12
Lurien kept to the Spire's backrooms and maintenance passages, attempting to evade attention wherever possible. Given that the very building bore his name, he had limited success. The eyes of attendants and mender bugs followed him at every corner, no matter how he shooed them away.
He passed through an intersection at the ground floor, a mere dozen paces from the relative isolation of the basement, when he overheard Soul Master barking orders. Though far from gracefully, Lurien darted behind a rolling trash bin. He crouched low, knees popping, and waited.
"Be careful, oaf," Soul Master said. "That is more valuable than you are."
Lurien dared the briefest peek and spied several worker bugs bearing a laboratory's worth of contraptions and glassware down the hall. They moved in a linear procession, limbs trembling against the weight. All the while, Soul Master hovered overhead, as if daring one of them to drop something.
Though he felt a bit foolish, like a child hiding from his chores, Lurien kept quiet and let Soul Master pass. Now was no time for a verbal duel. Gradually, the sound of jangling glassware and grunting worker bugs faded, and Lurien stood. He hustled to the basement door.
The Spire was equipped with a variety of elevators, lifts, and dumbwaiters. The basement alone connected to three of each, but Lurien had avoided them entirely. Taking the stairs ensured that he would not be seen. No one ever used them, after all. It was common knowledge that they were a deathtrap.
A lone lumafly bulb kept vigil over the descent. With its steps of irregular, rough-hewn stone and complete lack of a guardrail, Lurien speculated how many Spire personnel had lost their footing—and possibly their lives—in this very spot.
He moved slowly.
Very slowly.
At the bottom he whispered thanks to the King.
The Spire's lower passages were tangled and cramped, suffused with a cloying warmth. The distant clang of shovels meeting coal echoed endlessly. Lurien passed through an acrid cloud of soot and stifled a cough. He noticed a battered lantern sitting on a nearby workbench. He lit it with his striker, then hefted the cumbersome thing with both claws. Light would be a crucial ally beyond a certain point.
Despite a close call near the main furnace room, Lurien went undetected, and reached the most remote chamber in the basement. It was much like the others, save for the reinforced metal door. All about it, carved into the very stone, was a message written in several different scripts, some of which Lurien had never even seen.
It read:
Turn back if you value life. Only death waits below.
A sudden thumping started up in Lurien's chest. This always happened when he spotted those words. The faintest urge to heed them, to flee, to defer this task yet again, gripped him. He held his ground until it passed.
The King would watch over him.
He rooted through his robes—this time he'd remembered to wear the correct set—and produced a heavy iron ring, laden with assorted keys. He approached the door and unlocked it, revealing a descending staircase, at the base of which stood an identical door. This repeated several times, each door requiring a different key. Lurien's clomping steps and labored breathing rebounded off the low ceilings, suffocating him with their noise. Though it was a linear path, the downward spiral filled him with the sense that he was being hurled into a labyrinth from which there would be no escape.
As he opened the final door, a bitter cold spilled out, coiling around his legs and waist. It came as a relief at first, for the long trek had made his joints ache and his shell swelter, but after only a few moments, the cold permeated him fully.
He shivered.
The door swung wide, lantern light leaping forth, and Lurien beheld the Pale Vault.
Long before the Spire scraped the City's ceiling, before even its earliest foundations were laid, the King had built this Vault. He'd overseen the construction personally, allowing only his automatons to aid him. Lurien recalled how this region of the city had been cordoned off for months on end. It was only after the Vault's completion that the Spire received enough funding to begin construction of its own… in the very same spot. He held little doubt that the Spire was nothing more to the King than an elaborate gatehouse, a shield and a distraction for something far more precious.
Lurien's breath, now visible in the chill, churned beneath his mask. He swept the lantern from side to side, painting the vault with yellow light.
The gate to the Vault had no handles, no keyholes, just a broad archway nestling a pair of featureless silver doors. The remainder of the Vault was built of a strange, black material that resembled clumsily-molded clay. Despite the irregularities to it, the bulges and furrows, this material possessed an incredible strength. Lurien did not know where it came from, but he didn't like looking at it.
Something lurched at the periphery of his vision. It separated from the mass of the wall and stood.
King, it was twice his height!
Lurien centered the lantern on the thing and stumbled back. It was a Kingsmould, but not the sort that were sometimes paraded before the public. This was an old form, one of the first. It lacked all the stiff-backed regality of its younger kin. And its armor, likewise, was without pageantry, one might have even called it shoddy: a patchwork of metal plates topped by the crude dome of a helmet. The Mould's eyes—two scorch-white spots—shone through the visor.
There was no weapon in the Mould's hands. It needed none. From its bulbous shoulders emerged two pairs of long, scythe-like limbs. They moved in sinuous patterns, as if searching blindly for prey.
The Mould took a step toward him, limbs already reaching, their serrated prongs glittering.
Lurien clasped at a cord around his neck and inhaled deeply. "I am—", but his throat seized shut.
It took another step.
If he did not act then he would be cut down. This fear would be the death of him.
"I—"
The Mould drew close enough that Lurien could see its body beneath the armor, the almost liquid consistency, like a pitch-black sea ready to swallow him.
"I AM LURIEN THE WATCHER! CHOSEN OF THE KING!"
He ripped the cord free and brandished the most valuable possession he owned: a Hallownest Seal, blessed by the King's own claw. A new light, a sterling radiance, erupted from the Seal. In piercing bolts, it flew, striking the walls, the doors, the Kingsmould. As though met with a physical weight, the Mould came to a halt, a mere step out of reach. It regarded the Seal for some time, as though considering the options before it. And then, gradually, almost contemptuously, the Mould retreated, reversing its steps, and planting its back against the lumpen wall of the Vault. It melded into the material, fusing so fully that only its armor remained to protrude off the surface like huge, discarded scales.
The Vault doors shook and then slid apart, revealing a long, low passage. Lurien placed a claw against the door frame to steady himself. He waited for the pain in his chest to subside.
How many times had he visited the Pale Vault now? Six? He couldn't be sure. Long ago, the King had bid him to inspect it at least once a decade, to confirm that its contents were safe and that its wards had not waned. Each and every time, that damned Mould had accosted him, and every time he nearly died of fright. Lurien had beseeched the King on multiple occasions to replace the Mould with a newer, more reliable form, perhaps one of the gleaming sentinels that policed the Palace, but he had refused. The King had intimated that replacing the Mould would be a far greater danger than merely leaving it in service.
As he always did in this circumstance, Lurien wondered what precisely the King fashioned his automatons from. The same material he built his walls with, evidently. Did it play a part in the Vessels' creation, too?
Once the pain had diminished to something manageable, Lurien straightened and approached the low passage. It was absolutely choked with deadly contraptions: blades and spears and crushing slabs. They deactivated as he drew close, responding, he presumed, to the Hallownest Seal at his neck. He considered the practicality of all this. Was a Kingsmould not a sufficient guardian? Did the King really fear intruders so deeply? Or were all these traps meant to prevent escape, and not entry? Even after several visits, Lurien still did not know everything that lurked within the Vault. It possessed many sunken chambers that he'd never found the valor to investigate.
He resolved to keep this stay brief. As usual.
The Vault's interior was a vast dome, from which dangled many constellations of glowing orbs. They weren't Lumafly lights, best as Lurien could tell, for those would have died out long ago. Instead, they seemed to be of a similar design to the lever-activated lantern that the King had demonstrated a few days prior. How, exactly, these lights functioned in perpetuity could not be guessed, but Lurien was glad to have them regardless. They radiated a soft warmth that made the vault bearable, if not quite comfortable.
He lowered his own lantern and set out across the polished floor. Several curiosities passed him by. First was an abraded workbench, upon which rested an assortment of metal plates and spools of thread. Lurien supposed these to be reagents for future automatons. An idea rose, halting his feet. He looked for some sign of a Vessel among the miscellany, perhaps a scrap of those strange cloaks that they wore. He found none.
Next, he passed a huge, rectangular frame of metal. It was empty in the center, with enough space to accommodate a dozen or more bugs. The inner lining of the frame was filled with gears, wires, and delicate pistons, implying some complex mechanical function. During his early visits to the Vault, Lurien hadn't understood the purpose of this object. It was only after the City began construction on its first tram station that he'd made the connection. He wondered how many hours the King had whittled away devising this tram prototype. Seeing it never ceased to fill Lurien with awe at the King's intellect.
Third, he encountered a small library of waist-high scroll racks that encircled a single desk. Both the racks and the desk were formed of that same black material that made up the walls and ceiling, but these were smooth to the touch, like panes of glass. An open scroll rested on the desk, long forgotten.
Other objects caught his eye, but they were either too puzzling or too unnerving to warrant further inspection. It did not sit well with him to poke about this private sanctum. He felt like an invader of the King's very thoughts.
Lurien reached the far side of the Vault and did as the King had decreed all those years ago. He extended the Hallownest Seal toward the outer wall, and a glowing pattern appeared, hovering just above the wall's surface, diaphanous as a sheet of silk. It resembled a script of some sort, with long graceful curves accented with dots and small circles. As had been explained to him, this ward granted the Vault its shape and stability. Without it, the whole structure would dissolve. The King had woven his own power into this ward, and it would persist so long as he did. But why, though, did he require it to be regularly inspected? His power was boundless, meaning the ward would be the same.
Was that not so?
As Lurien circumnavigated the Vault, watching keenly for any abnormality in the ward, he thought of Soul Master. If that braggart grew impatient, would he attempt to force his way in? Soul magic allowed for all manner of miracles: healing, teleportation, the projection of energy and light. If he fully committed to the task, could Soul Master actually infiltrate this sacred place? Lurien doubted that he could overcome the King's wards. He was nearly certain that he couldn't overcome the Kingsmould.
However, if Soul Master ignored the warning message and ventured to the Vault's gate, would that mean the end of him? Lurien did not care for Soul Master, but no one, no matter how vile, deserved a fate like that.
Eventually, Lurien completed his task. The ward seemed strong, the Vault secure. He could ignore this for another decade. But no, that wasn't true, was it? He did not have another decade. Once he donned his new title, then he would never return to this place. Someone else would need to safekeep it in his stead. But who? Belvedere? No, Lurien would not see him imperiled. Gram? Perhaps. The terror would certainly be easier for him to endure. It seemed like a cruel burden to place on a friend, though.
He stowed the thought and beat a swift retreat, but as he passed the cluster of scroll racks, something about them arrested his attention. He stopped and placed a claw upon the desk. The King had been in this very library, pored over these very scrolls.
"What did you seek to learn?" Lurien whispered. "What did you not already know?"
He sat. A tide of nascent thoughts engulfed him. The Infection, the Vessels, the wards. Hornet…
Hesitantly, feeling almost like an apostate, Lurien lifted the open scroll upon the desk. Dust covered it from top to bottom. Within, he expected to find a tangle of arcane jargon and incomprehensible schematics. Instead, the scroll was penned in large, looping strokes, interspersed with whimsical illustrations. It looked to be the sort of thing a child would read. The scroll was sizeable and quite timeworn. If it was a product of the Spire, then it must have been one of the first. He held it carefully, scanning the colorful volumes within.
This was an omnibus of children's stories.
He rolled through the scroll's contents, at first in sheer bewilderment, but then with purpose. Three specific stories came to his mind. Surely at least one of them resided here. As he went, Lurien noted that many of the titles had been struck through with a fine quill. At first, he bristled. This act of vandalism was anathema to his scholarly temperament. What manner of barbarian would deface a good scroll, no matter how simple its subject matter? But then he saw something scrawled beside one of the marked-out titles, a message from the barbarian in question:
Irrelevant - champions no ethics, offers no edification.
Lurien froze. This was the King's claw. He had seen it on so many occasions that there could be no doubt.
He rolled farther down and encountered another comment beside a story titled 'The Mawlek That Swallowed a Knight'.
Acceptable - esteems perseverance, defiance before fear.
What was this? Had the King truly seen fit to review a collection of children's stories? To what end? Was this for Hornet? No, the marks were quite old. They surely preceded her. Who, then?
He continued on. The next title filled him with triumph: 'The Very Hungry Grub'. He began reading through it, attempting to consign it to memory, but this one had apparently drawn the King's eye as well, for it was marked in several places.
Problematic – rewards gluttony with ascension and not punishment, may cultivate sympathy for grub-kind, which cannot be abided. Avoid.
Lurien paused and reconsidered. If the King saw this story as a poor choice, then perhaps one of the other two would better serve.
Time passed by in a blur. Despite its size, Lurien made quick work of the scroll. It was a much easier read than his usual fare. A strange sense of camaraderie began to settle over him. He felt as though the King were seated beside him, offering opinions and judgments. From the different inks employed, it seemed that the King had revisited this scroll on several occasions.
At last, near the very end, 'The Weaverling and the Bell' appeared. This one, too, bore a comment from the King, but it was smeared and oddly spaced, as though not written with a quill, but with a careless clawtip.
No prime gods to beg forgiveness.
What must be
shall be.
No cost too great.
Lurien stopped. The camaraderie fell away, as though blown by a chill wind. He checked the remainder of the scroll. The King had made no more marks. He'd abandoned it. From the layer of dust, it was quite possible that he had never touched this scroll again.
As though freed from a spell, Lurien stood and stepped away from the desk. He felt sordid, suddenly complicit in some execrable act beyond his ken. He began to leave, to flee the Vault as good sense had previously bid him.
But Hornet's request echoed, and he lingered just long enough to snatch up the scroll before quitting the place.
Forevermore.
The lantern seemed so much heavier as he ascended the spiraling steps and unlocked the many doors. His mind was afire with dire possibility. He felt almost intoxicated, rendered incapable of coherent thought by some poison. But it would pass. He knew. And that frightened him all the more. The fire would gutter, and only the scorched truth would remain.
He reached the basement after a lifetime of toil and slammed the final door shut behind him. His limbs quaked, and the scroll under his robes knocked against his chest. He wanted so dearly to crumple to the ground. What difference did it make if a labor bug saw him?
But then, the very last voice that he wanted to hear picked up from across the room, "Ah, there you are, Watcher." Soul Master hovered there, his silhouette red with furnace light. "I thought that I detected a great emanation of Soul in this area. Was that your doing?"
Despite everything, Lurien braced his back against the reinforced door and stood tall. "I was merely fulfilling an errand for the King. No need to trouble yourself."
"A rather dolorous place for errands," Soul Master observed.
"Yes, well, the basement is lacking in most amenities to accommodate guests, given that is not its purpose. If you are so curious, then I can provide a tour of it. Or better yet, the commissary. The evening meal is fast approaching."
"The Spire has piqued my interest, I must admit. However, if I would beseech a tour of anything, it is the Pale Vault. How was your visit, by the way?"
"Harrowing," Lurien said. The word spilled from him, involuntary like a gush of blood.
Soul Master feigned a sympathetic noise. "As we might expect, given your constitution. However, I have a proposal, Watcher, one that will resolve our respective dilemmas forthwith. Grant me just one night to study the Vault. By wielding the knowledge within, I can fulfill my destiny. I can save us all. Should you do this, I will vacate your Spire and never return. That is what you wish, is it not?"
To his own surprise, Lurien actually considered the offer. It would be such a weight from his mind to be rid of Soul Master. But even in this addled state, he realized the deceit. Just a moment ago he'd read a tale about a Tiktik that begged for a morsel of food, and upon receiving it asked for another, and another, until it devoured every last crumb.
"No. That will not come to pass."
Energy crackled about Soul Master's form. "You need not follow me if fear is the cause for you obstinance. Merely show me the way."
Lurien pushed off the door. He felt so empty, so utterly spent. But even so, he took a breath. "This Spire is a repository of incomparable scale, that grows every passing day. One could invest their entire lifespan into reading all its contents, and still fail. But listen to me now, Soul Master, as you are your own bug, and you will make your choices. If there is but a single line of script worth reading in this entire hoard, it is here." He placed a claw on the deathly warning carved into the wall.
Then he walked away.