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Chapter Four

Dalhmun Prison

Ruins of the Transellian Republic

Amos Lowe

Breakfast. Work. Lunch. Work. Dinner. Isolation. Sleep.

The same routine, every day, for so many years. There had been a time when Amos had tracked the days. Nothing special. Just the typical scratches on the wall of his cell. He’d stopped counting when he’d reached four years. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since. Years. Decades. If he was being honest with himself, decades was probably closer to the mark.

It was a Wednesday morning. The only reason he still kept up on the days of the week was so that he could continue honoring the Sabbath. He was the only one of his kind in the prison, so it made for a lonely ceremony, conducted in secret.

Once upon a time, Dalhmun Prison had been the pinnacle of the Transellian justice system, but a century of being trapped between two warring empires had ruined this land. It had been taken by Almacia. Then Kolakolvia. Almacia again. Kolakolvia again. Back and forth for as long as those great nations had been at war. Amos wasn’t sure who owned the prison now. No officials from their conquering country ever bothered visiting. That had been the point of his coming here.

It was safe to assume that everyone he’d ever known thought he was dead. Except there was one person in the world who did care about Amos Lowe’s whereabouts, and he knew that Nicodemus would never rest until he knew for sure. Where better to hide than in a place nobody in their right mind would want to go to?

The rattling of an iron-banded, wooden club against the bars of the cells announced the need for all the prisoners to stand at attention and await inspection. Amos, in all the years since he’d been here, had never once had that rattling of wood against iron wake him. Not a single time. He’d always awoken long before the guards did their rounds. This morning—like all the previous mornings, and all the future ones to come—he pushed himself to his feet, and stretched upward, pressing his palms against the low ceiling of his cell. His back and shoulders popped, warning him that he was getting old. Or that he already was.

The guard reached Amos’ cell, paused, then inserted a key in the cell door and unlocked it.

“Zaydele.”

“Mr. Kartevur,” Amos replied with a dip of his head. “Do you know my assignment for the day?”

“Warden wants you.”

“Ah.”

Kartevur took two steps, stopped, then backed up. He didn’t look into the cell, but rather kept his gaze down. When he lifted a hand to scratch absently at the side of his nose, Amos noticed the bandage wrapped around it.

“That doesn’t look very comfortable, Mr. Kartevur. May I inquire as to what happened?”

The guard still didn’t look up. “Inmate slammed it in a door. It’s nothing.”

“It certainly doesn’t look like nothing. May I take a look? Perhaps I can help.”

After a brief moment of hesitation, the guard stepped inside the cell and held out his hand. “Thanks, Zaydele.”

That was the word for grandfather in Amos’ language, but by this point most everyone at the prison just assumed it was his name. “Of course. Next time all you have to do is ask. How is your wife? Did she recover sufficiently from the birth of your child?”

The guard still didn’t make eye contact. He never did. But he smiled and said, “She’s doing fine. Just fine.”

“Send her my best wishes, will you? Now let’s see . . . ah . . . well, that really does appear bad.”

Kartevur’s hand was a swollen, black-and-blue mess. Where the metal cell door had crushed his hand, the skin and muscle beneath had split open. Doubtless bones were broken. Amos turned it gently over, palm up. There, too, the flesh was torn. The guard winced as Amos touched each of the digits.

“You still have feeling in every finger, which is a good sign.”

“Is it going to get better?”

The wound was all scabbed up, but Amos leaned forward and sniffed it. The odor was light, but the sickly sweetness was there. Infection. He shook his head.

“This isn’t good. Can you see a physician?”

“Don’t have one nearby. I could see the prison doctor. He’s—”

“A butcher,” Amos interrupted. “He’ll want to take the hand. Quickly, is anyone coming this way? Hurry, please.”

Like an obedient child, the guard hurried and looked out of the cell, first one way, then the other. He shook his head and came back in.

So trusting. He’s lucky I don’t want to escape.

The truth was, Dalhmun was the safest place Amos could be. Only one person here had ever learned his actual name, and that had been a mistake, but it was doubtful the man who had heard Amos’ error would ever share it. But even after all these years—decades?—away from the institutions in Praja, he still remembered his training. Though they had branded him a heretic and would kill him on sight, Amos still believed in their doctrines. He could summon magic as easily now as he had then, perhaps more than ever, since he was no longer distracted by the world. He didn’t really have a world to be distracted by.

“Mr. Kartevur, there is a saying I once heard. ‘Learning never stops. When the spirit departs from the body, it takes with it all the knowledge gained in life.’ What do you think that means?”

The guard held out his hand again, this time a thoughtful frown on his face. “I . . . I don’t know, Zaydele.”

“I said the same thing to my father,” Amos said with a small laugh, as he used his fingernail to trace Ktav Ashuri letters onto the guard’s ruined hand. The conversation was mostly to distract Kartevur as he used his magic.

A voice whispered in the back of his mind, almost too quiet to hear. Is he worth it?

She wasn’t angry. Curious? Perhaps. The summoning magic was never meant to do this sort of thing, but it had been a wonderful, if unintended, consequence of Amos’ research while in Praja. It couldn’t do much more than heal small wounds and minor breaks. Anything greater risked permanently bonding the summoned spirit to the subject.

His wife and children probably think so, Amos silently replied. Will you please help him?

In response, a warmth settled over Amos. It felt like a loved one had placed their hands over his. An ache grew in the center of his chest. A longing to feel that hand in life again. The letters he traced softly glowed blue for the time it took to blink an eye. Kartevur wouldn’t have been able to see it even if he had been looking. That was a gift solely for those touched by the other realms.

The swelling reduced almost immediately. The smell dissipated. Amos looked up and saw tension leave the guard’s face as the pain subsided.

Amos felt the soft presence of the hand over his leave.

Until next time, love.

The world blurred momentarily as tears crept into his eyes. She was gone again.

“Are you alright?”

Amos quickly wiped his eyes and smiled up at the guard. “Perfectly fine, Mr. Kartevur. Perfectly fine. More importantly, how is your hand feeling? Better I hope?”

“It still hurts a little, but it feels better.”

“Good, good. You need to rewrap it. Clean bandages. Change them daily. If you do this, I expect you to recover fully over the course of a week or two. How does that sound?”

“Thanks. Olga will be happy. Can I bring you something? Some extra food? An extra blanket or pillow?”

“Oh that won’t be necessary but thank you.” Amos rubbed at his own hand, trying to conjure up the feeling of her presence again. It wouldn’t happen unless he invoked summoning magic, and actually performing the magic unnecessarily was the pinnacle of stupidity. “Actually, there is something.”

“Sure,” the guard nodded eagerly. He almost made eye contact that time. “What can I get you?”

“I would really like if you could bring me a piece of wood about this big.” Amos held his hands a foot apart. “And about as thick as my fist. Would that be possible?”

“You want a small log?”

“Yes, that’s a good way to describe it. A small log.”

“Who are you planning on hitting with it?” An edge of worry had slid into the guard’s eyes.

Amos waved the question away with a laugh. “Nothing like that, Mr. Kartevur. Nothing like that at all. I simply long to feel closer to life outside these walls. I’ve been here a long time. Honestly, I can’t even recollect what the grain of wood feels like. I used to whittle. Do you whittle?”

The worry had faded. “No, I’m not good with knives. Well, I can probably get that for you. No knives though. You wouldn’t be able to carve it or anything. Are you sure that’s what you want? I could probably get you something better.”

“The piece of wood is fine. Thank you for the offer.”

The guard looked down at his hand, the bruises on which were already beginning to fade. He shrugged. “I’ll get it for you. Thanks, again. Remember, the warden wants to see you.”

When Kartevur was gone, Amos straightened out the sheet and thin blanket on his cot. He pulled on the slippers all inmates were required to wear, then made his way along the concrete corridors to the warden’s office.

Once the guard stationed outside the office allowed Amos to pass, Amos found the warden staring out the window. Warden Tamf was short, squat, and had a massive beard that compensated for the utter lack of hair on the top of his head. He wore a solid black suit with shoes he shined every morning.

There was a bookcase with nearly twenty books on it, which was most impressive. He wasn’t sure if the warden ever actually read any of them or if he just liked to put on the appearance of being an intellectual. The warden’s desk was in the exact center of the room, immaculately clean except for a small folder held closed by a piece of string wrapped around it. Warden Tamf was looking at the lit pipe in his hand, brow furrowed as if trying to figure out how it had ended up in his possession.

“You don’t smoke, do you?”

“No, Warden.”

“Religion?”

“In part.”

“Does the smoke bother you?”

“Actually, no. It reminds me of home. My father smoked a pipe similar to yours. It still brings with it a sense of nostalgia.”

The warden nodded, then moved to the desk. With the stem of his pipe, he pushed the folder closer to Amos’ side of the table.

“Do you know what that is?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Pointing at the folder, again with the stem of the pipe, Tamf said, “That is your file. What do you notice about it?”

Ah. This conversation, then. “It seems thin, Warden. Of course, I could be wrong. I’ve nothing to compare it to.”

“You aren’t wrong. Please have a seat.”

Amos lowered himself into the plush chair opposite the warden’s own. He didn’t speak, and he kept his expression carefully neutral. He hadn’t survived this long in a prison by letting emotion get the better of him.

The warden also sat, and even though he was shorter than Amos, he still managed to be sitting higher. A trick of the chairs. A simple, yet often effective tactic to show dominance. Tamf set the pipe aside, pulled the folder back, then untied the twine. He pulled out a small stack of papers and began leafing through them, almost absently. All of it a show, Amos knew.

“This is the entirety of your existence here at Dalhmun. Believe me, this is very little considering how long you’ve been here. I have inmates in residence for barely six months who have more paperwork attached to them than you. Why is this?”

“I abide by the rules.”

“Religiously some may say.”

Amos let a small smile show. “Even so. I also keep to myself, and I refrain from causing trouble.”

“Which I appreciate.” Tamf pulled the top four papers. “These are each letters of recognition, one from each warden who preceded me. Each of them has written essentially the same thing about you. That you are a model inmate, and if they had their way, you’d be released.”

“But that isn’t how Dalhmun works.” Which was why Amos had chosen this prison to begin with. One could hardly live out the rest of one’s life in prison safely if good behavior led to release. Dalhmun was where political dissidents, disgraced military leaders, and other unforgivable types went to be forgotten forever. Once you entered, you stayed until the King of Transellia himself pardoned you. With that office usually being held by a puppet outsider who knew nothing about those who had offended the previous regimes, pardons rarely occurred. If you were forgotten, no one ever came to forgive you. Inmates only left in coffins.

“No, it is not,” Tamf said. “But I will admit to curiosity when it comes to your history. Or, better put, your lack of history.”

“I apologize. I don’t follow.”

“Each page in this diminutive stack represents one year of your life here. Doctor’s visits—very few, until your brush with death from fever last year. Disciplinary actions—not that there are any for you. Reports on your assigned jobs within Dalhmun—all exemplary.” He held his hands up in mock surrender. “Nothing about your past. Why are you here? Who put you here? Hells, I don’t even know your actual name.”

Amos barely heard anything after the warden’s opening sentence. “How many pages are there?”

“Excuse me?”

“How many pages? Each page is a year of my life. How many pages?”

Tamf looked from Amos, to the pages, then back to Amos. Understanding dawning on his face. “You don’t know how long you’ve been here?”

Amos shook his head, eyes fixed on the stack of papers. It was a small stack, but to Amos it suddenly seemed a mountain.

“Please.”

Tamf nodded. “I will tell you if you disclose the reason you were imprisoned. Do we have a deal?”

Amos nodded in agreement. The exact number of years shouldn’t have mattered. He’d mentally prepared himself for that when he’d gotten himself detained. No one ever looks for a man breaking into prison. After he had snuck inside, he had gotten himself caught, and then lied his way into a cell.

Easy.

“You’ve been here twenty-two years. It will be twenty-three next month, according to the date on your first personnel report.”

Twenty-two years. That means I’m . . . fifty-eight years old. Amos looked down at his hands, seeing the wrinkles for the first time. Twenty-two years wasted. Or twenty-two years successfully keeping his knowledge from falling into the wrong hands. Every issue had at least two sides.

“Zaydele?”

Amos blinked, startled. He looked up into the worried eyes of the warden. Tamf was a fair man. If you did your job as assigned and caused no trouble, he responded with respect. Amos had seen much worse come and go.

“I’m sorry.” For the second time that morning he felt a wetness at the corners of his eyes. “It . . . I . . . somehow . . . ”

“You lost track. It happens. Especially when you’ve been in as long as you have. So why are you even here?”

“Heresy,” Amos said finally. What does it matter, he thought. Keep it vague enough to hide the real truth, but detailed enough to satisfy the man. “I said things that . . . didn’t align with the core tenants of the Prajan elders. They don’t take well to that sort of thing.”

“From your accent, I assumed you were one of the Ashkenaz. I know Praja has become the home to many of them. The tribe of Issachar if I recall correctly. I thought they were given safe haven in that city in exchange for defending the Prajans with your tribe’s golem magic.”

The warden was better educated than expected. He’d have to tread carefully to not give too much away. “I was once, yes. Frankly, I’m lucky to be alive. They do not care for heretics much. My life would be forfeit should they ever see me again.”

“Oh.” Tamf struggled to find a response. “Well, alright. I have to document this. I hope you understand.”

Amos shrugged in response. He knew the next question before it left the warden’s lips.

“Surely they have forgiven you by now. Would you like me to write a letter of inquiry to the Prajan government? Dalhmun is under Almacian control, but they can’t hardly stop me from trying to free a prisoner from a land they are trying to conquer.”

“I’m afraid not, Warden, though I thank you for the thought.” Amos put a liar’s smile on his face. He’d had twenty-two years to perfect it. “Heresy is unforgivable to them. They may very well decide to rectify the mistake of letting me live. I’d rather not take that chance. I’d prefer to stay here, if that is satisfactory to you. Besides, who would tend the garden were I to leave? My carrots were particularly good last year, and I think this year’s crop will be even better.”

Tamf collected the papers into a neat pile and returned them to the file. He closed the folder, retied it, then slid it to the side. The matter closed. His answering smile was sad.

“I have a very low opinion for most of the prisoners here. You are the exception. Just because I cannot have you released this moment doesn’t mean I won’t continue trying. I intend on writing the Almacian government. Perhaps they will grant you amnesty, and you’ll be able to make a life someplace far from the vengeful gaze of your old tribe. There are no guarantees, but I will do my best.”

“Really, Warden Tamf, there’s no nee—”

Tamf held up a hand, cutting off Amos’ objection. “From what I can see, you’re a good man. Religious heresy is of little concern to me, and I imagine of even less concern to Almacia. Even their most fevered cults who worship the Sister of Logic. As Warden, I rarely get to do anything nice. No, let me finish. Our whole lives it has been Almacia versus Kolakolvia, with the tiny countries like us trapped in between those two giant asses. I’ll be honest with you, Zaydele. I don’t really care which one wins. I’m just tired of war. I’m tired of managing prisoners whose only crime was thinking the wrong way. My predecessor served as Warden under both Almacian and Kolakolvian rule. Do you know what he told me the difference was?”

Amos shook his head.

“The quantity of food. Almacia sends more—far more. Kolakolvia can barely feed their own people, and a prison is hardly on top of their list of priorities. But the funny thing is we still occasionally get shipments of food from the Kolakolvian government. Some clerk or bureaucrat never noted the change in control here. We are just a line item on a budget report no one ever reads. Maybe I should send them a letter too, asking for amnesty on your behalf. You could go there. Surely there aren’t any Ashkenaz left in their empire to hate you!”

The warden laughed for a few moments, then grew contemplative. He began nodding his head, agreeing with himself. Amos felt a chill creep over him.

“I may not be able to do much good in this world, but for you I feel I can make a difference. Yes. I am going to send some letters. It will take me a while to find the right official to address. I need a sympathetic ear. I’ll start with Almacia, then I’ll try Kolakolvia.” He slapped the top of his desk, pleased with himself. Pleased with his magnanimity.

Amos felt like someone had walked over his grave.

* * *

“Well this is great news, Amos!”

“Please, don’t use my name. That was given in confidence. I don’t want anyone hearing it.”

“As you wish, Zaydele,” Father Pelidar said with a wink, because he knew just enough of Amos’ native tongue to have recognized the word when they’d first been introduced. The priest had been in Dalhmun for nearly a year, not as a prisoner, but as a missionary of sorts. It was a good fit for the priest. He thought of himself as a shepherd, had been in search of a flock, and these particular sheep were in an unescapable pen.

Amos truly liked the man but was deeply regretting ever letting slip his real name. It had been a moment of profound loneliness, when he had been overcome by a terrible fever, delirious and near death. Still, there was no excuse for such weakness.

The southwest corner of the prison grounds was Amos’ haven. He had proposed creating the garden two wardens ago, and had tended the plot ever since. It had grown over the years into quite the little farm. He thought back to the conversation he’d had this morning. Had permission to start the garden been given during a time of food shortages? That made a certain amount of sense, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Twenty-two years is a long time,” he said, more to himself than to the priest.

Pelidar nodded his agreement, then plucked a sprouting weed from the soil. “You should take him up on his offer. Have him write everyone. Get out of here. Trust me though, between the two great nations, Almacia is a better destination, even if they are largely a godless place.”

“Aren’t you from there?”

“Originally, but I’ve been everywhere. I have, or find, friends in any land that worships the Almighty God. I attended the seminary in Lubeck. I’ve taught among the Magyars and the Bulgars. I’ve been to Belgracia. I’ve been to Praja, though they didn’t appreciate my proselyting. I have a number of friends in Cobetsnya, even. In fact I wrote to one of them to tell him of my progress here.”

“You wrote to a friend in . . . Cobetsnya?” Twenty-two years of exile and all it took was one day to throw it all into chaos. “What did you say? Anything about me?”

“Only in passing,” Pelidar assured him. “And it was to someone I’ve served with before. He’s a priest at the cathedral dedicated to the worship of the Third Sister. I think he may be a bit of a revolutionary at heart, but he’s a good enough—”

“Did you tell him about me?” Amos hadn’t even realized he’d stood, nor did he remember reaching out and grabbing the priest’s wrist. The uprooted weed fell from the other man’s hand. “Did you write down my name?”

“I don’t remember, Amos—”

Amos shook Pelidar. “Don’t say that name. Was it in your letter?”

“Maybe. Can you let go?” He winced at the pressure. Amos was still far stronger than he looked. “I may have mentioned it, but it hardly matters. It’s just a few words in a long message.”

“It wasn’t your name to share.” The anger drained from him, and he fell to his knees amongst the sprouting vegetables. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

One day to ruin twenty-two years. Twenty-two years, wasted.

Pelidar stood, rubbing his wrist, his face a mask of confusion. “I’m sorry, Amo—Zaydele. I’m not sure where this worry of yours comes from. I’d be happy to talk about it later. I can’t imagine your name appearing in a single private letter to an obscure priest at an unpopular church being enough to cause this sort of anger.”

“You have no idea what you have done,” Amos repeated in a whisper. “You have no idea who I am.”

“No, I don’t, because you won’t tell me. But I’ll leave you to your gardening.” Pelidar backed away, still nursing his wrist. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Perhaps then we can talk some more when you’ve calmed down a bit.”

Amos didn’t move for several, long moments after Pelidar was gone. He brought his hands up, studying them. There was dirt beneath the nails, calluses from work, and deep creases caused by age. His knuckles seemed larger than they had been, and all his fingers were slightly crooked. No pain, though. He looked up from his hands into the crisp blueness of the sky.

His anger was gone, replaced by a gnawing feeling he’d hoped never to be acquainted with again.

Fear.

With a deep breath in, then let out, he pushed himself to his feet and moved to the westernmost edge of the garden. A quick glance at the prison’s towers reassured him that no one was watching. The guards didn’t care about an old man and his garden.

Kneeling down, Amos dug his fingers deep into the churned earth until they found the edge of the board buried beneath. He lifted it as carefully as he could, revealing a narrow trench, several feet long. Inside the trench was a small humanoid shape made of wood, stone, canvas, and rope. He had collected the various pieces over the years and assembled it in secret.

Heresy was his excuse to the warden, but it was a crime he was certainly guilty of. He’d been banished from Praja due to his illegal research into spiritual animation. Blasphemous, many said. But it wasn’t the college or its masters he’d been hiding from all these years. The only man he feared had once been like a brother to him.

Nicodemus Firsch and Amos Lowe, the two most gifted magi in the history of the Prajan Academy. Their work had the potential to change the world.

Amos had been an artist, just as talented with directing the flow of magical energies as he was in shaping stone or carving wood. Whether it was a garden in a prison, or a golem made of clay, Amos could coax life into anything. Nicodemus was a genius who lacked the artist’s touch, yet no magus had ever been more driven. His knowledge of the esoteric and mystical had been second to none, yet there was no creation in him, only destruction.

Young, foolish, and proud, the two of them had delved into the forbidden mysteries together. They had broken the laws of the college, but how could they resist such temptation when they were so close to unlocking the most powerful of secrets?

Amos had been horrified when he had discovered that Nicodemus had used their breakthroughs to experiment on the dead and homeless of Praja. Upon learning of Nicodemus’ atrocities, he had not hesitated to report his friend to the elders, even though doing so meant professing his own part in their crimes. Amos was stripped of his titles and exiled, but unrepentant Nicodemus had been sentenced to death.

Ashamed, Amos had accepted his punishment, but Nicodemus had rebelled. His murderous attack had been brutal and swift, leaving the halls of the academy soaked with the elders’ blood. The only reason Amos’ life had been spared was because Nicodemus knew he’d never be able to finish their great work on his own. He harbored no doubts that his old friend was still alive, for he’d heard rumors that he had wormed his way into the confidence of the Tsar of Kolakolvia.

Agents of the Tsar had come after Amos. They had not found him, but they had found Amos’ family.

The golem’s head was an oblong stone. He reached down and traced a few letters on the rock’s surface with his finger to wake it up.

You’ve made me a body?

It’s not as beautiful as you were, Amos told his wife’s spirit.

I will do this if you wish.

Not yet, Amos said. But I fear, soon.



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