Rana returned a couple of days later; she brought his food herself and let him start eating before they spoke. Arn glanced at her between bites, but she just watched him, eventually taking out her pipe and beginning to smoke. “Do you know why the Inspectorate is doing this?” she asked.
“Doing what?” Arn replied, still eating.
“Why they want to control people’s thoughts,” she said.
Arn finished his food and put down the plate. What would she want to hear, he wondered, Rana clearly hated the Inspectorate. “They want to make people do things, and not think about what they’re doing,” he answered.
Rana tilted her head “well… I suppose it is close.” She began pacing the cell again and pulled deeply from her pipe. The fruity scent filled his cell and Arn relaxed despite himself.
“You’re thinking too small, Arn” she said, “but that’s to be expected - they are very good at this.” She looked at him and pointed her pipe in his direction “you have heard the old stories, yes?” she asked “of Atros and Sarine - heroes of old, capable of miraculous deeds and magnificent power.” She saw him nod and continued “the stories are magnified by the passage of time; all tales of the past are - but they aren’t quite so exaggerated as the Inspectorate would have you believe.”
Arn raised an eyebrow at that - did she think that those stories are real? She grimaced and wagged her finger at him “We were getting along, weren't we?" she said, "I sense skepticism, and I don't care for that sort of thing."
"I am sorry,” he said, “please go on." Despite all that she did to him, Arn didn’t want her to leave, he didn’t want to be alone.
"That's a good boy," she said and smiled. "All your life you’ve only heard what they want you to hear.” Rana continued to pace about the cell. Arn wondered whether she’ll try to convince him that all the miracles were real, and that it’s the great secret they are keeping.
“Do you know what is written in the scrolls?” she asked.
Did she mean the scroll in the restricted section of the archives? Of course, he didn’t know, even if he were a real historian, it’d be years before he was allowed to see them. Arn could have sworn that Rana saw his thoughts for she smiled with satisfaction. “Yes Arn,” she said, “those scrolls - most are simple accounts from centuries ago, before the Inspectorate, and some before even the imperial rule.”
“Simple accounts?” he replied, “but why would they be so secret?”
“Indeed” Rana said, clasping her hands behind her back “there are some surprising details - ones the Inspectorate doesn’t want people to read.” she looked at Arn “you know how precious they are with their history though - so they can’t simply destroy it.”
“Why wouldn’t they want people to read simple daily accounts?”
Rana flashed her eyebrows and smiled - Arn realized that this was exactly what she wanted him to ask - she took something out from a bag over her shoulder and handed it to Arn. He grasped the object in his hand and realized that it was a scroll.
“One of the few written in the common tongue - you’ll be able to read it” she said. Arn took the scroll out of its pouch and opened it; the events were dated nearly eight hundred years in the past. He’d never seen an account this old - it must have been one of the first scrolls in the common tongue. He skimmed through it - this was an account of a mountaineering accident. A rockfall nearly killed an entire caravan, but they had someone skilled in the arts - skilled in the arts, what arts, he wondered. The man was able to divert the rockfall away from the caravan and it made it through safely. The regional municipality had to send craftsmen to repair the road in a sixty-foot area that was damaged by the heavy boulders. Sixty feet of road? One man diverted all those rocks, with ‘the arts’, Arn thought incredulously. He glanced at Rana, “this can’t be real” he said.
“Of course, it’s real,” she barked, “there isn’t the flowery language of myths - it’s just an account of events. They needed to keep records of who sent the craftsmen, where, and for what purpose.”
“But sixty feet of road - destroyed by the rocks - how can one man divert it all?”
“How indeed” she said, “certainly not with his Tjoreal.”
It was then that Arn noticed the absence of the bracelet from his left wrist. He grabbed at his pockets, but there was nothing there.
As though she knew what he was thinking, Rana said, “you don’t need it, it’s a shackle, not a tool. No one used these blasted things until the Inspectorate came along.”
“You have to give it back!” he pleaded “it took so long to make; I can’t make another one! Please Rana!”
She recoiled from him; disgust flashed on her face, but it was quickly replaced with pity. “Sorry Arn - it’s gone. You will be better without it, trust me.”
“You are insane!” he yelled “do you know what the Inspectorate will do to you once they find you? Give it back and let me go!”
Rana grimaced. She approached and leaned towards him, “perhaps I was too hasty,” she whispered. He’d never seen such rage in her eyes before - he’d never seen it in anyone’s eyes. “You are a fool - a small, insignificant fool,” she growled. “I tried to be nice,” she whispered, then hit him with her pipe with such force that it broke in half. Arn only had time to raise his hand, which was now bleeding but at least it saved his face. Without another word she stormed out of the cell and slammed the door behind her. The room became cooler and Arn realized that he was sweating. His hand throbbed as he nursed it, leaning back against the wall. The pain and frustration overtook him, and he couldn’t stop the tears any longer.
Rana didn’t return the next day. He got the same crappy food that he started with. Arn began wondering whether he made a mistake and should have played along more. He spent more time remembering his home and his mother’s food and trying to keep himself together.
One of the days he woke up in total darkness. The candle burning outside his cell must have gone out. The guard who brought his food now carried a lantern, which he took with him upon leaving. After a full day in darkness Arn could feel his sanity fraying at the edges, he needed some light, even if it was the soft glow of the candle outside the cell. He stood up gingerly and felt his way to the door. Arn stretched his arm through the bars and tried to light the candle with his energy, his Esarel.
He reached out with strands of energy, but they grew thinner the farther they got from his body. Arn couldn’t see the candle in the dark, but he knew that once his energy brushed against it, he would be able to sense it. Minutes passed by as he extended his search, he had to reach farther and farther away, so far that only wisps of his Esarel remained. As he finally found the candle, he knew it was too far for him to light without the Tjoreal.
“The Tjoreal was given to the people of Nedreal to strengthen them, to let their inner power - the Esarel - project farther and with greater intensity,” he whispered the words taught to him in the academy. If he had the Tjoreal bracelet now, even at the full extent of his reach, his Esarel would be at full power - “it’s impossible!” he whispered.
Rana was lying to him. He shook the door and screamed into the hallway - his voice echoed and faded without a trace. Arn kicked at the door one last time and slumped down against the cell wall.
He heard the cell door open but before he could fully wake up something hard shoved against his shoulder. He yelped in surprise and covered his eyes from the light.
“I’d love to keep playing with you,” Rana said, “but there is a schedule to follow.”
She took something out of her pocket and held it up. Arn’s eyes widened - she had his Tjoreal! He reached for it, but she yanked it and shoved him back with her boot. “Not so fast!” she said and smiled “I heard your pitiful attempt earlier,” her lips curled into a sneer.
“Give it back!” Arn yelled - or wanted to yell, but his voice trembled and came out as a plea more than anything.
“This is what they do to us, Arn,” she whispered while looking at the Tjoreal as if it were diseased, “they make you want to get back into the prison, to long for the safety of it, to need it - pathetic.” To his horror, Rana grabbed the Tjoreal and snapped it, she threw it on the ground and crushed it with her boot.
“Go ahead, you can have it now,” she said as Arn crawled to the broken device. He clutched the pieces in his hands.
“You were listening, but clearly you didn’t hear,” Rana said. She watched Arn as he slumped back against the wall, the pieces of his broken Tjoreal in his hands. “You have to free yourself Arn, it’s your responsibility, in the end no one can help you with that. I can show you, but I can’t do it for you.” she said.
Arn looked up at her and felt something stirr deep within, an anger that broke through all the abuse and pain, a sharp piercing sensation that washed over him. It was faint and dim but pulsed steadily within him. To his surprise he sensed a distant echo in response. It came from a much greater source, he'd never felt it before, but the mere shadow of its magnitude fortified his mind and soul. A light appeared in his eyes which neither Rana, nor anyone else, nor even Arn himself had seen before. To his surprise, Rana smiled. The unexpected reaction broke his reverie and the emotions from a moment before slipped from his grasp.
“Light the candle, and you can leave,” she said and exited his cell.
“I can’t! You broke the Tjoreal - it’s too far without it!” he yelled after her, the only reply was her fading footsteps. “You know it’s impossible!” he continued, “why are you doing this!” his words trailed off and he let the pieces of the Tjoreal scatter on the floor.
A few hours later he decided to try again. Despite himself Arn felt that he had disappointed Rana - she abducted me, imprisoned me - but he couldn’t get past it. He remembered how she reacted when he did something right during their time at the archive vaults and longed for that feeling. I’m an idiot, she was lying, pretending to approve, she was planning this all along. Still, he stood up and reached with one arm through the small window in the cell door. He sensed the Esarel stretch out towards the candle, he sensed the wick and the candle itself, but try as he might, nothing happened. It was too far - it’s impossible, no one can do it, it’s impossible - she lied again - she wants me to fail, that’s her plan, that’s all this is about, make me fail.
“It won’t work Rana!” he yelled into the hallways outside his cell “I know what you’re trying to do, I am not falling for your games!” as before, there was no reply. Only the fading echoes of his own voice. He left the door and sat down, his heart raced, and palms were sweating. He felt a weight on his chest, making it difficult to breathe.
Arn had nearly accepted that he is never getting out of this cell; thay he’d die here in darkness and dirt. No, no this isn’t right, he thought, this is what they want me to think, they want me to give up. He wasn’t sure where the thought came from, it almost felt foreign in his mind. It wiggled itself between the other thoughts and shoved them away. Not today - he thought - not any day, if I have one choice left to make, it won’t be giving up. The thought was just enough to let him breathe.
Arn remembered the food his mother packed for him; once again recalling every flavour and scent, he smiled as the memories flooded in. With them a warmth came, it washed over his body in a wave of goosebumps. It radiated down from his neck and filled his chest, then flowed throughout his entire body. Again he sensed a presence, a shadow of one rather. It lingered just beyond him, yet inexplicably familiar. Its magnitude took his breath away though he surprisingly felt no fear towards it. The noise of his thoughts settled, and the fear loosened its grip. He leaned against the cell wall and closed his eyes - not that it made a difference in the darkness.
