Dream State: Into the Shadow Land

James Tanner woke up on a dusty, loud street at high noon. His head rested dangerously near here several carts which bustled back and forth, pulled by some species of bovine he couldn’t recognize. Though the sun was so bright, and the air dry, he was cold.

It took his weary brain a moment to realize that his clothes were soaked in what he hoped was water, but his mind was so tired, he really couldn’t remember the events of the night prior.

He struggled to a standing position, feeling every bone in his body groan with protest. The fatigue began to wear off, and some mental clarity began to return. James thought back to the last thing he remembered, then stopped.

What had happened last, he didn’t know; it was as if his memory had been locked in a box and dropped at the bottom of the ocean. His mind ran in circles, and the whole street began to buzz with a kind of nervous energy. James sprinted off down the street, acting on instinct, feeling every muscle, limb, and bone scream with mutiny. Nothing made sense. Everything was confusion, and everything was wrong. He knew certain things, like what street carts looked like, or that the walled houses lining this crooked and weathered street had been built with a kind of whitish sandstone. Where he was, or what the name of the three different and all distinct languages he could hear being called out, he hadn’t a clue. He knew he spoke none of them—that much was certain.

He turned a corner, discovering that the street was really nothing more than a large alleyway. He had entered a vast roadway that led to a massive market square. He must have been viewing thousands of people all at once from his vantage point which was a little higher than the rest of the city.

He turned in circles, dozens of times, trying again and again to comprehend what was happening. A small man, with a strange piece of red and orange cloth wrapped around his head walked up to him, and then began speaking to James. He gestured with his hands for him to step into a tent that was propped up on the side of the street.

For all he knew, this man might have been asking him if he wanted a drink, but James had no idea what he was saying, and he was leery of accepting anything from a stranger when so little was known about his predicament. He tried to back off, shaking his head, making the tragic reply of opening his mouth, “I-I am sorry. No thank you.” The man dressed in the strange clothes instantly changed his expression. He pointed a crooked finger at James and began to shout, drawing attention. James had no idea what he said, but he knew it wasn’t good.

He darted off, sprinting down the street as fast as he could. Shoving townspeople to the side as his desperation to get away made him a far easier target for being spotted. Suddenly, a cart rolled in front of him, with no time to stop, he jumped—almost clearing it. His feet caught on the outer rim of the vehicle, and he went toppling. His face slammed into the concrete as foreign fruit spilled out around him, and all went black.

When he awoke, it was clear only a few seconds had been lost, but it had been enough. The merchant had called for guards, and three burly men, with skin as deep as night, and eyes that shone green with the forest, each standing a good foot above all the other people he had seen, charged him from no more than ten yards away. He didn’t have long. James was up in a second—this time running for his life. He hadn’t the slightest idea what would happen if he were caught; all he knew is that couldn’t be good.

He turned an artificial corner formed entirely of street vendors, twisting and turning as he went, hoping he was putting more distance between himself and the men. It was evident that he was faster than them, but his ignorance of the city was plain. No matter how much he tried, they always seemed to be close behind. Then, James hit a dead end. A thick line of venders organized in the shape of a “u” had him trapped. He cursed under his breath, and ran down the end, still hoping he might find something. There was no getting around the stands. They formed a thick barricade that would slow him down far more than the guards. His only hope was deception. But where to hide?

James looked up and down, but nothing presented itself as a viable solution. Precious seconds ticked by, and his inevitable demise, as he saw it, loomed ever closer, then, he heard it. It was urgent, yet hushed. A voice called out to him. James’ eyes lit with hope. He may not be dead after all. This voice, whoever it was, was a girl’s, and it called to him, beckoning him to take cover. He turned in circles, trying to pick out the whispered words above the din the marketplace created.

“Down here. Down here, you idiot!” James eyes darted to a few feet away, where a white face with brunette hair spilling over poked out from behind a rug draped over a cart.

The feeble refuge wasn’t quite what he had hoped it might be, but it would have to do. James dived, scrambling underneath just as he heard the sound of three large men thunder down the street.

The girl grabbed his shoulder with one hand, yanking him farther back and allowing the carpet to drop behind as she peered out, making sure their cover hadn’t been blown. James sat on a pile of rugs, panting, as he eyed the girl warily. She raised one eyebrow, as she looked him over, as if inspecting an animal; it made him feel rather uncomfortable. Finally, she gave up, sighing, “Well, you’re useless. You know as little as I do, right?”

“So, you just woke up here today?”

“Yep. I’m Claire by the way.”

“James.” He stopped talking for a moment, thinking. “So you don’t know anything?”

She shook her head, “No. I was kind of hoping you might.”

“Wait,” James eyes flared open, “then how did you know I was, you-know?”

She smiled, then began to speak like she was talking to a child, “What do you notice about me that is different than all of the rest of the people here?”

“Um, well you can speak whatever we’re speaking, and it seemed like no one could understand me out there,” he tipped his head towards the direction he had come from.

“And?” She asked after a moment.

“Uh,” James paused, scanning her skeptically, “Oh, your clothes, they’re different?”

“Ding, ding, ding!”

James lowered his eyes, looking himself over. He was dressed as bizarrely as her, or maybe it was the other way around, but he couldn’t tell. “What?”

“I’m not sure what it means. But everyone out there was so different, and all of those tall guys had skin as black as midnight.”

“You don’t suppose something’s wrong with us, do you?”

“Well, we are still breathing, aren’t we? And anyways, it didn’t seem like the people out there found me too shocking. Maybe it’s nothing.”

James sat in silence for a moment, trying to figure out what was going on, he studied the girl now, his eyes adjusting better to the dimmed light. With her thick brunette hair, and her smooth face she was very beautiful. There was almost something familiar about her features that he couldn’t quite place. It was as if he had seen her before.

“It’s not possible that we know each other, is it?”

“No. what makes you think that?” she asked disinterestedly, blowing a loose strand of hair off her face.

“Uh, no reason. Just a hunch.” There was a brief moment of silence between them in which they listened to the hustling noises outside their den, and then everything happened at once.

Claire gasped as James’ eyes shot up in surprise. Part of the rug hiding them had been pulled up, and in its place a face had stuck its way in. It was an old face, and it too carried a sense of familiarity that James found unnerving. It had a thick, white beard and wore a rather comical expression.

“Come on, we haven’t a moment to lose.”

James and Claire made no attempt to move, instead choosing to look between him and each other, perplexed.

“James, Claire. I will explain everything later, but if you don’t trust me right now, this instant, those temple guards are going to find you and drag you off for the Karoosh’Ni-Kak festival.”

James hadn’t a clue what this strange man had just said, but this festival sounded worse. Apparently, Claire agreed. James saw her getting up and deemed it best to follow suit. Moments later, they were darting down the street, weaving in and out of traffic, doing their best not to get slowed down by pestering street merchants. They continued in this manner for a while, steadily pushing out into less frequented streets, and James began to have a harrowing suspicion that he had made a terrible mistake trusting this man. About the time they reached a deserted alleyway James was certain this would be the end. He glanced at Claire and found that she too was having the same doubts. Then, in his odd, abrupt manner, the old man (who had far too much energy than his age would ever have indicated) suddenly stopped, turned, and fished out a key from his pocket to open a side door running into the road. When James and Claire were slow to follow, he looked over his back, rolling his eyes. “You both have no memory earlier than the moment you woke up, which was,” he looked up at the sky, “about one hour ago. I knew your names, and I know why you are here. Now, can you please come in so we can get to work? If I am to get you two out of this city alive we really must hurry.” With that he continued in, trusting that the bait for more information he had just offered would be enough to lure them in. It was.

It was a tiny, two room house as far as James could tell. It seemed comfortable enough, but furnishings were sparse aside from a washing bowl, a bed, and a small desk. It was evident these were only temporary quarters.

“Now, James, if you would be so kind as to fetch the bags in the other room; there is one for each of us, and Claire, please help me pack these papers,” he motioned towards the desk.

Claire put her hands on her hips, fixing the old man with an unrelenting gaze. “No.”

He turned with a comical expression in his eyes.

“Not until you tell us what’s going on.”

James watched the odd man like a hungry dog, eager for anything.

“Alright then, what would you like to know, Claire?”

Claire paused, surprised her demand had actually worked, “What is your name?”

He chuckled, “For now, you can just call me Rosaral.” His eyes danced so much with mirth, that James momentarily considered the possibility that this man might just be insane.

“Ro-Rosaral?” Claire frowned, “What does that mean?”

This time Rosaral outright laughed. “Ah, ah, ah,” he waved a finger at her. “In order to find that out, now you must do as I ask, and then I will tell you.”

Claire looked defeated and perplexed, and James wondering if it was really wise to be blindly trusting a mad man who seemed to know more about him than he did, but the internal debate did not last long. He needed to grab the bags.

Rosaral began speaking quickly. Half of the conversation seemed to be directed towards himself, while the other half seemed to be directed towards a half-dozen other people which he would name in turn, and only occasionally did he actually address Claire or James; even then, it was normally as an afterthought. For the next ten minutes, he worked in this manner, all the while keeping James and Claire completely occupied doing a dozen different tasks.

Finally, it seemed as if everything was done. The small house was cleared out except for a few sparse furnishings that remained.

Rosaral turned to Claire and James, “Alright then, we had better be off if we are to make the Candarell grove by morning. Have you ever seen it? No, of course you haven’t, or at least if you had, you wouldn’t remember.”

Claire dropped her bag, crossing her arms, “I’m not going anywhere with you until you give me a good reason to trust you.”

Rosaral smiled at Claire, “You remind me very much of your mother. The resemblance is uncanny.”

Claire’s expression changed, startled, “You, know my mother?”

“Or course I do. I trained her, as I will train you and James.”

James cleared his throat. “Train?”

“Why of course, you didn’t think you were chosen at random, did you? This is,” he stopped talking, poked his head out a window, and scratched his beard, as if to make sure he wasn’t being watched, “your Sparkum, your destiny.” With that, he grabbed his bag, picked up Claire’s, handed it to her, and strode out the front door, leaving to baffled teens to chase after him.

“Where, where are we going? Where even are we?” James asked, breathless. Rosaral’s pace did not become that of an old man.

“Hurry along now, if you can keep up I will tell you what I deem wise at this delicate stage.” Rosaral cleared his throat, “We are currently in the city of Masala’Een Gedru, the capitol so to speak, though no official government is recognized, of the Vardinesh Plain.

“The Vardinesh Plain extends for about one-thousand miles, all the way up to the Northern Dungalesh Sea, south and east to the Waters of Von, and west to the realm of the Kanza, beyond that lies the Forest of Deception, though locals call it the Blagnaroth. Don’t ask me why, I forgot how to speak Tungaly at least a decade ago. ‘The mind runs out of room for things seldom used,’ as the saying goes.”

The old man continued to educate Claire and James on anything pertaining to the Vardinesh Plain as he briskly led them through the sandstone city, finally arriving at an outer wall. In spite of himself, James found that he was absorbed in the fascinating stories Rosaral crafted about this strange and foreign land. When they arrived Rosaral paused his saga, much to Claire’s relief.

“Now, we must get out.”

Rosaral walked over to a corner of the wall, counted sixteen hewn stones to the right, and roughly pounded three times. In an instant, a rope came hurtling over. “Ladies first then,” Rosaral motioned to Claire. After a moment of hesitation, she took the rope, placing her feet in a hold at the bottom, apparently willing to do anything that would postpone the history lesson. “Very good. Hold on tight now. Try not to scream.” Rosaral gave the rope a good yank and James watched as Claire went soaring up the wall at an alarming pace.

After a minute, it came flying back. Rosaral grabbed hold of it, looking over at James, “Now, it will be back in a minute, and when it does make sure you give it a good yank.” With that, Rosaral was gone too, leaving James alone. In the fading light, the alleyway that he stood in gave way to gruesome shadows that leaped out at his imagination, leaving James anxiously awaiting the rope.

Only a moment had passed before James saw the rope sling over the wall. He grabbed on to it, but just before he pulled down to signal he was ready a thought crossed his mind. What am I doing? James relaxed his grip on the rope, Who even is Rosaral? Can I trust him? The air had changed, James couldn’t quite tell how, but it was somehow—heavier. His nostrils swept in the thicker atmosphere, and he began to panic. A stark realization hit him that had somehow been suppressed. He was an ignorant fool. How had he missed it. Rosaral was surely a lunatic, and Claire, what did he owe her? He didn’t know her. For all he knew she was in on the ruse.

But no. Not Claire. An image of the unforgettable face flashed past his eyes. No. Not Claire. “Claire would never do that. She is, good.” Innocent. This impression of the girl he barely knew was so distinct and so certain it was undeniable. The air began to grow lighter, and colder again.

The doubts he had for Rosaral began to fade. Hadn’t Claire trusted him? Wasn’t that enough? Why did he feel so certain he could trust not only her, but her instincts as well? James thought back to when he had met Claire earlier in the day. She had seemed so familiar to him, he had even asked her if she knew him. Was it the way she carried herself? Was it the way her hair shot down her back and behind her neck? No. It was something about her. It was her.

James grasped the rope tightly now. Could he trust Rosaral? He still didn’t know. But could he leave Claire behind? He knew the answer to that. James pulled down on the rope, but before anything happened he heard a whooshing sound behind him and then blackness.

Claire landed effortlessly at the base of the wall. It felt freeing to be out of the city. Before her a wild, raw world unfolded, a breathtaking land of grass and hills being kissed by the sunset in the west. The grass glinted gold, and the valleys remained hidden in darkness. She looked to her left and saw the three men who had aided her in getting over the wall so quickly. They wore no shirts, a common occurrence in such a hot land, and though the darkness was growing, she could tell they were built like pack animals. Sinewy muscles stretched and flexed. As one, they sent the rope hurtling back over the wall.

Waiting in silence Claire saw Rosaral topple over the ten-foot-high wall, deftly caught in a blanket the three men held tight, just as she had been. When Rosaral had landed, he quickly jabbered to one of the men in a strange language that almost sounded like a song to Claire’s untrained ears. It was wild and free, just like the land before her. The man nodded approval, pulling his hand, palm up, to his forehead, speaking only a few words. Claire listened hard, wanting to capture every syllable of the fantastic words, but he didn’t speak with flowing words; these sounded far too plain, but they were still indistinct and rough, as if they were the only words the man knew of this other language. Claire couldn’t make all of it out, but what she did catch troubled her, “Char-el Ven-Turn.” It sounded almost familiar, but she couldn’t understand why. In any case, Rosaral made the same sign to the man, raising his hand, palm up, to his forehead, then quickly turned to Claire.

Rosaral made a throaty call, like a bird, as he motioned to the man he had just spoken to, “will fetch James and then we will be off.”

“What?”

Rosaral made the same sound, “That is his name. He is a desert crawler; a people I will explore with you and James when we come to the northeastern realm of Agarapia.”

Claire watched as the three men prepared to cast the rope over the wall, suddenly anxious to see James descend the other side. She waited, and as the seconds ticked by, a strange thought occurred to her. Would he come? Would he leave? She cast a worried look at Rosaral, and saw that he too was troubled. A minute must have gone by now, but still no sign that James was coming.

They waited in dead silence. Claire counted the seconds, hoping to calm the fear gnawing at her. James was important—to her. He was important to her, in a way which was similar to Rosaral but different. She didn’t know why he mattered so much to her, but her mind was far too agitated to make an attempt at understanding any part of her new world. Her eyes remained fixed on the same spot of the wall on which the rope lay draped over. A horrid thought entered her mind. The way of their escape had been planned as a one-way ticket. There was no conceivable way to get back into the city. Rosaral sank to the ground, bouncing in a low squat. His eyes fixed themselves a few feet away and then closed.

Sleeping? No. He wasn’t sleeping. It was hard to say exactly what he was doing. Claire noticed his lips part several times, as if he spoke to himself silently. The three desert crawlers, Claire, and Rosaral all waited patiently as time stretched into dusk, until they heard the scream.

James woke up, with eyes facing the dirty stone of a weathered street. His head felt like a block of wood had fallen on it. Something had woken him up, a yell of some sort, or maybe a scream. He didn’t know, but now, he heard voices.

Instinct told him to remain, that he shouldn’t let the voices know he was awake. He obeyed. Slowly, as his mind began to clear, he was able to pick up what was said.

“Cornelius, Gamiliel will not be pleased. You let Charles Ventura get away, again.” The voice of a man spoke with a crooked twist in his words, ending each one in an upturned “r”, as if he had learned to from a book.

The deep voice of a man responded with perfect fluency, albeit heatedly, “This is as much your fault as it is mine, Chagar. They were in your city,” He thrust a finger at Chagar’s chest, or so James gathered by the reflecting shadows.

“Cornelius, please remove your hand. Gamiliel would not be pleased to know you attacked another one of his servants.” James could feel a sneering smile cross his face as he spoke, “I believe the scars on your hands remember what happened after last time.” A wheezing laugh sprung from his throat, dying as soon as it came into existence. James dared a cautious turn of his head so he could see the men more clearly.

Cornelius fumed a retort, lowering his hand as he did so, “I still haven’t forgotten how Gamiliel came to learn about that incident.” He punctured the air with his words, and a cold stair revealed everything James needed to know.

“You are a fool.” Chagar spat. “Enough of this talk, what do we do with the boy?”

Cornelius seemed less willing to move off the subject, but seemed satisfied that Chagar’s apparent discomfort had forced the move, “Well, he is useless without the girl. It’s like having one left boot. We need her or we might as well feed him to the dogs.”

“Is the Enshi’edat working yet?”

“No. It ran out of juice. It should be functioning again by tomorrow, though.”

“Do you suppose the old man has guessed how we are tracking him?”

“If he has, it won’t change much,” Cornelius spoke with an air of arrogance, “The old fool just thinks he’s on one last mission. In any case, I’ll enjoy running him through when I see him.”

“Take the boy back to the dungeons. We can use him as bait to lure the old man back.” Chagar turned towards James. This was his only chance to flee. He jumped to his feet, sprinting as fast as he could, struggling to retain consciousness against the wave of light-headedness that set on the moment he had opened his eyes. He darted down a pitch-black alleyway, hearing the yells of the men just a corner away.

He looked beyond, realizing he was at a dead end, when in the flash of an instant, a hand latched on to his ankle and gave a hard tug, tipping him over as he was dragged down into darkness.

James pressed his back up against a wall. He looked up and could see a small hole that opened to the street, perfectly concealed from the outside. As much as he feared what was out there, he doubted it could be as bad as what lay down here. He could still feel where the hand had grabbed on. It possessed the grip of an ape.

The men pounded straight past him, and as he heard their footsteps and curses fade, he breathed a sigh of relief. He looked down, then jumped, as he realized whatever had dragged him down was still holding on. He bit down a yell. Two blue eyes looked up at him, blinking.

“What is your name?” A hollow, old voice squeaked up from the floor.

“Wh-who are y-you?” James stammered, fighting against every impulse in his body.

“Do not worry. Valsted means you no harm.”

“What, what are you?” James asked, slightly relieved it sounded like a human, the hand giving no indication it was.

“Valsted thinks you are a little confused and a very long way from home.” The hollow voice squeaked up at him. “Promise, Valsted means you no harm, not that he could do much if he wanted.”

The hand released, and a tiny man stepped out into a pool of light on the floor, letting out a small chuckle as he did. He was no more than a three-feet tall. James was so relieved at the sight that he burst out laughing, momentarily forgetting his painful predicament.

“Looks can be deceiving, young one. Valsted knows.” He examined his disproportionately sized hands.

“Who are you?” James asked, seeing that the small man was made even shorter by a severe hunch that brought his back down.

“Valsted, is his name. That is what people call him.”

“No, I mean, what is your name?”

“Valsted?” the old man repeated, seemingly confused.

“Oh, alright then,” James wondering if insanity was just common to the region, or if he merely had bad luck.

“What do they call you? Valsted would like to know.”

“Uh, James.”

“James? Valsted has never heard that name. Is it common in the green country, your home land?”

“Green country? How do you know I live there?” James asked, muscles tense in anticipation of the answer.

“You wear the garb of a foreigner, and you speak with an accent Valsted has only heard once before. It was spoken by an old man with a white beard, and the vitality of an ox.”

The new information sent James’ mind flying with possibilities, but something Valsted had said forced him to suppress them.

“An old man, you say?” James bit his lip, “Did you know his name?”

Valsted raised an eyebrow, head lifted up towards James. “He told Valsted never to say his name.”

“Do you know a man named Rosaral?” James asked, determined to get an answer.

“Valsted cannot say.”

“Please,” James fell to his knees, grabbing the tiny man by his shirt, “I must know. I have been separated from my friends. I think this man you speak of may be him. Please, you must help me Valsted. Have you ever heard the name Charles Ventura?” He looked into the old brown eyes surrounded by wrinkling skin, and just for a moment James thought he saw a flicker of real, rational intelligence, but it passed quickly, replaced by a sudden urge of fear.

A loud noise tore through the air again, piercing the cool night. It sounded like a big cat, but it was unimaginably loud. The tiny man whacked James on the head with surprising strength, causing him to let go. He turned, scampering off down the tunnel, and before James even realized what had happened, he was gone.

A thousand horrible thoughts hurtled around James’ mind as he contemplated what it all meant. Who was Rosaral? Who was Charles Ventura? Were they the same man? His ignorance was painfully acute. But worst of all, what was that noise? James pushed against the wall, chasing after the direction Valsted had fled.

Claire’s eyes flared open as she heard the animal-like roar rip from the heart of the city, filling the very air she breathed with an unspoken terror, a taste of evil, a smell of death. She shivered as a touch of dread spread down her spine. This was more than just sound, this was evil made manifest. She watched as the three desert crawlers quickly pulled back their rope, folded the blanket, and sprinted into the night, quickly absorbed by the dark hills. Rosaral turned to Claire, raising himself off the ground. His eyebrows had been furrowed, but they quickly spread apart as he looked at the girl, fear written across her facial features.

“Claire—”

“How are we going to get him? How is he going to get out? What do we do, Rosaral?” She was pacing, staring at the impenetrable wall, imagining all of the horrible things going on, just out of sight.

“Claire,” he spoke slowly and carefully, “We have to go.”

“Where did the Desert Crawlers go, we need them to-“ she stopped, mouth agape as the impact of his words hit her. She slowly turned to him, “You can’t. You were the one who put him in danger! We can’t just leave!” Her nostrils flared as her cheeks turned red.

“I wish there was another way, Claire. But James is on his own now. There is nothing we can do.”

“NO!” Claire jabbed her finger at Rosaral, Hell hath no fury like the wrath of a woman, “I won’t leave him!”

“Claire,” Rosaral shrugged his shoulders up, at a loss for words, “there is nothing we can do.” He raised a hand towards the wall, attempting to placate her. “There is no way back.”

“You can’t mean that. We could go to the gate, or scale the walls, or anything. There must be some way. Rosaral, there must be some way.” She was no longer yelling at him, now she was pleading. Her lips began to quiver, and then her body began to shake. Rosaral looked at her, eyes glistening, as if he couldn’t bear to see her this way. “Rosaral, what’s going to happen to him?” She whispered, choking back another tremor. She was frightfully cold all of a sudden.

“He will make it, Claire. He is more resourceful than you yet realize.”

Another scream spurted out from the religious festival, this time accompanied by quieter yells and screams, human in origin.

“Rosaral, what’s going to happen?”

“Those are gods of stone, Claire.” Rosaral paused, a troubled expression giving way to peace, “Their influence extends no farther than the temple in which they dwell, and they hold no power over the children of light.”

Claire raised an eyebrow at the old man, “Who are the children of light?”

Rosaral smiled in his eyes, pouring all of the tender care a father could into his words, “This too, you shall learn my child.”

He turned away from the city, descending the hill down into the valley below. Claire gave one last look, offered a short prayer to the wind, and followed.

James scrabbled along the tunnel, painfully aware of just how lost he was. He had taken so many turns since beginning, he knew there was no hope of finding his way back. All he could hope for was that he might find a new exit somewhere along the way. He still didn’t know what had happened to Claire or Rosaral, but at this point there wasn’t a lot he could do about it. He focused his mind on the task ahead, pushing the hundreds of unknowns away.

He was hot and sweaty. The ventilation was mediocre at best beneath the city, and his legs burned from crawling. If there was one thing to be grateful for, the terrible noise had stopped some time ago. Though he couldn’t tell if that was because the festival was over, or because he was traveling away from the city. He wasn’t sure what to hope for more.

James kept going on, marking each turn by scooped earth, always trying to veer back on course to what he thought was West of the city, the direction in which Claire and Rosaral had been when he had been separated.

At many times during his sojourn beneath the city James would pause, hearing some sort of scratching noise off in the distance. The horror of the dark was unbearable. He anticipated that rats were the source, as he was certain Valsted, crazy as he was, would not be so foolish as to venture where light did not.

The tunnels were roomier than one might expect, and some parts were made of stone, while others gave way to cold, wet earth. Sometimes the tunnels would grow in size, at which point James would cling to one wall, as he continued on. He was in the earth for an indeterminable amount of time. All he knew was that his stomach growled like clockwork, and his throat yearned for water, of which there was none.

James continued down the tunnel a little way further, until at last he found something new. His hand brushed against the dirt floor and he felt cool metal. It was round and small, like a clasp, and it was connected to the ground.

At once James’ mind flared with joy. He had found a trap door. He began clawing at the earth, brushing it away to reveal a wooden frame. He pulled with all of his energy, desperate to know what lay beyond.

After minutes of frustrating effort, he managed to jostle it a little. After another good minute of straining and groaning it had lifted just enough for him to pry his fingers underneath. Now he got excited. Light was poring through the cracks. He didn’t know what lay beneath but he was certain that, whatever it was, it could not be worse than the dark terror of his certain disposition.

He wedged both of his hands underneath, pulling. Then, finally, with a loud grunt he heaved the door up, and blindingly bright light flooded the tunnel. So intense had been the darkness that James found he was overwhelmed by the light that now flooded in. He crammed his hands over his eyes, trying to block the light. He scooched backwards, cursing, knowing that if anything lay below him he would be an easy enough target temporarily blinded.

Once a few minutes had passed James’ vision began to return, and he could make out forms below. The trapdoor had opened up into a storage closet of sorts. Sacks and barrels lined the floor, and past that, a closed door with no handle on the inside. After insuring the coast was clear James jumped down. He opened one of the barrels, and was instantly assaulted by the smell of alcohol. He quickly closed the lid, wondering if he was thirsty enough to drink something that smelled more like gasoline.

After testing a few more barrels he was relieved to find one containing water. Once his thirst was parched, he checked the sacks, looking for edible food. Upon opening a few, he found some odd looking fruit, that reminded him of something called an apple, but he didn’t really have a choice, as the rest of the food looked even more bizarre. He bit into it, and was not disappointed. The fruit was sweet, and clung to his mouth. He ate several, being careful to hide any evidence that he had accessed the closet.

While in the process of eating another of the strange fruits James heard the first noise since entering the storage closet. It was the voice of a man. Fear scoured his stomach, and adrenaline pumped through his muscles as he leaped through the trapdoor, quietly closing it, leaving just enough room to peek through. The door swung open, and a burly man with a thick, black, handlebar mustache walked in, swinging a key chain as he did so. He was accompanied by an equally burly man, but with no mustache.

“Is a shame really.” Said the man with the mustache.

“I know. She’s a pretty one, she is, but as the Racalon always say, the gods will have their way in the end, all we can do is pray we don’t get in the way.” Both men nodded fastidiously, as if the indoctrination had been so complete they lived like someone was always watching.

“Still, I reckon tha’ Ty Gooras Sa will be mad as a wild tarnag when he finds out they sacrificed his daughter to Sclagon.”

“He still thinks he is going to be able to ransom her, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, I reckon so. Nas’y business working with the Kanza, if you ask me. You never can trus’ a man who doesn’ live in one place for more than a week, if you ask me!” He said this as he heaved a substantially lightened sack of fruit onto his shoulders.

The other man grabbed a load equally heavy, shifting it before continuing in a more conspiratorial tone, “Heard that Gamiliel is madder than a headless chicken over the festival.”

The other man dropped his sack and leaned in, “Wha’ happened?” He spoke quieter, eager to not be overheard, but James could still just make out the words.

“Heard all three of the convicts got away.”

The man let out a low whistle. “Gamiliel intended to use them for the festival, righ’?”

“Oh yes. I wouldn’t want to be one of the men tasked with bringing ’em in right now.” James shuddered. Horror stricken by the news. Was he a convict? Were they all convicts? What had he done? That was what he would like to know, but worse than that was the realization that he as well as Claire and Rosaral had nearly escaped being “used” in some demented, pagan ritual. He didn’t want to think about what “used” exactly meant. “In any case, I hear that the Tarack of Vegadar is coming himself to deal with the matter.”

“The Tarack is coming here?” The man said it with such inspired fear that James felt this was not a man he would wish to meet.

“Yes, and you’d better believe me, he’ll have all three of the lot tried and executed a week after he lands.”

The two men left shortly after, leaving James wondering what on Earth was going to happen to him, a criminal, and the only two other people in this world that he seemed to have any connection to.

Claire and Rosaral trudged up yet another hill. They had been traveling all night, and Rosaral had barely kept her going with the promise of a tavern only a few hours away. At morning’s first light he had spotted it and pointed it out to her—that had been three hours ago. Out on the Kanza Plain everything seemed so much closer than it really was.

Rosaral had begun his lecture on the Varying dialects that could be found in and around the Agaropos Shelf only five minutes after they had begun their journey, and he not stopped since. The only times he would tolerate questions from Claire, or any kind of noise for that matter were when they directly pertained to the subject at hand. This had resulted in strategically crafted questions on her part.

“…and so you understand, the primary difference between Agolaqui and Bendoui is that the people of Vren prefer the sound of an “r” rolled on the left side of the mouth, accented by a faint whistling sound, like so,”

Rosaral began demonstrated a very peculiar noise, using his hands to demonstrate the form his tongue was taking. Claire suppressed an entertained smile, attempting her most studious posture.

“Now. You try.” He turned his head toward her ever so slightly, one corner of his mouth upturned in a smile.

“What?” Claire knew she couldn’t attempt such a thing yet.

“Go on. Try.”

Claire opened her mouth, trying to remember how his hands had moved. “Rrrra’whooss.”

Rosaral beamed. “Excellent. Now try again, only this time make sure to channel most of your whistle through the naval cavity. This will allow your tongue greater dexterity in rolling the ‘r’.”

Claire did so, and surprised herself by very nearly imitating Rosaral. “How?”

Rosaral stopped her, chuckling, “I would suffice it to say that you, Claire, have a gift.”

The word gift was accented in just such a way, as if the old man was hinting at something more than he dare tell her. He had done this without stop since the moment he had met her and it drove Claire crazy. She knew she had to learn something useful.

“So,” Claire hopped around her words, as if testing the sturdiness of a rock standing in a creek before trusting her weight to it, “these Agolaqui”, she held her breath, “how long does it take them to master Bedoui?”

“Oh, they can’t. No. Few can. There is a special muscle the Bedoui possess in the left side of their tongue, call it a genetic blessing if you will, that enables them to speak like they do, and even though the Agolaqui are distant cousins of the Bedoui, most lost the ability several centuries back after the migrated from Vren to the Horn of Enron. Only about one in every hundred or so non-Bedoui are able to speak the dialect, and even then, most can trace their ancestry with a little bit of work back to a Bedoui. As a consequence, most Bedoui will treat anyone that can speak their dialect like a long lost relative. You see, they are close knit people as a result of…”

Claire stopped focusing. Rosaral had just given her a valuable piece of information she would not forget. How it would benefit her, she didn’t yet know, but she was one slow step closer to understanding who she was.

With the consistency of a fast running river in Spring, Rosaral discussed the cultural assimilation of the Agolaqui into the Azerbijite race all the rest of the way to the Tavern, which was now steadily growing closer. In spite of herself, Claire found she was listened quite closely to the rest of what he said, as her eyes glanced over the broad landscape of rolling brown hills, dotted by stubby bushes and prairie grass.

As the sun approached noon they finally crested the hill that the alleged tavern rested on. It turned out to be nothing more than a cottage, but it hardly mattered to Claire. She just wanted to eat and sleep. Rosaral had, of course, tolerated neither as of yet.

When they approached the door Rosaral stopped and turned to Claire, “Now, Claire. It is important you understand this. The woman who resides here is a little, uh,” he twirled his finger in a circle pointing at his head, and Claire was forced to suppress a burst of laughter at the irony, “so listen, just let me do most of the talking, alright?” Claire nodded, unable to hide a bemused smile.

“Oh! And when she addresses you, do exactly as I do. Ok?” Rosaral looked rather earnestly at Claire this time.

“Yes. Right.”

Seemingly satisfied, he rapped on the door, making a slight bird call as he did so. In seconds the door swung open to reveal a woman who was either thirty or eighty, Claire couldn’t tell. The woman was dressed in a purplish sort of scarf, draped over her front, and descending down to her knees. It rested on top of a white dress, laid with flakes of blue, green, and red crystal.

“Lady of the Woods, Gledra, I present myself, your humble servant, Rosaral, keeper of light. I present to you as well, Claire, my, er, daughter.”

Gledra raised an eyebrow at this, but made no comment. She now directed her full attention to Claire, piercing her with an unwavering gaze. Claire glanced over at Rosaral, to find he was stooped in a bow, and unable to make eye contact. She inwardly shook her head, before proceeding.

“Lady of the, uh, woods, Gledra. I come before you, humbly, as Claire of the, Bedoui.”

If Rosaral could improvise, so could she, she thought smugly, bowing at her performance. She glanced at Rosaral as she did so, and found that his face was horror stricken.

“Bedoui, did you say?” Lady Gledra’s voice sounded akin to that of a crow’s, and Claire was distinctly reminded of how very unwise a smoking habit was.

She looked over Rosaral, “Rosaral? Hmm. What a quaint name. So pleasant to the ear, yet so very bold.” She scratched her chin, “I wonder if you understand the full meaning of your name, Rosaral, keeper of light.”

She smirked, “But come,” she jerked her head past her, “in, both of you. I have no quarrel with a Bedoui daughter, nor a keeper of light.”

Claire waited for Rosaral to make the first move. She watched as the tense muscles in his back relaxed, and he raised to his full height. She did likewise, following closely behind.

The cottage was far more substantial in size than it appeared to be on the outside, and Claire found that there were actually three rooms on the whole. Windows lined the walls and cozy furnishings created a welcoming, albeit unexpected atmosphere.

Rosaral grabbed Claire by the arm, whispering into her ear, “Why did you bring that up?”

He sounded upset, and for the first time Claire detected his chastising voice.

“What do you mean?” He grunted. Lacking a retort. “If I can magically be your daughter, then I can certainly be a Bedoui.” He let go of her arm.

“Claire, you don’t know what you’ve gotten us into. Lady Gledra requires something from each person who visits her. By making her believe that you are Bedoui you may have set yourself up for a task you cannot complete.”

Claire felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. “So I’m not Bedoui?”

Rosaral gave her a puzzled look, “Whether you are or aren’t makes no difference at this point. You can’t remember your past, and as a consequence it will only be trouble to you.”

“What will she ask of me?” she queried, her pulse quickening slightly.

“That, I cannot say. It may be Yeshu will be gracious to us; heaven forbids she requires we go to the Bedoui.” His eyebrows furrowed, as if imagining how much harder his task had just become.

“Why would that be so bad?” Claire asked, biting her lip as she eyed the woman sitting in the corner.

“Didn’t you listen to a word I said?”

“Yes, of course. You said anyone who can speak Bedoui is treated like family?”

Rosaral sighed, disappointed. “Yes.” He spoke as if it was the most tiresome problem.

“What?”

“If we have to go to the Bedoui, they might claim heir rights, since you, as you may have guessed, are not my daughter, and you are not married.”

“What on Earth are you talking about?”

“The Bedoui do not recognize a woman’s legitimacy apart from a man. They may require you stay with them.”

Claire’s face turned aghast in horror. “Rosaral, you won’t let them, though, will you?”

The old man’s face softened with compassion. “We will find a way around this, together. You have my word.”

“I’m so sorry Rosaral, I’m such a fool.”

“Oh, Claire, if this is the most foolish thing you ever do, you will be far wiser than any man I never knew.” He chuckled slightly.

“What are we going to do now, then?”

“Wait. When supper is prepared we will find out what our tasks are, and then I will make my requests.”

“Requests?”

“We need mounts if we are to travel at the pace necessary, and we will also need provisions. The next safe town is a long journey away.”

He looked off into the distance, as if contemplating how far they must travel.

“In the meantime, I suggest you rest. She has prepared two rooms for each of us.” He pointed at the two rooms behind her.

“How did she know we were coming Rosaral?”

He let out a merry laugh, “Do not ask why the ocean makes waves, the Sun rises, nor why the Lady of the Wood sees more than she ought.”

At that Rosaral made his way into the room, closing the door behind him. Claire turned into hers, suddenly aware of how tired she was. The old woman remained in her rocker, staring out a window in the corner of the common room. For a moment, Claire thought she saw something flash across the clear glass, but she couldn’t be sure.

After waiting a few more minutes, she gave up trying to see more and entered her room. As she drifted off to sleep she couldn’t help wondering where James was and if he was alright. She found herself praying once more. She spoke the word Yeshu, and found an odd sort of peace pass over her. Her eyes closed, and she slept.

James hurried along the tunnel, shortly leaving the closet after realizing he couldn’t get out through the locked door. Not long ago the tunnel had expanded to a degree that he could now walk upright, and only a few minutes ago a sound like a steady booming noise had begun to shake the ground. After a while of listening to the steady rhythm, James guess the source of the booming was drums.

The steady drumming had constantly been growing until now it sounded far closer to a sort of rhythmic earthquake than instruments, and at times James even wondered if it might be. Dirt sprinkled on top of his head, and a horrifying vision of the tunnel collapsing crossed his mind. James picked up the pace, glad that the tunnel was high enough now to allow him to walk. He started running, pulling his legs up high, hoping to avoid stumbling. His eyes scanned in front of him, though the tunnel was still dark, light was trickling in from the far end. He was nearing the exit. Hope soared through James as he imagined what fresh air tasted like.

The drumming was steadily growing louder, and the suspicion that it could be related to the religious festival diminished James’ joy. After a few more minutes journeying down the tunnel, identifying that, in fact, the drumming was growing in volume at a consistent pace, James realized that he was heading straight into lion’s den.

When he had finally gotten close enough to see the far end he slowed to a cautious tiptoe, although his hesitation was useless, as the drumming masked any noise. So loud was it now that James felt the need to steady himself against the wall from time to time for fear of falling over. At last he reached the edge, discovering that the tunnel turned, and descended behind sight down spiral stairs. Straight ahead was what looked like a dead end, but light was poring through seems in the wall.

Upon further inspection, James realized the end was only covered by drapes. The exposed edge gave him just enough room to see a large courtyard filled with people. They were all dressed in white robes stained in red. All arms were raised towards the full moon, and everyone pounded their feet in unison to the drumming. The ground shook. To his right and left large creatures, something like yaks, but closer to the size of elephants created the booming drumming by pounding their feet on hide drums stretched across the open pits lined with wood. It was like thunder.

James couldn’t quite tell what it was that he was looking through. He thought it might be just a stone wall on the opposite side of the courtyard, but immediately before him, on a raised stage, rested a stone table.

Suddenly, by an unseen cue, the drumming ceased and silence invaded. So shocking was it, so contrasting, that James wondered if he had been magically turned deaf. He sat paralyzed with anticipation, waiting to understand what was happening.

Then, he saw it. Three temple priests dragged a young girl with olive skin and dark brown hair up some steps toward the stage. The crowd of cultists watched silently, and several burly men of the cloth held back three large cats the size of oxen, pawing the air to reach her.

She carried herself with dignity becoming royalty, and her bare arms were covered in tattoos. James could tell she was important by the way the temple priests treated her. They strapped her down on a stone table at the top of the stage. The high priest carried a long, jagged knife. It glinted red in the torchlight below, and a fear unlike any other twisted in his stomach.

His mind reached the conclusion before time did. They were going to kill her. This was human sacrifice. The cooks in the closet had been right in a way. She was still alive at the very least. A stray thought crossed his mind as he watched her, you could save her. James dismissed the thought as preposterous. There was no way.

She was so close. James brushed his belt, feeling something. He slapped his forehead with his palm. He still had the knife Rosaral had given him. He quickly pulled it out, imagining how useful it would have been earlier.

The drapes were all that lay between him and rescuing the girl. He fingered the knife again. One mad dash. That is all it would take. The high priest walked over to the girl, drawing the knife along his hand. Thick drops of blood sprinkled her face. He began a strange chant, and the crowd gathered, quickly followed suit. He drew the knife up above him. The girl made no noise. She was far too proud to cry.

James grabbed the edge of the drape. It was now, or the girl would die. He wondered if the spiral staircase simply led down to a locked door. Could he do anything? He supposed he could lead her back the way he came. Perhaps they could get lost in the tunnels and escape. Experience told him it wouldn’t be hard to do.

The drumming had begun again, and a hungry cat growled. Where would we go? How long till we are both caught? A lot of good that would do me. James slammed his fist into his thigh. The high priest was the only one on the stage. He could charge, throw him off, slice the rope bonds tying her down easily enough, and then drag her back with him. It was possible.

“I will protect you.” A voice sounded within James’ ears. It wasn’t him. It was ancient and yet it resonated with power.

“I am truth.” The voice replied before James even had a chance to ask why he should trust it. The voice was yearning for James to take trust, and he felt this inexplicable desire to comply. This voice was not so foreign. No, there was a certain familiarity, like that of a father to a son.

James knew what he should do, but fear chained him to the spot. What if I die? He thought. More concerned for his own safety than for the girl’s only a few feet away.

Then, just as before, the drumming stopped. The priest screamed something unintelligible, and the knife swung down. James looked away. Tears streaming down his eyes. He didn’t need to watch to know what had just happened.

A moment’s hesitation and the chance to save her was gone. He fled, running down the spiral stairs, not thinking clearly. It got dark very quickly, there being no natural light of any type. He didn’t even consider what the voice was, only that he should have listened.