Interlude - Imogen

Imogen trailed her fingers along the rough wall, dust and dirt and desiccated pieces of vine crumbling in her wake and falling to the labyrinth floor. Her black gown swept a trail in the detritus, a means to retrace her steps, but she never turned back, never looked at the host of the dead that followed.

Their tread, the sound of their bony feet as they prowled behind her, lingering at every corner, wasn’t real, but still, she heard it, knew that they were there. Friends and lovers, enemies and casual kills. All reduced, their spirits sucked away by the Noumenon as a cannibal might slurp marrow from a cracked bone.

On she walked, wondering if she had grown tired of being alone, lost in abstracted thought and pondering the turns and bifurcations of the maze. The massive stone walls towered above her, easily five times her height, the walls thick enough to withstand siege engines, the pathways that riddled their way endlessly through the labyrinth without number or reason.

A home, of sorts. A nest. A means to keep her from herself.

Shadows writhed about her feet like spiteful cats.

A sound from a side passage. Laughter.

Imogen paused, a memory stirring. A vision of a lily-strewn lake, herself standing atop a skiff that nosed its way toward a dark cave carved into the amber cliffs that stretched before her. Light reflecting off the water, the heady scent of the lotuses, the excitement at reaching—

No.

A great wall arose from the dirt, rumbling and shuddering, and closed off the passageway, silencing the merriment.

Imogen turned away and continued.

But her pace was restless now, a thin vertical line appearing between her brows. Her heart fluttered in her chest, and she dug her fingers deeper into the walls as she passed them, nails scoring deep grooves in the stone.

For a spell, she walked on, not thinking, her discontent growing, until with an inhalation she rose into the air, buoyed aloft by an upswelling of shadow, rising above the walls of the labyrinth so that it stretched out around her, covering the inside of the great sphere in which she existed, the grooves and contortions of the many paths reminding her of the bizarre folding patterns she’d observed on freshly removed brains.

Rising, she stared across the sphere’s center at the distant palace that emerged from the labyrinth’s heart, adumbrated and wreathed in ivy, its windows luminous with golden light, its towers defiant, its form graceful and fair.

She had but to stretch forth her hand and she could cup it in her palm, pluck it from the far side of her world and cradle it like a toy.

If she closed her fist, she could crush it.

Listening intently, she thought she heard distant strains of music, so faint she might have imagined it. Dulcimers and flutes, harps and mandolins.

A cold, sere wind blew, blustering Imogen’s raven hair across her face, tugging at her gown.

Were they dancing? Did she hear slippered feet on parquet floors?

Heart thudding, she strained to hear, and the labyrinth before her shifted, the winding ways straightening to form a central avenue that forged a path from where she hovered across the inner curve of her private moon, cutting its way across the hundreds of miles toward the palace.

With a blink, Imogen dragged her gaze down to the labyrinth, and the new path arrested its approach. Stilled and shivered like a hound beneath the eye of a cruel master.

No.

She’d not cheat.

The straight line collapsed, complicated itself with interceptions and intersections. Dead vines writhed up from the dirt to cover these new partitions, and with a sigh Imogen allowed herself to sink back down to the ground, between the high, stark walls, her gown alighting softly about her, her hair stilling, freed from the tender ministrations of the wind.

They would be dancing. He would be there, smiling genially, handsome and virile, master of all that his dark gaze fell upon.

And by his side?

Imogen pressed forward, eager to reach the palace, her purpose renewed. On she rushed, trailed by the sound of countless bony feet pursuing her, turning corners recklessly, picking turnings without hesitation. The very act of throwing herself forward was a relief, a balm to her fevered mind.

Glancing up, she saw the palace directly above her, distant and bright, implanted on the far inner side of her domain. She smiled, eager, tremulous. She’d have to change upon reaching the estate, her black mourning gown wouldn’t do. But she’d retire to her suite, bathe and dress and be down in time for the culmination of the ball. All she need do was reach it, to wend her way through this endless weaving of stone and dirt.

Then she froze. Stared out sightlessly at the lonesome corridor before her, her attention narrowing to a point.

Somewhere a flicker of new energy caught her attention.

No, not new—impossibly old.

Old and familiar.

Imogen’s heart beat faster as she focused on the stirring. Far away. Realm beyond realm. All the way to where it had once begun.

Bastion?

She extended her hand before her, fingers splayed, and focused more fiercely.

Yes. An ancient power had stirred.

She snatched her hand back to her lips. The Portal?

It couldn’t be. Never had, so why now?

But again she felt that flicker, that broken sway, so insignificant that even her senses barely noticed.

Yes.

She turned to one side, turned back, seeking him to confer, to confirm.

But he wasn’t there, of course. He was above her, in the palace, smiling and tapping his foot in time to the music.

Imogen bit her lower lip, resumed walking. But she moved slowly now, unsure.

That flicker of energy didn’t fade.

She took turns at random. Tried to push away the sensation. To bury it deep, to remove it and its temptation from her notice.

Failed.

What if it were true?

What if the Portal were opening at long last?

Ettera.

She could go look.

She could go see for herself.

She stopped walking, then smiled brightly.

She would do it.

And perhaps—perhaps if it were so—then they could go through together, could put the past behind them, the deaths and misunderstandings, the mistakes and mass murders.

A chance to begin anew.

Imogen rose once more, but this time her gaze remained fixed on the ground below, a vortex of shadows raising her effortlessly up on high.

Lowering her chin, she extended her hand and exerted her will.

The walls of the massive labyrinth immediately crumbled away in a perfect hemisphere, the far edges standing tall and growing ever shorter as they drew near to the center directly below.

A powerful ward had been placed just beneath the surface of the ground. Elastic, resistant, dull-minded, and infinitely strong, it attempted to defy her, but could not. After all, it was her creation.

A tiny hole appeared in its surface and widened rapidly. Dirt and rock evaporated, and then she pressed both hands down together, as if inserting her fingers into a stomach wound, and pulled the air apart.

The fabric of her moon tore, and the labyrinth folded away and behind her, collapsing in on itself as she flew through the aethereal gap and into a great chasm in the earth.

Another obstacle, this one more formidable than the last, created during a moment of regrettable madness and self-loathing. Yohanis stood at the chasm’s far end, enlarged into a perfect giant, his crimson curls wreathed about his perfect brow, his eyes dull and lusterless, his cheeks ashen, his bare chest carved with muscle and that one livid hole above his heart.

Imogen floated toward him, throat closing, her very spirit recoiling in horror at the sight of his perfect form. But when Yohanis raised his burning blade she extended her hand—and though it wounded her deeper than she thought possible, she banished him, unmade her weaving of him, and his gigantic form dissolved and was gone.

Tears ran down her cheeks, but on she flew, the chasm collapsing around her, the colors swirling, melding, the sky opening up, a lake appearing to her right, a spit of sand curling around its shore.

It was twilight. The air was rich with the scent of blooming dusk coronets, and dappled skimmers flitted across the water’s surface, leaving widening circles in their wake.

Imogen slowed, a dagger turning in her heart at the sight of the blue blanket, the dishes and cups, the half-eaten tart, the wine bottle spilled over on its side. Her skin prickled, and waves of cold fire washed over her as she fought the memories that sought to drown her.

Almost she could hear the voices raised in panic and horror. Waves of pain that she did not countenance sought to smother her, to drown her in old grief made new.

The final ward.

But, like the others, created by herself, against herself, summoned and put in place to keep her at bay.

And thus, ultimately, futile.

Imogen lowered her face, covered it with both hands, and with a cry flew forward, racing along that narrow beach, unseeing, her heart lacerating, until untold miles later she finally came to a stop.

The world had changed.

It was no longer her own.

She lowered her hands, and through tear-clumped lashes gazed out over the fleshy, undulating surface of a mauve, mycotal mesa.

She was free.

She was out.

She was back in hell.

The sky was rich with cerulean blue, dove gray, and lavender striations; an inch above the western horizon floated a solaran, shedding its silver light over the land, colossal fins slowly undulating.

An emerald fern giant stood close at hand, towering some thirty yards into the sky, streams of translucent Diamond mana rising from the mycotal mesa into its outstretched verdant hand. It turned its huge, antlered head to stare down at her, the symbol of power glowing beneath its ivy face with a luminous, golden-green hue, its broad mouth flattening into a line.

A moment later its alarm was total and overwhelming. Its symbol flared as brightly as a fractured hope stone, and it jumped up and back, its leap carrying it high and away as if it were a flea across the vast expanse of the mesa.

Imogen inhaled deeply. How long had it been? Lifting her palm, she sent forth a dozen vortices which flew up and away to some several thousand yards, forming a perfect circle around her, and immediately began to drain all the Diamond mana in the region into her Lacuna.

Power flowed into her like a cataract, and with a smile, she fashioned her Shroud, pulled her Ferula from her spirit, and ignited her Aura.

A mile away, the fern giant groaned and toppled, its luxurious body turning ashen and then collapsing in upon itself as Emerald mana streamed to the closest vortex and then into her Lacuna.

The mycotal mesa rippled in distress beneath her, its flesh graying as the vortices stripped it of its essence in a widening circle.

Imogen rose into the air, garbed in shadow, her mind clearing and focusing on that distant fleck of ancient power.

Bastion was almost on the far side of hell; even if she used the Interstitial Rivenings to pass through the center it would take her days to reach it.

The closest entrance? Her senses ranged far afield, tallying nodes, nexi, reservoirs, cacogens, torque zones, and fiends of particular power.

There. Only a few hundred miles north.

Her vortices collapsed upon themselves. Her Shroud flared, and streamlining her Aura, she blasted forward, a column of shadow bearing her faster than thought, her departure tearing massive rents in the mesa as a dull boom shattered the sky.

A moment later she was gone, a dwindling speck on the horizon.

Heading north.

Heading home.

Heading to Bastion.