fall free.
“Come here.” demanded Garrot.
&nbs
p; Rook looked to the side where all the other children huddled naked, far away from him. Suddenly he was grabbed by his hair. Rook yelped and reached up, clutching at Garrot’s fat wrists as he was dragged painfully across the floor.
“Wash up!” growled the fat man, slamming Rook’s face into the bucket.
The world dissolved into murky, muffled wetness as Rook felt ice-cold water engulf his head. His own hands found the edges of the bucket and he tried to push up, but Garrot clutched his hair painfully in his hand and kept him under. He felt his heart start to race. He could hear the water bubble and splash around his ears as he struggled. Time seemed to tick by and still his head was submerged in dark water. His lungs began to burn. His mind began to struggle against his body’s desire to gulp for breath. He could feel his strength fading. He could no longer be certain that the darkness that filled his vision was simply that of his head being in the bucket. And then his head was torn out of the water and he was thrown to the ground.
Rook’s naked body slapped upon the stone. He lay on his belly, gasping for breath. He looked up and saw Garrot standing over him, dark eyes scowling.
“Get up!” Garrot kicked him in the side.
Still gasping, the kick caused Rook’s lungs to lock up painfully and his breath stuck in his throat. His eyes went wide from the pain. More than ever, Rook was certain that one of those ribs was cracked. He curled up into a ball on the floor. His eyes watering from the pain. He caught a glimpse of his ribs; a black and blue splotch the size of Garrot’s fist encompassed them.
“Get up, brat!” Rook felt Garrot’s big hand grab a wad of his hair. He was pulled painfully to his feet. “Get up!” Rook braced himself as he saw the man’s fat hand draw backward to strike him.
“Garrot, did I not make myself clear?” intoned the voice of Saint Rathaniel.
The Record of the Saints Caliber Page 58