Sons of Ironstorm - Book 4: Griffon's Stand

Journey in Shadow

At first it was unrelenting darkness as the hand continued to pull him downward, his open eyes seeing nothing. Yet his lungs didn't push outward as they would in water and his momentary panic, which had rapidly swelled upon his entry into the pool, eased. Wherever this force was taking him, it apparently didn't mean to drown him. He was safe, for the moment.

A light ahead gave Ciradaan a flicker of hope even as his speed slowed. A glimmer, like Ri'im's careful dance across the waves of a pool as seen from below, the light grew and grew until it lessened the darkness. Then the Aquilan king was bobbing to a surface he didn't expect to exist, shaking the water from his eyes to take a look at where he had been pulled.

Home in the water from long turns spent paddling the Larsh's many lakes and rivers as an adventurous youth, Ciradaan used his legs and hands to smoothly swing side to side to let his eyes sweep across the large chamber that surrounded the pool. That pool, its bottom far beyond his eyes' ability to discover, stood in a crescent-shaped basin in a polished white stone floor. Beyond was a broad patio that stretched to a pale white wall, which bore no mark or sigil to give it identity. 

To either side rose graceful curving staircases that climbed to a railed mezzanine. In the far wall stood a door, the portal slightly open to let a measure of diffuse light trickle past. The walls to either side, and behind, as well as the distant ceiling, were as unremarkable as the first, so Ciradaan let his eyes slide over them quickly before refocusing on the doorway on the mezzanine as he stroked to the curving edge of the pool. If there were an answer to be found here, it would be through that door.

After checking to make sure the Sword of Aesthegon was still secure once he pulled himself free from the pool, Ciradaan advanced, dripping, to the left hand staircase, eyes sharp. He certainly didn't want anything in this strange place to catch him off his guard. When nothing amiss reached his attention, he slowly eased up the stairs, keeping the nondescript wall to his back as his head swung back and forth. With a final anxious step he was up on the mezzanine and stepping towards the door. A final check around the mezzanine and he was through the door with little pause.

Beyond the unmarked portal stood yet another unremarkable place, this time a tall, broad hallway, filled with the source-less lighting that had initially spilled through into the pool chamber. Logic dictated that he go from one end of the hallway to the other, with only a door at either end but Ciradaan was an elf of passion. Logic played a part in his decision only after he listened to his heart. Unfortunately for caution, both were speaking with the same voice and, renewing his resolve, the Aquilan Eagle clansman once again eased forward.

Keeping both walls equidistant to himself and his hand ready to reach for his sword at the first sign of any danger, Ciradaan made his way to the hallway's far end. There, once again he paused to take a quick look around before slipping through the door, which opened at his touch. And immediately came to a shocked halt.

The room beyond the second door, unlike its predecessors, was almost tiny, an easy ten paces square. But that, in itself, wasn't what brought the white haired elven monarch to a stunned stop. It was the cage of black bars that stood at its heart, barely tall enough to let a man stand within, and a mere three paces by three paces in dimension. Even more shocking were its occupants: two young men, so similar in appearance it was obvious they were kin, battered and worn. They sat on the cage's floor, arms holding their knees in close, staring at the ground in front of them with tired eyes. 'Frost me icy.' Ciradaan silently shouted. Najthin had been close with his supposition as to what happened to the young Wielders. But this was no barrier to be breached; it was a prison, plain and simple. A prison for the Wielders' souls!

One, with his hair tousled and his handsome face in an expression Ciradaan had only seen a handful of times after his younger self had been defeated on the practice field, the Aquilan monarch swiftly recognized.