Cinda Chima - The Crimson Crown

And it was true. Their back trail was now obscured by a veil of magical threads. Which meant that they’d need power to return the way they’d come.

Han gritted his teeth. There was nothing to do but press on.

The entrance to the cave would have been easy to miss if they hadn’t been looking for it in the shadow of a massive slab of granite shaped like a wolf’s head. Unlike the rest of the pathway, there was no telltale magic obscuring the entrance; just shrubbery and trees that had grown up over a millenium.

Han released a long breath. This was it—the back door into Gray Lady that had lain hidden for a thousand years. He hoped.

From the angle of the sun outside the cave, Han guessed it was midday. They had four hours to navigate the tunnels and reach the Council House. The plan was that Dancer would come that far with Han so that he’d be familiar with the tunnel system for their return trip.

The opening itself was small, leading to a long tunnel they navigated on hands and knees. Han was prickle-skinned and dry-mouthed all the way. At any moment, he expected to be blasted to bits or incinerated by some nasty charm that Crow had forgotten to mention. Now and then he touched his amulet to dispel the smothering dark.

A brightness up ahead said they were reaching the end of the tunnel.

Han emerged first—into a cave the size of the Cathedral Temple, where Raisa had been crowned queen. Wizard lights burned in sconces on the walls, glittering off pillars of quartz and spires of calcite in every color. Could they really have been burning for more than a thousand years? Or had someone been here since to replenish them?

A waterfall cascaded a hundred feet from a tunnel entrance high above, splashing into a deep pool. Steaming springs thickened the air.

Alger Waterlow could have assembled an army here.

Dancer emerged from the tunnel and unfolded to his feet. Tilting back his head, he raised his hands like a speaker welcoming the dawn. “I feel the embrace of the mountain,” he said, closing his eyes and smiling.

But Han was already walking the perimeter, looking for the path forward.

He found it on the far wall, hidden from view under a layer of magical barriers. He scraped the spellwork away—leaving one gossamer layer, as Crow had instructed him—revealing a doorway that led into darkness. Leave that last layer in place , Crow had said. Otherwise you risk immolation. Over the entrance was a stone lintel, and carved into the walls on either side were the Waterlow ravens.

After a quick meal of bread, cheese, and water, Han shouldered his saddlebags.

He placed his hand over the raven carved into the stone on the left side of the door.

The remaining veil of magic went transparent.

“Go ahead,” he said to Dancer, keeping his hand where it was.

As Dancer’s foot crossed the threshold, he lurched backward, landing flat on the stone floor.

“Dancer!” As Han knelt next to his friend, Dancer raised up on one elbow, gingerly exploring the back of his head with his other hand.

“Are you all right?” Han asked, sliding an arm around Dancer’s shoulders.

“I’m going to have a lump on the back of my head, I think,” Dancer said. He touched the rowan talisman that hung at his neck and jerked his hand away, sucking his fingers. “It’s blistering hot. If not for the talisman, I’d be dead.”

Han looked back at the tunnel. Once again, the magical barrier shimmered across the opening. His spirits plummeted. Now what? What had gone wrong?

“I’m all right,” Dancer said, shrugging off Han’s arm. “What do you think happened? Could you have made a mistake?”

Han was already scanning his notes. “‘Place your palm over the raven carved into the wall on the left side of the doorway. This will identify you as a friend and render the barrier permeable. Step through the doorway immediately, before the barrier hardens.’” He looked up at Dancer. “That’s what I did. I don’t see why …”

“You didn’t step through it,” Dancer pointed out. “I did. Maybe the same person has to do both. Or maybe the person has to be you. And not me.”

“What do you mean?” Han was lost.

“You’re Crow’s blood. I carry Bayar blood. Who would Crow want to keep out?” Dancer raised an eyebrow. “Did you tell him you meant to bring me along?”

Han shook his head. Seeing no reason to buy his way into an argument, he hadn’t said anything about Dancer when Crow had coached him on how to sneak into Gray Lady.

Perhaps Crow had tied the barrier to his enemies. After all, he’d shown Han how to keep the Bayars out of his rooms at Oden’s Ford.

“Do you want to try it the other way?” Han asked, hesitant to ask Dancer to risk immolation again. “Palm the raven yourself and step through?”

Dancer shook his head. “I’ll wait here. That way I can conserve my flash and take the lead on the way back.”

“But—we’ll both need to come through here later on. Willo, too,” Han said, recalling the plans they’d laid at Marisa Pines.

“I know you’re used to keeping secrets, but you need to be direct with Crow. Tell him what we’re planning and see if there’s a way around it.” Shakily, Dancer rose to his feet and crossed the cave to Han. “Here,” he said. “A donation.” He closed his hands around Han’s amulet and poured power into it. “You may need this.”

After a few minutes, Han stepped away, gently pulling his amulet free. “Don’t shortchange yourself,” he said. “You’ll need enough power to get back out.” He paused, thinking. “Give me until dawn. If I’m not back by then, go out the way we came in. Do you remember the charms we used to get in?”

Dancer grinned. “Don’t be such a nanny,” he said, sliding down the wall into a sitting position and wrapping his arms around his knees. He patted his jacket. “I have my notes. You’re the one going toe-to-toe with the council. It’s safer here.”

Once again, Han approached the tunnel, cautiously this time. He placed his hand over the raven, felt a sting of magic. Then stepped away and through the doorway.

Nothing happened.

Shoulders slumping in relief, Han looked back at Dancer through a fine mist of magic. Dancer waved him on. Han was on his own.

Raisa walked along the edge of the parade field, trying to focus on the soldiers who’d been turned out for her.

It wasn’t easy. It was the kind of summer day that inspires poets and musicians, and transforms friends into lovers. Bees hummed over the meadow, wallowing in flowers and then bumbling drunk into each other when they tried to rise.

The winds that had roared out of the Spirits a few months before had quieted to a breeze, which carried the memory of mountain jasmine and laurel. Hanalea breathes , the clan poets would say, and everyone knew there was no point in trying to work.

Unbidden, Raisa’s thoughts turned to Han Alister, to the question that had plagued her since her coronation—since that desperate dance on Hanalea: Where do we go from here?

Just stop it. You can’t think about that now. You need to focus, especially today.

She halted, midway down the parade ground, fixing her eyes on the field before her. Swallows pivoted overhead, and red-winged blackbirds clung to seed heads until they were flushed by the Highlander Army of the Fells as it lined up in front of her.

Except most were not Highlanders.

Still too many stripers, Raisa thought, her gaze sweeping over salvos of soldiers in their varied uniforms. Most wore the distinctive striped scarves that said they were mercenaries: a company from Delphi in dun-colored wool, Ardenine infantry in scarlet jackets, cavalry from Bruinswallow in sand-colored battle tunics.