Chapter 13: Emily and the Essence

The monks marched Emily and Dorian to the tower at the end of the cliff and down its tightly spiraling staircase. Several times, Emily’s feet slipped on the steps, and she was lifted up and upbraided by her captor, a powerfully built woman with jet-black hair and a severe expression.

Emily’s failed teleportation, thwarted by a bucket of water, had lasted just long enough to burn up most of the clothes she had borrowed from Octavia. With the Stoneshell and Bronzeband also confiscated, she was naked but for a few frayed, heavily singed scraps of tunic left on her shoulders.

From the base of the tower, she was marched through Tiedavon Abbey, past solemn clusters of blue-robed monks. She was a prisoner now, an enemy, and the monks no longer averted their gazes from her bare skin but stared openly with expressions of contempt and barely concealed prurience. She felt every inch of her exposure in the cold night air and from the unyielding stares of the monks.

But it was the lack of her magical artifacts that made her feel truly naked, more so than she had even on the cliff or the beach. The uncomfortable jolting of her unrestrained breasts was made tenfold worse by the absence of the warm fire-summoning pendant above them.

Dorian, similarly bound, but still clad in a threadbare blue loincloth, was being frog-marched just behind her.

Near the ruins of the dome, there was an opening in the ground, below which a torchlit staircase descended. The way was cramped and narrow, and even Emily had to crouch to avoid hitting her head.

The air grew colder, damper, as they were led down the winding stairs, descending deeper into the abbey’s foundations. This, then, was what had been meant by the lower cells. An underground prison.

Finally, they were shoved through heavy wooden doors into a section of narrow cells carved out of the rock. Thick, rust-pitted bars sealed each opening. A monk unlocked one creaking door, shoved Emily inside with bruising force, and slammed it shut, the heavy bolt thudding home. Moments later, she heard Dorian being thrown into an adjacent cell.

Emily landed hard on the cold, damp stone floor. The cell was tiny, barely large enough to pace three steps across. A trickle of slimy water ran down one wall, pooling in a corner. There was no bed, no light source save the dim torchlight filtering in from the corridor. The air was thick with the smell of salt and mildew.

She scrambled to the bars, gripping the cold iron. “Let us out!” she yelled, shaking them futilely. “You’ve got the wrong people! Richard tricked you!”

The powerful female monk glanced back at her with contempt. “Save your breath, thief. The Council will hear your case in the morning.” The wooden door slammed shut behind her.

Silence descended, broken only by the omnipresent groan of the sea and Dorian’s muffled cursing from the next cell. Emily slid down the bars, collapsing onto the floor, the stone rough and cold against her bare buttocks.

Helplessness washed over her, cold and absolute. The Stoneshell had been taken once more. The warm, constant presence against her chest, source of fire and strength, was missing. She touched the empty space where it had lain, feeling only her own skin, cold and clammy.

Her left ankle tingled, feeling unusually naked. The Bronzeband was back in Richard’s possession. The image of his triumphant wink burned behind her eyelids. He hadn’t even needed to fight them—he’d orchestrated their downfall perfectly, using their own actions and the monks’ hostility and desperation against them. He now had power over stone once more, along with his resonance magic, and the trust and favor of the monks of Tiedavon. He was more dangerous than ever. And it had all been enabled by a moment of pity from Emily.

And then there was Aria. Bromberht. Jivaro. All the others. Suddenly struck motionless in the middle of whatever they were doing, involuntarily decorating the halls and courtyards of Paja Abbey. But it wasn’t the first time—what must they think of her, always losing control of the artifact destiny had charged her to defend? And they would have a lot of time to think now, trapped as they were. Guilt coiled tight in her stomach, sharp and sickening.

“Dorian?” Emily called out, her voice raspy.

“I’m here,” his voice came back, rough with anger, but surprisingly close. “Are you alright?”

“No,” Emily whispered honestly. “Are you?”

A harsh laugh echoed from his cell. “Silly question. I’m sorry I asked.”

“He played us,” Emily said, her frustration boiling over. “He stole the Azure Essence and then gave it back, painting himself as the hero and us as villains. And now he’s more powerful than ever, and it’s all my fault.”

“I wonder if he saw my preparations,” Dorian said. “Perhaps he spied us from the beginning, listened in, made a plan that meant he wouldn’t have to fight.”

Emily pounded a fist against the stone floor, ignoring the sting. “How could they be so blind? Kastor saw us arrive! He knew we hadn’t had time to steal anything!”

“They wanted the Essence back and someone to blame, an easy story,” Dorian said wearily. “We fit the bill perfectly. Outsiders with powerful artifacts, cause a scene upon arrival, demand access to their most precious resource ... Richard just gave them the narrative they were already leaning towards. And they already trusted him. He told you that.”

They fell silent again, the weight of their situation pressing down on them. The cold seeped into Emily’s bones and her stomach growled with hunger. She hugged herself for warmth, hands rubbing against the fraying remnants of her tunic, still clinging uselessly to her shoulders.

“Aria...” Emily murmured. “When I’m not wearing the Stoneshell, she...”

“She froze again,” Dorian finished grimly. “I remember. She and the other statues.”

“We have to get out of here, Dorian,” Emily said fiercely, pushing herself up from the floor. She peered through the bars into the dim corridor. Empty for now. “We have to get the Stoneshell back. And the Azure Essence. Somehow. I know that sounds crazy.”

“Agreed,” Dorian’s voice was tight. “Easier said than done, though.”

“You still have some of that cloth, right?” Emily asked. “With the blue pigment that you said helped you escape from the monks last time? Can’t you use that?” She blushed slightly at the implication.

“It’s no use,” Dorian replied. “These walls are solid rock and the bars solid iron. That’s what holds us here, not a containment spell. My art works against magic, not material.” There was a loud clanging sound as Dorian struck one of the bars at the front of his cell. “And even if we get out of here, we still have to find where the monks have hidden your artifacts. To say nothing of our initial mission of getting the Azure Essence.”

Emily leaned her forehead against the cold bars, feeling a wave of despair threaten to overwhelm her. Richard had won so completely. They had nothing.

No, not nothing. They had each other, their wits, and the truth. That had served Emily well before.

“Morning,” she repeated the monk’s word. “The Council hears the case in the morning. That gives us ... six, maybe eight hours?”

“That’s not much time to break out of an underground prison. Especially without any magic,” Dorian pointed out dryly.

“We’ll figure something out,” Emily insisted, though her voice lacked conviction even to her own ears. “We have to.”

She sank back down to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest for warmth, trying desperately to think, to find some sliver of hope, some cunning plan that they could use to escape, to retrieve the Stoneshell, to acquire the Azure Essence that they had come here for in the first place.

Hours crawled by in the cold, damp darkness. Emily traced patterns on the floor with her finger, trying to remember the winding route she had been led down to reach this cell. She would need it when they escaped. Which they would, just as soon as she and Dorian came up with a plan.

They had tried making a noise to lure a monk down to the dungeon and searched repeatedly for loose stones in the wall behind their cells. But it had been to no avail. In the cell beside hers, Dorian was silent but for the faint, rhythmic tap of his fingers against the stone wall, a sign that his mind was still hard at work.

Emily had tried to get some sleep but closed her eyes only to be haunted by images of Aria frozen mid-gesture, and Richard’s gloating face.

The first hint of dawn wasn’t light, but the distant clang of a bell, and the faint murmur of voices and shuffling footsteps from higher levels. The Council would convene soon. Perhaps they could reason with them, expose Richard’s lies. But even if they could, what chance did they now have of receiving any of the Azure Essence? They would be lucky to escape with their lives, let alone a portion of the monks’ prized Azure Sphere, the very thing they were accused of stealing.

The wooden door to the prison creaked open, and heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor, stopping directly outside Emily’s cell. They did not belong to Kastor or any of the other monks. Emily, in a huddle facing the wall, looked over her shoulder to see Richard’s smirking face.

Richard was dressed in fine new clothes, from his shiny leather boots to his ruffled shirt, under a brand new ship captain’s coat, violin strapped to his back. The Bronzeband was not visible, but Emily knew it must be under his sleeve, from the way he produced playful waves in the rock around his feet. She glared at him for a few seconds before turning back to the wall.

“This is just like old times!” Richard announced cheerfully. He leaned closer into the bars, his eyes lingering on Emily’s mostly bare back. “A bit drafty, isn’t it? Perhaps I could use my ... recovered artifact ... to seal up some of those cracks for you.”

In the adjacent cell, Dorian made a low growling noise.

“I want nothing from you,” Emily said darkly, practically spitting venom with her words.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Richard. “Only a fool spurns an offer without hearing it first. And you, Emily, are no fool.”

“Leave her,” snarled Dorian.

Richard cast a withering glance at the adjacent cell. “Shut up, boy. Do not interfere in business that does not concern you.”

An arm shot out between the bars of Dorian’s cell and grabbed at Richard’s sleeve, it was slightly too far to reach. Richard chuckled darkly and turned his attention to Dorian. There was a loud crack as part of the stonework of the cell wall dislodged, and then a pained cry. The arm slumped down.

“Dorian!” Emily shouted, rushing to the bars of her cell to see what had happened.

“He’s fine,” Richard said, giving Dorian’s hand a vicious kick. “But if he interferes again, he won’t be.”

From the other cell, Dorian could only groan in pain.

“Now, onto business,” Richard said, fixing eye contact with Emily. “As you know, I’m really quite fond of you, dear Emily. And I’ve seen what Tiedavon does to thieves. I’d just hate for that terrible fate to befall you. So, I’ve come to free you.”

Emily’s eyes widened.

“Now you might ask, and I’m sure you will ask, as we both know you’re an intelligent girl ... you might ask what I expect in exchange. There’s no use pretending I do this out of the kindness of my heart ... after all, you did try to cheat me on the clifftop. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that.”

Emily looked away briefly, her posture shrinking. She didn’t think of herself as a cheat, but he wasn’t wrong. It was difficult not to feel shame, standing behind iron bars, essentially naked, before a cunning and powerful man like Richard, and he knew it.

“All I want is the same thing I asked for on the Sea Serpent—your hand,” Richard continued, making a show of kneeling down on one knee. “Don’t look so surprised! I’m sure we can work out our differences. All lovers have their quarrels, you know.” He cast a dirty glance at Dorian’s cell. “From the way your friend had to hide behind that bush, playing with sticks, no magic of his own to speak of, I take it that the position of Stoneshell Bearer’s husband has not yet been filled.”

Emily’s face turned fully red and she shrank down into a fetal position. In the other cell, Dorian appeared to be having a coughing fit.

“There’s the small matter of recovering the Stoneshell, of course, but I don’t think that will be a problem. Just say yes, and I’ll fetch it at once. These monks will trust me with anything. At least until I break out the prisoner they believe to be responsible for the greatest threat to their order in millennia. But I’m willing to sacrifice that for you, dear Emily. You have only to say the word.”

Emily remained curled tight, her face pressed against her knees, the rough stone cold beneath her skin. Richard’s words hung in the air. Somehow the proposal felt even more shockingly inappropriate the second time. She had no doubt of his intentions—he wanted to possess her, but more than that, to possess the Stoneshell through her.

Dorian’s coughing subsided into ragged breaths. Emily could picture him slumped against the wall, rubbing his head, listening helplessly. The thought fueled a resurgence of defiance, burning through the shame that Richard had so expertly kindled.

Slowly, deliberately, Emily uncurled herself. She pushed her tangled hair back from her face and lifted her chin, meeting Richard’s expectant, smiling gaze through the bars. Her blush had faded, replaced by a cold, hard glare. She kept her knees up, holding a position of dignity as well as relative modesty, focusing on her anger to the exclusion of other emotions.

“You think,” she began, her voice low and trembling, “after you manipulated the monks, attacked Dorian, stole back the Bronzeband I won from you fairly ... you think that after everything, the answer to anything you ask would be ‘yes’?”

Richard’s smile faltered slightly, replaced by a look of mild surprise, then sourness. “Ah, Emily. Still so fiery, even in reduced circumstances. It’s one of the many things I admire about you. But think rationally for a moment, my dear. What other options do you have?” He gestured expansively around her tiny, miserable cell. “Wait for the Council? You heard the names Kastor called you. They’ll feed you to the giant crabs, or chain you to a rock at low tide as an offering. And I certainly won’t be arguing your case.”

Emily involuntarily sucked in a breath, and Richard’s smile widened. He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Instead of all that, why not accept my generous offer? Compromise those delicate sensibilities, just a little. In return? Freedom. The Stoneshell returned to your lovely neck. Perhaps ... perhaps I could even arrange a vial of Azure Essence. Just like we agreed before.”

“Don’t listen to him!” Dorian shouted from the other cell. His voice was strained, tight with pain, but clear. “He’s no good! Don’t even consider it!”

Richard shot a venomous look towards Dorian’s cell but didn’t move to strike him again. “Your ‘friend’ offers empty defiance, bravado without backing,” Richard sneered, turning back to Emily. “I offer a solution. I heard you telling Kastor all about your little mission on the clifftop. Well, the solstice approaches. Your stone friends remain frozen, and you can’t help them from inside that cell. Time is running out. Say yes. Let me help you.”

The way he had twisted the situation, framing himself as her only hope even as he had been the cause of her plight sickened Emily. How much of this had he planned in advance?

But her desperation was real. She had less than two weeks before the summer solstice, but that would matter little if she couldn’t get the Azure Essence, or if the monks carried out what Richard had threatened. She thought of Aria, frozen in place, probably hunched over a book in her Paja Abbey chamber.

Could she pretend? Could she feign agreement, trick him somehow, use him to get free and retrieve the Stoneshell back? The thought felt slimy, treacherous. The last time she’d tried to get one over on Richard ... well, she’d ended up here. Could she really win at his game?

“I need...” Emily began, stalling, forcing the words out. “I need time. To think.”

Richard studied her face, his eyes shrewd, assessing her hesitation. He seemed to weigh her request. Finally, he gave a small, magnanimous shrug. “Very well. But time is limited.” He straightened up, adjusting the fine cuffs of his shirt. “The Council will convene soon after dawn. I suggest you have your answer for me before then. I shall return soon.”

He paused, letting his gaze drift deliberately over Emily’s huddled form one last time before turning away. “Do try to stay warm, dearest,” he added with mock solicitude.

As Richard walked away from the cells, a pebble struck him in the back of the head. “Ah!” he cried, flinching, then freezing. A second pebble followed. He lifted his right hand, and the projectile stopped in midair and dropped harmlessly to the floor.

Richard turned, his face red with hatred. Emily’s eyes followed in horror as he stomped towards Dorian’s cell. “Throw stones at me, will you! I’ll teach you to throw stones!”

“No! Stop!” Emily cried.

But Richard did not seem to hear her. As he turned to face Dorian through the bars, a third pebble struck him between the eyes.

Richard’s hands flexed, and the stone prison around them began to tremble. “Insolent dog! That will be the last stone you ever throw!” he shouted, veins bulging in his forehead as he brought the full power of his magic to bear.

“Don’t! Please don’t!” Emily screamed. “Dorian!”

As the tremors heightened, an image of black moss clinging to metal flashed through Emily’s mind. She thought of the Deep Realm and of Shimmerwood. Nightmoss. The word surfaced, sharp and clear for an instant, just as the tremor reached its crescendo.

Emily braced herself for a crash, for a horrible cry of pain from Dorian’s cell, but neither sound came. The earth settled, and it was Richard whose scream pierced the air. He stumbled back two steps, his face contorted by sudden agony. Dark tendrils burst from the sleeve of his coat—the sleeve that held the Bronzeband.

“What ... what is this?!” Richard choked out, clutching his arm.

Cracks spiderwebbed out from beneath Richard’s feet and then found direction, shooting towards the wall between Emily and Dorian’s cells. Loud cracks were followed by a deafening roar as the wall collapsed, showering both cells with dust and rubble.

“Aaaghhh!” Richard screamed. Black tendrils escaped from the collar of his shirt, traveling up his neck. Smoke rose from where the tendrils touched his flesh, and it seemed to wither and crack. His violin clattered to the floor. He staggered backward, clawing uselessly at his arm—at the Bronzeband—which was now visible under the destroyed sleeve of his coat.

The prison was shaken by further tremors. The torches died, plunging the immediate area into near-total darkness—a relief, as Richard’s screams only grew louder.

Emily buried her face in her knees as dust rained around her, tears pricking at her eyes. An echoing clang rang out as the bars of her cell crashed down down into the corridor, followed by a series of lesser impacts as debris rained from the ceiling. Richard stopped screaming, and the tremors subsided.

When all was still, Emily looked up from her knees. Her way out was clear. “Dorian?” she coughed, dusting her legs as she pushed herself up.

“Here!” Dorian’s voice came from just beyond the collapsed wall. He scrambled over the jagged pile of stone separating their cells, landing beside her. “Are you hit?”

“No, just a little buried.” Emily dusted off an arm and peered out of her cell at where Richard had stood.

In the gloom, the sight was brief but horrifying. Where Richard had been, only a rapidly crumbling, desiccated husk remained, collapsing in on itself like ancient parchment touched by flame. Black tendrils still writhed around him. Emily staggered back, nausea churning in her stomach.

“Nightmoss,” Dorian said in an awed whisper, staring at the rapidly vanishing remains. “Just like in the Deep Realm.”

Nightmoss. There was that word again. It triggered something in Emily’s memory, a vague sense of warmth and belonging. Her thoughts felt slippery, hard to grasp. There was something important she needed to tell Dorian, something that seemed to run from her conscious mind.

“Oi! What was that noise?” A shout echoed from the direction of the heavy wooden door leading out of the cell block. “Check the prisoners! Something’s happened!” Heavy, booted footsteps pounded, getting closer fast.

Panic surged in Emily’s chest. “They’re coming!” she hissed.

Dorian reacted instantly. While Emily scrambled towards the main exit door at the end of the short corridor, Dorian darted towards the fading horror on the floor. With quick, decisive movements, he snatched the intact violin from beside the husk, grabbed the Bronzeband as the last of the moss devoured Richard’s arm, and ripped Richard’s trousers and ruffled shirt from his rapidly disintegrating body.

“The door’s stuck!” Emily grunted, throwing her shoulder against the heavy wood. It didn’t budge. Richard’s final tremor must have warped the frame, lodging it in place.

“You’ll need this!” Dorian shouted, waving the Bronzeband. “Lift your foot!”

Emily automatically thrust a calf out behind herself. Cool metal soon encased her ankle once more.

“Take this too!” Dorian said, shoving the ruffled shirt into Emily’s hands. It was mostly intact, but missing one of its sleeves. He had stepped into Richard’s trousers, though they were clearly too short, ending partway down his ankles.

“This way’s collapsed, go around!” shouted a voice, too close for comfort.

“They’re almost here!” Emily whispered frantically. Momentarily ignoring the shirt, she pressed her palm flat against the stone wall beside the jammed door. Focusing past the panic, picturing the rock yielding, she poured her will into the Bronzeband. Her ankle tingled, itching slightly. The stone groaned softly.

“Try now!” she urged.

Dorian slammed his shoulder into the door again. It scraped outwards, grinding against unseen debris on the other side, opening just enough from them to squeeze through.

“Go!” Dorian pushed Emily through the gap, then squeezed after her, pulling the groaning door partially shut behind them, though it wouldn’t close properly. They were in the main passage, with the spiral stairs just ahead. Fresh rubble littered the floor and the air was thick with dust.

A shout echoed from the other end of the cell block. “The cells are empty! They’ve escaped!”

Emily quickly pulled the large, soft shirt over her head. It came down to her thigh, the single remaining sleeve ridiculously puffy.

“Right. Let’s go fetch the Stoneshell. I saw Kastor enter one of the buildings near the top of these stairs. That’s the first place we should look. Let’s move before they figure out which way we went.”

A low rumbling sound echoed from above, followed by distant, panicked shouting. The tremors had clearly caused further damage topside, adding to the general chaos.

Keeping low and close to the walls, they ran towards the spiral staircase, moving as quickly and quietly as possible through the debris-strewn passage. The sounds of alarm from above were growing louder—frantic bells, shouted orders, the heavy tread of many running feet. The monks of Tiedavon Abbey were fully awake, and they were looking for two prisoners.

With Dorian in front of her, Emily noticed a violin slung over his back. “Really using every part of the animal, eh?”

Dorian cast her a confused glance, clearly unaware of the expression. “Stay alert,” he whispered. “The monks will be after us.”

They began the ascent, moving as quietly as possible. The air grew slightly warmer, less damp, but the sounds of alarm from above grew louder—bells ringing frantically, voices shouting orders, the heavy tread of running feet. Tiedavon Abbey was on high alert.

Reaching the top of the stairs, they peered cautiously out into the main courtyard. Monks were running everywhere, some heading towards the dome, now partially rebuilt, others organizing search parties, their faces grim, staffs held ready. The sky was growing paler as the sun crept towards dawn.

Darting from the exposed entrance to the underground prison, Emily pressed herself flat against the cool sandstone wall of the nearest building. Dorian followed, his movements quick and silent.

The courtyard was a maelstrom of organized panic. Monks ran with purpose, shouting instructions and carrying injured brethren on makeshift stretchers, while others attempted to shore up cracked walls near the dome. The air was thick with dust and the frantic clang of alarm bells.

“Those tremors did more damage than I thought,” Dorian whispered.

“It’s Richard’s fault,” Emily replied, mostly to herself.

“I saw Kastor go inside that building,” Dorian said, pointing at a small, squat sandstone structure a few hundred yards away. “Let’s hope the Stoneshell’s there. Is there ... is there any way you can tell?”

Emily shook her head. “Not without Talyndra’s map magic.”

“Then we’ll do trial and error,” Dorian replied, beckoning her forward.

They moved in a low crouch, using overturned benches and piles of rubble as cover. Twice, they had to freeze behind thick pillars as groups of monks hurried past, eyes scanning for trouble.

Many of the monks wore bandages over their eyes, like the ones they’d encountered on the cliff. Occasionally they would stop and listen, tilting their heads to the side. Emily hardly dared to breathe, for fear they’d hear it.

Near the entrance of the building Kastor had entered, they huddled behind a large stone planter overflowing with dead, salty foliage. A tense argument was taking place nearby between two senior-looking monks.

“ ... unacceptable breach!” one was saying, voice tight with anger. “The reliquary seals held, but the structural damage...! And all this, during the dome’s reconstitution!”

“Calm yourself, brother,” said the other.

“This is the work of powerful magic. I told Kastor not to hide the prisoners’ artifacts in his personal chamber!” He gesticulated wildly at the building behind him.

“I’ll remind you that Brother Kastor is our Tidewarden,” the other replied defensively. “Everything he does is for the betterment of our order. With the dome still reconstituting, we have a scarcity of secure places for such a powerful artifacts.”

“Reckless!” the first monk snapped, before they were interrupted by another shouting orders nearby and moved off.

Emily and Dorian exchanged a look. That made things easier.

They slipped through the building’s entrance just as another tremor shook the ground—weaker this time, likely an aftershock, but enough to send fresh dust raining down and renew the cries of alarm, covering their movement. Richard’s dying echo, Emily thought.

The corridor beyond was quieter, less damaged, but narrow and echoing. Their bare feet padded softly on the stone floor.

A few monks hurried through the building, carrying scrolls or tools. Emily and Dorian pressed themselves into alcoves, holding their breath until the footsteps receded. Around one corner, they found their way blocked by a heavy, iron-banded wooden door.

Dorian tried the handle. It was firmly shut. He examined it closely. “No obvious magical wards,” he whispered, running his fingers over the thick metal lock plate. He rapped his knuckles against the metal. “Solid craftsmanship.” He put his shoulder to it, grunting softly. It didn’t budge.

Emily stepped forward, placing her hand flat against the stone wall beside the doorframe. Concentrating, she pictured the stone around the hinges, and imagined it warping outward, loosening. Her ankle tingled.

“Try now,” she whispered.

Dorian pushed again. This time, there was a faint creak, a slight give. He threw his weight against it more firmly, and with a low groan of stressed wood, the door scraped inwards just enough for them to squeeze through. They slipped inside, pulling it shut behind them, plunging them into near darkness.

Emily attempted to summon a light but was quickly reminded of the Stoneshell’s absence. As their eyes adjusted to the low light, Dorian approached an ornate door at the far end of the passage, which stood slightly ajar. “The Tidewarden’s symbol is carved on this door,” Dorian said, cautiously pushing it open. “I remember it from the back of his robe.”

Kastor’s chamber was fittingly austere. Maps of coastlines and tidal charts covered one wall. A solid wooden desk stood against another, clear except for an inkwell and quill. Bookshelves lined a third wall, filled with heavy, leather-bound volumes. Dawn light streamed in from a single, high window. The room smelled faintly of sea salt and old paper. And it was empty. Kastor was clearly still coordinating the crisis outside.