Entry 2

I have no way of tracking the days. It could be night, it could be day. I have slept, a little, fitfully. I will continue where I left off. Much has been done; much more to be done. What is the difference between a golem and the dead bones and flesh returned by magic? Is it the spell that animates them? Golems of stone, of flesh, of metal; there are some here. Many are damaged beyond repair, but there are bodies everywhere. Decaying, slain, dismembered, distorted.

I found her. Or she found me. She has no name, or, she has no name to share. There is a distinction, though subtle. Once my mind could have pondered such matters without this jarring ache, a needle that flares in my skull. Or would I have made light of it? My memory was very good, once. My journal recounts how I recall insignificant details, how I read a book and recited it word for word, at least, according to Imoen's commentary. I feel certain it was exaggerated, given the little face with its tongue sticking out but there must be some hint of truth to it, surely?

She showed me to his library. This was after she calmed. At first, she screamed at me, mistaking me for him. I was able to charm her, whispering the incantation to soothe her to sleep. I do not know when this was, but it was many… sleeps ago. I must resort to such primitive measures. I have marked a wall with each sleep, though how long a sleep lasts is hard to gauge. Sometimes I sleep many times, and then I do not sleep at all. There are measuring devices in his chambers, but they are for other purposes.

I set her on the bed, and when she awoke, her eyes were filled with hate, then softened. We were alone. I took her hand, or did she take mine? Such things are fuzzy. I remember staring. Staring, staring, past her, beyond her. Finally, we spoke. Awkwardly at first. She was beautiful. She walked around his chambers as though they were her own. Perhaps they were. Barefoot she trod the soft carpets, with flowing, sheer gauze, draped regally, with more bearing than Tamoko, more grace than Cythandria. Her fingers brushed over the fine things, the things so out of place. She walked as if in memory, a dream belonging to another.

She sat; I watched from the edge of the bed. At the desk, at the armchair, more of a relaxed throne. I told her I did not remember. She smiled. It was strange. Sad, twisted, bittersweet, angry. She rose, her arms inviting me to draw near. Apprehension gripped me. The flash of a knife; she set the blade down on the desk, and only then did I approach. A child, she called me. A child… of her own years. She turned her flesh this way and that, asking if what I thought I saw was real. I didn't understand. She gripped my fingers and led me out of his chambers.

Many corridors had collapsed, but this one had not. His servants had not found us, but for one, a goblin cowering in a crate, cut off from its kin. She ignored it; it had been there for three days. I had not noticed, but knew something was there. A rat, I had thought. That is what I called it, but that was later, after the chamber of tubes.

There were floating bodies, naked females. A dozen tubes nearing the height of the ceiling, the width of a double door; those within varied in size, maturity. They were being grown. I began to understand, but did not understand. I asked her why. She looked at me, then laughed. Some of the tubes were damaged, one smashed. Some were unharmed. I waited to see what she would do, but she left them were they were. Shattered glass carpeted the stone floor; the rugs had stopped at the threshold of his bedchamber.

We found Rat. Simpering, terrified, knowing death was near. She might have snapped his neck without a second thought. Her stride was short, but dignified, yet unaware of its bearing. She stood composed, as if nothing could break her calm. She did not call out to him; her poise held no threat, but her still was menacing. I reached in and seized him by the throat before he could bite me. His hands found my wrist, careful not to claw at me for he saw her eyes. I did not intend to hurt him, but what was one more goblin? There were so many amongst the dead. She looked almost ready to command me. Instead, I met his gaze, asked if he wanted to live. He nodded, pathetically, gratefully. She did not roll her eyes, nor show any exasperation, but I could feel her disapproval. I warned him not to run, and carefully set him down. It gibbered its thanks. She had turned and began heading back towards his chambers. I followed. After a moment, Rat trailed behind us.

She showed me the library. I think she had found it while I slept, though she walked as if she knew every inch of this place. Rat remained awed, terrified. Of her, of this place, as if he couldn't decide which was more fearsome. Fearful, dread… the words do not quite fit. He knew his way around, but she never addressed him, never used the name I offered him, the name he gratefully accepted. Perhaps he sought to betray us, to 'rise above his station'? If he ever did, she quelled any hint of it. She walked, and he ran behind her, and she stopped, pointedly waiting outside the tube chamber. He was a quivering wreck by the time they returned to the bedchamber, though she had never lain a hand on him.

We began to search through his things. I catalogued them, and Rat gingerly set them where she directed. She was an elf, yet we had no designation for one another. She did not use them, rarely called out, and spoke simply when she spoke at all.

Rat discovered a golem. It stood inactive. He squeezed through the pipes and found its control room. Then he opened the hatch and we made our way inside.