“How is that possible?” Alric asked. “You said spells don’t work here.”
“They do not, and thou art no spell-caster. Thou art merely granting me freedom as the law allows the rightful ruler of this land. The law predates Melengar, a law that made foolish assumptions about the longevity of power and those who would hold it. At this moment, thou do. Thou art the rightful and undisputed ruler of this land, and as such, the locks art thine to open. Not the physical ones mind thee, but the magical ones, because they art formed not of steel, but of words, and words in time can change their meaning.
“When this gaol stood on imperial ground, ’twas controlled by the Church of Nyphron who built this place. The Patriarch was the undisputed ruler, but civil war came; the Empire fell. Warlords sprang up as the central power weakened. These warlords became kings, and new lines appeared on the maps. Melengar was born and this land became the realm of House Essendon. What was once only the privilege of the leader of the Church of Nyphron has fallen to thou. After nine centuries of educational neglect, my jailers hath forgotten how to read their own runes!”
In the distance, Hadrian heard the grinding of stone on stone. Outside the cell, the great door was opening. “Speak those words, my lord, and thou wilt end nine hundred years of wrongful imprisonment.”
“How does this help?” Alric asked. “You said I can’t open the physical locks, and this place is filled with guards. How does this get us out?”
The wizard smiled a great grin. “Thy words wilt release the magical field, allowing me the freedom to use The Art once more.”
“You’ll cast a spell. You’ll disappear!”
Footsteps thundered on the bridge, which had apparently reappeared. Hadrian ran up the gallery stairs to look down the tunnel. “We have guards coming! And they don’t look happy.”
“If you’re going to do this, you’d better make it fast,” Royce told Alric.
“They’ve swords drawn,” Hadrian shouted. “Never a good sign.”
Alric glared down at the wizard. “I want your word you won’t leave us here.”
“Thou have it, my lord,” the wizard inclined his head respectfully.
“This better work,” Alric muttered and began reading aloud the words on the floor below.
Royce raced to join his partner who was already positioning himself at the mouth of the tunnel. Hadrian planned to use its confined space to limit the advantage of the guard’s numbers. The larger fighter planted his feet while Royce took up position slightly behind him. In unison, they drew their weapons, preparing for the impending onslaught. At least twenty men stormed the gallery. Hadrian could see their eyes and recognized what burned there. He had fought numerous battles and he knew the many faces of combat. He had seen fear, recklessness, hatred, even madness. What came at him now was rage—blind, intense rage. Hadrian studied the lead man, estimating his footfalls to determine which leg his weight would land on when he came within striking range. He did the same with the man behind him. Calculating his attack, he raised his swords, but the prison guards stopped. Hadrian waited with his swords still poised, yet the guards did not advance.
“Let us be leaving,” he heard Esrahaddon say from behind. Hadrian whirled around and discovered the wizard was no longer on the stage below. Instead, he moved casually past him, navigating around the stationary guards. “Come along,” Esrahaddon called.
Without a word, the group hurried after the wizard. He led them through the tunnel and across the newly extended bridge. The prison was oddly silent, and it was then that Hadrian realized the music had stopped. The only remaining sound was their footfalls against the hard stone floor.
“Relax and just keep walking,” Esrahaddon told them reassuringly.
They did as instructed, and no one said a word. To pass the clerk, who stood peering through the great door, they needed to come within inches of his anxiety-riddled face. As Hadrian attempted to slip by without bumping him, he saw the man’s eye move. Hadrian stiffened. “Can they see or hear us?”
“No, not really. They might sense something. The hairs on the back of their neck might stand, and they might feel a disturbance in the air as thou moves by, but no, they do not know we are here.”
The wizard led them without hesitation, making turns, crossing bridges, and climbing stairs with total confidence.
“Maybe we’re dead?” Myron whispered, glaring at each frozen guard he passed. “Maybe we’re all dead now. Maybe we’re ghosts.”
Hadrian thought Myron might be on to something. Everything was so oddly still, so empty. The fluid movement of the wizard and his billowing robe, which now emitted a soft silvery light far brighter than any lantern or torch, only heightened the surreal atmosphere.
“I don’t understand. How is this possible?” Alric asked, stepping around a pair of black-suited guards who watched the third bridge. He waved his hand before the face of one of them, who did not respond.
“Actually, ’tis only this way because we are in this gaol. No one person hath the power to stop time, but this gaol was designed for just such a purpose. ’Tis a giant Ithinal. What we once called a magic box. Within these walls the matrices of enchantments art complex. Many of my old colleagues created this place, and according to what Arista hath told me, I may be the only one who can still understand the ancient language. Because this gaol was designed to affect magic and time, I merely ever so slightly adjusted a fiber or two within the weave to throw the five of us out of phase.”
“So, the guards can’t see us, but that doesn’t explain why they are just standing there.” Hadrian said. “We disappeared, and you’re free. Why are they not searching? Shouldn’t they be locking doors to trap us?”
“Because nothing hath happened, as far as they art concerned. We art still where we were. For everyone else in this gaol, ’tis the moment young Alric spoke the last word in my poem. ’Tis why they dost not appear to be moving to us.”
“You turned it inside out!” Myron exclaimed.
“Exactly,” Esrahaddon said, looking with an appraising eye over his shoulder at the monk. “’Tis thrice thou hath impressed me. What did thou say thy name was?”
“He didn’t,” Royce answered for him.
“Thou dost not trust people, dost thou my black-hooded friend? ’Tis quite wise. More people should be as careful, particularly when dealing with wizards.” Esrahaddon winked at the thief.
“What does he mean by ‘turning it inside out’?” Alric asked. “So, time has stopped for them while we are free?”
“In the crudest terms that is correct. Time still moves for them, but very slowly. While unaware of it, they wilt remain very close to the instant the field changed for all time, or at least until someone alters the pattern engraved on the stone.”
“I am starting to see now why they were afraid of you,” Alric said.
“They kept me locked up for nine hundred years for saving the son of a man we all swore our lives to serve and protect. I think that I am being exceedingly kind. There art, after all, many worse moments in which to be trapped for all eternity.”
They reached the great stair that led to the main entrance corridor and began the long exhausting climb up the stone steps. “How did you stay sane?” Hadrian asked. “Or did the time slip by in an instant like it is for them?”
“The time did slip by, but not as fast as thou might thinketh. A year for me passed in about the length of a day.”