Chapter Thirteen #2
Unacknowledged at every turn by every man they encountered, and yet she felt like a strobe light was attached to her head, emitting an, “Here I am, a possibly irregular sound-making vessel for all to see,” message to all the men in this unforgiving land.
Yeah. Definitely not better.
The Obsidian Reliquary and The Archivist of Silence
The corridor narrowed the deeper they went.
Madelaine had found a rhythm to her silent walking and the counting helped, but she remained vigilant about keeping quiet.
Following the escort through the larger space of the city was basically a march. A quiet march to meet the Archivist of Silence in his secluded chamber.
The message in the package they’d received from the JOP told them they needed to meet the Archivist of Silence. There was no further description, but Madelaine figured he was like the Secret Keeper in Suspicion, Minnesota.
A smooth, black stone with alien carvings came with the directions and the long list of dos and don’ts for this leg of their journey. Lastly, the message included the phrase Jack would have to say when a particular prompt was offered.
The escort led them all the way across the large, open space to yet another corridor. Stone gave way to something darker—smoother. Obsidian stone surrounded them as they walked through a short entryway into the next space.
Black walls that didn’t reflect light so much as consume it.
The escort never spoke, never turned, but somehow remained exactly four paces ahead, gliding along like he had built-in roller-blades attached to the bottoms of his feet.
The image in her head almost made her smile.
If breathing too loudly was a crime, laughter from a woman would likely result in a swift death she wouldn’t even see coming.
Madelaine mentally shook her head and continued counting her steps. Not because she needed to, but because it was the only thing she could control and she needed a bit of control to make it through this part of her important journey.
Jack didn’t look back once they entered the new corridor. He didn’t check on her or break formation. And that was how she knew he was more aware of her than ever.
They reached a threshold without a door.
The escort stopped.
Stepped aside.
And for the first time since they started his march, he spoke. “Proceed.”
The word echoed strangely, as though the room ahead had already decided it would accept them.
Or not.
Jack stepped through.
Madelaine followed.
The temperature dropped instantly.
Not cold, exactly—but maybe absence. No sound. No scent. Nothing to identify.
The Obsidian Reliquary—as the parchment had said was where the Archivist of Silence would be—stretched out in impossible geometry.
There were columns that didn’t quite align.
Shelves lined with objects that pulsed faintly in a sedate blue shade, as though aware of their own existence and everything else in the room.
Madelaine stopped looking around, fearful she’d let out an accidental expression of awe and be struck down for disobedience.
She put her focus forward again, no foolish rubbernecking for her.
A figure stood waiting in the center of a patio of sorts with paler tiles. The Archivist of Silence. He was still. Patient. Certain.
He was taller than she expected. Draped in layered black that shifted like shadow folding over itself. A thin metallic veil covered the upper half of his face, etched with symbols that seemed to move when she tried to focus on them, like a superhero’s mask gone rogue.
He did not look at her. Not once. His gaze settled on Jack. And held.
“You have arrived,” the Archivist said.
His voice was quiet, but it filled the space completely.
Jack inclined his head just enough to be respectful. “I have.”
A measured pause came next.
Then. “You seek acquisition.” Not a question.
“I do,” Jack said. “An item held in quiet trust. Marked for retrieval.”
“You speak for another.”
Madelaine’s pulse spiked.
Jack didn’t falter. “I speak as required.”
Silence followed. Thick. Layered. Obtrusively toxic.
Madelaine felt it pressing against her skin, her throat, her lungs. Like the world itself was reminding her, Not you. Not here.
The Archivist shifted. Barely. But the movement sent a ripple through the room, as though every object present had noticed.
“The retrieval you request,” he said slowly, “is bound to a designation.”
Jack held his ground. “I am aware.”
Another pause. Longer this time. “The Paladin Courier.”
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water.
Madelaine’s breath caught—not audibly, not quite—but enough that her chest tightened with the effort of holding it back.
Jack answered before the silence could stretch too far.
“I am here on behalf of that designation.”
The Archivist tilted his head a fraction. The metallic veil he wore caught the dim light, scattering it in strange, fractured patterns.
“On behalf,” he repeated.
Something in the way he said it made the air feel thinner.
“Yes.” Jack didn’t elaborate.
The Archivist took a single step forward.
The temperature dropped again.
Madelaine felt it in her bones and resisted every screaming impulse to move back a step. Don’t speak.
“The Paladin Courier,” the Archivist said, “is always precise.”
Another step. “Always punctual.” He moved closer. “Always…singular.”
Jack straightened his posture. “Singular has more than one meaning,” he responded.
Madelaine’s throat tightened. The Archivist of Silence still hadn’t looked at her. Not directly. Perhaps even he was not allowed to acknowledge her, though they were well within the depths of the space on Malvoraxis Veil where he had absolute dominion.
“Are you one with the Paladin Courier?” the Archivist asked, his voice slightly lower, as if it were secret information.
So secret that Madelaine had not expected the question. What did that mean? One with the Paladin Courier? She had not prepped Jack for that phrase because she didn’t know what it meant. She was silently flailing within herself, trying not to make any sound.