In the Darkness Visible

by Ted Neill

  Omanuju began to write numbers on the parchment Gabriella had brought: 0 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 . . .

  “But how do we know where to start, which gargoyle is first?” Gabriella asked.

  “On their heads, there are runes that say first, second, third, and so on,” Ghede said. He pointed out the first gargoyle.

  Fortunately the numbers on the dials were ones Gabriella could read. Runes were ancient, even in Nicoemedes’ time, but Gabriella could see why the inventor would use two numbering systems: only someone who was very learned would have knowledge of both. Learning took patience, and as her father would say: “Patience begets wisdom.” Hadn’t Omanuju said Nicomedes would only want someone with wisdom to reach his treasure? She suspected that was what he had meant by “worthy friend” in the inscription.

  She set the dials into place as Omanuju calculated the sums: 0 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89 144 233 377 610 987 1597 2584 4181 6765 . . . and so on. When all thirty-six dials were set, Ghede tried the lid.

  It did not budge. They checked their math. It was perfect. They reset all the locks and started without including zero. No luck.

  Gabriella dropped her chin to her chest. She felt as if she had failed a test. Actually she felt worse. How many dangers had they narrowly escaped, how many leagues had they sailed, to be stymied by a box? Ghede must have felt the same way for he slapped the box like one would a malfunctioning maize grinder or dock winch.

  “Well, there are only a few thousand more permutations to try,” he said.

  “And tens of thousands of combinations of those,” Omanuju added, slumped on his stool.

  Gabriella considered the riddle on the top of the box: “Numbers not of other numbers.” Well, their numbers were certainly “of” other numbers, since they had been sums. She realized they probably could not have been more wrong. The decorations had led them astray, which perhaps they had been meant to do.

  Ghede picked a few tools from the walls and began working at the hinges of the box. “This might take a while,” he said, a miniscule screwdriver clenched in his teeth.

  Gabriella pushed back from the table and wandered through the doorway into the next room. Scale models of machines stood on desks. Some were so large that they rested on the floor, waiting for someone to complete them. Gabriella could recognize the function of some: a digging machine with dirt scoops, a self-propelled wheel barrow, even a floating ship like the Elawn, but this one with folded wings on the sides. She wandered into the room’s recesses where she found models covered with sheets.

  Why are these covered?

  Gabriella peeked under one sheet. Beneath were gears, armor, and blades. Not just sword blades, but rounded blades made for spinning, made for killing. She shuddered and walked to a drafting desk in the corner, where she found a sketch of another machine with whirling blades and bellows for launching darts with a gust of air. This machine had wheels. On the lip of the desk, there was a small writing lead encased in wood . . . a pencil, very expensive and rare. She was about to take it when she noticed teeth marks on it. Probably Nicomedes’ own tooth marks.

  The inventor felt close in that moment, and very real. The words “worthy friend” came back to her. She knew Nicomedes was long gone, but she could sense his presence powerfully here, which was why she left the pencil where she found it. This place was not a tomb, but it felt just as sacred. She knew she wanted something from Nicomedes, and she felt a need to behave as if she were worthy of it.

  “Machines for killing from a man of peace,” Omanuju said beside her. She had not been aware of his coming into the room, but after seeing the way he moved on Kejel, it did not surprise her that he could move quickly and silently, even right next to her.

  “He must have felt like he was in great danger. That is why he must have come here,” Gabriella said. She examined the marks on the pencil. She knew she bit down on quills when frustrated adding up sums for school. “I don’t think he liked designing these machines. I think that is why he covered up the models with a sheet,” she ventured. “He did not want to be reminded.”

  As they uncovered more drawings and lifted more tarps, Gabriella felt Nicomedes’ personality revealing itself. The next room presented row upon row of bookshelves. Although they were dusty, the books sat neatly arranged and catalogued. In the corner of the room, waiting in a wide beam of dancing water-light, was a well-worn reading chair with an equally worn footstool. Gabriella thought about the hours the inventor must have sat here, reading, thinking, dreaming . . . .

  The next room was the kitchen. Like the workroom tools, the pots were all aligned according to size. Forks, knives, and spoons rested in designated cubby holes while goblets and plates were evenly spaced on a series of shelves.

  Nicomedes’ bedroom was last. Gabriella stopped at the doorway when she saw the bed—fearful that his remains would be moldering there. But the bedclothes were empty and clean, the corners of the blankets tucked under the mattress as if waiting for Nicomedes to return, leaving Gabriella with a sense of sadness.

  This room was just beside the waterfall and, in addition to the skylight, there was a large bay window looking out into the lagoon. The window glass was clouded with age, but with some effort Gabriella was able to turn the latch and push the window open. The sound and smell of the cascading water flooded the room, a welcome contrast to the tomblike silence that had permeated the rooms they had passed through. Gabriella could imagine the sounds of falling water soothing a pensive Nicomedes to sleep.

  The angle of the window allowed her to see around the edge of the falls. The wyvern was still perched on the rocks, but its attention was no longer on the escaped Elawn. The dragon was watching the lagoon, its neck curled backwards like a crane when hunting fish. Something caught its eye, and the wyvern leapt off his rocky roost. The falling water blocked her view, but Gabriella heard a small splash. The wyvern flapped back into view, a fat fish in its terrible teeth. Despite her fear of the creature, Gabriella smiled at its successful fishing.

  “Omanuju, sailors sail east on a regular basis, and stories of dragons are rare. Why have we met this one so easily?”

  “Dragons have always been there, even if they do not venture west much these days. Contrary to popular belief, oceangoing ships do not interest them much. Sailors avoid seas where dragons are common, but they have avoided those lanes so long they forget why. It’s likely that dragons have flown over many a sailor only to be mistaken for birds.”

  “Why did this dragon pursue us?”

  “Well, while oceangoing ships might not interest dragons much, ships of the air are another matter. When we take to the air, we are in the wyvern’s domain. They have long memories, and I’m sure they do not fondly recall floating ships in the sky.”

  Gabriella remembered something else Ghede had said. “Omanuju, what is mage fire?”

  “Every dragon, wyvern, drackorn, or high dragon breathes fire, the same fire we have burning in our hearths and lamps. But there is a second fire that burns without heat that is actually magical. It is such pure magic that even the most powerful of mages is helpless against it. But it can also be used to give a person wisdom or power. Some say it even has healing properties. It is called the mage fire.”

  “So why did the wyvern not use it on us?”

  “I suspect because, according to legend, a dragon can only use his breath of mage fire once in his whole long life.”

  “Truly?”

  Omanuju shrugged. “The tales of old say that even high dragons have only one, maybe two breaths of the stuff. A dragon may live a long life of thousands of years and never use it. Some say dragons who have not used it in their lifetime breathe out their last breath with it. Anyone standing before that fire would gain incredible wisdom and insight.”

  Gabriella looked back at the wyvern. The beast sat back and, in a surprisingly human fashion, barred its teeth, and picked them with one of its talons.

  “We could use some wisdom now for that box,” Gabriella
said. “I never thought this would be so hard, Omanuju. But I guess I was just naïve.”

  Dameon came to mind again, his penchant for numbers. She remembered the last time she had walked with him after he had fallen into the water and Mortimer had saved him. He had counted by primes that day to calm himself. Primes were his favorite numbers.

  Gabriella’s body stiffened a moment before she spun around and sprinted back into the workroom, calling over her shoulder. “Omanuju, I’ve got it. Numbers not of other numbers! Nicomedes means prime numbers!”

  Tools were scattered all about the chest, but Ghede had had no luck breaking into it. Gabriella burst into the room just as the skipper threw a miniature hammer and chisel down on the table.

  “Ghede, numbers not ‘of’ other numbers are prime numbers . . . not divisible by any regular—”

  “Primes . . . I had not thought of that.”

  “Help me put them in,” she said.

  Gabriella began clicking the sequence of prime numbers into place. She did fine up until the sixties, then she had to slow down. By the time she had come up with 101, her head was hurting. Now she did wish Dameon were there, if only for this. How could she be sure of any of the numbers? She wondered if her brother was not a little magic himself to be able to come up with them so effortlessly.

  Omanuju swept into the room, blowing the dust off a book in his hands. He dropped it on the table and flipped the pages until he came to a table with fifty prime numbers:

  2 3 5 7 11 13 17 19 23 29 31 37 41 43 47 53 59 61 67 71 73 79 83 89 97 101 103 107 109 113 127 131 137 139 149 151 157 163 167 173 179 181 191 193 197 199 211 223 227 229. . .

  Gabriella dialed in the rest. When she finished, she could not bring herself to touch the lid, her hands were shaking so hard.

  “Go ahead,” Ghede said. “You’ve earned it.”

  She put her hands on the small handles and pushed up. A clicking noise erupted from all the locks as the lid tilted open. Ghede let out a loud “whoop,” but Gabriella restrained her celebration. She wanted to make sure the box did not contain a second set of locks.

  There were none. The chest was empty except for a single leather folio. Gabriella’s head felt light, as if it were full of hot air waiting to float away. She reached in reverently and removed the folio. The leather cover, having been closed for so long, did not want to stay open, so Gabriella held it open with her hand. She shivered with excitement as she handled something she knew Nicomedes only wanted his “worthy friends” to touch. The folio held a soft piece of velum that Ghede lifted out and unfolded. It was covered with a variety of large symbols arranged in rows and columns, an unconventional map from a genius. It certainly did not look like a drawing of a maze or labyrinth. In the margins was more rune writing.

  “What does it say?” Gabriella asked.

  “Follow the signs,” Ghede and Omanuju said in unison.

  “That is all?”

  “Yes.” Omanuju nodded.

  “Another riddle?” Ghede examined the folio carefully for any details they might have missed.

  “No, not a riddle,” Omanuju said. “A command. Those figures in the center of the page . . . they are not characters of any language. They seem to be signs.”

  “But what about the maze? I thought this was a map,” Gabriella said, rubbing her temples.

  Omanuju sighed. “We will just have to see when we reach Dis.”

  Chapter 16

  The Father and the Fighter

  Every fortnight, the most popular pastime of Mornaport took place in a storehouse on the docks. Longshoremen, sailors, and merchants pitched in together to arrange benches, scatter sand on the floor, and erect ropes around a fighting ring. Fighters came from all over the island. Some were slaves brought by their masters, others were freemen but were poor and hoped to change that through winning a big purse. The caliber of competitors varied but Nicholas had been right: Vondales quickly made a name for himself, beating even the most seasoned fighters. What he lacked in training he compensated for with ferocity. And it was clear to Sade that his brother took a special joy in the violence of the ring. He was lightning quick, clear-eyed, and decisive against his opponents. The money mattered little to him. It was the release of violence and the thrill of survival that left his bloody mouth smiling at the end of each bout.

  The money did matter to the men who bet on him and he soon made them so rich that they would salute him, two fingers raised like a V, whenever he entered the ring. Over time he only grew stronger. Money paid for coaches and mentors. He was a young man coming into his physical prime and many a former fighter or retired mercenary was eager to work with him.

  Sade grew his skills as well. With the one book of spells returned to them by Timos, he practiced his art daily, focusing on practical spells of weather working such as calling the wind, clearing mist, and parting rain clouds. He practiced more dangerous spells as well, those that were said to be beyond weather workers’ abilities. With great concentration, he could move an object, a ring or a key, across a table, even if he lacked the precision to summon them to the palm of his hand. He could make a candle wick smolder and could even focus on a spot on his own hand and make it burn as if it were beneath a magnifying glass on a sunny day. He still lacked the ability to call forth a flame outright—those secrets were in the books Timos had destroyed—but it was no use to dwell on it, Sade told himself. He could already do far more than even an average weather worker. Better simply to move forward and continue with what he did know.

  Nicholas was pleased with them and they enjoyed his favor. After many wins, Vondales had filled their coffers, making the Guild richer than it had ever been. They trained new fighters and even recruited from the ranks of unemployed ex-soldiers who congregated around gambling halls and drinking taverns. With money came power and more choices. Talk of buying a shop that would serve as a cover for an above-ground lair came up frequently among Nicholas and his lieutenants. They even considered buying a skiff in order to smuggle goods into the city for sale on the black market. Some nights Sade could not even sleep, drunk with the excitement of how far they had come and their potential to do so much more.

  But it all came crashing down in a single incident, with one reckless death. The man fated to die was a slave owner. He was a large, powerfully built man—once a fighter himself—but time had shifted the thickness of his shoulders to his belly. His slave, however, was a young man in his twenties with flaxen hair, shoulders as wide as an ax handle and legs thick as tree trunks. He bore a striking resemblance to his owner and Sade commented on as much to Nicholas.

  “Wouldn’t be the first man to bed one of his slave girls and make a slave out of the bastard. Won’t be the last either,” Nicholas said.

  By the way the man preened over his slave, showing him off to the bettors and odds makers, Sade sensed that Nicholas was right. The man’s pride was more than that of owner, it was that of a father and here, away from his other slaves, he could show it. Sade felt a twist in his stomach he had not felt before during a match—it was fear. So far Vondales had beaten even larger foes either with speed, cunning, or pure rage. But the scars on the slave’s knuckles and face made it clear he was experienced. Sade settled down on a bench near the back of the hall, one where he could see, but not necessarily be noticed. He had not resorted to using his magic arts to help Vondales in the past, but he was certainly not against it if need arose tonight. A breeze to whisk dirt into an opponent’s eyes might be all Vondales required to gain the upper hand.

  In the end, it was not needed. Vondales was outmatched in size but he used it to his advantage, moving quickly in and out of the flaxen-haired slave’s reach, ducking low to avoid his swings, and stubbornly twisting out of his grapples. Vondales played a defensive match and just when Sade was wondering how he would win a strike or two, he surprised even Sade by suddenly mounting the slave’s shoulders and choke him into unconsciousness with his legs.

  The match was over that abruptly. The storeh
ouse shook with cheers. Vondales had not been favored to win, considering the slave’s size, and for those who had been faithful to him, he had just won a grand payout. These supporters lined the edge of the ring cheering and clapping Vondales on his bare back. The crowd was full of fingers held up in the shape of a V. But the slave-owner—the father—was far from a gracious loser. Sade caught eye of his burning expression of disappointment and knew something was wrong. The moment the father started across the ring towards Vondales, Sade leapt up off the bench and started to push his way through the celebrating crowd to his brother’s side.

  Perhaps even Vondales had doubted himself, for he was enjoying the celebration more than usual, clasping the hands of his fervent supporters and shouting obscenities at those who had bet against him. His face was red with exertion, his body slick with sweat, and his smile of joy unrestrained.

  He did not see the slave’s father or the bottle in his hand until it was too late. Sade shouted a warning but it was lost in the noise of the crowd. The bottle broke over Vondales’ head. Bright red blood appeared almost immediately, spattering across Vondales’ shoulders and dripping down his torso. He staggered but the fight was not gone from him. The father attacked again, this time swinging the broken shards at Vondales’ neck. Vondales dodged just out of reach, shaking his head, and blinking to ward off the dizziness from the blow.

  The room erupted into chaos—there were those who wanted to intervene, for either side, then there were those who simply wanted another fight—this one to the death—and they held back the others. Countless scuffles knocked over benches. Men were flung up against the ropes. Sade saw Nicholas strike another man with a pair of iron knuckles. Carter and Andre were by his side, throwing others out of their path as they also tried to make their way to Vondales. Sade stood up on an overturned bench to keep his brother and his attacker in sight. There was no question now, all rules were off. Sade was prepared to use whatever spell or charm he could to aid his brother, but before he could, a spectator tumbled into him.