Chapter Three: The Sleeping and the Dead

Pascal had discovered that there were three kinds of sleepers. The discovery was not academic. He had spent years studying the intervals between a person's breathing, the small betrayals of a hand relaxing, the moment vigilance surrendered to fatigue. In the Tower, such observations had become useful almost immediately.

There were those who slept lightly, awakening at the slightest disturbance. There were those who slept deeply, surrendering themselves so completely to unconsciousness that even considerable noise failed to rouse them. And there were those who pretended. The third kind interested him most. He sat beneath the arcade, watching the fire die.

Across from him, Éloïse Varenne stood with her sword resting against one shoulder. She had taken first watch, though Pascal doubted she would remain awake until morning. Her eyelids had begun to droop. Twice she had shifted her weight to relieve the strain in her legs. The soldier was exhausted.

Éloïse's auburn hair had darkened with sweat at the nape of her neck. She rolled one shoulder beneath the weight of her uniform, then straightened as though she resented even that small admission of weakness. They all were.

The evening's encounter with the slime had left the travelers bruised, frightened, and painfully aware of how little protection their improvised shelter offered. Pascal was tired himself.

His shoulder ached where the falling masonry had struck him. He suspected a deep bruise, perhaps a cracked rib. Every time he raised his right arm, pain traveled across his back. He found the discomfort irritating. He preferred to inflict pain rather than experience it. Still, the night had been educational.

The soldier possessed courage and discipline. The scholar had managed to light the fire despite his shaking hands. The healer had continued tending the injured after nearly being consumed herself. The Regalian husband was willing to fight for his wife. The Regalian wife was frightened of men. And the druid— Pascal looked toward Florentine.

She lay naked on a folded blanket, her injured foot elevated upon a bundle of cloth. Her long red-and-green hair spread across the stone beside her. Even in sleep, she appeared uncomfortable. Her body was covered in goosebumps.

The air had grown colder since midnight, and the Tower's stonework seemed to draw warmth from everything resting against it. Florentine had refused the spare blanket Sabine offered to wrap around herself, explaining that her religious obligations prohibited clothing. Pascal had listened to the exchange with considerable interest.

He had encountered religious fanatics before. Some believed suffering purified the soul. Others believed it pleased their gods. Still others seemed to regard misery as proof that they were morally superior to everyone around them. Florentine was different. She did not appear proud of her discomfort. She simply accepted it.

That suggested conviction. Conviction could make a person remarkably difficult to frighten. But it could also make them predictable. Pascal wanted to know which was true. Éloïse finally approached him before speaking.

"Your turn."

Pascal looked up before speaking.

"Already?"

"I've been standing for four hours."

"Have you?"

"Yes."

He rose.

"Then you should rest."

Éloïse studied him.

"Wake me if anything approaches."

"Of course."

"And keep the fire low. We haven't enough wood to waste."

"Understood."

She hesitated. Her eyelids had grown heavy, but the sword remained within reach. The metal caught the last of the firelight in a narrow, watchful line. For a moment, Pascal thought she might insist upon remaining awake. Instead, she sat against a column and placed her sword across her lap.

"Don't wander off."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Éloïse closed her eyes. Pascal waited. He counted two hundred breaths before moving. The soldier's breathing had deepened. He took a slow step toward her.

She did not react. Another step. Still nothing. He crouched beside her. Her sword rested loosely across her knees.

He reached toward its hilt. Éloïse's eyes opened.

"Don't."

Pascal stopped. For several seconds, neither moved. Then he smiled.

"Just making sure you were asleep."

"I wasn't."

"So I see."

"Get away from me."

He stood. Éloïse watched him return to the fire. Pascal was pleased. She had passed. Florentine was less alert.

Her red-and-green hair spread over the folded cloth beneath her head, and the cold had left her skin mottled with goosebumps. She slept with the guarded stillness of someone whose body had finally demanded rest in spite of discomfort. He approached her after another half hour.

Her injured foot had slipped from its makeshift support, and one hand rested beside her face. She was breathing deeply, though her brow occasionally tightened in discomfort. Pascal crouched. He watched her for several moments. Then he placed a hand against her upper arm. She did not wake.

He moved his fingers to her shoulder. Nothing. He began briefly touching and squeezing one breast while she slept, then the other. Florentine shifted slightly. A faint sound escaped her lips, but her eyes remained closed. Pascal withdrew his hand. He felt no affection for her, nor did he particularly care about her nakedness. What interested him was the absence of resistance. She must have been so tired that her guard was not raised.

He had tested whether physical contact would awaken her, and she had not stirred enough to recognize the intrusion, then looked at her injured foot. The bandage was stained with blood. Pain and exhaustion had apparently overwhelmed her usual awareness. Useful. He reached toward the knife hanging from her satchel.

This time she moved. Her hand closed around the strap. Pascal stopped. Florentine squinted her eyes and murmured something unintelligible. He waited in stillness.

Her grip loosened. She settled back into sleep. Pascal rose, he studied the sleepers by the weak glow of the embers. A hand left outside a blanket, a throat exposed by a turned collar, the helpless slackness of a face in sleep: ordinary signs of trust looked different when examined without affection. He had learned enough.

Matilda slept beside her husband. The light from the dying fire softened the hollows beneath her eyes. Her fingers had caught in a fold of Mauro's coat, as if she had reached for it while asleep and refused to let go. Mauro had one arm around her shoulders, and his coat covered them both. Pascal approached quietly.

The Regalian woman's face was turned toward the fire. Her hair had fallen across her cheek, partially concealing the bruise near her temple. He crouched beside her. She looked younger while asleep. Not because her features had changed, but because the tension had temporarily disappeared from her expression. During the day, she watched people constantly.

Her eyes followed men's hands. She flinched when strangers approached too quickly. She had avoided being alone with Pascal, though she had offered no explanation. He suspected something had happened to her before she reached the Tower. Something involving violence.

Possibly sexual violence. He had seen similar reactions before. Pascal took a small lock of her hair between his fingers. He pulled. Not hard enough to hurt severely, but enough that an alert person should have reacted.

Matilda did not wake. He pulled again. Her brow tightened. She shifted against Mauro's shoulder. But she remained asleep.

Pascal released her hair. Interesting. The husband was less deeply unconscious. Mauro stirred when Pascal's knee scraped the stone. His eyes opened.

For an instant, he looked directly at the stranger crouching beside his wife. Pascal smiled before speaking.

"Your coat was slipping."

Mauro blinked.

"What?"

"The coat. I was going to pull it over her."

Mauro looked down. The coat had indeed fallen partly away from Matilda's shoulder. Pascal adjusted it.

"There."

Mauro nodded sleepily, breaking the silence.

"Thank you."

"Of course."

Pascal stood. He returned to his place beside the fire. Behind him, Mauro closed his eyes. Pascal considered what he had learned. The husband was alert to nearby movement, but susceptible to a plausible explanation.

The wife was exhausted enough to sleep through unwanted contact. The druid was similarly vulnerable. The soldier remained the greatest obstacle. He would need to be careful around her.

Matilda

Matilda dreamed of the ship. In dreams, the vessel seemed larger than it had been, its corridors stretching beyond every remembered turn. The boards sweated saltwater, and the captain's footsteps arrived long before his face. She was standing in the captain's cabin. The floor moved beneath her feet. A lantern swung from the ceiling.

The remembered room had no mercy in it. Matilda could recall the grain of the desk, the sour air, and the captain’s patient expression with a clarity that made her stomach recoil. The captain sat behind his desk, smiling. He had the release contract in front of him. She knew what he wanted. She knew what he would demand.

But in the dream, her son was standing beside the door. He was wearing his little blue shirt. His hair was neatly combed. He looked exactly as he had on the morning before the fever began. Matilda tried to move toward him.

The captain told her to remain where she was. She ignored him, then crossed the cabin. Her son reached up. She bent to embrace him. But when she touched his shoulders, his body crumbled.

Not into dust. Into wet, grey fragments. His skin split. His little hands dissolved beneath her fingers. Matilda screamed.

The captain laughed. She woke with a gasp. The fire was nearly dead. Mauro slept beside her. For several seconds, she did not know where she was.

She could smell damp stone. Wood smoke. Sweat. Not the sea. Not the captain's cabin.

The Tower. She pressed a hand against her mouth. Her heart was pounding. Across the arcade, Pascal sat watching the darkness. He turned toward her.

"Bad dream?" he asked softly.

Matilda nodded before speaking.

"Would you like some water?"

She shook her head. Pascal studied her.

"You're safe here."

Matilda looked toward the dark street. She remembered the slime. The skull floating inside its body. The way the creature had moved without making any recognizable sound. Safe.

She almost laughed.

"Are we?"

Pascal smiled faintly before speaking.

"For the moment."

She looked away. There was something about him she disliked. She could not identify it. He had helped defend them. He had risked his life against the slime.

He had offered shelter when they were frightened. By every reasonable measure, he had behaved kindly. Yet she could not forget the expression on his face when the creature first appeared.

What disturbed her was not merely his curiosity, but its temperature. There was no alarm in it, no shared horror, only the attentiveness of someone inspecting an unfamiliar mechanism. He looked interested. Not frightened. Matilda pulled Mauro's coat more tightly around herself.

She closed her eyes. But she did not sleep again. Florentine The pain in Florentine's foot woke her shortly before dawn. She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling.

For several seconds, she lay still. Her right foot throbbed. The bandage felt tight. Her chest ached where she had fallen, and the abrasions across her breasts stung whenever she shifted against the blanket. She tried to sit up.

A sharp pain beneath her ribs made her stop. She swore in Cerilia. The Tower rendered the words intelligible to anyone listening, though nobody appeared to be awake. Florentine sat up more carefully. The cold struck her immediately.

Goosebumps rose across her arms and thighs. She rubbed her hands together. Her naked body had become so cold that her fingers felt stiff. She looked toward the fire. Only embers remained.

The stranger, Pascal, sat beside them.

"Good morning," he said.

Florentine frowned before speaking.

"Is it morning?"

"Nearly."

She examined her foot. The bandage was stained. Sabine would need to change it. Florentine sighed. Her shoulders sagged beneath the weight of yet another explanation. Her faith had always required endurance, but she had not expected every ordinary conversation to become a trial of it.

"I hate this place."

Pascal smiled before answering.

"Already?"

"I've been attacked by a slime, burned, cut, stabbed through the foot, and nearly eaten."

"An eventful day."

"An awful day."

"Those aren't necessarily different things."

Florentine looked at him. She could not tell whether he was joking. He stood and approached.

"How is your foot?"

"Painful."

"May I see?"

She hesitated. Then she extended it. Pascal crouched and examined the bandage. He did not touch it.

"Deep wound?"

"Deep enough."

"You should be careful."

Florentine gave him a tired look.

"Thank you. I hadn't considered that."

He laughed softly. She looked away. The stranger’s politeness seemed carefully measured, each smile arriving a heartbeat after it ought to have come naturally. She could not have explained the feeling, and that made it worse. The stranger seemed pleasant enough. But there was something unsettling about the way he watched people.

He did not look at them as though he wanted to know them, then looked at them as though he wanted to understand how they worked. Like a scholar examining a dead animal. Florentine withdrew her foot.

"I'll wait for Sabine."

"Of course."

Pascal stood. Florentine watched him return to the fire. Then she examined her satchel. The knife was still there. She frowned.

She had dreamed that someone was trying to take it. Or perhaps she had imagined the sensation while half asleep. She checked the strap. Everything appeared undisturbed. She dismissed the thought.

Torsten

Torsten awoke to the sound of bells. Not one bell. Several. They rang from different directions, their tones overlapping in a strange, uneven rhythm.

He sat up. The arcade was filled with pale morning light. Éloïse was already awake. She stood beside the entrance, examining the street.

"What is that?" Torsten asked.

"Morning bells."

"From where?"

"Different settlements."

Torsten rose stiffly. His back ached from sleeping against stone. He approached the soldier. Beyond the arcade, the street was littered with debris. Broken pottery.

Splintered wood. Fragments of clothing. And something dark lying near the fountain. Torsten squinted, a body.

Or what remained of one. The corpse lay on its back, its clothing dissolved across the chest and abdomen. The face had been stripped of skin. One arm was missing below the elbow. A dark trail extended from the body toward a drainage channel. Torsten felt his stomach turn.

"Absolute preserve us."

Éloïse glanced at him, breaking the silence.

"Don't look if you can't stomach it."

"I've seen corpses before."

"Not like that."

He swallowed.

"No."

She continued watching the street. Torsten looked toward the Tower's distant interior.

He could not say how many Gates waited beyond the one they sought, or whether the Tower possessed a final floor in any ordinary sense. The Lady in White's dream had promised a Chalice at the end, but the promise was the only guidance any of them had been given. Torsten had come because ignorance, to him, was an invitation to study rather than a reason to turn away.

Somewhere beyond the settlements lay the Gate. Beyond the Gate, another floor. And beyond that, perhaps thousands more. He had spent the months since the Tower appeared theorizing and trying to study what little information was documented in the following months.

He had read accounts of architecture, world inhabitants, various religious significance, and the competing theories concerning the Firscard, world origins, and more. He had believed himself prepared. Now he understood how little those books had taught him. A scream sounded somewhere in the distance. Éloïse did not react.

Torsten looked at her before speaking.

"Does it ever stop?"

"What?"

"The killing."

She considered the question. Then she shook her head.

"No."

Éloïse

By sunrise, Éloïse had decided that the group needed to move. The arcade was indefensible. Its columns provided too many approaches, and the barricade they had constructed would not withstand another attack from a large slime. They needed proper shelter.

Walls. Doors. A reliable source of water. And preferably someone who knew how to fight. She looked at the travelers.

Torsten was examining the remains of the fire. Sabine was changing Florentine's bandage. Mauro and Matilda were speaking quietly beside their belongings. Pascal sat apart, sharpening his knife. Éloïse watched him for a moment.

Something about the man troubled her. He was too comfortable. Not physically. He was bruised and tired like the rest of them. But he seemed strangely at ease with the violence surrounding them.

He had not panicked when the slime attacked. He had not shown disgust at the remains in the street. And during the night, when she briefly opened her eyes, she had seen him moving among the sleeping travelers. She had not observed him doing anything unmistakably wrong. But she had noticed.

Éloïse approached him before answering. Éloïse stopped close enough to make it clear that the greeting was not casual. She kept her weight balanced on both feet and spoke his name like a summons.

"Pascal."

He looked up. Pascal lifted his chin with the mild, untroubled expression of a man pleased to find company. The smile came readily; his eyes were slower to warm.

"Good morning."

Éloïse did not return the greeting. Her gaze moved briefly to his hands before settling on his face.

"What were you doing last night?"

Pascal answered without shifting his posture. His tone made the claim sound so ordinary that, for an instant, it might have passed without question.

"Keeping watch."

Éloïse’s jaw set. She allowed the silence after his answer to sharpen before asking again.

"Among the sleepers?"

He paused. Then smiled. Pascal let the smile settle into place, gentle and reassuring. Nothing in his expression acknowledged the ugliness of what she was suggesting.

"Checking that everyone was all right."

Éloïse studied him. Éloïse took a half step nearer. She kept her voice low enough not to wake the others, but there was nothing gentle in the warning.

"Don't."

His smile faded slightly. Pascal’s brows drew together with carefully measured confusion. He made no move to defend himself; he waited for her to say the accusation aloud.

"Don't what?"

Éloïse held his gaze. The memory of his silhouette moving between sleeping bodies had left her with a cold, stubborn disgust.

"Touch people while they're asleep."

For a moment, neither spoke. Then Pascal inclined his head. Pascal bowed his head just enough to resemble submission. The gesture was neat, courteous, and entirely without the shame she had hoped to see.

"Of course."

Éloïse held his gaze. She did not believe him. But she had no proof. Not yet. She turned toward the others.

"Pack your things."

Mauro looked up before answering.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere safer."

Torsten frowned before speaking.

"Do you know somewhere?"

"No."

"Then how-"

"We'll find it."

Florentine tried to stand. She immediately cried out and sat down again. Sabine caught her shoulder.

"You're not walking on that foot."

Florentine looked toward Éloïse before answering.

"I can manage."

"No," Sabine said.

Éloïse examined the injured druid. Her foot was swollen. The bandage was stained with fresh blood. She would slow them down. Possibly considerably.

Éloïse looked toward the street. Then toward the others. She had a decision to make. Leave the injured woman behind. Or accept the danger of traveling slowly.

For several seconds, she considered the first option. It would be practical. Efficient. The sort of decision a military officer might make when responsible for a larger force. Then she looked at Florentine.

The young woman was sitting naked on the cold stone, clutching her injured foot, trying desperately not to appear frightened. Éloïse sighed before speaking.

"Mauro."

"Yes?"

"Can you carry her?"

He hesitated. Then nodded.

"I think so."

"Good."

Florentine opened her mouth to protest. Éloïse raised a hand before speaking.

"Don't argue."

"I wasn't going to," she crossed her arms.

"Yes, you were."

Florentine closed her mouth. Éloïse looked toward Pascal before speaking.

"You take the rear."

He smiled.

"As you wish."

She did not like that smile. Not at all. The first light did little to soften the broken buildings. Long shadows lay across the streets like open trenches, and every doorway looked deep enough to conceal something waiting. The seven travelers left the arcade shortly after sunrise. The streets were quiet.

Too quiet. A few merchants had begun reopening their stalls, but most doors remained barred. The dead had not yet been collected. They passed a man lying beneath a collapsed awning, his face partially dissolved. Farther along, they found a broken cart surrounded by scattered vegetables and blood.

A child's shoe lay beside one wheel. Matilda stopped when she saw it. Mauro tightened his hold on Florentine.

"Matilda?"

She stared at the shoe. It was small. Blue. The same color as the shirt their son had worn on the day he died. She felt the world narrow.

For a moment, the Tower disappeared. She was back in their home. Standing beside the bed. Listening to the physician explain that there was nothing more he could do. Matilda bent and picked up the shoe.

It was damp. The leather was torn. There was blood inside. She dropped it. Mauro called her name.

She could not answer. Sabine approached before speaking.

"Matilda?"

Matilda shook her head. She pressed both hands against her mouth. She did not want to cry. Not here. Not in front of strangers.

But the tears came anyway. Mauro shifted Florentine's weight. Éloïse looked back impatiently before speaking.

"We need to keep moving."

Matilda nodded. She wiped her face.

"I'm sorry."

Nobody answered. They continued. Behind them, the child's shoe remained in the street. Pascal walked at the rear. From there he could observe the group without appearing to do so. Their pace was dictated by Florentine's injury, and the shifting distances between them told him almost as much as their conversations.

He watched the others. Éloïse led. Torsten followed. Sabine carried the medical supplies. Mauro supported Florentine, whose injured foot remained lifted from the ground.

Matilda walked beside them, her face pale and drawn. Pascal found the arrangement satisfactory. The soldier could not watch him constantly while navigating. The healer was occupied. The Regalian husband had his hands full.

And the others were exhausted. He had already begun to understand their weaknesses. Pascal imagined the survivors’ faces afterward: who would weep, who would blame themselves, who would turn practical before the body had cooled. He found the question more absorbing than the prospect of his own death. That was useful.

He wondered how long it would take before one of them died. A day? A week? Perhaps less. The Tower seemed remarkably efficient at killing people.

He almost admired it. Ahead, Éloïse stopped. Pascal looked up. A broad avenue opened before them. At its far end stood a fortified settlement.

Walls. Watchtowers. Banners. And above the main gate, a sign written in a script Pascal did not recognize. The Tower translated it effortlessly.

NEW REGALIA EMPIRE. Torsten read the words aloud. Mauro stared. Matilda looked toward the walls. Éloïse narrowed her eyes.

Pascal smiled. A new empire. Inside a prison of monsters. Human beings truly were extraordinary creatures. They could be surrounded by death, starvation, and unimaginable horrors, and still find time to establish governments.

He wondered whether this one had prisons. He wondered whether it had executioners. He wondered whether anyone inside recognized his face. Then he adjusted his coat and followed the others toward the gate.