Chapter Forty Eight
PEDR
Pedr woke to tingles underneath his skin, like icicles flooding his fingertips.
His body’s pervasive weakness gave way to something less .
. . puny. He couldn’t put a finger on the hints of strength and clarity that lurked beneath, but he let go of the observation.
His mind moved endlessly fast compared to the past several days, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. There were better things to consider.
He turned awareness to himself.
Didn’t obliteration await? Was this the end? It couldn’t be. According to Onskar, obliteration was the literal stop. The definition of non-existence, of nothing. Pedr’s last awareness was saying goodbye to Mila, not ending all life.
But a hard surface pressed against the planes of his back, disproving his assumption.
This must not be obliteration, but the step before it?
He swung his legs to the side and straightened.
They moved easily. No lack of energy. Hand outstretched, he studied the familiar rills and contours of his unexpected environment.
He pressed his palms to his chest. No thudding heart. No wispy breath. Was the arcane inside of him? He couldn’t tell, and that seemed the bizarrest detail of all.
Glancing around, his eyes skimmed distant walls. Familiarity permeated the place, just shy of understanding. The fog screen obscuring his view cleared.
Pedr spun slowly. He stood inside an immense broad circle with shelves stacking the walls. He couldn’t find the top, for it became gray. The shelves must cease somewhere impossibly high. From side to side, a space the size of Kapurnick island could have fit snugly within this bright area.
As Pedr took in the millions of jars on the shelves that twinkled with burnished, multicolored lights, he discovered another figure across the way. Several moments passed before he recognized the sturdy profile, because it no longer stooped nor sniveled.
Jordaire, but not as Pedr had ever known him. He stood proud, broad.
Pedr pulled in a breath to scent the air, but smelled nothing.
Heard nothing. He pursed his lips to form a whistle, but no sound issued.
When he tried to speak, no words formed in his throat.
His hair swung around his neck, but he didn’t feel a caress.
No one else stood in the area with them, but Pedr couldn’t tear his eyes off of Jordaire long enough to check.
In this broad chasm, hundreds of souls might waft around and Pedr would never know.
Odd.
Jordaire spun, a similar awe and confusion on his face. When he saw Pedr, he jerked to a stop. Pedr returned Jordaire’s rampant astonishment before it gelled into a tranquil sort of question.
What are we doing here? Jordaire seemed to ask.
Pedr had no answer.
Movement caught his eye. A reliquary slid off a shelf stories above, close enough to be visible.
Distance obscured the details. The intricate jar floated, brimming with a swirling opalescent color.
Captivating, the way the colors rotated.
It lowered in front of Jordaire, hovered at eye level, and paused there.
For minutes, Jordaire considered the vessel.
After a few minutes, Jordaire elevated a hand and touched the outside of the reliquary.
Light waterfalled from lofty heights, tumbling onto Jordaire.
It cast him in a puddle of blazing illumination.
Jordaire swirled in the burning circle, arms at his side. He met Pedr’s stare.
And he, and the reliquary, vanished.
The light shuttered, the ethereal ambience returned, and the silence continued, as if Jordaire had never existed. A dark suspicion crept up Pedr’s spine. He tried to scream, but it proved fruitless.
Vials, reliquaries, and glass surrounded him.
No door, nor entrance, nor life. This might be a step beyond the Otherworld.
The Hall of Souls, perhaps? Yet another Hall, and another rumor that might not be folklore.
If so, Pedr had stumbled onto a rare opportunity.
He had thought that only Onskar could broach his own hallowed halls, but Pedr’s presence disproved it.
Or it could have been another of Onskar’s lies.
Which meant Pedr could distract the bastid and gain his attention.
Sprinting, he raced across the barren floor and threw himself into the nearest shelf.
He waited for the crunch of glass, the roar of an angry Arcanist, but bounced off an invisible wall before he hit the soul vessels. The fragile containers mocked him, with their wild colors and echoing sighs that shoved him away. Once didn’t hurt. Twice angered him. Thrice felt cathartic.
Raging in silence, but not by choice, Pedr threw himself again, again, again. He bounced off of the arcane protection, but experienced no pain. Only the presence of a twirling, descending vial calmed his assault. He shrank away as it lowered.
Swallowing his rising fear, Pedr approached the lowering reliquary. Why hide? He had nowhere to go. Like a siren, it beckoned. His name spilled from within a barrage.
Pedr.
Pedr.
Pedr.
No lighthearted, pirouetting soul greeted him. No glimmering essence that longed to escape. A miscellany of colors diffused through the glass in undulating waves, like a glittering galaxy. The sense of being in the presence of something vast overcame him, but he couldn’t understand what.
His reflection stared from the twirling, empty reliquary. The wild design almost brought a laugh. His soul, manifested in glass. Twisted, pointy, odd. The design made no sense, nor did the watery color scheme that ranged from black to sky blue. The disarray fit. He would have laughed if he could.
Pedr studied the fascinating swirl of colors, struck by its emptiness.
Shouldn’t there be a vapor of soul? If he had separated from the arcane enough to be here, and he clearly existed, why wouldn’t something fill the reliquary?
Beyond him, other reliquaries illuminated in a wave that raced from one wall to the next.
Their blazing color pastiche made his eyes swim.
He lifted a hand, but couldn’t bring himself to touch it. Not yet. He’d disappear like Jordaire, and he wasn’t ready.
“Please, don’t take me,” he whispered, fingers hovering over the top. A note of pleading piqued the words. “I want to help Mila. Whatever it takes, I will accept any fate to be with her. Can you make it so?”
Light began to swirl within.