The great east gate of Anor Londo stood at the end of what people called Gwynn's Road. Beyond this great edifice lay the human burgs of Anor Londo, the huddle of alleyways, narrow roads, stacked buildings and tiny squares that housed the gods' mortal servants. The eastern gate was one of three that led into the city, and each was guarded by a garrison of competent soldiers.
Their alertness had doubled in the past few months. Grim rumors ran through the kingdom these days. There was news of violence in the north and of increased numbers of monsters prowling openly in the country. And most dreadful of all, Hollows had been sighted, in great numbers, among the hamlets on Lordran's fringes. Anor Londo was now a city of refuge in the eyes of many. Every day, more folk arrived, more refugees and petitioners.
Old and dark memories stirred in the gods' minds, and their servants were carefully instructed to seek out any hints of the Darksign among those trying to enter the city. This command, whose penalty of failure was grave indeed, made the gate guards an imperious, paranoid lot. Many were turned away under their harsh gaze and raised spears.
The sun had begun to set. The last trickle of travelers was let through or turned away, then three guards put their backs into turning the great wheel that shut the gate.
"Mercy! Mercy upon me, men of Anor Londo!"
The guards at the wheel paid no mind to the wailing voice. Such incidents were common, and did nothing to sway them from their duties.
"Mercy, please! Spare me from the wrath of my enemies!"
The guard stationed atop the gate turret looked over to see a hunched figure rushing forward to reach the closing gate. He was too late. He pressed his hands uselessly against the sealed entrance.
"In the name of the Dark Sun, grant me sanctuary!"
"Oy, there!" the tower guard shouted. "Quiet! No more come through until morning!"
"I will not last until morning!" the man proclaimed. Despite his hunched, feeble appearance, his voice carried strongly up to the tower. "They will come for me!"
"Then let them come! The night watch's bowmen have good aim!"
"Not against the powers of the Deep! It comes! Aldrich comes!"
The guard hesitated. Certainly, tales of the false prophet Aldrich had reached Anor Londo's ears for many years now. Doubt lingered in his mind. Rumors and gossip were part of his life every day. It was said that the false prophet's influence had a long arm. Should he …
"Sanctuary! In the name of the Dark Sun! I bring him news! News of the schemes of Aldrich!"
"What news?" the guard shouted.
"He comes for Anor Londo! Five of us fled his dark domain to warn you! Only I remain! Even now his beasts prowl in the dark. They seek my flesh!"
The guard sighed. "Who are you, stranger? Why should we believe your tales?"
The old man stood up to his full height. The hunched countenance vanished, and the guard could see, even from atop his post, that this was clearly a giant of a man.
"I am Sulyvahn, once-slave of Aldrich. I beseech you, grant me sanctuary!"
Sulyvahn was escorted through the streets and into the central palace by no less than fourteen guards. These mortals were then joined by eight Silver Knights once they passed through the Gods' Gate that allowed passage into the center of the city where the gods lived. It was a bleak mockery of a parade, the grim-faced soldiers surrounding their guest of honor as they ascended the steps of the palace.
Within the entrance hall, two figures awaited Sulyvahn. One was a Silver Knight clad in armor more ornate than his fellows and trimmed with gold. This was a warrior of superior rank. The other was a thin-faced man with long white hair who wore a robe of deepest purple. His blue eyes fixed a fearsome gaze on Sulyvahn.
The sorcerer bowed low on one knee before these two men, certain that they were the ones who would decide the course of his fate.
The white-haired man spoke first.
"I am Ozett, chancellor to Lord Gwyndolin. This is Tryndel, Captain of His Highness's Silver Knights. I ask you now," His voice soured with disgust. "Why should we allow you to live?"
Sulyvahn's voice was quiet and subdued. "I do not deserve life. Death, and worse than death, is what my crimes merit. I have come not to seek forgiveness, but to make some recompense for my evil."
"And what might that be?" Ozett asked.
"I offer information on the actions and plans of Aldrich and his church of the Deep."
Ozett walked toward Sulyvahn and lowered himself until he was level with the sorcerer's eyes. "I know of you, Sulyvahn," he said quietly. "The Voice of the Deep. That's what they call you, isn't it?"
"Not anymore. When I recognized Aldrich for what he truly was, I turned on him. I attempted to destroy him. I failed, and fled with what few allies I had left. They are dead, slain by Aldrich's creatures. Now he seeks my life, as well."
"So, you came here to hide?"
"Yes," Sulyvahn answered simply. "To hide, and to warn you."
Ozett turned back to Tryndel. He shook his head.
"We cannot trust a word from this one. He speaks only lies. He has turned whole cities against the gods and the First Flame. He must die, and that is the end of it."
"Perhaps," Tryndel agreed. "But what of this information he claims to possess?"
Ozett scoffed and shot a glare at Sulyvahn. "Well?"
"Aldrich's schemes are many," Sulyvahn answered. "He sends out his outrider knights, men and women distorted into bestial puppets. He sends them out secretly, to stalk Lordran and destroy its people. They pave the way. Aldrich will come with his army and destroy the leaders of Lordran. He has but one goal: to topple the city of the gods and destroy the First Flame."
Tryndel looked at Ozett, concern in his eyes. Ozett frowned.
"Well, there you have it," the chancellor said. "There is your information, Tryndel." He nodded to the Silver Knights. "Take him away."
"It is good that I die," Sulyvahn said as he was hoisted up. "It is good that I pay the price for my sins. Thank you."
"Strange words," Tryndel muttered.
"Let him say what he likes," Ozett replied. He gestured to the soldiers. "Inform the executioner to make preparations."
"If only I could see Gwyndolin myself and repent," Sulyvahn moaned as he was dragged away.
Tryndel laid a hand on Ozett's shoulder. "There is something in what he says. We both have received reports of strange beings attacking wayfarers on the roads. We must learn more about this army of Aldrich's. Gwyndolin must know that Sulyvahn is here."
"He will. He will bear witness to his execution."
Sulyvahan stood in his cell, waiting for what was to happen next. There was a strong possibility that he would die today. He had accepted that notion the moment he decided to travel to Anor Londo. But he was not dead yet. He must be patient and allow events to take their course. Thus, could he act accordingly.
The cell door opened. Two guards walked in, swords drawn. One said to him gruffly, "Follow us." Sulyvahn did so.
Four more guards waited outside. They were taking no chances with him. They formed a square around him as he was led up and out of the dungeons. They passed through several corridors before entering an open courtyard filled with gardens of flowers, bushes and green-leafed trees. An orderly garden defined by symmetry. It was quite lovely, Sulyvahn thought. It revealed an appreciation of aesthetics that he had not suspected the gods to possess.
They turned a corner, and Sulyvahn saw a tall, frail-looking man delicately pruning the buds of a rose bush. At their approach, he turned to regard the arrivals. His face was pale and thin. It much resembled a younger version of Ozett, and Sulyvhan wondered if the two were related. The figure's long silver hair was tied back in a ponytail, and a white and silver robe hung down past his feet.
One of the soldiers jabbed the back of Sulyvahn's legs with the butt of his spear. Sulyvahn got on his knees before the ruler of Anor Londo.
He was silent for several moments, looking Sulyvahn up and down. Then he spoke.
"You are bold, Sorcerer Sulyvahn, to enter the realm of your enemies. I am told that you claim repentance. Why have you come here?"
"I have come to show proof of my repentance, through aid to those who once were my foes."
"How do you intend to do this?"
"I possess information on the doings of Aldrich and his followers."
"What is this information?"
"They plan war. I know where they will be and when."
Gwyndolin turned away from Sulyvahn and continued pruning his roses. He said, as he looked down at his plants, "Words come easily. I can verify the truth of your words. My Darkmoons cover wide ground." He glanced sideways at Sulyvahn. "You know this, I suspect."
A flare of hot feeling rose in Sulyvahn. "Yes, I do."
"Your crimes are many. What makes you believe I won't kill you for them?"
"I believe no such thing. My past actions deserve death."
"And what of your future actions? You claim many things, but offer nothing of substance."
Sulyvhan nodded. "Two weeks from now, Aldrich's army of fanatics will cross the northern border at the Yarael River. This is the main body of his forces. Ahead of them, he sends his outrider knights to weaken the nobles of the northern frontier and to instill fear in the people. He will come, proclaiming salvation through the Deep. Those who accept his word will join his army. Those who reject it will die.
"You speak of outrider knights. What are they, precisely?"
"Mortals infused with sorceries of the Deep. They bleed cold as you and I bleed blood. Their touch is death, their weapons enchanted with unholy magicks. Their minds are shredded such that they are naught but beasts."
"These are Aldrich's creations?"
"Yes."
Gwyndolin straightened up and approached Sulyvahn. He looked hard at him, and for a moment – just a brief moment – a shiver of fear ran through the sorcerer. Gwyndolin's face was young, but his eyes were old and crafty. They were eyes that had seen much. Sulyvahn wondered what the god saw in him.
"Two weeks, you say?"
"Yes, Lord Gwyndolin."
"Very well. You shall remain in your prison for two weeks. If events do not transpire as you claim, then it is the headsman's axe for you. Otherwise …" He tilted his head and smiled. There was no warmth in that smile. "We shall talk further, otherwise. Take him away."
Sulyvahn was led back to his prison. When he was alone again in the damp, he allowed himself a smile of his own.
Two weeks later, the door opened again. Sulyvahn recognized the man who entered. It was the chancellor, Ozett.
The man's face was impassive. He stepped aside, allowing two guards to step through. They lifted Sulyvahn off his feet. He felt faintly absurd at this constant treatment. Every time he was seized by the guards, he towered over his captors and they had to raise their arms up simply to hold his shoulders.
"Follow," Ozett said.
They led him up spiral stairs and ramps to some place nestled deep within the palace. They led Sulyvahn onto an exterior mezzanine and across a small bridge to some minor tower abutting the keep. The room inside was empty save for a bed and a chair. There no other doors nor stairs and only five narrow windows high up the walls.
"You stay here now," Ozett said. "This is your home and prison at Gwyndolin's pleasure. Meals will be brought to you twice a day. Guards are posted outside your door and elsewhere at all times. Attempt to leave at your peril."
"I understand."
The guards departed. Ozett made to follow them.
"Was Aldrich's army defeated, then?"
At Sulyvahn's question, Ozett halted and swiveled around to face him again.
"You have been permitted to live by the will of Lord Gwyndolin. He places some value in your words. I do not. Perhaps you spoke the truth. Perhaps you knew of Aldrich's plans and for reasons of your own countered them. It matters not to me. You are a threat to this kingdom. Understand this: I will kill you when you act against my lord and people."
"I understand perfectly."
Ozett's eyes narrowed scornfully, then he departed the tower.
For the next three days, Sulyvahn saw no one, save the guard who brought his meals. He was alone. Or at least he appeared to be. He could not confirm the sensation, but Sulyvahn's instincts told him he that he was being watched. Through what scrying methods, he could not guess, but he knew that the Dark Sun's eyes were upon him. He did little during this time, save to act as any human would act. He pretended to eat his food as best he could manage, though he found it easier to simply fast. Such an act would be easily dismissed as one of penance. And he pretended to sleep on the stiff bed provided for him. Otherwise, he paced or sat on the floor, meditating. Thinking. Planning.
On the fourth day, the door opened, and a guard told him to follow. He was taken to the garden again, where Gwyndolin interrogated him on all matters related to Aldrich and the north. What was Aldrich like? What did he believe? What were his long-term objectives? Sulyvahn answered these questions honestly. Gwyndolin frowned in disgust at his descriptions of Aldrich's cannibalism and the manifested powers of the Deep. Then he sent him away for another three days, before summoning him again with more questions.
And so it went. Sometimes he met Gwyndolin in the garden, sometimes in a small study on the higher floors of the palace. Never anywhere else, though, and the path his guards took him never deviated. Gwyndolin's questions became more pointed over time. He inquired keenly into the culture and practices of Irithyll with vigorous thoroughness. Sulyvahn answered openly and honestly.
And then Gwyndolin began prying into Sulyvahn's own life. Where had he learned his sorceries? Who taught him? What had he done before joining with Aldrich? How had he brought so many over to his cause? These were questions that Sulyvahn responded to with careful and guarded words.
Who had taught him? He was mentored by an old sage with no name. Where had Sulyvahn come from? A desolate arctic waste far beyond the known lands of Lordran or its neighbors. He had been an itinerant sorcerer for many years before he travelled to the Boreal Valley seeking artifacts, and instead found Aldrich's cult. He had a gift for words, and so convinced people to follow him through sermons – and yes, through deception as well. He wished, so very much, that he could reach into his past and alter its course.
As months passed by, Sulyvahn sensed a slight change in the atmosphere of the palace regarding his presence. The guards remained strict, but they carried themselves as ones on a routine errand, not ones guarding a feared criminal. When he passed the corridors, he no longer received hateful looks from passersby and servants. Gwyndolin himself became much less aloof in their discussions. And they were discussions now, not interrogations. Sulyvahn could almost believe that the talks were friendly at times. Occasionally, the god even allowed himself the brief joke or mirthful chuckle.
As with all things, the palace acclimated to the new status quo. Sulyvahn's presence had become a tolerated fact. He was, after all, but one more addition to the complex tapestry of politics and culture that was Anor Londo.
Perhaps because of this gradual acceptance, Sulyvahn allowed himself to become lax in his words, until a day came when he overstepped his bounds.
"The Deep is an elusive thing," Gwyndolin mused. "Aldrich communes with it, you say. But you have never been able to specify how precisely he does such a thing, nor what the nature of the Deep is that it can interface with mortals."
"It is difficult to say for certain, my lord. I myself have never witnessed it, nor have I truly encountered the Deep in its fullness. It is like the ocean. Vast, all-consuming, unknowable in its entirety. It is different from the Dark, which seeks not to consume, but rather to restore itself."
At this, Gwyndolin's head snapped up. His eyes were wide and his expression angry. "What do you know of the Dark?"
Sulyvahn was taken aback. He realized that he had spoken of things he should not know, certainly that he should not speak of with confidence and openness. And before a god of the First Flame, no less! In a moment of unforgivable absent-mindedness, he had hinted at a possession of knowledge of the thing that the children of Lord Gwynn despised most.
"I know much less than it would appear," he said meekly. "Myths and hearsay."
"Your words just now were not that of a gossiper. You spoke as a teacher. What do you know of the Dark?"
"Only what I said. It seeks to restore itself. Whatever that means, my lord."
It was a pathetic answer. Gwyndolin took several steps toward him until his face was an arm's length away from Sulyvahn's. They were of equal height, an uncomfortable feeling for Sulyvahn. He felt like a schoolchild being scolded by his teacher.
"Restore itself? What does this mean?"
"I … know not, my lord.
Gwyndolin repeated the question.
"I do not know, truly. Forgive me if I have offended you."
Gwyndolin looked up at the nearby guards. "Take him away. For your sake, sorcerer, you had best be speaking the truth. There are things in this world that none must ever be allowed to know. And lies carry a grievous cost, sorcerer."
Sulyvahn sat cross-legged on the stone floor. He counted seven days since he had last been summoned by Gwyndolin. He feared that he had fallen out of favor. He must be patient. He must allow time for Gwyndolin's temper to cool. To speak of the Dark had been a foolish mistake. Such a terrible slip of the tongue.
Although, perhaps it was for the best. Sulyvahn the repentant was a fallible individual. He was no suffering saint, after all. It was good to understand that. The people of Anor Londo needed to know that. He was not a perfect martyr, nor should he be seen as such. He had done terrible things, and learned things more terrible still.
There were other matters to occupy his mind. That was a quality about himself he had come to appreciate in the last few years. His body may be imprisoned, but his mind was always free.
He closed his eyes and focused. He pictured his mind leaving the tower and gliding across the sky's expanse. Travelling ever towards its destination, unseen and unhindered. And now descending to the ground. There it was, the target. He fell to earth and …
He saw dense forest and trees whipping by as he – no, the one whose senses he shared – loped at full speed. It halted, sniffed the air, and Sulyvahn tasted the scent of woodsmoke and roasting meat on the wind. It turned and followed the scent. The ground and leaves froze under its feet, the low-hanging branches turned brittle under its winter's aura.
It departed the woods and entered a clearing. There was a small hamlet here, barely more than a clump of thatch huts. Smoke rose from the huts. Sulyvahn smelled food … and prey.
It drew its sword. It saw a villager, a woman. It pounced and brought the blade down …
Sulyvahn swiftly took his mind out of the creature. He had no need to witness the carnage that ensued. But he recognized the surroundings. It was very near to Anor Londo. He had travelled through it himself over a year ago. They were close. Very close. And after all this time, Gwyndolin's servants had not been able to cull them all.
The outriders were giving the Darkmoons trouble, were they?
Sulyvahn shut his eyes again and sought out the mind of another outrider.
"I request only to see those parts of the city you allow me to see," Sulyvahn said calmly. "I accept any escort you see fit to give."
"You presume much," Gwyndolin replied testily, "to think that you merit any privileges."
It had been eight months since Sulyvahn had offended Gwyndolin with his talk of the Dark. Two months ago, he had been summoned once again by the god. Gwyndolin's temper had indeed cooled, but he remained wary of him. Now, Sulyvahn tried an even bolder move. He was pushing the boundaries of his host's patience once again, but this time it was a carefully calculated act.
"I have answered your questions to the best of my abilities. I have done all that I can to aid you and your kingdom. I ask only for this small privilege. To walk a city street again. To see people go about their daily lives. I will keep silent. I will be surrounded by a legion of your knights, if you see fit. But I beseech you, my lord Gwyndolin, to be given some semblance of normality in my life again."
"You are not a guest of honor, Sulyvahn. You are a prisoner of this city."
"Cannot even a hostage of war be treated with honor?"
"And what honor do you think you deserve?"
Sulyvahn bowed low. "I wish to see the glory of Anor Londo so that I can take it with me to my grave. I wish to witness the splendor of the city of the gods, having lived in filth all my life."
"The city of the gods is not for mortal eyes to see," Gwyndolin replied. "You are not worthy."
"But certainly, the burgs outside the central keep, where mortals dwell? A simple tour, to taste the simple pleasures."
Gwyndolin sighed. "You are relentless." He smirked. "That is an admirable trait, I confess. Where would we be if we gave up so easily in the face of impossible odds?" He clapped his hands, summoning the guards. "Very well, Sulyvahn. Tomorrow I shall have a detachment of my knights lead you through the outer burgs. Be on your best behavior, sorcerer. They will tolerate no unruliness."
The markets of the human inhabitants of Anor Londo were cramped and dirty. It was a far cry from the beauty of Gwydolin's palace. The walls of the keep were raised so high above the burgs that one could not catch even a glimpse of the gods' home. Here was the dirt and grime of the unprivileged life, where peasants and merchants scrabbled for what little they could afford.
Five Silver Knights marched alongside Sulyvahn as he walked the streets. He had no particular destination, though the knights subtly herded him in certain directions more than once. But he enjoyed the half-freedom to see the city. It was a relief to finally be away from the confines of his tower.
The people watched his retinue pass with a mixture of awe, confusion, fear and curiosity. Several took to following him, trying to figure out who this strange man was. He heard their whispers. Some said he was a god, others that he was a cleric, still others that he was a prisoner being taken to the gallows. At least one simpleton believed that he was Aldrich himself being brought to justice.
As the day wore on, the streets grew more crowded. Even the Knights struggled to push their way through the growing mobs filling the narrow avenues.
Sulyvahn spoke to one of his guards.
"I would like to return to my quarters, please."
The guard nodded and signaled the others. They turned and marched up a set of brick stairs in the direction of the nearest guarded gate leading to the city's center. As they approached the inner wall, Sulyvahn noted the increase in expense and extravagance of people's garments, and the noted increase in the streets' cleanliness. Several well-dressed men and women stood at corners, smoking pipes and conversing.
Two such men wearing plumed hats of illustrious size glanced casually in the retinue's direction.
Sulyvahn held his hands at his side. With subtle motions, he contorted his fingers into a series of signs. Through the gap in the guard's square, the two men observed his silent message. Then they looked away and continued their conversation.
Three days later, Sulyvahn was again summoned to Gwyndolin's garden. They talked at length about matters of another potential battle. Aldrich's forces had apparently reformed and stationed itself in the northern hills. Gwyndolin tended to his flowers as they spoke.
It had long amazed Sulyvahn that the sovereign of Anor Londo, the chief of its pantheon, was such a frail creature in person. Gwyndolin's long, delicate fingers were as narrow as the rose stems he pruned, and his skin was terribly pale, such that at close range one could see the blood vessels beneath his tissue-like skin. He walked with an awkward slowness that implied difficulty in the act. Indeed, Sulyvahn detected a certain uncanny fluidity to his gait that betrayed the possibility that Gwyndolin cast illusions upon himself, perhaps to conceal some greater handicap or deformity.
Their discussion was nothing that they had not gone over before. Such was the dullness of the day, that when the attack occurred, it nearly took Sulyvahn by surprise.
It was betrayed by the sudden silence of the songbirds. Gwyndolin's body went rigid, and he stared into space, listening rather than looking. Sulyvahn's eyes swept the garden, and he saw the assassins first.
The first one appeared as if from nowhere, like a shadow without a light source. The cloaked figure's stiletto was poised for Gwydolin's back as it glided over the rose hedges. Sulyvahn tensed his body to react and intercept the attacker before it could reach the god, but Gwyndolin was swifter. He spun around and incanted a spell that placed in his hand a meter-long needle of blue light. He hurled it underhand at the assassin. The needle pierced the figure's chest cleanly and continued its flight until it dissipated against a far wall. The assassin fell dead.
The second assassin came from above while Gwyndolin's attention was diverted. Where it had been perched, Sulyvahn could hardly guess. He admitted his admiration of the killer's resourcefulness even as he threw himself between it and its target. The assassin thrust its sword to impale Gwyndolin beneath the armpit and up into the god's heart. As Sulyvahn placed himself in harm's way, he pivoted his body to avoid the blade. It passed by him, tearing the fabric of his shirt. Before the blow could strike home, he shoved the assassin with his shoulder and threw it off-balance. Taking his foe's sword arm in both hands, he twisted until he drew a cry of pain and took the sword for himself.
He shoved again and threw the assassin to the ground. Before it could rise, Sulyvahn hacked off its head with a clean downward sweep.
"Traitor!" a voice bellowed. An orb of blackness was flung at Sulyvahn's head. He ducked low, let the Deep sorcery pass overhead, then assumed a defensive posture.
The third assassin, a mage, prepared another spell. Suddenly, Gwydolin was at Sulyvahn's side. He summoned forth a flurry of dancing lights from his fingertips that scattered across the courtyard trailing wispy lines of white. The lights struck the mage many times, perforating it with tiny holes that sizzled. The assassin lurched back, gurgled a death rattle, and slumped against the trunk of a cherry tree.
The attack had lasted no longer than twenty seconds. Barely had the third one died, then Silver Knights filled the court and formed an unbreakable circle around Gywndolin as they escorted him away. One of them pushed Sulyvahn away roughly.
"Hold."
At the god's command, the knights stopped. The barricade opened for Gwyndolin to look upon the sorcerer.
"You saved my life, Sulyvahn."
Sulyvahn said nothing.
"You have my gratitude. We shall speak again tomorrow."
With that, the god and his bodyguard departed. One knight remained behind to take Sulyvahn back to his tower quarters.
Alone in his chamber, Sulyvahn pressed both hands against the wall and leaned his full weight forward. It had been a long time since he had partaken in combat. A resurgence of heady excitement flowed through him. He permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction.
The next day, Sulyvahn's guard escort did not take him to the garden, nor to Gwyndolin's study. Instead, he was led down a winding trail of stairs and landings into what he felt were the very guts of the keep. Even the dungeon had not felt so deep and withdrawn as these passages.
The guards led him to a wooden door flanked by two sconces with lit torches. A brass door knocker in the shape of a sun hung from it. One guard knocked twice. The door opened, and Sulyvahn was let into a most wondrous library.
He turned to see the one who had opened the door, and started slightly with alarm and fascination. The man wore the white robes of a scholar, or perhaps a monk, but his head was entirely covered by congealed wax. Not even his eyes or mouth showed through the glistening white layers. And yet the man walked and conducted himself with the perfect ease of a seeing, breathing man.
The wax-covered man took over from the guard and guided Sulyvhan through the labyrinthine alleys of bookcases to a small reading room where Gwyndolin sat with a large tome open before him. He licked his fingers and turned a page. He was engrossed in whatever it was he was reading. After a few moments, he finally deigned to look up and acknowledge the sorcerer.
"Ah, Sulyvahn. Welcome. I am sure you appreciate the honor of being allowed into the royal archives."
"Indeed, my lord. I would never have anticipated such a tremendous privilege."
Gwyndolin waved a hand at the scholar, who bowed and backed out of the room.
"Did they alarm you, the librarians?" he asked Sulyvahn.
"They … intrigue me."
"Much knowledge is sealed within these walls. Secrets that can scar the mind and kill the soul. And so these librarians must make themselves blind and deaf and mute to keep their sanity."
"It is a most creative measure of caution. But how do they stay alive in their current state?"
Gwyndolin shrugged. "Quite well, I understand. But come, follow." He rose and opened the door to an adjoining room. "I have something I wish to show you."
Sulyvahn promptly obeyed and followed the god into a large, oblong chamber floored with red and gold carpeting and lined with cases of what he took to be trophies. There were armors of exotic design and materials, weapons of all sorts crafted from metal, wood, bone, gold, silver and crystal. Skulls of beasts that he could not guess at were suspended from the walls, some so large they were supported by thick chains. There were urns, medallions, talismans, rings, shields, gauntlets, crowns and bracers. It was a trophy room worthy of the gods.
"Anor Londo has endured since the dawn of Fire. Through the millennia, through every age and every Linking of the Flame, beyond the death of every other kingdom to exist – Oolacile, Drangleic, Eleum Loyce, the Iron Kingdom, Shulva. The Great Swamp has dried up, and the eastern lands reduced to squabbling remnants. But Anor Londo endures."
Gwyndolin paused, and Sulyvahn sensed that he was expected to speak. "Such can only be expected of the city of the gods."
"It is not the nature of its rulers that has ensured its survival. It is adherence to, shall we say, the mathematics of necessity." Gwyndolin paused in front of a statue. It was a figure of a squat goblinoid creature with a bloated belly and fanged face. "Other realms have fallen, even the domains of my father's peers, because they followed whims and misleading ideals. And so, they erred and died.
He turned around to look at Sulyvahn. "You were only able to save my life from those assassins because you were willing to kill. Survival is not a bloodless act. It demands sacrifice."
"This is true, my lord," Sulyvahn answered honestly.
"Do you truly wish to serve me? To turn your back forever upon your tainted past and serve the cause of Fire?"
"I do."
Gwyndolin looked hard into Sulyvahn's face. "Perhaps you do. Perhaps you speak truth. Or perhaps you only wish to save yourself from my wrath." He inclined his head in another direction. Sulyvahn followed his gaze. For a moment his breathing faltered. Enclosed lengthwise in a glass case was a sword. His sword. The greatsword that contained the power of the Profaned Flame.
"It is …" Sulyvahn began slowly.
"It is yours, is it not? My Darkmoons recovered it from the ruins of Duke Wain's castle. It is a thing of abominable power. Where did you obtain it?"
"A city with no name. I was very young and foolish. I was prone to … rash acts."
This was a test. That much was obvious. Sulyvahn was propped up for inspection, and if he failed, what then? Would Gwyndolin kill him? Would his Darkmoons finish what they had started the day they scoured Wain's castle?
"With age comes wisdom," Gwyndolin said.
"Yes. And regrets." He frowned. "But there is something I don't understand."
"What is that?"
"Why did you not destroy the sword?"
"Knowledge. I wish to understand my enemy, so that I might better counter him."
"I see. Yes, this is wise. I have done the same, in the past."
Gwyndolin nodded and walked on. Sulyvahn followed.
They left the trophy room and entered a corridor where they heard voices arguing around a corner.
"I tell you, Ozett, that allowing such brutes into the ranks will foster disorder and drain our troops' morale. He is a monster! A cannibal!"
"And he is loyal. Loyal to the bone. You've seen the reports from abroad, same as I have. The Hollows increase in number. Even Silver Knights can't kill a horde of thousands."
"We have our dignity, as well. Executioner Smough is nothing but a mere –"
Tryndel paused when he and Ozett saw Gwyndolin walking towards them. They gave the customary bow, the captain looking glum in the face as he did so.
Ozett saw Sulyvahn and scowled.
"Lord Gwyndolin," he greeted his master. "Forgive me my impertinence, but I must say that I fear for you walking the castle unguarded. I have not yet determined the means by which the assassins infiltrated the palace. Until I do, I advise you remain in your quarters."
"Am I a child, to fear the shadows? Am I to fear treading the halls of my own home?"
"No, Lord Gwyndolin," Ozett said, his voice slightly dejected, but still firm. "But enemies that can evade even Silver Knights are not be underestimated."
Sulyvahn heard the veiled accusation in Ozett's voice. Tryndel did too, and responded.
"I have tripled the guard throughout the palace. No one enters without passing through checks. And I have knights on the ramparts who will remain at their posts day and night for as long as needed. No one else will ever violate this sacred ground."
"Bold words, Captain," Gwyndolin replied coolly. "I value your service, and the Silver Knights whose oaths were sworn at the feet of my father. You shall do better. I know this."
It was less words of comfort than it was of command. Tryndel's eye twitched. He bowed again stiffly.
"It is not future interlopers, I fear. It is this viper we allow to crawl freely."
Sulyvahn tensed at Ozett's words. "Is there not some means of proving my fealty to Anor Londo? Is saving the life of its sovereign insufficient?"
"Others look at you and see a victim, an unlikely hero, even. I see only the stains of the Deep."
"Stains that will never wash away," Sulyvahn replied mournfully. "I will bear my shame for the rest of my life."
"How noble. How like the martyr," Ozett sneered. "Your words draw no tears from me."
"Enough, Ozett," Gwyndolin's voice snapped like a thundercrack. The chancellor took an involuntary step back.
"I'll have no bickering in my domain," the god went on. "Sulyvahn abides here at my will. He will be treated with respect. Your feelings in this matter are of no import, Ozett, only your obedience to my will. You know this. Why am I obligated to remind you?"
"Forgive me, Lord Gwyndolin," Ozett whispered. "I spoke out of turn."
"Then it is settled." The god turned to Sulyvahn. "This library is open to you. Save for the sealed chambers, you may peruse it at your leisure. Not all its books are dangerous, of course, and I imagine the tower and the markets offer only limited entertainment to one such as you."
"Your generosity, as always, is a welcome surprise, Lord Gwyndolin."
How quickly tides turn, Sulyvahn thought to himself as he turned the page of a volume on herbology he had found in one of the library sections. He had taken to touring the library and pulling out books at random. It was a revelation every time. The library contained treatises on every subject imaginable, both mundane and magic. The scholars never bothered him save to bar his way down a particular passage or from entering specific vaults of forbidden lore. Gwyndolin's show of pride – and his subtle threats – were done with. He had loosened Sulyvahn's leash at last.
He encountered the god frequently in the library. He gathered that, more than anything, Gwyndolin was a being who craved sagacity and knowledge. He was no militant, that was for certain. Even his Darkmoons relied on cunning and trickery more than pure martial prowess. How much more, then, was their master a creature of the mind.
Sulyvahn licked his fingers and turned another page of the tome. He eventually grew bored with it, placed it back on the shelf, and decided to retire for the night.
At the entrance to the library was an open space with a cavernous fireplace that provided comfortable warmth and kept the air free of paper-damaging moisture. He was surprised to see Tryndel standing there, his face clouded with worry, peering up at a great picture hung above the mantle. It was of a woman of most formidable beauty, red-haired and broad-shouldered. Her name was Gwynevere, Sulyvahn had learned, and she was Gwyndolin's sister, though she had departed Anor Londo many, many years ago.
Sulyvahn approached quietly. Tryndel's eyes flicked in his direction, but he said nothing. He looked at the image with an expression that the sorcerer might almost describe as longing
The captain took a deep breath through the nostrils, drew himself upright, and turned to face Sulyvahn fully.
"You want something of me?"
"Forgive me, captain. I saw you standing there so dourly. I thought something might be wrong."
"There is nothing wrong. I merely come here to think, that is all."
"And ponder the visage of a beautiful woman?"
Tryndel's face flushed. "It is no perversion to look upon a commissioned painting of a member of the royal family, is it?"
"Of course not. The statues of Lord Gwynn are true masterpieces. Though I find it odd that Lord Gwyndolin has no commissions of himself in the palace."
"He is overly humble in such matters. He dislikes imagery of himself publicly displayed."
Sulyvahn laughed softly. "I suppose it would be unnerving to constantly see images of oneself wherever one turns. What of you, Tryndel? The Captain of the Silver Knights must have exploits worthy of an artist's recreation."
"No."
"Truly?"
"It is difficult to have exploits when there are no wars. And certainly, Ozett wouldn't …" His voice trailed off.
"I see I have breached a delicate subject. I shall take my leave."
"No, no, do not trouble yourself. You would discover sooner or later, regardless." His lips curled into a bitter smile. "I am, you see, the jester of Anor Londo. The captain who has never waged a war, never led his Silver Knights into battle. Ozett has more accolades to his name than I. What's more, he is kin to the house of Gwynn. I am merely Tryndel."
"But the battle with Aldrich's army at the Yarael River? Certainly, you were involved in that conflict?"
Tryndel's mouth contorted into a bitter grin. "I was honored with the task of guarding the palace. Darkmoons and common troops marched out. The noble Captain Tryndel guarded the empty palace of the gods with his life."
"It frustrates you, this lack of recognition."
"Have you not been listening?" Trydnel barked. "I have nothing to be recognized for! And how can one trust an untested warrior? Heh, one they do not see fit to test. The Hollows will soon be at the gates, the Fire fades and Captain Tryndel is a trifle that no one can bother with. They'd rather hire mercenaries like that buffoon Smough to bolster ranks."
"Smough?"
"An Executioner. A bounty hunter endorsed by the royal family," Tryndel explained. "And now attached to the city guard, though Gwynn forbid he should ever be granted knighthood. But these are, I suppose, times of urgency. Gwyndolin sees it. We all do. The Fire fades once again."
"And then Dark will threaten us all."
"The First Flame will be restored, of course. Gwyndolin will see to that. A worthy champion will be chosen to link the Flame."
"I have heard stories," Sulyvahn said in the voice of a man trying to recall an elusive memory. "Stories of how the Flame is rejuvenated. It is a great sacrifice, is it not?"
"It is a sacred act to link the Flame. And not one to be discussed at length with outsiders." Tryndel nodded to Sulyvahn. "I must take my leave."
As he walked away, Sulyvahn called out after him. The captain spun on his heel impatiently.
"You are a better man than you think, Captain Tryndel," the sorcerer said. "Greatness may yet await you, if you be patient."
Tryndel sniffed and left the library, leaving Sulyvahn to ponder their discussion.
Sulyvahn sat cross-legged on the floor of his quarters, feeling perfectly comfortable. Winter was approaching. The cold was descending on the city. It felt reassuring. Familiar.
Someone banged hard on his door.
He had barely opened it when a man forced his way past him and paced the room angrily before spinning around to face Sulyvahn. It was Ozett.
"What did you do?" he demanded. "What have you done to him?"
"To whom?"
"Do not play innocent. No more games! What have you done to Gwyndolin?"
"Lord Gwyndolin? Truly, Lord Ozett, I do not understand what you mean."
"Take him."
Ozett said this to the three guards who filed into the room after him. Once again, rough hands took Sulyvahn and dragged him away.
Four days later, he stood with Ozett, Tryndel, two Silver Knights, and a doctor beside the bed of Gwyndolin. The god's face was drained of vitality. His eyes were closed in sleep, and his breath came out in drawn-out rasps.
"I cannot determine the cause," the doctor said. "The work appears to be that of consumption. I suspect a poison, but I cannot identify any in his body."
"Then you are done here," Ozett replied brusquely. After the doctor departed, he said to Sulyvahn, "Alright, fiend. Tell us what you did. Cure the harm you have done to our lord, and I swear upon my honor that you will live."
Sulyvahn looked upon the body of the god. Here, in this great room, upon the four-posted bed of silks and soft pillows, he looked so small. So helpless. It was a sobering sight, to see a god reduced to such weakness. And with such speed! It had been but four days since Gwyndolin had collapsed in his private reading room and been brought up by Ozett's servants to his quarters. Ozett had then immediately seized Sulyvahn, convinced beyond argument that he was the culprit.
"How did you poison him?"
"How many times must I say? I did not poison him."
"This is pointless, Ozett," Tryndel protested. "Even if he is guilty, he would never admit it."
"Not without the encouragement of the interrogator's hot irons, perhaps," Ozett snarled. "I will draw the truth from you, Sulyvahn, as one draws an arrow from a man's heart."
"But, how does one poison a god? Surely, in his own home …"
Ozett's hand lashed out and struck Sulyvahn on the cheek. The chancellor winced and rubbed his hand.
"Skin like hard bark." His eyes narrowed and he looked hard – very hard – into Sulyvahn's eyes.
Here was a man as implacable as a winter storm, as persistent as the hungry wolf. He would not yield, he would not cease his crusade against the sorcerer until his rage had been sated.
"We shall find out what you are, Sulyvahn. What you really hare."
Two days later, Sulyvahn crouched in his cell, massaging the burn marks on his hands. It was for show, mostly, a habit of pretended humanity that he had adopted long ago. The brands themselves had been more a discomfort than anything else. Beneath the illusion, his skin was hard as a frozen tree, and he was not so weak as to be injured by devices devised to harm soft flesh.
Even so, he had felt the heat of the iron, and the heat of the great furnace next to which which he had been strapped onto the table. That infernal heat had been terrible, worse even than the searing of the brands. That all-consuming fire's breath engulfing him.
And he had been humiliated. Ozett had treated him as less than a prisoner. He had been treated as a common criminal. Him, who had been honored by Lord Gwyndolin himself!
A deep hatred for Ozett abided in Sulyvahn's heart.
The cell door opened. A guard took Sulyvahn out. They left the dungeon and ascended upwards, toward what Sulyvahn recognized were Gwyndolin's quarters.
"Is Lord Gwyndolin still alive?" he asked tentatively. The guard didn't reply, but nodded slightly.
When he was standing before Gwyndolin again, the god was conscious, with a book laid out on his lap. Even in deepest misery, Gwyndolin's desire for knowledge could not be denied.
He was more decrepit than when Sulyvahn had seen him last. His skin, already a pale shade when in good health, was now as white as fresh snow, and the crisscross of veins beneath showed a clear blue. His eyes were sunken and what little fat had been in his body was exhausted. He was skeletal. A living corpse waiting to die.
"Sulyvahn," he said in a voice like a death rattle.
"I am here, Lord Gwyndolin."
"You are alive … by my orders. Ozett … has been reprimanded."
"I thank you, my lord."
"My Darkmoons … They are recalled to Anor Londo. Aldrich's outriders …. Too many to fight … War is upon us again."
"I shall serve with my last breath. I swear it."
Gwyndolin's eyes looked up at the ceiling. "Tryndel. Ozett. Counsel them. They will listen. I command it."
His eyes closed. Sulyvahn thought he had died. But a nurse materialized out of a corner of the room, took a damp cloth and started dabbing the god's forehead with it. Then Sulyvahn saw the faint twitches of the face that betrayed life still lived within that cadaverous frame.
It was a pathetic sight.
Never had Sulyvahn imagined, that day he had been allowed through the gate of the gods' city, that he would ascend so far as to stand among its ruling council. He was not a true member of the council, of course, but he was, by Lord Gwyndolin's will, attached in an advisory position. He possessed the knowledge of the servants of the Deep that would enable Anor Londo to defeat Aldrich and cast his heretics into oblivion.
And his knowledge was needed, however much Ozett and his kin resented Sulyvahn. News had reached the city of Aldrich's army on the move. The frontier provinces again burned under the banner of the Deep. The outriders stalked the countryside unopposed. And then there were the Hollows. Their numbers increased, both abroad and within the city itself. One day, Sulyvahn looked down from the walls and saw a long march of the wretched creatures being led into the wilderness. Where they were taken, he did not know. There were legends of prisons still maintained among the ruins of old kingdoms, kept for just this purpose.
The city was rank with fear. It was a dull, muffled thing. No one dared speak aloud, but Sulyvahn saw the look in the peasants' eyes when he walked the streets. He saw the tension in the faces of the soldiers. And he saw the grim, bitter expressions of the lesser gods who now governed in Gwyndolin's stead. They stunk of fear most of all. Ozett had done his best to conceal the severity of Gwyndolin's illness from the populace. An impossible task. Whispers were told, rumors spread, and the unease within the city festered.
And in all this, Sulyvahn did what he could to prepare for the inevitable war. The army of the Deep marched on. The armies of the northern dukes clashed with them. News came in every week. There were victories, but far more frequently there were defeats. And worse, defections. Once-loyal minions of Lordran, in the face of the Deep's resurgence, denounced their lieges and turned to follow Aldrich. The Deep grew in strength. Soon, very soon, it would reach the capital.
Sulyvahn spent what time he could in the library, searching for answers, adding to his already formidable repertoire of arcane arts. He would need all that Anor Londo had to offer if he was to survive the battles to come.
The end began on a fine summer day. The hot sun shone down heedless of the dangers plaguing the land. As he always did, Sulyvahn silently cursed its heat as he walked across the terraces to the council chamber. He was met with the usual frowns.
Ozett was talking
"We cannot wait for the enemy to come to us. We have already withdrawn the Darkmoons, and now the outriders hunt unopposed. They must be sent out again in full force along with the Silver Knights. We must reinforce our defenses in the Valley of Drakes and the north forest. If Aldrich cannot be defeated in open battle, we must whittle down his forces through attrition. Make every inch of land he seizes cost more than its worth in blood."
Some among the council voiced their agreement. But Tryndel shook his head.
"It would be too costly for us, as well. We could not hold forever, and it is a certainty that their army is the larger."
"Perhaps a compromise could be reached?"
They turned to stare at Sulyvahn.
"Half of the Knights and Darkmoons can be sent out with the common soldiers. The rest, under Captain Tryndel, remain here to protect the citadel."
"Divide our forces?" Ozett asked. "That is the worst of solutions."
"Even so," Tryndel's voice was taut with frustration, but he held it steady. "I admit that Master Sulyvahn has a point. After all, it is our future that hangs in the balance," he pressed. "We must tread cautiously. Think of our families. Think of your son, Ozett."
"Do not pander to my paternal instincts, captain," Ozett snapped. "Oceiros can barely yet walk, and he has more courage in his heart than you. We must bleed the enemy dry before it can reach –"
His words were interrupted by a messenger quietly but urgently entering the chamber. He bowed and stood in submissive stance before the godkin.
"Speak," Ozett commanded.
"There is great tumult in the city," the messenger spoke quickly. "We are breached, my lords. Outriders, a dozen of them, scour the lower bergs, even as we speak."
A hush descended on the council. Then Tryndel broke the quiet.
"How did they infiltrate the city?"
"How indeed?" Ozett glanced at Sulyvahn with raised eyebrows. The sorcerer shook his head slowly.
"I will go with the soldiers," he said. "I helped make these monsters. I know how to break them."
To his surprise, Ozett agreed. "Go, Sulyvahn. What better chance to prove your sterling loyalty?"
As he departed the chamber, Sulyvahn felt a rush of adrenaline surge through him. It was excitement, he knew. This was the endgame.
This is what it is like, he thought. This was what Gwynn must have felt when he stood against the dragons. A new age is dawning, and I stand on the horizon's edge.
An age he would live to see. An age he would shape. It was his destiny. He had not lost all that he had built for naught. He would emerge from this war with more than he had ever lost.
But first, he must prepare properly. He went to the library.
"I must see the trophy room," he told the librarians. "In the name of Gwyndolin, I must acquire something there that will be used to defend him and his dominion."
The librarians did not budge for him. He pressed his case again. And again. At the third time, two of them escorted him to the trophy room. He walked past the cases that had so fascinated him on his first visit, and stood before one in particular.
"This one."
The librarians hesitated. Even with their senses sealed by wax, they could no doubt sense the power of the artifact.
"I wield this unnatural essence to defend the First Flame," Sulyvahn pleaded. "Please, allow me this."
The case was lifted. Sulyvahn took back what was his.
He held up the Profaned Greatsword and admired the black sheen glistening on its edge.
And so it begins, he thought. The new age arrives.