Without another word, he sank into the tunnel floor.
She yelped and took a step back. The hairs bristled on the back of her neck. There was something deeply disturbing about watching the stone swallow him up. Bury him alive.
A flash of memory: Her father’s dead body being pushed down into the stone, buried.
No. That was wrong. That had only happened in her nightmares. Her father’s body had been carried Above to be covered in the shifting sands. She remembered the cloth-wrapped body at his funeral.
The gargoyle vanished, leaving her shaken. She shoved away the dream memory and started walking. Within moments, she reached Stone Heart Cavern. She kept her head down, her expression placid, as if she often visited. She had her excuses about the hot springs ready if anyone should ask why she was damp—but no one did.
Once she reached the passage to the Cathedral, she hurried her steps. By now, the tunnel leading to the Cavern of Traitors must’ve been drained, and Gerhardt would know one gargoyle was missing. By now, the Elect would have remembered, with growing suspicion, the girl with wet skirts. Pursuit would be on its way.
She hit the Cathedral at a fast clip.
The cavern was the largest one in the entire cave system, easily four times as large as either Stone Heart or Artisan Cavern. Artisan Cavern was…homey. Panels of fabric hung from metal stands, creating the illusion of rooms. The ceiling averaged fifteen to twenty feet high, seldom dipping lower than twelve feet high.
But the Cathedral was grand and majestic.
The ceiling sloped from low enough to graze Dorotea’s head steeply upward to the sixty-foot-high wall that made up The Goddess’s Face. Looking at the flowing, weeping wall of stone, subtly colored with pinks and grays, chips of mica, and rich wandering veins of gold and quartz, always made Dorotea feel dizzy and small.
It always took her a moment to see The Goddess’s Face as more than a random collection of bumps and hollows, but once she did, the Goddess was impossible to un-see. Her face was at once ageless and wise, Her brow proud and unwrinkled, Her chin square and firm. She was womanly but somehow beyond beauty and impossible to describe.
The Goddess’s eyes were closed, but She frowned in Her sleep. Her mouth was set in a grim line, and Her brows were drawn together. Dorotea stared at Her immense face and shivered.
This had to work.
Unfortunately, there were more people in the Cathedral than she’d anticipated. Dismay knotted her stomach as she counted them. In addition to four white-robed priests, several petitioners scooped dippers of water from the pool and poured them down over a portion of The Face. The whole wall of the Goddess was a trickling veil of tears, the water piped up from below in some arcane Elect-known-only fashion and then sprayed from tiny holes in a pipe.
Something new that Dorotea didn’t remember were the barrels of water close to The Goddess’s Face. Were they there in case another blackout caused the piped water to fail? Was that why the Goddess had woken the first time?
Worst of all, one priest was directing a children’s choir off to one side. It was far from the all-but-deserted scene she’d envisioned. What was she going to do?
Save your sister.
Praying not to be seen, Dorotea hurried toward the grotto on her left.
Like the inside of a geode, the tiny grotto sparkled with crystals—rose quartz and sprays of amethyst longer than her fingers; a fringe of white bubbles the size of her hand. The quiet corner was Dorotea’s favorite place in the Cathedral.
Yet another white-robed priest knelt there, praying. Dorotea started to back up, but he’d obviously heard her because he shuffled over, making room for her. She couldn’t knock for the gargoyle as long as the priest was there, and if she just stood there, he would ask what she was waiting for. Reluctantly, Dorotea came inside and knelt beside him, then stiffened when she recognized the wizened priest Martin had dragged to pray over Marta.
Go away, Dorotea prayed. Please don’t recognize me. A heartfelt plea, if not very pious.
The priest finished his prayer, then turned to her with what was probably meant to be a kindly smile but struck Dorotea as smug. “Come to pray for your sister, have you? A good thought, but next time”—he patted her shoulder—“tell your mother where you’re going. She was quite distraught.”
Dorotea swallowed her pride. She hated to ask anything of someone so self-righteous, but… “Did you see Marta? Is she any better? Did she wake up?”
“Your parents and I prayed together over her for an hour.”
“And did it help?”
“Prayer always helps. Your father was much more at peace when I left.”
Stepfather. She didn’t care two straws about Martin. “I meant my sister. Did she improve?”
“Her face is free of pain. She is at peace in the arms of the Goddess.
Disappointment crushed her chest. Anger rushed in, displacing her despair. Her fists clenched. “Don’t speak of her as if she were already dead!”
“Calm yourself, child. I only meant to reassure you that if the worst happens, your sister will go to a better place.”
Dorotea pressed her lips together to keep from shouting that he lied. The Goddess was sleeping and couldn’t hear anyone, much less rock them in Her arms. And she suspected the priests were deliberately keeping Her in a false sleep, just like Marta.
It was time to wake Her up.
Waiting until the priest had ambled away, moving at the speed of an ant, nearly killed Dorotea. Finally, when he was thirty feet away, she exited the grotto and knocked on the hard stone on the left side of the grotto three times. Her teeth gritted in impatience when nothing happened. Surely, she couldn’t have beaten the gargoyle here? He was probably dawdling just to annoy her—
The sound of stone scraping against stone made her turn her head. Of course: from behind the wall, the other side of the grotto would be his left. She glimpsed red jasper.
Quicker than she could blink, the gargoyle placed a hand over her mouth and pinned her against the wall. He spoke into her ear, his voice a grating whisper: “You ordered me not to harm you, but you said nothing about keeping you from speaking.”
Cold terror poured through her in an icy cataract. She froze, unable to move.
“Do you think I can’t guess what will happen after I make your little request to the Goddess? You’ll order me back to the Cavern of Gargoyles and condemn me to that living death. Well, I won’t go. If you want me to petition the Goddess on your behalf, then you’ll have to meet my price: I want my freedom.”
Dorotea pulled at his stone fingers to no avail. She rammed her palm into his chin, boxed his ear, even scratched at his stone eyes. He stood impervious to it all. Her terror swelled at her own helplessness. She kicked his shin and stubbed her toes. Tears of pain streamed from her eyes.
One splashed his hand. He flinched but didn’t release her.
“I’m not asking that much.” His golden gaze bored into hers. “I know you’ll never agree to free my brothers and sisters. I’ll even promise to go away, far away, and never bother another human again, on fear of the collar. Just don’t send me back to stasis. I won’t go back.” His voice rasped.
Through the haze of her own fear, she realized that he was scared, too. Terrified of being made a statue again. And who could blame him? It was an awful fate.
Her nose started to drip. She sniffed, but it didn’t do any good, and she suddenly struggled to breathe.
His collar flared. Panic widened his eyes. “Promise me my freedom! Nod your head!”
But she didn’t, and in moments, he was forced to release her or risk killing her and living in perpetual agony. Quickly, before he could cover her mouth again, she gasped out, “Never do that again. Never cover my mouth or stop me from speaking again. That’s an order.” Another loophole closed, but how long until he found another?
Nobody had ever told her gargoyles were so infernally clever. She’d expected him to be as dumb as a rock.
Foo
lish of her. If they’d been that stupid, the gargoyle rebellion wouldn’t have almost succeeded. And that cleverness meant she couldn’t free him. She stomped down on the guilt she felt. If she released him, he’d find some loophole and liberate his brethren, and more people would die in another rebellion.
She scrubbed away her tears then took a deep breath. “Answer me truthfully: how close do you need to be to the wall in order to speak to the Goddess?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never spoken to Her. Since She’s sleeping, I suspect the closer the better.”
Dorotea chewed unhappily on her lower lip. It would be all but impossible for the gargoyle to get close enough to The Face without being seen by one of the priests or worshippers.
On the other hand, what priest would dare get in the way of a six-foot-tall brute with fists of stone?
Given time, Dorotea might possibly be able to come up with some clever way to distract the priests, but she didn’t have much time before the Elect came looking for her. Time to take a chance.
“When you wake the Goddess, I want you to ask Her why She is angry and what we can do to convince Her to stop the earthquakes.”
“Truly? You can’t think of any reason why She might be angry?” The gargoyle gestured to the trickling veil of water and the children’s choir. “Look. They’re using the running water and the singing of hymns to keep her asleep.”
His words made sense. The priest had said that the last earthquake had been the Elect’s fault. During the blackout, the water had stopped trickling, and the Goddess had started to rouse from her slumber. But… “You have it the wrong way around. The Goddess was angry before the priests lulled Her to sleep. That’s why they did it.”
He studied her. “I can tell you why She’s angry.”
Dorotea blinked at the unexpected offer. “You can? Why?”
He shook his head. “There’s no point in telling you. You’ll need to hear it directly from the Goddess to believe it.”
Dorotea opened her mouth to command him to tell her, then closed it. He was right. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, trust a word he said. The plan would have to proceed.
“Tell Her I’ll do whatever She wants if She heals my sister, Marta.”
He stared at her. “The Goddess can’t heal. It’s not in Her power.” His gentle certainty was like a slap in the face.
“You don’t know that,” Dorotea said sharply. “She is the Goddess of Mercy.”
He shook his head. “She is the Goddess of Stone.”
“Enough.” Dorotea’s voice shook. “I won’t hear another word.”
“Typical human,” he muttered.
She reviewed the instructions she’d given him. Had she missed any angle he could exploit? “Don’t say anything extra, anything I haven’t approved, or you’ll be punished.”
He sneered. “That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it? Threaten me with pain.”
Hot words rose in her throat. “That’s because pain is all an animal responds to, and that’s what you are: a beast.” Except doubt crept in. He wasn’t like one of the cavefish in the river or mice that scurried in the fields. He could think and speak. He was as smart as she was. The way he kept finding loopholes in her commands proved that.
“I’m the beast?” he scoffed. “All I did was hold my hand over your mouth. I’ve never hurt you, but you can’t say the same to me. How many times have you tortured me?”
“I didn’t harm you; the collar did. You keep hurting yourself by disobeying,” Dorotea retorted, but the words sounded weak. He’d scared her, but he’d never assaulted her. Because the collar constrains him.
The sound of excited voices rose above the children’s singing and attracted her attention to the Stone Heart entrance to the Cathedral. Her skin roughened with chills at the sight of the Elect with the goatee and eye-shields. Worse, he was accompanied by his burly Unskilled servant, Burt, and Gerhardt, the Stone Heart Clan leader.
“They have mauls,” the gargoyle said uneasily.
The heavy mining sledges could break bones or stone. They were the only weapon with a chance against a gargoyle.
The sledges alarmed the priests, too. Two white-robed priests hurried to intercept the visitors, including the wizened old man who’d joined her in the grotto. And he knew her name.
Sandstorms, Dorotea swore inwardly. She froze. Run and fight another day? Or gamble it all?
She turned to the gargoyle. “Tunnel underground to The Face as quick as you can. Surface and repeat my message to the Goddess.”
“What about them?” He nodded toward the Elect, Gerhardt, and Burt.
“I’ll distract them. Go!”
Obligingly, he sank into the stone. Shuddering, Dorotea averted her eyes so she didn’t have to watch. Buried alive. She kept her gaze trained on the Elect’s group. Any moment now, the wizened priest would point toward the grotto—
On cue, all the heads turned her way. Gerhardt and Burt advanced toward her. Now she just had to keep their attention.
Dorotea picked up her still damp skirts and made a dash for the Elect entrance, which lay directly across the semicircular hall from her. The Cathedral had the capacity to hold the entire population of the cave system. During ceremonies, everyone brought their own blankets and sat on the floor and listened to the priests. Right now, the cavern was just open space, except for the choir right next to The Goddess’s Face.
“Stop!” the Elect yelled.
Dorotea kept running, swinging wide in an effort to avoid Gerhardt and Burt. They swerved, trying to intercept her, but their heavy mauls slowed them down. She squeaked past them and sprinted full out. Her lungs were on fire before she’d covered half the distance.
She dodged Gerhardt’s lunge, only to be caught and spun around by Burt’s grip on her arm.
He held her until Gerhardt arrived, gasping and red-faced. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her so hard, her teeth rattled. “Where is the gargoyle? What did you do with it?”
Dorotea clamped her jaw together.
“Little idiot,” he said. “Elect Harmon is panting to banish you for this. You have one chance for leniency: tell me where the gargoyle is right now.”
She shook her head, defiant.
“If you don’t care about yourself, think about your family. They could be banished with you,” he threatened.
“No,” she gasped. She felt dizzy with horror. “You can’t do that! My mother and sister have nothing to do with this.”
“You’re a traitor. Even if they aren’t banished Above, they’ll be tarred with the same brush as you. Shunned, spit upon.” Every word was a dagger in her heart. Gerhardt continued, painting a harsh picture. “No one will buy your parents’ crafts. Soon they’ll be reduced to Unskilled labor, tattooed, and sent to work the fields.”
Guilt descended on her in a suffocating cloud. He couldn’t be right, could he? People couldn’t be so cruel. “I’m trying to save my sister!”
Gerhardt leaned close enough for her to smell onions on his breath. “How did an Artisan free a gargoyle without a collar and bracelet? Tell me.”
She blinked. He didn’t know. He hadn’t yet pieced together who her father was. “I just want to save my sister and stop the earthquakes!”
Elect Harmon and a priestess puffed up. This one was female, fatter but younger, dressed in the red robes of an underpriest. Dorotea appealed to them. “We all know the earthquakes are getting worse, that it’s only a matter of time until the caverns fall on our heads. Keeping the Goddess asleep isn’t working. We need to find out why She’s angry. I’m just trying to fix the problem,” Dorotea pleaded. Surely, they could see she was right?
The priestess avoided her gaze, ashamed, but Elect Harmon sniffed. “Foolish child, to meddle in matters so above you.”
Just then, the children’s singing faltered. “Look, a gargoyle!” a girl shouted. Then a boy screamed, and they fled en masse.
Burt released her shoulder. “I see it!”
&n
bsp; He and Gerhardt set off for the wall at a run. The Elect tried to restrain Dorotea, but she wrenched free, following them.
The sea of children hindered her progress, but her gaze locked on the gargoyle. He stood beside the weeping flowstone wall, his hands placed on the Goddess’s chin.
Either the chamber’s natural acoustics or some magic of the Elect, the same that made the priests’ words audible during ceremonies, brought the gargoyle’s speech clearly to her ears. “Mother of all, your grandson respectfully requests your attention. Hear me.”
Disappointment stabbed Dorotea when nothing happened.
He repeated himself. “Goddess, Grandmother, wake and hear my words.”
The immense stone wall rippled and flowed. The Goddess opened Her glorious crystal eyes and spoke in a voice that shivered the walls: “I hear you. Speak.”
“Grandmother, the humans wish to know why you are angry. Why do you send the earthquakes?”
“I am angry because my children bleed out their lives.”
The underpriestess caught Dorotea’s sleeve. Horror bleached her skin pale, giving it the look of a corpse. “Stop this! We only just sang Her back to a deep sleep.”
Dorotea ignored her. “What children does She mean?” she yelled. Not that it mattered. She would promise anything to save her sister. “Tell Her I’ll save them if She heals Marta!”
The gargoyle obeyed. “The human begs you to heal one who was injured in the last earthquake and promises to help your children.”
“They bleed them and bleed them, until they stand on the brink of death,” the Goddess said, eyes blazing.
The floor began to tremble. Another earthquake! Dorotea looked up and saw the Goddess’s wrathful face and knew her crazy plan had failed. She didn’t want to hear Dorotea’s pitiful bargain. The Goddess was full of wrath.
“What have you done?” shrieked the fat priestess. “You’ve doomed us all!”
We were already doomed, Dorotea wanted to say, but she hadn’t meant for this to happen. She’d just wanted to talk to the Goddess. She hadn’t expected the Goddess to cause another earthquake.
Amid Wind and Stone Page 10
