Son of Avonar tbod-1

by Carol Berg

  “Ascend the ancient face that weeps,” said Baglos in wonder.

  I took a deep breath. Heights did not terrify me as did confinement in the dark, but I’d never done anything quite like this. I wondered if there would be room to dismount if we had need. “I’ll have to trust you once more,” I whispered to Firethorn, stroking his neck.

  We took it slowly, speaking calmly and continually to our horses. The trail, a great seam in the tilted strata of the rock, was wider than it looked from below—in a few spots even enough to turn the horse around—but not so wide as to tempt me to linger one moment more than necessary. I would not have been surprised to find it dwindle away into nothing at the first angle in the cliff. Truly, I believed my worst fears confirmed when we approached a jutting corner where a huge boulder hung out over the trail, only air visible beyond it.

  D’Natheil went first, crouching low in the saddle to clear the overhang, then disappearing on the other side. I was next. I huddled down into Firethorn’s ruddy mane and prayed the beast had sense enough to stay as close to the wall as the jutting boulder would permit.

  Once I rounded the corner, the rumbling that had grown louder at each step of the ascent became a roar, and even the fearsome aspect of the ledge path faded into insignificance when I beheld the source of the noise. At the end of the gorge was a towering cliff of red and gray, the granite base of the ice pinnacles that stretched as far as I could see in every direction, so close that I felt I could reach out and grab a handful of snow from each one of them. From a seam in the cliff sprang a waterfall that dived in thundering splendor to the valley floor so far below us that the river was but a narrow ribbon. The afternoon sun sparkled on the spray that wreathed the falls, bridging the end of the gorge with a perfect double rainbow.

  D’Natheil was stopped a few paces ahead of me. “It has to be there, does it not?”

  “I believe so,” I said. His words eerily reflected my own thoughts. No J’Ettanne could have resisted the call of such beauty.

  “Perhaps I was sent just for this. I’ve never seen the like.” Behind his wonder echoed such lonely sadness as would soften stone.

  “Demon-spirited beast! Black-hearted wretch!” The cries came from behind us. Baglos stood just on our side of the overhang, looking back through the treacherous corner and waving his hands. Polestar was nowhere to be seen.

  “Baglos, what’s happened?” I called.

  “The wicked son of a Zhid is most likely halfway back to Yennet.” The Dulcé trudged up the steep path toward us. “The turning at the boulder was fearsome. I dismounted so as to walk, and the beast shied. Pulled the reins right out of my hand. Oh, my lord prince, what an incompetent fool they have sent you as Guide.”

  I could not disagree. One look at the long, steep track that lay in front of us told how near impossible was our position. Even if D’Natheil or I were to take Baglos up to ride double, almost all of our food was on its way to Yennet. Right into the arms of the Zhid. Everything… “Baglos, was the journal still in your pack?”

  The Dulcé looked as if he were going to be sick.

  “Most unfortunate,” said D’Natheil.

  “More than unfortunate,” I said. “I can remember the clues and the map, but what if there’s more we need from it? What if we’ve made the wrong interpretation and must begin again?” The stupid, clumsy fool.

  “I know only one way to get it back quickly,” said D’Natheil.

  Sorcery, of course. Calling Polestar back to us. “I can’t tell you to take such a risk.”

  “The journal must not fall into the hands of those behind us. Even if by some chance what I do doesn’t bring them down on us, they would eventually decipher it. It might tell them what we would not.”

  Baglos was silent and anxious through all of this, clutching his hands to his breast, his dark eyes flicking from the Prince to me.

  As he had on the hillside next to the ruined castle, D’Natheil closed his eyes, made a small movement of his fingers, and whispered the horse’s name. Then he sat down on the trail to wait, drinking from his waterskin and dangling his feet over the stomach-churning drop to the rift floor. I was more comfortable close by the cliff wall and was too unsettled to sit down anyway.

  Before very long, the black horse emerged sedately from the shadowed overhang, as if sauntering from the pasture into the stable for his evening oats. As we mounted up to be on our way, D’Natheil’s shoulders sagged.

  “Are you well?” I asked.

  He shook his head, leaning on the horse for a moment before wearily pulling himself into the saddle. “We’re being followed again.”

  Though D’Natheil laid no word of reproach on him, Baglos said very little. He rode stiffly, eyes forward, his volatile emotions for once held close.

  As the afternoon sun baked the weeping cliff wall, it was difficult to recall our shivering of the morning. The ascent seemed painfully slow, especially now the enemy was on our trail again.

  Late in the afternoon we came to the waterfall, the last steep ascent leveling off into a wide shelf that extended to the very brink of the thundering cascade. I slumped down in the shade, reveling in the cold spray. Baglos, his black hair and beard dusted with the droplets, shouted to be heard above the roar. “What now? Have we come the wrong way? I see no further path.”

  “It must be that way,” said D’Natheil, pointing to a rocky chute that led to the cliff tops far above us. The chute was even steeper than the last bit we had just done and was slick with the spray of the falls. In no wise could the horses negotiate it. It would be treacherous enough for human hands and feet.

  “Should not the next clue point our way?” asked Baglos. When the wall births the flood, it is wiser to be the rabbit than the fish or the goat. “What could it mean? It seems to fit—at least the part about the wall birthing the flood.”

  “I see no choice of directions here,” said D’Natheil. “The divided way must be above us, where we would have the opportunity to cross the river like a fish, or climb again like a goat, or take some other way. The ‘rabbit” way, whatever that is.“

  I could not imagine the J’Ettanne using the path up that steep chute. They would have wanted the fortress approaches secure, yes. Secret, yes. Secluded, yes. But not impossible. Examination of the shelf revealed no evidence of a bridge to the other side of the gorge, where there looked to be easier ways up.

  Baglos was already fussing about the packs and mumbling to himself about what we would need to carry, and what must be left behind with the horses, and was it not ironic that so soon after bringing on danger by recalling Polestar, we must abandon the beasts and send them back down the path. When he pulled out the journal, I snatched it from his small hand and stuffed it in my pocket. I would not risk losing it again.

  Discouraged, I sat by the wall munching a piece of dry bread. D’Natheil sat beside me, his gaze following an eagle that soared on the warm updrafts over the falls. “Perhaps it’s time I went on alone,” he said quietly.

  “Don’t you dare—”

  “Foolish, I know, to think you’d allow it. You’d throw your horse at me before riding him down that hill, wouldn’t you?”

  The nicker of amusement in the Prince’s face rapidly doused my indignation. “Exactly right.”

  “I most sincerely do not like dragging you into this… whatever it is that will happen. And not because you are female or incompetent. On the contrary”—his eyes traced the lines of my face—“I think this world would lose much of its richness if you were not a part of it.” He reddened a little and shifted his gaze back to the waterfall.

  “Thank you,” I said. A stupid, priggish response, but I could think of none other. I should laugh and dismiss it by teasing him—and teasing myself even more. Only a few weeks had passed since I was trying to decide how to be rid of him. Only days since I had admitted that anything about him sparked feelings beyond annoyance or pity. He changed so rapidly, as if every day the previous day’s persona was sloughed of
f like an unwanted skin to reveal a new character and manner.

  As we sat there, D’Natheil in embarrassment and I in confusion, a rock-mouse scurried from some unseen crevice near the edge of the falls and picked up a crumb that had fallen from my bread. When I shifted my leg to let it come closer, it skittered off to the brink of the falls and disappeared into the spray. I berated myself for my clumsy movement, sure the tiny creature had been swept away in its hasty flight, but in moments it was back, damp but undaunted, searching for another treasure to add to its horde.

  “Where did you come from?” I said, as it scuttered back the way it had come. Curious, I crawled toward the curtain of water.

  “Have a care, woman,” said Baglos, an anxious edge to his voice.

  But I needed no warning. The shelf did not end abruptly at the edge of the falls as it appeared, but extended well past it. As I peered closer, the rock-mouse zipped between my feet and into the shower of droplets. “If you can go there, can we?” Hugging the wall, I stood up and stepped into the spray. Beyond a thin curtain of water was a sheltered overhang, as dry and calm as the eye of a storm. And at the center of the dry niche was a hole in the wall, twice the height of a man and almost as wide. A hole. A rabbit hole.

  CHAPTER 32

  After all that had happened in my life, how could walking into a hole in a wall be so excruciatingly difficult? Every hardship of our journey paled in comparison to the first step into the cave behind the falls, but I told myself I’d be Evard’s whore before I’d give D’Natheil an excuse to leave me behind. “Have we anything to use for a light?” I asked, taking pride in my matter-of-fact demeanor.

  “I think I can provide that,” said the Prince, snugging the ties that held our waterskins to the saddles.

  “No, you mustn’t—”

  “It makes no difference now. They’re coming, and we’ll be able to go faster.” He peered into the mouth of the cave. “I have no love for darkness.”

  I did let D’Natheil go in first. I wasn’t a fool. A pale yellow light took flickering shape from his left hand, and then settled into a steady white glow. I took a deep breath and stepped through the opening after him. There’s plenty of air, I told myself. Plenty of room. Annadis preserve D’Natheil and his light. I was not in the habit of invoking the Twin who controlled fire and lightning with his sword, but if he was interested, I would not turn down his help.

  We had to lead our horses, as the ceiling soon became too low for riding. Baglos, who had been unusually quiet since the near disasters of the day, followed Firethorn. The path tilted slightly upwards, and the damp walls and floors were worn smooth by uncounted years of flowing water. The rumble of the waterfall was deadened by the mountain’s foundation, soon fading away into heavy silence, broken only by the ring of hooves on stone. Occasionally we walked past pockets of cooler air, unrelieved blackness where the soft light made no inroads. I tried not to look at them; they made my chest hurt.

  Rather I focused my eyes on D’Natheil’s light, wondering what was the source of the radiance—fingers, palm? Anything to take my mind off of the oppressive stone, and its associated images of tombs… dungeons… Xerema collapsing around its people after the earthquake. I tried to start a conversation with Baglos, but the three of us were separated by the bulk of the horses. And whenever I managed to get the Prince’s attention, his light would fade. So I stayed quiet. How far could it be to travel under a mountain? Keep breathing, Seri. There’s plenty of air.

  We walked, stopped to rest, and walked more. Hours passed.

  “Hold!” D’Natheil’s voice echoed through the stone passage.

  “What is it?” I asked, squeezing past the chestnut to where D’Natheil stood frowning. He held up his hand, and my stomach constricted. Our way was blocked by a pile of rubble. “Oh.”

  “I think I went wrong back where the path bent to the right. It was hard to guess which was the side passage and which the main. We don’t have a clue to tell us, I suppose?”

  I tried to keep my breathing steady. “We’ve only one more riddle. I’ve assumed that it tells the final destination.”

  Somewhere water dripped slowly. The soles of my feet throbbed.

  “We’ll have to go back then. Only a few hundred paces. I can switch places with the Dulcé.” The Prince smiled at me in the glow of his enchantment. “Baglos and I will find our way, will we not, Dulcé?” Baglos did not answer. As we got the horses turned around, it was quite obvious why. Neither Baglos nor Polestar was anywhere in sight.

  “Baglos!”

  “Dulce!”

  We called out together. Only our own echoes answered.

  “I don’t think I quite believe this horrid day,” I said. “How could they have sent you such a dolt for a Guide?”

  The Prince peered into the blackness beyond his circle of light. “When did you last mark him?”

  “I’ve not been paying attention. It must have been when we stopped to adjust his boot.”

  “Fires of night, that was half a league back!” D’Natheil shook his head. “Baglos has a good heart. But I’ll confess, I don’t understand him at all.”

  We tied the chestnut’s halter to Firethorn’s saddle and started back the way we had come, a task easier set than accomplished. We’d had few choices of direction along the way, but looking backward was a different matter. There seemed to be passages everywhere and no distinction to be made between them.

  “This is where I went wrong,” said D’Natheil, pointing around a sharp corner. “When we find the Dulcé and return here, we’ll need to go left. Easy to see now that it’s the main passage.”

  “We should mark it,” I said. “I should have thought of that from the beginning.” Stupid. Stupid. Perhaps the dark would be less fearsome if you kept hold of some sense.

  I pulled out my knife to scratch a mark on the stone, but the Prince stayed my hand. “Perhaps there’s an easier way.” He let out a slow breath, as if to settle himself, and then he rubbed a finger on the stone. A glowing green mark appeared. “I’ve no idea if it will last as long as we need. I hope so.”

  “This is an immensely opportune time for your talents to manifest themselves. I don’t suppose you can search for Baglos as Kellea does?”

  He laughed a bit. “Unfortunately not. We’ll have to hunt for him in the usual way.”

  Carefully, always marking our path before losing sight of the previous mark, we picked our way back through the warren. At every opening we called for Baglos, but heard no reply save our own voices bouncing around in the hollow spaces. One hour, two hours we searched. D’Natheil’s light faded to a sickly yellow.

  When we reached the place we’d last seen the Dulcé, I leaned my back against the wall and massaged one tired ankle. “Perhaps he stayed on the main route after we went wrong. He’s most likely on the other side by now, worrying about us.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said the Prince. “I don’t think it would be wise to search beyond the main passage.”

  He got no argument from me. I eyed his hand and the shrinking circle of light radiating from it. “Perhaps we should go all the way back to the ledge to spend the night. Try the passage again in the morning… when we’re rested.”

  “Better not. The ledge will be closer to our pursuers, and the tunnel will be safer in the dark.”

  “Probably so.”

  We reversed direction and started up the path, proceeding slowly through the closing blackness toward the green mark, taking turns calling out for Baglos. Soon the Prince’s light encompassed no more than a single footstep. I dared not blink lest I lose sight of his hand.

  “I’m sorry I can’t hold the light for you,” he said, as the last glimmer faded. “I’m not practiced at the art. We’ll follow the marks as long as we can manage, and then rest for a while. Tell me when you can no longer bear the dark, and I’ll try the light again.”

  “I’ll be all right,” I said. Despite this boastful claim, doubts gnawed at me.

  We pas
sed the first green mark. “I should remove it,” said the Prince, pausing for a moment. “It will aid our pursuers. But if the Dulcé is lost…” He left it.

  I was not so gracious. I would have abandoned the incompetent little fool to fend for himself.

  To my surprise, I endured the next few hours quite readily. We returned to our missed turning with no sign of the Dulcé, but by that time I had to stop for other reasons. One blistered heel was raw, my ankles were wobbly, and my neck felt as if someone had hung me from a meat hook. “This isn’t a place I’d choose to spend a night,” I said, “but my feet will not move another step.”

  We unsaddled the horses, pulled out our blankets, and shared some bits of cheese. The horses whuffled softly as the Prince gave them each a handful of oats from our emergency stores. “I’ll take these two and go a little farther down the passage,” he said.

  “Please stay close,” I said. “Proprieties are long past.”

  “As you wish.” His voice was clear and comforting in the darkness.

  It never came morning, of course. The absolute blackness was only relieved when D’Natheil spoke his word of magic. With his other hand he passed me a hard biscuit. “We must hurry,” he said. Even with no light to reveal the strain on his face, I could have felt the tension in him. “I don’t think our pursuers slept.”

  I hadn’t slept much either. The stone passage was hard and cold, and my tangled thoughts and worries would not stop spinning and permit any decent rest. We were off in moments, on a tedious repetition of the previous day’s journey. After two hours we stopped to rest and drink. Fortune was with us, for if we hadn’t stopped in just that place, the sound of the horses’ hooves might have masked the faint moaning. We heard it at the same time, and D’Natheil strengthened his light so we could see into the side passage.