Locked

November 14th, 1010 A.D.
The Realm of Wyn Avuqua
(late evening or early morning)

Close your eyes

Have no fear

The monster’s gone

He’s on the run and your daddy’s here

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful

Beautiful boy

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful

Beautiful boy

The song wakes him.

He hears his voice murmuring the words.

There is a deep indigo glow from two shoulder high openings in the circular parapet. From where he is lying, Loche sees stains on the heavy wooden door, and remembers why his fingers burn and sting. He can see where he has scrabbled with his fingernails into the wood beside the hinges; where he has torn the pads of his fingers to bloody shreds trying to claw his way free. Splinters. Cuts. Black smears and splatters on the wall, on the door, on the floor beside his face.

There is a similar pain in his throat, too. As if he has somehow swallowed a mouthful of sand. When he mumbles John Lennon’s lullaby melody, the flavor of blood and a searing pain rises. He knows it is because he has been screaming. Crying. Pleading. His voice finally broke. His body finally fell.

And yet, the door remains locked.

Before you go to sleep

Say a little prayer

Every day in every way, it’s getting better and better

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful

Beautiful boy

Julia’s father had a song for his daughter. A lovely lullaby to help her fall to sleep. A single star, Loche remembers. And his own father, William, had a lullaby for his sons. The melody hauntingly similar to the one now vibrating in Loche’s throat. But William’s lyrics were different. Right now, Loche cannot catch those words. He wishes he could ask his father to sing to him now. He wishes his father could sing to Edwin.

Edwin’s face flashes into his mind and an electric jolt sears through him. He screams. He reaches for the door to dig into the hinges again. But just as his arms rise, they drop and thud to the cold stone.

And yet, the door remains locked.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful

Beautiful boy

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful

Beautiful boy

And then, Vincale is there. A single torch flame flutters. Shadows jitter. The immortal is crouching before him, his free hand gently touching Loche’s cheek.

“Aethur?” he says. “Poet?”

Loche sees him. He puzzles how the figure entered the small chamber without notice. He hears his own voice like stones in a paper sack.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful

Beautiful boy.

Vincale speaks, but Loche is not entirely sure he hears the words. He is not entirely sure Vincale is really before him. To test his perception, Loche throws a bloodied hand toward Vincale’s face. The Captain of the Guard catches the hand with his own. Concern crowds around the immortal’s eyes. Slowly he frees Loche’s bleeding fingers.

“Aethur?” he says again. “Harken to me. If there can be any comfort in this hellish time, may I offer it? I come on two errands. First, I bring tidings from the Queen. She bade me tell you that at midday tomorrow, you will witness the death of your son from this tower, and Wyn Avuqua and the Godrethion Army shall witness both Edwin’s death and your anguish. There is no other way. It is both our mandate, Thi’s fate and our only hope of survival. This sacrifice will save our race from oblivion.”

A sound of fury gurgles from Loche’s mouth, but it is distant and weak. Paralysis. Torture. Hatred. His hand rises toward the voice. A pathetic attempt to strike. Vincale catches the bloody fist and holds it.

He says as if to himself, “The only comfort I can offer you is this: the boy will have no knowledge of what is to come. He will not feel pain. He will not feel fear. He shall wear the Death Mask—the Ithicsazj—the inside of which is coated with oils and herbs to calm, to ease, to free…” Vincale leans his face to Loche’s. “I swear to you, Aethur, Edwin will feel nothing. He will only feel light and hope.”

Loche cannot move his legs. He is sobbing. Saliva strings from his lips. Needles of wood are scattered below the hinges where his fingers have dug into the door.

Still, the door remains locked.

Out on the ocean

Sailing away

I can hardly wait

To see you come of age

But I guess we’ll both just have to be patient.

Vincale takes his eyes from Loche and lowers them to the floor. “With all of my heart—with all of my light—my soul bleeds for you, Poet. You have my pity.”

After a moment, he gently lowers Loche’s hand and lets it go. He then reaches into his cloak.

“Before we part, Aethur, I bring a gift from one of your companions. A gift from Leonaie Echelle. The Queen herself has agreed that you should have this, for I am told, Leonaie Echelle has carried it with her since her lover, the immortal Orathom Wis Samuel Lifeson was killed. I do not know the full tale, but I am told that Leonaie Echelle used this as a weapon to defend him against his assassins. I am commanded that only you are to see it.”

Vincale lays a black velvet bag beside Loche. It is just slightly larger than a thin paperback novel. Loche tilts his head at it. Dread rises from out of his gut. Adrenaline stabs light into his optic nerves. He imagines fine strings of silk coiling up from the object.

“Leonaie Echelle says it was made by your brother, the Painter. The Queen believes that it may aid you in the darkness ahead—that it may in some way assuage the sacrifices that you have authored. Galinna. Galinna, Aethur.”

Vincale rises. The door opens. Vincale exits without turning. The door shuts out the torchlight. Keys rattle securing the lock.

Before you cross the street

Take my hand

Life is what happens to you

While you’re busy making other plans.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful

Beautiful boy

The black rectangle weighs almost nothing. The weight of air, perhaps. The weight of Heaven. Inside is a painting by Basil Pirrip Fenn of Sandpoint, Idaho. A curious artist. A dedicated artist. A dead artist. Inside the black bag is a door. Behind that door, Basil will be waiting.

Loche stares at the covered painting and mumbles. “Julia, I found him. He was here after all. Here in this locked cell. Here where I am no more.”

He reaches into the bag, pulls the rectangular painting out, and turns it over like a key in a lock.