Dagny: An Inheritance Cycle Fanfiction.

17. Her Ladyship's Prisoner

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Final Word Count: 3755

"We're lost." Tornac said from behind him.

Arne gritted his teeth. The boy's presence had been grating on his nerves for nearly two hours now. His dragging human pace seemed slow as a crawl, when all Arne wanted was to run through these dark, cloistered tunnels as fast as he possibly could.

"We are not," he replied, as evenly as he could.

The human prince snorted behind him. "We're going in circles. All these cursed tunnels look the same."

Arne clenched his jaw, biting down on a snapping retort. He was just as irritated as the prince, just as tired, and yes, maybe the low, shadowy tunnels were all starting to blend together after hours - what felt like hours - of walking. But the prince's petulant attitude helped nothing. Patience, patience was required. He knew where he was going. He had followed the route from Callien's mind exactly.

"Maybe to human eyes -" Arne began, but Tornac cut him off almost instantly.

"Don't even try that! I know we're going in circles! This is the third time we've passed that writing on the wall!"

What did the little prince say? Laine interjected.

"What?!" Arne demanded, looking around sharply.

"I said, I know we're going in circles -"

Arne waved him aside. "After that. What writing?"

The prince stalled. "I thought -" he began, then stopped, half-abashed. "The markings on the wall. They look...like runes, almost. I assumed..."

"Where?"

Tornac raised a hand and Arne crouched to examine the part of the wall he was pointing at. The prince was carrying a dimming torch, but Arne didn't need the light to see by. Even in the dark, he could make out the half-formed, familiar shapes. He touched the wall, lightly, and coverings of moss and earth came away with his hand. He scraped away layers of damp dirt, revealing the elegant, swirling patterns of the Lidhuen Kvaedhi. He narrowed his eyes, studying it minutely. He recognised words of the ancient language but the style and syntax were archaic; old even by the measure of the elves.

Let ye be lost, Arne read, then rubbed at the wall to expose more writing, who enter below. Let ye wander in perpetual darkness, never to know again the touch of sun on thy face

The words faded into illegibility, the shapes of the runes worn by time down to nothing. Arne repressed a slight shiver. Old magic emanated from the carvings, old and hostile magic. Whatever magician had scripted these runes, he had been dark-souled. There had been enough hate in him that Arne could still feel the ghost of it, centuries upon centuries later.

Evil, Laine agreed, her distaste colouring his thoughts.

"What does it say?" Tornac asked from behind him. "Is it a spell?"

Arne straightened. "A misdirection spell. There's probably some variation of it -" he indicated the tunnels behind and before them "- for leagues along the tunnels."

"A misdirection spell." Tornac said flatly. "I suppose that does what it says on the tin?"

"It confuses you." Arne said shortly. "Changes your perception of distance, direction...powerful spells can even change your memories of which way you came, or how long you've been walking."

Tornac moved closer to the wall, shining his light over the runes. "That's elven writing."

"It is."