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Short Story - Nightmare - Words: 1161

Short Story - Bavarian Wine - Words: 2755

Duke Vikram Capra lives a luxurious, carefree life on an estate built by his father, Duke Edward Capra, on a comet orbiting the moon in a solar system of the Aether colonized by the great human Empire. He spends his days and nights studying academics, practicing his marksmanship, socializing with the wealthy daughters of duchesses over bottles of fine wine and creating clockwork gadgets in his laboratory. But his enjoyable and routine existence is interrupted by the arrival of a spectral projection of a man at his estate, a man who claims to be a messenger from the future. The man gives him a broken clockwork device, claiming it is a machine that allows one to travel through time, and tells him he must fix it and find the fabled "Clockwork Archives", a vast expanse of forgotten knowledge and priceless artifacts that was destroyed moments after it's completion and now exists at a previous point in time, only accessible by time travel. There he must find the "Dark Seed", the last vestige of the "Void", an amorphous and malicious entity that consumed planets and menaced the universe in a time long ago, before it was nearly destroyed and sealed away. He must take the "Dark Seed" to a certain point in space, and destroy it and the "Void" once and for all. However unbeknownst to him, the deposed ruler of the ancient power and his shadowy servants will not stop until they possess the "Dark Seed" and restore the "Void". With only the help of several loyal companions he meets along the way, his faithful friend and poet Charles Wickham, and an array of complex and brilliant Redsteam tools, he must defeat a foe as old as time and save the universe from destruction at its hands.

Perhaps I had better start with the rationale for writing this story: So recently, I've had some free time, and I wanted to write another story. As I said before, I've written one story on the Literature subsection before, and it went pretty well so I decided to come back here to write another. Now that it's summer, I think I'll have a lot more time to work on it than I did in school. And the Literature subsection of the Minecraft Forums is hands down the best place I know currently to do that, thanks to the help and advice of some really great writers here.

Now, if the theme seems bizarre to you, here's my explanation: I wanted a theme that would be both unique and, hopefully, intriguing for me and the reader. And after experimenting with a few, I thought both space and some kind of steampunk were really good themes. So, I thought, what if I combined them? I know it's kind of a bold move to have such a radically different theme for a story but I really wanted a theme I could have fun with as a writer more than anything. Hopefully it isn't too strange.

Also, and this is mostly just to get this out of the way beforehand, I CANNOT guarantee any sort of consistent output for chapters on this. I know you probably won't all be waiting with baited breath for them, but sometimes it's nice to have a daily or weekly standard, and I feel like I should say that I can't really hold myself to that. I take it seriously, but you know, sometimes it's hard to find the free time to do it. Optimistically, I hope to be able to write at least one a week, but who knows. So if there isn't a chapter for a week or two its alright, I'm sure I'll get around to it eventually. I'm sure you guys know what I'm talking about.So anyway, that's my foreword. Kind of long, but I suppose I get carried away sometimes. I hope you guys enjoy the story!

He woke to the sound of waves breaking on a distant shore. He opened his eyes slowly, and a cascade of blurry images began to take shape around him. He blinked a few times to clear his vision, and gradually the ethereal figments of color merged together and grew sharper and more defined edges to form one picture. Brushing tangled black hair out of his face, he looked upwards at the sky. Dark gray clouds had gathered on the horizon, each one heavy with cold rain and quivering slowly, as if anticipation of the coming storm. The sun had been entirely obscured, and the realm beneath the clouds had been cast into a shadowy twilight, as if to indicate that it had been forsaken by whatever deities might once have looked upon it favorably. In the distance he could see a flock of seagulls flying away from him, and he thought he could hear the echoes of their squawks but the shrieking, banshee-like howl of the wind made it difficult to be sure.

He tried to sit up, but his muscles were weakened and atrophied and he found it difficult to rise at all. With effort, he was able to prop himself on his elbows and look down at his clothes. He wore a torn white doublet, stained with dirt and worn threadbare by the wind, and a pair of black pants, ripped at the hem and covered in grime. He wore no shoes, and his feet were parched and roughened by the elements. His hands, too had been worn by nature, his fingernails jagged and his palms covered in dirt and hardened by salt water. He rose, and, summoning all of his strength, sat up in an effort to see where he was.

He was on the brown oak wood deck of a boat. It was not a large boat, and, indeed, his reclining body barely fit inside. It had small walls made of planks that were about half his height and nailed together. At the front and end of the boat these walls curved to form pointed ends, making the boat steadily narrower as one moved further from the middle. It could not have been more than ten feet long and four feet wide, and, though the craft seemed sturdy enough for a vessel of its size, somehow he had the feeling it wouldn’t be sturdy enough. Grabbing hold of the newly discovered walls on either side of him, he managed to push himself into a standing position.

From his new vantage point, he could see his surroundings clearly. He was in the sea. As far as his eyes could see, and doubtless farther still, dark waves moved in the perpetual motion of the tides, rising like monsters from the watery depths and reaching for the stormy sky above for an instant before plunging back into the shadows and sending up sprays of white foam in their wake. His eyes scanned the gloom, but he could see no land in sight. A thick gray mist obscured everything beyond the waves, and it was impossible to know which direction he was facing. The sound of the shore and the seagulls was gone. All that remained was the steady drumbeat of the waves.

Suddenly, a violent crackle sounded, echoing through the seemingly infinite expanse of the sea. He recognized it as thunder, a herald of storms. He had no oars, no way to propel himself forward, but he had to find shelter. He sat down in the boat again, intent on using his hands to somehow find safety. He dipped his hands in the water, and the icy water bit at them viciously. He withdrew them with a cry of pain. As he tried to rub warmth back into them, a streak of razor thin lightning raced down the horizon, burning its image into the dark sky for an instant and vanishing. He saw his time was running out, and, steeling himself for the frosty, gnawing cold of the water, thrust his hands in again. He began to paddle vigorously through the water, foam spraying from his frozen hands.

Sure enough, the boat began to move, but it was slow and he had no idea which direction to go. He seemed to be moving forward but the scenery didn’t change and it was impossible to tell where he was going. All around him, the waves rose and fell, and no landmarks or signals could distinguish one dark stretch of sea from another. The wind began to whip his face and hair harder, and rain began to fall from above, as though the storm and the sea were angered by his refusal to give up hope in the face of insurmountable odds. Stinging raindrops began to fall faster and faster, and in greater and greater numbers, until a torrential downpour had begun and his clothes were soaked to his skin. They felt both icy and sharp, like shards of glass. More lightning bolts flashed across the sky, and the sea began to froth and roil furiously.

Even the waves no longer seemed content to watch him struggle without playing a role in his suffering. Emboldened by the pouring rain water, they swelled to monstrous heights and began to rise and fall erratically and violently. Several were turned off of their normal courses and came mere inches from his small vessel, falling just before they reached it and sending bursts of boiling mist into the air. He tried to keep paddling, but the waters were by now intent on moving on their own and the downpour had created a dark veil of raindrops that fell thickly enough to blind his view of anything outside his immediate surroundings. Whatever happened now was out of his control.

Another bolt of lightning struck, startling him and illuminating the area for a single moment before throwing it into darkness again. Not far behind it, a mighty peal of godlike thunder echoed across the sea, sounding to his ears now like a twisted kind of laughter. And in its wake, strangely, there was silence. For a few moments the clamoring of the waves and the rain seemed muted and dulled, as though something had silenced them. At first he thought perhaps the thunder had momentarily deafened him, until a dark shape began to part the veil of rain ahead of him. It was a behemoth of a wave, larger than all he had seen before, and the sheer force of its movement had momentarily halted the waves at his sides. It was at least thirty feet tall, and made of a black water that writhed and rolled within it. At its crest a thick layer of white foam sprayed forth, like saliva from the mouth of a wolf about to taste blood.

Slowly, he rose, and looked into the wall of darkness. He opened his mouth as if to scream or cry out, but no sound emerged. He stood, arms at his sides, transfixed as if by some ethereal sorcery. Time seemed to slow, just long enough for him to look into the maw of the beast, and know his fate was sealed. And then, in a single moment, it was upon him. It threw him off the boat and into the frothing sea, and he stayed above the water just long enough to see his vessel being torn to pieces and scattered to the wind.

He felt himself being dragged downwards by the water, and, though he tried to resist, it proved more than a match for him. Soon his head was below the dark water, and he held his breath desperately. He felt himself being dragged down further and further into the sea, and his lungs began to scream for air. He began to cough and sputter, and the sea took advantage of his weakness. As soon as he opened his mouth water began to flood into his mouth and lungs. It burned of brine and salt and he could feel it suffocating his lungs of air. His eyes, glassy in the water, opened in horror as he realized he was drowning. He struggled viciously for perhaps a minute more, until finally his arms and legs stopped flailing and went limp. The light left his eyes as the sea dragged his lifeless corpse down into the abyss.

Duke Vikram Capra woke screaming. He sat up quickly, his breathing heavy and ragged and his crimson eyes flitting around the room in panic. It was only when he realized that he was in his bedroom, and not in some lightless, god-forsaken abyssal trench that his frantic breaths began to slow and his heartbeat stopped racing. He turned to the space in the darkness where he knew his wooden bedside table sat and ran his hand along the wall above it until his fingers passed over a thin metal embossment on the wooden surface, which he pressed down on until he heard an audible click and the thin spark of Redsteam igniting. Above him, a large silver chandelier ornamented with large yellow bulbs flared to life, illuminating the room.

Slowly, he turned to his bedside table and picked up a small rectangular mirror that rested on it.The mirror was edged with gold, and made of a brilliantly cut crystal. It had been a gift from a visiting dignitary, if he recalled correctly. He held it up to his face and looked at his reflection in the thin glass. His hair was its usual slick black, and was only slightly tousled. His forehead was covered in a thin layer of cold sweat, and his bright crimson eyes looked weary from lack of sleep. His face was paler and shallower than usual. His teeth were bright and polished, and his sharpened incisors extended from his upper lip in a manner that seemed both aristocratic and somewhat mischievous. In short, he was, for better or worse, very much alive.

Just as he was setting the gold-edged mirror back on his bedside table, he heard a loud crash from the doorway of his chamber. The oak wood door flew open and a man about his age in burst into the brightly lit chamber, a large silver five-pronged candelabra that dripped wax from its five lit white candles in his hand. His eyes flicked quickly around the room until he found Vikram. “Vikram! Are you alright?” he asked. His voice that had a faintly English lilt, and he brandished the candelabra like a saber. He wore a crisp white shirt and black pants, and his shoes were a polished black. His hair was a dark brown that matched his curious eyes. He and Vikram looked at each other in silence for a few moments before Vikram suddenly burst into laughter.

“Put it down, Charles." said Vikram, I’m fine, and even if I weren’t a lit candelabra wouldn’t have helped me. This isn’t one of your fantasy novels.” said Vikram with a laugh, briefly forgetting the ephemeral terror of his nightmare. His voice was silky and persuasive, a quality it had gained from the influence of his father, Duke Edward Capra, a noted diplomat. Seemingly embarrassed, Charles set the candelabra down on the nearest table and stared awkwardly at Vikram.

“Ah. Yes. I suppose you’re right.” he said sheepishly, his bravado gone. “I heard a scream from your bedroom, and somehow I thought if you were being attacked I might have intervened with a blunt object. I suppose when you write as much as I do, the line between real, practical bravery and theatrical stage bravery begins to become blurred. Forgive me.” He walked closer to Vikram’s bed and examined his face in the light of the silver chandelier. The embarrassment in his eyes gave way to genuine worry. “You’re incredibly pale. Are you ill Vikram?”

“No, it’s fine, don’t apologize. I’m sure I would have done more or less the same thing, though I might have snuffed out a few of the candles on the candelabra first. Your concern is touching, Charles, but I can assure you I am fine. I simply had a nightmare. I’m sorry I woke you.” said Vikram. He felt both exhausted and restless at the same time. He leaned back on the wooden headrest of his bed, his eyelids heavy and his cheeks sallow.

“You didn’t wake me.” said Charles, the expression on his face a mixture of concern and curiosity. “I was up late in the guest chambers again, writing my latest work. As I’ve told you before, inspiration can strike a poet at the latest hours of the night sometimes. Don’t worry about it. If anyone’s to blame for my lack of sleep, it’s me.”

“You and your inspiration, Charles. It’s a wonder you haven’t gone entirely mad with all those ideas in your head.” said Vikram again, eliciting a short laugh from his companion. Indeed, it was only half a joke. Vikram had been friends with Charles Wickham, the poet son of the Count of Padua since they were both young boys, and he was hard pressed to find a memory of him where he was not furiously scribbling in a notepad or journal with one of his ornamental quills. “In any case, I apologize for interrupting your work. It was merely a bad dream, nothing more.

”“No trouble at all Vikram, really. I barely got anything done anyway. I was just working on another few verses of On the Veranda. I tell you, these "romantic" sonnets are absolute demons to work with.” he said. “Are you absolutely sure you’re okay? If you need medicine I can run for a physician from the mainland and be back in half an hour if I travel by airship.”

“Don’t bother.” said Vikram. “I’m not ill. And I don’t think it would help matters any if you brought in some physician to dote on me. I didn’t invite you to this estate to waste your time by imposing demands on you. I simply need some fresh air and perhaps some time to clear my thoughts. I think I’ll go to my workshop, if the hour is isn’t too late.” He rose from his bed slowly, and nearly lost his balance as a wave of nausea came over him, catching the side of his bedside table just in time to stop himself from falling.

“I think that would be a good idea.” said Charles, who didn’t look entirely convinced by his claims of wellness. “I’ll go with you.” Vikram laughed again, hoarsely. He waved him off with his black-cuffed hand as he walked slowly to his wardrobe, his hand on the wall of his bedroom to steady himself.

“Nonsense Charles. You’re not my nursemaid. I’m telling you, I’m fine. I can take a walk by myself. And you have much better things to do, I’m sure.” said Vikram. He finally reached his wardrobe, an antique dark oak wood piece of furniture with silver edges and handles. Having by now become balanced and able to walk without assistance, he opened the ornate door and took out a long black cloak with pointed coattails and a silver scarf. He slipped the cloak on over his night clothes and wrapped the scarf around his neck.

“Take a walk on your own? You can barely stand!” said Charles incredulously. “Besides, I could use the fresh air too. You don’t know what it’s like staring at a blank sheet of paper for an hour in a dimly lit room. It completely stifles your creativity. You’d really be doing me a favor if you allowed me to accompany you.” He eyed Vikram for a few moments and then added, with a smirk: “Besides, I can’t in good conscience let a Duke go out on his own so late at night. What if you’re killed by some midnight marauder? They’d probably blame me for it, and you as well as I know that one simply can’t concentrate on writing in prison.”

“Very well.” said Vikram, laughing even as he began to feel his stomach turning again. “You’ll probably want your cloak, though.” Charles nodded and left the room. He turned his gaze to the large glass window set into the wall, and looked out at the grounds of the estate. The dark green grass of the garden below him glistened with dew in the moonlight, and a fierce wind stirred the branches of the tall oak trees. High above, the moon was barely visible behind gathering gray storm clouds, and he thought he could hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. Softly, to himself, he added: “I think a storm’s coming.”

“10:27 P. M., November 22nd, Anno Imperia 1824.” said the man in the black cloak in the swift, effortless manner of one who was used to bureaucratic formalities.“Inspector Darius Walton, Moonlight Palace Investigator, reporting. Case: 256-A.” The Inspector looked to be in his mid-forties, with dull blonde hair combed neatly on his head and a short beard of the same color growing on his chin. He wore a black cloak that reached his feet over a white-striped silver doublet. His cuffs and color were lined with crisp white fur. A large black bowler hat sat primly over his brow, and two silver cufflinks glimmered faintly in the moonlight on his sleeves. On his breast was a polished badge depicting a silver quarter moon on a black metal circle, signifying his rank as an espionage agent of the Moonlight Palace.

In his left hand he held a small circular silver device, which he held up to his mouth as he spoke. It had several small dials, and emitted soft, vaporous clicks, as of Redsteam activating and deactivating internal circuitry. In part, he owed the calculating, precise nature of his speech to the necessity of keeping it in constant view, at once a functional and symbolic reminder of the weight and importance of placed on each of his words. The thin silver machine was a recording device, capable of providing a clear and accurate transcription of sounds at close range. Each syllable he uttered into it was instantly converted into a code of Redsteam charges and burned into a thin golden disc in the heart of the machine, where it could be played back at a later date to officials at the Moonlight Palace.

As such, despite being an Inspector of fairly high regard and nearly unequalled seniority, he carried the same burden of the lowest-ranked field officers: the knowledge that his words, so effortlessly spoken, would each be scrutinized and analyzed mercilessly by his superiors, and, were they to cause any kind of displeasure among those superiors, thoroughly and unquestionably hold him, as their speaker, accountable for it. Normally the ever present thought of this great responsibility was allowed to take a comfortable background place in his thoughts where it would not interfere with his work, but at crucial moments in cases such as this one he could not help it coming to the forefront and bringing the clouding force of doubt with it.

He cleared his throat, and began speaking again, slowly: “Location: Alleyway off Merwin Avenue, eight blocks Northwest of the Moonlight Palace. Report Type: Crime Scene Analysis.” He paused and walked further into the dim alleyway until he came to halt, kneeling down beside a dark mass on the cobbled stone ground. He took a deep breath and continued his report, the required words having by now been deeply engrained in his memory from decades of use. “There is only one victim at the scene. Male, late twenties, Moonlight Palace garments, dead perhaps one or two days at most. The name embossed on the back of his badge identifies him as a one “Thomas Cadworth”, Moonlight Sentinel.”

“The victim has four wounds, three of them in the chest and one on the neck. The neck wound appears to have been made before the other three, and one can infer the victim’s killer tried to stun him with it before moving in for the killing blow. The wounds are puzzling, though, in that while they were apparently made with a large, pointed blade, suggesting readiness and even planning, they wrench and twist in the manner of a desperate killer. It is my conjecture that while the victim’s assailant was able to surprise the victim, they did not plan the attack beforehand. After some deliberation, I have come to the conclusion that the attack was the result of the Sentinel and the killer meeting each other, either by the Sentinel’s design alone or by mere chance. ” He paused again, and coughed. The Inspector was not a man to whom emotions came easily, even in the face of death. And yet, he found himself hesitating. Something about this crime scene had made him hesitate. He drew his cloak tighter around himself as another gust of wintry night air threw icy shards of snow into his face.

It was the eyes. The glassy dark brown eyes of the young Sentinel. Perpetually widened in fear of some phantom killer the Inspector could only begin to guess at the nature of. They seemed so surprised, so unexpecting. The Inspector’s eyes flitted to the silver saber that lay uselessly on the ground next to the Sentinel’s body. He had clearly drawn it from it’s sheath and intended to use it. His assailant must have either struck too quickly or managed to deflect it. Clearly the boy had never even had a chance to save himself. The Inspector stood, and coughed again, this time more violently. He picked up the recording device and steeled himself to finish what he had started.

“There is one more element of note.” said the Inspector, walking and kneeling down beside a pool of water next to the corpse of the Sentinel. It was dark and thin sheets of ice covered it, but he could see a metallic purple liquid floating at the surface. He touched the tip of his gloved finger to it, sending a small ripple through the pool. For an instant, the pool was illuminated as the liquid shifted and caught the moonlight at different angles. It quickly went dark again, but the Inspector had seen what he had wanted to see. He brought the fingertip to his nose and sniffed it slightly before standing again. It had the scent of sulfur. “The same violet substance found at two of the three other crime scenes seems present here as well. I still cannot place it’s origin but I highly suggest that a sample is collected in the future and compared with the other two.” He walked back to the Sentinel’s body, eager to end his report and leave the scene.

“I will end with a summary of the facts and my conjecture on the murder victim’s motive, for the Moonlight Palace’s consideration.” he began. “Thomas Cadworth, Moonlight Sentinel, henceforth referred to as “the victim”, was found murdered in an alleyway off of Merwin Avenue. His murder is the fourth in a series of murders in close proximity to the Moonlight Palace, a series of murders being investigated under the classification Case 256-A. The victim’s assailant was clearly not an animal but a man or woman, and quite likely a trained killer based on the victim’s wounds and the manner of attack. They attacked with a long blade, perhaps a sickle, and inflicted extensive damage to his chest and vital organs. A dark violet substance similar to that found at two of the three other crime scenes was found at the scene. The exact motive for the murder is unclear, but I’m beginning to see a pattern.”

“The bodies are brutally wounded and then left out in the open.” he continued, his speech becoming hurried and frantic. “A dark violet substance is left behind. Always, there is no clear reason for the victim’s death, the attacks seem sudden, unexpected, as though they were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. I am going into the realm of speculation by saying this, but I think the murders are related. I think the killers were either the same person or a group working together. And I’m even starting to think that the bodies are left in plain sight on purpose. Clearly killers with this much experience and this much time before the bodies are discovered would have the sense to hide them. After the first time, at least, when the murders became public knowledge. Surely they would have learned. So why not? Why leave them for us to find, again and again? It seems mad, but . . . I think . . . I think they want them to be found.”

“But why?” The Inspector had begun to talk madly, more to himself than the Moonlight Palace, as he desperately tried to puzzle out a motive for the seemingly random crimes. “Why let four murders go by and be discovered? Why let the Moonlight Palace chase after you like this? It can’t be a political statement or an organized crime group’s show of power, because they haven’t taken credit for any of the crimes. It’s lunacy! And yet, that is the only explanation I can think of. Are they trying to sow dissent in the republic? Are they insane? What’s the point? Why?”

The icy hiss of falling rain echoed sharply through the dark gray stone spires of Capra Manor. The window panes set into the walls were each covered in streaks of water from the rain and coated with a minute layer of crystalline frost at the edges. The dark clouds had blotted out the ivory moon, and the gray sky frothed and churned, a twisted parody of the sea beneath it. The dark brown oak wood trees quivered and trembled as they were buffeted by gales of vicious wind from the coast, sending sprays of damp rainwater and flurries of dark leaves into the air. Far in the distance, past the forest and the dark gray rocks of the shore, the cerulean waves of the eponymous Firth of Moray swelled monstrously and frothed at their crests, emboldened by the raging storm. A thick shroud of silver mist had rolled in from the mainland and hung perhaps a mile past the Firth, obscuring view of anything beyond.

On the high, narrow rampart that bridged the gap between the Northern and Western Spires of the gray stone castle, Vikram and Charles plodded slowly and wearily through the stinging rain, their footsteps sending up sprays of dark water from the muddy puddles that covered the cobbled stone floor of the bridge. Vikram went first, his black cloak soaked with water and the tassels of his silver scarf whipping wildly in the wind. His face was almost entirely obscured beneath his thick black hood. Behind him, Charles clutched the thick, pointed stone railings in an effort to guide himself forward, having been forced to avert his eyes to the damp stone floor of the bridge to protect his face from the fury of the rain and wind. After almost a minute of baring their thin, mortal forms to the fury of the storm, Vikram saw the large, dark archway of a passage ahead of him. He put his hand forward, and felt the comforting roughness of a dark oak wood door against his palm. He clutched desperately at the air until his numb fingers found the brass door knocker and he was able to pull the heavy door open. He nearly fell forward in his eagerness to walk inside, and Charles tumbled in after him.

As soon as they were inside, Vikram slipped off his black cloak and silver scarf mechanically, throwing them onto a long wooden hook whose vague outline was visible in the darkness near the door and motioning for Charles to do the same. “I suppose we can’t say we didn’t have fair warning.” remarked Charles sardonically, shutting the heavy wooden door behind him. Vikram stood in front of him, shivering. He had his back turned to the poet, and stood motionless, staring into the dark chamber they had emerged into. “Are you sure you should take off your cloak, Vikram? You look like you’ve caught a dreadful chill.”

Vikram turned his gaze to the closest window, and looked at the stormy sky and the swirling gray clouds for a few moments before removing his hand from the window pane. He turned back to the chamber inside the spire, and took a deep breath to calm himself. He found his hand trembling of it’s own accord, and his own heartbeat, dull and swift in his chest, pounded loudly in his ears. His vision began to swim and blur, but he blinked his eyes furiously, determined not to give in to his fears. He took a second deep breath, and forced himself to focus his mind.

He waved Charles’s concerns off again with a flick of his cuff and a hoarse laugh, and stepped forward until the shadows had wholly obscured him. As he receded out of view, Charles saw him produce a small object from his left pocket. After a few moments, a small hiss echoed through the room, and a bright orange flame flared to life in the center of the room. Charles, his eyes having become used to the dark, was momentarily blinded by the light. As his vision began to gradually return, he saw that the flame emanated from the tip of a thin dark brown oak wood sliver of wood in Vikram’s hand. The Duke waved the match around the room, sending minute orange sparks cascading to the floor. He sifted through the dark air above him with his hand until he found what he was looking for. Another short hiss sounded through the room, and the long wick of a white candle lantern that had been hanging from the ceiling came to life, shedding light on the room.

Vikram breathed in softly, inhaling the scent of dusty books and papers. Somehow, though he had frequented the musty old chamber perhaps as recently as the day before, it felt as though he was returning to the tower library of Capra Manor after a long time away. His eyes panned around the room, taking in the uniform rows of antiquated dark oak wood bookshelves, and the large writing desk, both trailing wispy gray cobwebs at the edges. Piles of large leather-bound books spilled out of every shelf and gathered dust on every flat surface. Large, yellowed charts and maps hung on the walls as the banner did. A large, threadbare crimson rug lay on the floor. In one corner of the room, a large colored metal globe sat, motionless in a tarnished silver centrifuge. Had it been dawn, Vikram knew he would have been able to see minute gray dust motes in the air by the sunlight. The entire effect created a feeling of antiquity so powerful that Vikram felt as though he had stepped into the past.

His gaze caught a faded, moth-eaten banner that hung from the wall. It was large, extending from the ceiling to the floor, and had clearly once displayed brilliant colors. As it was now, however, it’s threads were dull and faded, and it was frayed at the edges. It was made of a thick crimson cloth, perhaps wool or cotton, and bordered at the edges by black trim. On it was depicted, in simple, earnest rendition, a black drake, wings outstretched and mouth arched towards the sky. It was the coat of arms of House Capra, and its likeness could be found adorning the banners of the same sort that hung, proudly and gallantly through the gilded halls of Capra Manor.

Capra Manor was ancient, but nearly every generation had refurbished it, at least in part, to suit their liking. Robert Capra II, for example, had, in the early 16th century, taken it upon himself to have the wine cellar expanded, and to spend a great deal of time on the importing of new alcohol to be stored there (and, to the distaste of his parents and wife, on the draining of a large portion of the old). But every century, without fail, the library was left alone. The castle’s architect and the first in the ancestry of House Capra, Victor Capra, had used the library as his personal study, and, according to his journals, now prized by the dynasty and kept in glass cases in their foyer like trophies, spent most of his time there, studying literature and writing. As such, it had attained a mythic, untouchable status in the castle, exempt from renovation. The Capras and their guests freely read the literature and made their own additions to the ever-growing stacks of books, but made it a point of pride to disturb as little else as possible.

“I thought you said we were going to your workshop?” said Charles cautiously, the sound of his voice piercing like a shard of glass through Vikram’s silent thoughts. The Duke turned towards him, lit match in hand. “This is the library.” he continued. “As I recall, your workshop is in the cellar.”

“As of about a month ago, it was.” said Vikram, forgetting his ominous thoughts for the time being and strutting gallantly towards a large dark brown oak wood bookcase set against the wall. “But I have found another location for it, which is, I believe, far better suited to its purpose. I’ve been waiting quite a while to unveil it to someone.” He began looking at the books carefully, brushing dust off the more remote spines with his forefinger. Finally he seemed to find a volume he was interested in. It was a thick book with a bright purple binding, and inscribed with spidery silver text that Charles was too far away to read. He placed a firm hand on the spine, and pulled the book out of the shelf several inches. An audible clicking noise was heard, and Charles thought he could see sparks fly from the space where the edge of the book met the two on either side of it. Vikram did the same to three other volumes arranged in a seemingly random fashion in the space of only perhaps thirty more seconds, drawing them to a calculated distance and producing short clicks. After the fourth he stepped back slightly, and gave Charles a short bow.

“What-” began Charles shortly before he was cut off by the sound of wood scraping against the carpeted floor. Before his eyes, the bookcase began to forward and to the left, sending up a thick cloud of dust and frayed cobwebs. The poet stared, eyes wide, at its bold defiance of physics, and it was only when the half-door half-bookcase was completely ajar that he saw it was connected by small silver hinges to the wall. With a final short click, the four drawn books retreated into their places and the elaborate mechanism came to a halt.Vikram gave him a sly smile. Charles continued to stand staring, motionless, for several more moments before turning to Vikram and bursting into laughter. He began to clap his hands slowly, eliciting another, shorter bow from Vikram.

“You’ve surprised even me this time, Vikram. I thought secret passages were reserved for mad inventors.” he said.

“I can’t say I am entirely without the burden of either title.” said Vikram,with a fanged smile. “But I’m afraid the credit is not mine to be had. The bookcase contains a lift, and is a relic from Victor Capra’s time. It travels all the paths the stairs do, and one they do not: namely, the roof of the Western spire of Capra Manor. It was constructed when the Manor was built, and a set of parallel stairs to the roof were planned but never built. As far as those of my ancestors who underwent the task of puzzling out his journals have deduced, it was built to ensure he always had a clear, solitary path to the library when the stairs were crowded with guests or servants or both. Not hard to believe, I suppose, considering how much time he spent here. The false bookcase must have either been a clever use of space or an even cleverer method of secrecy. As for the apparent total indifference to it displayed by my ancestors, I must admit that it serves no practical or strategic purpose and therefore I am unsurprised it was little more to them than an eccentricity of the castle, and therefore not worth repairing or using.”

“But I can see uses for it and, more importantly, for the roof that they could not.” he continued, stepping into the area behind the bookcase. He motioned for Charles to follow him. It was not a very large area, but by the light of Vikram’s match Charles could see it had dark brown oak wood walls and a red-carpeted floor. They both stepped inside, and Vikram brought the match close to the wall, where it illuminated a small, metallic plate that had been screwed into the wall. On the plate, Charles could make out the shapes of several small silver panels, not unlike the ones used around the castle to control the Redsteam lights. “I originally learned of its existence from Janysse five or six months ago, on one of our late-night walks in the castle.” Charles had learned long ago that trying to unravel the details of Vikram’s close but enigmatic relationship with his sister was an exercise in futility, so he held his tongue at this. “I convinced her to show it to me, and I was initially as amazed as you were. It was filled with dust and levers and gears that powered it had long since ceased to work, but I saw such potential in it and the floor above it. I knew the old machinery could be taken out and replaced with simple Redsteam circuitry, and, for the first time in years, make the roof accessible again. I went to Father the very next day to ask his permission to fix it and to use it for my own purposes. He knew of it already, and gave such permission on the condition that, in light of my occasionally harrowing but mostly harmless history with large-scale machinery, I promise him not to do anything daft.”

“Is that a promise you intend to keep?” asked Charles.

“That depends on what you define as ‘daft’.” replied Vikram. He pressed the small silver panel on the leftmost side side of the plate, and the hiss of Redsteam echoed throughout the lift. The bookcase in front of them began to sweep back into place, and the lift began to move upwards.