Chapter 15 Through the Dark
THROUGH THE DARK
Pain lanced through Venrick’s back as he stumbled down the maintenance tunnel, one hand braced against the damp stone wall while the other clutched the metal pages to his chest. Whatever the King’s spell had done to him, it burned beneath his skin, each beat of his heart advancing the corruption in his veins.
In the dim light filtering through cracks in the stonework, he could see the faint patterns of darkness spreading across the back of his hand.
Fear spiked in his chest; this is what had been done to Yarla.
“Keep moving,” he muttered to himself, the sound of his labored breathing echoing in the narrow passage. “Just keep moving.”
Behind him, shouts echoed from the sanctuary library.
A clash of steel, the crackle of magic, and worst of all, Lark’s voice raised in defiance.
The metal pages became heavy in his grasp, the singular information they could provide was the only hope of stopping the Void Drinker before the Flashover began.
“You take them. Get them to Hardin.” Lark’s final command replayed in his mind, the determined set of her jaw as she pushed him toward the hidden door, Nix’s flames creating their desperate moment of opportunity.
I shouldn’t have left her, again. The thought clawed at him worse than the spell. But he knew why she’d done it. He understood why she made the choice for both of them. The ritual was bigger than them. If they wanted a future together, then he needed to get the pages out of the Keep.
Venrick forced himself forward, fighting the growing numbness in his extremities.
The tunnels twisted beneath the Vermillion Keep like the roots of an ancient tree, maintenance passages built atop even older structures from an original sanctuary.
He stopped only long enough to gather his bearings given his memory of Cheyanne’s detailed blueprints.
According to the maps, he needed to follow this passage until it connected with the drainage system they’d used to enter.
The communication stone in his pocket vibrated weakly. He fumbled for it, his fingers becoming increasingly clumsy.
“—rick? Can you—signal fading—guards everywhere—” Yarla’s voice came through in fragments, distorted by distance and the ancient magic protecting the sanctuary core.
“Lark’s been captured,” he managed to rasp into the stone, unsure if his message would transmit at all. “I have the pages. Need extraction at—” A spasm of pain cut him off, driving him to one knee as the corruption from the King’s spell flared brighter.
Something was wrong with him. It wasn’t just a physical attack.
He’d endured those before. This felt alive somehow, sentient in its malice as it worked through his system.
Each time it pulsed, visions flashed behind his eyes: the King offering mercy, comfort, power if he would only turn back, surrender the pages, surrender himself.
Venrick forced himself back to his feet, tucking the communication stone away. His head swam with the effort. The tunnel walls seemed to warp and shift around him.
“Focus,” he commanded himself. “One foot in front of the other.”
A memory surfaced from his days of training with Tel: The Paragon was drilling him on escaping hostile territory while wounded.
“Your mind will surrender before your body does,” Tel had said, his weathered face stern but kind. “The secret is to anchor yourself to something unshakable.”
Venrick’s hand went to his sword, its familiar weight at his hip grounded him momentarily.
The Yogo Sapphire in its pommel had been renewed during the brief stop at Cheyanne’s rebel camp.
The magic within it responded to his touch.
Though he had this boon, his ability to spellcraft was limited.
His foundation was rooted in elven spell craft, but compared to a trained mage, like a magic-wielding Knight of the Vermillion Keep, he didn’t stand a chance.
Venrick had always relied on his creativity and intuition to survive magical threats in the past. The Yogo might not be enough for him to escape, but it was something real to focus on.
The tunnel branched ahead. Venrick paused, fighting to recall Cheyanne’s maps. The left passage led toward the cistern, back the way they had come. The right led deeper into the foundations of the Keep through unknown territory.
A wave of dizziness nearly toppled him as he stood deliberating. The King’s spell was working faster than he’d anticipated. Black lines were visibly creeping up his forearms, spreading ever so slightly with each beat of his heart.
How was the King able to do this? he wondered. He shouldn’t be able to use magic. King Agadorn is human… right?
“Relief is possible, Venrick.” A phantom voice drifted through his head, just barely audible in its whisper. “Surrender and your suffering will end.”
Something scraped against stone somewhere behind him. Footsteps. The guards had found his trail.
Venrick forced himself into motion, choosing the right passage on instinct. The tunnel narrowed further, requiring him to hunch his shoulders as he moved. The air grew colder, carrying that same icy musk they’d associated with the Void Drinker and its rimeshade servants.
I need to get these pages to Hardin, he thought, focusing on his objective. He can manipulate the wards. He can get a message to White Eye and Quinthara.
The thought of the dragons brought up another concern.
If Lark had been captured, what would happen to her bond with White Eye?
Dragons could sense when their rider was in mortal danger, sometimes causing them to fly into dangerous situations while blinded by uncontrollable rage.
If White Eye’s trust in their ability faltered, and he attacked the Keep directly, it would mean death for them both.
A fresh surge of pain brought Venrick to his knees. The metal pages slipped from his grasp, scattering across the stone floor, clanging almost musically. He scrambled to gather them, his movements growing more uncoordinated the more the spell took hold.
As he reached for the final page, something caught his eye. It was a small passage in the old dragonrider script that hadn’t been visible in the library’s dim light. Though he couldn’t read most of the symbols, Tel had begun teaching Venrick the runes of the first rides. One phrase stood out.
The corruption seeks division. Unity is its bane.
Venrick stared at the words, fighting to understand their significance through the growing brain fog.
The corruption seeks division.
He pressed the pages to his chest, using the sharp edges of the metal to force himself to focus. The footsteps behind him were growing louder, more persistent. He had to move.
The tunnel ahead opened into a small rectangular chamber where dusty old Vermillion Keep tapestries hung on the walls, lit by iron sconces in the shapes of dragons holding dimly glowing mage-lights on either side.
Multiple passages branched off in different directions at the opposite end.
In the center of the chamber stood a crumbling statue, so ancient its features had worn away to near-featurelessness.
Venrick’s vision blurred around the edges, but he recognized the unique shape. It was a dragon and rider, standing back-to-back a fae figure, like the ones from the mosaic in the North. Though time had erased the details, he could see where the solitary had horns, wings, and a long tail.
Three powers united against the dark, Venrick read the words that had survived on the base of the statue.
He leaned against the statue, trying to gather what remained of his strength.
The whispers from the spell passed into his mind with the same faint, phantom voice.
“Surrender now and the consequences of your actions will be forgiven,” it said, the voice having grown more insistent than before.
Then a series of images forced their way into his head: Lark’s suffering.
Her being tortured in a dozen different ways, each more evil than the last. The whispering returned, saying, “Her pain can end if only you would surrender the pages.”
“Not real,” he gasped. “It’s not real, it’s only the spell.”
But doubt gnawed at him. What if that voice is real? What if Lark is being tortured while I escape with the pages? What if—
A small sound from one of the other tunnels jerked him from these spiraling thoughts. Not the heavy footfalls of armored guards, but something lighter, more cautious. Venrick tensed, forcing his hand to his sword hilt despite knowing he could barely stand, let alone fight.
“Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice rougher than he intended.
Silence answered him, then a faint shuffling sound.
Venrick squinted into the darkness, wishing he had Lark’s ability to summon mage light.
Then he saw it. A small figure pressed against the wall of one of the adjoining tunnels.
It was hunched into a ball, hugging its knees and trying to make itself invisible against the stone.
Not a guard, nor a rimeshade. A child?
The hunched figure in the shadows shifted slightly, and Venrick caught a glimpse of wide, terrified eyes watching him.
A boy, no more than ten or eleven years old, dressed in the simple garb of a Keep servant.
His face was smudged with dirt, and a dark stain spread across one sleeve. Blood, he realized.
“I won’t hurt you,” Venrick said, trying to soften his voice despite the pain racking his body. He slowly lowered his sword, wincing as another pulse of the King’s spell sent darkness crawling further up his arm.
The boy pressed himself tighter against the wall. “You’re one of them,” he whispered. “The intruders. The bells were ringing.”
Venrick glanced down at himself. The fine merchant’s coat he was wearing was now torn and bloodied, the black corruption was visible on his skin, the strange metal pages clutched against his chest.
I must look like a monster in this child’s eyes.