Chapter Eighteen
Elven Aid
“What did you learn?” Art turned towards Ever, grimacing as he tried to ignore the laughter echoing between his ears.
The elf gave Art a strong look but said nothing more and slid the book he had been reading with Orchid over to the Weiriman.
“I am unfamiliar with the true name of the Weaver or his identity, but this book has extensive writing about the Weir Hewn blade you now carry. Do you think this could have been authored by him?”
Art leaned forward and looked at the book itself, frowning. “I’m really not sure. Lucid?”
The boy was already peeking around Art to see. He ran his hand over the open page before leaning in to take a sniff. Lucid let out a sound like he had sneezed and shook his head, rubbing his face.
“Not Father’s.” Lucid crinkled his nose. “This is man.”
“The name sounds like a man,” Ever noted, “Nicklaus Bancroft.”
“Maybe a Mage,” Art suggested. They were a rare lot, not always with the best reputations. “Perhaps, he had some experience with the blade before the Weaver hid it. What does he say about it?”
“Much,” Ever explained. “Herein are many detailed rituals and procedures I am none too comfortable with.”
“How so?” The dark expression clouding the Knight’s brow had Art worried. Something in the book’s content had truly bothered him.
“He writes in much detail about the removal of Weirs.”
Art was alarmed. “Manual removal? For what purpose? That’s barbaric.”
“Indeed. He does not state the purpose, only that he succeeded in experimenting on them with that blade.”
All eyes went to the knife at Art’s hip.
“He says it is a blade that can be carried into the mind’s eye, the psychic space in one’s head, and can be used on the Haunting Weir therein,” Orchid added.
“Used? How?”
“To cut into it for the removal or addition of something. Also he was able to sever the connection between Weir and host, even removing the Weir itself.”
What she was telling him had Art’s mind working feverishly. Without a Weir, a person would die but not before they were invaded by demons, ghosts, incorporeals, and all manner of darkness. It would be an agonizing and traumatizing death that would likely leave the soul in such a state of madness, that after death the person would almost certainly be left a ghost or hungry spirit, confused and vengeful. It was monstrous to even consider experimenting on a person in such a way.
“He does not go on to say how to reattach the Weir to the mind. It is my speculation that he did not experiment on this, only the removal and altering of Weirs. It is a sickening science.” Ever’s tone glistened with disdain.
“Did you read anything that might aid you and Orchid?” Art changed the subject, not wanting to think on the reality that they had to use the findings of such an unscrupulous person, but the need was dire.
“There is a detailed method of removing one Weir from another which, I believe, is our affliction. I would ask that you read it for yourself and give us your expert opinion, Weiriman.”
Art almost flushed at the confidence the pair was putting in him. Hiding the pride, he nodded and took the book. Sitting to read, he covered the chapter on his blade as well as the procedure Ever had mentioned. When finished, he was actually quite surprised how easy it appeared. All that was required were the rare skills of a Weiriman to travel into another’s psychic space, experience with manipulation of the Weir so that the cutting severance could be made safely and most rare of requirements, a blade such as Weir Hewn.
“I should be able to do this.” Art grinned up at the pair, who had awaited his findings anxiously. “We will have to be near Orchid’s body because once your Weirs are free of one another, she will have to go back to her own mind. But he does not write about how to reattach a Weir and I’m not sure how to get it back inside her and secure.”
Lucid suddenly jumped up smiling and pointed to himself.
“What is it?” Orchid asked.
“I can carry her back!” the boy spoke, “I can carry her back, Art can attach.”
“I don’t know how to attach the Weir,” Art protested.
“Yes,” the boy nodded and poked at Art’s bag.
Frowning, Art pulled out the lantern which Lucid’s finger had jabbed into.
“What? This?”
“It is a soul lantern!” Orchid exclaimed, “If used correctly, it can heal psychic wounds. Perhaps, with this you could heal my Weir within me.”
Lucid nodded excitedly.
“And you can carry her Weir and her soul back?” Art asked again.
“Yes, I’m dreamcatcher, can dreamweave! I can carry that which dreams are made of and where dreams come from.”
Art was not completely sure what he meant, but he trusted Lucid knew what he was talking about.
“I'm still not sure about the healing, but I’ll have to try. That is, if you want to risk me trying?”
“We believe in you, Art.” Orchid was smiling broadly, her lovely face looking more colorful than ghostly.
Art dropped his gaze at the blush of faith saying, “I suppose that’s it then. We know how to help you both.”
He was feeling lighter. The positive outcome that was very achievable was a much welcomed solution to their time in the demonic library. He had needed the news nearly as much as the two lovers did.
“But,” Orchid placed a ghostly hand on Art’s arm, and though he felt little more than a cold tingle, he looked at her. “Did you learn how you are to use the lantern and blade for your problem?”
Art had to smile at her concern for him. Even in the light at having discovered what she and Ever had been desperately searching for, she was still worried about him. She was a kind soul. It was far too easy to see why the stoic elf had fallen in love with her.
“I did realize something about the blade and I believe it will only be a matter of cutting its connection to my Weir to free me of our prison link. However, what that has to do with the lantern and how I’m going to actually exorcise it and deport it back to the Ever-Hunger hell, I’m not sure. I’m hoping the Weaver will have some answers for me. Once I have the name and the blade I am to return to him.” Just as he said it, thoughts that the Weaver might not even remember him once he returned flared up in Art’s mind. He was an odd one. Art had to hope the man knew more than he let on.
“We should return to him in haste then,” Ever said, starting for the door.
“No, wait a moment,” Art protested. “We have to go to your home where Orchid’s body is before we return to the Weaver.”
“You have but a few Umbra Sweets left and your control on the demon diminishes each passing night. Your situation is acute.”
Art’s face grew stern and he placed a gloved hand on the table saying, “I know how bad my situation is, and I want to believe it will work out. And while I want to believe that, stay strong and be confident, we can’t ignore the fact that I might not survive this. I might have to die to send this thing back. If I die, I can’t fulfill my promise to help you two.”
“But Art…!” Orchid started.
“No.” The man shook his head. “I gave my word. I said I would help you. Besides, from what I read this thing we’re going to do would likely be considered a Dark Art. Cutting into fused Weirs, carrying souls back to bodies through dreams, having Lucid involved at all, this is all stuff the Weirimen would be uncomfortable with. It's highly unlikely you will find another to help you. For the most part, Weirimen are the only ones who can do this work. You can’t just let any random psychic into your head. And really, how many other Weirimen do you trust to go inside your mind and carefully cut the woman you love from your Haunting Weir?”
Ever’s face was icy, his eyes hooded and distrusting. “Your assessment is accurate and true. I do not trust the Weirimen.”
“And we
cannot have something happen to Lucid,” Orchid said, floating next to the boy. “You believe the Weirimen would not like him?”
“The Weaver warned me to protect him from them. I'm guessing they would be tempted to imprison something made of nightmares. It would be hard for them to believe he is good and not evil, especially with a grown soul that was not actually born. After our last encounter with them, I’m also very leery. Face it Nahrwel, I’m your only hope. So we should just stop talking about it and get it done.” Art lifted his hands into the air and gave a shrug, trying not to smile amused.
Ever said nothing for a long, judgmental moment, then only gave a short grunt and nod.
“Thank you, Art,” Orchid smiled, leaning in to give him a ghostly kiss on the cheek.
Art felt his face bloom with heat, but he laughed. “All right, let’s get out of this creepy place.”
“Surely, good Sir, you would rather stay. You have not read the whole of your selections.” The Librarian was suddenly standing near the table. No one, not even the most observant and aware of their surrounding, Ever had heard its approach.
“No, I think we’re good here. We’d like to leave,” Art said cautiously, wondering if he needed to be pulling out his blades.
“Perhaps there is another rare piece of information I can offer you? We have the most engrossing selection of information. Surely a young and unique Weiriman would love to research things your Guild has never been privy to. Knowledge is true power.”
Ever was frowning deeply, Lucid and Orchid also growing concerned.
“I’m not seeking power,” Art said frankly. “I’ve seen what indulging too much curiosity in this place does to someone. We would like to leave, now.”
His insistent voice caused the Librarian to grow very still, folding its thin hands together and bowing deeply.
“Very well then, please follow me.” The accommodating tone had left the thing’s voice, and as it led them towards the door, Ever and Art exchanged a warning look.
The party followed the guide through the doorway but was surprised when the room on the other side was not the same one from which they had come through previously. It was a high staircase leading into a dark hallway.
“What is the meaning of this?” Art demanded angrily and reached out to take the Librarian by the arm.
The man gave a noise of shock when the thing seemed to melt in his hand, the arm turning weak, then wobbling and before him the Librarian’s form collapsed. Spilling out of the robes and hood was nothing but old paper, stacks and stacks of tiny pieces of it all pressed together to look like a figure. The loose sheets slid out over the old carpet, the robe left hanging from Art’s hand where he had gripped the arm. The pointed beak mask rolled onto the ground, an echoing cackle issuing from the emptiness of it. Art dropped the robe as it spoke.
“I hope to see you again, Weiriman. You are a most interesting subject. Come back to me when your knowledge comes against a wall. Should you survive the hell within you, I very much would love to read on the thing you will become. I will always be here.”
Art felt a shiver ripple over his skin. The Librarian had been nothing but a construct. They had been speaking to the consciousness of the Consciatosium the whole time.
“We should leave,” Ever said, taking to the stairs. The great and terrible idea of the library leading them around, observing them, “reading them” had the elf spooked.
“We have no idea where that goes,” Art protested but he knew it did not matter. There were few options.
The party headed down the stairs and into the dark hallway. Lanterns lit up when they arrived. To everyone’s surprise, they were at the front desk once more, coming into the room from a side door Art had not noticed the first time.
They wasted little time in heading out the huge double doors which opened at their approach. Before long, they were all back out in the catacombs returning to the surface. Art was grateful Lucid knew the way out, just as he knew the way in. Ghosts and spirits shadowed their footsteps, calling to them from dark cool parts of the tunnels. Art ignored them and hurried the group on, struggling to stay focused and unhindered by the demon. He would not waste one of his last two Scarlet Extinctions on a short trip through the haunted area.
Finally, when the entrance gate came into sight, Art sighed, relieved and very tired. They had completed yet another impossible leg of the journey Art was certain, just a few days ago, would have claimed his life long before. He had only a few more miracles to work.
The streets were lit by lantern light, but the unnatural darkness of a town plagued by strong Sin Breath ate up the light in ways still not well understood. Though the lanterns should have cast robust light on the cobblestones, they did little more than add dim illumination as the group hurried through the city.
“There will be Weirimen out patrolling the streets for us,” Art cautioned.
“We have been gone many hours, would they not think we had moved on?”
Art shook his head. “I’m sure many of them have foreseeing and knowing psychic senses. They will just know I have not left the town. We should hurry before we’re spotted.”
“I thought people tried to stay off the streets at night.” Orchid was flying next to Ever, as the group ran on.
“They do, but Weirimen aren’t afraid of what is brought out by the darkness. If they think I’ll unleash a demon into the physical realm because of my condition, they will brave whatever is brought out by the night to find me. If I were them, I’d do the same. This thing inside me cannot be unleashed into the world.”
The image of the demon’s two faces, the evil demonic blackness and the one much like Art’s own, blurred through his mind. He wanted more answers, but knew there were none to be had. He just had to hope the Weaver would know something.
“Come, less chatter. I recall passing the Silver Whale Inn on our first passage here. It is likely where Finnafor’s garrison spotted us,” Ever directed.
“Yes, hurry,” Lucid chimed in running a little ahead. “Men, close.”
No one bothered to ask how Lucid knew, but it did push the group on into the night, weary of eyes watching them from windows and lost souls haunting the city.
“Here!” Ever announced when light over silver painted letters on a sign read: The Silver Whale Inn and Tavern.
It was almost completely dark but for a few glows in curtain drawn windows. Art was not certain how long they had been in the Consciatosium, or if time even traveled the same within the demonic space, but if he had to guess they were past midnight in the darkest part of the night’s course.
“How are we going to get in? We can't just wait here on the street!” Art whispered, knowing they were in the heart of the town. With shops, inns, and homes all around he was certain they would be found at any moment.
“Everther Nahrwel!” A hushed voice came from a second-story window.
The group looked up to see an elf waving at them.
“That’s not Finnafor,” Art cautioned but Ever and Lucid were already taking to the climbing tree attached to the side of the Inn, using it as a ladder to head up to the window.
Art frowned.
“You can trust the whole garrison, Art,” Orchid tried to soothe. “I trust Ever’s judgment.”
“Elves may not be Weirimen but it was his own garrison that did not want to help him and you, was it not?”
Orchid gave him a sad smile. “That is true…” There was a sudden pull on the tether between her and the elf. Remembering she could not linger while he wandered, she turned and floated up after Ever, leaving Art to stow his mistrust and follow the others up the tree.
Inside, Art was greeted by a dozen elves watching him climb semi-awkwardly in through the inn’s small window. When he had finally gotten his long coat free of the sill and its trappings he stood, brushing himself off, trying to regain some of his dignity. Art had never been uncomfor
table with elves or their Knights in general but, for some reason, he was feeling more self-conscious now that everyone in the room regarded him as a possible demonic possession threat.
He never liked to let others’ opinions to pay any him bother. If he had, he would have done poorly at the Seminary where many thought he achieved attendance because of his guardian and shunned him for his superior talents. Yet, as he watched Captain Finnafor greet Ever and the adoration and willingness to risk open hostility with the Weirimen the whole garrison displayed, Art felt a slight tinge of regret. His guild had turned its back on him. All the allies he had in the world were likely in the room where he stood now and they had all been strangers not too long ago. The man felt suddenly hollowed.
Lucid was at Art’s side and patted him on the arm, motioning he should follow the group into the main room. Art pushed down his dark thoughts, knowing the demon inside him was itching to break to the surface again. Dwelling on anything that might upset him was not advantageous.
Entering the dark room, one of the Knights lit a single candle, the light glistening off the intricate stitching and subtle beauty of the group’s uniforms. Though slightly different from Ever’s, each garrison having its own unique garb, it was still clear they were of one organization. All knew the Scarborough Knights. For much of the races of men and other town dwellers they were the only elves anyone ever came into contact with. Art himself had only met them on training assignments, and their interactions had been brief. He was not entirely sure how to behave now being in a room of them planning some clandestine escape from his guild patrolling the town.
“That is an unusual tale,” Finnafor remarked once Ever had relayed a brief accounting of their adventure. Art would not have shared so many details had he been the one to tell it, but he allowed Ever what he thought was right. He trusted the Birchwood Garrison in ways one Weiriman would likely not trust another.
“Do you think you can help us?”
The Captain’s eyes went to Orchid who was floating next to Ever, looking wide-eyed and nervous. She had rarely revealed herself to anyone after the Weirimen’s ideas about exorcising her. Ever had been nervous she would be removed from him by force and now to have herself and situation explained to a group of Demon Touch elven hunters had set her on slight edge.
“Of course, we shall help you, Everther. There is a train leaving at dawn, only an hour from now. We shall all be on it. We should be able to ride the rails out towards your home and ride the last leg of the journey by horse back.”
“They will be looking for me in every town,” Art interjected, causing the whole group to look back at him and Lucid. They had not gathered about the center table but stayed to the outskirts of the room. Art was uncertain if the boy was also made nervous by the strangers or if he just wanted to sit next to Art.
“Yes, Weiriman,” Finnafor nodded. “We will require you to wear one of our uniforms.”
“Think a uniform will be enough to conceal me?”
“For movement from train to train we do hope so. But, there is an alternative idea should the Weirimen travel with us.”
“And that is?” Art’s eyebrow arched hard.
Two elves brought forward a large chest.
“This is one of our equipment crates,” a female Knight explained.
“I don’t like this,” Art muttered noting the chest was large but only large enough to fit him inside should he lie down and curl up in the thing.
“It will only be a last resort. For now we will try to pass you as one of us.”
Art looked over the group of perfect forms. Most of them were built very similar, toned but slender and tall, all fair and attractive. Art was not unattractive for a man, but he lacked elven beauty. He was also far more muscular then most of them.
“Think I’ll fit a uniform?”
The group of elves exchanged glances.
“The fit will be tight, but I believe we shall manage,” Finnafor said, looking to Ever.
“Come, Storygrove, get into a uniform.”
“What about Lucid?” Art protested as the clothing was presented to him.
“He will have to wear one too.”
“He’ll never pass as a one of you! He’s too small,” Art protested but Lucid was already undressing, grinning as if the very idea of putting the new clothing on was amazing.
“He will manage,” a female elf thrust the clothes into Art’s hands. “On occasion we do employ fey kind.”
Art scowled at her but she turned, ignoring him. Looking around, he expected them to clear and give him some privacy but, when they did not, Art glowered again. He forgot elves had lower modesty standards in their culture. Nudity was not a social taboo as it was among the races of men. Not wanting to make a fuss, and hoping his face was not burning with heat, he turned around and started to change.
The uniform was tight. It flexed hard over the muscles in his arms and snug in the chest, back and thighs, but he could not complain. He had gotten it on. Donning the new cloak, he fastened his own knife belts round his waist. It made him look different. The leather was not as delicately tooled with tree designs like the others, but he was not about to take his weapons off.
“There,” Finnafor smiled. “You look the part.”
“Only if he minds the hood,” Ever pointed to Art, his finger drawing a line to indicate the look of Art’s hair. “No elf would have such a haircut. It’s long on top but shaved beneath. Someone would think you an oddity without our long hair. And then there are those round ears.”
The group chuckled and blushing for no reason other than embarrassment at the attention, Art pulled the hood up curtly, saying nothing.
“Now, we should be off,” Finnafor said, eyes going to the far window. “Dawn approaches.”
Art knew there were differences between men and elves. Training with the Weirimen had taught him much about stealth and physical prowess, but he had not realized the enormous differences between himself and the elves until they were running through the city, hoping to remain undetected. They were so silent, so swift, and entirely too remarkable in their agility that Art felt his boots were booming echoes announcing each stride. He was certain his breathing from the sprint through the town could be heard all the way back in Wivenguilder. In comparison to the elves, he was just a loud, ungraceful, bag of rumbling, jingling, useless gear and muscles.
The elves said nothing but every time they came across something that could possibility be a Weiriman one or more elf made sure not only to alert him, but physically assure he was stopped, hidden, and quieted. He felt like a small child among many adults that thought he could not be left out on his own. Annoyed and ego-bruised as he was, Art struggled to say nothing even as they stopped yet again and a female elf pulled him by his arm into the shadows of a large building, well out of the dim street lantern’s glow.
Art’s ego was not so thin that it really should have burned him as it did. But before he could restrain himself, a voice rose up from within him. He turned to the Knight, eyes brimming Amber and green. “Do not touch me!”
It was low, graveled, and hushed, but it sounded less like Art and more like the demon within him. Art’s face instantly portrayed his alarm and confusion at the utterance, but the elf withdrew her hand all the same.
“What happened?!” Finnafor demanded through telepathy.
Before Art could explain, Ever responded in an almost inaudible voice, “Do not use telepathy. Some of these Weirimen can sense the very transfer of thought.”
It was too late though, and the whole garrison alerted as a pair of Weirimen approached. Art was feeling panic rise within him. They would certainly sense the demon, perhaps even his open Weir. They had seen some increased nightly activity already of shifting spirits, ghosts and lesser demons all brought out by Art’s state.
The man wanted to curse aloud. They were so close to the railway station. The demon’s ill mood might have ruined
their chances of escape. Art’s hands were in fists. He was hoping he would not end up hurting someone again. If he got into an altercation he was uncertain he would be able to control the demon’s violence at this stage. He could not afford to use up even one of his Scarlet Extinctions on this wasteful scenario.