Christopher Golden: The Chamber of Ten

This very chamber, illuminated by a ring of sconces high on the circular walls. A circle of heavy wooden chairs surrounds the three marble columns at the center of the room—ten, of course. Upon each chair sits a dark-robed man. They are not dressed identically; this is no cult. Some have jackets beneath their robes, checkered in combinations of black, red, tan, or green, while others appear far more severe, even monastic. The robes vary in length and cut, but they are all black, as are the hats the men wear, for none has a bare head .

One of them speaks in an old Venetian dialect . This is …

What is that final word? Something like “foolish.” No, not that . “Unwise.”

She sees not through her own eyes, but the eyes of another. She—he—is standing in the midst of the three stone columns at the center of the chamber, in the shifting pattern that the intrusive candlelight pushes into the shadows around her. She can feel his body, tall and thin and male. Unlike the others, his robe is stylishly slit in various places to reveal crimson cloth beneath and he wears no hat to cover his thick hair. He fixes the man who had spoken with a withering stare .

This is for Venice, he says . The Doge must be banished. And if you think it unwise, consider your fate should he ever return.

The one who had questioned his wisdom falls silent. Satisfied, he vanishes back into the shadows of the columns and begins to sing. His voice rises in what might be song, or chant, or ritual. Light begins to radiate from an empty space amongst the columns—in the exact center of the room. It is dim at the start but glows more and more brightly until it obviates the need for candlelight .

At some signal amidst that song, the Ten draw small identical blades from within their robes. Glancing anxiously at one another, each makes a cut on the palm of his left hand , la sinestra, and then makes a fist, squeezing drops of blood onto the floor .

The light emanating from within the columns is washed in pink, and then deepens to bloody scarlet .

The chamber goes dark .

Geena collapsed, spilling out from between two columns and onto the floor of the round chamber. She blinked away the vision that had filled her mind and the pain that accompanied it. Someone called her name. The light from Sabrina’s camera blinded her and she winced. Closing her eyes tightly, she felt a torrent of images sweep over her—Nico’s blank expression, the stone jar shattering on the floor, the dark-robed men slicing the flesh of their palms, drops of blood falling.

Feedback , she thought. Nico’s touch made him what, in times gone by, some had referred to as a sensitive. He’d had some kind of psychic— no, “psychometric,” that’s the word —episode. And their rapport, the intimacy of their minds, had caused it to spill over to her.

Christ, it had hurt.

“Nico?” she said, starting to rise.

She spotted her torch, frowning as her ears picked up a new sound in the circular chamber. A trickling of water. That made no sense. The room had been sealed for centuries, dry as a bone, despite the proximity of the Grand Canal and the spongelike foundations of the city.

But as she reached for her Maglite, her eyes followed its beam to the chamber wall and she saw glistening tracks of water drizzling over the stone. It bubbled from pockets of ancient air.

“What do we do?” Sabrina asked, sweeping the camera around, trying to get it all on film.

“Son of a bitch,” Geena whispered, snatching up the light and shining it along the base of the wall. The beam found a chink in the stone where water gushed in, sliding over the floor in a rapidly widening pool.

Geena?

It was Nico, but he had not spoken aloud. His voice was in her head. And it was afraid.

Howard Finch loomed in front of her, a ghost-man with wide, panic-stricken eyes. “What are you waiting for? We’ve got to get out of here!”

Only then did the real danger occur to her. But by then it was too late.

A section of wall gave way and the water rushed in.

II

FOR A moment as they were frozen in shock, Geena’s gaze settled on Nico. His expression was pale and twisted with fear, but not of the water. His eyes looked beyond those ancient walls, perhaps lingering in the vision they’d just shared, wondering whose eyes he had been looking through.

Then someone grabbed her shoulder and pulled, and the room erupted into chaos.

A voice shouted in Italian, so fast that she lost track of what it was saying. Something about steps and cold and black , but she could not place the words in order or context. Water washed around her feet and splashed up at her ankles and shins, cold and thick with slime. The chamber filled with the rumble of tumbled stones and the roar of gushing water. The shouts and cries of her friends echoed strangely around the round room.

“Dr. Hodge!” Ramus shouted, grabbing her shoulder again, but she tore herself away to focus on Nico.

What’s he seeing? she thought, and then she saw Nico turn and trip over something on the floor. She grimaced against the flash of sensation she expected from him—

Pain, that must have hurt, and I’m sure I heard him cry out .

—but none came. Nico was on his hands and knees, feeling around under the rapidly rising water as if he’d lost something valuable.

“Nico!” Domenic shouted, hauling at the old wooden door with the X stamped on the metal bracings. “Geena! All of you, come here and help!” He pulled harder, but the water was up to their knees now and rising quickly. It was not only the weight of the water against the door that kept it closed, but the force of the flow. Finch went to help, grabbing the wooden jamb and prizing at the door.

Geena thought of all the submarine suspense films she’d ever seen, every one of which featured a scene when a heroic submariner would sacrifice himself to save the rest of the crew. She let out a burst of terrified laughter, and Ramus grabbed her arm and hauled her toward the door.

“Nico!” she shouted.

He was still scrabbling about on the floor, dipping his head under the rising flood again and again. The water carried a rich, oily chemical smell, and beneath that was the rank odor of sewage. The darting flashlights could not pick out color, but she knew the waters would be almost black with filth and shit. “Nico, come on !”

He surfaced at last, standing, backing against one of the three central columns for support. He had something in his hands, a thick substance that slipped slowly through his fingers. He’s gone insane , she thought briefly, opening her mind and urging him to touch her. But there was nothing there at all—no excitement or fear, no joy or confusion.

“Nico,” she said, so quietly this time that she could hardly hear her own voice above the roar of water. He looked up and met her eyes, but he did not see her.

A higher, larger section of the curved wall fell, and the flow of water became a torrent.

“Help us!” someone screamed. As Geena turned she saw Domenic prop one foot against the wall and pull against the door. Finch helped, and Ramus, and old timbers crumbled and split. The door disintegrated, metal bracings dipping into the water, and Sabrina and her camera were ushered through first.

Ramus went next, standing with his back against the curving staircase wall and helping Finch after him. The producer disappeared, his jerky shadow thrown back by Sabrina’s camera light.

Geena was leaning against the flow of water now, feeling almost solid things grabbing at her thighs, trying to pull her down. Just the rush of water , she thought, and she cursed her imagination as she felt long fingers, curved nails …