Young Writers Society

Chapter 22:

The End of the Tunnel

When Prince reached the bottom of Quixa's seemingly never-ending tunnel, he tapped the side of the golden chariot, sending it up again.

Abruptly, he stepped back, feeling suddenly as if he would dissolve in the overwhelming blackness if he did not find something solid to cling to. He relaxed the moment his shoulders pressed against the tunnel's cool walls--then stiffened as a sharp pain ran through his left shoulder-blade. Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes and sat down on the ground. The floor was covered with dust, as if nobody had thought of wiping it down for a long time. Had it really been a year since Prince's father had last led him through these caves? He seemed to have lived through decades in that interval.

Suddenly, he felt tired and old. Shifting his arm into a more comfortable position, he placed his chin in the dim between his knees.

A single wooden door was set into the dark grey stone of the circular walls, leading, Prince knew, to Quixa's cave. He looked up, squinting into the darkness; it reminded him of inkwash, of the ink-crusted quills that had littered his father's study. He had always wondered what made them so black, asked his father if the darkness could be scrubbed away. Was it the night sky trapped in a bottle? Did light abandon some objects, condemn to eternal rejection? He shook his head and blew out his cheeks. His heart hammered in his chest; his forehead was slick with sweat. He was ill--that was all. He was ill and his ideas were running away with themselves. But the tunnel was alarmingly familiar; no matter how he tried, Prince could not suppress the forthcoming tide of memories that seemed to swamp his mind and dot his vision. He shook his head again, as if to clear it, and looked up into the tunnel to see if Arlene was coming. Halfway down, he had fancied he had heard her scream, and the thought made him uneasy. Ought he to have left her alone?

The tunnel seemed so much longer from where he sat, and narrower, but if he squinted upward, he could almost trick himself into seeing a glimmer of light at the end. A glimmer of light ... and a flash of Arlene's vivid hair? He swirled his spit around his mouth and swallowed it--even then it felt thick, like a fog was passing down his throat.

He knew the chariot was fast, but it took ages to travel down the tunnel. He wondered if he ought to have warned Arlene about this, but he had been impatient. Even now, as he clutched his arm, it took a remarkable amount of self-control for him to resist setting off toward Quixa's on his own. Would the old man remember him? he wondered vaguely, thinking of the wispy, frail looking Ixister, who perpetually carried an air of having a cloud seated on his brow. Prince knew that he certainly looked different from the last time he had been here, but Quixa had seemed nice enough ... simple, undiscerning.... He smiled. This was what his father had wanted of him--to lead the girl to the Ixister, as soon as her nightmares began, as soon as she realised she was the Key, and the other girl her Guardian. Yes, Prince thought, it had worked well up to this point. And he hoped--he hoped that soon--

He never finished the thought. His face slipped down his knees, pressing into the crook of his arm.

It was hard to tell how much time had passed since he had reached the bottom of the tunnel. Prince slept intermittently, but his body was in a constant state of drowsiness. He tried shaking himself out of it, but every time he woke up, his mouth dry, the pain in his shoulder reminded him of how glorious sleep was. His hands looked pale and sickly, curled up on his fleecy trousers; he was sweaty and hungry, and the darkness was a behemoth that seemed to be reaching into his lungs and pulling out handfuls of air. What would his father say? Probably compare him to his brother, Prince thought bitterly. But then again--it wasn't his brother who had stepped from a world of comfort into this pithole, was he?

No, Prince told himself. I'm doing the right thing. He wouldn't have done it, if father had asked him to. He wouldn't have.

And so, Prince waited ... and waited, and waited.

Still, the hours stretched on into eternity, and Arlene did not arrive.

Eventually, he got to his feet, worry and dismay swirling like a thundercloud in the pit of his stomach. The door was unlocked, as it had been the last time, and slowly, Prince trudged through it. The sudden influx of light into his dim cave extinguished a kind of hunger within him--he had been craving, he realised, desperately craving light.

He opened his eyes wider, relishing in the pain that pricked his eyeballs. He was glad--so glad--but so tired, and so worried that he had scarcely moved into the vestibule of Quixa's airy, marble-floored territory that he keeled over, retched, and collapsed face-down into a puddle of his own vomit.

When Prince woke up, he felt like he was lying on a bed made of air. He squinted upward, at the ceiling, which glowed brightly enough to convince him he was underneath the vacuous sky. Gradually, his vision settled, and he realised that he was not looking at the sky, but at a lyte-fixture. It swung like a pendulum from the cave's yellowish-brown, limestone ceiling. He craned his neck and cringed; his muscles were pulled taut, like the skin of a drum, and the pain travelled all the way along the side of his body.

The room he was in was largely empty. A table stood in one corner, littered with rolls of bandages and numerous jars. The door was closed.

Turning onto his side, Prince made to push himself to his feet using his good hand. He was surprised when he saw that someone had removed his makeshift cast and replaced it with a proper one. More than that--his shirt had been removed and his shoulder popped back into his socket. Tentatively, he poked at a patch of bare skin around his dislocated shoulder--it was swollen and purple, and a green ointment had been smothered onto it.

Slowly, he stood up. His shoulder still ached badly, but it didn't bother him that much--it had happened all the time when he was younger, and he had gotten used to it. Or, at least, that was what he told himself.

In reality, it hadn't happened in five years. Prince wiped at his face with the back of his hand. Not ever since his brother had left.... He had refused to let the healers look at it, running away instead when they came chasing after him. After his brother, his father had been the only other person he would let touch his arm. And after his father...

Prince shook his head firmly. Quixa, he thought. He trudged toward the door, but it creaked open before he had made it halfway across the room. A tall man stood in the doorway, his wispy, white hair half-eclipsing his face. His beard was braided in intricate knots and tucked into his belt. Like the last time they had met, Ixister Quixa wore nothing but white, which was quite a contrast against his dark skin. A cloak rested on his shoulders--a futile but grand gesture, considering he never went out, or had guests.

'Ah!' he said, when he saw Prince. His face broke out into a wide smile. 'Ah! You're awake. And just in time, too, for we have a guest, and he wishes to see you.' With a flourish of his cloak, he turned around, and gracefully hopped out through the door.

Laughing lightly, Prince followed.

Quixa's cave consisted of one great room; bookcases lined the walls, and enchantments on the roof had allowed for him to construct shelves there, too. Prince looked up, drinking in the sight of the old spines; the exquisite gold letters winked at him from their faded covers, and a deep longing rose inside his soul. It had been ages since he had handled a book, ages since he had sat with his back to the window in his room and let the light wash down on to centuries of tireless effort, all tied in the elegance of twisting cursive. Homesickness, worry--the feelings plunged out his insides, and for a moment, he paused, letting himself travel back home, if only in memory.

Quixa had never fallen short of decorating his cave with all the bits and pieces he could possibly find. Feathers were glued to where books did not cling to the cave's rocky walls; a threadbare rug in bright colours was laid out on the floor--a Sezari rug, from the city of Alteria where the Sezari people had long-established handloom factories. It was a thriving business, and Alteria had been Quixa's old home.

In a corner of the cave stood a brass-iron bedstead, a table, and an ottoman. All the furniture was clustered very close together, probably because pots and pans, and jars and bottles were suspended in the air, all floating merrily as if waiting for someone to grab them. The pots all brushed against Quixa's legs as he walked by, and a teapot shrilled--Prince realised that it was mewling.

'You didn't have all these things before, last year,' he said loudly.

Quixa hummed in reply. 'Indeed,' he said, 'I did not, or else that they were hidden, which I imagine they were.'

'Yeah--do you remember me?' Prince ducked underneath a large saucepot and peered at Quixa nervously. The Ixister's face remained devoid of emotion as he looked at Prince; it was as though a perpetual clous were seated on his brow. He nodded abruptly, then, still humming, gestured toward the ottoman. 'Sit,' he said, in his musical voice, before spinning in a graceful arc and sitting down himself. 'Sit,' he repeated, to a pile of boxes that were placed beside the ottoman.

Curious, Prince craned his neck to see behind the boxes. A figure in a black cloak was hunched by one of Quixa's numerous bookcases. Prince couldn't see his face, and it wasn't until he was seated that the figure straightened, blowing dust off a tottering pile of books.

Prince nearly choked on his own spittle. He recognised the man--not because he had ever met him before, but from pictures his father had shown him. Quixa continued to hum the same, tuneless melody under his breath as the man sorted through the books, levitating them before him as he flipped through the pages. Then, with a nonchalant flick of his hand, he summoned a chair in his direction; he dropped his stack neatly on it.

'I think I might have found what I've needed, Quixa,' he said, raking a hand through his fiery red beard. He sat down heavily on the bedstead; its springs creaked in protest.

'Oh, good,' Quixa said, smiling wanly. 'I was certain there was a map here, and I told you, did I not, that it would be by the ottoman? Everything is by the ottoman.'

'Yes, I can see that,' the man said dismissively. He turned to Prince, and his eyebrow flared into his hairline. Prince scooted a few inches backward, trying not to let the fear flash in his eyes.

'You are Prince?' the man asked. Upon receiving a murmur of assent, he continued: 'I am Kelm. You brought our Arlene to see Quixa?'

Another murmur. Kelm nodded.

'I see. She didn't arrive, as is obvious from the company we have gathered here.' He picked up a book from his pile and wiped at it with his magnificently embroidered, silk sleeve. 'I do not know who you are, Prince'--Prince exhaled in relief when Kelm said this--'but I trust that you know why Arlene had to be brought here. You have been here before, haven't you?' He gazed at Prince with his piercing, dark eyes. Intelligence flickered in their depths. 'Quixa will not tell me who you are, I assume it is because of some form of honour. So I will ask you ... who are you, how did you understand that Arlene's "dreams" were portentous of Tryal's prophecy, and who,' he stressed, 'told you to bring her here?'