Interlude

The sand stretches for as far as the eye can see and beyond, past the bounds of all perception. Until sight vanishes with the immensity of particle upon particle of worn-out mountain. Until touch goes numb with the incessancy of the swirling particles of worn-down mountain. Until every sense is overwhelmed by the sheer vastness of everything sandy and all awareness slides away.

And then everything is calm.

Now it is night. That is obvious from the absence of anything even vaguely resembling daylight. For the want of better words, overhead shine stars, tiny pinpricks of searing brightness. They dot the vault of the heavens in unfamiliar constellations, leaving nothing to focus upon, to navigate home -- wherever that might be.

There is also a full moon, round and soft, casting down its silvery motes from directly above. From whichever angle it is viewed, it is always right overhead. Almost... almost... almost looming in its luminosity. It looks close enough to touch, to grasp, to verify. Its shine bathes all in peace and lights the way for those that wish to go.

For the trackless desert isn't so trackless after all. A trail of footsteps can be seen wending their way into the distance, down the rolling slopes of one dune and over the roiling crest of the next. Their circuit can be seen ending at a structure just visible in the far distance on an open plain. To its right, there comes the glint of refracted light as off the surface of a lake or other pool of water.

The temptation to curiosity is too great to resist. It pulls at every fibre, instilling a sense of yearning to find out, to examine, to know more.

Following the cyclic route of the footsteps that circumnavigate the mounded dunes, the shifting sands that seem to twist into spirals, helices and annuli, brings arrival on the gentle crescent of a sandy shore that softly abuts the aquatic expanse of a limpid pool, nay lake, of near-perfect circularity. The grains of the beach underfoot are, as the desert before, silky soft to the tread, as if incapable of abrasion. Staring out over the water brings notice of a rippling ring, caused by some unknown disturbance of the surface, heading towards the shore. It breaks silently. There is no sound, no sounds at all. The air is motionless but feels intermittently cold as if unnoticed gusts of wind abound.

The water is still again. The unblinking eye above is reflected on its mirrored surface, seemingly capturing its essence in its now opalescent depths. And the footsteps wind onward around the lake to the structure seen before, now close enough to make out details. It is a henge of sorts, or so it looks. A collection of mighty blocks standing starkly in the middle distance. All alone. Isolated. There is the tang of something bitter in the air, where there was nothing before.

And then it is gone. But the trace of a memory still lingers, drawing on experience to remember. And then it is gone even from there. But the pull is stronger now. With curiosity satiated here, it can no longer be ignored. It is time to move off, to continue on, to see it through.

And the sense is that of a finale fast approaching. Distance and time have lost all meaning beneath the twinkling cape of twilight. Only the moon, the stars and the destination remain constant. Suddenly, without warning or expectation, it is there. The henge, now resplendent in its moon-bathed glory. It is a traditional circle of monolithic archways, one at each of the cardinal compass points and then one at each of the midpoints in between. And overhead hangs the eye of night, gazing down on the centre of the stone ring and on the single block set altar-like into the sandy plain.

The stones on the edge are rough and pitted to the touch, worn as if having been blasted by sand for eons but the desert air is still, for now. There is more though. On some of the uprights, large pock-marks burrow their way into the weathered stone, creating cavernous texture and craggy personality. There is a subtle change in the atmosphere. There is an air of quiet menace as lambent shadows play around the pillars.

The footsteps do not cease to be at the edge of the stone henge. They carry on inwards, tracing ever-decreasing circles in a spiral into the centre, to where there lies a slab. And on that slab is a wooden box. There is something etched or burnt into the wood but which cannot be seen from this point.

Tracing the final step and the box heaves into view. But it is not alone on this stone. It shares its resting place with swatches of fine fabrics, heretofore unseen but which are satiny to the touch. They provide a burst of riotous yet muted colour that seems distinctly out of place in this place. One of vitelline yellow crosses one of sanguine red surmounting one of verdant green. And in the midst of this chromatic nest sits the finely crafted wooden box. It has a wrought iron lock and similar dull grey hinges. The lid is inlaid with faded marquetry, a design both indistinguishable and incomprehensible, but some writing remains faintly legible. Who knows how long it has rested here. Waiting.

'That would be me then.'

And as if from nowhere, despite the likelihood of always having been there, there is a figure reclining atop one of the crosspieces. It is a familiar character dressed in black -- black boots, black hose, black doublet, voluminous black hooded cape. But from beneath the drawn-up cowl is the glint of gold and the forward edge of a viscount's coronet can be discerned. The tone of voice is light, almost jovial, yet weighty with experience and time-weariness.

'I have waited for millennia, will wait for many more. I wait until the one who is sought arrives with the power to free me and move on. That is my task.' A silent, hanging pause. 'Now, open the box and fulfil yours.'

Turning away from the figure above, back to the box, the ever-present feeling throughout this journey is strongest here. There is something in the box, pulling, tugging, tearing insistently. It will not be ignored. Why?

'So, you feel it too? That is good. I have not encountered anything as strong as this in my entire wait. There have been others but they all failed. If eternity were not as nothing to me, I might lose hope.' There is a low, dry chuckle at this last remark.

The urgency emanating from within that wooden receptacle is ripping at every fibre of existence, shredding sense from nonsense in an effort to escape. It takes effort to return to staring at the figure above. Who has changed position, now standing, almost in a stance of anticipatory triumph. He is familiar -- why?

'Always the same question. I don't quite understand how you can resist, even if I am only feeling a fraction of what you must be assailed by. I'll tell you this. You know me, everyone who stands there knows me. Look around. A prison is still a prison no matter its appearance, walls or no walls. Open that box and we will both have what we want. Freedom!' With every sentence the expectancy rises, gains in strength, until the last is uttered in such resounding tones that it feels as if it cannot be anything other than the truth.

Attention is wrenched forcibly back to concentrating on the box. The iron clasp is cool to the touch. It is locked. It is unlocked, having gone simply from shut to open in some manner. It does not matter. It is almost beneath notice. But the lid will not open. There must be something else...

The words! What are the words that were carved? Mayhap a password. "This circl'd orb" they say. And there is a soft click that reverberates through the empty air. And the lid rises up and falls back on silent hinges.

'I'm free!' comes an exultant cry. Looking back, the sable figure stands erect, proud in bearing. 'I will tell you this: what you find in that box is more valuable than all the riches of any world, more important than any law and more powerful than the greatest rulers in existence. It is a key to unlocking the potency of the individual.' The figure bows, almost reverently. 'We will speak again, anon. Fare thee well.' And vanishes. There and then not there, as simple as that.

Quietude reigns once again. No rending compulsion, no sense-blinding throbbing, just serene curiosity. Peering into the box reveals the object at the end of this quest. Without interference, it rises up and out, moving to hang motionless in the moonlight. It is a plain, white piece of card with a simple picture adorning its front with three words arcing over it. The depiction is of a golden orb, a sphere of gleaming metal topped by a small cross, similar to the spire of a church, and with a inlaid band of silver around its girth. The whole picture is remarkably vivid, seemingly portraying more than the two dimensions seen. And the three words? "Ace of Orbs".

Upon reading those words, perception falls dead.

Fade to black.