Forgotten Embers

Chapter 21: The Light Bearer

She followed him into the underground, down the stairs to the mysterious darkness of the passage below them.

The tunnel, itself, was wonderfully built with high arching ceilings formed with chiseled stones, expertly cut and carefully placed. Despite the age of the pathway and some minor disrepair which had befallen the stones above and beneath them, the tunnels presented themselves as a reliable thoroughfare, stretching for miles ahead of them.

There was a certain dampness in the air, and the occasional sound of water slowly dripping from a gap in the stones to the ground beneath them echoed through the vacant halls.

There were torches placed every few yards, ensconced on either side of the hall just below the arch of the ceiling. The depths of the halls were utter blackness, but there was light all around them. The torches would light as they approached and lighten as drew nearer. A similar thing would happen as they passed a torch, traveling onward. The light would wane and slowly diminish, until the torch would eventually go out again, leaving nothing but blackness behind them.

Avera peered into the darkness ahead of her, straining her eyes to see farther down the hall, looking for some indication of an end, but the corridor seemed endless. A new set of torches lit with every few steps, illuminating a new segment of hall and beckoning them further on along their solitary journey.

The occasional passage would open up to the left or right of them, but Waverley kept forward with much determination and quiet intensity, and Avera began to notice about the third time that there were set at every intersection of the halls a collection of round stones placed as markers near the edge of the pathway. Each was engraved with a unique mark, and though the stone which bore a certain marking would not always be in the same position, the same markings would always be present. There was a crown, a bishop, a flower, a book, a gavel, a saber, a castle, and two swords crossed. The stones were arranged around a larger stone which was smooth and blank faced.

The markings on the stones would respond to their presence like the torchlight, but not all would enlighten as they passed them. At times, it was only the flower which illuminated. Though, at other times, it would be the flower and another mark, and the great stone in the center would magically enlighten with the image of the flower, also.

They had passed the intersections of several halls, and Avera had become overwhelmed with her interest at the stones. The flower and the crossed swords lit at the next intersection, and the flower was displayed, also, upon the smooth stone of the center which was without marking.

The symbol of the flower had a certain artistic elegance to it, having four peddles and a curved stem with a broad leaf at the bottom of it, and Avera couldn't help but wonder at it. She rushed over when she saw it, overcome by curiosity, and she placed her hand upon the face of the rock. It was smooth as it appeared, and the beauty of the glowing light showed through her hand, the symbol no less seen.

"Lovely, isn't it?" Waverley said with a look of fondness. He stood now beside her as she knelt by the stones, having noticed her absence from him.

"Yes, sir," she said, removing her hand.

"I suppose you wonder how these work," he said, his eyes moving over to her.

She nodded.

"These tunnels are a labyrinth," Waverley explained with his usual kindness and etiquette. "They were built centuries ago by the City Architects as a means of safe passage for the Court Officers in times of trouble. Each passage is needed at some time but not at all times. Some have said that the tunnels move and rearrange themselves according to the needs of the officers. The same are those who cannot accept that a way could be made long before there is a need, and I reject their theory. Whether we see it or not, the provision is always made long before the trial has started. The darkness ensures the safety of the light bearer. The light illuminates our way. Those without it are lost in these halls. These stones," he said, directing her attention back to the glowing rocks, "show us the way through the passages and mark the turns to any presently accessible exists." He stretched forth his hand to the tunnel which opened to their right. "That way to the crossed swords exit, and this way to the flower," he added, dropping his arm and redirecting it forward.

"And the unmarked stone?" she asked him.

"That is the Waytracker Stone," he told her. "It is a guide stone which reflects the heart of the light bearer and shows the symbol of the desired exit. In this case, we are directed to the flower, which I might have supposed, but it is nice to see."

"I see," she said, "but, Mr. Waverley, why is the bishop in black?"

He smiled and turned around without a word. As he did, the flower faded to black and the bishop lit with the same magnificent light. Still, the Waytracker Stone displayed the flower on its face as before.

'Yes, I understand. The way is behind us.'

"The halls go both ways, don't they?" he asked her smiling as he turned again.

"They do," she replied as she stood to her feet, her curiosity satisfied. She looked to Waverley with a small grin. "Thank you."

"It's my pleasure, believe me," he said, taking a small bow. His eyes turned as he arose and gazed longingly to the darkness yet before them. "We should go."

He went on walking and she kept on following behind him, the silence resumed between them until at last he said, "The mages developed a technique called blood tracking."

"Blood tracking?" she repeated. 'I haven't heard of it.'

"Yes. They use it as a means of hunting men like animals. They use their magic to create shadow creatures, conjured beasts born of darkness and imbued with a man's blood. The blood from which they are formed is that which they will endlessly pursue. They sense one thing and that is the man's blood. They are bloodthirsty in the most literal sense."

"But that's terrifying," Avera said, becoming nervous at the thought of it.

"It is..." Waverley conceded, carefully choosing his words. "It is, also, why they keep stores of everyone's blood."

She looked at him with surprise. "Do they have yours?"

"I work here," he said, softly considering.

Avera watched him. His eyes seemed set on some deeper thoughts, forever locked beneath the surface of their present conversation.

It was true that there was a blood storage facility at High Palace containing a vile of blood from each citizen and inhabitant of Pyre. Each military or governmental officer, each soldier or guardsman, every person born in Pyre, and every working person within the city bounds was called upon as a requirement of the state to come and give their blood to the governmental blood databanks.

"But the blood databanks are for crime prevention and public safety, Mr. Waverley. It's for rebels and traitors and spies. They wouldn't use the people's blood against them."

He nodded twice without a word. "Yes..." he said after a moment of silent contemplation, "I'm sure they would not use the blood stores arbitrarily. As it is, you should know your father is well."

"You've heard from him?" she asked hopefully.

He shook his head. "No, but Adrien said that he was fled safely, and he disposed of the blood they had on file for him."

"Adrien?" she asked curiously.

"Ah, yes... Lord Blackridge. I'm sorry," he apologetically corrected.

"I see," she said. "Then... my father is alive. He's alright. I can see him." She could barely contain the growing joy of hope within her.

"Yes," Waverley nodded in agreement. "Though, I'm sorry, I don't know where he is."

'Yes, but knowing he is well is enough. I will find him or he will find me, and we will see each other again. But wait... he could have told me that. It isn't pressingly important and it doesn't explain why we're going to the merchant district.'

"Mr. Waverley, that couldn't have been all that the letter said."

"No," he chuckled softly and grinned with amusement, "it isn't. It said, also, that Benjamin is in danger, and I must go help him."

Avera was suddenly gripped with a sinking feeling of dread as she remembered the vile of blood which Blackridge had held in his hand and the wound which Benjamin had sustained the morning of her departure.

"They wouldn't use the blood tracking on Ben, would they?" she asked in shocked disbelief.

He looked at her with pain in his eyes. "That is precisely their intention," he affirmed, his voice full of regret.

"What will you do?" she asked, becoming slightly frantic.

"Enough," he softly assured her.

'Enough?'

She smiled, his quiet confidence somehow stirring something within her.

'Enough.'

"Mr. Waverley," she said again, slowly shifting the subject, "why did he call you Lazarus?"

"Ah," he said, letting out a breathy laugh and a sharp sigh. "Adrien Blackridge was a man I knew years ago in very different times. He was my apprentice and my friend, and he was great friends with your father then, too. They used to tease each other, as young men do.

"At the time, it had become a sport to try to kill me, and once, they thought they had killed me. They would have gladly thrown me a funeral, but I never have held a fondness for death. After that they found I lived, they called me Lazarus in the papers, and it seems that Lord Blackridge never forgot it.

"But come," he said, "we're nearly there."