CHAPTER 50

The impression is the same as when I first went through the dungeon portal. Opposing forces alternate between trying to pull me apart and pushing me together. There’s the sense of speed, of wind, though I’m stock still. I can feel presences around me, the only constant things in a rapidly shifting universe.

And then it’s all over and solid ground has materialized under me.

“Steady now,” Delos says, firming his grip on my shoulder.

I blink away green after-images to find we’re in a comfortable and richly decorated room. Wood panels cover the walls and thick rugs the floor. Large chairs are arranged in front of a fireplace where a merry flame seems to have just been lit. There are books all around us, in shelves and in piles on and around a massive worktable. Without even trying, I catch a few titles. Arenese Champions, An Age With a Wandering Fool, and a thickly thumbed volume of something called Dragons and Deities. Lysander wanders into this homey library and passes his hand over the back of a chair while looking around himself.

“That is certainly going to make things interesting. Thank you, Delos. You can let him go, now.”

The pressure in my shoulder immediately eases and I stumble forward, somehow managing to avoid falling to the ground entirely. All strength seems to have abandoned my legs, but even as I fight to stay upright I’m searching for clues, for weapons, for angles. My brain is at full gallop.

“Poor thing,” Lysander says softly. “You must be starving. Del, could you please get Amelia?”

“I think it’s better if I stay,” Delos says.

Lysander chuckles.

“Don’t be silly. Go on. I want to speak to Malco alone and I don’t think I’ll be able to get much out of him until he’s had a proper meal. Oh, and batten down the hatches. Just in case.”

Delos lingers by the door a moment, taking a second to look me up and down before nodding and walking off. The door shuts behind me and his tread, surprisingly light for someone of his size and musculature, drifts away further into the house.

“You were in the dungeon,” I say, steadying myself on a heavy, fluffy chair. “It was you in Gaun’s body.”

“Nice of you to remember,” Lysander says, leaning against the worktable. “Won’t you sit down? I’d rather you didn’t pass out on my rug. Miss Amelia, the housekeeper, will be along shortly. After we get a meal inside you, we can start the interrogation.”

To hell with that.

“Who are you?”

Lysander doesn’t answer. He looks at me intently and in perfect silence.

“You said you didn’t work for Valkas, but you’re Black Sword. Aren’t you?”

The elf smiles and inspects his prim, varnished nails while drumming softly on the tabletop.

“Where’s my sister? What did you people do to Katha?”

He cocks a meaningful eyebrow, nodding suggestively to the large, comfortable chair I’m supporting myself against. I grit my teeth. I’ve known this elf for five minutes and he’s already one of the most infuriating people I’ve ever met, like a stone wall with a maddeningly superior expression. I sit down, though sink is more the word. This armchair is fluffier than my bed back home. Immediately, Lysander breaks into a smile and plops down on the armchair facing mine.

It’s warm in front of the fire. The house creaks familiarly around us. The whole thing is so many worlds apart from the last few days of recollection, of horror, that I find myself shaking my head to stave off the dull comfort. I focus on the elf. His expression as he looks me over is one of curiosity and expectation. He seems positively giddy.

“Where’s Katha?” I ask finally, making a show of politeness. “Without her and my sister I won’t collaborate, whatever you want me to do.”

“Then this will be a very sorry excuse for a conversation, because I can’t help with either,” Lysander says, tucking a slippered foot under his leg. “Though I hardly think you can pin that on me. I didn’t know about Katha until after the Challenge began, and it was you who tossed your sister into the Golden Door, weren’t you?”

“Is she all right?”

He turns his hands palms up. Who’s to say, they seem to express. The gesture brings me to a boil.

“Fuck off,” I roar. “If you don’t give me answers, I won’t do anything you ask of me. Torture me if you like, I won’t do it.”

“Do what?” he asks.

“I—” I stop when a wave of exhaustion washes over me. “Whatever it is you want of me. I won’t do it.”

Silence fills the room until a knock sounds behind me, followed by a swish as the door opens. Out in the corridor is a middle-aged woman with long brown hair and dark, intelligent eyes draped in a practical, modest dress. She walks in without being invited and approaches.

“Sorry, m’lord,” she says. “I was down in the basement. Delos had nearly given up afore he found me. Said he would have tried the privy next. This the guest you mentioned?”

“Indeed he is. This is Malco, Miss Amelia. Malco, this is Miss Amelia. Malco is in dire need of a meal and rest. Have preparations been made?”

“They have, though I’d be in my rights to mention Malco is a few days early. However, seeing as I’m conscientious, his room is ready and I have a stew on that’ll serve for dinner.” She gazes down at my bandaged stump with unfeigned curiosity and then up at me again. “He lost his tongue down in your dungeon, too?”

“No,” I croak. “Hello.”

“Speaks and all. Wonnerful.”

Amelia eyes me with a critical expression, taking in everything from my fading bruises and cuts to my relative nakedeness.

“Would you mind getting young Malco some of that famous stew, please? I’d like some time alone with the boy, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t mind pursay m’lord, but your guest might topple over from exhaustion afore you can—”

“Miss Amelia.”

There is a pregnant silence before Amelia inclines her head.

“Yes, m’lord,” she mutters, and then walks out of the room with a final look at me.

The door closes and the sounds of the crackling fire fills Amelia’s absence.

“She’s a very good woman,” Lysander says. “One of the most dependable I ever had the pleasure to meet. But you may have to excuse some fussiness.”

I nod mutely. Amelia, solid as an oak and more likely to keel over dead than to suffer any sort of nonsense, reminds me of the people of Reach. Hollow House, wasn’t that that what Lysander called it? This entire place suggests quietude and peace, and, just like Amelia said, I would be hard pressed to stay awake in different circumstances. Circumstances that didn’t include my host’s glimmering eyes fixed on me, for example. That didn’t include the avalanche of questions I want to rain down on him.

Before I can open my mouth, Lysander raises a finger.

“I want to be fair. You have questions and I have questions. Therefore, I think an arrangement should be put in place. Say, one each. What do you think?”

“I start.”

Lysander nods, amused, and I lean back in the comfortable armchair to study him, trying to find his angle. What can he want to know that he couldn’t force me to say in a torture chamber?

“How long was I out?”

“Nearly seventy-two hours.”

Gods…

“What happened to my friends? I mean Katha, Rev, Rue, Hilde—”

“Hilde, Essa, and Wyl all came out the way you did, though, I must say, in considerably better shape. They’re safe in the arms of their respective patrons. Lucia is the first of us to ever get two Challengers in one go, Wyl and Essa, so she’s especially overjoyed, and, I suspect, quite at a loss about what to do with them.

“Cyrian, the first level patron, is considerably less happy. We all saw you send your sister through the Golden Door – a very moving performance, I should add – but she never came out. I’m sorry, Malco,” Lysander turns his head to look me in the eye. “No one knows where she is.”

“She’s alive,” I say with certainty.

Arbiter said she’d gone to someone petulant and difficult to please, but that there was hope still. I cling to it, even as a curious feeling spreads from my nape and along my back. A numbing shock. Pain postponed, not averted. Lysander just nods.

“As for Katha, I have better news. She was, of course, the reason you joined the Challenge in such a spectacular fashion, and it’s ironic that she was never even there in the first place. I don’t know what Valkas told your family, but he sold her a few days after he collected her from Reach.”

“Sold her?” I grip the armchair like it did me personal harm, like it’s a man I’m trying to throttle.

He sold Katha.

“To someone we will discuss at length. But have faith. Whatever else Kord may be, he’s not cruel for cruelty’s sake.”

“Why would someone buy Katha? She’s… she’s no one, she’s just…”

Just Katha, I think, but how can those words be said? Any amount would be too little in exchange for her, any pile of gold a cold and graceless collection of trinkets compared to her warmth.

“Is she really not important?”

Lysander eyes me fixatedly.

“Yes! Obviously she’s important to me, but she’s… Katha. No one even likes her in Reach, why would some Kord from… from…”

“Olvion,” the elf supplies.

Olvion? A flash of the large world map in my old room. Gods, that’s far.

“Why?”

“All I could gather was that during a visit to Red Harbor he saw her among the Challengers and took an interest. But we’ll get to the bottom of this together. Kord is someone I have studied for long; his motives interest me. Now,” he slaps his knees happily. “I believe it’s time for my questions.”

“Not yet.”

“Oh?” Lysander’s smile flares dangerously, a sign of his waning patience. “I believe you’ve had your first question, and a few more on top of it.”

“You didn’t tell me about Rue,” I say, meeting his gaze.

The elf chuckles, all traces of impatience vanishing from his face.

“Of course. How could I forget. Well, it’s a tricky subject. Technically he’s loot, so he should belong to you, but the manner of your participation has been the subject of heated debate. Your victory has been put into question by very high authorities.”

“You mean my intrusion.”

“Indeed. We’ve had those in the past, of course. Just never one that ended in a win, and never someone who attempted it for no advantage. Oh, Malco, why didn’t you simply enlist?” he asks, amused.

“I… I thought with my hand…”

“Please. We’d take blind orphans—”

“Off the street, yes. I only realized that later.”

“It’s a shame,” Lysander says, shaking his head. “Because it does put us in a bind. Nothing we can’t try to solve, but… well, the potion you were seen carrying could be seen as an unfair advantage.”

“I didn’t drink it,” I say. “I don’t know how you could see me, but I…”

Lysander holds up his hands, suppressing a little laugh. Between his fingers shines a hint of ruby-red as he turns the vial in his fingers.

“Malco, all I can say about this subject is you don’t have to worry. We’ll clear it out in due time. We’ll take care of everything. This,” he says, giving the potion a shake. “I’ll have to hold on to for now. As for your question, Rue is being held in Black Sword keep. That should be enough for now.”

Everyone accounted for except Rev. None in my reach. Was it my impression, or had things only gotten more complicated since I’d gone into the dungeon?

“Ask away, then,” I say, resting my head on my hand.

“What Archetype did you pick?” Lysander leans forward, the interest patent in his expression.

“Archetype…?”

“Oh, don’t play the fool. You’d never have escaped your room if you hadn’t gained a level. What was it?”

“Inquisitor,” I decide the truth can’t hurt me much in this case.

“Inquisitor…” Lysander stands and walks quickly to his desk. I hear him fumble with a lock, open a drawer, and then flip through a book. “That’s a new one!”

He searches the cluttered surface for a pen, dips it in ink, and scribbles something in the book.

“Rare?” his eyes dart hungrily for me, for more information.

“What?”

“The rarity. Rare, maybe Uncommon?”

“Epic,” I say, recalling.

Lysander whistles to himself and pens the information down.

“Is that good?”

“Rarity doesn’t automatically affect power,” Lysander says. “But it makes things vastly more interesting… What other Archetypes could you have picked?”

“Paladin and Priest.”

“Epic and Uncommon. Extraordinary.” Lysander flips the pages in his book, gazing at rows of words I can’t make out. “And for your second level?”

Right away, I’m brought back to the happy voice announcing my level-up. Announcing it twice. But I was in such a rush I didn’t understand what that meant.

Stupid. Godsdamn idiot…

“I see,” Lysander mutters as I turn away from him. “Well, you were in a rush. Can’t wait to see what you pick.” Lysander looks idly down at his book. “Now… You missed a powerful one with the Paladin, I have to say. And the Priest is very, very useful, though a pain for the user. Let’s hope the Inquisitor is worth it. What does it do?

“Do?”

“Yes. Not the bells and whistles, but the focus. Describe it for me.”

I’m thinking of the word secrets, which I assume is what Lysander is referring to. My mind forms the words, but when I go to say them, my mouth fails me.

Must be more tired than I thought.

“Hum, lies and stuff. Hidden things.”

Lysander’s smile doesn’t wane or crack, his eyes don’t give away anything of what he thinks on the subject. And yet, there is a rigidity to his expression, a sudden glassiness that I can’t help but notice.

“Very interesting,” he says, snapping his book shut. “We’ll have to see how useful that is in a dungeon. Now, I believe it’s time for your stew. Miss Amelia!”

There’s a shuffle behind the door as someone that was very clearly listening in tries to pretend they weren’t. A moment later there’s a knock and Amelia enters carrying a tray and a plate of stew.

“Sorry it took so long, m’lord, had to straighten up the servants.”

“Nothing shady, I hope?"

“Haha, m’lord,” Amelia intones gravely. She sets the tray on my lap. The smell is enough to make me drool.

“Well, eat up,” says Lysander. “And then off to bed. You have a full day tomorrow. Miss Amelia, would you mind accompanying me outside for a moment?”

Though I consider trying to listen to their conversation, I’m too ravenous to seriously think about delaying my meal. I inhale the stew like a drowning man gulps for air. When Lysander and his servant come back, my belly is agreeably distended and I’m licking the remains of stew from my spoon.

“It seems your cooking was a success once again, Miss Amelia. Now, would you please show Malco to his room? I have some work to do before I retire for the night.”

Carrying the tray, Amelia ushers me out the door. I have time for one last look at Lysander, who is standing by one of the room’s large windows into the pitch black of the night outside. He looks thoughtful and tired, but a glimmer of excitement lends a spark to his expression.

“Goodnight, m’lord,” Amelia says before closing the door.

He mutters something in response, unintelligible and uninterested. Then the door closes behind us.