Chapter 4 – Dark Places
The Channels was an ethereal place wherein wizards and priests and priestesses could commune professionally and socially. It was a dangerous locale, where the simplest impropriety perpetrated by a civilian like Sonata could get you hurt, or worse, killed. The Catacombs lay just below the Channels, and the dangers there were legion. No civilian was allowed without permission from a powerful wizard or sorcerer. Though past it in many ways, Guilherme Cavaco was still such a wizard, and allowing Sonata to roam the Catacombs was an even greater risk to himself. If she did anything considered unsavory by the entities therein, he, too, could die, outright, and in such a brutal and disgusting manner that Sonata could not even imagine.
She allowed her thoughts to be taken by Cavaco. They soared through the Channels like birds, moving downwards as if diving. Sonata dared open her eyes to see what was happening to her. It felt and looked like falling, dropping like an eagle towards the Doro River to snatch hapless fish from the chop. She had neither a desire for fish or claws, though she imagined herself a dragon. Not a two-headed one like she had fought with in Rosa Blanca. She was singular, unique, her gold-purple scales feasting on the energy of the sun, consuming the life around her, growing larger and larger as she fell.
Then she hit the bottom. Sonata yelped in her mind as the image of the dragon dissipated and was replaced by reality, by herself standing on a cold, stone floor, looking into an unending void of darkness.
Good travels, Sonata, Cavaco said through her mind. I wish you well.
Sonata blew Cavaco an affectionate kiss, but said nothing, as she took a step toward one of the dark corridors before her. She had the option of four corridors; the one she took seemed less threatening, less vile. Though, come to think of it, it might be best to go down the worst, as she was, after all, looking for the whereabouts of Borshen Galo. Certainly, a vile creature like himself would deposit his memories, his history, down one of the darkest passageways. For that is what the Catacombs were for: storing memories, storing all the events of a wizard’s life so that the details could be called up when needed to write memoirs or to defend one’s actions in a board of inquiry, or to simply remember an activity in perfect detail later on in life, for whatever reason. In and of itself, such a storage space was perfectly safe. The problem was, wizards would die, often prematurely, leaving their memories down here to rot, to fade over time, or, as was often the case, to escape to roam these dark hallways like creatures. Therein lay the danger for Sonata, if she were to come upon one of those wandering memories unprepared.
She stepped into the corridor. She imagined drawing her swords, and there they were, in her hands, Chefe and Freira, father and mother, ready for action. They felt real in her hands, though they were only images from her mind. As long as they worked, Sonata did not care. As long as they cut and chopped and sliced as they always did, she was glad to have them.
Four corridors became eight. Eight became sixteen. At each juncture, the number of passageways doubled, until they were countless. Sonata had no idea if she were travelling the correct path, but at each juncture, she whispered her uncle’s name, “Borshen Galo,” and something told her to turn right, then left, right then left, until she was far into the Catacombs with no discernable passage for retreat.
Along the way, creatures from eroded memories came out of the darkness. Few challenged her, seemingly trapped in their own cycle of thought. They spoke loudly about things she did not understand, argued with other creatures about things that seemed meaningless to her, things pertaining to events hundreds of years before she was born. The time of the empires. Sonata couldn’t help but chuckle. How marvelous it must have been to be alive when emperors ruled all of Mirada. All the interesting things seemed to happen back then. It made Sonata regret her own actions her own times. What was happening to her now and what was happening to the world around her, seemed mundane compared to the catastrophic wars that made the Divide, or the catechisms that had shattered the Miradan pantheon and had given them all the myriad Gods and Goddesses worshipped today. These hideous creatures that paved her way forward were memories from those turbulent times, and they were both terrifying and fascinating.
She tried to ignore them, especially the ones that challenged her passage. But a pack of Besharo cats surrounded her at one juncture, licking their famished, whiskered lips and flashing their claws in defiance. Sonata panicked at first, remembering the pack that she and Fellfang had had to face when they were traveling through the Chance Forest. That dangerous encounter was the first time that Sacudente do Mundo had manifested itself through her body. It was not a memory that she wanted to relive.
The cats jumped her, one at a time, and one by one, she cut them down, driving Chefe through their chests, running Freira across their slavering snouts. She’d killed them all, then suddenly, they’d reappear, and attack again. Over and over. On the fourth time, she let the first one strike her, just to see what would happen. She was knocked to the floor, but it was tantamount to a light concussive blast, as if a small wooden bomb had gone off near her head. It was uncomfortable; she felt a slight pain in her mind, heard a faint ringing in her ears. But the cat did not sink fangs into her throat or claw at her chest. They were ethereal, just like she, and Sonata realized how to survive the Catacombs: stay calm, and don’t allow your own memories and fears to destroy you. For that was how the memories here in these dark places protected themselves: by throwing your own fearful thoughts back at you, to wear you down, to drive you mad. The incident with the Besharo cats had been a terrifying moment in Sonata’s life, but she would not allow it to kill her here.
She climbed to her feet, sheathed her swords, and walked away. The cats did not follow her.
This is going to be easy, she thought, as she uttered her uncle’s name three more times. She chose three more corridors, turned at three more corners, and then stopped.
Before her stood a dragon.
✽✽✽
She tried walking past it. The dragon smacked her against the wall.
Sonata felt it. This was no illusion. Or, if it were, it was a damned powerful one. She struck the wall with a snap, praying to Lorena for calm. No fear, she thought as she collected herself and debated about drawing her swords. Her back hurt where it had struck the wall. She felt a trickle of blood run down her spine. Now, she panicked.
She drew her swords just in time to deflect another blow by the dragon, this time from its tail, which was four feet long and spiked. Luckily, the corridor was narrow enough that the dragon’s full strength was tempered—Sonata could easily roll away and come up underneath the tail and strike its tender underside. Chefe found meat between two hard gold-purple scales. The dragon roared in pain and fell back, swishing its tail side to side as it retreated.
Sonata jumped three times to keep from being crushed by the tail. She stabbed and slashed again for good measure, to remind the dragon that she was small and faster in such a narrow space and that he (or it) could not defeat her. It was arrogant presumption on her part, but such behavior had served her so well in the past.
“Back down, dragon,” she called out. Again, her voice echoed. “I can do this all day. You will lose in the end.”
The dragon collected itself, swung back towards her, and placed its toothy mouth mere inches from her own. Sonata smelled burning sulfur as a cauldron of fire boiled in its throat.
Who are you? the dragon asked, its voice echoing like hers, and why do you wish to see Borshen Galo’s memories?
Sonata cleared her throat. “I am Sonata Diamante. I am Borshen Galo’s niece. I must have access to his memories, so that I can save him.”
The dragon puffed out a long strand of smoke, sniffed at Sonata as if she were a meal, said, You are on his short list of those who may request entry. But you must prove who you are by answering three questions.
Sonata huffed, feeling emboldened. “Only three? Why not four? Or five?”
Five it is, then . . .
“Shit!” She cursed under her breath, hoping the dragon did not catch it. It didn’t seem to, and instead, pressed on with its questions.
When was Borshen Galo born?
Sonata tucked her swords away. “That’s an easy one. He spoke of it all the time. Seventy-nine years ago, on the Day of Dread as he calls it. The day his mother died giving him life.”
The dragon seemed satisfied with that answer. What is the name of his bullmastiff?
“Fellfang—no, wait! It’s Canino Caido. That’s his official name.”
Why were you named “Sonata Diamante”?
“Because when I was born, my mother said the heavens opened to diamond starlight and the angels sang.”
What was the name of the third Leal Emperor?
This was a trick question, and one that she had gotten wrong many times when she and Uncle Galo worked on her studies at night. She would always say Emperor Leal III. It made perfect sense in the moment, given the man’s title. But no. For a short time, the Leal Empire was ruled by a bastard king.
“Stefano Dominguez the First, who ruled for ten years between Emperor Leal II and the III. The Third ruled as the Fourth king, though he refused to shed his title, and in fact, scholars have tried to diminish Dominguez’s rule, as if it never occurred, but the turmoil during his reign cannot be easily discarded, for it was then that the Schism of—”
Yes, yes, very good. The dragon’s voice was impatient. Sonata could almost hear Uncle Galo’s voice among the guttural utterances of this mighty sentinel of rage and fire. One more question . . .
. . . whom does Borshen Galo love more than anything else in all the world?
Sonata smiled. This, too, was an easy one. “Himself.”
The dragon roared. Wrong, Sonata Diamante! Try again!
Wrong? How could it be wrong? Uncle Galo was a classic narcissist, like many wizards were. But his self-absorption went beyond the normal. When he wasn’t talking about the past, he was always talking about himself. How could it be wrong?
She tried again. “My mother and his sister . . . Maria Galo.”
Wrong, Sonata Diamante! You have one more try, and if you do not answer correctly, then you are not Borshen Galo’s niece . . . and you will die.
Could this dragon kill her? Perhaps, given how he had tossed her aside like so much detritus. Could she muster Sacudente do Mundo in The Catacombs? If it came down to it, she’d have to try. Sonata reached for her swords, closed her eyes, and focused on the question . . . whom does Borshen Galo love? The question itself was an absurdity, and what did it prove anyway?
Sonata opened her eyes, smiled, and took a shot. “Me . . . I’m the one he loves the most.”
The dragon nodded, belched a small stream of fire into the air, and then dissolved before her eyes.