Chapter 42: Sigil (Patreon)

“And you are absolutely confident it was a dream?” Hadrian asked. “You seem more distressed than I would expect.”

“Yes, it’s fine,” Elliot replied shortly, his hand squeezed into a fist and pressed against his chest. “Sorry for waking you.”

Hadrian tilted his head, confusion visible on his face. “Do not worry. I had just returned, and had not yet fully settled.”

Tell him. Tell him your mark from the figurine just went crazy in a dream, and it feels like something’s wrong. Tell. Him.

Elliot gritted his teeth. “I’m glad you made it back. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

Lying back, he tried to slow the pounding of his heart. For almost five minutes straight, he had tried to tell Hadrian about what happened. Every time he opened his mouth it felt like he was choking, until he changed what he was going to say. This was some kind of mental compulsion. Who would put a compulsion on him? Had the dreams been Talessi attacks this whole time?

Maybe. It hadn’t felt like that, though. The dream had felt real, like his times in the world of blue-white clouds. When he’d appraised the glittering core of the figurine the information had felt disjointed and intense, like getting fragments of an emotionally-charged memory. 

There was nothing else he could do tonight. In the morning, he could try to experiment with different ways of sharing information. Write it in a letter? God, I just wanted to go to the Overlook and watch the waterfall with some tea. Why is my life constantly stressful?

When Hadrian woke him before dawn the aching in his head was gone, and the pulsing of both mark and vortex had stopped.

As he was dressing for their run, he forced himself to look down at his hand. The purple stain had been small and irregular, almost like spilled ink. Now it was still purple, but the shapeless blob had transformed into swirling lines forming what looked like branches of a tree.

He let out a soft hiss, and pulled on his shoes.

Running in Tular before daybreak was a stressful experience even with no outside factors involved. Hadrian took them on their normal route across the mesh webbing between branches, on one of the thick canvas paths that had been sewn in to allow pedestrian travel. It was a slog, the canvas acting almost like sand, absorbing much of the force from each footstrike. The open sky below gave Elliot a constant feeling of vertigo.

As he moved, Elliot considered his options. He could wait, go back to ignoring the mark, and hope nothing materially changed. A large part of him loved that idea. Not thinking about problems had been a staple of his life ever since he’d become responsible for Rowan, with too many fires to put out at once for him to focus on the non-crises. The mark had changed, and maybe it was connected to the foreign material in his brain, but what did that really mean? It’s not like he’d understood the mark in the first place, or whatever was in the back of his head. Even if they had banded together, did that do anything but change two unknowns into one?

Option two was to dive deep into experimental communication. Write letters, tell a fairy tale where the main character was a young merchant with a mark on his hand who had a dream and it got mixed up with something in his brain, drop hints. Go all in on sharing the story. On the one hand, he loved the idea of Breka knowing what had happened, and either reassuring him or fixing it. On the other hand, the idea of constantly fighting with a mental compulsion felt like it might be risky. Who knew if there was some kind of failure state, where it burned his brain down if he tried too hard to wiggle past? Like a phone that would wipe if you got the password wrong ten times in a row.

The netting swayed beneath their feet as they ran, every strong gust of wind making the whole thing twist fractionally. The sight of the river shifting far below gave Elliot a queasy feeling, and he resolved to focus for at least the next few hours, then go back to brainstorming.

It was easier said than done, though. Sparring, back in one of the training rooms where Hadrian had first introduced the practice, had become one of Elliot’s favorite parts of the day. He’d never loved fighting, nor exercise, but something about the rhythmic spinning and thwacking normally put him into a state that was close to meditation. Today it just served to make his mind a blank slate for the tumbling worries.

“Stop,” Hadrian said, grabbing the end of Elliot’s staff—the white fire covering his skin completely blocking the force blade that stabbed out. “That was sloppy. You have been distracted all morning.”

Elliot, breathing heavily, looked up. Hadrian’s expression didn’t carry any strong emotion, but his eyes were intent. What do I do? “It’s complicated. There’s…” he paused.

“If there is something wrong, you need to tell me.”

“What would you do,” Elliot began slowly, “if you wanted to say something important, but it was difficult.” Damn it, that makes it sound like I’m hiding something. Not exactly a good time for that kind of implication. I sound like a Talessi spy.

He could see no judgement on Hadrian’s face though, only consideration.

“If it was important? I would find a way. I am no longer welcome in my home, largely because I spoke too many truths. Many were challenging to say, at the time.”

“What if it’s not that important? Or you don’t know how important it is?” Do I just want him to tell me to ignore it? Stop being such a child, Elliot. Mental compulsions are nothing new, you do this every day with Breka.

Hadrian narrowed his eyes. “I would ponder the matter. Or seek aid from a trusted source. And while those are both options for you to consider, at this moment I need you to either speak or find a way to focus on training, because you have been useless today.”

The familiar jolt of annoyance that swept through him was enough to push Elliot out of his indecision. “Let me tell you a story, then. There once was a merchant, who was a stranger in a strange land.”

“Elliot…” Hadrian said, punching the bridge of his nose.

“Just listen,” Elliot snapped. “There once was a merchant in a strange land. He had many adventures. During one of those adventures, he received a mark painted on his hand.” There was a tightening at the back of his throat, and he hurriedly backtracked. “It was on his shoulder, and it was large and red.” The feeling eased. So it doesn’t get allegory? Who’s judging this?

Hadrian had gone silent, frowning.

“This big red mark, which was on his shoulder, changed suddenly. During a drea—“ he coughed. “During a ceremony. And the merchant couldn’t speak ab—“ this time the coughing was more intense, and Elliot took a few seconds to compose himself. “The merchant couldn’t do many things. What do you think the merchant should do?”

“Show me the mark on your hand.”

There was a twitching feeling in his palm, but nothing stopped Elliot as he raised his arm.

Hadrian’s eyes widened. “Lowest hells.”

“Oh,” Elliot said. “Okay then.”

“I must find Breka at once. She will need to assess this.”

“We can’t wait for her to come back on her own? It’s that bad?”

“Go back to the room. I am going to fetch her immediately.”

***

“Well,” Breka said, Elliot’s hand gripped in both of hers as she examined it with clinical intensity, “it could be worse.”

“How could it be worse?” Elliot asked, wide-eyed.

“The Titan could have already woken up, and the region could be bathed in the blood of a million innocents.”

“I see,” he replied faintly.

She sighed. “I won’t pretend to know exactly what this means. It’s been a thousand years since the Titan That Sleeps was last awake, and longer since it was an active power. I do, however, know this is its sigil. And that is very bad. It means it’s closer to waking than even my worst projections. You can’t share any details of what happened?”

Elliot just shook his head, lips pressed tightly together.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t believe this compulsion has anything to do with the Talessi,” Breka said. “There is something called a mandate of silence noted in relation to the ninth-circle powers of the far south. Their followers may not share their secrets. This is likely a similar phenomenon.”

“Followers? What do you mean followers? Why would that be relevant?”

“That is the question,” Breka replied, her face sagging with exhaustion for an instant before snapping back to calm. “Somehow, you interacted with the Titan. It sleeps still, that much is mercifully clear, but you’ve managed to create some kind of connection. The initial mark was a broken curiosity; what happens when someone far too weak brushes up against a being at that level. This…this is real. But as to what it means, I am unsure. Has it instinctively recognized you as a follower? A target? A resource?”

“How can we be sure the change was not mediated by the Talessi?” Hadrian interjected.

“The Talessi are fish in a pond, thrashing in a futile attempt to wake the dragon on the shore. There is no chance they have any semblance of control over the Titan. Our worst case scenario is that they achieve a miracle and make enough noise for it to twitch. Something that, as of this new finding, I am concerned may have occurred. To have manufactured something like this directly though, that would take control.”

“They put significant work into producing the figurine,” Hadrian countered. “They sculpted the warren, they routed the ether. There must have been an objective.”

“Yes. I can imagine many uses for such an artifact. But this, I think, was not the one they intended, at least not this level of success. Creating a sigil without Titan’s consent should be utterly impossible. And I am still not convinced it was the Talessi who sculpted that warren. I think it was a collaborator.”

Elliot, listening to them go back and forth, desperately wished to be able to talk freely. What would Breka make of the connection to the thing in his head? Surely that would change something, provide some insight.

“There’s nothing to do about it now,” Breka continued. “We have to hope this is an aberrant effect of your previous connection, and not a sign the Titan stirs. Certainly the Talessi aren’t behaving as if victory is in sight, although I grant you that’s tenuous comfort.” She released Elliot’s hand and took a step back. 

“There will likely be more you learn,” Hadrian said, “and you will no doubt struggle to share any pertinent details. I do not know if there is any way in which you are able to interact with the Titan. If there is, focus your energy on not doing so.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Elliot said haltingly, expecting his words to catch at every moment.

“It’s a rough business and no mistake,” Breka said, twisting her lips. “I don’t like leaving someone as young as you in a position like this, not that there’s many I’d love to leave tethered to a Titan. Just do your best to avoid poking it, as Hadrian said, but if there’s any way to learn more, that could be invaluable for the entire continent.” Despite her worried expression, there was a faint gleam in her eyes. “It’s tricky, but if you can balance down the knife-edge, the benefits could be immense.”

Hadrian shot Breka an aggrieved look. “What she means to say is to focus on not waking the Titan. Any information you could gain would no doubt be valuable, but there is nothing more important than keeping it asleep.”

“Yes, that’s probably for the best. What a missed opportunity, though. No one has had this kind of access for a thousand years. A direct connection…” she gave herself a swift shake. “No, you’re right of course. Too risky.”

“Yes, phenomenally so,” Hadrian agreed, still eyeing his master.

“Well, I didn’t think to mention this,” Elliot said, “but if I touch the mark there’s a really loud, deep voice that tells me to leave it alone.” So it doesn’t mind jokes? That’s interesting. Feels a bit arbitrary.

Both Hadrian and Breka whipped their heads around as one, fixing him with intense stares.

“Joking! Just joking,” Elliot said, smiling weakly.

“Never jest about this matter again,” Hadrian said stiffly.

“Right. That’s my bad.” No jokes about nation-ending threats. Got it.

“There’s nothing more I have to do here, and I was in the middle of something important when you called me away. I’m heading back.” Breka tapped her walking stick on the floor of the room, then hoisted her bag and tied it at her waist. “I’m sure you’re feeling all sorts of ways, but time is not something we have in great quantities at the moment. Finish your training, take an hour to think, then when you’re done I have another warren for you.”

Elliot perked up slightly. “Already? What kind of warren?”

“It was intended for next week, but suddenly I feel an urge to speed up your progress even further,” she replied. “You’ll find this one fascinating. It’s finicky.”

He sighed. Finicky was better than terrifying.