Chapter 13

"Even in the face of adversity and looming Death, a Pawn, being known the vilest of all classes withal, only advances forwards."

~

The Gates of the Under-Ground Dungeons,

Kingdom of Tristendyre,

The first Phriday of the Second month,

XXI Year of Regency

The Gate-keeper eyed the young damsel and her escort. "Perishable meals don't wait eternities, kind sir", said Crescence looking impatient.

"Lady Serilda of the Repast sent River?" asked he, staring at the Writ. Crescence nodded, showing him the Covenant evincing River's employment in the Wing of Cuisine. "And my attendant", she gestured to River, the man standing behind her in the distance of a few treads, distracted with his first view of the Dungeons.

With the gender-wise ambiguity of his name, Crescence managed admission without further ado. They handed the Gate-keeper his meal and went forth.

Once inside, she arranged for River to make deliveries. Drawing the package that she had built specifically for Imogen, Crescence informed him that she was to be away on duty.

"Await my coming by the Gates" were words she left with River before commencing her secret task of finding her friend. It was only uncertain hope, but the prospect of Imogen's presence herein leaned closer to reality than otherwise.

There were layers and layers parted into halls and halls of prisons with various criminals locked in cells and guards keeping. She heard gruff sounds of grunts and squabbles, and the air was cold and uninviting.

Wandering deep, it wasn't long before the damsel found a veiled passage, in the nightest corner, which appeared as another part of stone wall, leading into dark and branching hallways, just as Azaire had once told her.

She could hear mice scampering about at the approach of her footsteps, as she walked on uncertainly. The silent maiden hoped desperately not to run into the recognition of any other persons of authority, lest she be seized and her possessions distrained.

Crescence gripped the parcel of food against her chest as her mind conceived various excuses in case she was found.

She halted her stride to mask the wraps of food beneath the curtain of her capes. It was alright, however, for the skins of water to be hung over her shoulder.

There was an unsettling stillness and she wondered if this was a sort of passage that led to a new portal of sorts. The wandering damsel considered if, perhaps, this space was unpatrolled for its lack of exposure to the public.

Just then, she heard the faint voices of speech. As she followed, she heard one that inevitably belonged to Imogen, though outweighed by weakness. There was a shaft of light from the wall beyond which the voices emerged from and the girl approached carefully.

Had that place not been as eerie and sinister and moth-eaten, one would see that there was always artistic beauty even in the touch of light upon the floating and untidy tresses of gossamer and insect-woven filth.

The portion of wall seemed to be a door and she pushed her weight against it with all her might to gain access.

It was odd how she could hear the sound of rain when the door stood moved, for this portion of the incarceration was at the most chasmic point, buried farthest and deepest under the ground.

She entered to see Imogen staring in expectation and fear and another old man lying beyond. Exhilaration thrilled her whole body as she saw joy erupting from her friend's battered face.

"C-Crescence?" she heard her whisper, as tears began running down both the damsels' faces. "Did you truly come all this way to see me?" Imogen's voice sounded like it was gaining excitement.

"Of course, I did. You'd dare not have expected any less", said she hurrying towards the bars of the cell that held the damsel.

"I should expect your love, but your intelligence of finding me is baffling", said her friend and the dark haired damsel without the prison smiled.

Crescence could not endure to see the sorry sight that her dear girl had been abridged to: swathes of linted linens encased her body, a loose black cloak of long flared sleeved draped over that reached to her feet as a wrapped gown, a stash against her waist.

For the sake of convenience, Imogen had a single sleeve of the robe worn over her shoulder and hand and the other undraped, hanging down from her belt. Prison garments truly humbled a person's airs.

"I wish I had brought you flowers, it would lift your senses", said she, pensively as her gaze lingered at every frinze of the ragged sight that made the Physician's former apprentice.

"I would say I am glad you did not. We do not want traces of your presence left here in the scent of garden flowers", Imogen said. "After everything, seeing your countenance at this hour lifts my senses."

Crescence looked around the cold confinement and took a deep breath. The place looked dark with stone walls and pillars dressed in cobs and white dirt.

For the absolute dedication in keeping the place unswept, it was as if the dungeon should feel humiliated after its slovenly front. And there was, further, the heavy stench of wet salt.

The sole redeeming property of this classified space was the ventilation it provided from the west wall, for it was placed deeply underground and its inhabitants would have suffocated to death without an intake of air from the grand outdoors.

There were torches that nearly seemed snuffed, failing to act their task at sustaining light and warmth. The faintly-lit hall seemed to be quartered into about three chambers of imprisonment, one: holding Imogen, another: the old man, the farthest: empty and the fourth part: being the floors upon which she stood, beyond the confines of the cells, for visitation.

The bars behind which its victims were tamed seemed as nightish icicles for they were made of a material that looked like dark glass.

"If I could sunder these bars, I would have you escape away with me", said she looking about at them.

"That would be a lofty desire", said Imogen, lifting the ends of her drape to reveal a large cold gyve locking her ankle, with the chain that was unrolling there-from, pinioning her to the cell.

"These men are monstrous", the Kitchen's maiden muttered, before she remembered the weight of her little parcel of food. "I have brought you a share of ration", said she, drawing it out and passing it to Imogen.

"I am afraid I have no hunger, Cres. Perhaps, water would assist?"

"Consider the food be brought from Lady Minerva. She is all of vexed after your well-being. It would have delighted her spirits to have her visit you, but she is not granted entry herein." All these words proceeded from Crescence's mouth as she provided Imogen with drink.

She looked up to find Imogen's tears streaming down her face. "Oh darling! Don't cry; everything will be alright! I promise to you, Lady Minerva and I are taking every step in our mortal power to save you from this frightful torment. She even told me that several other Chiefs of the Castle strive for your repossession of status and life", said she further, in Imogen's consolation.

"I-", the weeping damsel was choking on her words. "I wish to see my Lady Minerva one final time, before I prepare for death."

"Hush, now, dear", soothed Crescence, "Don't say such terrible things as death. We will arrange for you to escape this ordeal, even if it is brought forth by illicit means."

"I even had a nightmare of drowning", said Imogen between sobs, as Crescence's hand reached forth to softly stroke her vermillion hair that seemed compromised to brunette with darkness.

The imprisoned damsel wiped her eyes with her course sleeve and looked up. "There was also, amidst the predicament, those engravings from the pillory, etched against a stone."

"Easy, sweet-heart, rest well until you are rescued", said Crescence, as Imogen took a sip of water. It was as watching a forlorn voyager faring through an arid wilderness and lost, finding an oasis and drinking joy from its springs of water.

"Would you be kind in sparing a withering old man some victuals, my dear girl?" sounded an old voice and Crescence turned to the sorry figure of the man from the cell neighbouring Imogen's. His scarce colour-abandoned hair was dishevelled and his body had rotted to the shape of his bones beneath.

"Of course, sir. The honour is mine", said she, gathering bread for his starvation. The sight of his absolute delight at the prospect of simple food invited feelings of warmth to dwell in her very soul.

Compassion bore sweet fruits and Crescence could understand why Imogen had always been so inclined on lending alms, for, against all edges, she had fed even a public law-breaker as Jehu.

"And what is the name you bear?" asked Crescence, kindly.

There was a period of pause, with the man evidently considering the taste of his words before producing them: "Oreius Zephaniah".

The girl nodded, though her gaze began to eye him rough. Her mind broke into a rummage for depth and source. She knew that the single entirety of his name resonated with a mildly familiar ring.

"Are you expecting death?" asked the elder and Imogen nodded.

"As am I", said he, with a smile. The referred girl leaned over, concerned.

"Are they plotting your demise?" asked Imogen, in reference to the men that held the Rule. After all, she had wondered why her Death was so necessary and unforgiveable; and why Jehu had escaped.

If he had simply been a common criminal of theft, he should have expected release, but if he had absconded, per-haps he had been expecting an execution. However, he had made no mention of impending death to her in all their conversations, so it appeared as though he had been kidnapped and her subjugated to his place for some ulterior ambitions.

That was however, only vain hopes entertaining her. Deep within, she was of a strong conviction that the Regent and his Eccleissor may have ordered Jehu's premature death the previous night, for she recollected Jaycob's hand bearing blood and his unexpected journey abroad.

"I would call it the Fate written of nature", replied the fragile man.

"Are you ailing?" asked Imogen, wondering if she could tend to his health.

"Of age, my dear. I will no more", said the man. "Now, if an unheralded death of mine arrives, I recommend a fine approach of proceedings to achieve your escape: with the disposal of my lifeless corpse, make abscondence and once you have departed the dungeons' confinement, fly east and begin living."

"My spirit would yield itself should my eyes behold an experience as gruesome as such. I would comfort, in soul, however, that you are not parting shortly", said she with a faded smile.

"And what invokes these words?"

"I have been the Physician's apprentice, and do know by practice; He has not arrived. And He always appears at one's last breath", said she, a strange comfort encompassing her heart in knowing that if He, the Reaper, had not come yet, there may be chance that she would not meet her Goblet of Death.

The man's wilting and deep set eyes showed favour. "You are young with much promise to spend. I bequeath my gift to your profit: that you will live long to prosper. May this blessing reside with thee and never be stolen from thy bosom", blest he.

The young lady took heart, beyond the impossibility of circumstances.

Just as she moved to thank him, Crescence interrupted the conversation she was silent to, with the dawn of her recollection:

"It has been about fifteen years since, but I do know that there was once a victim that had been chastised to face Dragon breath for raising cries that a man by the name 'Oreius Zephaniah', her deceased husband, was not as dead as she was forced to believe. We were indoctrinated to never spread false tales from the incident forward, but most believed that when the victim held her convictions strong even at the face of perishing, there was chance it was true."

It had been a peculiar case and thus difficult to forget, despite the lapse of long years theretofore. The haggard man's face appeared to be a-ghast with disbelief until he was rendered mute in ill silence.

"I recollect the woman who claimed so was unafraid to face the death she was given", Imogen intervened, concerned for the man's shade of dismay. "She said she was glad to merely shed a ray of light upon the surreal darkness of the face of Truth before her retiral." Of course, there was an element of truth even in her words of haste.

The man nodded slowly and laid his frail body against the floor. If his eyes did not bleed tears, the reason was solely that they had all been spent in his century.

Imogen's expression appeared to seem disputed as she turned her face to Crescence. "We will take him to safety as well, when we shall have your life spared", the dark-haired maiden promised.

"The hopes of surviving this ordeal only conflicts my spirit for the loom of death feels inevitable and these notions cause me to feel uncertain. Cres, I would rather that I be put to death and put to death sooner. This period of respite is only foaming my heart with sensations of tension, but if this dying wishes of mine may see blossoms: I would that you do save his life and see him to recovery and then, that I lay eyes on my dearest Lady Minerva a final time once. The rest of my life I leave in the considerate hands of God."

As Imogen's words proceeded forth, Crescence's grip against the bars felt mild vibrations. Her heart's beats began to hasten as she hurried to collect all her belongings. "I have over-sojourned my welcome", she whispered as she turned to the door.

She knew that the slight thrumming was that caused by the close of doors or windows from a distance, presaging that someone was approaching.

~