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

by Dusk Peterson

CHAPTER FIVE

  “The Adoration?” said Elsdon. “What a strange name for an instrument of torture.”

  They were standing before the bulky object at the end of the cell, which consisted of a knee-high platform, surmounted by a box with a slight incline. Except for the foundation, the entire instrument was covered in soft, pink velvet.

  “It’s named after a position of prayer,” Layle explained, running his eye over the velvet to see whether the pressure of past bodies had rubbed away the fabric. The velvet showed no sign that it had ever been touched. “One of the forms of prostration to the divine is to rest upon one’s shins and forearms. The box on this platform supports the prisoner’s torso as he kneels in the position of Adoration.”

  “And then?” said Elsdon.

  “The torturer questions him. That’s all the instrument is for: to place the prisoner in a position he can remain in for periods of long questioning. . . . Can you see it?”

  “Not very well.”

  Layle took Elsdon’s hand and carefully placed it atop the box. Elsdon stroked it for a moment before saying, “Layle, this is soft.”

  “It’s padded. So is the platform it rests upon.”

  “What sort of instrument of torture is padded? I can’t imagine that this would produce much pain.”

  “Try kneeling upon it for an hour or two,” Layle said dryly. “It’s a slow instrument of torture, yes. The prisoner breaks eventually, but over a long period. It’s used mainly with prisoners who would die quickly if stronger methods were used against them.”

  “And this was your favorite instrument of torture when you were young? Layle, that doesn’t seem like the sort of instrument you would use. You prefer for prisoners to break quickly.”

  “That’s why I used it. I would place the prisoners here, and they would think I was showing them mercy and that they could trust me. Then I’d show them that they were wrong.”

  Elsdon let his hand fall from the box; he did not reply. Layle put his arm lightly around Elsdon’s waist. “My dear . . .”

  “Stop fretting, Layle.” There was an edge to Elsdon’s voice. “I’m not worrying about you turning back into a fiend; I’m worrying about this instrument. I’m not sure it will be dramatic enough to impress our audience, and I’m not sure it will be painful enough to break me.”

  “It will in the hands of the right torturer.”

  Elsdon turned his eyes slowly toward Layle. In the dull light of the cell, his hair looked dark rather than golden-brown, and his eyes were shadowed as though he still wore his hood. “Love, stop,” he said quietly. “You’re not making this easy for either of us. I don’t need you throwing scare-tales at me; I have enough real things ahead of me to be scared about. And as for you . . . When will you trust yourself as much as I trust you?”

  “Elsdon, this is dangerous.” Layle realized that he was gripping his hands into fists and tried to relax them. “I shouldn’t be anywhere near a prisoner. It doesn’t take a dreaming for me to become a threat – just ask the men I murdered. I no longer have the self-control I once possessed—”

  “And you will not regain it by staying away from temptation. Love, you act as though we have a choice. We don’t. If I don’t break myself under your guidance, I’ll be taken from you and handed over to another torturer. Keep your mind on that, and I know that you’ll find the strength you need.”

  Elsdon placed his hand upon the cheek of Layle, who stood stiffly under his touch. Reaching up, Elsdon brushed hair from the High Seeker’s eyes, saying, “Will you do something for me?”

  “You know I will.”

  “Keep calling me by my first name. I know that you want the formality of last names to distance yourself from me during the torture, so that you won’t be tempted to harm me, but I— Layle, this is going to be difficult for me. I can’t bear the thought of you being apart from me. Will you do this for me? Be intimate with me?”

  “If you want me to, of course.” Layle forced himself to break free of his paralysis, catching Elsdon’s hand and bringing it to his lips. It was always like this: in the moments when Elsdon most needed his strength, Layle would grow weak, and Elsdon would be the one who comforted him. It was one of the things he hated most about himself, that he could not give Elsdon as much comfort as he deserved.

  “My dear . . .” he said, and then stopped. He could think of nothing to say that would ease Elsdon’s predicament.

  Elsdon must have sensed this. He smiled and said gently, “Will you show me where I kneel, love? It will help to know beforehand.”

  Layle swallowed through the dryness in his throat. Taking Elsdon’s hand, he guided the other Seeker over to the far end of the platform, where the shins were placed. He allowed Elsdon a moment to feel the soft velvet there; then, holding his breath, he steered Elsdon’s hands over to the break in the velvet, where the slit lay.

  He felt the jerk in Elsdon’s hand as he guessed the meaning of the slit. Then Elsdon said calmly, “Straps?”

  “Manacles. Steel, without padding. You have narrow ankles and wrists, though; there will be room for you to move a bit.”

  Elsdon nodded and moved his hand away. Layle caught hold of him again and guided him over to the other slit on the back end of the platform.

  “They’re far apart,” Elsdon said, with a hint of tension in his voice.

  “Yes. The legs are kept apart.”

  “I see.”

  Layle guessed that he did; Elsdon had been imprisoned in the Hidden Dungeon. Layle stole a kiss upon Elsdon’s hair, saying, “No one is here except me, my dear. That part of the torture won’t take place.”

  Elsdon said nothing, and Layle took a moment to glance up at the ceiling. Their audience was rapt. What Layle was doing – showing the prisoner the instrument he would endure – was part of the standard procedure of a Vovimian torturer. The kisses and caresses were not.

  Elsdon had moved again, sliding his hand past the box to the front half of the platform. “Are the arms kept apart as well?”

  “No, there’s only one manacle at this end; it binds both wrists. . . . Here.”

  Elsdon touched the slit, and then crept his hand forward toward the edge of the platform. He paused, frowning. “What is this?”

  The front half of the platform lay in shadow; Layle had to place his hand over Elsdon’s to tell what he was feeling. “The switch to lock the manacles in place. The manacles are hidden within the platform, and when this lever is pushed, the manacles emerge and slide over the prisoner’s wrists and ankles.”

  “But Layle, the lever’s nearly within reach of the prisoner.”

  “Yes. Quite a few prisoners have noticed that.”

  There was a silence, and then Elsdon gave a humorless laugh. “I see. The prisoners work and work and work to squeeze their arms far enough forward in the manacles to reach the lever – and then, after all that pain, they discover that the release to the manacles is elsewhere. Somewhere where only the torturer can reach it?”

  “Down near the bottom of the foundation. If you put your hand here—”

  Layle stopped. The front half of the foundation was in shadow; he groped for a minute before saying, in a tight voice, “Elsdon . . . help me push the Adoration onto its side.”

  Elsdon did so without asking questions. Layle inspected the bottom, then inspected it a second time to see whether the bottom could be opened to reveal the inner workings of the instrument. Finally he sat back on his heels, his breath heavy.

  “No release lever?” said Elsdon quietly.

  “None.” He looked at the closure lever, trying to convince himself that it also served as a release lever, but he knew the truth.

  “Of course not.” Elsdon’s voice sounded hollow in the cold cell. “This is a dungeon for eternal torture.”

  Layle slid his hands over his face. Until now, he had been able to turn his mind from what lay ahead – from what must lie ahead if he was to obtain the escape he desired. But there before him was the symbol of wha
t lay ahead for Elsdon.

  He felt a hand on his arm. Elsdon said, “Love, don’t worry. I’m sure you can find a way to convince the High Master to release me, after I’ve broken.”

  “You’ll get your release,” Layle said in a harsh voice. “It won’t be an easy one, though.”

  Elsdon gave a soft chuckle. “Since when were matters ever easy with us? Layle, I think we should start. The High Master isn’t going to wait forever.”

  Layle was able to focus his mind for the next minute on the strenuous work of helping Elsdon set the instrument back on its base. Then he took several steps back and stared down at the Adoration. It looked harmless.

  It always had.

  “What now?” asked Elsdon. “Do I just start?”

  Layle shook his head. “We need to convince our audience that I’m not ordering you to do this against your will.”

  Elsdon thought on this a moment; then a small smile tickled his lips. “I’m going to like this part,” he said.

  Layle let him make the move forward. He remained passive under Elsdon’s embrace and kiss, so that the onlookers would know that he was not sexually assaulting Elsdon. Only at the very end did he allow his arms to curl round Elsdon’s waist, and his lips to press more firmly. Even then, though, he took care to keep his desire down. His heart was beating hard, but it was from fear. Fear that the desire would come.

  Elsdon pulled back finally. His mouth was smiling; his eyes were not. “And now?”

  Layle cleared his throat. “Now we start.”

  Elsdon took a step backwards toward the Adoration, followed by another step. Then he looked up, his eyes squinting as he gazed toward the audience he could not see. Layle wondered whether he too had play-acting fright.

  “Layle,” Elsdon said, “before Master Aeden tortured me, he stripped me. Is that the custom here?”

  Layle felt his mouth and throat grow drier. “Elsdon, you needn’t—”

  Elsdon shook his head. “If we’re going to do this, we need to do it as closely to the Vovimian way as possible. Otherwise, our audience will think that I’m resisting being tortured.”

  As he spoke, his hand went to his collar. He swiftly unknotted the shirt, unknotted the belt and trousers, and let his clothes slide into a neat heap at his ankles. As he crouched down to remove his boots, he glanced up at Layle and frowned. “Love?”

  “Give me a moment,” Layle said hoarsely. He saw Elsdon’s expression out of the edge of his eye; Layle had turned his gaze away in the moment that Elsdon’s light-skinned torso came into view, and now he was cursing himself with every Vovimian oath he knew. He could feel sweat gathering in his loins, where the warmth was greatest.

  He closed his eyes and recited to himself the opening words of the Code of Seeking, then recited to himself the passage about the penalties placed upon Seekers who did not place the best interests of their prisoners first. He had written those words himself; they came to him like a familiar lullaby. Finally he felt safe enough to open his eyes. He did so, and felt his heart jump.

  Elsdon lay like a sacrifice on the altar, his naked torso stomach-down upon the box, his forearms and shins pressed upon the platform. His head hung over the box; though his arms were close enough to cradle the head somewhat, Layle could see the strain in Elsdon’s neck muscles as the other Seeker turned his head to look at the High Seeker. The smile had disappeared from his mouth.

  “I’ll push the lever,” he said, his voice more breathless than before. “That way, they’ll know that the breaking is my decision.”

  “Wait.” Layle walked slowly forward. The closer he came, the easier it was to see the rivulets of sweat beginning to trickle down Elsdon’s body, dampening his hair. All of his hair; the bottom half of his torso hung somewhat over the box, leaving room that any trained torturer would take advantage of.

  Layle moved his eyes swiftly back to Elsdon’s face. When he reached the other Seeker, he pulled off Master Aeden’s cloak and draped it over Elsdon before kneeling down beside the Adoration.

  “Layle . . .”

  “They’ve seen you naked,” Layle said firmly. “Now they’ll see me keep you from dying of a chill. That’s part of my job as a Seeker.”

  “It’s no colder here than at home,” Elsdon protested, but his voice was weak. He was staring at where his hands lay, pressed close together.

  Layle would have liked to have spoken words that would still the trembling that was lightly touching Elsdon’s body now, but he dared not. A glance up at the balcony warned him that the audience was becoming restless. “The lever’s a hand’s span in front of you,” he told the night-blind Seeker. “Push it to the right, then pull your hands back quickly, so that they won’t be hurt by the manacle snapping into place.”

  Elsdon nodded. He took a deep breath, and another deep breath; despite his long training against such an action, Layle found himself reaching forward to place his hand upon Elsdon’s shoulder. Elsdon’s breath caught, and he looked over at Layle. “You won’t forget your promise?” he asked in a subdued voice. “You’ll stay intimate with me?”

  “As intimate as you wish.” Layle stroked Elsdon’s skin lightly.

  An expression flashed in Elsdon’s eyes. It was a spark from an inward fire, dead before Layle had time to do more than register it. If he had been anyone else, he would not have noticed it at all.

  As it was, he felt his breath go still. Bloody blades, he thought to himself, I am growing too old if one of my junior Seekers can use his talent against me.

  That was Elsdon’s primary gift as a Seeker: his vulnerability. To prisoners first meeting him, the junior Seeker appeared to be shy and weak, a person who could be easily hurt and manipulated. Someone who could not possibly break them.

  Elsdon never play-acted this role. It was a true part of his character, bred in him during his years of submitting in fear to his abusive father. But it was not the only part of him, and its presence at the beginning of a searching was not due to impotence on his side, but rather to his hidden power as a Seeker. His prisoners would discover this eventually, when it was too late.

  Layle wondered what power he had just ceded to his love-mate; then he put the worry from his mind. If Elsdon wanted something from him, Layle would learn of it eventually. For now, the High Seeker’s thoughts must be on his prisoner. He nodded, as though his concession had been conscious and willing, and he saw the dim beginnings of a smile on Elsdon’s face. Then, before Layle had time to prepare himself, Elsdon turned his face toward his forearms. His hands darted forward and quickly back.

  He screamed.

  The three manacles slid into place at the same moment, shooting out of the slits and curving round till they met the platform with a crack. The space left by their curve was filled with Elsdon’s wrists and ankles, now firmly bound against the platform. Elsdon’s scream did not stop; his head was flung back, and tears were trailing from his eyes.

  Layle barely noticed the throb of blood suffusing his own body. He was struggling against an image breaking through to him of Elsdon in their bedroom in the Eternal Dungeon, screaming under torture. . . . Then Layle managed to pull back from the dreaming. “Elsdon!” he said with urgent desperation. “My dear. Are you—?”

  The door to the cell crashed open. Layle looked back and saw Jack standing there, with his sword in hand. His eyes were on Elsdon.

  “Get out, you food for the torture-god!” Layle shouted at him.

  Jack remained where he was, watching Elsdon sob out the last of his scream. “Sir, I’m sorry, sir, but I have orders to stop any torturer who—”

  “Mr. Ifor,” Layle said, his voice colder than the ice on the walls, “I will dismember you if you do not remove yourself from this cell. Now!”

  Jack’s gaze flicked away from the harshly sobbing prisoner to his torturer; the guard’s expression hardened. But he seemed uneager to test Layle on his threat. After a moment he backed out of the cell, closing the door. His footsteps rushed down the corridor.
/>   Layle heard a faint noise and glanced up at the balcony. He saw that the crowd had erupted into consternation. The onlookers were shouting at one another, and some of the torturers had evidently made up their minds how they should respond to the latest event: they were racing down the walkway. Layle wondered whether they were members of the communications committee, gone to alert the liaison.

  He hoped that was all they were.

  Layle leaned forward, so that his face was close to his love-mate’s. “Elsdon. Can you hear me?”

  “Layle, it hurts.” Elsdon’s voice was a breathless whimper.

  “I know, my dear; I’m sorry. Elsdon, we need to be quick about this. Your scream warned everyone that you’re taking yourself to the point of breaking.”

  “How long . . . ?” Elsdon panted.

  “I don’t know how long we have. Only a couple of minutes if the High Master was up on that balcony. Perhaps hours if the High Master is far below in the pit. I just don’t know.” He passed his hand over Elsdon’s forehead. It was as warm as the pool-blood had been. “Elsdon, can you—?” He stopped, unsure whether to encourage Elsdon to relax or to drive himself harder.

  “I’ll break,” Elsdon assured him with a cross between a sob and a laugh. “You don’t have to worry about that. But till then— Sweet blood!” His voice vibrated, like the body that was shaking now. “Layle, please . . . Please, could you kiss me?”

  “Elsdon . . .”

  “Please!” Elsdon’s voice grew high with hysteria.

  Layle hesitated, glancing up at his audience. The torturers who remained on the balcony were beginning to settle down, evidently unwilling to miss the final scene of the play. A number of them were clustered around Master Aeden, who was reading aloud from the black book in his hand.

  Layle felt some of the tension in him ease, and he returned his mind to his duty. Comfort – his duty as a Seeker was to continue to offer comfort to the prisoner as he entered into his breaking. The onlookers could not hear any words he spoke, so he must offer them a visible sign of his work.

  He leaned forward and kissed Elsdon lightly on the lips, keeping his eyes closed so that he could imagine that he was back in the Eternal Dungeon, giving his love-mate a cool farewell at the beginning of a workday. He was pleased to find himself successful, and when he opened his eyes, he was smiling.

  Elsdon was not. He looked at Layle for a long moment, his thoughts so far from himself that his shaking had stilled. “Layle,” he said softly, “you’re not letting yourself feel my pain.”

  “Elsdon, for love of the Code . . .”

  Elsdon shook his head. “Love, you’re not thinking. Sooner or later, when you return to searching prisoners, you will feel desire at the sight of their pain. I know you fear that moment. I want it to happen now, while you’re with me. If you can feel desire and not act on it while I’m under torture, you’ll know that there’s no chance that you’ll harm another prisoner.”

  Layle was silent a minute, hearing the faint drip of water in the corner of the cell and the fainter murmur of voices from the balcony as the onlookers awaited the next dramatic moment in the tale. He wondered what they would think if they knew that the prisoner was searching his torturer.

  “It’s too dangerous,” he said finally.

  “Layle, we have no guarantee that you won’t feel desire later, as my breaking grows closer. Isn’t it better for you to let yourself feel desire now, while your guard is greatest, rather than to let it take you unawares?”

  Layle said nothing, but after a long moment he let his eyes stray away from Elsdon’s face to his body.

  The prisoner, bound to the Adoration, racked with fear and pain from the binding alone. His body shivering, not from the cold, but from the unendurable strain of the torture. . . .

  It was a dreaming he had spun long ago about Elsdon. The dreaming was before him.

  He looked back at Elsdon. Elsdon was staring, not at him, but at his lap, as though he could see what lay there; his eyes rose to meet Layle’s. Layle waited, the delectability of his desire almost forgotten in his anticipation of Elsdon’s reaction.

  Elsdon smiled. It was a smile of delight, suffusing his face with as much peace as his tormented body would allow. “Oh, Layle,” he whispered. “I’m so glad!”

  Layle was saved from response by a faint thunder in the distance. For a heart-jerking moment, he thought it was an earthquake. Then he looked up and saw that the onlookers were applauding.

  Some were cheering; others, in the Vovimian manner, were jumping up and down so enthusiastically that it looked as though the balcony might give way. Master Aeden was still staring down at the Code of Seeking, but as Layle looked at him, he raised his head and gave a short nod to Layle, as he had in the days when his apprentice accomplished a particularly difficult task.

  “Elsdon,” Layle said in wonder, “it’s working. Your smile made them realize there’s truth to the Code of Seeking – that the prisoner can embrace his breaking. Now all we need do is show them the result of the breaking—”

  He stopped. He had looked down and seen that Elsdon was panting again, his eyes squeezed shut. The junior Seeker’s fists were tight, making the tendons of the wrists jut out against the manacle.

  Layle touched him lightly. Elsdon said, without opening his eyes, “Layle . . . I know we should do this as quickly as possible, but I don’t think . . . It hurts so much.”

  “I know, my dear.” Layle stroked his hair. “Tell me if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “I think . . . I want . . . The kiss helped.”

  “Would you like me to kiss you again?”

  “Yes. No. It . . . it’s not enough now. I need . . . Layle, I need you to make love to me.”

  Layle’s breath disappeared. His desire leapt like a child at play. He could no longer hear the dripping water over the hard beat of his heart.

  “No,” he said faintly. “Elsdon, I can’t—”

  “You promised. Layle, you promised me you’d give me whatever intimacy I wanted.”

  Elsdon turned his head and opened his eyes. No weakness showed there; his eyes were as hard as any Seeker driving his prisoner to the point of self-breaking.

  Layle remained motionless, as though encased in ice. Then he let his breath out. “So I did,” he said softly.

  Elsdon smiled again, his own pain forgotten in the contentment of a Seeker who has won his battle. Layle leaned forward, thinking grimly to himself that this was most certainly going to be a play such as hell had never seen.

  He kissed Elsdon hard, and his dark desire danced with joy.

  o—o—o

  The prisoner would not break. Standard procedure for breaking uncooperative prisoners was to frighten them into breaking. Then, once the breaking had been administered externally and the prisoner was in a mental position of vulnerability, the torturer would attempt to show the prisoner the advantages of turning the external breaking into an internal self-breaking.

  But this prisoner had proved too clever. He had guessed that nothing done to him in the Eternal Dungeon – none of the vaguely worded threats, none of the lightly administered torture – was aimed at his lasting harm. If he kept silent, his benevolent captors would eventually let him go, unscathed, and he would be able to continue his life of crime.

  On the first hour past midnight, two months after his arrival at the Eternal Dungeon, an eighteen-year-old torturer walked into Rack Room C and proceeded to unleash all the terror and sickening horror of the Hidden Dungeon.

  Young Layle allowed his dark desire to swell. He allowed the prisoner on the rack to witness this swelling. He said nothing for a long while, simply smiling down at the prisoner; even though he was hooded, the smile in his eyes was eloquent. Then, in the softest of voices, he proceeded to tell the man what he dreamt of doing to prisoners. And then he told the man, with a chill lightness of tone that had all the authority of truth behind it, that he had done this in the past to prisoners.

  And
the man broke. Cracked, like a twig in the hand. It was as easy for Layle as in the past, and it was as pleasurable.

  He heard the prisoner’s confession, then ordered the man’s release from the rack, taking the first steps to heal the prisoner’s body and soul. And then, when the prisoner had been returned to his usual cell, Layle turned his eyes toward the Codifier, who had attended the breaking at his request. He waited in sick anticipation to be told that he must leave the Eternal Dungeon forever because he had broken the Code.

  The Codifier did not tell him this. “Whether you receive pleasure or not from your work is of no matter,” the dungeon’s ethical supervisor said to the young man who would one day hold the title of High Seeker. “What matters is whether you act in the best interests of the prisoner.”

  They were words that became Layle’s mantra for the next twenty years, carrying him not only beyond his fear of using his dark desire to break prisoners, but also beyond his fear of using his dark desire in the bedroom. They were words he spoke to himself late at night, when staring down at his love-mate, who smiled in his sleep from the tender caresses he had received from the High Seeker during their love-making. That Layle’s mind had been far away, in a black dungeon where he tortured his screaming love-mate, was of no matter. The best interests of his love-mate came first, and if Layle must use the foulest part of himself to bring joy to Elsdon, then it was worth what the Codifier had strangely referred to as his “sacrifice.”

  He had never expected this, though: to bring joy to Elsdon while thinking only of his love for the other Seeker.

  He had no need to dream of Elsdon in pain; he could feel the strain in Elsdon’s muscles, the shaking flesh, the sweat that poured like blood from a rock. He could smell the rank stink of fear and torment. Layle could hear Elsdon’s moans and groans and the rasping of his breath as the junior Seeker strove to keep from screaming. Layle could see, whenever he raised his eyes, the wrists bound by the frigid steel.

  And he thought of none of this. It was there in the background, as once he had felt in the background the gentle words and soft touches he had given to Elsdon while they made love. Now Elsdon’s pain was in the back of the stage – scenery that set the mood and drove his desire high. And here in the front of the stage, where once there had been a torturer destroying his victim, was the High Seeker, striving with all his skill to comfort his love-mate.

  He let his finger trail down Elsdon’s spine and was rewarded with a moan that seemed to contain more in it than pain. Layle knew that his skill was great. It was one of the paradoxes of his life that his acute knowledge of how to bring agony to a prisoner could also be used to bring ecstasy to his love-mate. Never before had he been fully present to witness that ecstasy; in the past, Elsdon’s bliss had always been a dim shadow in the background of Layle’s dark dreamings. Now, reaching down to kiss Elsdon’s back and taste the sharp brine of the sweat, Layle could feel tears tickling at his eyes. He was in a place he had long since lost hope of ever entering – a place that he had witnessed from the distance with keen longing, but to which he had never been able to find the path.

  “Layle,” he heard Elsdon gasp. “Layle, are you here?”

  He knew why the other Seeker asked that question, at the very moment that Layle was sliding himself into the depths of his body. “I am here, my dear,” Layle said softly. “I am with you.” He leaned over Elsdon’s back to kiss his neck. “I love you.”

  He heard a strangled sound then, and felt the body quiver hard, in a tell-tale manner. Alarmed, he tried to see Elsdon’s face. “Are you all right?”

  “All right?” The sob was clear in Elsdon’s voice. “Layle, how could I be all right? You told me you loved me.”

  For a panic-stricken moment he was plunged back into his memories, into the time when he used words of love to destroy prisoners. Then he was able to rein in his fear. If Elsdon was upset by what the High Seeker was doing, he would say so. That was the long-time agreement between them, and Elsdon had never broken it.

  Already Elsdon was sobbing out more words. “‘All right’ – you make it sound as though this were as routine as documentwork. Layle, you’ve never told me you loved me.”

  He paused in his rhythm, confused. “My dear, of course I have. Every day—”

  “Not when we were making love. Never then. You were always dreaming of raping me then, and you never lied to me by saying you loved me. This is the first time you’ve been able to speak those words while we’ve been together like this.”

  It lashed him then, all the anguish of what was to come, and for a moment he thought that he would precede Elsdon into the breaking. He closed his eyes, driving back the pain. He dared not let that happen. The door he was forcing open was opening only because the High Master was unaware of its existence. Once the High Master learned of its existence through a breaking, the door would slam shut again. Perhaps it would open again in the future, or perhaps not. Layle could not count on the door opening for more than one person.

  He tipped his head back, hoping that the sight of gawking onlookers would cool the fire within him. But nobody was looking at him. It was clear that they thought the climax of the play had already been reached, and that anything which followed would be a denouement. That a prisoner could be tortured through his own will was exciting enough a revelation. The torturers gathered in clusters on the balcony, discussing what they had witnessed, and some of the torturers began to scurry away, evidently eager to try this new method.

  All the more reason Layle should hurry matters; one of the other prisoners might reach the point of self-breaking before Elsdon did. Not that Layle would begrudge another prisoner such a gift, but all of the other prisoners deserved some measure of the pain they were undergoing. Elsdon did not.

  Elsdon was groaning loudly now, and it was clearly from the passion that Layle was driving through his body. Layle kissed his neck again, wondering what steps he should take to bring this play to its finale. But, as in many occasions in the past, he underestimated his fellow Seeker. Amidst the gasps of pleasure, Elsdon said, “Love, I don’t think . . . Sweet blood, do that again! . . . No, wait, you mustn’t . . . Layle, no, it’s too much, you’re giving me too much. I won’t be able to break if you keep— Bloody blades!”

  The last was a scream as Layle plunged himself hard into the center of Elsdon’s pleasure. It was a skill he had acquired long ago, to drive a prisoner into near madness by raising the prisoner’s desire. It made the moment when Layle betrayed the prisoner all the more pleasurable.

  Elsdon was sobbing openly now. “Layle, why . . . Sweet blood . . . Sweet, sweet blood . . . Why are you . . . I won’t be able to break, love. You’re giving me too much pleasure.”

  He said nothing; he could feel the rising tension in Elsdon’s body, and he knew that the moment was nearing. He closed his eyes, trying to memorize the feel of Elsdon’s body beneath his hands, to know the joy of his love-mate.

  For the final moment before the betrayal.

  He felt Elsdon stiffen suddenly under his body. It was a measure of the other Seeker’s strength; at this point, his mind should have been hazed with the lusts of his body. But that was not Elsdon’s way, to place his own pleasure over thoughts of his love-mate. “Layle!” he gasped, trying to twist his head to look back at the High Seeker. “What is it? You know something – what are you hiding from me?”

  He waited for the exact moment he needed, the moment at which Elsdon’s body began to near the narrow gap he had created for it. Then he said softly, his own voice gasping with desire, “You were right. Your first guess was right. This is not a dreaming; we are dead. We died together, and you were brought to hell through your love for me.”

  He felt the tension increase in Elsdon’s body and knew that it was due both to Elsdon’s growing knowledge and to the drive into the gap. “Then . . . then when I break . . .”

  Layle could not forbear from running a hand through Elsdon’s hair, though he knew he ought to be concentratin
g his thoughts on pushing Elsdon further into passion. “You will truly be reborn into new life, in both soul and body. The breaking will take you from here.”

  “And you?” It was a wail; Elsdon had nearly reached the point where he must enter the narrow gap of the door that Layle had opened for him. “Layle, you—”

  “I will stay.” He could not speak more. The passion was beginning to bind his mouth, but he knew that Elsdon would understand what lay behind the words: Layle’s knowledge that the High Master would never allow the High Seeker release from his dungeon. At best, Layle’s skills would be required with other prisoners. At worst . . . The High Master’s rage at what he was doing now was likely.

  “Layle, no!” Elsdon sobbed between groans. “I won’t go; I won’t leave you . . .”

  He felt the tremor begin to enter Elsdon, and he leaned down for one final kiss. “My dear,” he whispered, “I know that you will not remember me where you are going. But try to find someone who will love you as much as I have loved you.”

  It took more strength than he had to speak the words. He could feel his own body trembling, and he knew that he was perilously close to breaking. Screaming inwardly at himself in fury, he strove with all his might to stay back, to allow Elsdon to be the one to enter through the narrow gap of breaking that would be closed in the moment of his rebirth, once the High Master learned of this door of escape.

  Elsdon’s sobs turned to a scream as Layle’s words, and Elsdon’s deep love for the High Seeker, pulled him into the breaking. His body began to pulse under Layle’s hands as he reached his climax. Layle, flinging back his chest and head as his own climax began, caught a blurry glimpse of the balcony, now empty but for a single, long-bearded torturer, witnessing the escape with serious eyes and a small smile on his face.

  And then Elsdon’s body was fading under Layle’s hands, disappearing, and at the same moment Layle felt the ground begin to rumble as the High Master roared, sensing the escape of a prisoner. The sound swallowed the last of Elsdon’s scream – swallowed too the scream of Layle as he entered into his own breaking. He felt his body falling, tumbling through the empty space where Elsdon had been. Pain lashed through him as he fell from the platform and crashed onto the floor.

  The door of escape shut behind Elsdon, and Layle was left behind in the eternal torment of his loss.