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Andrew M. Trauger

BK 3: Chapter Eight: Focus Comes with Clarity

Updated: Aug 20




In the northern plains of Alikon, biting winds enveloped the land as The Deepening reinforced a bitter cold descending from Elandra on the opposite shores.  A light dusting of snow lay across the thatched roofs of Westmeade, and the skies promised more to come.  While an early winter meant prolonged joy to children who longed to frolic in the snow, it fostered loathing in those whose work required braving the cold.

For Sir Reginald Hunt, the temperature matched a deepening coldness of his heart.  What had happened to the summer of his life?  Not even the embrace of his wife brought warmth.  His marriage was splintering, and the realization escalated his bitterness.  For a man accustomed to being in control, the chaos swirling through his life was maddening.

He looked up from a third glass of wine to the blonde woman sitting with her needlework in a chair by the fireplace.  Lilane Hunt—the most perfect wife, tall and slender, and of pure Kedethian lineage—had faithfully stood by him through years of difficult days and long nights.  Lately, she had become just another piece of furniture.

The captain set his glass aside.  “I’m going out.”

Lilane’s lack of response was expected.  It seemed the wintry air had settled over their marriage, but there was no spring coming.  He couldn’t divulge the Nephreqin vise that squeezed both life and honor from him.  Sparing Lilane this horror was paramount, but the isolation only added to his pain.

Hunt pulled the door closed behind him and stepped into a light flurry of snow.  The sparkles of white covering the landscape did nothing to lift his spirits.  He shuffled through empty streets, plowing fresh footprints through the white blanket, hands in pockets and eyes on his feet.

Montpeleón, the alderman of Sarvelle district, had scheduled a late meeting, but Hunt had no idea what it was about.  Calling a private conference at this hour was curious enough, but setting the rendezvous in an old woodshed gave Hunt’s hackles a rise.

Turning a corner, he lifted his head to check his bearings and immediately cursed himself for doing it.  From the corner of his vision, a pair of thin, beady red eyes stared unblinking at him.  He’d seen those eyes before.  He’d been promised those ever-watching eyes.  Whether they were real or a figment, he could not tell, but their ubiquitous presence filled his nightmares and haunted his waking hours.  And he knew they would be there the moment he looked up.

The abandoned woodshed leaned left of plumb at the end of the lane.  A small metal pipe extending from the bowed roof puffed with wispy smoke.  Hunt knocked on the rickety door.

Montpeleón deCorté cracked the door open.  “Come in.  I think you’ll find it warm and cozy inside.”

Hunt shuffled past him, and only after the door was locked behind him did the captain breathe easily.  He scooted a stool closer to the pot-bellied woodstove and extended his hands toward it.  “Cold came on quickly this year,” he mumbled.

Montpeleón sat beside him.  “Something troubles you.  I think perhaps it has for a long time.”

Hunt sighed.  I don’t want to get into that right now.  How could I even tell him?  “That obvious?”

“You dragged in here like a whipped dog and you smell of cheap wine—Noblisk red if I’m not mistaken.  Only a dead man would miss the shadow that overhangs you.”

“It’s complicated.”

Montpeleón softened his tone.  “Problems at home?”

Hunt shook his head.

“You have…three children, right?  All grown?”

“Yes.”  Hunt mumbled.  “They’re fine.”

“That’s nice.  Family is important.  Sadly, I haven’t seen my family since arriving in Westmeade.  I should probably schedule a trip to Kedeth sometime.”  He scrubbed his goatee for a moment.  “So, what troubles you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I might be able to help.”

Hunt shook his head.  “I don’t think so.  Instead, why don’t you tell me why I’m here.”

The young alderman smirked.  “The truth is, I asked you here to find out what’s bothering you.”

Hunt studied him for a crack in the clear façade.  “I can smell a lie like you can smell wine; you’ll have to do better than that.”

“You could just roll with it.”

“Or…you could tell me why I’m here.”  The captain began to doubt the sincerity of the situation.  He scanned the room for an escape route, weapons at hand, and the measure of the man sitting with him.  Without knowing exactly why, Montpeleón was a suspect and the locked door no longer a comfort.

Montpeleón sat back and folded his hands in his lap.  “We’re just two aldermen having a pleasant chat, my friend.  There’s no need to be defensive.”

Hunt lowered his glare in scorn.  “We’re in a woodshed.  At night.  It’s snowing.  I’m paid to be defensive when things don’t make sense.  And if you knew what I’ve been through lately, you wouldn’t deny me that.”

“So talk to me.”

Hunt stared at the dirt floor.  His ale-soaked mind slogged through recent memories.  Where should he start—should he start?  Could he trust Montpeleón?  Could he trust anyone anymore, including himself?  I really need to get away.

Montpeleón shifted forward in his chair.  “What has your wife so upset at you that she would find consolation in the arms of another man?”

A spark ignited in Hunt’s breast, and his voice turned feral.  “Excuse me?”

The young alderman paused briefly.  “She has become, shall we say, dissatisfied…with you.”

Hunt sat upright, his hands clenched into fury-filled fists.  “Just what are you saying?”

“She’s a lovely woman, Hunt.  I only gave her what she needed.  It’s a pity you’ve neglected her.”

Hunt flew from his stool, his arms raised in lethal wrath.  “How dare you!”

Montpeleón rolled out of his chair, leaving Hunt to careen into the opposite wall.  A lofty note rang out, and Hunt covered his ears.  Montpeleón held the note, sustaining it until the captain’s anger subsided.  The tune shifted into a crisp, clear melody that filled the small shed and wrapped around Hunt’s mind.

The captain sat up and focused on the songsage, his will now outside his control.  “What do you want with me?”

Montpeleón walked stood and dusted off his coat.  Leaning over the fallen captain, he reached out a hand.  “Get up.  Stop all this ridiculous melancholy and return to your former self, the Chief Prosecutor of Westmeade.  Lose your worries, your fears, and all your anger.  And quit all this adolescent nonsense.”

Hunt’s breathing softened.  “Yes, of course.  I should go home now.”

Montpeleón held up a hand.  “Actually, we’re not finished here.  There is a small matter I need to handle, a delicate situation for which I need your assistance.  But I also need you thinking clearly.  So, sit down.”

Hunt righted the stool he had toppled and sat.  Montpeleón warbled another brief melody, and Hunt’s mind cleared.  Then his eyes narrowed.  “Did…did you just take over my mind?”  Again, he stood with fists balled to strike.

“Sit down, Hunt!” Montpeleón barked.

“You dominated me!  A crime of the highest order.”

“Self-defense,” the songsage answered with a shrug.  “You would have beaten me to a pulp for no reason.”

“No reason?”

“Of course.  I did nothing that Lilane didn’t appreciate.”

“You fiend!  I’ll kill you!”

  “Sit…down!”  Montpeleón voice boomed with inhuman loudness.  The timbers of the small shed rattled with the volume, and Hunt fell back onto his stool.

“I did not have relations with your wife,” Montpeleón said in a calmer tone.  “I only talked with her, but Lilane was quite willing to tell me everything.  She’s been neglected for several weeks and wants nothing more than someone to listen to her, to explain what’s going on.  I comforted her…with words.  She loves you.”

The captain stewed in silence, torn by the implicit accusation of his own neglect being assuaged by the honeyed words of another man.

“I gave you a chance to talk plainly with me,” Montpeleón continued, “but you are too caught up in this funk.  We need to get you straightened out.  Folks are starting to worry about you.  Lilane certainly is.”

Hunt lifted a wary eye.  “What do you want?”

Montpeleón opened the stove and tossed another log onto the fire.  “For starters, let’s try this again: what’s bothering you?”

“I don’t trust you.”  Hunt spun a finger in the air.  “All this…this doesn’t set well with me at all.  And then you take over my mind?  Why should I tell you anything?  In fact, why shouldn’t I arrest you right now?”

The younger alderman smiled.  “Because you want what I know.  Of course I would not do ‘all this’ for no reason.  We both have warm homes, but this is one of the few places that nobody is watching.”

There was that word again.  Despite his training, Hunt twitched, and the twinkle in Montpeleón’s eyes meant he had seen it.  Did he know about the Watcher, or was he simply adept at persuasive games?  What if had pulled that information from Hunt’s mind while dominating him?  What else might have been revealed?

Montpeleón crossed his legs and leaned forward.  “I know things that might place a number of pieces into the puzzle you’re working through.  Tell me what’s going on, and I will give what aid I can.  We’re on the same side, Hunt.”

The captain searched him for sincerity.  He did need a confidante, and someone on the Council who understood discretion would help shoulder the burden.  Perhaps Montpeleón had merely talked to Lilane, and only as an attempt to gain an inroad.  She had tried several times to speak with me before going cold; maybe this was all genuine. But how do I divulge my entanglement with the Nephreqin without indicting myself?  Would Montpeleón help free me of this blasted trap or turn me in?  Maybe jail is a good place for me, a place where the Nephreqin can’t dig their claws into my life.  What do I have to lose?

Hunt took a deep breath.  “I’m being watched.”

The young alderman raised an eyebrow.  “How so?”

“All day every day, I am followed, watched, and scrutinized.  I don’t know who it is, but I can feel his presence.  And often I see a pair of little red eyes staring at me from around a corner or through a bush.  Saying it makes me sound crazy, but I’m not.”

“How do you know this is not your mind playing tricks on you?”

Hunt shook his head.  “I was visited by someone during the Brewer’s Consortium, someone hidden from view but who walked with me through the crowded streets.  He numbed my body but left my mind completely lucid.  And he said I was being watched.  In fact, he said he was the Watcher.  I started seeing the eyes immediately after that.”

Montpeleón rubbed his beard.  “Who have you told about this?”

“No one…until now.  I don’t even know if I should be telling you, but my life’s gotten out of control.  I really need to leave town.  Permanently.”

“First of all,” Montpeleón responded with a thoughtful smile, “it’s good that you haven’t told anyone else, not even Lilane.  She doesn’t need to be burdened with unseen assailants, and most everyone else would have thought you’d cracked with a story like that.  Second, your life most certainly is spinning out of control, and you need to fix that.  I’m going to recommend to the Council that you be granted a leave of absence for a month or so.  Rejuvenate yourself, Hunt.  Spend time with that sweet wife of yours.  But you do not need to leave town permanently.”

“Why not?”

“Westmeade needs you.  The people count on you to dispense justice.”

Hunt released a hollow laugh.  “You have no idea how mocking that sounds right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember all the chaos of Schumann’s betrayal?”

Montpeleón nodded.

“Well,” Hunt continued, “before he was discovered, Schumann visited me at my house to lecture me on my sense of justice.  He said there were higher powers at work and if I didn’t comply with those plans, there would be a personal price to pay.”

Montpeleón frowned.  “Schumann blackmailed you?”

“Basically.  He used my Kedethian heritage against me, pitting my core beliefs against the lives of my wife and children.  Since I adhere to the Decree, I was made a pawn in the machinations of the Nephreqin, of which Schumann was an integral part.  Of course, I didn’t know that then, and he played his hand very well.  He said the Decree took precedence over my notions of justice.  He said, and I quote: ‘Get with the program or get out of the way.’  I either had to submit to the Nephreqin’s version of the Decree, which would save my family, or I had to hold true to my sense of justice, which would have sacrificed everything else I held dear.”

“That’s a tough spot.”

“So, you see why it mocks me to hear you say people count on me for justice.”

For a moment, Montpeleón sat silently staring at the pot-bellied stove.  “You realize this admission makes you complicit in the assassination attempt on the Duke…”

Hunt blanched.  “I didn’t know Schumann was aligned with the Nephreqin!  I actively resisted him!  At the time, I thought he was in league with an ascetic named Master Bray—I couldn’t have known they were the same person.  And when I learned of Bray’s plans to kill off the Company of Dragonslayers, I altered those plans and doubled the standing guard.  I—”

“You don’t have to confess all this to me.  I am not Baskin, your Defender.  Maybe it feels good to get this off your chest, but you’re really digging yourself a huge hole here.  I’ve just heard you say you sold out your country to save your wife, you aided the duke’s assassin, and you altered the hit list of a hired killer so he would slay the Dragonslayers in the castle instead of their homes.”

“Wait…” Hunt’s voice faltered.  “I didn’t say all that.”

“No, those weren’t your exact words, but we’ve been engaged in a months-long investigation, so excuse me if I filled in some of the gaps you failed to provide.  I take it I’m not that far off?”

Hunt’s mind reeled.  “But…I didn’t want them killed!”

“Why not burn the hit list?  Or submit it to the Council?  Why not expose Schumann as soon as you learned of his involvement?”

“I was afraid.  My family was at stake.  I was being watched then, too, and I believed if I foiled their plans completely, I would end up dead.”

Montpeleón raised an accusing eyebrow.  “So…you sold out your country to save yourself.”

“What?  No!  What are you talking about?” Hunt’s head pounded like he was caught in an ever-tightening vise.  “Is this some kind of interrogation?  Is that what’s going on here?  The Council sent you to grill me privately?”

Montpeleón chuckled, and the sound of his mirth set Hunt’s teeth on edge.  “No, I already know everything you’ve confessed, plus a whole lot more you’ve never mentioned to a soul.  I know precisely the situation you’re in, Hunt.  I don’t ask these questions because I seek information; I ask them so you can hear yourself give the answers.  I need you to admit that in your dutiful obedience to the Kedethian Decree you were willing to topple your own nation.  I need you to come to grips with the fact that you’re quite comfortable with assassinations.”

Nausea washed over the captain.  How is this happening?  How does this rake of a songsage have me hanging over a barrel?  His voice quavered as he responded.  “I—I don’t want any of that.  I only wanted to send the Audric savage back home.  I never wanted anyone killed.”

“That’s not what you told Master Bray.”

Hunt’s stomach turned.  “How—how do you know this?” he asked with a dry mouth.  But he had already surmised the answer.

Montpeleón’s slow, creeping sneer suggested a sinister glee.  He’d been anticipating this moment for a long time.  “The Watcher told you there was a new Master in town, did he not?”

The captain nodded weakly.

“I am he.”

A wave of revulsion collided with Hunt’s brain.  He lurched into the back corner of the shed and vomited.

 

                 

 

Elric assumed the path from death to life would be the reverse of life to death—he would simply wake up.  Where he would show up was a question muddling around in his head.  Another concern was the condition of his body.  Never minding how he had died, he’d been gone for a whole passel of days, and that meant his body was probably rinkin gruesome back home.  I hope I ain’t jis a crispy skeleton…already buried in the ground.

In his eagerness to return, however, Elric quickly signed the release form Argyle presented him and asked none of those burning questions.  He set the pen down and reached to shake the avatar’s hand, but a surprising pain shot through his torso.

His mouth flung open in a silent scream as the breath fled his lungs.  What felt like jagged claws ripped through his back and clamped around his spinal column.  His body jerked backward with such velocity that Argyle’s cottage faded into the distance in the matter of a few seconds.  The world disappeared beneath his feet.  Clouds whipped past his head as his arms and legs flailed below him like pennant flags in a windstorm.

In less than a minute, the First Realm of Paradise was completely beyond view, and still Elric could not catch his breath.  Sky gave way to blackness, then to a bland, foggy gray.  Time and space came to mean nothing; he could have been dragged through those grim mists for years, or it might have been only seconds.  He lost the feeling of the claw embedded in his back and all sensation of being pulled.  He didn’t feel like he was falling, or drifting, or moving in any direction at all.  He was floating—motionless, directionless, senseless.

Gray darkened to black pocked with motes of twinkling light.  Black paled to whitish-blue, then shifted to hues of yellow and a hazy shade of dark green.  Color quickly enveloped him, changing tint and hue with the dizzying speed of a shooting star.

Before Elric could question this new development, his journey ended with a spine-jarring slam.  He thought every bone in his body had broken all at once, particularly his back.  It was as if he had fallen from the tallest mountain peak straight down to the center of the earth.  He clutched at lungs devoid of air, straining to find his breath.  When he did, he sat up and screamed out in unbridled pain.  And when that breath was spent, he collapsed again where he lay—on a stone slab in the midst of a forest.

 

Hours passed before he could sit up again.  He had a migraine, except it was everywhere.  It hurt to open his eyes, to breathe, to swallow, to move…anything.  His hair hurt.  If this is comin’ back to life, I’d rather be dead.  But I might be gettin’ whooped fer killin’ the colonel.

The pain grinded on, but Elric pushed through the throbbing to look around him.  Objects around him remained hazy, as if obscured behind a film of water.  He reached up to rub his eyes, but his hands were dripping wet and accomplished nothing.  Slowly, he began to realize it was raining, as if the sensation of touch had been suppressed by ubiquitous agony.  Now the rain hurt, each droplet like a needle against his skin.

“Hello?” he groaned.

“Peace.”

The voice was behind him, but turning around was agony.  “Where am I?”

“You must lie down,” the voice said.  “You are not yet well enough to move about.”

Elric groaned.  Behind the agony pulsed an intense feeling of coldness.  On the one hand, it was a new feeling breaking through, like the prickles that pierce a leg that has fallen asleep.  On the other hand, the relentless needling tortured him.  Despite the pain of movement, Elric tried to rub some warmth into his skin.  His eyes bugged as the rush of realization washed over him: his body was no longer burned to a crisp, and he was soaking wet and completely naked.

“Cripe, man!” he croaked, “where’s my clothes!  Whatcha mean leavin’ me out nekkid in the rain?  That ain’t even right!”

“Peace, child.”

“If I wasn’t tore up from the floor up, I’d pound ya.  Also, I’m nekkid, an’ it don’ feel right fightin’ a man what can see my ‘you know whats.’  Kinda takes the wind outta my sails when I can feel the breeze…”

“Peace!”  The voice spoke with authority and carried with it the force of Nature.  A hand rested across his face; fingers splayed from his chin to his forehead.  “Sleep,” said the voice, and Elric’s eyes closed.

 

When he awoke, he was on a cot in a small cavern and wrapped in a woolen blanket.  Light from a half-dozen greenish-white glowing balls illumined the space.  Several people moved about the area, bringing in supplies and setting up shelves, tables, and supplies.  Each was garbed in a dull gray hooded robe with the cowl pulled low over the faces.  They moved with little sound and spoke only in silent gestures.

Elric wriggled an arm free of his woolen cocoon and propped himself up on an elbow.  To his surprise, the pain had largely subsided.  “So…where am I at?”

A man’s crackly voice answered. “You are in a cave deep in the heart of the Cerion Forest.”

“Ain’t ‘at where Ordin’s from?  Y’all know Ordin?”

“I know thirty-five named Ordin; of which do you speak?”

“He’s pasty white an’ always sayin’, ‘That’s stupid.’”

One of the hoods chuckled.

The man pulled his cowl back to reveal himself in the warm glow of the fire.  An aged Vashanti with long silvery hair smiled at him.  “I am Eidelain, Grand Mystic of the Cerion.  Ordin Austmil-Clay is the fulfillment of our ancient prophecy.  We have watched him carefully from the day of his birth.”

“I know y’all jis brought me back to life an’ all, so I hate to break it to ya, but…Ordin’s dead.  Been dead a long ol’ time.”

“We know this.  Your friends are at this moment traveling to his burial site to retrieve his body so that he may be brought here.”

“Ya mean Cora an’ Cuauhtie?  An’ Kiyla?”  Elric tried to sit up, but he struggled against the confines of his blanket wrap.  “They done up an’ left me?”

“Your friends have been quested at my command.  We sent a warden to guide them and to assure Ordin’s body is returned safely.  You are in our care for now.”

Elric groaned and collapsed onto his back.  Cripe…I was havin’ a good ol’ time bein’ dead.  They coulda at least waited to raise me when Cora an’ ‘em was back.

“Take your rest, Elric,” Eidelain said.  “You have a long recovery ahead of you.  Your body was severely traumatized and not entirely whole when we received it.  Retrieving the soul always scars the soul itself and wracks the body with pain.  Reconstituting the flesh is a painful process, especially when there is so much damage and decay.  I would imagine, then, that you are undergoing considerable suffering.  You should keep still and allow your body and soul to mend.  It will take time; most likely several days.”

Elric exhaled a lengthy breath and stared at the dancing firelight on the rough ceiling of the cave.  Lying still for days was possibly the worst news of all.  But he was back.  Here in the “real world,” you didn’t get a fresh restart every morning.  Here, death carried monumental consequences.  And yet, it was not a permanent sentence for him.  And that meant he had to do something important with his life.  No more funnin’.  Time to get serious.

He thought back on his time in the afterlife.  Some of the events and most of the names were fading memories now.  One stood out quite clearly, though: Colonel Latham, the man he had shot in the back.  And he would never forget the magnificent destrier named Isaac, who had forgiven him.  Elric hoped their meeting was more than coincidence.  I hope Isaac remembers me, in case we ever meet again.  Hope I ain’t gotta die again fer that to happen.  Comin’ back really is awful.

Another memory played through Elric’s head, that of Argyle, the Maker’s avatar of Light.  He was the kindest and wisest man Elric could recall knowing, and he thought it might be nice to just sit and talk with Argyle for a while.  He wondered if the batch of stew he was making tasted as good as it smelled.  Would he really take care of Isaac while he waited for another paladin to call him…

A smile stretched across Elric’s face.  I’m gonna call on Isaac.

 

                 

 

Captain Hunt trembled in fear, horrified by what had spilled out of his mouth, both physically in the corner and verbally moments before that.  That he had unwittingly confessed his part in thwarting the assassination to a Nephreqin Master decalcified his entire spinal column.  His interference had saved the lives of the Dragonslayers and they, in turn, had tracked down Master Bray at Cer Cannaid and killed him, thus saving the duke’s life and the nation’s freedom.  Now, Montpeleón deCorté—Bray’s replacement—sat with a condescending sneer, undoubtedly devising any number of painful disciplines to bring down upon the captain’s head.

On the one hand, Montpeleón could indict him of treason against Alikon before the Tower of Truth.  Doubtless, he would hang within the hour.  But the look on the young alderman’s face suggested that wasn’t going to happen.  What then?  Hunt had also confessed to aiding the Nephreqin’s enemies.  For that, he would die a slow and agonizing death somewhere on the Janwyn Chersonese.  Or reduced to a mangled shell of a man with nothing remaining but the knowledge that he had disobeyed.

The vise that had been tightening on Hunt for several months, which he had thought was removed with Schumann’s death, now clamped down with ferocity and squeezed out his will to live. 

Montpeleón removed a small spade from its hook on the wall and dug up several scoops of earth from the floor.  He carried these to the back corner of the shed and covered the mess where Hunt had emptied his stomach.  With that finished, he replaced the spade and resumed his seat.  “Hunt, I want you to pay close attention to what I have to say.”

The captain fixed his gaze on the ground.  He was dead to the world.

“Hunt, look at me.”

It took all effort to lift his eyes, now dull and hollow.  Hunt was a broken man whose last hope had been trampled, a defeated foe who awaited only his sentence.  Just get it over with.

Montpeleón stood and stroked his beard in contemplation as he paced the interior of the shed.  “I will say this only once, Hunt, and you need to understand my meaning, for I will not explain it.”  The young alderman drew a measured breath.  “We are not that much different, you and I.  In fact, our positions here are exactly the same.”

Defeat blanketed the captain.  “You are a despicable man.  Why toy with me as a cat with its mouse?  Just kill me, then go have your way with my wife.”

Montpeleón held out his arms.  “Did you not hear what I just said?  Why would you not see great hope in my words?  I’m not toying with you.”

The captain looked up with tear-rimmed eyes.  “You have pulled a confession from me that damns me to the Nine Hells regardless of which side I claim to be on.  I am ruined.  By my own mouth.  The only hope I have is that you will say nothing, but I can see no reason for that hope.  You wouldn’t have brought me to this secluded shed, locked me in it, admitted to being free with my wife, grilled me relentlessly over my actions, dominated my mind, and trapped me in this unwinnable jeopardy if you weren’t planning on exposing me as a criminal.  We’re here in this unwatched place for your safety, not mine…so you could say openly you’re a Nephreqin agent.  I beg you, if you’re still human, end this game and slay me now.  I promise I won’t scream.”

Montpeleón folded his arms and cradled his chin in a hand.  “I’m sorry.”

“Not you’re not.”

“Yes, Hunt, I am.  I see that I overplayed my hand.  I’ve crushed you when I meant to mold you into a willing vessel.  You’re right; the only sensible thing for me to do is to kill you, but I won’t.”

Hunt sat up straighter, steeling his spine.  “So, it’s torture then?”

Montpeleón showed no emotion.  “Of course, I could simply control your mind again, which would be ridiculously easy given your beleaguered state.  But I want genuine submission.  Anything less will be seen for the façade that it is.  I need authenticity, a response that springs from true devotion, not domination.  And I will risk everything to have it.”

Stretching his arms wide, Montpeleón turned in place while singing a tune that softened with each rotation.  When his voice had faded into obscurity, he resumed his seat in front of the fire.

“There.  We’re surrounded in a dome of silence.  You may scream all you like, for no one will hear you.”

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