by J. M. Lee
“Tavra . . . are you all right?” he asked, the question coming out much meeker than he would have liked. There was no way she would respect him with a voice like that! He tried again, and it sounded better, stronger: “If you’re suffering because of what happened at the castle, you can tell us . . . We want to help you.”
He expected an immediate denial, but got an uneasy silence instead. Naia arched a brow as if to say what are you doing? but she didn’t interfere.
“You’ve just seemed . . . different, is all,” he continued. “You don’t have to be strong for us. We know what you’ve been through. And we’re not trying to delay your return to Ha’rar—it’s just that we promised to take care of our part of this.”
Kylan held his breath. Any moment, he thought, Tavra’s protest would begin. Before it kept him from saying the rest of what he wanted to say, he said it.
“I understand why you want to be home, and we want you to be home, too. So you can rest.”
“Tch. You do not understand me at all.”
Tavra’s reply was as far from what Kylan had hoped for as it could be. The words were so cold, he hardly knew how to react. Naia was quiet, too, but from the clenched jaw and angled-back ears, he could tell she was more angry than hurt by Tavra’s blunt disappointment.
“Let’s just get the firca and be on our way,” Naia said. “Kylan, go find Amri and ask if he can take us to the Tomb right now. Ask Maudra Argot if you have to. I’ll wait here with Tavra.”
CHAPTER 17
Kylan spotted Amri right away, waiting near the tunnel that led to the maudra’s chamber with a few others.
“Is she all right? We’ve been looking for the one who attacked her. Maudra Argot is speaking to everyone one at a time until we find who is responsible.”
Kylan shook his head.
“Tavra will be fine. Naia healed her. And I don’t think she’ll bring the All-Maudra’s wrath upon the Grottan if you help us find the firca. Did you say it’s in a tomb?”
“Yes. The Tomb of Relics . . . It’s in a cave to the north. I’ll let Maudra Argot know, and we’ll leave right away.”
Kylan waited while Amri scampered off. The other Grottan who stood by were silent, watching him with their stoic, unreadable eyes. Their smooth and unbroken skin made it difficult for Kylan to tell whether they were elders or younglings, and since they said nothing, he had no idea what they were thinking.
“Hi,” he said. The greeting was not returned, and the Grottan turned away, murmuring to themselves. If they had garnered any trust within the Grottan clan, it was dashed after Tavra’s disruption. Maudra Argot had been welcoming, but only to a point. The fact was, they were outsiders in the Caves of Grot, and the Grottan loyalty would always be to their own clan, as Maudra Fara’s had been to the Stonewood.
Amri returned quickly and waved Kylan back down the stairway. When they reached Naia and Tavra, the Grottan boy bowed low, showing he knew more court formalities than he had let on in the beginning. Tavra sniffed at the gesture, and only replied, “This Tomb of Relics, it is some distance from the cavern?”
“Yes,” Amri agreed. “About half a day’s journey, through the mountain tunnels.”
“Then lead the way. I want nothing more than to be gone from this place.”
Kylan realized then that this would be the last time Amri might see his home for a long time. The boy had nothing except his cloak—no shoes or weapon, no traveling pack or rations. Yet in respect of what had happened, and his maudra’s command, he did not balk at the idea of leaving straight away.
“Just one moment. I am going to say goodbye.”
He placed his hand against the cave wall and tapped with a finger. There was no sound to the open air, but after they waited a moment, Amri pressed his ear against the rock and listened. Kylan did, too, and heard a faint rhythmic tapping, carrying strongly through the dense rock. He had heard it before but not known what it was. So that was how the Grottan could communicate through the tunnels so silently.
Without another word, Amri pointed, and the other three followed him deeper into the maze below the mountains.
Every tunnel was the same to Kylan, and the farther they got from the central Domrak cavern, the darker it got. Amri could see perfectly in the dark, thanks to his Grottan eyes. Kylan, however, walked with one hand on Naia’s back, the other tracing the cold wet wall. He considered asking if they could light a torch, but figured if it had been an option, Amri would have offered it.
“Light attracts crawlies,” he mentioned later, as if Kylan had been wishing for a torch so badly, his thoughts had become audible. “Lots of crawlies.”
Kylan wondered what else inhabited the endless caves, but didn’t ask. He didn’t want Amri to answer. He had had enough of bugs and crawlies and spiders to last a lifetime. All he wanted was to find the Tomb of Relics, get the firca, and find the nearest tunnel back to the world above. More than once, he lost track of Tavra’s footsteps behind him, but they always returned. If she would have found it easier to hold the back of his cloak as he held on to Naia’s, she didn’t take the opportunity.
The journey was more than uncomfortable. Kylan kept pushing down impulses of fear and panic of the dark and the closed-in areas. The others were not happy, but they didn’t seem to feel trapped as he did. To make matters worse, Tavra’s words rang in his mind, summoning a recurring sourness of guilt every time he recalled them. He had tried to reach out to her, but it had been at the worst time possible. The words had been jumbled and wrong, an embarrassment coming from a song teller. So, in the dark, Kylan composed a letter in his mind. One that he would write the next chance he got, something he could put care into and give to the soldier when the time was right.
After what seemed like ages, Amri stopped. He rustled about in the dark, searching for something only he could see, then said, “Yup. Stand back a bit.”
Kylan heard the click of a latch, then the creak of a wood door. A rush of musty air washed over them, smelling of paper and dust and mold. Kylan could hear the echoes of wind ahead and eagerly followed when Amri invited them. The tunnel opened into a new chamber, and after shutting the door, Amri bustled about. A moment later, a soft glow lit the room, emanating from a crystal lantern he had found.
“Well, here it is,” Amri said. “The Tomb of Relics.”
The room was circular, with three halls and the door through which they’d entered. The walls were lined with shelves, each stacked full of scrolls and books, boxes and crates, urns and pots, jars and flasks. From where they stood, he could see that the halls that radiated from the room were made of shelves, full of more items. In the center of the room was a heavy wood table. For examining the artifacts—the relics—Kylan imagined.
“There are twelve chambers in all . . . I think,” Amri said.
“You think?” Naia asked with a raised brow. The Grottan shrugged.
“I’ve never actually been here myself. Maudra Argot used to visit, many trine ago . . . but she’s not able to make the journey frequently anymore, with her age. I asked before she left. She said the firca is in a wood box etched with the picture of a bell-bird.”
“All right!” Naia exclaimed. Her voice seemed big in the crowded room, but Kylan welcomed the enthusiasm. “So all we have to do is find the box!”
“As if it’s easy,” Tavra grumbled. “Let’s split up.”
Without waiting for a consensus, the Silverling plucked a crystal lantern from the wall and stalked off down the passage to the right. The remaining three exchanged glances.
“It’s not a bad plan,” Amri admitted with a shrug.
Kylan’s imagination was coming out of hiding after the confrontation with Tavra and the suffocating journey here. He had always wanted to visit Stone-in-the-Wood to read all the tablets and songs kept there, but he had never even heard of the Tomb of Relics. Now that he was here, the wealth of knowle
dge and lore in the place was almost overwhelming.
“Amri, what exactly is this place?” he asked. “Why does it exist? And why here, in the caves?”
“It is a place where mysterious and powerful objects are kept, so they aren’t lost to time and the elements. Even Mother Aughra has come here with items for us to keep safe. My people were charged with protecting it. This place, and the Sanctuary, to the north.”
“Who charged you with the responsibility? Mother Aughra?”
“No, not Aughra . . . Thra. That’s how the song goes, anyway. It’s been our duty since the beginning of time. It’s never been any different.”
Now that Amri was in a sharing mood, and Tavra had excused herself, Kylan took his chance to ask a question that had been bothering him.
“Amri, can you tell me why the Vapra and Grottan clans dislike each other so much? I thought it was just rivalry, at first—like the Spriton and the Stonewood. But I’ve never seen Gelfling behave this way to one another.”
Amri rubbed the back of his neck. “Heh . . . You don’t know?”
“We don’t know anything about the Grottan,” Naia said. “I grew up in Sog, but even I had heard that the Grottan might as well be a myth. Whatever you and Tavra know is a secret to us swamp and plains folk.”
“Tavra wouldn’t have told you, I guess,” Amri said. His disdain for Tavra was deflated after the attack, but he still kept a rigid back and narrowed eyes when he spoke. “The Vapra like to keep their secrets . . . You know of the Six Sisters?”
“The sisters who founded the seven clans,” Naia said. “Maudra Mesabi-Nara. Maudra Ynid, of Stone-in-the-Wood. You mean them?”
“There are many songs that tell differing stories about how the clans came to be, but most agree about the Six Sisters,” Kylan agreed.
“Yes. And did you ever stop to wonder how six sisters became seven clans?”
Kylan had thought on it before, but not in depth. It was easy to imagine that one of the founding sisters had formed two clans, but which two clans, and how, and why, had never seemed important. Now that they had met the Grottan clan, though, and seen both their physical similarities as well as their apparent mistrust for one another . . .
“The Grottan and the Vapra,” Kylan realized out loud. “They’re sister clans?”
Amri nodded. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand and shrugged.
“There are many songs that offer explanations. Every clan has their favorite version, and Maudra Argot is no different. She says that, in the beginning, Thra had seven duties to entrust to the Gelfling race. To the Dousan, the heavens: the study of the suns, moons, and stars. To the Sifan, the skies: the telling of signs and omens. To the Stonewood, the fire of the hearth: the keeping of songs and essence of our culture. To the Spriton, the foundation of the earth: the cultivation of the land and its creatures. To the Drenchen, the water of life: the care of medicine and healing. And to the Silver Sea clan, Thra entrusted the light and the shadow: the keeping of the Gelfling history, law, and records. This task was too great to be shouldered by one clan alone, and so the clan split in two. One took on the keeping of the past: our history and dark things that should be left in shadow. The other became the keeper of our future: our laws and philosophies that lead us toward the light.”
“I see where this is going,” Naia remarked.
“Both are important tasks. We all know there can be no light without darkness. Still, no one wants to be bonded to shadow forever! The sisters discussed it for a long time. In the end, it came to be this way: the Vapra and the Grottan. Some say we were banished. Maudra Argot says we chose to come to these dank caves, while the Vapra flit along the crystal coasts. It’s hard not to feel as if we are imprisoned sometimes. But . . . I know, truly, it’s not the Vapra who charged us with this. It’s Thra itself.”
The idea that Thra had given the Gelfling clans such duties was a new song to Kylan. Maudra Mera had passed dream-etching on to him, and some other skills, and made sure that their neighboring Podlings were cared for, and all the other creatures nearby. She had never told him that it was because the Spriton had been charged with such a thing. Kylan wondered whether she even knew it herself. Maybe it was a secret song only the Grottan knew. If it was true, then that was their charge, entrusted to them by the Heart of Thra itself.
Amri let out a big sigh and wiggled all over, as if trying to shake out a bad flavor in his mouth.
“We may not be fond of the Silverlings who look like us but are nothing like us, but it doesn’t excuse what happened. I’ll make it up to you all. I promise. Starting with following Tavra’s example . . . Let’s split up and find that firca.”
CHAPTER 18
Amri procured them each a lantern to light the way. Kylan chose the hall across from the doorway, while Naia took the passage to the left, and Amri remained in the center. If all the halls were the same, then Kylan imagined Naia and Tavra were seeing the same as him: a passage lined with dusty, lichen-covered, boxed, locked, rolled, stacked, and latched items. There were so many things crammed among the shelves that it was hard to tell, especially in the lacking light, where one item ended and the next began.
The hall linked the entry chamber to another room that looked identical to the first, with three halls ahead and to the left and right. Curious, Kylan walked directly through the first room and straight ahead, where he passed another hall and entered another chamber. Down the passage to his right he saw lantern light and a figure standing near one of the shelves.
“Tavra?” he called.
“What?” replied the Silverling’s voice. “Stop messing around. We’ve wasted enough time.”
The first room gave him no success, though not for lack of trying. There were so many things crowded in every cubby that he was sure he hadn’t possibly looked through everything. Yet if he followed his impulse and inspected every crate and scroll he found, it would take forever. Each artifact was unique, and wonderful, and Kylan knew he could spend his entire life in the Tomb if he lost track of his goal.
Kylan’s brow was sore from squinting by the time he reached the last chamber of his row. The room was like every other, except for the avalanche of books and boxes piled against the back wall. A shelf had collapsed and littered the floor with chests, their spilled artifacts jumbled among the pieces of broken clay vessels and other debris.
“Hm . . . earthquake, maybe? Looks like it’s time to add some new chambers to the Tomb . . .”
He set the lantern and his pack down on the table and turned to begin the last leg of the search when the pile at the wall moved. He yelped and jumped back, watching as a bow-backed creature rose out of the debris and let out a resounding groan. It had leathery skin, a long neck, and an oblong face. When Kylan saw its four arms pushing the rubble aside and plucking splinters from its mane, he gasped. It looked like urVa the Archer—the Mystic. Could it be?
“Mystic?” he asked, hopefully. “Are you . . . a Mystic?”
“Ooooof!” said the creature. It turned to him, and the light of the lantern shone on the swirling markings on its face. It had dark, intelligent eyes, and it coughed in the cloud of dust. “Gelfling? You’re not Grottan . . . Ah! There’s one.”
Amri and Naia arrived, one from the back hall and one from the left.
“I heard a crash,” Naia began. Then, “Who’s this!”
“Oh!” cried Amri. “You’re here! I forgot to mention. This is urLii. He sometimes comes down from the Sanctuary to bring items to the Tomb.”
“A Mystic?” Naia gasped.
“Oh, yes,” urLii said. “That is the name Aughra gave us at the division . . . Wait! You aren’t Grottan, either!”
urLii the Mystic finally cleared enough of the pile to step free of it. In full view, Kylan could see he was indeed the same race as urVa, the wise archer they’d met in the Dark Wood. He had a long body, from his long face to his long
, heavy tail, his skin marked where it was visible with etching-like whorls and spirals. He was clothed in a simple mantle, wrists decorated with metal cuffs and cord ties. He cleared his throat and patted his body, as if to make sure it was intact, and then drew a pair of eye-prisms from the clutter. Once they were snug on his nose, he looked at the three Gelfling more closely.
“Amri, isn’t it? Your first time in the Tomb, I think. I was . . . I was . . . looking . . . for something. Can’t remember what. Then the shelf . . . well, that song sings itself.”
Indeed, the large shelf above their heads was broken, bent in two after years moldering away in the cave. What had happened after did not need explaining.
“Yes, urLii. This is Kylan and Naia . . . Their friend Tavra is here somewhere, too. Oh, I’m glad you’re here, maybe you can help us. We’re looking for something in particular . . .”
While Amri described the firca to urLii, as casually as with a sibling, Kylan tried to quiet a sudden pulse of jealousy. It was a bad feeling, and he didn’t like it one bit. Not only did the Grottan have access to such a trove of ancient treasure, but they knew one of the Mystics like a family friend? He sighed and tried to wave the feeling away. There was no need to be in competition with Amri, who was only doing everything he could to help them.
“Oh yes. The forked flute in the box. I believe . . . I have seen it here. Yes. It was this way, I think . . . Yes. No! This way.”
urLii looked left, then right, and then left again. Then he lurched to the right, talking to himself in reassuring tones. They followed quietly.
“Why didn’t you say you knew one of the Mystics?” Naia asked.
Amri tilted his head.
“Mystic? Um . . . I guess he is pretty mystical, now that you say it! urLii has taught the Grottan clan for ages. He’s a master song teller, and he taught us all to dream-etch. We call him the Storyteller. Our younglings travel to the Sanctuary when they come of age to learn . . . Is that strange? Are there others like him?”