Reaper(Cradle #10)(122)

Lindon had briefly borrowed Subject One’s control over the labyrinth. He needed to make it truly his own.

[It’s yours for the taking! As long as you can remain you.]

Lindon wrenched the body away, tearing it away from the chair. Flesh flaked away, as Subject One had literally grown into the throne over the centuries.

Holding the Slumbering Wraith’s severed arm, Lindon fell into its seat.

The accumulated force of the labyrinth challenged his authority. It wasn’t conscious—just the pressure of a force so ancient he could scarcely comprehend it.

The source of all hunger, the network of hunger madra that had woven itself through the labyrinth, had developed an identity of its own inextricably tied to the maze. It demanded an answer of him: Who are you?

As he had done while challenging Reigan Shen, Lindon gave it an answer, but not in words. In images, impressions, and memories. He was the Void Sage, connected to the endlessly hungry Icon. Hunger madra was a fundamental part of his spirit, and had formed the basis of his power. And he was the one who sat on the throne of the Slumbering Wraith.

The hunger madra reluctantly accepted him. It wanted to devour him, but it would instead allow him to lead it to new feasts in the future.

But the hunger madra was only one aspect of the labyrinth. It was the latest, and perhaps the least.

Before Subject One, a team of Soulsmiths had owned the labyrinth. They sought deep truths here, and meant to create wonders. Their intentions, their wills, had seeped into these walls.

Who are you? The labyrinth asked a second time.

He was a Soulsmith. He was a Sage. He had gained his Iron body in the entrance to their labyrinth, and his hunger arm was a creation of his based on an original weapon of theirs. He showed them Dross, a living construct of his own making who now roamed their own control scripts.

And he was born in Sacred Valley. Some of them had been his ancestors.

Lindon had a right to inherit their authority, and he asserted as much. This aspect of the labyrinth, too, finally bowed to his claim.

But they had not been the original owners of the labyrinth either. Before them had come Ozmanthus Arelius.

Lindon focused his battered consciousness, wrestling against the weight of Ozmanthus’ remaining authority. I’m an adopted member of the Arelius family, Lindon sent. I am the apprentice of Eithan Arelius.

He hoped this would be enough, and strongly wished that he had made it to Ozriel’s Soulsmith inheritance. If he’d taken that, he could surely be considered an heir to Ozmanthus. Without it, he was worried.

But this aspect of the labyrinth accepted him easily. He supposed being one of the few remaining heirs to the Arelius name helped him.

That left only one remaining aspect of the labyrinth. The oldest and most powerful layer, one that he had only briefly sensed in his journey here. The original creators of the labyrinth.

There were seven of them.

He could scarcely comprehend their power, but they felt like seven pillars of order and structure, intrinsic and real on a level that he associated with sensing an Icon.

When these demanded to know who he was, he had no answer.

Who was he, compared to them? Compared to people who represented basic aspects of reality?

Their authority threatened to crush him, and they brought back every scratch and bruise on his body. His consciousness fuzzed.

To steel himself, he grabbed Suriel’s marble.

And the labyrinth quieted. In shock, he opened his eyes and brought the marble up to look at it. Only then did he notice that one of the seven founders of the labyrinth felt similar—though subtly different—to the marble. Like pure, unending restoration. Healing that could stitch together the universe.

That presence felt him, felt his connection to this marble, and approved of him. Just like that.

And that simply, the labyrinth was his.

It snapped into place around him, and he could sense every room. He stretched his perception through it, finding corridors snaking throughout the earth for…

His mind boggled at the scope.

Dross giggled softly in his mind. [You see? You see how it stretches to distant corners unknown?]

Spatial transportation was a significant part of the labyrinth’s function; he had obviously known that throughout their entire journey. What he hadn’t known was that only certain pieces of the labyrinth were actually in Sacred Valley itself.

Other branches were far away. Some very far.

Now he could not only feel the powers in Sacred Valley, but the script that controlled the surrounding lands. It was his, now. His property. His domain.

But there was one piece still missing, and he looked down, to where a severed once-human arm lay in his lap.

“Mine,” Lindon said, and the word was a command.

The arm flowed into his own.

Outside the labyrinth, Lindon doubted whether he could do it. The remaining will of Subject One crashed into his like a stone falling from heaven, and even with Dross’ support, he once again came close to losing consciousness.

But the power of the labyrinth was the power of Subject One, and he owned it. Its will was his own.

After only a moment of struggle, his right arm condensed into reality once again. Now it was white-gray, and more physical than ever. Touch returned, and he rubbed his fingers together in wonder; he had almost forgotten what it was like to have ordinary sensation in his right hand.

Unfortunately, the sensation of hunger that ran through him was too much to suppress. He wanted to devour everything in sight, and it was all he could do not to reach through the still-open portal of his void key and consume everything from inside. Natural treasures, scales, food…everything.