“This gaol raised upon ground once claimed by imperial might, in absence of emperor slain did bend knee alone to the Nyphron Church Patriarch. Now within these walls never a grain of sand did drop to mark the passage of time but without thunder of war did rumble. Armies marched and lands divided, the empire lost to warlords’ whim. Then through bloody strife did these hills birth Melengar, realm sovereign under lordly king. What privilege once reserved alone only for a mitered head hast now fallen to thee. To thee, good King of Melengar, who has the power to right wrong so long omit. Nine centuries of dust hast buried wit, dear king, for these jailers hath forgotten how to read their own runes!”
In the distance, Hadrian heard the grinding of stone on stone. Outside the cell, the great door was opening. “Speak those words, my lord, and thou will end nine hundred years of wrongful imprisonment.”
“How does this help?” Alric asked. “This place is filled with guards. How does this get us out?”
The wizard smiled a great grin. “Thy words will cast aside the barrier enchantment and allow me the freedom to use the Art once more.”
“You’ll cast a spell. You’ll disappear!”
Footsteps thundered on the bridge, which had apparently reappeared. Hadrian ran up the gallery stairs to look down the tunnel. “We have guards coming! And they don’t look happy.”
“If you’re going to do this, you’d better make it fast,” Royce told Alric.
“They’ve swords drawn,” Hadrian shouted. “Never a good sign.”
Alric glared down at the wizard. “I want your word you won’t leave us here.”
“Gladly given, my lord.” The wizard inclined his head respectfully.
“This better work,” Alric muttered, and began reading aloud the words on the floor below.
Royce raced to join Hadrian as he positioned himself at the mouth of the tunnel. Hadrian planned to use its confined space to limit the advantage of the guard’s numbers and planted his feet while Royce took up position slightly behind him. In unison, they drew their weapons, preparing for the impending onslaught. At least twenty men stormed the gallery. Hadrian could see their eyes and recognized what burned there. He had fought numerous battles and he knew the many faces of combat. He had seen fear, recklessness, hatred, even madness. What came at him now was rage—blind, intense rage. Hadrian studied the lead man, estimating his footfalls to determine which leg his weight would land on when he came within striking range. He did the same with the man behind him. Calculating his attack, he raised his swords, but the prison guards stopped. Hadrian waited with his swords still poised, yet the guards did not advance.
“Let us away,” he heard Esrahaddon say from behind. Hadrian whirled around and discovered the wizard was no longer on the stage below. Instead, he moved casually past Hadrian, navigating around the stationary guards. “Come, come,” Esrahaddon called.
Without a word, the group hurried after the wizard. He led them through the tunnel and across the newly extended bridge. The prison was oddly silent, and it was then that Hadrian realized the music had stopped. The only remaining sound was their footfalls against the hard stone floor.
“Be at ease for perils past but tarry not and follow well,” Esrahaddon told them reassuringly.
They did as instructed, and no one said a word. To pass the clerk, who stood peering through the great door, they needed to come within inches of his anxiety-riddled face. As Hadrian attempted to slip by without bumping him, he saw the man’s eye move. Hadrian stiffened. “Can they see or hear us?”
“Nay. A ghostly breath is all thee be, a chill and swirl of air to their percept.”
The wizard led them without hesitation, making turns, crossing bridges, and climbing stairs with total confidence.
“Maybe we’re dead?” Myron whispered, glaring at each frozen guard he passed. “Maybe we’re all dead now. Maybe we’re ghosts.”
Hadrian thought Myron might be on to something. Everything was so oddly still, so empty. The fluid movement of the wizard and his billowing robe, which now emitted a soft silvery light far brighter than any lantern or torch, only heightened the surreal atmosphere.
“I don’t understand. How is this possible?” Alric asked, stepping around a pair of black-suited guards who watched the third bridge. He waved his hand before the face of one of them, who did not respond. “Is this your doing?”
“ ’Tis the ithinal.”
“Huh?”
“A magic box. Power to alter time eludes the grasp of man, for too vast be the scope and too great the field. Yet enclose the space, confine the effect, and tame the wild world within. Upon these walls, my colleagues of old wove enchantments complex. Designed to affect magic and time, I had but to ever so slightly adjust a fiber or two within the weave to throw us out of phase.”
“So, the guards can’t see us, but that doesn’t explain why they are just standing there,” Hadrian said. “We disappeared, and you’re free. Why are they not searching? Shouldn’t they be locking doors to trap us?”
“Within these walls, locked art the sands of time for all but us.”
“You turned it inside out!” Myron exclaimed.
Esrahaddon looked with an appraising eye over his shoulder at the monk. “ ’Tis thrice thou hast impressed me. What did thou say thy name was?”
“He didn’t,” Royce answered for him.