Gotim's Arc

Chapter 6 of 7

The rock shook again above the obsidian hollow. Gotim stood in the center of the cave with the trident in his hand and listened. Two sets of steps. One heavy, dragging. One quick and hot. The bearer above, the hunger below the ridge, both closing on the seam he had sealed. He could burn either one with shadow. He could not do it without shouting his name across the dark to the old gods, who had been listening since the wraith. The soldiers they had sent were already moving. A large working here would bring them down on him mid-fight. He set the trident against the wall. He would not use it first. He knelt at the flat shelf where he had made the key and drew a small circle of shadow. Small was the rule now. Small would not carry. He pulled a dark mirror out of the stone. It came up warped, its face rippling like slow water. He did not want to see. He wanted them to see. He wanted the two above to face what they carried, and let their own hearts do the work his hands could not. He pressed his palm to the mirror and spoke into it. Not a spell. A question. What in you does not belong to you. The obsidian took the question and held it. He drew a second small working. A shallow basin rose from the floor, black stone with a red seam, and a low flame stood up in it, cold at the edges. The flame did not roar. It waited. It was a fire for burning off what a heart refused to name. He cracked the seam above him a hand's width. Just enough for the mirror's face to see out. Just enough for the flame to breathe. The bearer looked in first. Gotim watched the reflection show a man clutching a crown he could not lift. The bearer screamed and fell to his knees on the ridge. The hunger came next and saw its own empty mouth. It thrashed and turned on the bearer, drawn to the larger wound. Gotim did not throw a single blow. He fed the mirror. He fed the flame. What the two above could not carry, the obsidian took, alchemized, and drank down through the seam into the pit at his feet. The flame ate it in silence. No shout went up into the dark. No soldier turned his head. When it was done the bearer lay senseless on the stone above, stripped of half his rage. The hunger was smaller by a measure, curled and licking its ribs. Neither had died. Neither had seen Gotim's face. He closed the seam. He set the key in his pocket beside the shard. He had not claimed the crown tonight. He had made its holder lighter, and the hunger weaker, and himself unseen. The old gods heard nothing. Tomorrow he would climb out and finish what the mirror had begun.