CHAPTER THREE
Elsdon knelt and reached toward the flap of Layle's trousers. He could feel the sweat turning chill upon his own naked skin and found himself wishing he was back in the cell with the murderer he had been questioning. He had a better chance of surviving such an encounter.
Never before had Elsdon tried to change one of Layle's dreamings once the dreaming had begun. He hoped his experiment would pull Layle's mind out of the dreaming – but what if Layle regarded this as an opportunity to pull Elsdon into the dreaming? Layle could not bring his love-mate's mind into the dungeon where the High Seeker presently dwelt as a Vovimian torturer, but he could certainly duplicate what he was doing there to Elsdon's body.
Elsdon's hands were shaking so much by the time he finished untying the flap that he had to slide them between his legs in an effort to steady them. He looked for a moment at the results of what he had done. He was not surprised to see that Layle's shaft remained flaccid. Despite what everyone in the Eternal Dungeon thought, Elsdon knew that the High Seeker's dark desires were more a matter of the mind than of the body. Layle had once said dryly that the prospect of castration was not as fearful to him as it was to most men, since his dreamings would continue in any case.
But now Elsdon had no choice but to reach the body, for if he could not get the body to respond, then he had no hope of drawing Layle's mind back. His hands were still shaking within his legs. He tried to brace himself with thoughts of the Code of Seeking, as he had on the first day that, as a Seeker, he had walked alone into a prisoner's cell.
He tilted his head to look up at the High Seeker. Elsdon had replenished the oil in the three lamps in the bedroom: the scene before him was as starkly lit as that of a furnace-warmed cell. Layle had not moved since he dashed the cup from Weldon's hand. Some vestige of will held him upright and kept his eyes fastened upon Elsdon, following him wherever he moved in the room. It was the only remaining thread left between Layle and the real world, and if Elsdon did not move forward soon, even this thread might be cut.
Still Elsdon could not make himself lean forward. His whole body was beginning to shake. Sweet blood, was his love of Layle so small as this?
It had been easier the first time.
o—o—o
Elsdon knelt naked at Layle Smith's feet. He had never been so terrified in his life.
He was not scared of the High Seeker. How could he be, when only minutes before he had cradled Layle in his arms as the High Seeker choked out all the words of love he had stored within during his lonely life? No, Layle would not hurt him; Layle was not Elsdon's father. But Layle might lose interest in him, if he learned how ignorant his new love-mate was.
Elsdon felt sweat trickle down his back. He wished now that he had paid more attention to the other boys at school when they gathered in sniggering bunches at recess. His father had never approved of such talk – "Filthy-minded children sullying the purity of marriage," he called it – and so Elsdon had done his best to avoid listening, even though his father never explained to him what pure acts took place in marriage.
He could not avoid overhearing altogether, and so he had a general sense of what happened when a man and woman lay together, and he gathered that matters were not so different when a man and a man lay together. But beyond that . . .
He tilted his head cautiously, looking up at Layle. The High Seeker's pupils were enormous, as though he were absorbing all the light in the world. His gaze remained fixed upon Elsdon; his hand lightly touched the back of Elsdon's head. Layle did not speak. Elsdon wondered what he was seeing. He wondered whether any part of Layle remained in this world. Did Layle even remember that he was there?
His own gaze dropped to the sight before him, and he swallowed. It had been in all his dreamings, to see Layle like this, but he had not imagined doing so on his knees. What the bloody blades was he supposed to do in this position? No doubt any boy at his old school could have educated him. Any other eighteen-year-old would have known what was expected of him, without having to be told.
Not Elsdon, though. He might as well have been a sheltered virgin bride on her wedding night. Any moment now Layle would guess that Elsdon had no idea what he was supposed to do, and then, Elsdon greatly feared, contempt would enter into Layle's expression.
Elsdon had no illusions that Layle would cast him off if that happened. No one else wanted the High Seeker. But Elsdon did not wish to be Layle's love-mate simply because the High Seeker could find no other. He wanted to be worthy of the High Seeker's love, to be a man whom Layle trusted and respected.
Layle remained motionless. He was evidently waiting for Elsdon to do the obvious. Elsdon felt tears prick at his eyes. Any moment now, Layle would guess . . .
"Kiss them."
It took a minute for Elsdon's mind to absorb the fact that Layle had spoken. His voice was deeper than usual, though soft. Elsdon felt panic clutch at him. Kiss them. Kiss them? What the bloody blades did Layle mean? There was only one . . .
Oh. Elsdon's gaze shifted downward slightly, and he felt heat cover his face. No doubt his blush was visible. Layle must be able to see that Elsdon had not understood his instructions. And now that he knew the depths of Elsdon's ignorance . . .
It took all of Elsdon's strength to keep from fleeing the room in shame. He tried to steady himself, drawing long breaths. He knew now what to do. Layle had given him an order. Layle had asked Elsdon's permission beforehand to give him orders. All that Elsdon need do was follow the order. Then another order would come—
It hit Elsdon then, like a lash across the back. He had forgotten, until this moment, that he was a Seeker-in-Training.
The first stages of his training had been the happiest time in his life. The High Seeker had demonstrated no contempt for the fact that Elsdon did not yet know the ways of being a Seeker. On the contrary, Layle had seemed pleased to be able to instruct his student in the Seekers' mysteries. Elsdon guessed that Layle was a born teacher, someone who enjoyed guiding a student onto new paths.
It was no different here. Layle must have guessed Elsdon's ignorance – perhaps that was even part of Elsdon's appeal to him. Men like bedding virgins, someone had told Elsdon not long before. Layle above all, for this would give him the opportunity to guide Elsdon onto new paths. And Elsdon need not try to guess what he should or shouldn't do. Layle would tell him.
"You needn't do this if you would prefer not to."
Layle's voice was so soft that Elsdon could barely hear him. Looking up, Elsdon saw that Layle's eyes remained opaque. But the High Seeker's hand had begun to gently stroke his hair. He was awaiting Elsdon's answer.
At that moment, Elsdon felt desire enter so strongly into him that he could not breathe. Wherever else Layle might be, he was also here, in this room, filled with concern for his love-mate. He was here, ready to instruct if his love-mate wished, or ready to pull back if Elsdon wanted, even though it meant returning to a life of celibacy. Everything that would happen here was Elsdon's choice, and he knew that he need do nothing but give his consent. Layle would do the rest.
Elsdon smiled up at the High Seeker. "I don't want to stop," he told his love-mate.
Then kiss them. Kiss the most vulnerable part of me. I trust you not to hurt me or despise me.
Layle did not speak the words. He did not need to. Feeling his desire take him prisoner once more, Elsdon leaned forward to follow Layle's order.
o—o—o
This wasn't working. Layle was not responding, either in body or mind; he sat motionless, his gaze fixed upon Elsdon as his love-mate knelt between his knees. Whatever Layle was seeing was being drawn into the dungeon of his dreaming. He was not being drawn back.
Which left Elsdon with only one recourse. Wiping the sweat from his palms onto his equally sweaty legs, he paused, his head bowed, sucking in deep breaths. He could do this. He had done it once before for Layle; he could do it again.
But Layle had not been present on the previous occasion. That made all the difference.
>
Elsdon realized finally that his terror would not subside; he must drive himself onward, despite the sickness in his stomach. Rising to his feet, he walked over to the bed, leaned over the top right-hand corner of the hard mattress, and pulled from its hiding place the rack-strap he had tied to the bed leg four days before.
As he laid its free end upon the bed, he had a moment to remember the bemusement he had felt during the early days of his training, when he first realized that the abuse he had undergone at his father's hands made him uniquely qualified for his work as a Seeker. Not even Layle knew as much about bindings as Elsdon did: which bindings tightened when sweat shrank them, which bindings cut off all blood and ran the risk of killing hands and feet, which bindings were strong but soft. His father had tried various bindings on him over the years, seeking the ones that would hurt him least; with the distance of compassion, Elsdon could be grateful for that now. Layle had plumbed him for his knowledge, then had ordered the bindings of the racks changed accordingly, to lessen the danger of permanent injury to the prisoners.
Elsdon glanced at the inside of the strap's cuff, which was padded to provide flexibility as the rack tightened. It was a mercy no Vovimian torturer would offer his prisoner, and Elsdon hoped this would not prove a problem. But if Layle's dreaming could turn the bed into a rack, presumably it could turn Yclau straps into Vovimian ones.
Elsdon finished pulling the fourth strap from its hiding place and paused to look down. He wondered again whether he should supply a gag. It would be hard to remain silent on his own, but he knew from experience that a gag was far more dangerous a piece of equipment than any other. Even the Vovimian torturers did not use it. His father had, and Elsdon had nearly died one night when his nose grew so stuffed from his sobbing that he could barely breathe through it. No, he would have to depend on his will to keep back the screams.
He returned to where Layle sat, watching the preparations without apparent interest. Elsdon gently pulled the High Seeker to his feet. Layle swayed slightly but remained upright. Then Elsdon carefully removed Layle's clothes. The High Seeker liked to stay half-dressed during their lovemaking, in the manner of the King's Torturers, but Elsdon had never been certain how Layle managed to keep his unbelted trousers from slipping to his ankles during his most vigorous movements. Elsdon was not sure that Layle would know how to accomplish the trick in this state.
Elsdon was shaking again long before he finished. He pulled the belt from Layle's trousers, then dropped the trousers on the floor and placed the belt in Layle's hand. Layle clutched it in an automatic manner, like a child given his favorite toy. The bed-lamp light had died out by now; under the remaining light in the room, Layle's eyes were opaque.
"Love," Elsdon said softly, "you don't need to remain in your dreamings. Whatever it is that you're doing to me there, you can do to me here. I give you my permission. I'd rather have you here, doing whatever it is you're drawn to do, than have you away from me. Do you understand?"
There was no reply. Elsdon waited a moment, his gaze linked with Layle's glassy gaze. Then he turned and walked to the bed. He had to walk quickly; his knees were ready to give way.
He placed one of the pillows in the middle of the bed, then lay stomach-down, with his groin upon the pillow. It was an awkward position, but he could guess how Layle would want to finish his session. Elsdon spread his arms and legs as though they were wings, then turned his head to look back.
He felt his skin jump as he did so. Without sound, Layle had followed him to the bed; he was standing there now, looking down. His gaze slid across his love-mate's body, like an ember scalding Elsdon's skin. The belt was no longer in his hands.
Elsdon felt his stomach tighten as he realized this. He had hoped that Layle would take the hint from being handed the belt; Elsdon knew well enough that he had cleared the cell only of such items as an ordinary man might use as weapons. Layle was not an ordinary man. He was the most skilled torturer in the world, far more gifted than the man who had tortured Elsdon in Vovim. This would be worse.
Elsdon squeezed his eyelids shut at this thought. A moment later, he felt Layle's hand touch his right wrist, and then the cuff slid over his hand, tightening as Layle adjusted the length of the strap. Elsdon kept his eyes closed, breathing slowly. Since his return from Vovim, he had relived a thousand times inwardly the final day of his capture, when Master Aeden had succeeded in breaking him through nothing more than a binding. The ease of his breaking had humiliated Elsdon; he had been determined to train his mind to be stronger.
The fourth strap was tightened, causing his body to grow so taut that the part of him that remained with his childhood wondered whether anyone would be able to untie the knots afterwards. He was panting now, struggling to keep all sounds within him. He could feel the strain upon his arms and legs, his shoulder-blades and hips, but these sensations came to him dimly through the horror of feeling himself bound again.
He opened his eyes, hoping that the sight of Layle's blank eyes would remind him of why he was doing this. He found that Layle was standing next to the bed, frowning slightly, as though trying to recall something important. Layle's gaze glided over him again, lingering upon the mutilations left on his flesh from his father's beatings. The High Seeker's shaft began to stir.
Elsdon, gulping in air with light moans, felt a stillness fall over his soul. He waited.
Layle's eyes did not change, but in the next moment he spoke. "No," he said slowly, in the manner of a professional reaching a conclusion about his work. "No, this isn't right." He reached upward.
The sound of an explosion followed. Plaster and sawdust fell upon Elsdon as he sucked in more air, causing him to choke and cough. He twisted in his bonds, trying to see what Layle had done. Then he heard a shattering and caught a glimpse of the broken lamp upon the floor.
The High Seeker bent his body. When he rose again, he was delicately holding a piece of jagged glass.
It took a moment for Elsdon to realize what Layle was about to do; then Elsdon could no longer hold back his cries. "No!" he screamed, his voice choking on the words. "No, please, Layle, don't do that! Please, please, anything but that, please, no—!"
Layle took no heed of him. Leaning over with the glass, he carefully cut the straps, freeing Elsdon from his bonds. Elsdon sobbed uncontrollably. He could do nothing but lie limply as Layle sat down on the bed and pulled him into his arms.
Layle's own body was limp; his arms lay loosely around Elsdon. "Yes," he said, as though in response to Elsdon's cries of protest. "A Seeker must be willing to suffer for the prisoners. Yes, yes, yes."
He continued to chant the words, as though they were a prayer to his gods, while Elsdon sobbed into his shoulder. The High Seeker's eyes were now fixed, not on his love-mate, but on the black volume upon the night-table. His arms remained slack around Elsdon.
After a while, the chant ended.
o—o—o
The Eternal Dungeon remained still. Weldon's footsteps were the only sound as he walked down the corridor leading from the outer dungeon to the inner dungeon. The furnaces along this corridor, normally tended day and night, had been allowed to die down on this one evening. This evening that would decide the future of the Eternal Dungeon.
Weldon could not bring himself to look straight at Layle Smith's night guards until he reached them. He had already passed the High Seeker's day guards, blocking the entrance to the High Seeker's cell from the outer dungeon, and what he had seen in their expressions had been enough to drive away from him all thoughts of remaining at his documentwork for a few hours more.
Now, as he came to a halt and raised his eyes, he saw that the junior night guard was so white in the face that he looked ready to keel over. Mr. Sobel's eyes remained quiet, but his muscles were rigid. He looked at Weldon without speaking.
"How has it been?" Weldon forced himself to ask.
"Silent, sir." Mr. Sobel's voice was as rigid as his body. "We haven't heard anything for several hours."
<
br /> Weldon felt his own body go taut. "And what did you hear before?"
Mr. Sobel told him, and by the time he was through, Weldon could feel sweat tickling his torso. The junior guard, Mr. Urman, barely waited for Mr. Sobel to finish before saying rapidly, "I thought we should enter when we heard that. But Mr. Sobel said we mustn't—"
"Quite right." Stripped of all other strength, Weldon sought to maintain authority in his voice. "You were both under orders. Anything that has taken place inside is my responsibility." He looked toward the door, imagined opening it, and his remaining courage fled.
He looked over at Mr. Sobel. The guard's eyes flicked away from the latch, which he had been eyeing. Weldon cleared his throat and said, "Will you accompany me, Mr. Sobel?"
"Certainly, sir." Relief, rather than apprehension, coated the senior guard's voice. Weldon could guess that, for a man of Mr. Sobel's training, standing by waiting was more painful than witnessing the worst. The guard turned and lifted the latch.
Weldon was several steps inside the cell before he realized that it was quite possible that Mr. Sobel's strength alone would not be enough. Weldon halted within the sitting room, indecisive. The door to the bedroom was closed, but for a small gap. No sound emerged from the room; it was as silent as death. Perhaps its inhabitants were merely sleeping.
He felt a touch upon his arm after another minute and realized that the senior guard was awaiting him. With his eyes fixed upon the door to the silent room, Weldon murmured, "I was just realizing that I feel no envy whatsoever for Elsdon Taylor."
Mr. Sobel said nothing. When Weldon turned his eyes toward the guard he saw that Mr. Sobel's dagger was in his hand; his other hand lay upon the coiled whip at his hip. It seemed the most natural gesture in the world to Weldon at that moment. He looked back at the door and drew a deep breath. If the inhabitant of the bedroom – the inhabitants, he told himself furiously – had heard his voice, he and Mr. Sobel no longer had the advantage of surprise. They must move swiftly.
He walked forward rapidly, with Mr. Sobel far enough apart from him to be able to wield his whip if it should become necessary. With one thrust, Weldon opened the bedroom door. Then he paused at the entrance. His breath hissed out slowly.
Through the doorway he could see the two-person bed at the far end of the bedroom; on it sat Elsdon. He was stripped for bed, and he was cradling Layle, who had his head buried upon Elsdon's shoulder. Weldon could see the bloodline beating lightly in Layle's neck.
Weldon heard Mr. Sobel draw out a long breath; the guard's dagger whispered as it stole back into its sheath. Weldon felt his muscles relax.
Then his breath caught. Elsdon had raised his head, and his eyes were those of a prisoner who has endured a long racking.
Elsdon whispered, "He is gone."
As he spoke, Layle shifted in his arms, slipping out of Elsdon's grasp. He flopped down, his limbs sprawling asunder as he fell. He landed with a shudder, then lay still, his eyes staring blankly toward the ceiling.
o—o—o
o—o—o
. . . Much as modern historians would like to turn their heads in shame from this period, it is in the tale of Layle Smith's mental illness that we must seek the most shining example of this quality. I refer, of course, to the Seekers' willingness to suffer for their prisoners.
In the archives of the Eternal Dungeon lie two lists, bound as books. The first list consists of the names of Seekers who were permanently suspended from their work due to disability or death from natural or accidental causes. The list is quite long, as might be expected from an era when medicine was primitive.
The second list is similar to the first, but the disabilities and deaths of this second group of Seekers were not natural or accidental; rather, they were directly caused by duties undertaken by the Seekers. This second list is twice as long as the first.
On the twelfth month of the year 356, the Eternal Dungeon's Record-keeper added to the second list the name of Layle Smith. We may never know what duties Layle Smith undertook as a Seeker that led to the breaking of his mind. But perhaps a clue lies in the oft-quoted and mysterious statement made afterwards by the Seeker Weldon Chapman: "Layle Smith had a choice whether to go mad, and he chose as a Seeker."
—Psychologists with Whips: A History of the Eternal Dungeon.
Rebirth 6
TOPS AND SOPS
The year 356, the sixth month. (The year 1880 Clover by the Old Calendar.)
Over the past few decades, historians have gradually become aware of the danger of treating as solid fact any statement produced by an elite group of writers. A typical example of this problem arises in research done on the Thousand Years’ War between Yclau and Vovim. Most of the writings that have survived come from soldiers of Yclau, who paint a picture of the Yclau people acting with charity and graciousness toward the prisoners they took during that war. There seems little doubt that the Yclau soldiers who expressed this sentiment were sincere in their belief that they showed compassion toward a vicious and ungrateful enemy.
Yet because of the length of the war and the consequent volume of material surviving from it, a few narratives by the primarily illiterate Vovimian soldiers have survived, and these soldiers paint a very different picture, speaking of the abuse they underwent at Yclau hands.
Some historians, citing such examples, claim that elite writings should never be trusted, and that when only the elite provide accounts of what happened, the truth will be forever lost to history. This seems a simplification of a more complex historical rule, which is that all writers, both elite and commoner, provide accounts written from their own narrow perspective, so that the truth must be pieced together patiently by the historian, who in turn must be aware of his own biases.
One of the great regrets of every historian studying the Golden Age of the Eternal Dungeon is that no “commoner” accounts have survived from that period. Every surviving writing from that time comes from the “elite,” the men and women who ran the dungeon, including former prisoners who joined the elite. In no case do we have accounts from the commoners, the prisoners who were not offered the opportunity to help run the dungeon. Most of the Eternal Dungeon’s prisoners were executed, while the few that were found innocent of their crimes and released into the “lighted world” were evidently so shaken by their experiences in the dungeon that they did not commit their memories to paper.
This being the case, historians must treat with skepticism the idealistic words recorded by long-term residents of the Eternal Dungeon, such as the Seekers. It seems likely that many of the prisoners had a very different perspective on how those ideals were put into practice.
It is sobering for historians to realize how many tales by prisoners will never be known. For example, a ledger has survived from the period of Layle Smith’s High Seekership which contains a list that continues for many pages. The list consists of thousands of names . . .
—Psychologists with Whips: A History of the Eternal Dungeon.
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