Even so, he inspected the place physically. It didn’t take him long.
Aside from spare sets of clothes, bolts of silk, and a set of brushes and combs, Eithan hadn’t left much behind. Some soaps and creams made by refiners that Lindon was sure had benefits for the skin or the hair, a handful of letters with uninteresting contents, and several pairs of scissors of varying sizes.
Everything meaningful must have been kept in Eithan’s void key or his soulspace, because the most interesting thing Lindon found was a bottle with a handwritten label that read ‘For Lindon’s hair.’
Taking stock of Eithan’s belongings like this hollowed out Lindon’s stomach. The bed was made, and the home was in good order—not to mention spotlessly clean—but he’d left a hairbrush sitting out and a water basin half-filled.
Eithan had expected to come back.
Some part of Lindon had been hoping that Eithan had planned for this contingency, that he would have left a secret inheritance behind in the event of his forced ascension.
But he was gone. He hadn’t even left a Remnant behind.
At least, not here.
Dross gave a disturbing giggle. [The darkness claims us all when we least expect it. Destruction comes even to the Destroyer.]
Lindon left his cloud fortress and flew out into Sacred Valley. He could feel the labyrinth stretching beneath him, now as connected to him as his limbs. Samara’s ring crackled blue, very differently to the light it had given off while he was growing up, and the stars were distinct overhead.
Only an hour or two ago, those stars had been destroyed.
Lindon had survived one of the most frightening days of his life, but he couldn’t afford to rest yet. The Monarchs would be coming for him soon, if they weren’t already. If the Dreadgods hadn’t all been awakened today, and if the world hadn’t just witnessed an apocalyptic battle in the sky, Lindon suspected the Monarchs would have captured him by now.
Still, the hourglass had been turned for Lindon. His first task was clear: he needed to take stock of the labyrinth.
It would be one of his greatest weapons against the Dreadgods and the Monarchs both. And Eithan had said it would help him fix Dross.
[We’ll see,] Dross whispered. He seemed to delight in the prospect of Lindon’s failure.
Which was one of the reasons why Lindon wanted him restored.
Lindon could get used to the new Dross, if he had to. It was just that he shouldn’t have to. Dross hadn’t transformed willingly, he had been damaged by over-drafting himself for Lindon’s sake. If Lindon were stronger, more competent, smarter, then Dross wouldn’t have changed in the first place.
[It is the eternal tragedy of the mortal. Always, there is something just out of reach.]
As Lindon drifted down in front of the Nethergate, the giant stone door carved with the image of the Slumbering Wraith, he wondered if Dross had just said something wise. Lindon didn’t have to focus to open the door; it slowly ground open in reaction to the presence of the labyrinth’s master.
Lindon strode inside, past the outer rooms that were locked in their permanent configuration, until he reached one of the brown stone rooms that made up the labyrinth proper.
“Move,” Lindon commanded.
The labyrinth read his intentions. Its overwhelming authority locked down all spatial travel here, but now that power was bent to Lindon’s will instead of leaning against him. The walls blurred, and the entrances vanished.
This time, Lindon could sense what was happening.
Rather than reassigning the entrances, the labyrinth was shuffling chambers in a complex dance to get the room where it was needed. There was a logic to it, and Dross eagerly added this new perspective to his understanding. The more they learned, the more accurate his map of the labyrinth would become.
When the exit reappeared, Lindon strode through it, beneath a symbol that resembled a crescent. A scythe blade.
They were deep in the labyrinth now, far underneath Sacred Valley, in one of Ozmanthus Arelius’ disused workshops. This was one Lindon had visited before, and the stone room was missing the treasures it had once contained. Empty shelves lined the walls, and even the walls themselves had recessed nooks where weapons had once been displayed.
The only objects of any value in the room were shimmering jewels embedded in the stone. Dream tablets recording Ozmanthus’ observations for later generations.
Lindon had looked through them already. That wasn’t why he was here.
He strode deeper, down a steep spiraling ramp. The labyrinth didn’t have the same layout it had last time, but he knew it was taking him where he needed to go.