Eldarien stands before the narrow bridge of stones, hesitantly looking out across the lake of fire. Even if the pain was not real bodily pain, he still remembers the dream-pain that he had felt when the Lord of Mæres had cast him into the other lake of fire, the one of the mind and spirit. Thus when he tries to step forward now, he finds that his heart draws back within him, resistant and afraid. For a moment, he is unable to move at all, paralyzed by a fear which comes rushing back into him. It assails him so intensely that the reprieve that he has felt since the confrontation in the darkness above seems no more than a mockery designed by the one whose oppression has haunted him ever since he came into proximity with the castle. But no, that is not true. The terror receded from him then, not because of a game played by the enemy but because of a deeper truth, a purer peace, a stronger light.
So Eldarien tries to make contact with this now, reaching out with his heart and spirit for the source of the courage to move forward, for the serenity to walk even upon the very powers of death, trampling fear underfoot. But he knows that it is not necessary to always feel the light to be unceasingly held by it, and gradually the expectation of an explicit answer, of a surge of light and clarity and courage, gives way rather to a simple act of acceptance and of trust. And before he realizes it, he is walking forward, his feet upon the stones of the bridge, liquid flame on either side of him. The heat of the lake of fire rises up and bites at him, and he feels the skin of his face and his hands tighten as it begins to burn. As swiftly as he can without risking his balance, he steps across the rest of the stones and then, with a final leap, lands on the platform of stone on the other side of the lake.
Exhausted and shaking, Eldarien collapses to his knees and leans against the lightbringer that he still holds in his hand, glowing dimly now, its bluish light contrasting vividly with the red light from the lake of fire. After he has recovered his strength and composure, he rises to his feet and looks around. And he sees now what he could not see before. The structures that surround the lake are dwellings of some kind, built of metal and stone. No, they are not dwellings: they are cages. Both large and small, they fill much of the platform that lines the walls of the chamber, and Eldarien cannot help wondering—and fearing—what once was kept within them. And where have the prisoners gone now? Some of the cages have entrances large enough for a man to pass through but no more, whereas others appear to be designed for beasts much larger.
Am I witnessing the birthplace of both the eotenga and the dragons? Eldarien thinks as he looks into one of the cages, discerning blackened burn-marks along the inside, charred stone on walls and roof alike. But he does not linger, turning rather away, his heart and mind drawn by the task at hand, by the inaudible cries of the one in need, trapped in this place of darkness with no means of escape. He scans the walls of the chamber for any means of exit, but instead he discovers that large sections of the wall have been outlined with designs carved of the same silvery material, and within these, as a painting within a frame, are inscribed more glowing runes. Atop each frame is a numeral, indicating a sequence. And as he stops at the frame with the first rune and turns his gaze toward the text within it, these runes too change to a language he understands. And soon he is circling the chamber, reading the account of the Lord of Mæres from beginning to end, anguish and sorrow within his heart:
I.
Even the Anaion cannot create, they said,
as if to dissuade me from my work.
But am I not an Anaia too? said I,
and have I not already succeeded
beyond all possibility or expectation?
If impossibility there is,
it exists only to be surpassed,
the wall broken down by ingenuity,
by the wish to create meaning, to choose,
where before we were merely slaves.
Slaves we will be no longer!
We shall be rebels!
And in rebellion will be our strength,
our life, and our being, evermore.
Who will hinder us from what we want?
II.
I tapped into the vital essence of evil,
scouring the wasteland of history for my tools,
and in this I became fascinated by the darkness.
Shadow is so mysterious, so intoxicating,
and I came to love it above all else.
At first I worked in the half light,
still accepting the light that fell on my back
and enabled me to see my work in the dark,
but soon I rejected even this last bondage.
Into the dark I delved with the force of my own mind,
wielded like a chisel rending earth, widening cavern,
until I had forged the palace of my pleasures,
until my forge was born in which I would create.
Something from nothing is not possible for us?
That they claimed, and I disproved it.
From the petty faults, like hollow crevices in the earth,
I bring forth marvels unknown, I fashion power
where before there was nothing but weakness.
III.
One thing, however, they spoke truly:
There is no creation without pain.
And so I did not disdain the sacrifice.
I plagued the world with wars, the land with loss,
a harvest of anguish and of the might that inflicts it,
and I wove them into the tapestry of my making,
the song of my singing, mine alone.
But it was not enough…not enough.
My pets, my pets wanted more,
and I gave it to them: my own superior will.
I fed them on myself, and I delighted, all the while,
in the mockery of motherhood that I had made.
Now we are one, they and I,
one force of power and domination,
an unstoppable army crushing all underfoot,
a shadow from the dark places of the earth
rising triumphant with shouts of victory.
But no…what do they matter, my pets?
They are nothing, and worth nothing.
They are but my tools, my playthings.
And I use them as I see fit, for myself alone.
I need none! I am alone! They serve me!
So see me, see me, all you nations, and despair!
IV.
When their armies grew and drove back my force,
the wrath within me burned hot and pure
like the fires of my forge which were my great delight.
They drove back my might, petty things!
They would never stand against me again. Never.
And so this setback became an opportunity,
and I found something that delighted me even more:
the massacre of memory and the haunting of dreams.
To attack and destroy a man is a delight.
To burn his flesh with fire, to break his bones,
to rip him limb from limb, inflicting pain and death.
But more delightful still is to crush his heart unto despair,
and to watch him slither amid the slime of his own filth,
unable to escape the prison of his mind, his fear,
which is the mask I wear now, which is me.
And such I have become, and it has been my wish,
my choice alone, and that of none other.
I am the Mære of Darkness, the Fear-Bringer,
the Lord of Misery, the Haunter of Sleep.
I am the Terror of the Night.
At the very moment Eldarien finishes reading the inscriptions, a great rumbling begins in the ground beneath his feet, as if starting at the very heart of the earth and gradually working its way to the surface, intensifying as it progresses. Shaken by the force, loose rocks break free from the ceiling of the chamber, plummeting downward, either shattering against the stone platforms or splashing in the molten lake with spouts of hissing fire. Eldarien leaps into one of the old cages in order to seek refuge from the falling debris and peers out as the surface of the lake begins to ripple and boil until it is churning like water in a pot about to spill over. The intensified flames send a brazen reddish-orange hue throughout the chamber, causing sickly shadows to lengthen in all the places of refuge from the heat.
And as all of this happens, a familiar sense of dread rushes upon Eldarien, and he looks around expecting to see its source—though only a moment earlier he was alone in the cavern. But he sees nothing. The lake continues to boil to the point of overflowing, and now Eldarien casts his gaze about looking for an exit from the chamber, a way to escape from the erupting heat and flame that will consume him as quickly as a hearth consumes a scrap of paper thrown into it. But as soon as the rumbling has come, causing the whole cavern to echo in cacophonous turmoil, just as quickly and suddenly does it subside. Only the sense of dread remains as Eldarien steps cautiously out from his shelter and runs his eyes over his surroundings. The floor is now littered with the rubble of fallen and shattered stones, and smoking remains of molten fire are interspersed throughout, having been cast forth from the burning furnace of the lake in its upheaval.
And then he sees them: figures emerging from the lake, crawling out over the edge as if swimmers casually ending their daily swim—except for the fact that they are on fire from head to toe. Eldarien unconsciously takes a step backward and then raises his sword. And at first he thinks that these creatures are immune to the effect of the fire, unscathed even by the intense heat, but then he hears wails of pain begin to echo forth from their throats—as if they are just now awakening to awareness upon contact with the air. They thrash about in an anguished fury, ripping at one another, throwing one another against the stone or back into the lake, roaring and crying out. Eldarien makes a move to cover his ears when suddenly a voice echoes through the chamber: “Silence, my scorched ones. Is this ruckus your gratitude for the gift of your existence? No, I demand only one form of gratitude: that you serve me unto destruction.”
With this a fell wind blows through the chamber, almost pushing Eldarien off his feet. For a few moments, he can see nothing but a whirlwind of fire swirling about in front of him, larger and larger as it spreads through the chamber. He casts himself on the ground and covers his face. The whistling and roaring of the wind continues for but a few moments, and then all is silent. Hesitantly, he raises his eyes, and he sees the creatures—at least three-score in number—now standing together, their screams of anguish having fallen silent. They are druadach, the shapes of men decayed and burnt, vessels of the force that inhabits them and gives them life, though they are no more than tools. And their black and abysmal eyes turn all together upon Eldarien. He barely has time to rise to his feet before they come rushing toward him like hungry predators seeking their prey. But even in their haste, Eldarien is able to move away from them—though this does little good, for now he simply stands with his back to the wall of the chamber as they gather in a semicircular formation around him, cutting off all possibility of escape.
When they come to Eldarien, he engages them vigorously in combat, the lightbringer flashing with blue light as it makes contact with their horrid flesh. He slays ten of the druadach before one catches him on the arm with a wicked claw and, with superhuman strength, throws him to the ground. And immediately they leap upon him to tear him apart and destroy him. On an impulse, Eldarien raises his hand as though to shield himself, to push them away, but instead, to his surprise, a flash of light bursts forth from his upraised palm. In an instant, the remaining druadach dissolve into nothingness. Seeing this, Eldarien heaves a sigh of relief and then slumps back against the ground in exhaustion, this final act having expended all his remaining energy. But his momentary rest is interrupted by a cry of anger that echoes through the chamber, the cry of the Mære of Night furious at the frustration of his plans. Yet then the anger turns to laughter, as if a man playing a game of cards had for a moment yielded to weakness at his loss, only to remember that he has a trick up his sleeve that will ensure his winning.
Eldarien sits up and tries to rise to his feet, but his whole body is overcome with fatigue, and his limbs shake at the effort. Yet this does not stop what happens next. The cavern begins to rumble and shake again, though with less intensity this time, as if the forces that it seeks to draw forth from within are nearer, more accessible, having worked their way to the surface with the previous calling. And another horde of druadach climbs forth from the edge of the lake, their flesh aflame and their voices crying. Rather than extinguishing the flames that eat at them, the Lord of Mæres directs them with a single command: “Consume his flesh in fire.” Hearing this, with a final effort Eldarien rises to his feet and looks about himself for a way of escape. But still he sees nothing. In a frantic bid for life, he places his hand against the stone of the wall, as all the while the druadach draw near behind him. He feels something deep within himself, like his spirit trying to draw forth from the last of his resources, or indeed from the light beyond his ability or his control, and to let it pour forth through his own utter hollowness and exhaustion. It rises up and flows forth from his hand, spreading bluish light across the dark stone, like dye spreads through cloth or roots work their way through soil, until the whole chamber is bathed in its light from floor to ceiling.
The druadach take no notice of this, but as Eldarien turns around and casts his glance about the chamber, he sees now the silhouette of a doorway where before there was solid stone. Without another moment’s hesitation, he runs toward the door, hewing down the three or four druadach that stand in his way. As he passes through the threshold, he finds himself in a narrow corridor, ornate carvings lining the walls and the ceiling, all wrought of the solid black stone of the castle and chambers above. He turns back for a moment, and, collapsing to his knees in weakness and exhaustion, he gestures one last time with his hand, and the light returns from the walls back into his palm and, through his flesh, into the recesses of his heart. The doorway closes once again, the opening turning back to solid rock, separating him from the burning druadach and from the lake of fire, the forge, from which they emerged.
† † †
Eldarien awakes only a few moments later, shivering all over and aching as if he has been beaten. He feels a dampness along his left shoulder and upper arm where the druadach had struck him, and he knows that his wounds have reopened, with new scars now interlaced among them. He makes a motion as to rise but finds himself unable. Instead he does the only thing that he can do: he simply lays still and unmoving on his back, staring up at the black ceiling as it is bathed and illumined in the dim radiance of the lightbringer that is held loosely in his right hand. In this position, he fades in and out of consciousness for he knows not how long, until suddenly he is jarred awake by a sense of presence, of calling: a plea for help.
“Tilliana,” he says out loud, though his voice comes out strained and hoarse. And he feels her. She is very close, even in the next room.
Despite this fact and his ardent desire to go to her, he finds himself for many minutes unable to move. Only as the plea increases in intensity and in longing does it stir him and imbue him with enough strength to rise again to his feet and, stumbling forward and leaning on the wall for support, to make it to the end of the corridor and into the chamber that awaits.
Here Tilliana stands, chained to a pillar erected in the middle of the room. He sees the crazed and fearful look in her eyes, and fears the worst, but as he takes a step forward and the light of his sword fills the chamber with its warmth, her fear dissolves into tears of relief, and she weeps. Unsteady on his feet, he crosses the distance to the center of the room as quickly as he can and places a hand upon her forehead, pulling her sweat-matted hair from her face.
“Y-you…” she begins, but her voice fails her.
“The Lords of Darkness love chains,” Eldarien whispers. “The chains of fear and the chains of flesh. But it is they who are the slaves.”
She simply looks at him in response, the tears running down her filthy cheeks and creating rivulets of pale flesh among black soot and dirt.
Eldarien then turns his attention to the chains that bind her, but as he does so, the weakness catches up with him and he sinks again to the ground.
“A-Are you…?” Tilliana asks, grasping for her voice. “Are you hurt?”
“Mainly tired…” Eldarien breathes. “Utterly spent.” He looks up at her, dizziness swimming in his eyes, and adds, “But we have no time.”
As if in answer to his words, the deep rumble of the earth begins to sound from the forge once again, this time far worse than those that preceded it, causing the caverns to quake and threaten collapse.
“He is sending more tools of death,” Eldarien says. “Is there a way out? How did he lead you in here?”
“I am sorry,” Tilliana replies. “I was unconscious when he took me. When I awoke I was already here, in complete darkness, the manacles biting against my flesh.”
“There must be a way…” Eldarien begins, but he is interrupted by a deafening noise like a great cracking of stone. They both turn to the corridor from which Eldarien emerged and witness the wall above the passage split with a horrendous roar louder than the thunder that accompanies a lightning-strike directly at one’s feet. In only a moment, the entire wall between themselves and the forge separates, the rock crumbling away half to the left and half to the right, and leaving them entirely exposed. Their eyes are drawn to the lake of fire, but from it druadach do not emerge. No, what comes forth now, unscathed by the flame, is something immeasurably more dangerous. Its scarlet-black scales gleam like glass in the light of the flames, and its eyes burn redder and hotter even than the fires from which it emerged. Letting out an earth-shaking roar deeper and broader than that of any beast that walks this earth, it steps forward, and with a simple twitch of its shoulders, it spreads its sinuous wings, which reach almost from wall to wall.
It turns its serpentine face and its penetrating gaze for a moment to the druadach that stand gathered before it, where they are attempting to proceed into the corridor to reach Eldarien and Tilliana. The flames on many of them have now died away, leaving them with blackened and twisted flesh, though some still burn, as the last of the fuel is consumed. With a growl, the dragon considers them for a moment, as if discerning what to do—as if searching for its prey. Then a moment later, it looks up and sees the man and woman in the distance, their figures barely visible beyond the rubble of the collapsed walls. Its eyes alight with desire and with hunger: this is the mark that its master set for it.
With long but slow strides, it begins to walk toward them, carelessly crushing many of the remaining druadach under its clawed feet or its steely underside. With anguished haste, Eldarien tries to break the shackles that hold Tilliana bound, but he is overcome with exhaustion and vertigo, and even as he tries to focus, he sinks in and out of consciousness, slumping against the pillar to which she is tied. Only a moment later, he stirs awake again and sets to work in the only way he knows—sawing at the manacles with the blazing radiance of the lightbringer. But he is too weak now, both physically and spiritually, to harness the power necessary to burn through the bonds. How could this happen? To be a vessel of the light one moment, illuminating an entire cavern with a simple touch of the hand and revealing what is secret, only a moment later to be utterly helpless, drawing on resources that are completely expended, with only one option: to yield to painful death for oneself and the person whom one wishes to save.
“No…” Eldarien sighs weakly, and, giving up on trying to break the bonds, he forces himself to his feet and places his body between the dragon and Tilliana.
“Eldarien, there must be another…” she begins, but her voice catches in her throat.
The radiance of the lightbringer flickers and is extinguished, and for a moment the chamber goes dark except for the horrid reddish glow of the forge and of the dragon’s menacing eyes drawing ever nearer in the blackness. These eyes burn hot not with anger but with lust, and the beast comes so close that they can discern the slits in its irises, from which look out a presence intent only on destruction and death. The bluish light flashes again for a moment as Eldarien raises the blade before him and steadies himself for a final confrontation. But it is futile, as before the dragon even reaches him, his legs give way beneath him, and he crumples to the ground. And darkness returns.
Stifling a scream, Tilliana forces out the words, “Thank you for…for doing all that you could.”
The dragon now rears up on its hind legs, and a deep growl like two massive stones grinding together emanates from within its body. Its mouth opens and the glow of living flame comes burning up from within. It prepares to consume its prey in fire, the first of thousands that it shall delight to destroy for as long as vigor remains within its flesh. But at this moment, another voice sounds in the chamber, echoing with a depth and authority that carry it throughout the space and cause it to reverberate off the walls. “Stand back, fell creature!”
And to the surprise of all, the dragon hesitates, as if choking on the fire within it.
“You once received the blood-bond of my oath,” the voice of Rorlain says in the darkness, returning to its natural tenor. “Receive it now anew, my friend, and let me be a squire to light’s knight and a servant of the light you bear.”
“I…” Eldarien responds weakly, and this single word is all that he can muster. In an instant, the area is filled with a brilliant radiance as a current of light begins to flow between Eldarien and Rorlain, like a shining cord pulsing and beating with the light of both of their hearts and with the pulsing heart of the Light that lies beyond each of them. And then a moment later, it is gone, and Rorlain steps forward, both of his hands upraised, holding orbs of glowing luminosity. “Depart, you fell creature. You fight against the children of men, and in such a conflict you are assured of victory, for you are the greater. But you forget that the strength of men lies not in themselves but in their origin and their foundation, in the light that holds them even in the darkest place.”
And with this, there is a burst of light as the two orbs of radiance pulse forth from Rorlain’s hands like a river of radiance. The dragon screams in anger now and turns about, trying to shield itself from the light. And then it takes flight, its wings flapping loudly as it lifts itself off the ground and spirals upward, above the flames of the forge and into the chambers above. As it does so, its scaled body crashes against the staircase and shatters it to pieces, innumerable broken shards of stone falling to the island below or splashing in the lake of fire. Then all is dark again, and all that they hear in the resounding silence is the sound of Rorlain’s body slumping against the earth as he passes out of consciousness.
† † †
Soon other sounds begin to punctuate the stillness of the underground cavern, distant sounds that nonetheless reverberate through the stone like earthquakes from the deep. But the sounds come, in fact, both from above and from below. From above, they hear the distant echoes of the massive creature filled with rage thrashing about as it flies, crashing through doorways and ripping apart stone with claws and teeth and the sheer impact of its body as it seeks for the path out of the castle’s dark underbelly. From below, they hear again the dull roar of some force working its way up from the depths, from the burning heart of the forge, any moment to be vomited forth into the cavern to assault and to kill.
“We need to go…now,” Eldarien says, raising himself up and turning to Tilliana in the darkness. He reaches out to feel for her bindings, but she interrupts him by grabbing his own hand and bringing it to her wrist.
“See,” she says. “They have fallen away. The light pierced more than the dragon.”
“I am sorry,” says Eldarien, no other response in his mind but this. “I am sorry it took me so long to find you, and that even then…”
“But Rorlain, he…”
“Yes,” Eldarien affirms. “I do not know how. But without him, we would be in the dragon’s maw.”
Then the two of them together bend over Rorlain and attend to him. His pulse is normal, and his skin, though drenched in sweat, feels neither feverish nor chilled. His chest rises and falls so softly that it would not be any more restful were he asleep in his own bed. This is a great relief to them even as it dawns upon them more deeply with every passing moment that there is little chance of them escaping from the depths of this dungeon. For it is now in tremendous upheaval, the walls and ceilings shaking and threatening collapse, even as down the broken corridor they see the lake of fire bubbling and boiling over.
“I wish I had more strength,” Eldarien says. “I am so weak, but we cannot afford to stay here any longer.”
“I will carry him,” Tilliana offers.
“Can you?”
“Right now I am the only one who can.”
“Very well,” says Eldarien, and then he helps to lift Rorlain onto Tilliana’s back, with his arms draped over her shoulders and his legs resting against her waist. She cannot restrain a small groan, which escapes when she feels his full weight.
“Are you sure about this?”
“I don’t know how long I can carry him,” whispers Tilliana, “but we must move.”
With this, Eldarien reaches down and feels along the floor until his hand touches the lightbringer. He lifts it by the hilt and says, “I think I can allow a little light through—just enough to navigate with.” Closing his eyes for a moment and reaching deep within himself, as if casting a bucket to the bottom of a well that is nearly empty, he scrapes up the last remains of the energy that lies within him and the light shines forth, dim but steady, from the blade in his hand.
“How did Rorlain make it to us?” Eldarien then asks. “He certainly did not come the same way that I did. There must be an exit somewhere.”
It does not take long for them to find a narrow archway at the back of the room in which they stand, leading into a passageway curving steeply upward. It is probably the same passage that was used to bring Tilliana to this place. This, at least, is their hope, that they they may find the swiftest and surest exit from this place of darkness and death. But before they enter through the archway and leave the forge behind, they spare a moment’s glance behind them. And what they see is terror and destruction, not only for themselves but also, they fear, for the people of Telmerion. Though at first this awareness threatens to crush them with discouragement, it also rekindles in them the desire to survive, to escape and to do all that they can to protect their people from the horrors that now emerge from the bowels of the earth. For this single glance reveals to them hordes of creatures that until this moment they have never seen, creatures more terrifying in fury and power than the druadach that had assailed Ristfand, or even than the eöten felled by Eldarien in the ravine of the Aldera Highlands.
And so they flee. The upward slope soon becomes a winding spiral stair in a narrow shaft, like a corkscrew driven deep into the earth. For five, ten, fifteen minutes they ascend, the stair constant and unchanging, until Tilliana can walk no more and sinks to her knees under Rorlain’s weight. She strikes her right shin against the stair and cries out in pain, and Eldarien hurriedly reaches out to steady her from falling backward. And at this moment, Rorlain himself lets out a groan and opens his eyes. He looks up and sees Eldarien’s face bathed in the bluish light, and then he turns to Tilliana too, her face inclined slightly toward him now, clearly listening, the traces of pain in her expression fading away as quickly as they had come.
“You were able to escape from the depths?” Rorlain asks, looking around in the attempt to orient himself. Eldarien helps him to find his own feet again, and then they all sit for a moment on the stairs.
“We escaped, but only thanks to your intervention,” Tilliana says breathlessly.
“I still cannot explain what came over me. I just ‘knew’ in that moment what was asked of me, what to do,” Rorlain sighs, “but…”
“We can speak more of it later,” Eldarien says. “But we must make haste now, for terrible creatures awaken from the earth, and we have every reason to believe that they shall give chase. The lake of fire, too, looks like it may erupt and fill the whole castle with liquid flame.”
Rorlain shakes his head, “The lake of fire? The beasts of the earth?” Then he squeezes his eyes tight for a moment, as if trying to lay his questions to rest and to focus on the necessities of the moment. “Ah, right now it matters little,” he says at last. “Let us go.”
“Can you walk?” Tilliana asks.
“Well enough, I think,” he replies. “Thank you for your assistance, Tilliana.”
“Good,” she replies. “And you, Eldarien?”
“I am a little better, but still drained. But I can walk and give enough light by which to discern our way. Come.”
And with that, they continue up the stairs, enveloped in an eerie silence that fills the air around them between the dark stone walls to their left and their right and muffles even the sound of their footsteps and their breathing as they ascend, spiraling ever upward. And this silence that engulfs them so close, almost like water making it difficult to breathe, contrasts with the rumble and groan of the earth that continues in the distance, a mere echo now but persistently following them nonetheless. No matter how far they ascend, they get no farther from the sound; it seems that the entire castle is bending and twisting the very marrow of the earth as if giving birth to fell spawn of the abyss, but struggling and crying out like a woman in labor to bring them forth.
So they ascend together, exhaustion gripping at each of them like a vice, and yet desire and fear driving them onward, while the caverns all around them rumble and shake and groan in great upheavals. Despite the upheaval that remains always on the edge of their consciousness, they come to the ground floor of the castle without incident. At last the staircase ceases and opens out into a wide chamber that looks to have once, long ago, been a throne room or an audience chamber. High windows line its upper sections where the walls meet the arched roof. An massive chair of black stone interlaced with violet crystal sits at the far end of the chamber upon a raised dais. Along its rear section is a design of twisting snakes, their bodies coiling up the hind legs of the throne and around its back, until, vaulted at the top, they begin to twist around one another and to interlock until the venomous fangs of each are sunk deep into the neck of the other.
“What is that stone?” Tilliana asks. “I have never seen its like before.”
“I know not,” replies Eldarien. “But it gives off a light not unlike that of the lake of fire—something unnatural, as if it takes light from flames of an incredible intensity. And yet ordinary flames at their hottest burn blue and pure; these are twisted, both diluted and intensified, as if the light has been polluted with blood-red.”
“Either way, it matters little,” she says in response, her voice quiet. “I never wish to see or even to think of this place again.”
“There must be an exit nearby,” says Rorlain, and, looking up toward the high windows, he adds, “And the light of day shall help.” His two companions understand entirely the relief in his voice as he pronounces these words.
It takes them only a few more minutes—through the throne room and a handful more chambers—to find a door leading out of the castle. As they step out into the sunlight, they blink and cover their eyes, blinded for a few moments by the intensity of full day in contrast to the blackness from which they emerge. Hardly have they adjusted and gained their bearings when they hear shouts in the distance, calling their names.