"Blood is extracted from the Blessed One's body and siphoned into Uncle's gullet, until the Sacrifice can spare no more. I can assure you that, when you die, your body will be treated with the greatest respect, and you will be accorded the most solemn of funeral rites!"
Grimm clamped down on his warring emotions. “See here, Murar. You must be aware of the logical fallacies in your suppositions."
"Not really,” the old man said, inspecting his nails. “What are they?"
"Well… how long have you lived, Murar? That is, how far do your memories go back?"
Murar cocked his head on one side. “Two, maybe three hundred years, I suppose."
"There you are! You said the city was created by Uncle Gruon around fifty years ago, yet you claim to remember long before your supposed creation. How can that be?"
The rocking man smiled. “I am not in my dotage, sacrifice, no matter what you may think. I said that the city was created by Uncle fifty years ago in its present form. Uncle Gruon has had many dreams over the last millennium, until we discovered the means of keeping him asleep and dreaming."
"But if, as you claim, Brianston's citizens die on Gruon's waking, how can you be aware of these earlier incarnations of the city?"
Murar snorted. “You are mortal. Have you never had the same dream on several occasions? I am the product of one of Uncle's recurrent reveries; those of my kind are called Revenants. I have been reincarnated on over seventy occasions, and I am the senior Revenant of the city,” he said, with an evangelistic gleam in his eye.
Grimm saw how the internal logic in the man's delusions could make dissuasion difficult. Nonetheless, it was important to show him the errors in his thinking. “All right,” he said, suppressing his fear. “Why has it taken you so long to come up with this plan, if you have returned so often?
"It took many returns to construct Uncle's crypt, and he demolished many of our previous attempts. On his last awakening, he brought down a large pile of our masonry on his head and rendered himself unconscious. This gave us the time to complete the present structure around him, and we came upon a party of travellers. Most of them went to feed Uncle and keep him satiated and somnolent, but two males and two females were kept as breeding stock. Their offspring, and those of other Blessed Ones have maintained the current dream for most of that time, but we have been careful not to be too greedy. Your arrival is a veritable cornucopia!"
In frustration, Grimm rattled his heavy chains, but they were as perdurable as ever.
"You cannot shake such iron fetters free from a solid stone wall, Blessed One,” Murar said, wagging his finger as if chiding a small child. “Spare yourself the futile effort. Much of the city is a product of Uncle's dreaming, but our guest chambers are real enough."
Be calm, Grimm admonished himself. There must be some way to shake this madman's delusions!
"How did you discover that blood makes Gruon sleep?” he demanded. “Surely he eats during his waking periods, when you are not around?"
"We are not idiots, Blessed One. On many occasions, we have found the desiccated corpses of animals around Uncle's sleeping form. Lady Elamma, who acts as midwife to the brood stock, is a frequent Revenant like me. It was she who first noted that Uncle slept longer-much longer-after dining on human blood. Another Revenant, Lord Korak, was born as a stonemason, and he supervised the building of the Sleep Chamber over the space of many generations. Other Revenants retained their earthly skills and memories through numerous regenerations, and each played his or her part in our plan. Since then, scores of Realsters have passed through here, adding to the Blessed Dream Time."
Grimm cudgelled his brains for further ideas.
Lizaveta's party must have come through here! he realised. Why didn't they take her?
He asked Murar as much.
The Revenant laughed. “Dream-stuff we may be, but we smell magic as easily as you can smell the scent of a rotting pig. We could all tell that the old lady who passed through here used a different sort of magic to you, drawing power from the earth. Our iron fetters are not proof against such energies, so we let the party go. In any case, to ensnare too many sacrifices would arouse wide suspicion; most Realsters are allowed to pass through here without molestation. Your party will suffice for many more years."
Grimm stared into space, trying hard to shake the old man's insane confidence in his crazed beliefs. As he gazed through the barred window, he saw a mighty, golden turret disappear in the wink of an eye, to be replaced with an evanescent, silver, onion-shaped structure. This shimmered and warped for a few moments, until it coalesced into solid form.
The mage's jaw dropped. Worse than the prospect of a town of madmen was the possibility that the old man's crazy beliefs might be true. Worse still was the chance that this madness might be infectious.
"Ah, Uncle grows restless; the Dream begins to waver,” Murar declared, still facing away from the window. “A sacrifice will be in order very shortly. If you would not mind waiting for a few moments, I must help to arrange the first ceremony at once. Do not worry; your turn will not come for many years yet. We need to put a little more meat onto your bones, so that Uncle may enjoy his meal to the full. Fear not: we shall not waste your lives in a capricious manner. Each of you shall nourish Gruon many times before he dies."
As the old man moved to the door, Grimm all but surrendered to the insidious, cold fingers of terror. “Wait!” he cried, “I won't thrive chained up like this! I need to eat, sleep and carry out my bodily functions if I'm to flourish!"
Murar turned back from the door. “Naturally, I understand that, Blessed One: I am no dotard. We would not be such poor hosts as to leave you fettered in this way. We are preparing a place in a comfortable compound for you. You will be well fed, and you may ask for anything you require-within reason, of course."
The old man winked. “Of course, the compound must be well-constructed, to withstand your mighty sorcery. However, over the years, we have learned well how to deal with man-magic. Excuse me: I have a job to do."
With a friendly wave, Murar left.
As the door shut, Grimm felt more alone and helpless than he had ever felt in his life. The silver onion shivered and disappeared. In its place stood a stone arch that reminded the mage of nothing more than a gravestone. Bereft of his magic and his staff, the powerful mage was just a slender youth, and the leaden despair began to weigh heavily on him as the gravity of his situation became apparent.
His only hope was that Thribble might find some solution to their predicament. However, he could not see how even the resourceful little demon might succeed this time.
"Drex!” he moaned, imagining his worried love, waiting for him back in Crar. He swore to himself that he would not surrender, for her sake. As long as the slenderest chance remained to him, he would grasp it with both hands-however long that might take. And there was the matter of Prioress Lizaveta…
The woman who made my grandfather an outcast and a pariah, he thought.
"Somehow, you raddled bitch; somehow, I'll find a way out of this. I will!” he screamed. Nonetheless, he had not the least idea of how he might fulfil this vow.
Lizaveta removed her pale, spidery hands from her scrying-glass. No sound emerged from the green globe, but she had read the intent on young Afelnor's face well, and she had been able to discern most of the words from those twisted, snarling lips. She regretted that she had only an indirect and occasional link with Brianston, so that she could not monitor Grimm's situation on a continuous basis.
She laughed until tears ran from her eyes, accepting her handmaiden's proffered handkerchief with a nod.
"Thank you, Sister Weranda,” she said, with perfunctory gratitude.