Chapter thirteen: Conspiracy
Chapter thirteen
Jalon pounded on the door. He had no particular hope that that would lead to anything, except making his fists sore, but at least it was something to do. The room where they had locked him in had some hay on the floor, an oil lamp on the wall, and a frankly disgusting privy in the corner, but other than that, it was empty. Just four square walls of solid grey stone, unforgiving and disheartening... and also, Jalon found after a few hours of captivity, painfully dull.
"Let me out! Let me out!" he yelled, with all the excellent modular control that his singing career had lent him. "I know my rights! I demand to see a lawyer! I demand to be told what the charges against me are! I demand a chance to confront my accuser! I demand proof that my Nobles have been informed of my arrest! I demand a set of those ugly-looking striped pajamas things that prisoners are supposed to wear, because right now I'm just wearing a towel, and there isn't even that much left of it, and it's cold in here!"
He pounded on the door some more.
"I demand creamed peaches for dinner!" he shouted. "I might as well! It's as likely to happen as any of that other stuff, isn't it?"
He stared at the door.
"All right, be that way!" he shouted. "But just so you know, I'm going to pass the time composing a stirring song in favour of anarchy and civil disobedience! You have turned me into one of those pretentious anti-establishment Artists who are always grumbling about how The Man is keeping them down! I hope you're pleased with yourselves!"
He sighed and sat down on the cleanest filthy spot he could find on the abominable floor. This was just depressing. What was the idea here? Was he to spend the rest of his life in this cell - possibly without even finding out why? A harsh sentence in anyone's book, that one. How long did it take you to go mad under such circumstances - until the lack of any outward events for your mind to focus on made it turn inwards and fill itself with phantoms and spectres of its own making?
He scratched his head. Would they risk that, though? Spiritual deterioration could bring possession. At a certain point, the sheer hopelessness of his fate would cause him to surrender all will to live, and then a demon would crawl into the empty space in his soul, and that would be it for him. Something would walking like him and talking like him and even singing very pretty songs like him if it was so inclined, but it wouldn't be him - it would be some sort of caricature born out of despair and the unclean substance of the Nowhere.
Of course, the first thing that Jalon the Demon would do was teleport out of this cell and go running around in the Wastelands. The thought was actually mildly cheering. He would be damned, but at least he would be free. He wondered if demons had any art. They did have feelings, didn't they, even if those feelings were just hatred and pain, and any feeling could find expression in art. Would Jalon the Demon sing heart-rending songs of utter despair in the desolate silence of the Wastelands?
He had to admit that the idea did tickle his romantic side a bit. He had always been a sucker for a good tragedy.
Of course, it might not even be possible for him to become a demon. A demon had to be sustained by its mortal bloodline - by the existence of at least one living human being who was descended from the same parents as its own human host. Jalon had a couple of ex-lovers that he had lost touch with, so anything was possible, but he thought that the balance of probability was that he had no offspring of his own. He had never known his birth parents, though - he might have a dozen siblings, all with children of their own, or he might be a bloodline of one, meaning that he would be dissolved into the Nowhere the moment he was possessed. He wasn't sure if he ought to be hoping for that or not. Life as a demon was supposed to be semi-eternal torment, but at least it was life, of a sort. Jalon was nowhwere near ready to die. Death just seemed so frightfully dull, not to mention devoid of opportunities to show off.
The door, much to his surprise, opened. Jalon realised that he was, at this point, supposed to do something. Aseena would have been standing poised at the side of the door, waiting for just this moment, ready to use the element of surprise to fight her way out and make a run for it. Dara would have received the guards, made a bunch of astute observations about who they were and what was going on, and devised a cunning plan based on them. Jalon, for his part, couldn't think of a single thing to do except either demanding or begging for release.
In other words, he thought morosely, my one actual skill is being loud and flamboyant, and I am helpless in any situation where that is of no use. Forsooth, but I'm not made for a life of adventure. I am made for a life of leisure, fun, and women fluttering their eyelashes at me and telling me how much they liked my performance, that's what I'm made for.
The woman who stepped in was old. She stood tall, but she did so with stiffness that hinted that doing so carried a cost in constant pain. She had long grey hair, a gaunt face, and dark circles under her eyes that hinted that she hadn't gotten much sleep lately. Jalon glanced past her, noticing that at least three Soldiers were waiting outside.
Jalon got to his feet.
"Good afternoon, Madame," he said, giving her his most charming smile. "Jalon of Tenchurch Abbey, caste of Artists. Pray forgive me; I would offer you my hand, but it's really quite filthy at the moment. May I ask what your name is?"
"No one has a name here," the woman said. "I don't and you don't. You are a prisoner; I am your warden. That is the extent of our identities, in this place."
Jalon raised an eyebrow.
"And what place would that be?" he said.
"This is Building Thirty-Seven," Warden said. "No doubt a man like you, who has an interest in stories and legends, have heard of it."
Jalon nodded slowly.
"I know that the Ministry of Safety released an official statement a few years ago, denying its existence..." he said.
"Yes," Warden said. "They lied. In their defense, they had little enough choice. They are so heavily implicated in what goes on here that if it was ever discovered, half the heads in the Ministry would roll."
"And what is it that goes on here?" Jalon said. "I mean, obviously the unlawful imprisonment of innocent citizens, I can't help but notice that part. But what is it for?"
"It is for the same thing that all governmental buildings," Warden said. "The preservation of the Demesne. This is where we bring all... individuals... that in some manner possess information that could be used to protect Shadowed Citadel Demesne and its people."
Jalon felt that the hidden meanings of that phrase promised things that were a bit less than awesome.
"Seriously?" he said. "Cloak and dagger stuff? Government conspiracy? You do realise that if people ever found out that this place exists, it would make them even more paranoid about the government than they already are. That would make you less efficient at ruling - which would make you less able to ensure their safety - and it would just generally make people more unhappy and the Demesne weaker."
"And that would be a problem," Warden said flatly, "if people were intended to ever find out about the existence of Building Thirty-Seven. As they are not, our work here furthers the cause of both our control and their happiness."
"That is..." Jalon began, then broke off. "I am..." He paused again. "You suck," he finally settled for. It wasn't eloquent, but it did sum up his feelings very nicely.
"Perhaps we should get down to business," Warden said smoothly. "You are, as you admit, Jalon of Tenchurch Abbey, caste of Artists. You are the man who can see the future. I want you to tell me what it holds."
"I was just wondering the same thing, actually," Jalon said with a grin. "I was wondering if it held anything more than these four stone walls for the rest of my life."
"It doesn't," Warden said. "You are intelligent enough that you must have realised that by now. You will not leave this cell alive. However, before you leave, you will tell us everything you know."
Jalon nodded slowly.
"This is a mistake, you know," he said. "I will fall into despair. I will become a demon."
"We have means of handling that," Warden said. "You will be given drugs - ones to make you docile, and ones to make you happy whether you want to be or not. And even if you should turn into a demon... well, there are drugs that work on demons, too. We can keep you from teleporting, keep you here indefinitely, all while the Demesne scorches your damned soul. Sooner or later, you will tell us what we need to know."
"No," Jalon said hoarsely. His head was spinning. "No, please, let us be civilised here. I will tell you anything you want, and I won't tell anyone about Building Thirty-Seven. I'm sure you do an absolutely smashing job at protecting the Demesne, I wouldn't dream of getting in the way of it. Just let me go." He stared at Warden's merciless face, and his voice cracked. "For mercy's sake, I have done nothing wrong!"
Warden turned towards the guards.
"Bring the drugs," she said. "We have no time to waste."
***
Dara and Aseena watched the building from across the street. It was built from big stone blocks, unpainted and undecorated - just a great lump of rock, looking close to collapsing upon itself. All the windows were smashed, and the door hung off its hinges, like the last half-attached tooth in an ancient man's mouth.
The sentries were good at hiding, Dara had to give them that. Not that it mattered. She had already spotted them, all four of them. One behind the window there, one lurking in the shadows beyond the doorway, one lying on the roof, one obscured in the alley next to the house. She could tell that they were watching her, too. Well, let them watch. She'd give them something to look at soon enough.
"So here we are," Aseena said. "What's the plan? That place isn't made of Witch Stone."
"No," Dara said. "Standard government policy - important government buildings can't be built from Witch Stone. They're worried about making it too easy for a coven of witches to attack the legal authorities."
"Is there even such a thing as a coven of witches?" Aseena said. "I mean, I suppose it goes without saying that you don't have other witches over for tea that often..."
"Smartass," Dara said. "Actually, some witches do like to hang out with other witches, if only because everyone else kind of hates us. I'm not sure if you'd call that a 'coven,' per se."
"I don't think everyone hates you," Aseena said. "I don't, at least. I used to see a lot of witches back when I was a Mystic, and they were all right, mostly. A bit stand-offish, possibly..."
"Well, we're not going to win any popularity contests, at least," Dara said. "And the government is leery of us. Not without reason, I admit - all you need is one Mansuur, and all of a sudden you have streets collapsing because he wants to keep two people from talking to each other. So wherever you have a governmental building, it'll be plain stone, and usually on a street of plain stone, too. Like this one. They want to make it hard for a witch to turn up and cause trouble."
"Like you're going to do," Aseena said.
"Like I'm going to do," Dara said, with some satisfaction. "See that house over at the end of the street? That's a good Witch Stone structure. So's its neighbour. Could you run over and check if there is anyone in them? And if so, use that silver tongue of yours to make them vacate the premises?"
Aseena gave her a curious look.
"Are you going to break them apart and make yourself a gargoyle army or something?" she said.
"Or something," Dara said. "You'll see, as soon as I know that there aren't people in there."
Aseena hurried off. Dara remained standing where she was, watching Building Thirty-Seven.
She supposed that she should feel offended that it existed. She was, in her own way, a servant of the law, even if she was technically an agent of the Ministry of Mystery who just happened to be on permanent loan to the Ministry of Safety. She had spent her life fighting crime and ferreting out secrets, and now here she stood, facing solid proof that the people she had been working for had been up to some serious crimes and secrets of their own. She should be feeling another one of those pangs of disorientation, of feeling the bedrock of her life turning to clay. She wasn't, though.
Because I was never really in it for the law, she thought. For me, it was always about the mystery, the problem - not the justice. Did I ever care? I suppose I did, a little. It was good to know that you were, at least, on the side of the angels. But I think that if I had been invited to work for Building Thirty-Seven, I would have taken it. Rinabaar hates this place, because he's a good person. I don't, because I'm not, not really.
She folded her arms.
And yet here I stand, about to go into battle against it, she thought. Is this redemption, or just hypocrisy? Damned if I know. I just know that I'm getting Jalon back from them. For Aseena's sake, because I promised. For the sake of the case, because I can still use his help. And because he was kind to me, and I will not desert him.
Aseena came running back.
"Both houses are clear," she said. "They look like they've been empty for a really long time."
"Good," Dara said.
She raised her hands.
***
Jalon was on his knees, with two Soldiers behind him, holding his arms. Liquids had been forced down his throat. He wasn't sure how many, anymore - it had felt like a long parade of tiny bottles with foul-tasting contents, each one administered after the robed Mystic attending to him had checked the changes of his pulse, eyes, body temperature and behaviour after the last dose.
He was laughing, he was barely aware. The noise sounded deranged, and he was vaguely shocked that it was coming from him.
"The great coming!" he chortled hysterically. "Oh, oh, oh, he will rise! The many-in-one, the demon that feeds on itself! The darkness made flesh and the flesh made eternal, oh, oh, it's all going to happen!"
"I think he is ready," the Mystic said. She was young and pale-eyed, with dark hair that was tied back in a bun. Her face registered no emotion except detached interest. "The drug regimen appears to have done its job. He is fully in the trance state now. His subconscious is speaking to him without hindrance, and he is unable to withhold any information he gets from it."
"Good." Warden knelt down in front of Jalon. "Listen to me, prisoner. How do we stop it?"
"Stop it?" Jalon let out a long, drawn-out whimper of glee. "You don't. Dara does. She dances in the center of the vortex, and her shadow falls over the radiant glory that is our destruction. She is the Philistine, the one who comes to deny destiny its due... but she can't win. Or so they say. They say it often. They say it loudly." He giggled, and lowered his voice to a semblance of a conspiratorial wisper. "Between you and me, I think they protest a little too much."
"Not good enough!" Warden snarled. "How do we stop it, without her help?"
"You don't," Jalon said, his eyes widening as suddenly a number of things fell into place. He could hear the song of the Demesne's history almost to its ultimate end now, and it was such a glorious, horrible joke that it made him break into insane laughter again. "You fall. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down... The mother seeks her child, but she finds only ruin and rubble. The seekers of truth clad in lies will face the Philistine and perish. The next seal is opened. The dark grows cold." He chuckled madly. "So cold."
Warden slapped him. Jalon was aware of his head back knocked to the side by the blow, but he felt no pain.
"Where is Mansuur?" she said between her teeth. "How do I find him? How do I stop him?"
"It's always been," Jalon gasped. "It always is. It always will be. You think that you bucked fate, but your fight against it was part of the pattern. Foolish foolish foolish. Fighting it is almost as good as obeying it. The only one who can kill a risen god is the one who has no faith."
"Don't give me that!" Warden snarled. "Tell me where he is!"
"You never meet him again," Jalon said. He felt tears rolling down his cheeks. "You can't save him. I'm so sorry. He was lost to you before he was old enough to spell his name. You made the best choices you knew how to make, but you never understood, and so your choices were flawed. We will all pay for that, but you will pay first of all."
A tremour went through the building, sending fine dust raining down from the ceiling. Warden looked around, scowling. The Mystic folded her arms, still showing no emotion.
"The Philistine is coming," Jalon said. "Her mind is like Sablecrest Manor now, fallen to ruin. But from ruins, new things can be built. What will she build here, in this hour? Will she take another step to be the hero we need her to be, or another step to be the hollow thing that they are counting on her to be?"
A Soldier came running into the cell, and stopped to salute Warden.
"You... you need to come with me, ma'am," he told her hoarsely. "You won't believe what's happening..."
The floor shook again.
Jalon pounded on the door. He had no particular hope that that would lead to anything, except making his fists sore, but at least it was something to do. The room where they had locked him in had some hay on the floor, an oil lamp on the wall, and a frankly disgusting privy in the corner, but other than that, it was empty. Just four square walls of solid grey stone, unforgiving and disheartening... and also, Jalon found after a few hours of captivity, painfully dull.
"Let me out! Let me out!" he yelled, with all the excellent modular control that his singing career had lent him. "I know my rights! I demand to see a lawyer! I demand to be told what the charges against me are! I demand a chance to confront my accuser! I demand proof that my Nobles have been informed of my arrest! I demand a set of those ugly-looking striped pajamas things that prisoners are supposed to wear, because right now I'm just wearing a towel, and there isn't even that much left of it, and it's cold in here!"
He pounded on the door some more.
"I demand creamed peaches for dinner!" he shouted. "I might as well! It's as likely to happen as any of that other stuff, isn't it?"
He stared at the door.
"All right, be that way!" he shouted. "But just so you know, I'm going to pass the time composing a stirring song in favour of anarchy and civil disobedience! You have turned me into one of those pretentious anti-establishment Artists who are always grumbling about how The Man is keeping them down! I hope you're pleased with yourselves!"
He sighed and sat down on the cleanest filthy spot he could find on the abominable floor. This was just depressing. What was the idea here? Was he to spend the rest of his life in this cell - possibly without even finding out why? A harsh sentence in anyone's book, that one. How long did it take you to go mad under such circumstances - until the lack of any outward events for your mind to focus on made it turn inwards and fill itself with phantoms and spectres of its own making?
He scratched his head. Would they risk that, though? Spiritual deterioration could bring possession. At a certain point, the sheer hopelessness of his fate would cause him to surrender all will to live, and then a demon would crawl into the empty space in his soul, and that would be it for him. Something would walking like him and talking like him and even singing very pretty songs like him if it was so inclined, but it wouldn't be him - it would be some sort of caricature born out of despair and the unclean substance of the Nowhere.
Of course, the first thing that Jalon the Demon would do was teleport out of this cell and go running around in the Wastelands. The thought was actually mildly cheering. He would be damned, but at least he would be free. He wondered if demons had any art. They did have feelings, didn't they, even if those feelings were just hatred and pain, and any feeling could find expression in art. Would Jalon the Demon sing heart-rending songs of utter despair in the desolate silence of the Wastelands?
He had to admit that the idea did tickle his romantic side a bit. He had always been a sucker for a good tragedy.
Of course, it might not even be possible for him to become a demon. A demon had to be sustained by its mortal bloodline - by the existence of at least one living human being who was descended from the same parents as its own human host. Jalon had a couple of ex-lovers that he had lost touch with, so anything was possible, but he thought that the balance of probability was that he had no offspring of his own. He had never known his birth parents, though - he might have a dozen siblings, all with children of their own, or he might be a bloodline of one, meaning that he would be dissolved into the Nowhere the moment he was possessed. He wasn't sure if he ought to be hoping for that or not. Life as a demon was supposed to be semi-eternal torment, but at least it was life, of a sort. Jalon was nowhwere near ready to die. Death just seemed so frightfully dull, not to mention devoid of opportunities to show off.
The door, much to his surprise, opened. Jalon realised that he was, at this point, supposed to do something. Aseena would have been standing poised at the side of the door, waiting for just this moment, ready to use the element of surprise to fight her way out and make a run for it. Dara would have received the guards, made a bunch of astute observations about who they were and what was going on, and devised a cunning plan based on them. Jalon, for his part, couldn't think of a single thing to do except either demanding or begging for release.
In other words, he thought morosely, my one actual skill is being loud and flamboyant, and I am helpless in any situation where that is of no use. Forsooth, but I'm not made for a life of adventure. I am made for a life of leisure, fun, and women fluttering their eyelashes at me and telling me how much they liked my performance, that's what I'm made for.
The woman who stepped in was old. She stood tall, but she did so with stiffness that hinted that doing so carried a cost in constant pain. She had long grey hair, a gaunt face, and dark circles under her eyes that hinted that she hadn't gotten much sleep lately. Jalon glanced past her, noticing that at least three Soldiers were waiting outside.
Jalon got to his feet.
"Good afternoon, Madame," he said, giving her his most charming smile. "Jalon of Tenchurch Abbey, caste of Artists. Pray forgive me; I would offer you my hand, but it's really quite filthy at the moment. May I ask what your name is?"
"No one has a name here," the woman said. "I don't and you don't. You are a prisoner; I am your warden. That is the extent of our identities, in this place."
Jalon raised an eyebrow.
"And what place would that be?" he said.
"This is Building Thirty-Seven," Warden said. "No doubt a man like you, who has an interest in stories and legends, have heard of it."
Jalon nodded slowly.
"I know that the Ministry of Safety released an official statement a few years ago, denying its existence..." he said.
"Yes," Warden said. "They lied. In their defense, they had little enough choice. They are so heavily implicated in what goes on here that if it was ever discovered, half the heads in the Ministry would roll."
"And what is it that goes on here?" Jalon said. "I mean, obviously the unlawful imprisonment of innocent citizens, I can't help but notice that part. But what is it for?"
"It is for the same thing that all governmental buildings," Warden said. "The preservation of the Demesne. This is where we bring all... individuals... that in some manner possess information that could be used to protect Shadowed Citadel Demesne and its people."
Jalon felt that the hidden meanings of that phrase promised things that were a bit less than awesome.
"Seriously?" he said. "Cloak and dagger stuff? Government conspiracy? You do realise that if people ever found out that this place exists, it would make them even more paranoid about the government than they already are. That would make you less efficient at ruling - which would make you less able to ensure their safety - and it would just generally make people more unhappy and the Demesne weaker."
"And that would be a problem," Warden said flatly, "if people were intended to ever find out about the existence of Building Thirty-Seven. As they are not, our work here furthers the cause of both our control and their happiness."
"That is..." Jalon began, then broke off. "I am..." He paused again. "You suck," he finally settled for. It wasn't eloquent, but it did sum up his feelings very nicely.
"Perhaps we should get down to business," Warden said smoothly. "You are, as you admit, Jalon of Tenchurch Abbey, caste of Artists. You are the man who can see the future. I want you to tell me what it holds."
"I was just wondering the same thing, actually," Jalon said with a grin. "I was wondering if it held anything more than these four stone walls for the rest of my life."
"It doesn't," Warden said. "You are intelligent enough that you must have realised that by now. You will not leave this cell alive. However, before you leave, you will tell us everything you know."
Jalon nodded slowly.
"This is a mistake, you know," he said. "I will fall into despair. I will become a demon."
"We have means of handling that," Warden said. "You will be given drugs - ones to make you docile, and ones to make you happy whether you want to be or not. And even if you should turn into a demon... well, there are drugs that work on demons, too. We can keep you from teleporting, keep you here indefinitely, all while the Demesne scorches your damned soul. Sooner or later, you will tell us what we need to know."
"No," Jalon said hoarsely. His head was spinning. "No, please, let us be civilised here. I will tell you anything you want, and I won't tell anyone about Building Thirty-Seven. I'm sure you do an absolutely smashing job at protecting the Demesne, I wouldn't dream of getting in the way of it. Just let me go." He stared at Warden's merciless face, and his voice cracked. "For mercy's sake, I have done nothing wrong!"
Warden turned towards the guards.
"Bring the drugs," she said. "We have no time to waste."
***
Dara and Aseena watched the building from across the street. It was built from big stone blocks, unpainted and undecorated - just a great lump of rock, looking close to collapsing upon itself. All the windows were smashed, and the door hung off its hinges, like the last half-attached tooth in an ancient man's mouth.
The sentries were good at hiding, Dara had to give them that. Not that it mattered. She had already spotted them, all four of them. One behind the window there, one lurking in the shadows beyond the doorway, one lying on the roof, one obscured in the alley next to the house. She could tell that they were watching her, too. Well, let them watch. She'd give them something to look at soon enough.
"So here we are," Aseena said. "What's the plan? That place isn't made of Witch Stone."
"No," Dara said. "Standard government policy - important government buildings can't be built from Witch Stone. They're worried about making it too easy for a coven of witches to attack the legal authorities."
"Is there even such a thing as a coven of witches?" Aseena said. "I mean, I suppose it goes without saying that you don't have other witches over for tea that often..."
"Smartass," Dara said. "Actually, some witches do like to hang out with other witches, if only because everyone else kind of hates us. I'm not sure if you'd call that a 'coven,' per se."
"I don't think everyone hates you," Aseena said. "I don't, at least. I used to see a lot of witches back when I was a Mystic, and they were all right, mostly. A bit stand-offish, possibly..."
"Well, we're not going to win any popularity contests, at least," Dara said. "And the government is leery of us. Not without reason, I admit - all you need is one Mansuur, and all of a sudden you have streets collapsing because he wants to keep two people from talking to each other. So wherever you have a governmental building, it'll be plain stone, and usually on a street of plain stone, too. Like this one. They want to make it hard for a witch to turn up and cause trouble."
"Like you're going to do," Aseena said.
"Like I'm going to do," Dara said, with some satisfaction. "See that house over at the end of the street? That's a good Witch Stone structure. So's its neighbour. Could you run over and check if there is anyone in them? And if so, use that silver tongue of yours to make them vacate the premises?"
Aseena gave her a curious look.
"Are you going to break them apart and make yourself a gargoyle army or something?" she said.
"Or something," Dara said. "You'll see, as soon as I know that there aren't people in there."
Aseena hurried off. Dara remained standing where she was, watching Building Thirty-Seven.
She supposed that she should feel offended that it existed. She was, in her own way, a servant of the law, even if she was technically an agent of the Ministry of Mystery who just happened to be on permanent loan to the Ministry of Safety. She had spent her life fighting crime and ferreting out secrets, and now here she stood, facing solid proof that the people she had been working for had been up to some serious crimes and secrets of their own. She should be feeling another one of those pangs of disorientation, of feeling the bedrock of her life turning to clay. She wasn't, though.
Because I was never really in it for the law, she thought. For me, it was always about the mystery, the problem - not the justice. Did I ever care? I suppose I did, a little. It was good to know that you were, at least, on the side of the angels. But I think that if I had been invited to work for Building Thirty-Seven, I would have taken it. Rinabaar hates this place, because he's a good person. I don't, because I'm not, not really.
She folded her arms.
And yet here I stand, about to go into battle against it, she thought. Is this redemption, or just hypocrisy? Damned if I know. I just know that I'm getting Jalon back from them. For Aseena's sake, because I promised. For the sake of the case, because I can still use his help. And because he was kind to me, and I will not desert him.
Aseena came running back.
"Both houses are clear," she said. "They look like they've been empty for a really long time."
"Good," Dara said.
She raised her hands.
***
Jalon was on his knees, with two Soldiers behind him, holding his arms. Liquids had been forced down his throat. He wasn't sure how many, anymore - it had felt like a long parade of tiny bottles with foul-tasting contents, each one administered after the robed Mystic attending to him had checked the changes of his pulse, eyes, body temperature and behaviour after the last dose.
He was laughing, he was barely aware. The noise sounded deranged, and he was vaguely shocked that it was coming from him.
"The great coming!" he chortled hysterically. "Oh, oh, oh, he will rise! The many-in-one, the demon that feeds on itself! The darkness made flesh and the flesh made eternal, oh, oh, it's all going to happen!"
"I think he is ready," the Mystic said. She was young and pale-eyed, with dark hair that was tied back in a bun. Her face registered no emotion except detached interest. "The drug regimen appears to have done its job. He is fully in the trance state now. His subconscious is speaking to him without hindrance, and he is unable to withhold any information he gets from it."
"Good." Warden knelt down in front of Jalon. "Listen to me, prisoner. How do we stop it?"
"Stop it?" Jalon let out a long, drawn-out whimper of glee. "You don't. Dara does. She dances in the center of the vortex, and her shadow falls over the radiant glory that is our destruction. She is the Philistine, the one who comes to deny destiny its due... but she can't win. Or so they say. They say it often. They say it loudly." He giggled, and lowered his voice to a semblance of a conspiratorial wisper. "Between you and me, I think they protest a little too much."
"Not good enough!" Warden snarled. "How do we stop it, without her help?"
"You don't," Jalon said, his eyes widening as suddenly a number of things fell into place. He could hear the song of the Demesne's history almost to its ultimate end now, and it was such a glorious, horrible joke that it made him break into insane laughter again. "You fall. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down... The mother seeks her child, but she finds only ruin and rubble. The seekers of truth clad in lies will face the Philistine and perish. The next seal is opened. The dark grows cold." He chuckled madly. "So cold."
Warden slapped him. Jalon was aware of his head back knocked to the side by the blow, but he felt no pain.
"Where is Mansuur?" she said between her teeth. "How do I find him? How do I stop him?"
"It's always been," Jalon gasped. "It always is. It always will be. You think that you bucked fate, but your fight against it was part of the pattern. Foolish foolish foolish. Fighting it is almost as good as obeying it. The only one who can kill a risen god is the one who has no faith."
"Don't give me that!" Warden snarled. "Tell me where he is!"
"You never meet him again," Jalon said. He felt tears rolling down his cheeks. "You can't save him. I'm so sorry. He was lost to you before he was old enough to spell his name. You made the best choices you knew how to make, but you never understood, and so your choices were flawed. We will all pay for that, but you will pay first of all."
A tremour went through the building, sending fine dust raining down from the ceiling. Warden looked around, scowling. The Mystic folded her arms, still showing no emotion.
"The Philistine is coming," Jalon said. "Her mind is like Sablecrest Manor now, fallen to ruin. But from ruins, new things can be built. What will she build here, in this hour? Will she take another step to be the hero we need her to be, or another step to be the hollow thing that they are counting on her to be?"
A Soldier came running into the cell, and stopped to salute Warden.
"You... you need to come with me, ma'am," he told her hoarsely. "You won't believe what's happening..."
The floor shook again.