Longing Ring

2

He dreamed of many things, not all bad. But all forgotten. When J'role was only six months old, he began to speak. The words "Mama" and "Papa" were quickly followed by full sentences, and by the second year of his life he began to have full conversations-still limited by the viewpoint of a child, but much more complex in structure than the talk of other children his age.

His parents took pride in his speaking, his mother especially. Red-haired and large, she carried him around the moss-lit corridors of the kaer introducing him to the other inhabitants of the shelter. Other adults, massive like; his mother, leaned down and cooed over him, delighted to engage him in conversation. His mother beamed. She held him tight.

By the time J'role reached the kaer, the stars had spun around the earth, and the stars looked down on him, bright and clear. He had not meant to wander the dry land between his village and the kaer at this late hour, but he had searched everywhere for his father, checking an the usual-hiding places. Behind Brandson's barn. In a shallow ditch near Ishan's warm furnace. In the copse of trees near the north end of the village where Jaspree's influence ended and the land became dry and lifeless, ruined by the work of the Horrors over four centuries.

All the while the creature in his head said, "You know where he is. Why do you delay?"

The creature was right. J'role did know where his father would be-back in the kaer. He invariably went there these days, safe from prying eyes and the company of others. Only children daring each other's courage ever returned to the kaer, and even those excursions stopped once the children realized J'role's father had adopted the dark caves as his home.

So now J'role walked across the flat, dry distance between the farmlands and the kaer, carrying the bundle of food for his father. The moonlight, soft and gentle-blue, illuminated the barren landscape the Horrors had left behind. Stones. Chalky dirt. As J'role walked, the desolation around him seeped into his spirit, as though he were walking through a giant reflection of what he carried within himself.

"You could kill yourself."

"Don't,' J'role begged, half-stumbling as the creature's words drove into his thoughts. -

"Wouldn't it be easier'

"Why don't you leave me alone? I don't-"

"Don't what? Want to give up. Give up what? Hurt anyone? Who would you hurt? Only your father. Maybe. And he probably wouldn't notice that you were gone."

The truth of the statement stopped J'role in his tracks. He dropped the bundle of food to the ground. For a moment his hands and arms felt stiff and detached from his control, then he slammed his fists into his forehead, wanting to knock the thing out of his mind.

He slammed his head again and again, beating his fists wildly about his face until he became dizzy and dropped to his knees. Still he punched himself, flailing until he could no longer feel his hands or the flesh on his forehead and face.

He dropped forward, leaning on his forearms, breathing heavily, tears in his eyes from the pain.

"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.

His father kept his arm extended, so he could take J'role's hand But J'role stopped a few feet away. Just beyond was the pit, fifteen feet wide, and very, very deep. Eight feet down from the pit's brim glowed the surface of the pale blue liquid. It was thick, and bubbles appeared every so often.

The home of the dead.

When they'd put his mother in the pit, after stoning her to death in the fountain of the Atrium, with everyone in the kaer participating, the water no longer flowing so they could collect the blood, the statue of Garlen looking on. . After they'd stoned her, according to the ritual to drive the Horror out of her body and out of the kaer, they brought her body to the pit and threw it into the viscous blue liquid. She followed many other corpses who had died much, much more peaceful deaths.

For weeks afterward J'role had returned to the pit when no-one else was around, waiting for her to come back. It seemed to him, eight years old at the time, that she should. She had been punished, and wrongly so, because it was he who had the Horror in his head and not her, and it was his fault they thought she was possessed, and now it was time for her to come back.

Every time he stood at the edge of the pit he tried to say how sorry he was. He would open his mouth, forming his lips into the shape to make the sound I, rolling the tip of his tongue to the edge of his teeth, desperately wanting to say, “I’m sorry." But as soon as he began to make a sound, he felt his jaw turn prickly, lost the sensation of his tongue, and knew that the creature was still in him, ready to take control of his mouth should he try to speak. So he said nothing

Nothing, even after all these years.

"What is it, lad?” asked his father. "Oh, the pool. Yes.” He turned and looked into it.

"Lost in there among all the other dead." He picked up his flask from the floor, placed the spout to his mouth, and took a long swallow. Then he leaned his head back slowly, until it came to rest against the stone wall, eyes closed, happy. Happier than when he smiled at J'role, and J’role knew it. Truly happy. He remained motionless for a moment, still savoring the drink, then slowly turned his head toward his son.

J'role, confused, eager either to leave his father quickly or to please him, knelt down on the stone floor and set the bundle before him. He unwrapped it and the food spilled out.

Bevarden smiled at him. “Ah, J'role, my fine boy. How good of you." He rolled over and picked at the bread with his fingertips. "Can' t say I'm hungry right now, though."

J'role tore off a bit of bread from the loaf and raised it to his father's mouth, as he'd done so many time in the past.

"No, no. Not hungry now." His father closed his eyes. His face suddenly contorted with deep pain. "Why?” he whispered to no one, as if J'role had suddenly gone and he was free to voice all his confusions aloud. He then placed his hand on J'role's knee. Unlike Garlthik's hand, which was rough and alien and full of something strong, the touch of J'role's father was familiar-horribly familiar and weak and tied to misery. “Thank you for the food. You're a good son. Did you beg some money?”

J'role nodded.:

"From some adventurers?"

He raised one finger. "Ah. A man with a sword?”

J'role nodded, but barely. He knew what was coming, and did not welcome it.

"What I could tell you about adventurers! Your great great-great…" He stumbled, having lost track of the count long ago. "Grandfather, who traveled far and wide, even once visiting the island of Thera far to the southwest, the very man who entered this kaer four hundred years ago, he told many stories of his adventures. He encountered a great many creatures across the land. He even fought Horrors, before they became so great in number and there was naught to be done but seek shelter in the magical kaers." He slumped against the tunnel walls, his eyes closed tight. "Oh, the stories I heard when I was a boy!

What I would give to be young again, to know I had the opportunity to go off on the same quests that have traveled the family memory all the years we waited for they Scourge to pass." He looked at J'role, saw the disappointment on his son's face. He faltered.

Immediately J'role felt bad: he hadn't meant to reveal anything. He knew he had to react faster, know when people were going to look at him. Reveal only what people wanted to see, or nothing at all.

His father continued. "Ah, and who's to say I won't go yet. You're right, J'role, you're right. I've got it all planned out in my head. There's a treasure waiting for me. I'm just in the middle of my life. I could make it happen. I need only make the preparations. It'll all be so easy." He stretched himself out on the floor. "Just the preparations, and then it's a sojourn for me. What more need be done? The life of wealth and adventure, eh, my son?"

He reached out to take J'role's hand. J'role clamped down his thoughts, felt nothing, let his father pull him close, cradle him in his arms. "It's ours when we want it, son," he said softly. "Ours when we want it. Ah, life can be so grand. Who knows, I might get enough money, find the magic to grant you your speech again. Eh? Wouldn't that be something?

Magic to get your speech back. There are finer magicians than Charneale in the world, mind you, and with enough money-the money from a treasure guarded by a dragon or perhaps from a kaer not as fortunate as ours, empty of life now, but still full of treasure.

With preparations one could go out and find these things, claim them, forge a destiny."

For a moment Bevarden's thin arms tightened too much, and J'role thought his father might start to hit him as he sometimes did, his thoughts confused by drink. A quick, tearful apology always followed.

But no violence came. His father's voice trailed off as he rocked J'role in his arms.

J'role was stiff as a corpse, eyes wide, uncertain. The silence of the kaer enveloped him like his father's arms, and he felt momentarily transported to the earliest days of his childhood. Born in the underground world of tunnels and magical lights, he had existed without a true conception of the world outside. Until the day Charneale announced that the Horrors had gone from the world and it was safe again to go outside, J'role had believed he would spend his whole life within the corridors of stone. Living in the earth did not seem strange at the time. But now, having lived in sunlight, returning to the kaer invited uncomfortable sensations he could not identify. It seemed a strange thing to do, to return to the dark recesses of one's childhood.

Then he heard the faint echo of shouts through the corridors, all edged with anger. To J'role's well-developed perceptions, the shouts carried one clear message. Somewhere within the kaer's corridors, danger had gathered.