The Vitalis Chronicles: Tomb of the Relequim (5 page)

The threat didn't slide past Ardin. He remained silent in hopes that he would be rewarded for good behavior. He didn't much like this thin balding man, his glasses, or the snide attitude that brought the whole despicable ensemble together.

Finally the man put his pen down and folded his fingers, staring coldly at Ardin until he squirmed in his chair uncomfortably. The leather straps cut into his arms as he did so.

“You seem to be a bit of a mystery,” the man said, taking off the spectacles to rub the bridge of his nose. “We don't know who you are, where you came from, and hardly know how you got here.”

“How did I get here?”

“Some villagers found you wedged between some rocks nearby, naked and mumbling. You seemed to be in a trance, and when they tried to help you, to feed and clothe you, you broke one of their arms and threw the other into a ravine.”

Ardin's brow furrowed at the thought. He had no recollection of doing anything like that. He found it hard to imagine that it was possible.

“The point is, whatever-your-name-is, that you are dangerous. Eventually you were brought here by the local authorities. If you haven't figured it out already, we specialize in the mentally... unstable.” The man stood and put the forms he had been filling out in a filing cabinet behind his desk.

“I'm not unstable.”

“Which furthers the mystery, deepens it. For the past two months you've been nothing but a rambling lunatic, spending most of your time whimpering and staring off into the distance. And now, suddenly, we find you weeping, lucid even.”

Two months?
Ardin thought.
I've been here for two months?
“I just want to go home,” he said, the sting in his chest returning at the memory of Levanton. He didn't have a home.

“And where is home?” the man asked, turning to Ardin and placing his bony hands on the desk in front of him. “What is your name?”

“My name is Ardin,” he said.

“Your full name?” The man began to scribble on another form.

“Ardin Vitalis. What's yours?”

“I don't give personal information to patients.” The dismissal was curt. “Where are you from, Ardin Vitalis?”

Ardin looked off to the side of the room, fighting back the tears that threatened to well up in his eyes. An old, faded painting hung on the wall behind the man. He hadn't noticed it before. A sailboat among broken waves. The colors were so washed out with time that it was difficult to distinguish where the boat ended and the water began.

“Levanton.”

“And when did you leave Levanton?” The old man was staring more intently at him now. “Where have you been living? Where are your relatives?”

“I didn't leave Levanton, sir.” Ardin's brow furrowed as he tried to figure out the dates in his head. “I mean, I lived there until...”

“You must be joking.” The silence that followed was painfully long. “You were there? When Levanton burned?”

All Ardin could do was nod as he stared at the straps that bound his arms.

“And you feel guilty, do you? I can see it written all over your face.” Finally the doctor picked up his pen and held it in front of his face. He shook it gently. “You see this pen, boy?”

Ardin made no response.

“It's the only thing standing between you and your freedom. I'm the only one here who can set you loose. There's not a person alive who can let you out of here without my signature on the release.”

“I had nothing to do with it, sir.” Ardin looked the old man in the eyes. “It was that general...”

“Who's to say that he didn't receive aid?”

Ardin's mind went blank. How could an accusation like that even be leveled at him?

“In the short time I've known you, you've injured three of my orderlies, two badly enough to be put in the infirmary. And who knows how many of those villagers you maimed before they brought you in? Perhaps you have your personal demons, but until I know for sure, I cannot let you leave in good conscience.”

“I'm not... crazy.” How could he explain what had happened to him without sounding it, though? “And I had nothing to do with Levanton!”

“Well you certainly seem lucid,” the man squinted at him. He looked back at his desk as he wrote out a few more notes. “But you're lying. I can see as much. There's no way I'm letting you out of my doors before I know you can be trusted; before I know you're no threat to the populace at large.”

Ardin's heart sank at the declaration. A threat? How could he be a threat to anyone?

“And I think we'll continue with your current rations. Perhaps it will help jog your memory.”

The orderlies picked Ardin up from the chair and set him to marching out of the room. Everything seemed to be spinning.

“Don't play games with me boy,” came the old man's voice from behind. “Or you will never leave this place.”

Ardin sat in the corner of his room against the wall housing the door. He didn't want anyone looking in on him. It made him uncomfortable to be watched like a caged animal. And that's exactly how he felt: starved, cornered, trapped. Terrified.

Was this how Charsi felt when she was first imprisoned,
he wondered?
Was this how she turned feral, how she had been driven to genocide? Is that what will happen to me?

He hugged himself against the draft that filtered in under the door. Where it went from there was beyond him. Somehow it only helped his sense of desperation grow. How had he gotten here?

He was glad to be alive, but the question of how he was still living presented itself over and over again. He could barely remember overcoming Tertian, the Mage back in the mountains who had so completely betrayed him, let alone what had happened after that. Blinding white heat and then the nightmares. The endless nightmares.

He felt filthy, like he hadn't bathed in years. He didn't know what to do. It was apparent that there was no intention to let him go. There didn't seem to be much concern for his well-being in the first place.

The thought of fighting his way out passed briefly, but he didn't want to hurt anyone. Charsi had somehow been able to reach out of her imprisonment, and the result had been devastating. He didn't want to destroy anything. He didn't feel like he had the strength for it even if he did. He laughed at himself for the idea. Who was he to fight big guys like that?

He huddled his legs close and rested his forehead on his knees, thinking of Alisia. The pain in his chest won out over the hunger as he pictured her face framed by deep auburn hair.

What am I to do?
h
e thought as hopelessness constricted his throat.
Oh God, Alisia, what on earth am I to do...

F
OUR

T
HE
S
HADOW
K
ING SAT ON THE CLIFFS OF THE
N
ORTHERN
R
ANGE LOOKING OUT AT THE
N
ORTH
S
EA
. T
he freezing waves broke endlessly on the land's bulwark, which stood stubbornly against their relentless advance. He frowned as he watched the dark storm clouds whirling away, gathering their strength for an attack of their own.

That was the way of life: an endless battle between implacable forces that refused to be undone. At least that was how he was beginning to see it.

His cape whipped out over the dizzying drop beneath him as he rested his arm lazily on one knee. The other leg lay extended over the edge. The Shade frowned. He didn't like his options.

He had taken the little Magess' power, but it was barely enough to start him on his way. Since he was no Mage and apparently failed to complete the ritual when he killed her, he feared he was unable to grow the power himself. He didn't even know how to control it.

Either way, he would need a substantial amount if he were to bring the Shadow back into existence. It took at least two or three Magi to cross one Shade over. It took a decent amount of time as well. He had plenty of time; power was what he lacked. With the deaths of Caspian and Tertian, he doubted there were any left who were strong enough to aid him in his cause.

Regardless of what Tertian may have said, the Shade knew that he had been the last truly powerful Mage. There were none left like him. It left the Shade wondering how he had died. Who had managed to dispatch the Mage where the Shade himself had failed? Truth be told, it didn't matter. Tertian's power was lost. Even if there were others still alive in hiding somewhere, they wouldn't compare. All of the Elders and the most powerful of their descendents had been accounted for. The Magi were as good as extinct now, and without their strength he had no idea where to turn.

He didn't even know how to access what little he had stolen from the girl. At least he had regained control over himself. It was disconcerting to have come so close to losing himself. The fabric of his very being had been threatened by the passing of her strength to him. It had been done incorrectly, and the fusion of her power with his already-mixed being had nearly been enough to tear him apart. Thankfully he had managed to keep hold of himself. But he couldn't raise the power to his need or bend it to his will. He could feel it under the surface; he knew it was there, but he couldn't persuade it to come forth.

It was maddening. But even if he could call it up, he knew it wouldn't be enough to complete the task at hand.

Seeking the help of the Greater Being flickered through his mind. It was a familiar idea, one that he wished wholeheartedly he could pursue. But he would find no help in the Temple in the mountains. The Shadow were the bastard children of the Magi and the Greater Being. The Creator himself wouldn't touch such a lowly creature as a Shade. Even less would His servant, the Greater Being, despite the Being's responsibility in making the Shadow where the Creator had never been involved. The Shadow King was a reminder of past failures. The last thing the Greater Being would ever do would be to revive his greatest mistake. The Being would offer no aid.

There was one more place to look for help, Liscentia, but he didn't think it would yield any results. Beyond that, as far as he could tell, he had only one real option left. It wasn't one he was yet willing to pursue.
But maybe I should
, he thought, as he wrapped his cloak more firmly against the cold. Maybe he ought to go to the Demon, get the monster's help, and then do whatever it took to betray him. The Shade would have the strength to do so if he brought his army back. His people.

The thought made his stomach lurch. How could he be thinking of treading so deep into treason's territory? The emotions that rose in response to his path were put down by his calculated determination. He had to do whatever it took. The Shadow were relying on him to bring them back, and he knew it. He could feel their presence at times. Though they seemed to amble aimlessly, they would occasionally congregate around him in such numbers that he felt physically oppressed. And then they would leave, wandering in limbo for lost answers to unknown questions.

Torment. Not the pain and horror of physical torture, but a shapeless, purposeless existence. Something he feared would eventually clear their minds of any semblance of sanity. Perhaps they were already lost, their lucidity blurred irreparably by endless wanderings.

He hoped that wasn't the case. But then there was no consoling himself. He had never experienced it. He had no way of knowing for himself what it was like to be detached from the physical world. When he made the jump into the Atmosphere, he was always anchored to the physical world. Just like he was anchored to the metaphysical while he was in the physical. It left him with a loose frame of reference. He didn't think he truly could understand their experience. Perhaps he had never hated making the jump until he had become half human. It was hard to remember how things were before. But if it was anything like the jumps he made into the Atmosphere now, then he did know one thing: he wouldn't want to be trapped like that for long.

Seeing no new options present themselves, he stood. His cloak grappled with the wind as if to launch him from his perch as he rose. The Shadow King walked down the craggy path along which he had ascended.

He need not turn to the Demon for help. Liscentia held the key to his redemptive path. The knowledge he needed to replicate the power of the Magi was there. Perhaps he could even use it to amplify his own. The wind whipped around his ears as he descended the mountain, whisking away the doubts that tugged at his certainty.

A
RDIN'S HUNGER WAS SLOWLY SETTLING INTO HIS BONES
.
He had long passed the point of the excruciating pain of his initial need, and now the long-term effects were beginning to set in. He wanted nothing more than to eat something.

There was a rusty tap that ran into his room. The water it provided was gritty and rancid, but he drank it anyway. It was all he could get in his stomach.

He needed something to do with his hands. Anything to distract him from the bland and timeless existence that beset him now. But there was nothing available. The crusted remains of drywall that had once covered the cinder blocks were limited to the upper corners of the room. The rest had disintegrated long ago. Even the sheet covering his moldy mattress was too threadbare to make anything of.

His father had shown him how to whittle once. The crippled soldier had spent many an hour doing so himself since the fateful day a tree had taken his ability to walk. Somehow his father could take any ordinary piece of wood and turn it into a work of art. It was probably simple compared to the stuff found at market in Elandir, but to Ardin it was mesmerizing. It was almost like an artistic vengeance for his father. He could spend entire evenings just watching his father take a knife to a piece of wood. He was amazed at how the obscurity of the object was steadily removed until its inner beauty shone.