Shadowrise

by Tad Williams

  “I’m afraid not,” Chert told him. “I found no sign of Chaven anywhere in the temple.”

  Cinnabar frowned. “That is very strange and worrying. He is under threat of death from Hendon Tolly, so why would he go upground into the castle, or even into Funderling Town?”

  “Let us hope he has not gone off on his own somewhere and fallen,” said Malachite Copper. “So much is dark down here, especially beyond Five Arches—we might never even find his body.”

  Brother Nickel was furious. “I told you it would make trouble—a stranger who is not even of our tribe wandering willy-nilly in the temple grounds and beyond! Bad enough that Chert Blue Quartz’s child found his way into the Mysteries. What if this . . . upgrounder, this magician-priest, should do the same? What kind of misfortune might he bring down on us all?”

  “Why should Chaven want to enter the Mysteries?” asked Chert.

  “Why shouldn’t he?” Nickel was so angry he could barely control himself. “It seems everyone thinks they have business in our most sacred places these days! Upgrounders, children, even the fairies!”

  “Fairies?” Chert turned to Cinnabar and Heliotrope Jasper in confusion. “What does that mean? I’ve heard nothing of this.”

  “Jasper and his warders have stopped a few attempts to dig into tunnels beneath the temple levels,” said Malachite Copper. “But that proves nothing—likely the fairies were only trying to find a way to take us unaware. Then after beating us, they could surprise the castle’s defenders by appearing from the gates of Funderling Town, already well inside the castle walls.”

  “You are deluding yourself,” said Nickel. “They seek the power in the depths.” He glared at Chert as though the Blue Quartz family were somehow complicit in this vile plan. “They seek to control the Mysteries.”

  “Why? Why would the fairies want such a thing? What could that even mean?” Chert looked at Nickel’s angry face and saw a flash of sudden fright there, like a child caught in an obvious lie. “Hold a moment. There is something going on here that I don’t understand. What is it?”

  “Tell him, or I will,” said Cinnabar. “Chert’s earned our trust.”

  “But Magister!” Nickel looked distraught. “Soon everyone will know the secrets ...”

  “The Guild granted me authority and I will decide, Brother. Besides, perhaps the time for secrecy is over.” The magister sighed and slumped back in his chair. “Still, may the Earth Elders forgive me, but I wish this burden had passed to another generation.”

  Chert looked from face to face. “I don’t understand any of this. Can someone please tell me what it’s about?”

  Despite his comparative youth, Nickel had the face of a much older man, and just now he looked as though he had bitten into the sourest radish in a harsh crop. “This is . . . this is not the first time . . . that the Qar have tried to get into the Mysteries. They have been there many times.”

  Chert could only stare. “What?”

  “As I said,” snapped Nickel. “They had been coming for as long as the Metamorphic Brothers have kept records. The elders of the brothers and of the Guild knew it and permitted it, more or less—it is a complicated story. But then it ended, and it has been a long time since they last came. Two hundred years and more.”

  Chert shook his head. “I still don’t understand. What did they do in the Mysteries?”

  “We don’t know,” said Cinnbar. “There is an old tale of some monks who snuck down into the Mysteries and tried to spy on the fairies—or the Qar, as the fairies call themselves—but the tale says that those men lost their minds. The fairies came only seldom—perhaps once a century at most—and always in small groups, which may be why it was permitted. The tradition was old when the first Stonecutter’s Guild was formed seven centuries ago. They always came through the Limestone Gate from Stormstone’s longest road, the one that leads to the mainland. They stayed only a few days and never took anything of value or harmed anything or anyone. For a long time our ancestors did not interfere, or so the story goes. Then, after the battle at Coldgray Moor, the Qar stopped coming.”

  “But if they had a way to gain entry, why didn’t they just use it again this time?” Chert asked.

  “Because we sealed the Limestone Gate after the second war with the fairies,” said Brother Nickel with an angry sniff. “They proved themselves untrustworthy. That is why they’ve had to dig their way in from the surface. And that is why they try so hard to reach our holy Mysteries!”

  Chert rubbed his forehead, as if to knead what he had just heard into a more sensible shape. “Even if that’s true, it doesn’t explain the why at all, Nickel. Does nobody know what they did down there, or why they were permitted in the mysteries in the first place?”

  Cinnabar nodded. “In truth, it seems that in a past age the Qar helped to build the Mysteries—no, my apologies, Nickel, I do not mean to blaspheme. I meant to say they helped build the tunnels and halls in the depths, not the Mysteries themselves.”

  “Fracture and fissure!” Chert felt as though he had been struck by a rockslide, as though he were being carried down and away from everything he knew. “And I only learn this now? Am I the only person in Funderling Town who didn’t know?”

  “This is new to me, also,” said Copper. “I do not know what to say.”

  “It is new to all of us, even me,” Cinnabar said. “Highwardens Sard and Caprock called me to them before they sent me here and told me. Only the highwardens themselves and a select few chosen by the innermost circle of the Guild have known this. For Nickel it was the same.”

  “It’s true,” said Brother Nickel. “The abbot told me when he became ill. ‘This is a young man’s time,’ he said to me. ‘I am too old to keep these secrets to myself any longer.’ ” The monk scowled. “I have been given more generous gifts.”

  “ ‘We do not keep Grandfather’s ax because it looks handsome in the hall,’ as the old saying goes,” Cinnabar told him. “We are carrying the trust of all who came before us and all who come after. We must do what is right.”

  “Then we must pray to the Lord of the Hot Wet Stone that your Captain Vansen has not lost his mind,” said Brother Nickel. “That he can achieve something more than getting himself killed. Otherwise, we may throw back another attack, perhaps two, but eventually we will fall and the Mysteries will be theirs.”

  “Not just the Mysteries,” said Malachite Copper. “If we fall, then Funderling Town will fall, and then the castle above will be theirs, too.”

  “What are we doing, Father?”

  It still seemed strange for the boy to call him that, almost as if the child were playing the part of a dutiful son in one of the Mystery Plays. “I am frightened for Chaven and I want to look for him,” Chert explained. “But I am not going to make the mistake of leaving you alone again. By the Elders, I miss your mother!”

  Flint looked back with calm eyes. “I miss her, too.”

  “Maybe I should send you to her in Funderling Town. It would keep you out of trouble—or at least keep you out of trouble in the temple.”

  “No!” For the first time the boy seemed agitated. “Do not send me away, Father. I have things to do here. I need to be here.”

  “What nonsense is that, child? What could you need to do?” Flint’s certainty made Chert uneasy. “You’re not going to go rummaging in the library anymore, do you hear me? Nor make any surprise excursions down into the Mysteries. As it is, the brothers have barely forgiven you or me.”

  “I need to stay in the temple,” the boy said stubbornly. “I don’t know why, but I do.”

  “Well, we can talk of it more later,” Chert said. “For now you can come with me. But you stick by my side, is that understood?”

  In truth, he was just as glad to have the boy’s company. Chert was growing more and more worried about the physician, increasingly certain that Chaven had not simply wandered off somewhere. Either he had been taken by the Qar, which was a frightening thought, or he was in the grip o
f his mirror-madness again, which might lead to something even worse. Chert didn’t plan to search anywhere very dangerous, although nowhere beneath Funderling Town would ever feel completely safe again after the last year’s madness, but if several uneventful days had not passed since the last Qar attack he would not have dared bring the boy out of the temple. Even so, he had slipped both a stone pick and hand ax into his belt, and carried a greater than ordinary amount of the lamp coral.

  Elders protect us both, he thought. The boy from any harm, and me from Opal should anything happen to him.

  He missed his wife. Never in his life since the days he was apprenticing under old man Iron Quartz and had traveled with him as far as Settland had he been separated from her so long. It was not that he missed her in the same way he had when they were newly married, when to be apart from her felt like a bodily ache, when he could not be near her without touching her, teasing her, kissing her, and to be denied those things was torment; rather he missed her now as he would have missed a part of himself if it had been taken from him. He was incomplete.

  Ah, old girl, I really do ache for you! I’ll have to tell you that as soon as I see you, instead of being silly. I can’t wait until I can give you the squeezes I’ve been saving. And I want to hear your voice, even if you’re calling me foolish. I’d rather be mocked by you than praised by the Guild.

  “She’s a good woman, your mother,” he said out loud.

  Flint cocked his head. “She’s not my real mother. But she is a good woman.”

  “Do you remember your real mother?” Chert asked.

  Flint kept walking, but Chert had learned the boy had different kinds of silences. This was the kind that meant he was thinking.

  “My mother is dead,” he said at last, his voice as flat as a split slate. “She died trying to save me.”

  But despite this sudden, surprising assertion, when pressed Flint could not remember anything else. After a while, concerned that they were far enough from the temple now that quiet was better than unnecessary talk, Chert let the matter drop.

  They searched the dark areas at the sides of the Cascade Stair and up as far as the tunnels on the level below the Salt Pool, then stopped to eat mushrooms and some smoked mole Chert had brought for a treat. They were thirsty when they’d finished so they walked a little way farther up the great stair to a spot where the sloping cavern was pierced by a natural sinkhole, a phenomenon the Funderlings called an “Elders’ Well.” Unlike the Salt Pool, which seeped in from the bay and whose surface was never any higher or lower than the sea itself, the Elders’ Wells were full of fresh, sweet water that soaked down from rainfall on Midlan’s Mount. In fact, it was these sinkholes that made life on the great rock possible for both the Funderlings and the Big Folk, who dug their own wells into these aquifers from the surface.

  As he watched Flint kneeling at the edge of the pool, filling his hands and drinking with his usual fierce concentration, as though experiencing something he had never done before, Chert wondered at how the simplest things in life could be so complicated. Here, fresh water. Only a few hundred cubits above was the saltwater of Brenn’s Bay. Only the limestone of Midlan’s Mount kept the two apart, and if that ever changed—say, perhaps because of an earth tremor like the ones that occurred frequently in the southern islands, but never in Chert’s memory here—then everything else would change, too: the bay would flood in and drown everything lower than the Salt Pool, killing all the monks and everyone else in the temple. Many of the deeper sweet water springs would become undrinkable.

  And yet despite this precarious balance, life had gone on here, hardly changing, for century upon century. Chert, with the help of the Blue Quartz family tablets, could track his own line back nearly ten generations; some of the richer and more powerful families claimed they could name a line of a hundred ancestors.

  But would the next generation be able to say the same? Or would they be reciting their Funderling history in some kind of poor scrape or burrow after a Qar victory had destroyed their ancient home? Would the Funderlings of days to come live wild in unshaped caves, as some of their more eccentric philosophers claimed their ancestors once had?

  Chert realized with a little start that Flint had finished drinking and was standing just in front of him, staring with those calm, wide eyes. “Did you hear that?” he asked. “I thought I heard someone moaning.”

  “Could it be Chaven?”

  The boy shook his head. “Too big. Too deep.”

  “Likely just earth sounds, then. Sorry, lad. I was thinking about water and stone—the kind of things an old guildsman like me tends to think about.”

  “This is shellstone,” the boy told him solemnly, holding up a pale, irregular rock. “The kind of limestone with shells in it.”

  Chert laughed and stood up. “I’m glad to see you’ve been paying attention. Good lad.”

  Having found no sign of Chaven or anything else out of the ordinary in the halls around the Cascade Stair, Chert and Flint made their way down past the temple again and through the Five Arches gateway, then into the complicated web of tunnels that led down to the Maze. He was not going to go any closer to the Mysteries, of course—the last thing he wanted to do was run the risk of somehow losing track of the boy in those confusing depths—but if Chaven was lost somewhere in the deeps below the temple, this seemed the most likely place to look. The Maze was even more confusing, of course, but if the physician had made his way that far down Chert would need the help of the Brothers themselves to search it properly: he had not forgotten his own disturbing experiences in that benighted place.

  Something like an hour later, Chert was standing at the fork of two tunnels and thinking it was probably time to give up and head back to the temple if they wanted to have a hope of supper when he noticed that Flint was no longer standing behind him.

  He ran back down the tunnel, fear swelling inside him. “Flint!” he shouted. “Boy! Where are you? ” Chert cursed himself over and over again as he searched every cross-track he had passed: everything Opal had ever said about him, even at her most uncharitable, was clearly true—he was an utter dunderhead. Bringing the boy right back to the place where he had already vanished once, a place where he had suffered through the Elders only knew what kind of terrifying times!

  As he was exploring perhaps the sixth or seventh cross-track he found himself in a long corridor that dipped and twisted several times. After he had run for some time Chert began to feel he was wasting too much time down this one rabbit hole. He was just about to turn and make his way back to the main hall when the corridor opened in front of him. This wider space ended in a great crevice as wide as the Funderling’s arm and three or four times his height, but he had only a moment to notice that before he saw the pale-haired figure lying crumpled in the shadows a short distance away.

  “Elders preserve us all!” he cried and threw himself down on his knees beside Flint. To his immeasurable relief, the boy was breathing, and even began to stir as Chert pulled him a little way off the ground and awkwardly cradled him against his chest.

  “Oh, child, what have I done?” Chert said. The boy twitched in his arms, just a little at first, but then harder. A moment later Chert felt something wet and warm against his neck and leaned back, searching desperately for a bleeding wound . . . but it was not blood that had run from the boy’s face and splattered on him but something else. Flint was weeping.

  “Boy?” Chert said. “Boy, what is it? Are you well? Can you hear me?”

  “Dying ...” he said. “Dying.”

  “You are not! Don’t say such things—you will draw the Elders’ attention!” He pulled the boy close to him again. “Don’t tempt them—they must fill their hods with souls each day.”

  Flint groaned. “But I feel . . . Oh, Papa Chert, it hurts so!”

  “Don’t fear, boy. I’ll get you back.”

  “No, it’s not me. That is ...” The boy struggled in Chert’s arms so that he could barely hold him. “It
’s there. I felt it. There!” He pointed to the crevice at the end of the passage. “Dying!” he said, and moaned as if caught in the claws of some agonizing disease.

  Chert let the boy down gently and crawled closer, letting the fragile beam of his lantern play over the crevice. “What do you mean? Is there something in there?”

  “Something . . . something I do not ...” Flint shook his head. He was pale, and in the lantern light Chert could see that beads of sweat covered his face. “It frightens me. It hurts. Oh, please, Papa, I’m dying . . . !”

  “You’re not dying.” A shiver ran up Chert’s back and neck. Long ago, in the Eddon family tomb, the boy had acted the same way, even before he had disappeared into the Mysteries. “It’s a hole, boy, or rather it’s a crevice where two big slabs come together. Why does it frighten you?”

  Flint could only shake his head, his expression sullen and a little trapped. “Don’t know.”

  Chert moved forward until he could look inside the crevice, but saw nothing by the pale, yellow-green light except more stone. The crevice was no wider than his two hands flattened side by side. “It seems ordinary enough to me ...” he began, but then realized something about it did seem familiar. But how could that be? It was nothing but two great pieces of stone and the narrow space between them . . .

  “That smell,” he said suddenly. It was faint, but now that he’d noticed it the scent was as clear as the sound of a tap hammer ringing on crystal. “I’ve smelled it before ...”

  The memory when it came was as powerful as a blow—the dark, massive cavern of the Mysteries, the lake of gleaming metal and the Shining Man itself . . .

  “By the Hot Lord,” he swore, and did not even realize he had voiced such a fierce oath in front of the child. “That’s where . . . that smell . . . ! In the cavern. The quicksilver pool. The Sea in the Depths!” He remembered that he had wondered at the time where the air escaped to, because quicksilver vapors were poisonous, but he and the boy—and, presumably, many monks over the years—had all come away from the Sea in the Depths alive. Also, now that he thought about it, quicksilver itself had no scent.