Far below, the princess searched shelf after shelf, reading legends on spines of volumes, carefully unrolling scrolls. Histories and legends, faery tales and myths lay before her. To all these she gave passing glances, but had not the time to delve deep into their secrets.
She made her way down the long hall, her fingers stopping now and again, pulling some forgotten volume, only to return it, not finding anything of use. She knew not how long she had been searching in the library of the ancient dragon horde, but knew the moments ticked by at breakneck speed.
Her frustration grew as she searched. Somewhere among these writings, the old man at the outlanders camp had promised she would find something which might help her thwart her ruler, information to help her fulfill her oath of vengeance. With a growl, she returned another useless volume to its place.
About halfway down the hall, near the center table, she began to come across items showing a bit more promise. The books and tomes here seemed newer, fresher. The scrolls held schematics and technical drawings which seemed to her somewhat familiar. Her fingertips alighted upon a thick leather-bound volume bearing the legend "The Writings of The King." Sliding it out, she hefted it onto the stone table and sat upon its adjoining bench, tucking her leg up under her as she began to read. She thumbed through page after page until at last her eye fell upon something which caught her attention.
- - -
The sand... The sand was the key!
Many hours I listened to my companion across the way. Scrape, scrape, scrape! Stone rasping against harder stone. I questioned him many times... what are you doing? What is the meaning of this? What scratching is that? How are we to escape this infernal prison?
To all my queries, he said nothing. And still the scraping, scratching. In the weak light, I could see his back to me, his bent frame toiling at the wall behind him. At times, he would collapse in exhaustion and all I could hear from his was the rattle of his harsh breathing. After a time, he would rise again, resuming the awful scraping of the wall behind him.
At long last, he sat down with a heavy sigh, and drew before him a small mound of shiny black sand. For all the many hours of the tedious scraping at the wall, all he had gathered was this small mound of grains.
For many long minutes, he sat still and silent. So much so, I believed him to have expired from his toil, so quiet was he.
Then, his raspy voice issued across the chasm between us.
"So, my companion..." he panted. "You wish to know of our escape."
"Yes, friend." Said I. "What has this bit of dust have to do with climbing from this pit?"
In truth, I believed him mad, or at the very least addled beyond reason.
"Patience, my comrade." He cackled. "Think you that this will be easy? Men have lived lifetimes trying to master this one task alone!"
All at once, a bright blue ball of fire sprung up above his outstretched hand. It curled around itself, writhing and reforming. It hung in the air above his hand, hovered their of its own accord.
My thoughts of his madness vanished, though I still had doubts about my own sanity. Truly I had slipped from reason myself, beholding such a sight, or this prisoner across the divide was a great sorcerer indeed.
Carefully, he laid the ball of blue fire into a small depression in the rock floor next to him, where it rolled and played and crackled. Though its brightness had dissipated, it still shone bright enough to illuminate the walls of our shared prison and cast an eerie glow against his wis'ned skin.
Let me take a moment to describe him. His hair was long and grey, matted and wild. He wore a long beard, equally crazed and dirty, which hung long down to his stomach and across his crossed legs. He was tall, as so much as I could tell from his seated posture, and his shoulders had once been broad and strong, but age and severity had hunched them considerably. His most striking features, however, were his eyes. They stood out bright from sunken sockets, His face was drawn and haggard, as a man who has not seen decent food in many an age. But the eyes. Bright and shining, even so much as glowing in the darkness. I must confess that even I gave a shudder to behold them.
But let me continue with the narrative. So long spent I in the darkness of our oubliette, it is difficult to place events in their proper order. How long we spent together there I cannot say, but an age it seemed to learn the skills he professed. I have always been a quick study, language, mathematics, the arts; all of these I mastered with ease, but his teaching taxed me in a way I have never known before, of mind and of body.
Even now as I pen these histories, his voice strikes hard within me.
"Your mind," he would say. "Your hands are useless here. You must believe him into existence... with your mind!" And off he would go in another endless parade of cackles and coughs and suptters before we could continue.
From his small mound of sand, he fashioned a tiny man-shape. He spat into the sand, urinated into it, formed it into paste. Slowly, ever so slowly, he fashioned his clay man-shape. Hours we spent in the light of his strange blue fire as he worked it into being. All the while as he fashioned, he spoke to me of strange new sciences. He told me of the heavens, of strange worlds beyond our own. He spoke of the stars, proclaiming them like our own sun, but far distant in the vastness of the heavens. He told of plants with healing properties, of stones which held great power.
Magick, dear reader. He spoke of magick unknown to me, though I could best any wizard in my own realm. He told of music, explained about tricks of sight and of sound and of mind. And all the while he moulded his man-shape.
I drifted in and out. At times he would quickly extinguish his magick flame. And soon after, men would appear high above, and rain insults and refuse down upon us. From these scraps we would survive. As he worked, I fashioned a vessel for water from a broken pot-sherd. I would gather it drop by drop as it seeped from the living rock about me.
At long last, the darkness was allayed with a new ball of fire, bright and bluish green, which he laid beside him again. His eerie eyes fixed me from across the chasm.
