The Lower Block

            Castlebrook prison was a very old one, dating back before the Brothers’ War. A flight of stone angels stood guard over the grand entryway, past the first gate. It was winter, and the wind pressed the snow into the wall, where it stuck like moss. The eight-pointed star of Kerahn and the Royal Seal of Jarsa, still visible in the edifice most days, were now almost entirely obscured.

            The prisoners would normally be allowed into the yard, but it was feared that if the northern winds picked up there could be a cold snap, and already the warden had raised concerns about the heating of such a large, stone building in the low temperatures they were recording.

            Milton could feel that his hat had grown heavier from the snow. He would be happy to go inside as soon as possible. When he reached the door – a large, solid piece of fairly unceremonious pine – he reluctantly removed one of his gloves to press the intercom button. Merely removing the glove made it feel as if he had plunged his hand into a bucket of icy water, and the intercom button gave a great deal of resistance as he pushed it.

            “Castlebrook Main,” said the voice on the other end.

            “Yes, I’m Commander Milton, from Central Enforcement. I should be expected.”

            There was a pause of about a minute. Milton struggled to put the glove back on, the feeling in his hands quickly fading. The door buzzed and Milton, sighing with great relief, entered.

            Milton had only been to Castlebrook a few times, and most of those were early in his career in the Narcian National Enforcement Department. He had forgotten quite how old the building felt. Though he was only in the front-house, he already felt the smallness experienced by someone in an ancient castle. The room had the original electric lights, which flickered almost like torches. Castlebrook was a historic building – here Last King Gerrard had been held while Orsod was in control of the country. This was also where a number of renegade Vindicators were held after the rebellion. In fact, Milton knew more about this prison than it was likely its warden did. A pair of officers received him and he was brought to the warden’s office.

The warden’s office was stiflingly hot – the room had not one, but two fireplaces, and each held a roaring inferno within. Milton took his gloves off, almost preferring the biting cold. He mused that he must look somewhat ridiculous – he wore a scarf over his nose and mouth, making him look somewhat like an Arizradna desert ranger, he thought. Milton took off his hat and lowered his scarf, allowing the warden to see his face.

The warden was a fairly unremarkable man – a military veteran, Milton assumed, but he did not find the man interesting enough to inquire. He simply presented the documentation he had brought. The warden was careful to check and double-check Milton’s information – something Milton did not resent. In fact, he was glad that they seemed to take such precaution.

            Castlebrook was, for the most part, a standard prison. The men here were convicted of serious crimes – usually violent ones, though there were a few arsonists and thieves. The guards were well-trained and professional, and of all the major prisons in the country, this was the best organized and maintained. Part of this was due to an effective staff, but the reality was that the government provided Castelbrook with the most elite staff and garrison for a very good reason.

            Milton left the front-house to enter the prison proper. This involved the opening of yet another large, iron gate. The main building was not nearly as hot as the front-house, but Milton was glad to see that it was still at a reasonably habitable temperature.

            This changed as he descended with his escort into the dungeons. The cold of the earth seeped into these levels. Milton walked through halls and halls of madmen, most screaming or acting out upon seeing a new face.

            Milton now passed the cell in which King Gerrard had been held. There was a man occupying it. Unlike the other madmen, he was very calm, though he appeared quite sad, like a child who has lost its mother.

            “Please, good sir. You must help me.”

            Milton looked at the madman. He was a tall man, one who had clearly been quite corpulent in the past but had, in prison, become quite thin. He did not appear unhealthy, though.

            “My looks may have changed, but surely you recognize your true king, Gerrard. I have been placed here as a political prisoner by that traitor, Orsod. You must release me so that I might reunite the nation once more.”

            Milton bent to his desire to respond. “You do know that Orsod died a thousand years ago. As did Gerrard.”

            “It says this on the plaque.” The prisoner pointed at an old, commemorative plaque on the wall across from the cell. “It’s all I have to read now that they took my books away.”

            “Why did they take your books away?”

            “They said it was because I would not stop eating them.”

            Milton shrugged and continued on his way. He came to an intersection of corridors where a circular door rested in the floor. Milton took a key from one of the guards and opened it. He told the guards to wait for him there and descended down into the very lowest block.

            After climbing several stories’ worth of ladder, Milton finally hit the floor. This level did not have any electric lighting, and was instead illuminated by candles and torches. The halls did not seem much like a prison at all. There was an intricate carpet here and paintings hung on the walls. It seemed rather more like some rich man’s manor house than a prison. Upon examining the carpeting and the paintings, he came to understand that these decorations were in fact more functional in nature. Throughout the carpeting, thousands of arcane glyphs were woven. The paintings, though they depicted scenes of Narcian history – the tribes of Narkios, the arrival of the gods, the founding of the Knights of Kerahn, various important battles – they all contained the same kinds of glyphs and sigils, enforcing the prison against all manner of magical manipulation.

            “You must be Milton.”

            Milton turned around and saw the speaker. Seated at a desk was a large golem, with a gleaming hue of silver. Milton took off his scarf and unbuttoned his outer coat.

            “And you are Tret, the keeper of the lower block?”

            The golem nodded and smiled.

            “I keep them all company here. Over the last month or so I’ve been reading them a history of the Sardok invasion. Number five has been correcting some of the errors in the book – you know she fought at Gensdon? And she’s one of the younger prisoners. Would you like to sit down? I was brewing some tea in anticipation of your arrival.”

            Milton agreed and drank the tea.

            “You’re coming to see number eight, as I understand.”

            Milton nodded.

            “I thought so. Most curious of them. You’ve been briefed, I assume?”

            “I was on the team that caught her.”

            “You know she insists that she is here by our mistake.”

            “That might be the case.”

            Tret rubbed his temple, producing a raw, grinding sound. “But you aren’t here to release here.”

            “Not yet. Given what we know, however, she could likely just release herself if she wanted.”

            Tret poured Milton more tea. “We’ve taken the usual precautions. The cell is enforced with silver and cold iron. Of course, today I suppose all iron is cold.”

            Milton chuckled. The golem had been down in this block for over a thousand years, but the weather today seemed to pervade even here.

            “I suppose I should go consult with the prisoner,” said Milton as he finished a second cup.

            “Her room is number eight – we don’t really have a need for prisoner numbers here.”

            Milton walked down the hallway. He was suddenly struck with the feeling that he was not deep underground at all, but walking through a strange, haunted house. Behind each of these doors must be a ghoul or ghost, waiting to pounce. Oddly, the fact that he actually knew what was behind these doors and, in most cases, they were worse, gave him a kind of rational comfort.

            Milton came to door eight and opened it.

            The room seemed larger than he would have expected. There was a fire in the fireplace and a bright electric light shining on an attractive writing desk. A small, but not entirely uncomfortable-looking bed took up much of the room. Everywhere there were stacks of paper and books.

            Sitting against a wall, her arms resting on her knees, was the prisoner. Milton could not help but gasp, only to catch himself and feel terribly ashamed. The prisoner – the woman he was looking at – was actually quite mundane in appearance. Physically and physiologically she was known to be entirely human. And, Milton thought, she certainly looked it.

            “Welcome to my oh-so-humble abode, Commander Milton,” said the prisoner. And that was when Milton really, truly came to realize that he was standing in the presence of a god.

(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2012)