And suspects seemed to sometimes... disappear whenever Sorn was responsible for them, some of them even petty criminals. Sometimes they would show up later, themselves victims of horrible murder, throats slashed and extremities missing and bits of skin peeled away, but most often when they went missing they stayed that way. Whenever the captain asked Sorn how they ended up missing, he would merely smile and say they overpowered him. A lie, of course; Sorn was a powerful man. A careless hug from him could shatter ribs.
Mirek didn't look forward to whatever Sorn planned to do with him.
Perhaps a knife in the kidneys and a quick death would be preferable.
Another pair of watchmen was coming their way. Mirek hoped against hope that they would see him and Sorn, and come to investigate.
The dagger scored a fresh slice in Mirek's back, causing him to wince. The pain didn't come immediately, but when it came his eyes watered. He bit his lip to keep from crying out.
"Eyes to your left, murderer." Sorn's breath was warm against Mirek's ear.
He did as he was told. A sound of rustling cloth and clinking mail: Sorn raising his arm in greeting, perhaps. Mirek was artfully guided forward with some distance between him and his captor, doubtless appearing as nothing more than another anonymous face in the crowd, below their notice. He counted his steps, and realized that the two guardsmen must have passed by already, leaving him alone with Sorn. His chances for salvation dwindled with their passing.
He found himself led into a graveyard, one empty of the living. Carvings of names were etched into round, frost-rimed granite stones that were hunkered down among the brittle tundra grass. There didn't seem to be much more room for new stones, and the grounds were unkempt, the grass high. Mirek doubted many visitors came here, old as the stones looked. If he were to wind up buried in a pit here, no one would ever know.
Sorn spun him around. A grin darkened his face. "Not yet. Death has not come for you, not until you've paid for what you've done. And you won't be needing this." Quick as a snake strike, he snatched the sword hidden in the folds of Mirek's rags and tossed it behind him, next to one of the grave stones. Sorn gestured with his knife to the wall of a building—an old inn, by the look of it—and said, "Move that crate and pull up that grate. Quietly."
Mirek obeyed, finding a rough-dug hole in the ground that opened into blackness. It was some sort of room under the inn.
"In you go."
Ignoring the protesting aches of his scraped joints, the bleeding cuts on his stomach and back, and dread that threatened to overwhelm him, Mirek gripped the grate and lowered himself into the dark.
* * *
Sorn dropped the gate shut and, with much less effort than was required of Mirek, pushed the crate back over it. Satisfied that no one would stumble upon his secret prison, he grinned and clapped the dust from his hands as he made his way back into the street. He had to tell the captain that this part of the city had been swept clean and that Mirek had likely gone to ground elsewhere. It would give Sorn time, time to exact revenge upon the horrible injustices that so often went unnoticed by others.
Even if this one, in particular, had not gone unnoticed. Dozens of people had seen Mirek ruthlessly murder not only an innocent man, but a man of the watch, a man that might as well have been his own brother. It was sickening.
Yet Sorn knew how the system was prone to perpetuating injustice, rather than correcting it. He had seen it time and time again. He had seen the guilty walk free and begin their evil habits anew. It was something that he had seen his whole life; it was the reason he decided to become a man of the watch.
And though the watch itself was woefully ineffective in curbing man's baser instincts, it did provide Sorn with... opportunities, to bring his finely honed sense of justice to the task.
He was very, very good at what he did.
Not only would he get a confession out of that murderer Mirek, he would learn to understand him. He would get under his skin if he had to.
Sorn looked forward to the prospect with relish.
The crowd parted at the sight of his uniform, as well they should. The best most of them could ever hope for was to not be an obstruction to justice. Few of them could actually ever be just, fewer still enforcers of justice. It didn't matter, so long as they stayed the Tree out of his way.
Sorn stopped and glared at a woman who stood precisely in his way. He gripped the hilt of his sword in unabashed threat, yet she didn't move, or even seem to see him. She merely stood there, somewhat hunched and off-balance, fingers twisting in what could only be a nervous fashion, the sleeve of her dress torn and pulled down to expose the blue skin of her shoulder. Her white hair was tangled with patches missing, as if she had gotten into a fight with herself and lost.
Sorn considered going around her. The woman was clearly deranged. Yet he couldn't help but think that she stood there deliberately, for the sole purpose of interfering with the business of the watch. Deciding he was going to teach her a lesson, Sorn took a step forward.
She lifted her dead gaze then. Broken blood vessel spiderwebbed her face.
Suddenly she moved. She was upon him before his blade cleared the scabbard.
* * *
Once the crate had been pushed back, the darkness was total. Mirek sat on a bare stone floor that was cold, even to a Tokkarintsman, with his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. The dry air carried with it a scent of offal, rotted fish, and the smoke of burning elk chips. He wondered if he was in some old storage room in the inn, or somewhere else entirely.
Maybe that hole in the ceiling was the only way in or out. Maybe he would die here, slowly, of starvation or dehydration.
He didn't like being alone in the dark. Alone with his thoughts.
On the other hand, the Dark Tree was out there. At least there was that small comfort.
He tore small strips from the rags he wore to bind the cuts, considered how filthy they were, and decided that death from infection was far less pleasant that bleeding to death. He tossed the strips on the ground and listened to himself breathe.
Except he wasn't the only one breathing.
Instantly, he tensed and backed himself up tight against the wall, and then into the corner.
Evidently, he made a lot of noise in the process. "It's all right," came a gruff, nasally voice. "I'm not the one you should be worried about, as you've no doubt discovered."
Mirek felt himself relax, if only slightly. "Are you a prisoner, too?"
Something in the darkness changed, though Mirek couldn't tell what for a disorienting moment, only that it hurt his eyes. Then he realized that a small flame was now casting a dim light from across the room. He hadn't heard the striking of flint on steel; the flame had just appeared.
The flame hovered above a hand. A hand covered in fur.
Mirek inhaled sharply. "Sorcerer."
"And what of it?" said the other man with a casual indifference. He chuckled softly. "Unless of course you too believe that my existence is a crime worthy of incarceration."
"No, I... I'm sorry. Of course not. I'm beginning to believe that Sorn is quite insane. You probably did nothing wrong except be in the wrong place at the wrong time," he said bitterly.
A brief silence stretched between them. "Like yourself, perhaps?"
Mirek nodded. Then, realizing the sorcerer likely didn't see the motion, said, "Yes. I was witnessed killing a man in self-defense. No one saw what truly happened."
"Oh? And what was that?" came a slightly mocking reply.
Mirek hesitated. He didn't quite trust this sorcerer, though he never trusted anyone, as a general rule. Still, here was a man versed in magic. Perhaps he could tell him something of the Dark Tree that was the cause of this mess.
He opted to test the waters before taking the plunge. "You wouldn't believe me."
"So what's the worst that could happen? You're already captured by a man who doubtless plans to kill you. At worst I could have a good laug
h at your expense before I, too, am murdered. Telling an amusing story is the least you can do for a fellow inmate."
"Your name first. And move the flame closer to your face." Mirek wasn't sure he actually wanted to see the sorcerer's face. He'd had the misfortune of seeing a sorcerer up close once before. Seeing outlanders with their pink and brown skin was one thing; seeing a man whose features were fused with those of an animal's quite another.
"Very well." The flame drew closer to the sorcerer's head, revealing a cowl, which was typical garb for a sorcerer, Mirek knew. Better to hide their repulsive features from those who would harm them. Although no such luck this time, evidently, Mirek thought, considering where this one had ended up.
Cloth rustled, and the cowl was pulled back. Mirek tried to steel himself for what was coming, though some part of him knew that nothing could truly prepare him.
Deep brown fur, thicker than what Mirek would have expected, covered every inch of the sorcerer's head. His jaw protruded slightly, caught between the muzzle of a beast and the mouth of a man. The tips of large canines reaching below his lips glistened in the flickering of the light of the flame. His black eyes were half-closed in a frown. They did not rise to meet Mirek's own.
Mirek stared in open astonishment. He half-expected it to be some sort of elaborate joke that Sorn was pulling on him, putting him down in a pit with a fake sorcerer. But no. This was real. Despite everything Mirek had experienced this day, he never thought he would come face-to-face with someone who looked like this, with someone who could conjure flame from air.
Mirek frowned at this last thought. He didn't know much about magic, but he thought that sorcerer's could only manipulate the essence of what was already there, not create it out of nothing.
"My name is Tharkrist. I am from Shannod, but the heat there doesn't well suit my... condition." The cowl was drawn back over his head, the flame brought away to obscure Tharkrist's face once again in darkness. "Having seen my face now, do you feel you can trust me more, or less?"
That was not a question Mirek was sure he could answer. Instead, he asked, "Where is the flame coming from?"
Tharkrist's cowled head tilted. "You have an interest in binding?"
"Well," Mirek said, "somewhat a general interest in magic."
Tharkrist nodded slowly, considering him. Mirek felt himself under scrutiny, as if he were the topic of inquiry, but the moment passed. "From the fireplace in the inn. I have to keep this flame small, not take too much of the inn's fire, so as not arouse the innkeeper's suspicion. He doesn't like it when I bind."
Mirek was appalled. "He knows you're in here?"
"Of course. He's seen what this Sorn does to people who get in his way. So he stays out of it, or as best he can."
"But... how is it you're drawing the fire through the ceiling?"
"Ah, you are a sharp one. Fire is an ethereal substance, unlike some others, like earth. It can be bound to a single point," he said, gesturing with his hand to the flame above it, "and drawn to it through other substances without disturbing them overly much. Many do not have the level of control required to do this. I do."
Mirek considered this. "Are there limits to what you can do?"
"Of course," said Tharkrist, though his tone held no reproach. "There are limits to everything. Moving our bodies, even moving our minds in the process of thinking—these things require energy within ourselves, and done too much can result in exhaustion. Taken to extremes, they can result in madness or death. With binding, it is the same."
"If you can bind fire, why haven't you escaped? Gathered all the fire you could and use it to burn a hole through the wall?"
"Given infinite power, control, and energy, I suppose I could have. Even given what I've been through." Mirek wasn't sure what he meant by this, but let it go. Leaving the flame where it was, Tharkrist raised an admonishing finger. "But you forget our agreement. Indeed, you have taken from me more than you have given. Were I a man not used to such arrangements, I would be incensed. Alas. But I would still here your story." He gestured for Mirek to speak.
Mirek bowed his head. "You're right, and I apologize. My name is Mirek. I am a watchman here in Suridruun. I was manning the wall today when my partner went mad and attacked me. He fell into my sword as he did."
He almost didn't want to go on, but decided that the silence dragging out between them was more uncomfortable than the truth. At least as Mirek understood it. "He was... infected by something. I don't know what exactly, some sort of spore maybe. But I've seen it happen before, just not so... close.
"I wasn't sure the same thing would happen with Jannic—that was his name—but it did, just as I feared. I had drawn my sword, prepared to do what needed doing, and he jumped at me. There were several witnesses, Sorn among them." He shook his head. "I'm afraid that no matter what I say, I am in serious trouble. They will say I am the mad one."
"You mentioned a spore," Tharkrist said. There was an odd tension in his voice. "Why did you call it that? And where did it come from?"
Mirek sighed. "This is the unbelievable part," he said. "The spore fell from... a tree. A massive tree growing in the middle of the city, one that only I seem to be able to see. It almost doesn't seem to be really there. I mean, people must come and go through the part of the city where its trunk grows without noticing, and it almost seems to be made of some strange, ethereal substance, like glass, but not quite so solid, but more solid than smoke." He chuckled mirthlessly. "Perhaps they'd be right to lock me up." His laughter suddenly stopped when he remembered where he was.
Tharkrist seemed frozen where he sat. Mirek wasn't sure if the man was even breathing, until he spoke again. "A tree, you said." He turned away, apparently lost in thought for a moment. "Well, then, I suppose it is my turn. Instead of telling you why I can't escape, I will show you."
"I'd rather hear what you were thinking about the tree."
"Yes, of course. But first this." Tharkrist lowered his hand, yet the flame stayed where it was. Mirek realized that holding his hand there had been a bit of theatrics, or perhaps some way of grounding the scene somewhat. He didn't know how he would have felt seeing a flame floating through the air had he not talked to the stranger first.
As if of its own volition, the flame moved, casting light on the arm which Tharkrist had just lowered. And then to the sleeve of his other arm. No hand was illuminated here, which Mirek didn't understand until the flame moved to where it would illuminate his legs.
And where they ended, just above where his ankles had been.
Bile rose in Mirek's throat. He turned away. He couldn't bear to look anymore. He couldn't bear to see what kind of atrocities Sorn was capable of. "I'm... sorry, Tharkrist. No matter what you've done, it was not enough to justify what he did to you." His apology seemed so inadequate, even though he was not the one who cut off Tharkrist's hand and feet. Someone should have to apologize, and Mirek had a feeling Sorn wouldn't. "How are you...?"
"Still alive? Look."
Mirek squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before complying. The flesh on the stumps looked... wrong. And then he realized that they had been burnt.
Mirek vomited before he could help himself.
"One of the advantages of being a sorcerer, I suppose," Tharkrist said with a casual amusement belied by the quiver in his voice. Mirek was grateful when the flame moved its way back up. Tharkrist had thrown back his hood and now met Mirek's gaze in what he thought could only be a gesture of trust. Horror resided in Tharkrist's eyes, horror which Mirek was sure reflected in his own.
"I can't very well walk out of here," he said, "not anymore. I could burn this place down around me, but I don't believe that whatever Sorn would do to me could be as bad as burning to death. Perhaps he is counting on that. After this," he tilted his muzzle in the direction of his feet, which were thankfully shrouded in darkness, "he knows what I fear. Almost worse than bleeding to death.
"But that is not as important as what's going on out there. Do y
ou know why Sorn captured me?"
Mirek shook his head.
"Stealing. From the Church."
Mirek chuckled softly. Stealing from the Church was like stealing from the God himself. No wonder Sorn was so affronted. "What did you steal?"
"Reports, cross-referenced from the Dreamers and statisticians."
Mirek had no idea what he was talking about.
Tharkrist seemed to sense this and continued on. "I am a gatherer of knowledge, especially when such knowledge is kept from the people. I figure if it's important enough for the Church to hide, it's important enough for me to know.
"Have you heard of animals being stillborn?"
Live birth was not something humans normally had to deal with, but Mirek had been around enough dire elk stables to be familiar with the concept. "Yes. It means they've been born dead."
Tharkrist nodded. "Exactly. Brought into this world without the spark of life within them." As he leaned forward, the light of the flame glimmered in his black eyes. "The same thing has been happening with people. In the Second World."
"The Second..." Mirek blinked, uncomprehending. Like live birth, the Second World was not something he ever had to think about. A few general things were known about the worlds adjacent to his own—the Third and the Fifth—things that the Church had allowed to trickle through their veil of secrecy, but almost nothing was known about the other worlds. They just weren't things that anyone in the Fourth had to worry about. All Mirek knew was that he had lived in the Second World, died in the Second World, and must have done something right by the God in order to make it to the Third. Beyond that it was pure mystery.
"How many people?"
Tharkrist shrugged. "Not a huge portion of the population. But a significant enough number to raise interest in the problem two worlds away."
"And this report... proves this?" Mirek wasn't about to ask how.
"The methods of determining this sort of thing are rather oblique, but yes, the evidence is strong."
"And what does this have to do with the Tree?"
"Mirek, how long have you been alive in the Fourth World?"
Mirek leaned back. He didn't like where this line of questions was going. "Twenty-eight years. Though my apparent age at the time of my arrival was thirty-five."