Carol Berg - Son of Avonar

“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.

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 passed 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.