The Eternal Dungeon: a Turn-of-the-Century Toughs omnibus

by Dusk Peterson

CHAPTER SEVEN

  As the Eternal Dungeon’s gates slammed shut behind the exiting bats, a Seeker stormed into the entry hall. “Do you know what that rapist has done now?” the Seeker shouted over the voices of guards chatting with one another.

  In the sudden pause of conversation, a second Seeker looked up from where he had been talking with the Record-keeper. In one swift movement he strode forward, grabbed the Seeker who had spoken, and shoved him into the documents library.

  He slammed the door shut and lifted his face-cloth. “Mr. Taylor,” he said in the tone he reserved for prisoners facing the rack, “let me remind you that certain topics are sealed by the Codifier and may not be spoken of in the presence of those who are unaware of the sealed records’ contents. Anyone violating the seal will face discipline from the Codifier.”

  “But he assaulted Garrett!” cried Elsdon, flinging up the flap of his own hood.

  “I’m aware of that,” Mr. Chapman said dryly. “The entire dungeon is aware of it. However, if it would give you pleasure to scream the fact at the top of your lungs, feel free to do so.”

  Elsdon, who had been pacing up and down the narrow confines of the book-lined room, halted and looked back at Mr. Chapman. “The guards reported his assault?”

  “He reported it himself. The Codifier has sentenced him to six months’ suspension.”

  “Six months!” shouted Elsdon. “He deserves to be executed! How many more prisoners will he attack before somebody stops him? He—”

  His voice was suddenly muffled by Mr. Chapman’s hand descending hard upon his mouth; the other hand gripped his arm. “Mr. Taylor,” Mr. Chapman said low in his ear, “given your background, I do not want to resort to having you arrested, but I will do so if you do not return to conducting yourself in a professional manner.”

  Elsdon stood motionless. After a moment, Mr. Chapman released him and asked quietly, “Are you all right?”

  Elsdon folded his arms against his chest, trying to stop the shaking. “Don’t,” he whispered. “You don’t have to do that. Even if the High Seeker ordered you to arrest me—”

  “Ordered me to arrest you? Mr. Taylor, what are you speaking of?”

  The surprise in the older Seeker’s voice seemed genuine. Elsdon stared at him, saying, “I thought . . . Aren’t you helping Mr. Smith to . . . ?” His words died away as a crease of puzzlement furrowed Mr. Chapman’s brow.

  “Helping him to do what?”

  “Nothing,” Elsdon said slowly. “I was wrong about that. I forgot that you were his prisoner too.” His chest rose as he swallowed a breath. He said, in a more formal manner, “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have been shouting. But what the High Seeker did to Garrett—”

  “How did you learn of the assault?”

  “Through Garrett, of course. He told me everything that happened.”

  “And what did he tell you?”

  “That he was answering the High Seeker’s questions when suddenly Mr. Smith went mad and began battering him. Mr. Chapman, how can the Codifier even consider letting Mr. Smith keep his post?”

  Mr. Chapman sighed and went over to turn up the light in the lamp that dimly shimmered in the documents library. Leaning against a stack of prisoner records, he said, “Mr. Taylor, if a prisoner told you that he had been battered by a Seeker, what would be the first thing you would do?”

  There was a pause before Elsdon said, “Have the healer examine him for signs of the battering. Mr. Chapman, if you’re trying to imply that a battering didn’t take place, you’re wrong. The High Seeker lied to you if he told you otherwise.”

  “The High Seeker,” Mr. Chapman said carefully, “has spoken to no one but the Codifier. All the information I have comes from the guards who were witness to the assault – including Mr. Sobel, whose testimony I believe you value. They say that Mr. Smith shoved Mr. Gerson against the wall and held him there for no more than five drops of the water-clock. Mr. Gerson received a slight bump to the head but nothing more. Incidentally, the guards report that Mr. Smith committed this assault after Mr. Gerson insulted you.”

  Elsdon stared at the other Seeker. “What?” he whispered.

  The lamp-wick had burned low by the time that Mr. Chapman was finished speaking. Outside the door of the documents library came the low rumble of the Record-keeper’s voice as he spoke to some visiting guards who were delivering a prisoner. Elsdon sat on a pile of crates containing records from the Eternal Dungeon’s earliest years; his arms were wrapped around his upraised legs, and his chin rested upon his knees.

  After a long silence he looked up and said, “If this is true, then I was wrong about Mr. Gerson. I mean, I’ve always known that he is . . . changeable in his moods, but I thought he was steadfast in matters of friendship. If he truly spoke like that about me, he isn’t what I thought he was. But whether or not Garrett acted like that, I was right about Mr. Smith. He’s a sadist.”

  “You need hardly tell me that,” Mr. Chapman said, his voice turning dry once more.

  Elsdon shook his head slowly, trying to sort his thoughts into recognizable patterns. “I don’t understand how you could have been his love-mate. I mean, I just can’t envision you— I’m sorry, I know it’s no business of mine—” He looked over at Mr. Chapman and frowned. “Why are you smiling?”

  “That was ill-timed; I apologize. I was just amused at Mr. Smith’s old-fashioned vocabulary.” Seeing Elsdon’s blank look, he added, “His reference to me as his love-mate.”

  Elsdon blinked several times as he stared. “But weren’t you his love-mate?”

  “In the traditional sense of the word, yes. We loved each other. I’ve never been in his bedroom, though, nor he in mine.”

  “But—” Elsdon rose to his feet, nearly toppling the crates in his haste. “Mr. Partridge . . . and Mr. Zinner . . .”

  Mr. Chapman sighed. “Mr. Taylor, if you’re trying to determine whether Mr. Smith has shared his bed with anyone during his time in the Eternal Dungeon, the answer is no. He may have had love-mates before his arrival here, but for the past seventeen years he has slept alone.”

  Elsdon whirled to face the lamp, failed to find the answer he was seeking there, and whirled to face Mr. Chapman again. “But surely . . . Why did your bond with him end?”

  “For the same reason that yours did, I assume. I’m afraid that his type of love was not the sort I felt comfortable with.”

  “But there must be someone in the dungeon who wouldn’t mind going to bed with him!”

  Mr. Chapman shrugged as he reached his fingers under the back of his hood to scratch at an itch. “Very likely. How many masochists, though, do you think apply to become Seekers? I’ve always thought that being a Seeker who’s a sadist is like being a Seeker who’s only attracted to women. The chances that you’ll ever be able to have a love-mate are not worth calculating.”

  Elsdon stood still a moment, chewing his knuckles. Mr. Chapman glanced at the water-clock in the corner and flipped down his face-cloth, saying, “The Codifier has placed me in charge of the dungeon during the High Seeker’s suspension. I must warn you, Mr. Taylor: I come down hard on guards who spread gossip about inner dungeon residents, and I’ll do the same to you if you do not show discretion regarding Mr. Smith’s disciplinary troubles. If you have any concerns about the discipline he has been given, you should speak to the Codifier.”

  “Yes,” said Elsdon slowly. “I’ll do that.” He flipped down his hood and followed Mr. Chapman into the entry hall.

  Two of the dungeon guards were leading a bound prisoner, with an eyeless hood over his head, through the door to the corridor lined with breaking cells. Mr. Aaron was standing by the tablet; he erased one of the names that had been on the tablet and wrote in the name of the new prisoner. As Mr. Chapman went over to speak with his senior-most guard, Elsdon hesitated, his eye travelling over the names that had been lined out. He said spontaneously, “Mr. Aaron!”

  “Yes, sir?” The bald-headed Record-keeper peered at him over his owli
sh spectacles.

  “The prisoner who was previously in Rack Room A – what happened to him?”

  The Record-keeper gave an impatient look, as he always did when another dungeon dweller failed to know the exact details of the fate of any of the tens of thousands of prisoners who had dwelt in this place. “Mr. Parris confessed that he had been taking the blame for a murder committed by his brother. His trial was held yesterday; Mr. Parris’s Seeker succeeded in obtaining his release on the grounds of his innocence.”

  Elsdon was silent a moment, then said, “How high a level of the rack was the prisoner at when the confession was given?”

  The Record-keeper sighed deeply. “Would that I knew. I have only received the High Seeker’s report on the searching. —Mr. Sobel!” he said as a guard entered the entry hall from the entrance to the outer dungeon. “Mr. Taylor has requested to know the level at which Mr. Parris offered his confession. I do not have that information because you have not submitted your report yet.”

  Mr. Sobel gave an apologetic smile in response to this grave accusation. “I’m about to prepare it now, Mr. Aaron. The prisoner broke at level one,” he added to Elsdon.

  Elsdon shook his head. “He couldn’t have – not unless you slackened the straps. He was at level nine when I left him.”

  “Mr. Taylor, I had control of the wheel,” the guard said quietly. “The prisoner was taken no higher than level one, in accordance with Mr. Smith’s prior orders.”

  Elsdon glanced around at the nearby guards and at the Record-keeper, who was continuing to scribble upon the tablet. Taking hold of Mr. Sobel’s arm, he pulled him aside. “Look,” he said in a low, tense voice, “don’t try to cover up for Mr. Smith – about this or anything else. I was there; I heard the High Seeker order you to take the prisoner up to level nine.”

  “Did he say that?” Mr. Sobel asked.

  “Yes, of course he did! You heard him—”

  Elsdon broke off, the echo of Layle Smith’s words reverberating in his head. After a moment, Mr. Sobel touched him softly and said, “I have to go on duty, but we should talk later.”

  Elsdon nodded wordlessly. He turned and was about to pass the Record-keeper and the great tablet when something caused his eye to travel up toward the ceiling of the cavern. He took root in the ground.

  At the very top of the tablet, someone had erased the High Seeker’s name.

  o—o—o

  Mr. Daniels was a small, round-cheeked man with warm blue eyes and tidy hair that he kept clipped short. His desk was equally tidy, appearing like a housewife’s dream of the perfectly ordered home. He spoke in a rich, quiet baritone and made no abrupt gestures.

  He was popularly believed to have been a dragon in his previous life. As Elsdon stepped into the Codifier’s office, Mr. Daniels, sitting at his desk, looked up at Elsdon with his usual fiery gaze and said nothing.

  Elsdon cleared his throat, having suddenly found it clogged. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. It concerns the High Seeker’s discipline.”

  “Yes.” The baritone was as rich as a blazing fire.

  Elsdon swallowed and said, “I was wondering how you reached the decision to sentence Mr. Smith to six months’ suspension.”

  The Codifier folded his hands upon each other in the slow, careful movement of a dragon who is contemplating his next meal. “Decisions on disciplinary matters are made in consultation with the Magisterial Guild, the Queen, the High Seeker, and the person under discipline. In cases where the parties disagree on the discipline, it is my duty to make a decision on the proper sentence. Usually this involves finding a compromise between the shortest sentence proposed and the longest sentence proposed.”

  “And Mr. Smith proposed that he receive less than six months’ suspension?”

  The hands remained motionless; the fiery eyes continued to burn. “All matters related to the discipline of inner dungeon residents are sealed. Did you have any other questions, Mr. Taylor?”

  Elsdon chewed on his lip for a moment. He slowly pulled the crumpled card out of his pocket and handed it to the Codifier.

  Mr. Daniels looked at the card, raised his eyebrows, and said, “Kindly bar the door, Mr. Taylor.”

  Several minutes later, Elsdon looked up from the record-book he was reading, his eyes wide. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Mr. Smith told me that he had raped a prisoner.”

  “Rape is regarded by the Code of Seeking as a sexual assault upon an unwilling or incapacitated prisoner,” the Codifier replied, his hands as motionless as before. “Mr. Smith kissed a prisoner while she was bound. That was a severe violation of his duty as a Seeker.”

  “But to sentence him to three months’ suspension for a single kiss . . . How did you decide to give him this sentence?”

  The Codifier’s eyes were as unblinking as a reptile’s. “Decisions on disciplinary matters are made in consultation with the Magisterial Guild, the Queen, the High Seeker, and the person under discipline. In cases where the parties disagree on the discipline, it is my duty to make a decision on the proper sentence. Usually this involves finding a compromise between the shortest sentence proposed and the longest sentence proposed.”

  Elsdon looked down at the guards’ witness he was reading, then carefully closed the volume and looked back at the Codifier. “Mr. Smith asked for the longer sentence, didn’t he?” he said quietly. “He asked you to dismiss him as a Seeker, both last time and this time.”

  “The exact manner in which sentences are decided upon is not a matter that can be released. Do you have any other questions, Mr. Taylor?”

  “Yes,” said Elsdon, standing up. “But they aren’t questions for you.”

  o—o—o

  “I think you should leave here,” she said.

  Elsdon looked over from where he sat, his legs wrapped around the back of his chair, his chin resting atop the chair back. “Leave?” he said, startled. “How can I leave?”

  She looked at him with that expression of innocent surprise that came over her face so often. In the bright spring light of Elsdon’s bedroom, her hair glowed like embers; her skin was as golden as honey. “You pack up your belongings,” she said. “You walk out the door . . .”

  “Sara.” He tried to keep his voice level, knowing that, if he shouted, she would flinch like a kicked kitten. “Father is paying me to care for his household. Even if he weren’t my father, he’s my workmaster – I can’t simply walk away from him. And where would I go if I did? No one would hire me—”

  “Yes, they will!” she said eagerly. “Anyone would hire you! I’ll give you a letter that tells them what a good worker you are!”

  He sighed. She was only four years younger than him, but sometimes he felt as though his sister was still the tiny baby he had been playing with on the day his mother died. She was too innocent to know that workmasters required stronger references than that of a sister; she was innocent enough to still think he had abilities beyond the small ones needed to run his father’s household.

  He got up and walked over to where she stood as she stroked a feather that had blown in through the open window. “Sara,” he said softly, taking her by the shoulders, “I can’t leave him, not unless he wants me to.”

  She looked up; her eyes were brighter than usual from the liquid forming in them. “You can’t stay here. You can’t keep letting him tie you up. You—”

  She stopped suddenly as he put his hand swiftly over her mouth. He kept it there until the passing servants were well down the hallway of the house. Then he let his hands drop, saying, “He punishes me for a reason. I think— I think it’s because I’m like Mother. I have her temper. I— You know I threw a vase at him once.”

  “You missed.”

  “I almost hit him. That’s why he punishes me. If I can only find a way to make myself less like Mother and more like him—”

  “Elsdon, that’s stupid!” His sister curled her fingers carefully around the feather. “He wouldn’t tie you up all night and hit you
with his belt because you once threw a vase at him! There must be another reason. Maybe he’ll explain if you go away.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Yes, you can! Elsdon, I’m not going to spend another sleepless night hearing you cry in the next room. If you won’t go away, I’ll – I’ll tell Uncle Harden.”

  “No!” He took hold of her shoulders again, more firmly. “Sara, you swore you wouldn’t tell anyone! No one must know—”

  “I’ll tell him, I promise I will!” Sara voice was rising. “I’ll tell everyone about you and Father!”

  “Keep your voice down!”

  He could hear the faint murmur of servants downstairs, doing their daily chores. He put his hand toward Sara’s mouth, but she pulled away, saying, “I’ll tell everyone if you don’t leave!”

  “Stop it!” The servants were still murmuring. They were used enough to sibling fights in this household, which never came to anything but abject apologies on both sides. But at any moment now, a servant might pass and hear. . . .

  He grabbed Sara’s arm and tried to pull her to him so that he could stifle her mouth. “Stop it!” she said. “That hurts!” And then, when he kept pulling her, she slapped him across the face.

  For a moment all was still. The servants, unconcerned, continued to work belowstairs. The open window brought in the sound of birds, laughing children on the street, and, very faintly, the voice of Auburn Taylor, visiting a neighbor.

  Elsdon stared at Sara with horror. She had always been the quiet one, the one who was gentle and loving, like his father. Now, suddenly, he saw her resemblance to his mother: she had the same reddish hair, and her eyes blazed with the same fierceness.

  “No!” he said, more to the fates than to Sara. It mustn’t happen. She mustn’t become like him. If she did . . .

  Sara had begun struggling in his arms again. She was becoming hysterical. He remembered his mother as he had last seen her, fighting with his father before she stormed away and fell down the stairs to her death. Sweet blood, Sara was just like her mother. He had to stop her; he had to keep her pure.

  He slapped her.

  The force of his blow drove her to the floor. She stared up at him, mouth agape, then said in a quavering voice, “You beast! I’ll tell everyone now. I don’t care about your stupid secret—”

  It was all he needed. He launched himself at her, his fists flying like cannonballs, with all of his surface thoughts focussed on what he must do to keep her from becoming corrupt like himself. Only he could save her; only he loved her that much.

  It was not until the end, when she lay limp and broken on the floor like the feather in her hand, that a deeper thought worked its way to the surface of Elsdon’s mind.

  Good, the deeper part of him whispered. Now she’ll never be able to hurt you as he does.

  o—o—o

  The Seeker-in-Training sat in the corner of the breaking cell, his upraised legs tight against his chest and his head buried in his arms.

  He made no sound.

  o—o—o

  The High Seeker, when Elsdon found him, was in the corner of his bedroom. Sitting in the corner, with his legs drawn up against his chest, and his arms cradling his knees. His face was hidden within his arms. Nearby, untouched, lay the shattered book of torture, and next to it on the floor, spread open, was the Code of Seeking.

  Elsdon saw all this for only a moment. Then the High Seeker stood, flipping down the flap of his hood before Elsdon could catch sight of his face. Elsdon said, before the other man could speak, “I still have your key.”

  “Thank you for returning it to me.” Layle Smith’s voice was flat. He remained where he was, like a Seeker keeping a careful distance from his prisoner.

  Elsdon fingered the key in his pocket. As he did so, he said, “I’ve been in a breaking cell for the past three hours, thinking. About my father, mainly.”

  The High Seeker made no reply. His posture was upright, his hands stiff, as they were when he was at his work.

  Elsdon said, “My father . . . I’ve reached the conclusion that he was afraid. I don’t know what he was afraid of; I don’t suppose I will ever know. But rather than face his fear and deal with it, he took the coward’s way. He found someone more vulnerable than himself, someone who could be easily hurt, and he treated that person as the object of his fear. He sought out some error I’d made – it didn’t matter how small an error, any wrongdoing would have been enough for his purposes – and he used it as an excuse to destroy me.”

  “You have a keen understanding of the nature of evil men.” The High Seeker’s voice was quiet. “It will serve you well in your work. Do you also understand that a criminal – no matter how great the evil he has committed, no matter how great a punishment he deserves – may regret what he has done?”

  “Yes,” said Elsdon, raising his face-cloth. “I do regret it.”

  There was a moment’s pause. It was after midnight now; the noises of the outer dungeon had slowed, and only the faint sound of screams came from the direction of the inner dungeon. The room was bright with lamplight, delineating the High Seeker in an uncompromising fashion, but for his face, which remained hidden.

  The High Seeker said, “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  Elsdon stepped forward then, closing the gap between the High Seeker and himself. “You’re a sadist,” he said.

  The High Seeker remained unmoved where he was. He did not reply.

  “You receive pleasure from other people’s pain,” Elsdon persisted.

  “Mr. Taylor—” The voice wavered slightly, and Elsdon came to a halt, an arm’s breadth from the High Seeker. The latter said in a low, rapid voice, “Mr. Taylor, please believe that I regret exceedingly what occurred between us. I should not have allowed matters to take the course they did. After what happened with Mr. Zinner, I ought to have known . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “It wouldn’t have made any difference, would it?” Elsdon said. “I was your prisoner, and you fell in love with me. The two facts are tied together for you: when you see me and are drawn to me, you can’t help but think of me in pain. You can’t help but enjoy that.”

  He was close enough now to see the High Seeker’s eyes; thus he saw the moment when Layle Smith closed his eyes against what Elsdon was saying. The eyes reopened almost immediately, though the High Seeker’s hands were now curled into fists.

  “Mr. Taylor.” The High Seeker’s voice was even less steady than before. “I cannot ask you to forgive me for what I have done. Some wrongdoings are of too great a magnitude to be forgiven. All I can ask is that you not allow the evil I’ve committed to destroy the career you have before you. If you continue with your work, you will be a strong Seeker, and I assure you that all of my interactions with you henceforth will be on the professional level.”

  “As they are with Mr. Chapman?”

  “Yes,” said the High Seeker. “Exactly that way.”

  Elsdon shook his head slowly. “High Seeker,” he said, “do you even know what you are?”

  “Yes.” Layle Smith’s voice was stiff. “I am a sadist.”

  “You’re a sadist,” Elsdon agreed. He bent down and picked up the book lying face open upon the ground. He glanced down at it and read, “‘A Seeker must not allow himself to be swayed by any feeling he experiences in the presence of a prisoner, whether those feelings be of pity or passion or pleasure. At all times he must put aside his own feelings and needs for the sake of the prisoner. . . .’” He looked up toward the motionless man standing before him. “Why didn’t I recognize this before? These are bindings upon a sadist. They are two hundred and seventeen ways to keep yourself from harming the prisoners.”

  “I am still a sadist.” The High Seeker’s voice was rigid. “I still receive pleasure from other people’s pain.”

  “Yes,” said Elsdon. He stepped forward and placed the Code in the High Seeker’s hands, then reached up and lifted the face-cloth.

  Layle’s face was as he ha
d known it would be: etched with a pain as deep as that of a man who has reached his limits upon the rack. Elsdon touched the High Seeker’s face.

  “How terrible that must be for you,” he said quietly. “If it would ease your burden to dream of torturing me or raping me or even binding me . . . I give you my permission to do so.”

  The vulnerability and deep agony remained in the High Seeker’s face, as it always did, though normally hidden by the formality he used to hood himself from the world. Layle whispered, in a tone like a plea, “Elsdon . . .”

  Elsdon reached forward and pulled Layle into his arms. Even before the first touch, Layle had begun to shake.

  “It’s all right, love,” Elsdon said softly to his love-mate as Layle buried his face upon Elsdon’s shoulder. “It’s all right. I’m here now, and I won’t leave.”

  o—o—o

  o—o—o

  . . . What examples we possess are just as often records of his failures, yet we should not underestimate the influence that even his failures had.

  An example of this can be found in the case of Garrett Gerson, one of the few prisoners of the Eternal Dungeon whose life can be easily traced through surviving documents.

  At age nineteen, Gerson was granted the much-coveted post of guard in the Eternal Dungeon, but only two years later he was arrested for permitting an unauthorized person access to a Seeker’s writings. Since the Eternal Dungeon was directly under the control of the Queen, this was the equivalent of a treason charge, and Gerson faced the possibility of a death sentence. Upon learning, however, that Gerson had impregnated his girlfriend, Layle Smith recommended to the Codifier that Gerson be punished only with dismissal from the Eternal Dungeon. The High Seeker’s concern over Gerson is all the more remarkable because he himself was undergoing disciplinary troubles at this time that seem to have been an outgrowth of his handling of the Gerson case. (See the end of the chapter for more on scholarly speculations concerning the Second Suspension, as historians term it.) Indeed, there appear to be some indications that Layle Smith went so far as to arrange for Gerson and his girlfriend to be given a grant of money in order to begin their married life.

  Gerson next appears in history’s records twenty months later, when his wife sued for divorce on the grounds of adultery. Shortly thereafter, Gerson’s name begins to appear in the arrest records of Yclau’s “lesser” prisons with frightening frequency, first for petty thefts, then for more serious crimes for which he received short prison sentences.

  That the lesser prisons finally tired of him is shown by the fact that, seven years after his dismissal from the Eternal Dungeon, Gerson was arrested on the uncommon charge of raping and battering a prostitute. He was transferred to the Eternal Dungeon, where – apparently holding the unreasonable belief that he would be immediately tortured – he confessed to the assault on his first day, giving no other explanation than that the victim “had it out for me, like everyone else.”

  Such a confession would have been sufficient evidence for the lesser prisons. Yet the Eternal Dungeon’s records show that Gerson spent the next six months under the care of no less than three Seekers, all of them trying to extract evidence from him of repentance, so that he would receive a lesser sentence.

  In the end, Gerson was transferred to the magistrates’ court, where he was sentenced to be hanged. The Eternal Dungeon’s Record-keeper’s final entry on this prisoner reads, “Gerson’s sentence commuted to life imprisonment, due to the intervention of the Queen’s Secretary.” This is one of the few cases where an official of the Eternal Dungeon failed to grant a prisoner his honorific.

  In a note written after Gerson’s dismissal, Layle Smith blamed himself for the truncation of guard’s career. Yet a brief look at Gerson’s records prior to his arrival at the Eternal Dungeon shows clearly that Gerson was headed toward a bad end from an early age, and that his two years under the High Seeker’s watchful eye were the only period during which his life was relatively orderly and disciplined. This demonstrates that what the first High Seeker regarded as failure, other people might regard as success.

  Historians may wish to take account of this fact when examining what is undoubtedly the most controversial aspect of Layle Smith’s life: his early career as a Vovimian torturer.

  —Psychologists with Whips: A History of the Eternal Dungeon.

  Rebirth 3

  FIRST TIME

  The year 355, the seventh month. (The year 1880 Barley by the Old Calendar.)

  One of the great mysteries facing historians studying the history of the Eternal Dungeon is understanding what triggered the madness of the dungeon’s first High Seeker. By Layle Smith’s own testimony, his “dreamings” (whose exact nature we will never know) had been occurring since the time he first arrived at the Eternal Dungeon. Yet his madness occurred eighteen years later, when he was thirty-six. What caused the High Seeker to lose control of himself?

  Most historians trace the trigger point to six months before the crisis of the madness, when “the harm done to a Seeker” as a result of following the High Seeker’s orders – which all the contemporary witnesses agree was the primary cause of the madness – evidently occurred. Yet historians who have examined carefully the surviving letters of the High Seeker disagree. They believe that the seeds of Layle Smith’s madness were planted in the previous year . . .

  —Psychologists with Whips: A History of the Eternal Dungeon.