"I like it when you do that."
J'role sometimes thought that if he hurt himself enough, the thing would get full of pain and finally leave. It never worked.
J'role's ancestors had helped build the kaer generations ago, carved it out of the soft rock of the Red Hills the way people all over the world had built shelters to protect themselves from the Horrors. An old empire of strong magic had given warning to the world of the coming Scourge, and had counseled everyone how to protect themselves. Staring at the Red Hills J'role wondered what had happened to the old empire.
Before him, lit by the blue moonlight, — the Red Hills looked like a giant shadow rising from the ground.
Why did his father have to come here?
Setting the bundle into the crook of his left arm, he began climbing up the hill to a ledge some thirty feet up. The rough rock dug into the fingers of his right hand and the soles of his feet, but, as with running, J'role found the exertion exhilarating. His breathing increased, and several times he almost fell back down the hill. But he caught himself each time-with only one hand free and continued. He took pleasure in that. A smooth climb would not have been as much fun. He liked near misses and last-minute saves.
Reaching the ledge- J'role sat down to rest, staring at the round entrance to the kaer.
Symbols used to ward off the Horrors ringed the large opening, symbols just like those on the magician's robes. A long dragon wound its way around the entrance, and all around the dragon were drawings of trees, suns, plants, water. Animals of all sorts: jaguar, boar, hypogriff. The dots and dashes around the pictures broke the sounds of the objects'
names into bits, those bits which the scribe wanted to use to form a new word. J'role knew this because his mother had once explained it to him. She had not understood what the words meant, how to read or write them, but she understood enough about how the words were formed, and J'role remembered what she'd told him about reading and writing.
If only he could read. If only he could write. But who would take a cursed, mute boy on as an apprentice?
He got up and approached the entrance, wanting to find his father and then leave as quickly as possible. Shattered rocks lay strewn about the circular opening, the remains of the day Charneale had decided it was safe to smash open the sealed entrance so that the people could- reemerge into the world. J'role's father had been so happy that day-too happy-laughing, singing, talking so quickly that J'role could only just make out his father's rushing conversation. Everything will be all right now, we'll start again. Spirits, how lucky we are to be given this second chance!
The moonlight illuminated only the first few feet of the tunnel, after which all became black. The darkness, J'role knew, extended deep into the hill. He'd forgotten to bring a brand, or rather, he'd been hoping to meet his father returning to the village somewhere across the desolate landscape.
J'role's thinking became unbalanced when he thought of the kaer.
Luckily, someone, most likely his- fathers had- left three brands on the ground near the tunnel entrance. With the flint he pulled from his pouch, J'role used one of the shattered portal stones to spark a flame to life on the tip of the brand. The fire grew quickly, greedily gulping the air. The red light lapped at the corridor’s red stone, turning the walls black.
J'role picked up the bundle of food and moved forward. He picked his way carefully, very quietly now, because some thing might have moved into the dark corridors of the kaer. He also moved carefully because the entrance tunnel had once been full of triggers for traps to keep the Horrors out- pits, poison arrows, and other more arcane, magical means of destruction. Although the devices had all been disengaged when Charneale opened the kaer, the floor was littered with trip wires and spear tips that could drag an unwary Visitor to the floor.
Soon he reached the central Atrium, a large; circular chamber with a great fountain in the center. During the Scourge, magicians had cast magic to draw water from the very stone of the fountain. A pillar rose from the center of the fountain's bowl, and atop the pillar stood a statue of Garlen, the spirit of healing and home. The statue was not carved from the stone of the-Red Hills, but of white marble. The flickering red flames bathed her form, turning it rose-colored, giving the illusion of movement to her intricately sculpted gown, color to her cheeks. Her arms were raised, welcoming; her hips wide, her breasts large. She would take care of everyone. Or so Helvar, one of the Garlen's questors in the kaer, had said.
J'role turned from the statue, saw the many corridors leading out of the Atrium and into the hive-like maze of the kaer. Which way did he go? Where was his father nursing his drink?
J 'role stood still, quiet, as still and quiet as the statue of Garlen behind him. Sometimes…
He heard it. The singing. Low and sad. Though he could not make out the words, he knew it was a happy song, something about love, or adventure. Or a farmer's song, one they sung to keep spirits high while toiling under the sun. His father only sang happy songs, but he sang them all sad.
J'role moved toward the singing, crossing the Atrium and listening at me entrances of several tunnels. Finally he found the right one and proceeded.
He walked for what seemed a long time though it was only the darkness and memories stretching out his thoughts that made the short walk seem long. Once, when he had lived in the kaer, floating lanterns had provided constant, safe illumination, following alongside anyone moving through the corridors. Now, as J'role crisscrossed the tunnels
— picking up the trail of his father's singing, losing it, finding it again-only the red light of his brand flickered along the red walls. Cracks and crags in the walls vanished and appeared as the firelight danced. The scuttle of strange creatures moving swiftly through the darkness echoed softly.
He had never heard such things in his youth.
And the smell. Things moved in and out of the tunnels now, strange things even his father's tales did not describe. Or so J'role imagined.
He passed the large hall where all his people ate, this room the rooms where Charneale taught his pupils. Down to his right the corridor led to the chambers where his family had slept. He was glad his father wasn't down there. The memories clawed at J 'role as he passed those rooms, though he could remember no specific incident.
He just didn't like the place
When the singing was clear and loud enough for J'role to make out the words to his father's favorite love song, a song he used to sing to J'role's mother, he realized where his father was. It was a place where he did remember what happened.
Did his father have to be there?
Maybe he could set the bundle down here, leave it for his father? When his father got hungry, he'd stagger down the corridor, find it. Eat.
Wouldn't that be enough?
No, what if his father passed out from drink and hunger, passed out and never found the food, starved to death with his meal only fifty feet away?
Would-that be so bad?
J 'role's muscles tightened in horror at his thought.
"J’role," said the creature, its tone full of mock concern. "did you just realize something about yourself you don't like?”
J'role's hands trembled, and to shake off the terror of his thoughts he moved forward, concentrating on how much his father had done for him.
"Like what?" asked the creature. J’role had no answer.
He turned a corner and saw a brand jammed into at crack in the wall, the tip ablaze with yellow-red light. Bevarden, his father, sat on the ground, back to the corridor's wall, his head tilted back, singing his song. "And never will I-" He stopped singing and turned abruptly toward J'role. "Who is it? Who's there?"
The sight of his father's face in the red light shocked J'role. Skin taut, eyes deep; a death mask. Dirty, ragged cloth for clothes. Arms and legs thin, belly bloated. Was this how his father really looked? Then Bevarden’s face softened, a smile appeared. "J'role," he said happily, dreamily. The terrible sight blurred into something much more comprehensible and familiar. Bevarden raised an arm, gesturing for J'role to approach. "My boy, my precious boy," his father' said as J 'role came closer. J'role smiled in return.