David Gaider - The Calling

The Architect sat at the stone desk, an ornate lacquered chair rising high behind him. Bregan could see a quill pen in the creature’s hand, the feather busily twirling about as it wrote in a large, leather-bound ledger. The source of the blinding light was the glowstone, now hanging from the Architect’s chair and filling the library with flickering shadows. He didn’t remember the stone being so incredibly bright, certainly not enough to hurt his eyes.

The darkspawn noticed him standing in the door and paused in its writing. It appeared surprised to see Bregan, raising what might have been eyebrows had it had any hair in the desiccated flesh on its head. As soon as it realized his discomfort, it glanced at the glowstone and made the connection. With a wave of its gnarled hand, the stone’s radiance dimmed—enough to elicit a sigh of relief from Bregan. The pain was gone, and he could now see clearly into the room.

“My apologies,” the Architect offered.

“I woke up and you did not come.”

It nodded. “You have been asleep. I had no way of knowing for how long. I took the glowstone so I could write, and because I knew you would become more … sensitive when you awoke.”

Bregan frowned in confusion. He stepped gingerly into the library, marveling at the array of shelves along the wall. A tall stone ladder was hooked up to a runner that went the entire length around the room, allowing one to reach up to the very top of any of the shelves. A dwarven contraption, surely, but, unlike everything else he’d seen in this ruin, it was in excellent shape. “I don’t understand,” he finally said. “How long was I asleep? A day? More?”

“I do not know what a ‘day’ is.”

“You don’t?” Bregan waved absently at the shelves. “It doesn’t explain that in one of these books somewhere? I got the impression you read them.”

The darkspawn sat back in its chair, steepling its fingers as it watched him with great interest. Bregan somehow got the feeling that he had intruded on this creature’s sanctum, and yet it retained its polite and cultured air. Those eyes widened with alarm every time his hands came close to touching one of the books, however. Was there something there it didn’t want him to see? Or was it possessive of its treasures?

On closer examination, Bregan noted that most of the books were yellowed and falling apart. Many of them had been poorly rebound and repaired, probably by the Architect itself. No doubt its concern was that he would damage them accidentally.

Had these ancient tomes been here all along? Or did the emissary collect them from throughout the Deep Roads? He tried to imagine this creature voyaging to ruined thaig after ruined thaig, sifting through rubble for dwarven books that hadn’t completely disintegrated in the passing centuries. There couldn’t have been many. The few with legible text left on the binding were written in dwarven, and thus beyond Bregan’s ability to decipher. What topics would interest such a creature, he wondered?

“I have read them,” the Architect replied. “Some of them I have read many times. There are many things they speak of that I do not understand.”

“A day is one of the ways we measure time. The sun falls and it becomes night, and when the sun comes up again a day has passed, twenty-four hours in total.”

“Ah.” It seemed pleased. “I have read of these things, but I had no way of knowing of their connection. Thank you for providing me this information.”

“You’re welcome.” Bregan walked up to the great stone desk, carefully navigating his way between the stacks of books scattered on the floor. Several of the tomes were quite large, he noticed, and one leaning against the desk was almost as wide as the desk itself. Its pages were cracked and so tarnished yellow that the delicate writing was almost indecipherable. It wasn’t dwarven but rather Tevinter, the language of the ancient magisters. Arcane writing. “You said I would be more sensitive when I awoke. Did you mean to the light? Why would I be more sensitive?”

The darkspawn studied him quietly for a moment, cocking its head to the side as if confused. “Do you not remember?”

“Not well, no. But something has changed.”

“You complained that the calling of the Old Gods was driving you mad. I offered to speed up the progression of the taint within you, and you agreed.”

Bregan froze. The chill of his skin, the change in the buzzing, the strange sensations … what had been done to him? “What do you mean, I agreed?” The alarm in his voice made the Architect stiffen. It regarded him with concern, but did not move from its chair.

“I was not entirely certain that I would be able to,” it explained. “But you insisted. I will admit to a certain fascination with the idea. The possibility that your change could be accelerated, and the changes that would incur. Some I could guess.” It gestured to the glowstone still hanging on the chair, now giving off only a dim orange glimmer. “It was no brighter than previously. It is your tolerance that has altered.”

Bregan stood there, stunned. He had asked for this? Slowly it dawned on him that for all the strangeness, the constant humming was no longer driving him mad. It had become something beautiful and strange now instead, and it was he that had transformed into something alien. He felt it. He felt the change under his skin.

He held his hands up in front of his face. The dark stains he had seen on his flesh previously had spread. They had spread until his skin was little more than mottled and dark with it, the areas where it had changed now withered and rough, much like the darkspawn’s flesh was. His nails were long and black, almost talons.

Shuddering in horror, he allowed his hands to drop. “I want to see my face.”

The darkspawn cocked its head again. “How do you wish to do that?”

“A mirror. Give me a mirror.”

“I know of no such device.”

He slammed a fist down on the desk, sending several of the more precariously stacked books tumbling off. “Something reflective! I need to see myself!” he shouted furiously.

It seemed nonplussed and slowly gathered its brown robes and stood up from the chair. Without a word it turned and left the room, leaving Bregan standing where he was. He felt foolish. He felt angry. What had he done? Was the emissary simply leaving him, offended at his behavior?

Did he really think the creature had done this to him without permission? No. No, he didn’t. If it had wished to experiment on him, it could easily have done so before. He had asked for this, and even as he considered the idea a vague recollection of it swam across his mind. He had been in pain. The humming had been everywhere, even inside him. He had wanted it gone.

It took several minutes before the Architect returned. It held up what appeared to be a round, steel shield. A thing of dwarven make, yet so covered in the dark tendrils of corruption it would be impossible to see anything in it. He glanced in confusion at the emissary, yet it ignored him. With a gesture of its hand a great black flame burst into being upon the metal.

Waves of heat emanated from it, making Bregan realize just how chilled he actually was. He was standing in the chamber with only a pair of trousers on, yet it was not the temperature that made him cold. He knew that.

He watched as the black fire crawled its way along the shield’s surface, scouring it clean. Within moments the brilliant sheen of the metal on its inside surface had been revealed. It wasn’t quite a mirror, but it would probably do. The Architect unceremoniously handed it over.

Bregan expected the shield to be burning hot, but it wasn’t. It was barely even warm. Enchanted, he assumed. Not that it should be a surprise—who knew how many treasures the dwarves had left in these tunnels when their kingdoms had crumbled? All an enterprising darkspawn had to do was find them.