I LET OUT A GASP as my body jerks forward, arms straining before I pull myself back upright. The Transvect starts slow, thankfully, but we’re climbing and then building speed at a terrifying pace. The lit platform is already far below, and I can see Ulciscor still talking to the Praetorian. He never looks up.
Soon enough Ulciscor, the platform, the fires in the valley, everything is lost to view. The wind starts to screech and whip around me, though I know I’m sheltered from the worst of it. Everything feels colder up here. The air knifes through my tunic. I can’t risk moving to tug my flapping cloak tighter.
Time slips. Begins to blur as the night screams around me, over me, through me. Occasionally the great black is broken by the streetlamps of distant towns below, gone again so quickly that I’m reminded only of how terrifyingly fast we’re moving.
I cling on desperately, and regret my decision for what feels like forever.
Then, finally, the scything air somehow becomes even icier. A trace of salt to it. I gasp my relief as a few lanterns on the ships from the fishing village reflect off the rolling waves of the Sea of Quus. About twenty minutes away now.
Those lights are long faded from view when I feel the Transvect begin to slow.
It’s easy enough to notice, even in the dark. There’s the pressure against my back as I’m impelled into the stone by the deceleration. The lurch in my stomach as we start to drop.
The screeching wind quietens. My breath shortens.
If I jump off too soon, I’ll be outside the Seawall’s protective ring around Solivagus—the one that, according to Ulciscor, will drag me to the ocean floor if I try to swim across it. And if I leave it too late, the Transvect will be moving too fast, be too high. I won’t be able to control how I hit the water. A good chance I’ll be knocked unconscious from the impact and drown, in that scenario.
At least there’s the faintest sheen of light from below, a smudge of illumination off the swells appearing as the Transvect levels out. It’s the reflection of the lanterns underneath, I assume. Fortunate. The utter completeness of the darkness out here wasn’t something I’d anticipated.
My stiff, half-frozen arms almost slip as I finally risk loosening my grip in preparation for letting go. The glistening humps of water are close enough, without question. But I have to wait until the anchoring point slides past. The window to jump will be a second or two. I won’t have the luxury of hesitating.
The Transvect crawls forward for an eternity. I’m sure I’ve missed it. I resist the urge to look up and scan behind us, instead focusing on that tiny patch of illuminated water below. The stone will be most visible there.
I see it. A lighter, unmoving flash against the waves.
I jump.
There’s a moment of displacement as my stomach sucks up into my chest; the darkness, the yawning depths at my feet, and I’m back at Suus. Falling, helpless and scared, my father’s bloodied, pleading gaze on me as I vanish from his sight.
Then the water is smashing into me, cold and sharp as it covers my head. It’s not nearly the fall I endured that night three years ago, and my eyes are open quickly enough to see the Transvect’s lanterns through the water. I force back the memories and push desperately upward as those lights grow smaller. Break the surface with a gasp as they disappear entirely into the distance.
I got it right, at least. I’m between the anchoring point and the island. Inside the protective barrier.
I tread water to get my bearings, touching the buttoned-up pocket where the stone cuff is secured and exhaling in pure relief when I feel the lump. I can’t wear it without activating it, but one of my worst fears was that it would come loose and sink when I jumped.
Wary of being swept too far out of position—or back into the Seawall—I dig into my pouch and fish out the locator stone, dropping it and letting it sink. There are too many identical-looking anchoring points out here, far enough from the shore that there’s only the horizon to distinguish them against. I need to be certain I can find my way back to exactly which one the Transvect uses, when the time comes.
Everything’s still pitch-black as I ride the waves, but I know I’m facing toward where the Transvect lights disappeared only seconds ago. After a minute, my eyes start to adjust; even in the cloudy night, away from the light of any lanterns whatsoever, there’s enough to make out the shape of Solivagus up ahead.
I point myself roughly toward where I think the distant ruins lie, and start to swim.
THE DARK FORESTS OF SOLIVAGUS glower ahead as I finally haul myself over the lip of the cliff and onto its windswept-smooth summit. My lungs burn. Arms ache. The last of my scrabbling sends loose stones skittering down the cliffside, their scrambling quickly lost against the lapping of waves. My cloak is still cold and heavy with damp as I collapse onto my back, gasping.
Eventually, still breathing hard, I force myself to roll and examine the stony shore far below. A couple of hundred feet, at least, to get back down.
“That… was easier… in my head,” I wheeze to myself.
It’s been more than two hours since the Transvect. A mile swimming would have been straightforward enough for me, once, but it’s been years since I was in the water and my muscles stretched and strained at every unaccustomed motion. And then once I dragged myself up the rocky shore, gasping and shivering and already exhausted, everything was numb. It took longer than I’d have liked to scavenge what I needed for a fire and strike one to light with my knife and flint. Probably another hour hunched naked over it—huddled close to the flames both to absorb as much warmth as possible, and to hide them from any stray eyes out on the water—as my wrung-out clothes dried.
And after that, of course, there was the climb. Ascent tortuously careful as I methodically tested each handhold, much of the craggy cliff face cast into impenetrable black against the faint silver leaking from above. I slipped more than once. My hands are scraped and raw.
But I’m here now.
The easy part is done.
I take another couple of minutes to catch my breath. Orienting myself. I’ve arrived a little farther south than I would have liked, maybe another fifteen minutes away from the mountain Ulciscor originally pointed out, but thankfully still close enough to where I was aiming. I should allow another six or seven hours to navigate the forest to the ruins, and the same back. Or a little longer, actually, to safely descend the cliff again. And given I’m not as strong a swimmer as I once was, at least a half hour more—probably closer to three quarters of one—if I want to be in position again before the final Transvect run from the Necropolis.
That leaves only a few hours to explore the ruins.
I really need to get moving.
I drag myself to my feet. Spend a few minutes making a torch using tree resin—a risk, but it’s not light enough to see my way otherwise—and, ignoring my protesting body, start walking.
The forest is still, though noisy enough thanks to the snapping twigs and heavy rustling of my passage. I push relentlessly forward, following trails made by animals where possible, although those are scarce. Several times I hit a dead end, gullies or gulches too wide or too overgrown to pass, and I have to double back around them. My arms start to show the effect of hundreds of small scratches, red lines etched along my skin. Crickets chirp ceaselessly. Wings flutter overhead. Occasionally the screeching of other nightlife pierces the gloom and I flinch, raising the torch high. Still concerned that someone out on the Transvect platform could notice my light—it might be visible from there, from time to time, through the trees—but that’s a risk I have to take. With at least ten miles and deep canyons in between, there’s no way they could reach where I am with any sort of alacrity, anyway.
Dawn is brightening the horizon when I first realise my locator needle has stopped working.
I come to a reluctant, apprehensive halt. Up until now, I’ve been using the dangling sliver of stone as a hedge against my sense of direction. But this time when I hold it out, there’s nothing. No gentle tugging toward its counterpart at the bottom of the sea, even as I stand motionless.
I regard it grimly. It’s not vital at the moment, but the swim back will be a different story. I spend a minute examining the needle for any defects or chips. Trying to decide what could possibly have gone wrong. Distance shouldn’t affect its attraction.
In the end, dispiritingly, I realise there’s not much I can do about it. I just have to press on. Hope that I can find my way back to the right anchoring point in the Seawall without assistance.
It’s another hour and a half before the trees ahead begin to thin, and I see the first crumbling structures.
I slow. My breath comes hard, wisps of fog puffing out into the early morning sun, exertion and lack of sleep already weighing on me. There’s a heaviness to the air. No sounds. Not even the crickets anymore.
The ruins here are in better shape than the site near the Academy. Far more extensive, too. I’m on a hillside looking down over a small town’s worth of overgrown structures.
It’s the enormous dome that draws my eye, though.
The clouds are now nothing more than a veneer of mist, and the morning light reflects sharply off a curved, apparently undamaged surface set into the mountainside itself. It’s massive, far taller than anything else in the area, with a polished-smooth façade that time has coated with dirt streaked by rain. Beneath the grime, though, it’s not the grey or light brown of stone. Hard to tell for sure, but it seems coloured a deep, blood red.
I stand there, assessing for a minute. No sign of movement. I start picking my way down.
Stones skitter and leaves crunch underfoot as I move, sharp in the silence. The back of my neck prickles. Down among the buildings the air’s sullen, thick, feels like it’s absorbing my footfalls. I still don’t hear any of the soft calls of birds or scurrying motion of wildlife that accompanied me on my journey here. Some of the tangled growth around me is cleared, cut away to provide an easier path. I am not the only recent visitor.
I do a cursory tour of some of the smaller buildings, more as a formality than because I think I’ll find anything important. They’re dark and dusty, containing nothing but rubble and lichen. I’m unsurprised. Whatever Veridius wants with this place, it surely has something to do with that dome. The protrusion from the mountain must be five hundred feet across, at least as high.
I approach the crimson structure cautiously, dwarfed as I use the edge of my tunic to wipe a small section at its base clean. My haggard face peers back at me, tinged ruddy. Not as clear as a mirror, but not far off.
I tap the surface with a fingernail. It gives off a clinking sound, closer to glass than stone. Strange. I draw my knife and scratch the blade along the section I’ve cleaned. There’s an unpleasant screeching sound.
When I take the steel away, there’s no mark.
I scrutinise the spot uneasily, then step back. The entire thing appears to be one piece, the wall rising vertically for almost twenty feet before beginning its almost imperceptibly gentle curve inward toward the mountain. I can make out jagged, seemingly random lines caked in dirt farther up: not writing, but I don’t think they’re cracks, either. There are no balconies, no stairs, no windows.
No doors, either, that I can see. No indication as to its purpose.
I start along its curvature, apprehensive. This can’t be it. I have… two hours, maybe, before I should head back? I glance at the sky. Maybe two and a half, given I’ll be making the return journey in daylight.
“Rotting gods.” I reach the edge where the dusty red glass vanishes into the cliff face, then spin back the other way, eyes straining for something to latch on to. “Vek, vek, vek.”
It’s after a minute of travelling back in the opposite direction that I spy the symbol of the Hierarchy.
I hurry over. The emblem stands ten feet high, ending at the ground, but shows no sign of providing an entrance. There’s writing above it. Letters I recognise. That same old form of Vetusian I saw in the other ruins.
LUCEUM. OBITEUM. RES.
REMEMBER, BUT DO NOT MOURN.
My heart beats faster. Obiteum and Luceum. Again, those unknown words from Caeror’s mysterious communication to his brother.
I run my hand along the grooves of the symbol. The surface where it’s etched is cool and hard, the corners sharp. No sign of wear. I push at it, boots slipping on the grass. Then try to find purchase in the deep furrows and pull. Nothing moves.
I make a quick circuit past, checking the remainder of the dome’s base to ensure there aren’t any other distinguishing features—there aren’t—and then return. It makes no sense for this to be here, if there’s no way inside. And this symbol is about the right size for a door.
I spend the next ten minutes clearing away dirt from around the pyramid image, running my hands along the smooth glass, looking for… something. More writing. Clues. Anything.
Eventually I return to the inscription above. Sit and endeavour to clear my mind from the weighing pressure of time. The sun’s moving higher at my back.
I study the text. Repeat it to myself aloud, trying to decide whether it’s imparting any clue, any meaning beyond simply what it’s saying. Luceum and the other two are names. Places? People?
I close my eyes, trying to recall the rest of Caeror’s message.
“Luceum,” I mutter to myself. “Luceum and Obiteum and… Scintres Exunus?”
There’s a grinding sound, a roar against the morning’s hush that has me scrambling to my feet in panic. The reddish glass quavers as the pyramid symbol in it starts to split, each half gradually folding to the side. Light vanishes into the mouth of the opening as the groaning continues deep within the dome, the sound of hundreds of pieces of edifice rearranging.
It finishes with an echoing boom, leaving a triangular hole gaping into darkness.
The opening exudes nameless menace. I study it pensively. The timing cannot be coincidental, but I’ve never heard of any Will-based abilities that can activate on a specific phrase.
No time to be hesitant, though.
I retrieve my torch, light it again. Its illumination spills into the inky passageway. Stairs descend. My footsteps echo as I creep forward.
The way soon levels out, becoming a long, wide corridor where my flickering light barely touches the sides. I cannot see the roof. Dark rock seems hewn from the mountain, no trace of the red glass from outside. There’s a sense of age to everything, as though I might be the first person to walk this path in decades.
I only take a few steps along before I come to a stumbling halt again, arm trembling as I raise the torch higher to look at the dark cavities along the wall.
It’s just like in the ruins near the Academy. Men and women lining the corridor. Naked. Eyes closed and obsidian blades speared through their chests, pinning them to the stone behind.
None of them move. None of them open their eyes.
I shudder, and hurry past.
The end of the hall emerges before I’ve been walking ten seconds; there are maybe two dozen bodies in here, no more. The orange glow of my flame reveals a dead end, stone wall broken by a slim gap that allows the floor to protrude farther into a semi-circular platform. A waist-high railing suggests it’s overlooking something. Beyond that, though, there’s only darkness.
I approach, casting uneasy glances behind. Trying not to imagine movement back there in the void.
The balustrade catches the light as I near, glints red. There’s only bottomless space past it, the platform itself barely wide enough for a single person to stand on. My shoulders brush the walls on either side as I step through the gap and onto it, eyes straining into the abyss.
A grinding and then I’m suddenly thrown, stumbling. Falling. My arm shivers as it smashes into the red railing. I can only watch in mute horror as my torch slips from my numb grasp. Tumbles over the edge, end over end.
It falls for a long, long time before it vanishes.
When I recover enough to scramble to my feet again, the platform has started to follow it down into the darkness.
