PART IV. FINALE

His vicious, oppressive hatred floods the space inside the car.

I struggle for breath as I sit on his right, my body a coiled spring.

Eight endless seconds.

Before this abscess of loathing bursts open.

I can’t wait for that to happen.

One.

So slow.

Two.

Yes, I’ve lived them many times.

Three.

My mind whispers to me in my dream that this is just a nightmare, the same nightmare I see every night. But I can’t hear it: my dream is stronger.

Four.

He always speaks when I count four. Now…

He turns his head to me and says flatly, “What’s that thing in your hair?”

Finishing his question on count five: What’s. That. Thing. In. Your. Hair.

These words are engraved on my mind like the grooves on the black vinyl of a record disc.

Six.

Seven.

These two counts last longer than the rest. It takes an eternity for the millstones of hatred in his head to grind the last idea before…

Eight.

That’s all.

The brown flour of his decision comes pouring from the millstones. The abscess bursts open.

His hand rips my leather hairband off.

The world turns glassy.

Asp blocks the highway noises off; I can only hear the ringing silence.

This stupidly symmetric freeze-frame looks so strange: the perfect line of the roadside blurred by the speed, the oncoming Ford squatting after it jumped a bump in the road, the tree shadows spotting the immaculate smoothness of the windscreen.

The scenarios come flashing through my mind—so few they are gone in a split second.

And only one is good.

An obvious choice. Easy.

Let’s do it.

Asp unfreezes time.

The traffic noise is back, pressing on the glassy silence. Without turning my head, I shoot my left arm forward to tug at the steering wheel.

The horizon line twists into a spiral, blending the sky and earth into a blue and green mass.

I fall into the void.

Then I wake.

At night.

This night is the same as any other: cold, smelling of mold, with mice scurrying in the dark. And the loud sounds of drops falling to the stone floor. I count to seven between two of them. During the day, when the sun melts the snow, the drops would fall more frequently. I only count to three between them.

That’s the only way to tell day and night in my prison deep beneath the Magisterium. The other sounds are the same: the guards coughing, walking, and talking in hushed voices right outside my door. They change shifts every six hours.

The place is semi-dark around the clock, with the grayish sunlight seeping in the daytime and the yellow torchlight at night. At times the walls would shudder.

The draft creeping to my feet would sometimes bring the smell of burning. It is the Tamer’s host of animated things storming the Magisterium. The Cerberi of the Guard are still holding them back, but the defenders won’t last long. Too few of them remain.

I’m back in Crealia.

I returned here six days ago. When I regained my senses after that traffic accident, I had found myself in the hollow of a large tree in the Citadel’s courtyard.

***

The space was cramped, dark, and terribly cold. I could barely feel my numb fingers.

At first, it felt like I was still inside the car. I tried to move but couldn’t. Something was clutching my body, probably the crumpled metal. But something was wrong.

Why is it so dark? It’s about noon. Could night have fallen already? And…and why is it so cold? It’s a bright, warm October day.

The light was coming from behind me; my own shadow prevented me from seeing anything, including the hard thing my forehead was pressed into. More bumps pressed into my back, barely visible in the semi-dark. It couldn’t be the soft seats in the car.

And the smell. It was nothing like what you would typically smell inside a car, even after it had crashed in the middle of a forest. The thick, rich smell of musty wood.

I tried to turn my head to see those polished things next to my face that looked like thick, burly tree roots.

Where the hell am I?

With my body clutched by the roots, I was starting to panic when I suddenly heard voices. They were rather far away, too far to make out the words, but they sounded like two men talking. I wanted to scream for help but couldn’t take a deep breath because my knees were pressing into my chest.

Fortunately, the voices were approaching. I could already make some words out, hoping they wouldn’t just walk past me.

I decided to try and draw their attention once they were close enough. I listened closely in order not to miss the moment.

“…left into the Portal at dawn. Again. He must be looking for a safe retreat.” The first speaker sounded young.

“Yup. Or maybe for help. We won’t last long without any. That tamed locust attack tonight…” The other speaker was probably an elderly man.

“Scum. They took the South Tower. All its defenders are dead,” the younger man lamented.

“Yup. And Octopus,” the older man said calmly. “It was a good Cerberus. Thirteen years in that tower.”

“Thirteen? I thought it had been around for only ten years.”

“Thirteen. I’m sure. It took the Fat Boy’s place the same year that Asp came with that bitch…What was her name?”

I grew cold.

“Ana?”

“Yeah. Ana. It was the fall after she left. The Tamer’s first attack on the Magisterium.”

“Ah yeah. You’re right.”

I stopped breathing.

“He targeted the South Tower. A milksop as he was, he still did the Fat Boy in.”

“Yeah. Was it when his hornets wiped out an entire squad of chasteners?”

“Yup. With Erderak and his Spider.”

I no longer wanted to draw their attention. I realized I was in Crealia, and…and thirteen years had passed here since my last visit.

The two members of the Guard came close; I could hear their steps and the metal clanging of their gear.

Please, please, please turn away. I no longer cared that I wouldn’t be able to get out on my own.

“Get in,” the old man said.

The younger man didn’t answer. Then I heard the measured creaking sound of someone climbing a wooden ladder.

Creak. Creak.

The vibration reached through the roots to the nape of my neck and my shoulder blades. The ladder seemed to be leaning against my shelter, whatever it was.

Creak. Creak.

My shelter? It was my trap!

Shit.

I felt like a fly waking to a spider’s web, trapped by it.

Creak. Creak.

And my spider was but a few steps away.

Disheveled hair was falling over my eyes since my hairband missing. I thought of Asp, wishing he was there with me.

Together, we could…

Creak.

My trap became dark; something blocked the light.

I tensed and clenched my teeth, feeling the spider’s eyes drilling into my back.

“Hey, Quentor. There’s someone inside.” The young man sounded curious rather than surprised.

“Who?” The old one wasn’t taken aback either.

“Must be a woman. Long hair and all.”

“Why would he send us a woman? Oh, whatever. Can you get her out?”

“I think I can. She’s small. Barely of age.” The young man tugged at my sides briskly and pulled me up.

“Barely of age?” the old man asked tensely. “A girl?”

“A girl,” the young one puffed as he dragged me out.

My eyes were dazzled by the light. The soldier put me down on the ground with ease.

I looked around.

We were in a tiny, square...well, a sad excuse for a courtyard. In its center was a black, leafless tree with a large hollow. That must’ve been where they had discovered me.

Standing by my side was a lanky fellow, almost twice as tall as me, with huge hands. He eyed me with interest.

“She’s some kind of pretty, Quentor. Yeah?” The young guard addressed his companion, a stocky old man with a deep slashed scar on his forehead, who stared at me, unblinking.

A cold spearhead touched my neck.

“Hey, Quen! What’s up with you?” the lanky fellow screamed.

The old man paid no heed. He kept staring at me, holding his spear to my throat, with evil gleams dancing in his lead-gray eyes.

“You little bitch,” he hissed. “Coming here again? To take even more lives?”

I suddenly felt apathetic, as if I were a mere observer of this situation.

What fine violet cloaks they have on. I’ve never seen them this close before.

“Quen? Who is she?” the young man asked, realizing I was not just any girl from the tree hollow.

“It’s her, Wellim,” the old man said through gritted teeth. “It’s Ana.”

The spearhead was still burning my neck.

“Speak of the bitch, and here she is. Look at her!”

“Stop. She’s so young. Barely of age.” Wellim’s voice had a note of confusion.

“Did you expect to see a horned demon, you fool?” Quentor barked, then he stared at me with ruthless eyes. “You didn’t change at all over the last thirteen years, devil spawn. Since your Asp smashed my head. Why didn’t you bring him this time? Look, Well, the bitch has no hairband. She always had it before, and now she doesn’t. And you—don’t you dare move!”

I wasn’t going to.

Wellim ran his hands down my sides with visible reluctance.

“Nothing.”

“Sure she has nothing,” the old man grumbled. “If she did, she’d have already reduced us to coals. Forgot your teeth at home, bitch?”

“It’s none of our business, Quen,” the young man said warily. “We were told to check the Portal. We’ve checked it. And she…It’s up to the Magister to decide her fate when he comes back. It must be him who sent her here.”

“I’ll be damned if I know. Maybe.” Quentor seemed to calm down a bit. “I hate all that magic stuff. Let’s lock this bitch up before I run my spear through her.”

***

The memories were gone. I was in the prison, the grayish light of dawn seeping in through the tiny window. The walls were shaking from mighty blows, and the smell of burning just wouldn’t go away the entire night.

The battle seems to be raging out there.

I heard hasty footsteps outside the door.

“Hail the Magisterium.” It was Trigion, the guard commander. Over the past six days, I had learned to tell them all apart by their voices.

“Hail the Guard.” He was answered by Hontol, a short boy with the clear blue eyes of a peaceful shepherd, not soldierly at all.

“The Magister is back,” Trigion said. “Open it.”

I felt like falling into a void, my heart thumping in my temples.

The keys clanged.

The door crashed open.

“Come out.”

Christ. Why did my dream have to end that abruptly? I would rather spend one hundred more years in my prison cell than go anywhere.

“Move it, you!” Trigion barked.

I stepped out into the uneven pavement of the Citadel’s yard.

A set of stairs.

A hallway with narrow window slits.

More stairs.

A passage between towers.

Low-creeping smoke overhead.

The close sounds of battle.

The smell of death.

Another tower.

More stairs climbing up.

A hallway without windows, only torches on the walls.

A double door at the end.

A vast hall.

A man with disfigured face at the head of a long table.

The Burned One.

“Thanks, Trigion.”

The commander’s slight nod.

“Now, leave us.”

The heavy doors in the wings closed silently.

The Magister stood. Approaching me, he suddenly cracked a smile.

“Hi Anya.”

Anya? Why Anya?

The ground disappeared below me once again.