* * *
Camden
* * *
"Aye, so are ye going to get up for a nice chat, or am I going to have to shake you out of bed, Jhe Fayegeaux?" I've already drawn Geillg'a. Cade is, in fact, studying her links very closely.
He grins up at me, those teeth flashing like a dog's. "I see no reason not to engage in healthy conversation. Come on in, Camdhegn. It's a treat, living in a cell with a real bed and no roaches. Might as well share the joy."
I shake my head. "No, but thank you for offering so kindly." I kick a stool out in front of Cade's cell, then take a seat, already tugging out a pad of paper from one of my pockets. It should come in handy. Talking to Cade is in itself a difficulty - he's so closely claimed by Nul that it's hard to make out his features, and often difficult to pin down his words. Behind the wards here, it's a bit easier, but I still prefer to have my tools to hand.
He's watching the paper in my hand, in fact, and the pen. "I did wonder," he murmurs, "why you all chose to pen me up in a cell that had a writing desk."
I shrug. "Perhaps we might find a way to make you useful, Cade, regardless of the improbabilities of that. Now, our chat has been long delayed - just where is Elricht, if you don't mind being precise?" My quill is poised. Cade is very watchful of it.
He did agree to spill his secrets in exchange for protection. I can see him debating it internally. I'm sure the deal seemed quite good at the time, but now that he's held to it... he might actually have to make good on his end. Such offers always seem appealing in the moment of desperation, but later on, there's always the hemming and hawing.
"The Judge always has time for another Trial, regardless of his schedule." Oh, he jumps at that suggestion. "Surely your life as you've lead it has guaranteed you a grisly death by now. Why are you so afraid of comeuppance? It's inevitable."
He spits on the floor cell. Prisoners usually do that early on, before they realize that they're the cleaning crew for their own living quarters. "Inevitable never has to mean today. That's been the key to my longevity, Camdhegn. Surely you, a Dhealg'seala, could properly appreciate that."
I narrow my eyes. He's trying to bait me to distract me from questioning. It's difficult not to rise to catch it, but I stop myself. "Aye, so I can, just as you are in a position to appreciate the inevitable approaching you. Tell me, haven't you ever longed to spill the secrets you've kept all these years? You know more secrets than many men will ever learn. Between who your master is, or perhaps was, and your uncommon longevity, there certainly is a lot to be told of. Beyond all that, there's the simple fact that the Jherent Nul has likely figured out by this point that you, Jhe Fayegeaux, have turned traitor. No matter what you tell us, I doubt there's anything you know that will make us more certain to kill you than we already are. There is only, in fact, room to prolong your life. As such, there are no reasons for you to keep secrets anymore. Tell me where the Poets are."
He smirks. "Such a statesman. They should keep you in the other Hall. Certainly the windbags there could learn from you. But it is true, Camdhegn - I have no reason to keep my secrets." He draws himself up in his seat on the bed. "And perhaps I will enjoy the telling, yes? So, then - your precious Poets. And not a few Armed, besides. Where to keep them, in Nul?" He grins at me. His eyes are full of malice and trouble. Damn his current usefulness. "You've given me a desk. How about I put it to use, and draw ye a map to them all?"
I raise an eyebrow. I don't trust this suggestion. "I've pen and paper of my own, and cartography skills to my own name. I'll draw the map."
"...You wouldn't understand how to get there. You've never been."
"Try me."
He narrows his own eyes. We stare at each other for awhile, a battle of wills. There's not much contest - the collar and manacles I wrought for him are still in play, and none of his strengths can dominate in here. He's too chained down, and besides - I'm too damn stubborn. He looks away, scowling. "Lyiannethe is the closest you'll get to a real physical correlation, for now."
"Aye, ye did mention it earlier. Why do you say 'for now'?" I begin scrawling on my notepad.
"Some of the entrances and portals come and go, mostly...mostly in the desert. Isolated places. Places people forget about. We almost had a great one going in Rhivend, and then you and your brother had to go on and survive." His lip curls up. "That's a different case, of course. There's nothing consistent when it comes to portals to Nul. Just a case of the right energy, the right circumstances, and in some cases, the right person giving it just a push. But then there's Lyiannethe. Spooky place. Well-fortified against Radia, rarely directly incurred upon by the Law. Long, long history of the old ways. Monsters. Blood. Bad magic." He grins. "Lyiannethe is a permanent portal to Nul. Couldn't really say where it is. It's more a matter of who's opening it, and who needs to go through. But things go into Nul there. Things come out, too...some things from Nul are even kept there, to preserve them."
"Preserve them from what?" My throat's gone dry. I'm beginning to wonder why I went off alone to pursue this avenue of questioning. Why does the mere mention of Nul bring such terror to people?
His grin widens, showing off more of those carnivorous teeth. "From Nul, of course. Why do you think I only have half a face?"
I snort. "That last part rings with little truth."
He sighs. "Damn Lawmen, always have to be so literal. It could be said that my lack of identity is in itself a protection. A sort of shield. Being in Nul is being nowhere, after all - it can chafe. Especially if a Poet is kept there too long. In the case of your brother...well. I never imagined a Dhealg'seala would have such a weak constitution." He giggles. "I only kid. He does ail just a tad. He is, after all, a little more special than the average Poet to Nul. They're sometimes kept in Lyiannethe, sometimes in Nul. Most times, it's in the places that hang between - too decayed to be reality, too real to be Nul." He sounds so fucking cheerful about it all.
I unclench my fingers around my quill. I'll crush it. "Who in Lyiannethe is responsible?"
"The entire royal fucking family?" He snickers. "It's hard to find a Xaillyndesse who isn't involved with Nul, Jhe Dhealg'seala. Perhaps you should comb your own ranks. They're more treacherous than even the likes of myself." He shrugs. "If you want specifics, however...well, there's the Kommissar. I don't particularly like him, myself. Too brutish for my tastes. But he'll ally himself with whomever it takes to obtain power. He reeks of the old ways, the old monsters. Thelea Xaillyndesse, of course, hasn't found a power she doesn't want to murk up her own vein-blood with. This should come as no surprise to you. As for what you can do about it... well, it's a bit of a shame, but you're about to go to war with their fucking Kingdom." His grin is split practically ear to ear. "Not the best time to send in a spy, is it? Them damn Akribastes kids always get caught, in any case. Oh, of course - that would be what started the war in the first place, wouldn't it?"
I nod cheerfully. "Wouldn't have 'em any other way." I grin. "Keeps me employed! Now, tell me about what you've done. Most other things you've said might as well be things I already know. Why pay attention to others? Put your own hard work to the fore!"
He looks a bit crestfallen at that suggestion. Ahh, it seems he was trying to distract me with things that had not-much to do with him. Shame I'm so attentive. "Yes, well. You've known me, Camdhegn. My life's not all that interesting."
I poise my pen. "Then do what the trainees do and skip to all the good parts."
* * *
Katherine
* * *
Before I even make it to Ebrellin-i's cell, Gedulah warns me to draw her. I do, pulling the steel length of her up through the sheathe at my hip. I keep her in rapier form, usually - both my Arms are most comfortable resting in blade form. She could be a gun, if I so chose. Hell she could be a mandolin pick. She can be anything I can kill with, as can Gevurah. The only difference between me and the Armed who can only maintain their Arms in one constant form is discipline and practice.
I draw Gedulah as a rapier. She is both elegant and ready for any task at hand. She calms me, curbs my emotions, and makes me cool and calculated. She also can pick up the sensations of the energy around me as her blade glides through the air. That property is most useful to me now. If I feel endangered while approaching my Father's cell, I want to immediately know why.
There's no danger in the hall out here. That's good, then - if something were down here roaming outside the cells that didn't belong here, that would be cause for alarm. There's already been enough alarm in Radia. As I step in front of my Father's cell, I can see why Gedulah wanted to be drawn. Gevurah also calls out to be unsheathed, but that's unnecessary, and I need a free hand. I just look upon the cell and survey what my Father's become. He looks back up at me, and the moment he does that is painful.
His eyes are trying to free themselves of the marks surrounding them. By now, all of his makeup has been wiped away in all the struggles he's gone through. Underneath the decorative paint, black marks stain his face and hands. Black is perhaps the wrong word. They are black in some areas, and in others, they are grey shadows. It is as if ink were seeping under his skin, pooling in some areas and diluting through others. I see the marks ripple as I look upon them, contorting into new patterns and designs. Gedulah vibrates in my hand, and I pull her back from attacking. She sweeps up, then, into a guarding position. I understand - she's to shield me from any curses that are laid from within my Father's skin.
Even with bars between us, those marks could strike me down.
He's trying to hide his face. That's a futile gesture - the marks on his hands wink out at me, an eye welling up on the back of one, warding scripts swirling across the other. Both marks fail to succeed in their aims, but still Gedulah cautions me from even entering the cell right now. My hand hovers over the lock on the door.
"Please don't come in here, daughter." My Father's voice is distant, as if he'd said the words years ago, and I'm only remembering them now. I try to come up with some reply, but I choke it down. I want to go in there. I want to make it all okay for him, even though I know that's a silly wish, a frivolous little girl's thought. If he's to be healed now, it must be worked for. And he must do that work. There's very little that I can do here now.
Why are we here, young one? Gedulah asks me in a patient voice. I have half a mind to spit at her, and then I realize that's Gevurah's urge, not mine.
I have to monitor him.
He must do the work himself, and you know that. It will take time. Why attend his side when it will do nothing for either him or you? Is this one of those silly people-things that we Arms don't understand?
...Yes. That's the best way of putting it, Gedulah. I sigh. I didn't want it to be this way. I thought he would be better off than this. Most of all, I've been afraid that there's more here at work than Father's mind battling for himself. I've seen marked people before. Victims of curses or charms. Nothing like what's on my Father, though. I'm starting to wonder how deep those marks go, and how much they cover him.
Would you like to look? Clothing is no boundary for our eyes.
I nod. My vision ripples, and underneath Ebrellin-i's clothing I see marks ebb and flow, weaving over his entire body. They're concentrated on the energy points of his body, most notably his chakras. The throat is bound well, and then the heart, the stomach, the base of his spine, the groin. Oddly, his forehead is clean, but his crown was enough to charm and block the chakras there. It was taken from him almost immediately - the gem set in the center of it was practically a piece of Nul, it was so tainted and bespelled. His hair jewels were also confiscated for similar reasons, along with the other jewelry he wore. The jeweled posts drilled through his ear cartilage were the most tainted besides the crown itself.
His wrists and ankles are marked so much that he might as well have shadow-lined cuffs under the shackles the Judge wove onto him. Even his ears are marked. When the shadows crossing his body roil faster, Ebrellin-i cringes, pulling the blankets over himself and burying his face into the couch.
They're hurting him. Punishing him. They're ordering him to kill himself, and when he resists or is unable, he meets censure for it.
Sometimes, Gedulah's voice rolls through my mind, sad and soft, they punish him for no other reason than to taste his pain. That is not a new thing to him. It is, in fact, familiar to him.
Gevurah's voice pops in, suddenly. But he doesn't remember those times. That's the strange part, for him at least. He's robbed of those memories, so every time they punish him, he feels surprise, no matter how commonly it happens to him. He's a confused little chick of a peacock, he is, and kept terrified through that cursed ignorance. But... she sighs.
He is trying, says Gedulah, with no small amount of pride.
And that's reason enough not to kill him, says Gevurah, her growl both disappointed and glum.
Will he win? I ask, not understanding why I'm even bothering to. Still, in situations like this, people ask stupid things.
He can, if he keeps at it. He can't hear you right now, though, and I suggest you leave him to it.
I nod at Gedulah, watching the black spirals skate over the rims of Ebrellin-i's ears. I want to cut through them, but something tells me I'll only cut through my Father. What if it takes too long?
It always takes as long as it has to. He can't be rushed. At the very least, he's not completely overwhelmed. He's dealing with it... well, as best as he can. Mostly it's shock right now. He must have devoted a lot of energy to fooling himself into thinking there was nothing wrong with him. He had to have seen the marks before. He had to have seen them, to paint his face as he did. He's been so deluded that he never even consciously acknowledged them. Now, he has to take that all apart piece by piece, and put his own mind back together. Once he's done that, he can have help. Now, go from this place. It is not the one for you, not right now.
I sigh, step away from the cell, and sheathe my rapier. Father cannot talk right now, and I cannot touch him. It is time to be elsewhere.
Characters:
