Light filtered through to Eldric’s brain slowly and vaguely, and his mind snatched at it fitfully as it rambled past on its way from nightmare to nightmare. Nightmares of prisons and roof-tops and a smoke-shrouded City filled with shapeless horrors from some distant time; of an eternity in a saddle and an endless argument the threads of which slipped ever away from him each time he reached his clinching point. Occasion-ally a sound joined the light, and light and sound and pain rose and fell together in an unholy harmony. With infinite reluctance, the light slowly formed itself into a single image which his mind, with equal reluctance, strove to identify. It was a torch. An old torch. Very old, said something in the background.
He could not have said how long he stared at it, seeing it clearly, before he finally identified it. ‘Torch,’ he said, and his voice sounded like a child’s. He screwed his face up irritably. A figure came between him and the light, and he waved it aside crossly. He needed to explain. ‘Torch,’ he repeated. ‘Old-in a book when I was a child. A book of old legends-with great big beautiful pictures. Full of colours.’
He felt his awareness returning, and the pain in his head diffused itself throughout his whole body in a general discomfort. The figure moved again, and was now by his side. He took its arm, and continued to explain. ‘It’s incredible,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen one like it. It’s strange how childhood memories impress themselves so deeply, isn’t it? It was in a picture of a Prince in a dungeon-during the Wars of the First Coming.’
A chill struck him and dispelled the childlike aura protecting him. He struggled to sit up. The figure put an arm around his shoulders and helped him. ‘Gently, Father,’ it said. ‘Gently. I don’t think you’ve any bones broken, but you were badly knocked about when they threw you in here, and you cracked your head on the floor.’
The words disorientated Eldric for a moment and for a while he mouthed them to himself. Then he turned and looked at the figure for confirmation.
Fair hair matted, round flat face with its innocence scarred by lines of care and neglect, and fringed with an unfamiliar beard.
‘Jaldaric,’ he said. ‘Jaldaric. Is it really you, or am I dreaming again?’ He closed his eyes as if he expected to find the mirage gone when he opened them again.
‘Yes, Father,’ replied his son. ‘It’s me, and you’re not dreaming. I wish you were. Rest a moment until you’re fully awake.’ Unexpectedly, Eldric’s face crumpled and he dropped his head into his hands to hide his tears. Jaldaric looked at him awkwardly, uncertain what to do.
Then, wiping his eyes with his hands, Eldric took his son in an embrace and held him still and close like a small child. ‘I thought you were dead,’ he said after a while. ‘When Hawklan told me about the Mandrocs I hardly dared to think about it, it was so horrible. I just… pushed the thoughts away. It was all I could do. I’m sorry.’
Jaldaric did not reply but returned his father’s em-brace and for a long time the two sat leaning against the cold dungeon wall taking solace from each other until the tide of euphoria ebbed a little and left them alone and lost on a strange shore.
Eldric found his memories of recent events return-ing sporadically, and he winced as a hesitant exploration of his skull discovered a large lump. He recalled being dragged with Lord Oremson from the house and through the City. He remembered the frightened faces of his followers, and did he remember bodies lying in Oremson’s gardens, in the moon shadow?
Jaldaric spoke. ‘What’s happening, Father?’ he asked. ‘I remember being in Orthlund. And arguing with some… thug. And a patrol of Mandrocs… and a journey.’ He shuddered. ‘Then all of a sudden I’m here. The Lord Dan-Tor’s asking me questions and telling me not to worry.’ He shrugged bitterly. ‘Now I don’t know whether these are memories or whether I’ve gone mad. I feel as if I’ve been here all my life. Are you here, Father, or have I truly gone mad?’
Eldric held his son tighter. ‘No, son, you’re not mad, though the world seems to be. If you’ve a memory of two Orthlundyn called Hawklan and Isloman, then you’re sane enough and so am I.’
Jaldaric started up. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The Lord Dan-Tor asked me about him. Green-eyed and… ’ He stopped. ‘My friends. What happened to my friends?’
Eldric looked down and then back up at his son. He saw the knowledge in his son’s face before he spoke, and his voice seemed to echo through the years, back to the many times he had spoken such words to such faces in the Morlider War. They were always inadequate, but there were no others. His stomach turned over. ‘I’m sorry, Jal, they’re all dead. Hawklan said they took quite a toll of the Mandrocs, but… ’
Jaldaric clenched his teeth and standing up, turned away. But he did not weep. So long tormented by his isolation, the certainty gave him as much comfort as it did grief. When he turned round, his face was almost petulant. ‘What’s happening, Father?’ he asked again. ‘Why am I here? What crime have I committed? Where’s the Law? And where were you?’ His tone became reproachful. ‘Every time there was a footstep outside, I’d think, here he is, come to set me free and tell me it’s all been some terrible mistake. But you didn’t come. Day after day you didn’t come.’
Eldric struggled to his feet and faced his son. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know at first, and when I did know, I couldn’t do anything. I’m sorry.’
The two looked at one another in silence for some time, then Eldric laid his hand on his son’s arm. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘That bunk looks none too sweet, but it’ll be more comfortable than the floor. Let’s sit down and I’ll tell you what’s been happening.’
Jaldaric listened to his father intently and in silence. ‘I can’t believe this, Father,’ he said when at last Eldric had finished. ‘All these dreadful things.’
Eldric nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘My mind’s done some scurrying over the past weeks, I can tell you. Waiting to wake up. But it’s all true, believe me. It’s all brutally true. It’s as if some poison has leached into the people and corroded their spirits so that they just crumble helpless before Dan-Tor’s will.’
There was a long silence.
‘And you think this is the… Second Coming?’ Jal-daric said awkwardly. ‘That… Sumeral… has risen in Narsindal and that this is His first step out into the world?’
Eldric held his son’s gaze, aware of his fearful uncer-tainty. ‘Yes,’ he said unequivocally. ‘Beyond all doubt now. But our immediate problem is Dan-Tor. He’s foe enough for us, and whether he’s master or servant is irrelevant. Suffice it that he has all the advantages.’ Looking at the doubt still written on Jaldaric’s face, he smiled. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind you thinking your old father’s gone peculiar, I’m sure I would have in similar circumstances, but you’ll be able to form your own conclusion when we’re out of here.’
Despite himself Jaldaric smiled in response. Then he rubbed his face. ‘How strange,’ he said. ‘I haven’t smiled in months. It’s made my face ache.’
Eldric put his arm around his son’s shoulder. ‘You’ve passed your lowest point, son,’ he said. ‘From now on we go upwards and out of here. Dan-Tor’s probably put us together because he thinks he has nothing to fear from us. Judging from the number of Mathidrin I saw when I was brought here I’d say he’s taken the City by force. But he can’t take the whole country by force, and I doubt he can hold even the City for long.’
Jaldaric’s face clouded as he moved away from El-dric. ‘I’m glad of your optimism, Father,’ he said. ‘But how can we get away from here? They open that door twice a day-at least I think it’s twice a day-I haven’t seen the sky since Orthlund. There’s always two of them, and I don’t even know where we are.’
Eldric, however, refused to be downed. He had found his son again. The son he had believed cruelly dead at the hands of Mandrocs. He had good and powerful friends outside, and surely the people weren’t all beyond redemption?
‘We’re in the Westerclave,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘I watched where I was going this time, for all I was groggy.’ Abruptly he clenched his fists. ‘We’ve been no more than a flight of stairs apart all this time.’ He pointed towards the door. ‘Just out there are the stairs that I shouted down when we tricked our way out of our cell.’ His face creased in distress. ‘If only I’d known. The Goraidin could’ve… ’ His voice tailed off. ‘Still. That’s talk through the rafters now. No recalling it.’ He looked thoughtfully round the cell, and his eyes lit on the torch that he had seen when he recovered consciousness. He stood up and walked over to examine it. Running his fingers around its ornate, fluted body, he said, ‘This is old. Very old. I’ve never seen the like except in an old storybook.’ Then his hand moved to the wall by it. ‘And look at these.’ He gestured to Jaldaric and pointed out some faint scratches in the wall by the torch. Taking hold of the torch he shook it violently. It did not move. ‘You try,’ he said brusquely. ‘You’re stronger than I am.’ Jaldaric frowned but took hold of the torch and strained at it until his pale face became red. Still it did not move. ‘It’s well made,’ he said offhandedly.
‘It’s more than well made,’ said Eldric, examining the faint scratches again. ‘This was made by craftsmen the like of which don’t exist any more, nor have for generations.’ He became excited. ‘I’ll wager they’ve tried to remove that to put in one of Dan-Tor’s stinking globes to illuminate his treachery. But this wall’s turned their best chisels. And this torch has withstood every-thing they’ve hit it with.’ He began walking up and down. ‘They say that the Westerclave was built during the Wars of the First Coming. Some kind of an outpost that changed hands repeatedly as the war swept to and fro.’ He came to a conclusion. ‘This room’s held prisoners who could exert a power that’s beyond us and it was built accordingly.’
Jaldaric could not share his father’s enthusiasm. He sat down again and leaned back against the wall. ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen nothing but these walls and that torch for months. Ancient it might be-magic even-but it holds little charm for me. I’ll be glad when I don’t have to see it again.’
Eldric nodded understandingly. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But just think what that torch means, Jal.’ He sat down beside his son. ‘Outside that door there’s a passage, a long passage, torchlit like this, and lined with exactly similar doors. Who knows how many cells there are down there? And I had no idea it even existed. This place probably hasn’t been used in centuries, but what happens when someone opens it up? That torch,’ he pointed to it emphatically, ‘that torch-like any good old reliable torch would-bursts into life. After all this time. An unimaginable span of years and darkness. It lit when it was needed. And they couldn’t put it out or destroy it.’
He paused thoughtfully. ‘There might be an ancient evil waking again in the world, Jal, but there’ll be other ancient forces stirring as well. Bringing light into the darkness. Even if Fyorlund falls and Riddin, and then Orthlund. Each step will take its toll and the world will know Sumeral for what He is sooner this time. Eventu-ally it’ll be He who finds Himself surrounded by an iron ring. One that will close on Him and seal Him away forever.’
Jaldaric gently mocked his father’s unexpected rhetoric. ‘Father, you sound like an old storyteller… a Keeper of the Festivals.’ But his brief jauntiness vanished abruptly and he wrapped his arms around himself as if for protection. ‘And if you’re right. You talk about the fall of countries as if it were nothing. Whole populations swept aside for the sake of some greater future.’ There was a question mark in the word greater. ‘What are people? Just so many dust motes?’
Eldric reached out to his son. ‘I don’t know, Jal,’ he said. ‘Maybe we are motes floating through this world at the behest of others, but we have our own wills.’
‘But we’ve no freedom to exercise them in action, Father,’ Jaldaric replied. ‘No freedom. What can we do here?’
Eldric chuckled and, as if in response, the torch turned to the colour of spring sunshine. Eldric looked at it and threw it a salute. ‘Thank you, old craftsman, wherever you are. Your gift continues unalloyed.’ Then, turning to his son, ‘What we can do, Jaldaric, Eldric’s son-as motes-is get in Dan-Tor’s eyes.’