Garen continued on his path, making no sign of awareness even as the hillfolk’s spears plunged about their gory work, and Tog screamed curses for the day he had met Garen the Undreaming.
Garen left stories in his wake like petals from a dying flower. These tales served as a trail that the needful could follow in order to hire or press him into service. Always they found Garen in one of a few locales: within brothels, where tawdry pleasures of the flesh could satisfy a short while; within a mead hall or winery, where strong drink could tamp down his madness for a while longer; or finally, within a temple or sanitarium, where sacred rites or ancient medicines might soothe his fractured mind a while longer still.
Meldri and Besthamun found Garen locked away in the deepest meditation pits of the goddess Sebun’s holiest temple, in the port city of Tauk.
A bribed eunuch led them through the labyrinth of dimly lit passageways. “The acolytes have subjected this one to eighteen endless days and nights of humming meditations. They believe the proper tones will align Garen’s soul shards and restore his ability to slumber.”
“For our sake, we hope they’re unsuccessful,” Meldri muttered. Besthamun frowned, but Meldri spoke the truth. If Garen were to be cured, he would not meet their needs.
The servant tittered, stopped at the entrance of a cell. He seemed held at bay by the hysterical laughter coming from within, rising above the steady tones of three acolytes.
“This wretched creature has no soul shards left to align,” whispered the eunuch. “But he made a generous enough offering to the Temple for a year of treatments.”
“I hear a little bird outside my cage,” the laughing voice cried from within. “Come in, little bird, and sing me a better song.”
The eunuch scurried away. Besthamun gave serious consideration to following, but they had traveled too far to turn back in this moment, and she steeled herself to enter.
As they did, the humming ceased, the air suddenly dangerously empty, as if the silence might swallow them all. The small stone cell was lit by a single candle, nearly spent. The acolytes rose to their feet, saying nothing as they brushed past the scholars and went into the catacombs.
A single disheveled shape remained within the cell, squeezed into the farthest corner, as if trying to disappear into the flickering shadows. The figure might have been a man, or might have been a loose bundle of sticks and rags. He was made of elbows and knees, long-limbed, thin. Long, dull black hair hung in tangles, hair from his scalp and face mingling into one tangled, rat-gnawed mess. Within the tangles burned sea-gray eyes that seemed to Besthamun to reflect more light than the candle gave off.
Besthamun cleared her throat. “Esteemed one, we offer our most humble apologies for interrupting but —”
Garen sighed. “I welcome it; I grew bored of their incessant noises six days ago, but couldn’t think of how I might say as such without insulting their cult of mysteries. One thing I know about cults: they do not take to being insulted.” Without warning or pause, he scrabbled across the room to the scholars and stood with the tip of his broad nose brushing against Meldri’s. He sniffed.
“I know that perfume. You’ve journeyed from the Salt Coast.” He squinted. “By your plain manner of dress, I make you for scholars of the Great University of Kamtun Jai.”
Meldri took a step back. Besthamun glared at him for daring to insult Garen thus, but continued her entreaty.
“ — We have a task that requires your unique person to complete, and wish to employ your services.”
“I visited the University once. They threw me out, said I was not worthy of their knowledge.”
“The mad cannot grasp enlightenment,” Meldri said with a sniff.
Besthamun considered striking her brother, but worried what the act of violence would incite in the madman. “Apologies for my brother’s insult. He is jealous of the offer we make to you.”
Meldri sneered. “We studied a dozen summers before we were allowed within the Library of Dreams. What could this one hope to learn without proper study?”
“No insult taken,” Garen said, lips twitching with the faintest smile. “Go without rest for as many years as I, and see how sound your own mind is.” He took a step back from Meldri and stretched his long limbs.
“And what must I do to gain access to your library? No doubt you believe it might contain hints regarding my affliction — or, at least, you would like me to believe so. May I borrow your knife?”
Besthamun hesitated, but she retrieved the small knife of mountain glass from within the folds of her robes and offered it up. Garen began hacking away at his beard. “Go on,” he said.
“Have you, in your travels, heard of the city of Alamoi?” she asked.
He did not hesitate. “No.”
“It was a great city, ruled by a masonic order which mastered secrets of working stones that some say predate the last Ice. Half of the great walls from the Placidine Sea to the Jaggared Mountains were built by Alamoi masons.”
Meldri continued when Besthamun paused, unwanted tears forming in her eyes. “Some call it the Shining City; the polished stone used in its construction reflects the light at sunrise and sunset brilliantly. It was a beacon of civilization once.”
“What happened? Plague?” Garen continued to hack away at his hair. His angular face slowly emerged from the chaos. Besthamun was surprised to find herself admiring its shape as the blade revealed it, as if carving his chin from a block of softstone.
Meldri nodded. “A dream plague fell upon the city and it did not pass. Even now, the residents of the city labor under the dream. Reports of travelers say that new constructions rise above the city.”
“And what do they work to assemble?”
Besthamun frowned. “We don’t know. It is impossible to approach close enough without falling to the dream. Nothing good. That much is certain.”
Garen finished trimming his beard and returned the knife, which Besthamun gratefully stashed away.
“You wish me to approach the city and document what I see; to learn the nature of their project. I’ve performed such tasks before. For one such as me, it is simple. As boring as the acolytes’ humming.” Already, it seemed his attention was wandering.
Meldri laughed. “Oh, no; not only that. We want you to destroy the edifice.” He turned away, spoke over his shoulder in a great show of disrespect. “Sister, this man is a waste of time. He could never accomplish our task, it is plain to see.”
Garen’s gaze snapped into focus, and Besthamun shifted uncomfortably under the madness of it. The madman grinned broadly, and Besthamun decided then that no, he was not so handsome, not with a face that could ever wear that terrible expression.
The gates of the city were open wide. Instead of streets and structures he beheld a great goat, dead from thirst, mouth hanging open and thick tongue lolling in the sand — this, a flashback from his childhood. It faded quickly with another pull on his pipe.
Of course the gates were open. What use would it serve to close the gates when any attackers would fall under the dreaming far before reaching the unmanned wall? A cool breeze blew down from the mountains, carrying a sadness that Garen could not shake. A bone-weary loneliness took hold of him as he passed through the gate and into the broad, well-paved avenues of Alamoi. The streets were as empty as the sentry posts, the windows of surrounding buildings still shuttered against the night the plague fell.
“Begone, spirits,” Garen whispered. The lonely melancholy passed as the words left his lips.
As he’d approached Alamoi, he’d gawped in awe at the pair of towers that dominated the cityscape, rising story after story higher than the next tallest building. Scaffolding clung to them like scabs, and the tiny figures of workers scurried here and there upon their surfaces.